I'm Thinking As Loud As I Can

Chapter Four - Trade

by Mik

Despite all my best intentions, the move back to my place did not go quite as smoothly as I had planned. The staff at Anbury had done their part. They had him bathed, shaved, dressed and packed, and even let him have a little quiet time with the boy who had bonded with him. Scully had certainly done her part shopping for foods she knew he liked. I thought I'd done my part, as well. I'd cleared out my den and turned it into what I hoped would be a fairly comfortable guest room. I'd asked for and Scully had gotten me the supplies I'd need to care for him; a special seat for the toilet, a stand with rails for the shower, a wheelchair, all of his medications, doled out in a box with little compartments for the first week and instructions for doling them out myself after that. I had installed the television from my bedroom, and hooked up my VCR, and Scully had bravely gone to his apartment to forage for porn. I even had a bowl of goldfish waiting for him. He should have felt right at home.

Of course, I made a few miscalculations. I neglected to tell him that he was going to 'feel' at home, not 'be' at home. I suppose I should have done it in advance. He seemed to sleep most of the drive home, so when he lifted his head as we pulled up to the gate of my complex he looked surprised, to put it mildly.

The betrayed look was back in his eyes, and it stung. "I thought you could stay with me for a couple of weeks until you're back on your feet," I said trying to sound positive. "You can't do it on your own yet, Agent."

I could see he wasn't convinced, so I babbled on. "I was planning on taking some time off, anyway … I had some things to do around the house, so I thought if you were there, I could take care - be there if you needed anything." I punched my code into the lockbox at the gate. "I've got a spare room going wanting, and you'll have plenty of privacy, but I'll be around if you need anything." The gate bar lifted at last, and I gunned it, eager to get out of the car and away from a not so mildly accusing glare. "And I'll be able to drive you to your therapies and doctor appointments," I finished.

His lips tightened and his throat constricted. He looked as if he was trying to spit. It was actually painful to witness. Suddenly a sound, albeit soft and rough, exploded from his mouth. "Bbbbbaby."

I was so startled to hear an attempt to speak that I didn't immediately comprehend what he was saying. I looked at him, and he was looking away from me, his face was red, his lips clamped down to whiteness. "No, Agent Mulder, I do not think you're a baby. I am not trying to baby you. I just know you were unhappy in that facility, and I also know that your injuries preclude living on your own for a couple of weeks. So, I'm going to do what I can … as your manager and as a friend … to help you get through this." I waited a beat before challenging, "Will you accept this from a friend?"

He continued to look away from me, unaware that his one word had stabbed me in a place I didn't know I was capable of being hurt anymore.

As I swung the car down into the parking structure, he jerked next to me and shut his eyes. I wondered if he was struggling with words or with tears. Whichever it was, it made me uncomfortable. I avoided looking at him as I let the car arc into my parking place. "Agent Scully left a new wheelchair upstairs. You sit tight, and I'll be right back." I jumped out of the car quickly.

I was almost to the stairwell when I happened to look back at the car. The expression on his face was pure terror.

At first I thought he was terrified of the prospect of a couple weeks in close quarters with me and that gave me a moment of indignant insensitivity. Then it hit me. I was leaving him alone, virtually helpless, in an underground parking structure. "Walter, you moron," I hissed to myself before jogging back to the car. I yanked the door open and took his good hand, clasping tight. "I'm sorry, Mulder, I didn't even think. I'm sorry." I would have pulled him close to comfort him, but his body was rigid with fear.

His panic attack passed quickly enough. In a moment he had released my hand and was sitting still, his body relaxing into a more natural position but his breath still came in long, hitching spasms.

I looked around the vast empty space, wondering how I could get him up to my unit without the chair. Finally I met his eyes frankly and said, "Look … you can't walk up there, and I can't leave you down here while I go for the chair. Will you let me carry you?"

It still took him a moment to decide, but he agreed with a choppy nod and steeled himself for contact. I released his seatbelt, coaxed his broken arms over my shoulders and lifted him as carefully as I could. I knew he was embarrassed to be lifted out and conveyed like a child, but I think he was also just a bit relieved not to be left alone in a place so similar to where his nightmare began.

He didn't weigh as much as I thought a man his size should, but I had to allow that he must have lost weight eating hospital food and being so restricted and contained. Even so, with the cast on his leg, he weighed enough to make it something of a struggle.

I paused at the stairwell. "Stairs or elevator?"

I think he would have sold his soul at that moment to stay out of the confines of the elevator, but I also think he knew he would be too much even for me to carry up several flights of stairs. He nodded faintly, toward the lift.

Naturally one of my neighbors would be in the hallway when we emerged on my floor. A retired postal worker whom I'm pretty certain was a direct descendant of William Hays, right down to the beak-like nose and oversized ears. Mulder and I got a long curious look, and a shake of the head. I answered with a polite nod. I knew what that old biddy was thinking, but I didn't care. Wasn't it obvious that the man in my arms needed care and attention? Wasn't it obvious that he couldn't walk or look after himself? Some people have such dirty minds, I snarled inwardly. I could feel the heat of Mulder's embarrassment pouring off his body as I struggled to get the key in the door and get him inside.

The chair was waiting in the foyer. It was a nice one. Top of the line. I really needed to find out how much Scully was putting out toward his care, and reimburse her. I eased him down into it carefully, making sure not to do too much to adjust him or settle him into it. "There you are, Agent. You're ready to roll. This is quite a little hot rod, leather seats and a cup holder and everything. The whole thing can be controlled by this lever here. Or when your arms are out of the casts, you can wheel it."

He fingered the four-way switch but did not attempt to maneuver the chair. He just sat there, with that lost look on his face.

I tried to make it sound as if nothing pleased me more than having him as a houseguest for the next fortnight. "Well, now...how about a tour of the grounds, and then I'll make us some coffee. I think you'll find I make a cup of coffee Starbucks would envy."

Nothing, not even a flicker of a smile.

So much for my brilliant plan. I took him to what would be his room and left him there.

Scully came a couple of hours later, with more clean clothes and a schedule for his physical and speech therapies and the name of the doctor who was assuming his care. I think she was also hoping to at least get a glimpse of her partner.

I was tired and fed up and I know I looked it. We'd fought about me helping him use the bathroom, and we'd fought about me changing him into more comfortable clothes, and we'd fought about him taking his meds. If you're wondering how it is possible to do battle with a man in a wheelchair, impeded by two broken arms, you just try to wrestle a six foot two man out of said wheelchair when he doesn't want to move, and you just try prying his mouth open when he does not want to swallow pills.

One look at me and she demanded, "How is he?"

How is he? "I don't know. He's in his room." I gestured and set coffee on the counter in front of her. "We've called a truce for the evening."

"Sir...forgive me for being frank, Sir...but..." she pursed her lips. "I can't help feeling that you're getting too involved. It's not healthy for you to...well, you're not going to be his savior and I think that's what you want to be."

"What are you suggesting, Agent?" I said coldly. Savior. That word was fired with deadly accuracy. That's worse than Superman.

"Well, Sir … it was one thing to be so determined to find his assailant. Sir, I share that determination with you. But … but taking time off work, Sir, bringing him into your house, Sir …" She stopped, trying to choose her words with care. "Well, after all, Sir, what are you to him? You aren't family. You aren't … a … a …"

"Lover?" I supplied, recalling my neighbor's nosy sneer. "No, Agent Scully, I am neither of those things, it's true. Nor am I suffering from a savior complex." I could feel my throat tighten in anger. "But what I am is outraged that a brilliant, vital man such as Agent Mulder, has been put through this horrible episode, without family, without even a lover, for all intents and purposes alone."

The word stung her, and she flinched from it. "Sir, I would hardly say he's been alone. It's not my fault he won't let me -"

"He doesn't want your help." I forced the impatient edge out of my voice, realizing that, intelligent as she was, this was something only another man could understand. "This is a very difficult thing for him to deal with. I think he doesn't even want to see you until he's up and in control of himself again."

"From the appearance of things, Sir," she remarked dryly, "he doesn't seem to want your help, either."

"Well, he's getting my help," I snapped. Then I sighed. "I know it makes no sense to you, Agent Scully, but when I looked at him and realized there was no one but paid medical staff to see him through this ordeal I had to ask myself, if not me, who?"

I actually saw her say it - not out loud of course, but her mouth made the word...whom. She lowered her head. "Yes, Sir."

I held out a conciliatory hand. "Agent Scully, I appreciate your concern. I also appreciate how much you've done to make this feasible. I know he will too, when he's gotten past all his anger."

"He has a right to be angry," she said sadly.

I nodded and drank my coffee in silence.

*******************************************

He didn't sleep that first night. He spent it trying to get used to the chair. I heard him banging around in his room for hours. A dozen or more times I was tempted to go in and offer help, but we'd put a loud bicycle horn on the handle of the chair, and the understanding was that I would not disturb him unless he blew that horn. Of course, he never did.

Around five o'clock that next morning, I realized I was awake. I think I'd been awake most of the night listening to the motor whine and the thudding and bumping when the chair or his casted leg encountered an obstacle. But now I was hearing nothing. Curiosity and concern propelled me out of bed and down the stairs. I opened the door a crack and looked in. He was asleep, slumped over in the chair. He had dumped a small bookstand over and I'm not sure what he did to the goldfish bowl but there was water all over the floor. There were black tire marks on one wall. I could see a terrific struggle had taken place in here, and I suspected most of it had taken place in his head.

Stubborn bastard, I thought, but I couldn't help admire him. He wanted his independence and his dignity back. He wasn't about to lie back and wallow in self-pity - or wait for a savior, in any form. I moved inside, as quietly as I could and turned the bedclothes back. I lifted him carefully, hoping not to wake him, and put him down in the bed. As I was drawing the blankets up over him, his eyes fluttered open and he gave me a wild stare.

"Shh, it's okay," I promised, smoothing the blankets over his chest. "But you were going to wake up with a hell of a sore back, on top of everything else, if I let you sleep in that chair. You want some water or anything?"

He gave me that little headshake.

I sensed that he needed something. I looked around the room. "Want me to turn the television on? Get you something to read? Do you need the bathroom?"

Three denials.

"Okay. I'll see you later, Mulder."

He made a little sound...it seemed like something painful and I looked down at him. "What? Bathroom?"

He looked away.

"All right, that's it." I threw the bedclothes back and scooped him up. "Stop fighting me, asshole," I growled as he wriggled frantically in my arms. "You are going to learn to accept help or we're both going to die in the process." I carried him into the bathroom, stripped down his sweats and dumped him, unceremoniously, on the seat.

He was spitting nails inside. He was shooting fire with his eyes. I think if he'd had a gun in his reach at that moment I'd be a dead man. But he emptied his bladder because he had no choice. And he hated me for that. I didn't mind. I'd rather he hated me than feared me. When he was through, I lifted him, gave him a little shake, even though it made us both blush for me to do so, got him back in his sweats and carried him out, not to his bedroom, but to the living room, where I put him down on the sofa, and held him still.

"Now, you listen to me, Agent Mulder." I stopped. That was not the right way to handle this, and I knew it. I took the edge from my voice. "Fox, listen to me. I know you feel helpless and humiliated. It was bad enough that he did what he did to you, but worse, he left you like this so you have to live with it day in and day out and you're helpless to do anything about it. Look at me," I commanded softly when he tried to avoid my eyes. "I've been where you are, I know what it feels like when your body is so torn up you can't even take a shit on your own, and you have to have some fourteen year old candy striper wiping your ass for you. Because I've been where you are, I want to be here for you."

The color in his face was changing, the red of anger was dulling to the red of shame. I shifted, kneeling beside him, my hands resting gently on his shoulders. "You think I pity you, don't you, Mulder? You think I feel sorry for you, think you're nothing but a helpless invalid, a burden, don't you?" I saw his eyes redden before he looked away again, blinking rapidly. "Let me ask you something. If our situations were reversed, would you be over on this side, thinking that about me?"

He turned his head enough to catch me in a sidelong glance. He seemed surprised I would even suggest it.

"No, you wouldn't think those things, would you?" I concluded. "So why do you think I would think them about you?"

He looked away again.

"Mulder, if our situations were reversed, you'd be here for me. I know you would. You and Scully would be with me twenty-four seven, no matter how much I raged and fought and swore. Because that's the kind of man you are. And I admire that about you. So let me be that kind of man, huh? Let me help you get through this awful time, and trust me to empathize with you but not pity you. Okay?"

I saw him crumble. I actually saw the fissure in his rock hard determination to not give in. He broke before my eyes. One tear at first, then a small, soft, from the bottom of his gut sob. His shoulders quivered and he bit down on his lip and tried, really struggled to free himself from my hold. But I held fast, in fact I tightened my grip, I pulled him into my arms, I rocked him gently. I even wept.

"It's okay, Mulder. It's time to let it all out. Go ahead. You're not being weak. You've got to get it out of your system before you're poisoned for good." He sobbed hard but almost silently against my shoulder.

I rubbed his back, cradled him against me, kissed his hair, his brow, his temple. It wasn't until I kissed his cheek that I realized my ultimate destination was his mouth. I wasn't even surprised that when I reached his mouth it was turned to me, lips parted, and accepting. Savior, hell. I wanted him to save me.

His kiss tasted like tears and medication, but I devoured it, sucking his tongue, crushing his lips, almost climbing inside him, before I realized what I was doing, and broke the kiss, and then the embrace.

He stared at me, looking like a gaffed fish.

And that made me feel even worse. "Oh...God, Mulder, I...I shouldn't have done that."

He looked even more broken than before and he turned his body away with great effort, pulling the shreds of his composure together.

I drew a deep breath. I had broken the bridge before it was even completed and I needed to do some emergency repair work, and fast. "Mulder." I touched his knee. I touched his chin, turning his face. He looked at me, but he might as well have looked straight through me. I wasn't there for him anymore.

I flopped around looking for a way to explain. "Mulder, I'm going to tell you something no one else knows, and I'm going to trust you to respect that I don't want anyone else to know. When I was in 'Nam, I was...uh...involved with another Marine. It wasn't love, or even anything close to it," I confessed. "It's just that it gets cold and lonely and scary, even in the jungle. So we kept each other from being lonely. It didn't last very long," I went on, surprised that even now the memory could sting. "He was killed in a recon mission about four months into his tour. Tripped a wire. Not even enough of him left to bring home on a rag. They brought me his tags because someone overheard him tell me that morning that he..." I let that moment in time hover between us, a moment in time I would never forget. "...loved me."

I sighed and looked at my hands. I could feel Mulder's rigidity easing, but he still kept turned away from me. "When I finally got back to the States, some guy came to see me at the VA, asked for the tags. Turns out this lover of mine had been in a long time committed relationship before he went over. I was just a little jungle fever. A war wound." I swallowed and looked up. Mulder was looking at me from that sidewise glance again. "I don't know why I did that just now. I wish I could tell you that you reminded me of him, but the truth is you are nothing like him. And it isn't because I've been lusting after you all these years, because the truth is, you've been mostly nothing more than a royal pain in my a - neck. I haven't even thought about being involved with another man since him."

He turned toward me slightly. There was a question in his eyes. "I know," I said nodding. "So, why did I do that? I don't know. Except maybe what you're going through reminds me of how scared and broken I felt after I woke up in Saigon, shot to hell and no idea how I survived, or why. And that made me think of him."

I brushed impatiently at the wetness on my face. "So what made you kiss me back?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he was focused on me again, but he looked completely lost. He didn't know.

Suddenly I had to know. "Just between us, Mulder, are you gay? Bi-sexual?"

He shook his head and the expression on his face was frank, and open.

"So, you and Hartley …"

He paled a little and looked as if he was going to be ill.

I touched his cheek. "You just needed to be kissed?"

He thought about it a moment. Then he nodded slowly.

"Been a long time?" Oh, I understood how lonely it was not to be touched. "I hear you." I stood. "Well, you don't need to worry that I'm going to do that again. I didn't bring you here for a chance to jump your bones. I brought you here because I know what it's like to feel broken, and I want to help get the pieces back in order. Okay?" I tried to laugh, to make it nothing more than a joke. "I mean, come on...I've got to be better than a fourteen year old candy striper right now...right?"

He nodded, but he didn't seem to be with me anymore. His brows were knotted together in a frown, and he was thinking about something far away from me.

"Ready to try and sleep?"

He nodded again. I lifted him without struggle and carried him back into the bedroom. Then he surprised me. He held on with one arm still around my neck, lifted his head slightly, and pressed a kiss to my cheek. I guess I'd been forgiven.

*******************************************

Later that morning I had the unpleasant duty of coaxing him out of the house to see the local physician Scully had recommended to follow him through his various therapies. He was fine throughout the grooming and dressing process, not even flinching as I worked him into clean boxers and the jeans he had sacrificed to accommodate his foot to hip cast. He managed to get down some coffee and cereal without making too many faces. He even allowed me to brush his teeth. But once we had him in his chair and ready to roll out the door, he panicked. His body locked into place, his face went white, perspiration suddenly dotted his brow, his hands shook hard.

I wasn't sure what to do. In all of Dr. Freeman's advice and instructions, she hadn't prepared me for a reaction like this. I hadn't seen it when we left the hospital in West Virginia, nor had he demonstrated any particular terror or concern when we left Anbury to come back to my place. But this time, without saying a word, he managed to make it clear that he would rather I shot him than make him leave that condo.

I wasn't immediately sympathetic to the situation. "Mulder, relax," I said impatiently. "We're just going to see your doctor. We'll be gone an hour at the most, unless you want to stop someplace."

He shook his head tightly.

I opened the front door, and he started to gasp and wheeze. I realized he was going to choke on his own fear. I shut the door and knelt next to him, not touching him even though there was a strong urge to touch his face, soothe him. When his breathing returned to normal, I reached for his hand and made him look at me. "You're not going to be alone out there, Mulder. I won't leave you alone. I promise."

His eyes went over my face, searching for the lie in my words. Then he relaxed slightly. But he still didn't want to go out that door. He made an impatient gesture and I looked down at the hand I held. He was making a movement with his forefinger, as if pulling a trigger. I was chilled. This man who had a reputation for talking rather than shooting, even in the face of drawn weapons, was so deeply scarred, he was now ready to shoot at the first sign of danger, to seek the cold comfort of a gun.

"No, Mulder, I'm not giving you your gun," I told him, trying to sound matter of fact instead of horrified. "You couldn't even lift it, let alone fire it, and frankly I don't relish getting shot in the ass because you couldn't handle your weapon."

He was supposed to laugh, at least I had hoped he would, but he just made that trigger motion again.

"However, I'll take mine," I compromised.

He relaxed.

Sighing, I went to my closet, unlocked the gun box, and pulled out my personal weapon, and tucked it into its waistband holster. I showed it to him as I returned to the foyer. "Can we go now?"

He nodded.

We went to the doctor's appointment, where his charts and films were reviewed, and where the doctor talked over his head about his injuries as if he was either invisible or mentally disabled or both. I decided that Mulder and I were going to have a talk about changing providers. Was this the way of HMOs? If you are caring and sensitive, you cannot work for them? Perhaps Scully could recommend someone else, and I'd take care of the bill. I wouldn't have him dissected and sneered at for the sake of an eighty/twenty coverage.

He was completely demoralized when we left the medical center and I wasn't much better. In an effort to cheer him a little, I offered him lunch at a burger joint near my complex, and after considering it for a long time, he agreed. I ordered for us both, trying to make sure to get his input on everything.

The idea of a real hamburger and fries was definitely appealing to him, but I think the environment was not. He shifted restlessly, obviously uncomfortable that he had his back to most of the room. The sound of a man talking loudly on his cell phone seemed extremely agitating. And he must have felt like a freak. The waitress stared at him a lot. "What is he? Like brain dead or something?" she asked me, and I know she didn't mean it as cruelly as it sounded. I did not dignify her question with a remark, merely a scowl. She took the hint, took our order and left.

Mulder didn't react to her words, staring straight ahead until she had gotten our order then he slumped in his chair. He sent me a silent appeal to leave.

I ached for him, wanted to slap her. It had never occurred to me how trapped he was, his active mind choked off in a body not yet ready to set him free. I reached out and took his hand. "It will be over soon, Mulder. I promise. You'll be back to your normal, noisy, annoying, brilliant self before you know it. Just ignore the imbeciles out there who don't have any sense, all right? Don't take it personally."

The expression on his face shifted from 'Can't we please go home?' to 'Bite me.' It was so clear it was as if I could actually hear him say it. But the fact that he was communicating with me made me try an experiment. "Do you want to go home?" I offered.

He nodded.

I shook my head.

He blinked. Rapidly.

Again I shook my head and this time I squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Say it. Just say yes, Mulder. Say the word and we're out of here. Just that one word. You can do it. I know you can."

I should probably have just slapped him. That's how he reacted. He sank back in his chair again, looking at me with the most injured expression I had ever seen. Still I persisted. "Just that one word, Mulder. Come on. I know you can do it."

I saw his throat work, his breath got ragged. I could hear a faint choking sound from inside him. His color darkened as he seemed to stop breathing in his effort.

Finally I surrendered. "It's okay, Mulder. We'll go home." I got up and went to change our order to be wrapped to go.

At home, I wheeled him to the kitchen table and unwrapped his hamburger. He and I both stared at it. "Well, do you want to try a frontal assault, or shall we break it up and take it in sections?"

He stiffened two fingers. Option number two.

"Okay, assault on all the beach heads." I got a knife and cut it into small sections and held one up for him. He took it, and it was clear the idea of returning to his normal diet of grease, salt and carbs was almost worth the humiliations of the morning. His eyes fluttered closed and he sighed deeply, the corner of his mouth curling up as he chewed. "Yeah," I agreed, watching him, "they make a pretty decent burger."

For a while, we just concentrated on eating. I'd offer him a mouthful of French fries or a bite from his burger and then take one from my own. I tried not to look at him, but I was aware of him watching me. He looked slightly puzzled, and slightly grateful. I think he was wondering why I would do so much for him.

I was wondering, too. I had been since early this morning when I kissed him. I had been thinking about so much more, since. It was unthinkable to imagine making love to a man who had been so horribly brutalized, and by someone he had liked and trusted, yet I had seen his body, and now I wanted to see it strong enough to accept me.

That shift in my perspective alarmed me. I had heard of patients falling in love with their caregivers, but never the other way around. And I certainly couldn't imagine falling in love with one of my male subordinates, except the more I was around this stubborn, angry, broken but determined man, the more I admired him, the more I...I made my mind shut off and focus on nothing more than feeding him. I'd think again when he was walking and talking. If that ever happened.

- END chapter 04 -
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