I'm Thinking As Loud as I Can

Chapter Five - Training

by Mik

The next hurdle was the rape counselor. That took a few days to set up. Scully, Dr. Freeman and I had agreed upon one who would come to him, perhaps understanding just how hard it was for him to get out the door and into a world where he couldn't control who approached him, or what people said or did around him. But naturally Mulder wouldn't accept just anyone. He didn't want a woman, he was adamant about that. So we found a well-regarded male therapist, but Mulder was unwilling to be alone in a room with a strange man. So, I offered him a compromise; bring the male counselor in, and I'd stay with him. But he didn't want me in the room. I think Scully felt vindicated after that.

I still don't understand what the big issue was. He couldn't respond to the counselor anyway, so the first session, conducted in my living room with me hovering in the kitchen, was mostly the counselor's opinions and observations. I wondered, almost jealously, if Mulder would attempt some form of communication with this man, tell him something he didn't want me to hear. But whether or not the actual facts of the assault were addressed, I didn't know, I could only hear the man drone on and on, and a now familiar restless whine of the wheelchair motor as Mulder 'paced'.

It must have been a difficult session, because when I heard the timer go off, and came out into the living room, Mulder's face was ashen, and looked on the edge of tears. The counselor didn't really look much better.

After I got a visibly shaken Mulder into his room, I returned to the living room where the counselor was gathering his notes together, and offered him a cup of coffee, which to my surprise, he accepted. He seemed almost eager to talk to me, following me into the kitchen and taking a seat at my dining table. "Don't let Agent Mulder get to you," I beseeched him. "He's been through a lot and -"

He waved it away. "The first time's always rough. If either of us had come out of it unscathed I would have called it unproductive."

I considered his on the verge of a Mulder migraine expression. "Looks like it was very productive."

He smiled and nodded. "You're his..." he paused delicately, "...caregiver?"

"Yes," I answered, not liking a slightly unprofessional gleam in his eyes. "Just his caregiver," I emphasized.

He looked almost disappointed by this news. "And he's comfortable around you?" he probed. "Despite the fact that you're an unrelated male?"

I shrugged. "He seems to be. He tolerates me."

He pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket and consulted it. "Then I assume you know the circumstances behind his injuries?"

I wasn't sure if he was asking me for details or just trying to decide how much I knew. "Yes," I answered simply. I brought him coffee and sat down opposite him. "He's under my command. I took an active role in the investigation, because the assault began on the premises where he is employed."

"Ah." He reached for his cup and a spoon. "So this is just a case for you? An investigation?"

"Hardly." I could barely keep my voice civil, as I pointed in the general direction of the guest room. "That man was one of my finest investigative agents. I owe him a lot professionally and...and personally. I want to help him any way I can: from finding the man responsible, to being there for him if he needs me." I knew it was quite a speech, but it was one I needed to hear. I needed to hear me say what my obligations were. And now I knew. I felt I owed him, and I was trying to pay my debt.

"I see." He seemed less impressed with my statements than I had been. He poured sugar and cream into his cup and stirred. "He's lucky to have someone who is so concerned about his well-being," he allowed.

"I'm not sure I like the way you're saying that," I said bluntly.

He gave me an indefinable look. "It isn't personal. Not to me. But I think it might be to him." He nodded toward the door.

Memories of that one wholly inappropriate kiss taunted me. Had he somehow communicated some fear of harassment to this man? "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, nothing, except I sense bewilderment on his part. We'll discuss it further when he's ready. I don't think it's a complaint," he added, as if he only just realized that it might have sounded like one. "I think he's just surprised that anyone would care so much. The few things he responded to made him seem something of a lone wolf."

I felt myself relaxing. "Agent Mulder usually goes his own way," I conceded with a rueful chuckle.

He consulted his notepad again. "I understand he is believed to be suffering from selective muteness."

"You sound doubtful," I observed.

He gave me a slightly deprecating smile and tasted his coffee. "Well, it's unusual in men of his age."

"He's had it before."

He raised his brows. "As an adult?" He put the cup down and reached for more sugar.

"No, as a child. I confirmed it with his mother," I explained. "You still don't seem to accept that diagnosis."

He stirred more sugar into his cup.

"All right...if you don't think that's it, tell me what it is. Tell me what I do to get him to talk?" I described my failed experiment in the restaurant the day I took him to see his physician. I know my frustration and concern was evident in my voice. "He has to talk or this investigation grinds to a halt."

"I understand that. And I'm pretty sure he does too." He nodded sympathetically and shrugged. "But the reality is you can't force him. If it is selective muteness, which I still doubt, you have to wait on him. Think of him as being...well, I know this is very un-pc, but think of him as a verbal cripple. You can't force, cajole, or bribe him into speaking, any more than you can force a paraplegic to walk. It's out of his control. The words will come to him when he's healed and not until then. No matter what the diagnosis, he needs to trust you in order to speak. He needs to feel safe, and even more importantly, that you hear him."

"I'm trying," I said flatly. I suppose, I reminded myself, that means I have to keep my hands off of him for him to believe that.

He gave me another sympathetic nod. "It takes time. It isn't a switch he can just one day decide to flip. Think about what this man went through. He was robbed of everything men hold dear; his strength, his cunning, his ability to protect himself, even his sexual function. He's shutting himself off from every relationship he's ever had, because he knows how he sees himself, and he fears that others see him that way as well."

"How does he see himself?"

"Weak." He gestured slightly. "Broken, perhaps. Definitely damaged. My guess is he is probably doubting his sexuality. Doubting his ability to protect himself or others. Maybe...less than a man?" He sent his eyes over me thoughtfully.

My first reaction was recoil. Was he making a pass at me? Then I realized what he was so cleverly not saying to me. "So, you think he feels even less of a man than the circumstances might warrant because he's with me right now?"

He made another gesture, this one to encompass me. "Well, look at you...big, tough, ex Marine. The manliest of men?"

"How did -" I stopped. I guess my Marine-isms were all over the house in photos and other mementos.

He smiled over his coffee. "My dad was a Marine," he explained. "I can spot them a mile off."

His dad. Well, now I felt old. "So, what is it you're saying to me? He shouldn't be here with me? Should he be in an institution somewhere? Alone?"

"No, I didn't say that," he said in a patient tone. "I just said it's going to take a while for him to see that you don't see him that way, see him broken, damaged, weak, less than a man. You...um...you don't, do you?"

"My God, no!" I protested. At his anxious glance toward the door, I lowered my voice lest Mulder hear my comments. "I'm furious about what happened to him, but it doesn't change my opinions of him. He was one of the most difficult men I ever worked with, and also one of the most productive."

"'Was'?" he repeated.

"Was...is...will be again." I searched for words. "I know who he is. I don't like seeing him like this."

"Then just be patient with him." He held his hands up in a conciliatory manner. "I know, I know, that's asking a lot. We all want that miracle cure, but they don't exist. Healing is a process, Mr. Skinner, not an event."

"So...no big breakthrough?"

He shook his head. "Not in the sense that you're talking about...not in the sense of the climax of the movie, he talks and the credits roll, no. Any steps toward returning to his former self are breakthroughs."

I was beginning to admire this guy. "Will you see him again?"

He nodded. "Of course. He's a challenge, that one. I've never done therapy with someone who couldn't speak … a few who wouldn't, not at first, but I see in his eyes that there are things he wants to say. Maybe he doesn't want to talk about what happened to him, not yet, but he wants to talk. He wants to rage. He wants to say it was unfair and he hates this guy and God and maybe everyone else in the world. He just can't."

I looked down at my untouched coffee sadly. "Last time it took him three years."

He emptied his cup. "Can you live with his selective muteness for three years?" he dared, with a hint of amusement.

I had to laugh. "I've lived with his selective mutiny a lot longer than that."

He laughed. We parted friends.

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

Mulder stayed in his room, quiet, the rest of the day. Since we'd agreed I wouldn't disturb him without hearing his bicycle horn, and there was no reason to get him ready to go anywhere, I left him alone. I figured if he got miserable enough, lonely enough, bored enough, he'd seek my help. Around seven, I knocked on his door and called out that supper was ready, but getting no response, I went on. I could only imagine the condition of his bladder if he didn't come seeking me soon.

Around nine o'clock, I passed his door and thought I heard something, strange sounds, moans and groans and whispers. I realized, embarrassed, that he'd figured out a way to get one of his porn videos into the VCR, and I started to move away from the door. But I couldn't help wondering what good porn would do for a man who had both arms in casts that completely inhibited the types of movements necessary for him to fully appreciate the film. As I stood there wondering, I heard the chair whine, and the sound of the video die. Then I could hear him 'pace'.

Finally I knocked on the door and pushed it open slightly.

He looked up at me with a horrified jolt. "Sorry to startle you," I apologized quickly. "I'm going upstairs pretty soon, and I wanted to see if you needed anything before I did. Water? Coffee? A drink? Something to eat? The bathroom?" I offered him each one slowly, with time between each to allow him to respond. He was still except for a slightly longing glance toward the wall common to the bathroom. "The bathroom?" I stepped forward, ready to gather him into my arms.

I was surprised when he put up resistance. The guy had to be ready to burst at the seams, but he was definitely fighting the idea of me getting him where he needed to go. Then I saw it. An unmistakable bulge in his sweats. The poor guy. Probably hard as a rock and nothing he could do about it. And he knew I knew. His face went bright red.

"Hey, nothing to be embarrassed about," I said, feeling embarrassed. "It's probably been a while since you had any … any … relief." I gave him a man-to-man smile. "I remember being in that hospital in Saigon, first time I'd seen women in six months, and my libido was the first thing to recover. I was strapped down in bed, and would have given my right hand for a … a … hand." I smiled again weakly. "What I'm so clumsily trying to tell you, Mulder, is there is nothing to be ashamed of. It's a sign you're getting back to normal. Everything's starting to work properly." I risked a glance downward. Chagrin had done its duty and the bulge was nearly gone. "Come on, let's get you into the bathroom." I lifted him carefully and took him in to take care of his business.

He looked so miserable I didn't know what to do for him. Instead of carrying him back to the solitude of his room, I carried him out to the living room and put him down in the big chair by the sofa. "You've spent enough time alone today, Mulder. You could use the company," I said over his squirming protests. I went to the bar and considered the assortment. I knew he wasn't much of a drinker, and I knew he had all sorts of meds to consider, but hell, he'd had a bitch of a day, and he wasn't going anywhere but back to bed. I poured a little scotch over a couple of ice cubes and brought it to him. "Here. Unwind a little."

I held it to his mouth and he took it in one long sip, then let his eyes close and his head fall back with a sigh. I could practically hear him saying 'ah, thanks, I needed that.' He did grant me a small smile.

I returned to the bar, refilled his glass and made one for myself. Then I drew another chair up close, and sat down, ready to give him another sip at the first sign that he wanted it. "What did you think of the counselor?" I asked.

He pursed his lips and shrugged.

"I talked to him after he saw you and he rubbed...um...I didn't take to him right off, but after a while I had to believe he's on your side." I held up his glass, which he declined. "He's very forthright."

Mulder absorbed this. But offered no indication of opinion.

I lifted my own glass and toasted him before taking a sip. "Did you ever do any counseling? I know you came to the Bureau right out of school, but don't you have to put in some time in practice before you get your doctorate?" I frowned. "I guess I'm thinking it's the equivalent of residency for a medical doctor."

He nodded slowly. He gave me a kind of feeble smile.

"What kind of counseling? Family? Kids? Abuse?"

He nodded again.

"All of it? Did you like it?"

He shook his head.

"No? Why not?" I would have thought Mulder would have made a fantastic counselor. He was so empathic.

He showed me two fingers and tapped them against the edge of his leg cast.

It took me a moment. "Too hard?"

He nodded, and there was a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.

I'll be damned, I thought. He's communicating with me. And the look in his eyes made me feel very warm. "Too hard as in the amount of work, or too hard because of the nature of the stuff you were hearing?"

He nodded again.

"Yeah, I'll bet you heard some horrifying shit." I took a sip from my glass and then felt his eyes following my hand. "Want some more?" I put my glass down and reached for his. He took a smaller sip this time. Nodded his thanks. Shifted in the chair.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I'm still not sure whom I was doing it for, but I put his glass down, and got up, lifting him up from the recliner and working myself between him and the chair, so that he ended up almost cradled in my arms. "Don't fuss, Mulder," I warned him in a low voice. "I've crossed so many boundaries with you, one more isn't going to kill either of us." I slid my hand under the waistband of his sweats, and groped for a moment, until my hand slid over what was left of his erection.

He went rigid in my arms, but he didn't fight me. His eyes were as round as saucers and fixed on my face in disbelief. I avoided his stare and worked his warm, silky flesh gently but firmly, feeling it respond to my touch. I could feel him struggling to make some kind of sound, and I looked at him, almost tauntingly. "Do you want me to stop, Mulder?" I whispered. "Just say the word."

He looked at me a moment longer, but he didn't shake his head. In fact, he sighed, and his head dropped against my shoulder.

It didn't take him long. A few moments of serious pumping, with a few firm squeezes and he went off like a rocket, making a sort of strangled hissing sound as he twisted in my arms, burying his face against my neck, his hot cum pouring like lava, over my fist. Then I held him close, my hand still cupped around him, rocking him, wondering what compelled me to do such a thing. How could I violate him like that? After he had been so violated already. I didn't know what to say to him, I knew I couldn't face him, so I continued to rock him gently, and let the shuddering leave his body.

After a while, he lifted his head, sought my eyes.

"Are you all right?" I asked quietly.

He nodded, sent his eyes over my face, and hesitantly moved toward me. Closing his eyes, he let his lips meet mine uncertainly.

I couldn't contain the need any longer. I gathered him close and kissed him deeply, my tongue invading his mouth in determination. His kiss might have been nothing more than gratitude, but I wanted it, and I took it. I took it as long as he could stand it, before he started to squirm a little, and his breath started coming in short little snorts through his nose.

I eased him away from me and studied his face. "Did I go too far?" I asked him. "Because if I did, I -"

He shook his head, lowering it so that his brow rested against my lips. I guess it was his way of saying 'Shut up, asshole, before you ruin it'.

So, I pulled my sticky hand out of his pants and draped my hands very lightly at his hips, holding him, and waiting for a clue to what he wanted next. And all the while I could hear his therapist telling me that he was doubting his own sexuality now. Well, I certainly didn't help matters, did I? At last he lifted his head but kept his eyes down.

"Mulder, listen to me, I was only trying to help. Honestly."

He looked up at me and then looked down again.

I realized he was looking at the mess in his lap. "Right. Let's get cleaned up, shall we?" It was an effort to get up, with his weight in my lap, not to mention my own erection, which had appeared about the time I slid my hand into his sweats, and was still there, aching and leaving a wet pool on my inner thigh. But somehow I got us both into the bathroom, and got the sweatpants off. Then came another dilemma. I didn't know whether to matter of factly wash him off, as if it was no big deal, or show a little tenderness given that we'd just had some pretty serious sexual contact. I decided to try for a little tenderness, and smiled at him as I ran a warm cloth over his groin. I felt the smile entitled me to take a good look at him, and I have to say, it wasn't disappointing.

He didn't fidget, but I could tell it was a real effort for him not to, given another man, his boss, was handling his cock like the prize pig at the fair. Once he was cleaned and dried, I brought him, bare-assed, back to the bedroom, and found a clean pair of sweats to tuck him into. Although by this point I was so unsure of myself that I was avoiding his eyes, I could feel him studying me intently. I eased him back into the bed and drew the bedclothes up. "Are you going to be all right?"

He nodded jerkily.

"I was only trying to help..."

He nodded again and managed a wan smile.

"I'm making it worse, aren't I?"

He nodded firmly.

I wanted to do more. I wanted to find a way to reassure him that what happened didn't change his sexuality in his eyes or in mine, but there was nothing to say that would accomplish that, so I just gave his shoulder a little pat and backed away.

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

The next day I got him out to see another physician and he decided to take the cast off Mulder's leg and left hand. I was both sorry and relieved. He would not be depending on me so much, and while that must have afforded him a great deal of peace of mind, I was going to miss being there to care for him.

I expected some form of argument now that he could walk and use one hand (in moderation, the doctor had warned) that he wanted to go back to his apartment, but he offered no demurer when I took him back to my condo. He seemed to be very glad to get out of that wheelchair and he limped around the place a little, going out onto the terrace, and poking around upstairs. When he came back downstairs, he went into his room and sprawled out on the bed, face down, and slept.

Later, when I called him to supper, he got up and came to the table without fuss, and although he was still feeling a little weak and clumsy, managed to feed himself for the first time in over a month. I had been an anxious wreck all day, unable to look directly at him, fearful of touching him just a moment longer than necessary. For his part, he was making an admirable attempt not to appear oversensitive to the fact that another man had crossed the line twice in the last two weeks. He managed to be polite, relatively cooperative and didn't even pull away from me too much.

After supper, I offered him a drink, which he accepted, and then began the process of clearing off the table and loading up the dishwasher.

He disappeared, presumably back into the relative safety of the guest room. Yet coming out of the kitchen, I passed his room, saw the door was open, and he wasn't there. Moving down the hall into the living room, I could see his silhouette through the sheerness of the panels over the terrace doors. He was standing, feet splayed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring out over the quad between the various buildings of the complex.

There was something sorrowful about him standing there, and something intimidating about that sorrow. I knew I couldn't hide from him inside my own house, so with a deep breath, I went out to face the awkwardness head on. I put a hand on his back and began an apology. "Mulder, I'm so sorry I -"

From the moment I touched him I realized that coming up behind him without warning was a mistake. He flinched hard enough to break the glass in his hand, whipped around, mouth open, eyes wide, terror spelled out in big letters over his face, and his entire body.

"Oh, God, Mulder, I'm sorry," I spluttered, more than a little startled by his response. "I didn't mean to...I'm so sorry. Are you all right? You cut your hand." I reached for it but he pulled it away, shaking his head, backing up then, reaching out with the bloody hand as if to shake the whole incident away. I caught his wrist as he made the gesture. "Come inside," I insisted. "You're bleeding."

I managed to get him into the bathroom, and his hand under the water before the trembling started in earnest. I knew he didn't want me to say anything. I knew he wanted me to pretend I didn't notice how he nearly jumped out of his skin, but I could not. I tried keeping my voice soft and even as I picked little bits of crystal out of his palm. "I'm sorry I came up behind you like that. I should know you'd need to watch your back for a while. Hell, I was jumping at my own shadow for months, when I first got home..."

There was something in his eyes, something tight around the corner of his mouth that clearly said, 'I don't want to hear this', so I laughed weakly. "You must be so sick of my war stories." I reached for iodine and gauze and began to carefully tape up the wound. "Mulder, there is one thing you need to know. What I did before..." I stopped and swallowed. "Kissing you and...touching you...that had nothing to do with..."

I stopped again. I could feel him trying to close his hand and pull it out of my grasp. I wouldn't let go. Finally I just blurted out what I needed to say. "I didn't kiss you because some psycho assaulted you. I didn't m-make love to you because some other man treated you like..." I grabbed his wrist as he pulled away. "Damn it, Mulder. Dan Hartley didn't just turn you into a homosexual overnight. And no, you're not giving off some...vibe that makes other men think you're gay. But you are a very attractive, and very desirable man. I've felt that for a long time. I might have kissed you before, if we'd ever been in circumstances that would have allowed for it." I made myself meet his eyes when he lifted them to mine. "Yes, Mulder, it's true. I kissed you, I touched you, because I wanted to. But I wanted to a month ago, a year ago, five years ago. It isn't about what he did to you. He didn't change you. And you didn't do anything to make him think he could."

I let go of his wrist. "Now, you can go home, if you're afraid I'll take advantage of you any further. I didn't bring you here to hurt you anymore. And I'm sorry if that's all I've done."

He staggered back when I released him, but he didn't bolt. He leaned back against the sink and stared at me. Hard. As if he was trying to see something behind me. Eventually he decided either there was nothing there, or he just couldn't see it. He swallowed, looked down at his bandaged hand and then up at my eyes again. It was obvious he didn't know what to think. That everything he ever thought he knew about himself was as shattered as that glass out on my terrace, and yet despite the fact that I kept stomping on the pieces, I was trying to tell him it was all still true.

Finally he reached out, put the bandaged hand on my chest and held it there for a moment. Then he patted. Then he left.

- END chapter 05 -
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