I'm Thinking As Loud As I Can

Chapter Six - Truce

by Mik

I fully expected to find Mulder packed up and ready to move out the next morning when I came downstairs. I didn't expect him to be in my kitchen, washing up his breakfast dishes. Well, trying, at least. He had filled the sink with soapy water and was shoving his bandaged hand into the water and swishing the dishes around then trying to shake the soap away. I made a mental note never to have a glass of water at his house.

He was dressed, but that was about all I could say for him. His hair was a fright wig of dark brown spikes, his eyes were red rimmed as if he had not slept, his jeans hung loosely as if they were two sizes too big, he needed a shave, and he basically looked miserable. That was only right. I know I felt miserable.

When I had taken all this in, I announced my presence from the door with a sharp rap on the frame, and he turned around, looked me over and resumed his difficult task of washing dishes without getting his casted hand wet. I risked a few steps into the room. "You know, I have a dishwasher," I pointed out. I wanted to say something so much more profound, but the sight of him undid me. I had spent the night contemplating the possibilities. If I could be the one he trusted, if I could be the one who saved him …

He nodded and continued. Then he stopped, stared into the soapy water, sighed deeply, and pulled his soggily bandaged hand out of the water, shaking it like a wet dog, and splattering him, me, and the walls. Then he tugged a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to me. He began to wash dishes again, avoiding my eyes, but hypersensitive to me as I unfolded and scanned the note.

It must have been an effort to write with his dominant hand still useless to him. It must have been an effort to write just for the things he said.

I looked at him. "Are you saying you didn't tell me no because you were afraid I'd do what he did to you?"

He turned around, looking ready to deny it hotly, but something gave him pause and he finally offered me that same helpless smile he gave me every time I asked a question for which he had no means to answer.

I had to chuckle. Well, at least his sense of humor was healing.

I felt my face burn. If anything could extinguish my desire for him, it was his offer to become my lover out of gratitude. I folded the letter carefully and tucked it back in his pocket roughly. "Thanks, but no thanks," I said coldly and left him.

A moment later, I heard his door slam.

He stayed away from me the rest of the day, refusing to come out even for meals. When I did see him darting in and out of the bathroom, he looked more acutely embarrassed than he had that night in the hospital. He'd made fools of us both, and he knew it. For my part, I sat in the living room and fumed. How dare he! How could he think that I'd want him out of duty or obligation? How could he prostitute himself like that? What the hell did Hartley do to him? Mulder, why won't you tell me?

By suppertime, my anger had receded, and all that was left was anxiety and wounded sensibilities. As I tried to put together a meal, I wondered how I could explain my feelings and concerns to him. And I wondered if I should take him back to his apartment and let him fend for himself. The only problem with that idea was the absolute conviction that he wouldn't step out his apartment door ever again once he was back inside. There was no way he'd get out to his therapies on his own. I had visions of pizzas being delivered and left outside his door, money slipped over the sill. I couldn't let him disappear inside himself.

I put plates on the table and went to his door. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression one of deep thought. I came in with a speech prepared, but meeting the determined gleam in his eyes, all I could say was, "Supper."

He stood like a man on a mission and limped his way to the door. The mission became a failure when he got within an arm's reach of me. He stopped, licked his lips, flicked a glance up at me, and then looked away.

I backed up and he sidled past me and into the kitchen. It seemed we both had things to say and no nerve to say them.

After a silence broken only by the sound of forks on plates, I drew a deep breath, ready to begin my speech once again. But this time I was cut off by the ringing of the phone. I snatched it up almost angrily. "Skinner."

"Sir?" Scully sounded breathless. "They found some of Mulder's effects. I'm going down to the scene. Do you want to be there?"

Finally, a break. "Damn right I do." I glanced at the back of Mulder's head. "Where?" I made a hasty note of the directions to a field about twenty-five miles from where Mulder's car was found. "I'm on my way." I put the phone down and came back to the table, collecting my plate and half consumed meal.

Mulder looked up quizzically.

"I'm going back to West Virginia. They've found some of your things." I scraped my plate into the disposal. "You'll be fine here, won't you? I'll show you where I keep my personal weapons." I rinsed the plate and set it down into the dishwasher. "I think there's a Knicks game on tonight." I opened a cupboard and searched for one of my travel mugs and filled it. "I have no idea when I'll be back."

When I turned around, Mulder was staring at me, his mouth working uselessly, trying desperately to say something to me. I wasn't sure if it was 'Don't go' or 'Don't leave me here'. "Do you want to go?" I offered.

He answered with an unconvincing shake of his head.

"All right, let me ask it this way. Should you go?"

He looked down at his plate. I could literally see him gathering his balls into his hands. He nodded and forced himself from the table. He left his plate and walked back to his room. By the time I had the dishwasher loaded and another cup located and filled, he was back, looking shaken, but pulling his jacket on.

I gave him an encouraging nod, and went to get my weapon and a coat. I could feel his eyes follow my hand as I tucked my service weapon into the regulation holster. "Did he take your weapons, Mulder?"

His answer was to turn his face away from me. I wondered what horrors and humiliations I had stirred up with that question. Could anything be worse than a cop losing his weapon to the perpetrator he was trying to stop? I gave his shoulder a squeeze. "It happens, Mulder. Ready to go?"

He stalled at the door.

"You can stay," I offered again. "You don't have to do this."

He took two or three gulps of air, and charged out into the hall as if he was running into a burning building. I had to run to keep up with him.

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

The site was taped off and they were setting up halogens powerful enough to illuminate each individual blade of grass around the scorched area. Scully, in her typical Bureau drag, was watching the setup as if this was about to become a surgery, but at the sound of our car, she broke away from the group of strangers, presumably local guys, and approached us. She missed a step when she saw Mulder emerge from the car, but resumed her stride, approaching me with an extended hand, and an uncertain glance toward Mulder.

Poor Mulder. I've never ever thought that before, but he was trying so hard not to fall apart. It was clear from the way his hands trembled, even though he had them shoved into his jeans pockets, and the way his eyes darted around, as if there were whispers and screams that only he could hear. He managed a half smile for Scully, and even tried to approach her for a hug, but she backed up nervously and he just couldn't make that extra step. Suddenly there was just heavy air hanging between them.

I intervened. "What have we got?"

Scully glanced back to the area. "Some boys playing here found some partially burned clothing." She shot an uncertain look at Mulder. "There was...blood on it. They called the police."

"Good kids," I muttered, shooting a glare at the local constabulary. "At least someone in this state can find something."

"My guess is he kept Mulder not too far from here," Scully predicted. "There is probably a straight line from the scene of the assault, to where he left Mulder, to where he attempted to destroy the evidence." She pointed off to the west of us. "His car was found about twenty five miles from here along the road, but in that straight line, it's really no more than five or six miles from there to here. He may have walked back into this area to destroy the last of the evidence. Maybe we can put a team on it in the morning to find some kind of path or other physical evidence."

We both sent covert glances to Mulder, to see if he might argue her theory, but he was staring straight up, at a small patch of night sky overhead.

We started walking back to the scene. Mulder managed to get all the way to the yellow tape and look down, recognizing his Harvard striped tie. He jerked his gaze away. Part of a white dress shirt was also visible, splattered with blood. I'm not a forensic specialist, but it looked to me as if Mulder had taken a fist to the face that had split his lip and splashed the blood down the front of his shirt. I tried to remember if there had been a bump or cut on the side of his head in the description of the injuries.

Just picturing the blow, I could imagine what happened. This so-called friend approached Mulder as he went to his car. They exchanged words, Hartley socked him, hard enough to send his head back against the concrete pillar where his briefcase and topcoat were found, rendering him momentarily dazed or even unconscious. If that was the opening volley, God knows what happened next. I felt bile rushing to my mouth again.

They worked over the embers and ashes carefully. His clothing, right down to what might have been silk boxers, was pretty much destroyed. His card case was charred but had somehow managed to protect the information inside. But his badge was missing. Hartley had taken a trophy. His holster and both weapons were also missing, but his license to carry his personal weapon remained in the card case. Also among the ashes, there were indications of rope, and tape and some bloodied rags of the kind one gets in a machine shop or garage. The fact that most of it had been burned to black made it all the more chilling.

Scully and I stood, side by side, watching with horror as each new bit was unearthed, catalogued and bagged. Mulder stood next to me, but he wasn't watching. In fact, I don't think he was with us. His stare had gone glassy, and his breath came in erratic bursts. I could feel him twitch now and again. Scully and I both avoided looking at him. But it didn't matter. He didn't know we were there. Even so, there was something about the way he stood, rigid, remembering, yet trying to maintain an illusion of control that made me want to draw him into my arms and comfort him.

The sun was starting to come up over the hillside, making mist lift from the ground like spirits from the grave. I hunched into my jacket, tugging the collar up, and Scully tightened the belt of her topcoat and dragged her damp hair back from her cheeks. Mulder just swayed there next to us, as if buffeted by the mist and his own memories. As the light rose higher and the lamps, one by one, were shut down, Mulder lifted his head and sniffed the air like an animal. Suddenly, he turned and marched off, not toward the car, but beyond the clearing.

I looked at Scully and she at me, exchanging shrugs. We weren't sure if one or both of us should follow. We could hear him break into a run, which must have been next to impossible on that injured leg. Wordlessly, it was agreed that I would go after him. I didn't run, but I didn't casually stroll, either.

It was hard to find him at first. He had left the small clearing and run straight into a fairly dense brush which gave way to a stand of trees. I wasn't sure which way he had gone, and I stopped, trying to listen for him, but it was hard. Birds had decided to begin singing, I could still hear the generators that had been running the lamps and cameras at the scene, and a plane was roaring overhead. But it struck me that, in Mulder's state of mind, straight was probably the easiest, most likely direction. I kept going.

It was still pretty dark in those woods, and he was in black jeans and his navy FBI jacket, but I spotted the white lettering, low to the ground. That's where I found him, on his knees, bent over, hugging himself. He had vomited and looked in danger of doing it again. I knelt next to him, my arms wrapping around him and holding him tight. "Easy, Son," I whispered. "It's going to be all right. Somehow, we're going to make it all right."

I felt him try to move so I loosened my grip, and he turned in my arms, face burrowed against my neck, shaking hard. Instinct made me stroke his hair and shoulders, trying to soothe, but there was something comforting to me as well. For the first time, I felt as if I was actually doing something to make him feel better.

We stayed that way for a few moments, until the shaking subsided. Then when we could hear Scully calling as she approached us, he pulled back. I kept an arm around his shoulder, and tugged my handkerchief from my pocket to wipe his eyes and mouth. As Scully reached us, we both stood. I was no longer touching him, but he knew I was right there if he needed me. "Is he all right, Sir?" she demanded.

"Why don't you ask him?" I rebuked her, not kindly.

She flushed, I could see it even in that light. Her eyes shifted to Mulder's. "Mulder, are you all right?"

He nodded, and dragged his sleeve across his mouth.

We stood there a moment, in heavy, uncertain silence, and then began to move back toward the scene of the investigation. I was very surprised when Mulder hung back, letting Scully lead, and groped for my hand. He gave it a light squeeze, then thrust both hands back into jeans pockets. And there they stayed. But I had the strangest feeling that he and I had reached some sort of truce there.

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

I let him into the condo without looking at him. It was nearly noon; we'd been up all night and hadn't wasted time with a stop for food on the way back. I wasn't sure if it was worth the time now. All I wanted to do was sleep. Mulder didn't give me any indication of his preference. He went directly into the bathroom, and a few moments later I could hear the shower running. I tossed my keys on the table, made the effort to put my gun away and hang my coat. My shower could wait until I'd had a good three or four hour nap.

Habit insisted that I check the phone for messages (although I made no effort to hear them or respond to them, just noted that there were some there), and do a quick round of doors and locks, before I started upstairs and by the time I had done that, the shower was off, and Mulder was at the bathroom door, in nothing but a dark green towel, knotted at his hip.

I stared, I admit it. Despite the battering his body had taken at that madman's hands, it was still a good body, lean, and hard, with a faint golden cast, nipples that looked like melted Hershey kisses, and a narrow strip of dark curly hair that went from his collar, straight under the towel, drawing my eyes downward, inviting me to guess what lay beneath.

I forced my eyes up to his. He looked...strange. Uncertain. He watched me, waiting. And when I said nothing, he moved slowly, back to his room. He cast one last look at me before he shut the door.

I didn't have his brilliant profiler's mind. But I had read enough of his reports to make an attempt at understanding him. I stood there, wondering what it was he needed, wanted. What did I know about Mulder that could answer that question? He had been raised in a volatile environment, and it seemed unlikely that there had ever been much physical affection. I had seen him with his mother, when they embraced they both looked terrified. It was clear he adored his partner, but the gentle familiar caresses that pass between friends and lovers were absent between them, even in their most private moments. If they existed, someone would have seen them, and if they had been seen, I would have heard about them. The times I had touched him he had responded almost … hungrily. Not hungry for sex, but for the touch. That's what Mulder wanted. He wanted to be touched, gently. Not in anger the way his father touched him, or in a psychopathic fury as Hartley had done. He just wanted to be touched.

I tapped at the door, and pushed it open. He was standing with his back to me, bent slightly forward, the towel over his head to dry his hair, his bottom bare, his legs parted enough that I could see his balls between them, his cock hanging against his thigh. I felt a rush of pure, unadulterated lust, and I could only drag my eyes away barely in time before he turned, and dropped the towel down to cover himself.

It took me a moment to make my mouth work, but I was impressed at the nonchalant manner in which I made my offer. "You have had a rough few days, I know, and last night had to be painful. If you want to come up, just to have someone next to you while you sleep...well..." Words failed me. The look on his face was enough. "Well," I repeated. "The offer's open, if you change your mind." I turned and went upstairs.

Furious at myself, I stripped off my clothes, and tossed the bedclothes back. How could I be so blatant, so obvious? This man had been brutally raped, and I couldn't seem to stop making sexual overtures. I knew that Mulder knew that sex between consenting, and possibly loving adults was something quite different than the deviant rage that he had endured, but the end goal was the same in both scenarios, a man wanting to penetrate him. And it had to be a terrifying thought.

I was surprised then, when, as I flung myself down into the bed and twisted around to get comfortable, I saw a figure at my door. I lifted my head, and scowled into the shuttered daylight. "Mulder?"

He took a step or two inside. He was in sweats and a tee shirt, the shirt tucked into the sweats, his hands behind his back, his hair down enough to almost obscure his eyes. He looked schoolboy shy, not at all the man I was used to.

I wasn't sure what to say, so I said nothing. I pulled the bedclothes back, in invitation, and waited.

He came to the side of the bed, looked down, risked a glance in my direction, and slid in. He lay down stiffly, on his back, his hands at his sides, holding his breath.

I pulled the blankets up around him carefully. "It's all right, Son," I promised gently. "This isn't about anything but not being alone. I understand that."

He nodded jerkily, avoiding my eyes.

I settled back into my pillows, thinking...someday.

Slowly, he began to relax. His breathing became softer, more even. He shifted slowly, turning onto his side, so that I was looking into his face. I was surprised to find something in his sleeping face I had never noticed, the tiniest smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His hair spilled across his brow and his lips parted as he breathed. I could fill myself up with his breath, I thought. The idea surprised me. It was far more romantic than is my nature. As I fell asleep, my last thought was just a half formed question. Had my feelings for Mulder turned from longing to...

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

It was dark again when I woke. He was asleep just inches from me, a hand tucked under his cheek. I slipped out of the bed carefully, made a run for a post nap piss, and returned to the bed, to look down at him. I was starting to understand something that had bothered me from the beginning. Why had Hartley done this?

Based on what Scully and I had been able to gather from the few deleted posts we had managed to recapture on his hard drive, Mulder had met this man on an internet bulletin board for people interested in running in the upcoming marathon. The two had exchanged a few cordial notes, and agreed to meet for a beer. What happened then was hazy, and Scully and I were only guessing, but we thought the two probably hit it off, and decided to start training together.

Scully was certain there was no sexual tension involved, at least not initially. Mulder had been enthusiastic and invited Scully to meet 'this great guy' and he seemed just that, a great guy; fairly innocuous, obsessive about running and training and marathons, even chiding Mulder in a very avuncular way about the amount of coffee he drank. There was nothing to indicate that his feelings toward Mulder were in any way inappropriate, and nothing to indicate that Mulder saw him as anything more than a running mate.

But it went sour somewhere after that. There was a period where there were no letters exchanged at all, that we could find, and then those very chilling complaints. But I was starting to understand. At some point, Hartley's feelings had changed from friendly uncle to ardent but unwanted lover. Mulder was, by nature, accommodating, friendly and polite - at least to strangers. He was also, despite the marks of healing wounds, drop dead gorgeous, I believe is how the term goes. A lonely man, receiving friendly attention from a handsome guy might misinterpret and assume a relationship that didn't exist. If Mulder rebuffed him, no matter how gently, Hartley, if he were a certain personality type, might feel forced to be more aggressive in his pursuit. Looking down at him, asleep in my bed, I could even imagine my own feelings getting so far out of control that I might want to hold onto him against his will, and maybe even punish him for any attempt to get away.

I wondered how gently Mulder had rebuffed him. A man with doubts about his sexuality might react violently, in an over masculine manner, but Mulder seemed more likely to decline with a rueful smile and a 'gosh, I'm sorry' sort of speech. I thought back to the way he kissed me that night after the hand job. There was no embarrassed mixed message there. He didn't know what he was doing but he was trying to be nice. There was certainly no rebuff in that kiss, nor was there an offer of anything more. I was starting to get the feeling that, sexual preference aside, Mulder's feelings for me might be more than gratitude. He might actually like me. The idea pleased me. I went downstairs to fix some supper.

Mulder stumbled downstairs as I was laying out the table. He looked sleep flushed and a little dazed, but some of that wild-eyed, jump at any noise fear was gone. He actually afforded me a genuine smile as he came into the room, dragging his fingers through his hair. "The mummy walks," I observed. "Sleep well?"

He nodded and gave himself a good scratch, belly and back and chin. He paused and ran his hand over his chin again, thoughtfully.

"Yes," I agreed, putting a bottle of wine on the table. "You do need a shave. The beard isn't a good look for you, Mulder."

To my surprise, he reached up and lightly stroked my own cheek. I could feel his fingertips at the base of my spine. I made myself laugh. "Yeah, I know, I know, I need to shave, too. I get more hair on my chin than on my head. Well, it's got to go somewhere." I collected flatware and a corkscrew and brought them to the table.

He was looking at the label on the wine bottle. It was a good red wine, just right for a simple meal between friends but I wondered if he was reading more into it. "I like it with spaghetti," I told him, putting glasses on the table.

Mulder reached for the corkscrew and with a minimum of struggle, opened the bottle, giving it a good sniff before pouring a little into one of the glasses. He sipped. He nodded. He poured some into the other glass and handed it to me. He clinked our glasses lightly and waited until I lifted mine to my lips. He smiled slightly and drank.

I had the strangest feeling that he was trying to woo me. He was shy and clumsy about it, feeling a little out of his element, and definitely hampered by his inability to speak, but he was genuinely trying. I wondered briefly what his motive was, and then I decided I didn't care. I was just going to sit back and enjoy the process.

He helped with the last details of supper, and we ate in a companionable silence. He seemed much more at ease around me. Maybe he just needed the sleep. "What would you like to do after supper? Would you like to go see a movie? Rent a video?" I offered, hoping he wanted to do more than hide in his room. I was spinning comfortable images of quiet nights together on the sofa watching old movies. Or pretending we were watching old movies. Just the idea of making out like a couple of kids was sending blood to my balls.

He didn't seem to need to think about it. He knew what he wanted and touched his eyes and then opened his palms into a familiar 'V'.

I was proud of myself that I knew what he meant. "You'd like to read?" Curled up reading with him would be nice, too. I smiled at him, almost ruefully. "Well, I'm afraid my taste in books, aside from the Nero Wolfes I shared with you, runs to Harry Turtledove and forensic investigations, but you're welcome..."

He nodded eagerly.

"The books are upstairs. Help yourself." I began gathering dishes. "I...um...noticed that your glasses were a casualty." I glanced over my shoulder at him. "We need to get them replaced, don't we?"

He nodded, without looking up. I knew what he was thinking. Another trip outside.

I had to get him comfortable with the realities of leaving the condo or he'd be as trapped inside my house as he was in his own body. "You must be feeling a little restless after all that time in a wheelchair. We've got a great pool and weight room in this complex. Do you think you're ready for a little treadmill or something?"

He turned to look at me. I could see a small flicker of interest in his eyes, but it was quickly overtaken by fear.

He couldn't go down there alone. Not yet. "I could go down and spot you or something, if you wanted to handle some light weights, or maybe you could tackle the bow flex," I suggested. When I got no response, I continued almost roughly. "Mulder, you're going to have to go outside, some time."

He stood abruptly, scraped his plate into the disposal and rinsed it before stacking it into the dishwasher. Then he left me, and in a moment I could hear the door to his bedroom shut. It was clear he was no longer in a wooing mood.

- END chapter 06 -
Back to story page
On to chapter 7