I'm Thinking As Loud As I Can

Chapter Seven - Trust

by Mik

It was Mulder's therapist who kept me from giving up in despair. He reminded me once again that I was dealing with a very independent young man whose independence had been used as a weapon against him. In his opinion, Mulder wanted to be dependent on someone else for a while, but he couldn't give himself permission to be any weaker than he already saw himself to be as a result of the attack. The therapist also pointed out all the 'baby steps' Mulder and I had taken together; that he was able to attend speech and physical therapies, that he was comfortable coming out of his room to socialize with me, that he had been able to return to the area where he had been assaulted. He saw these as great steps forward, where I felt as if we were standing still.

I didn't tell the therapist about the occasional shift in my relationship with Mulder, and I wasn't sure he had confessed either. I had wanted to coax him back up to my bed, just for the comfort of company, but I had no pretext under which to make the offer, so he'd remained downstairs, and I just thought about him. And jerked off thinking about him. And then felt guilty for using him even in that oblique manner.

It was true I had managed to get him out the door to his therapies, and took him to his ophthalmologist to get a new pair of glasses. I even managed to get him back into that burger joint, just to give that fool waitress another look at him upright and in control of his body. He still couldn't speak, but he could walk, he could handle his own food, and he could cut her with one hazel glance.

That he was communicating with me was also undoubtedly progress. He started leaving me notes in the morning, laboriously scribbled requests for things from the library or the video rental or the grocery. One of the books he asked for was a very basic study of American Sign Language. Intrigued, I went to the video store and got a series of training tapes on the subject, which we watched together. The tapes were very basic and geared toward children, but we did learn the alphabet and some simple signs that made our communication easier.

In exchange for learning ASL with him, I got him to agree to come down and keep me company in the weight room. We'd time it to go when the other tenants were at supper, and we'd work out side by side on the treadmills or stationary bikes. It was great to have him finally secure enough to strip off his shirt and let me watch him sweat as he pushed himself harder and harder on any equipment he could handle with only one arm. Sometimes the expression on his face would scare me, as if he was trying to punish himself, and then I'd stop him, feigning my own exhaustion, and get him to come back upstairs with me. He absolutely would not stay down there alone.

There were some nights when he was willing to tolerate my company beyond the requisite meals and excursions, even if it was only to sit out on the terrace with me, while we read. His fascination with the alternate histories of Harry Turtledove made me want to explore the series again, so as he'd finish a book, I'd pick it up for a second read. I was starting to enjoy myself. He was a good, if quiet companion. I suspected he would have been this way whether he could talk or not. He never seemed restless, just content to sit and read, and answer any smile I tossed his way.

He seemed to appreciate just about any kind of music except rap, so he even tolerated my weird mix of classical piano and female country singers. He seemed to recognize Bach's concertos and I'd even caught him in an impromptu boot scoot to Shania Twain when he thought I was in the other room. Any man of mine...indeed.

And I was beginning to see him as my man.

I was also beginning to see a side of Mulder that I doubt many people even knew existed. He could be … fun. He could be … playful, winsome, entertaining. He could break into a smile at the most unexpected times, or a twinkle could come into his eyes to foretell a really bad pun, painstakingly spelled out with one hand. But there was a depth there that people never looked for, and might sneer at if ever discovered, a valley of soul one could lose himself in forever. Poetry and Psalms could move him to tears. Politics could rouse his ire. Puccini could make him visibly soar even as he sat still and solitary. And porn could make him take cold showers at any time of the day or night.

He was obsessively tidy, except in his room. He was a terrible cook who couldn't even manage a decent cup of coffee. He was private about his personal habits. And he was more stubborn than an Army mule. Now that we had both mastered the rudiments of ASL, I thought we could begin to gather some desperately needed details about what had happened to him, and the animal who had done it. But whenever I tried to move the conversation toward that night two months ago, he forgot every word he ever knew in any language, and would fall back into what could only be described as aphasic. Words literally failed him.

I know my frustration must have bothered him. Whenever I lost him to those memories he wasn't ready to face, I lost him to everything. He would retreat to his room and it would take hours to entice him back out into my company.

But he wasn't trying to lose me. In fact, I had a feeling he was trying hard to find me. One evening, after hours of distant silence, he surprised me by tapping the arm of his chair to get my attention and then began to spell something out. "T...e...l...l......m...e?"

I put my book down. "Tell you what?"

"A...b...o...u...t......h...i...m."

"Him?" I echoed, puzzled. "Him who?"

"I...n......t...h...e......w...a...r."

"Oh, you mean Ronny?" Saying the name caused me a little twinge, but nothing more, these days. "Well..." I replaced my page marker, and set the book down on the table in front of me. "I think I told you he was nothing like you." I settled deeper into my chair, and tried to find his face in the crowd that was my memory. "He certainly didn't look like you. And his temperament was different. I would have to say he wasn't the brightest color in the box. He was just a nice, pleasant kid from San Francisco, California. Dark red hair and..." I flicked him a smile. "...freckles."

Mulder was listening intently. He nodded to encourage me to continue.

I was inexplicably pleased that Mulder wanted to know about him. It meant Mulder was showing in interest in me. It meant he knew I existed, was a real person and not just a nine to five apparition meant to make his working life hell. "That's all there was to him, really. Just a nice kid. "

That wasn't enough for Mulder. "B...u...t......y...o...u......c...a...r...e...d......a...b...o...u...t......h...i...m."

"Yes," I admitted. "He was good company in hell." I let myself really remember for a moment, and felt lots of warm thoughts. "He made me laugh. He believed in why we were there and that was comforting when we were in such a terrible place. Oh …" I chuckled to myself. "He could suck cock like -" I cut myself off, feeling my face go red.

He didn't seem disturbed. "L...i...k...e......w...h...a...t?"

"Well..." I bit my lip and gave him a rueful smile. "I've never known anyone else like him, before or since."

He was frowning, his lips pursed, his thoughts far away in that jungle where Ronny went from freckles and good humor to vapor and memories. Suddenly he stood and moved to my chair, very purposefully. He knelt at my side, sent his eyes over my face and slid his hand over the top of my head. "O...r...a...l......v...i...r...g...i...n," he spelled with a small smile. He reached for my belt.

I stopped his hand. "Mulder, you don't owe me -"

He brushed my hand away impatiently. "N...o...t......a...b...o...u...t......o...w...e."

I reached out and held his hand still, firmly against my swelling crotch. "What is it about?"

He was thoughtful for a moment before he pulled his hand free. "C...u...r...i...o...u...s." He stopped and added "A...n...d......l...i...k...e......y...o...u." I saw a little light in his eyes. "O...k?"

I sighed deeply. "Very okay."

He wriggled his way between my legs and opened my fly. It didn't surprise me that he was slow and methodical in his approach, considering angles, texture, size. He seemed impressed with what I had to offer, and he flicked me an approving nod, just before he tipped the head back between his lips.

Even though I knew it was wrong to pursue a sexual relationship with a man still recovering from an unspeakable violation, even though I knew this would destroy any chance I had of gaining his trust, even though every rational cell in my brain was screaming DON'T! I was staring down into one of my all time favorite wet dreams...those lips wrapped around the head of my cock. All I could do was stare. And grunt.

He was surprised by the taste at first, but he seemed to get used to it quick enough, because his tongue started darting in and out of the slit as if he was fucking me. He was in a bad position to really take me in or do any serious pumping, and he seemed to realize this after a few moments of exploration. So he wrapped his fist around me the way I had held him, and tried to get a rhythm going between his tongue and hand. He succeeded. In spectacular fashion. I tried to warn him, but I suddenly was afflicted with selective muteness, and nothing came out of my mouth, as I came into his.

He spluttered and choked, but he didn't seem surprised. He backed away from my lap, wiping cum from his lips.

I dug into the pocket of my slacks and offered him my handkerchief. "You okay?"

He nodded and rubbed at his mouth.

"Why did you do that, Mulder? Please tell me it wasn't obligation...or pity?"

He looked slightly hurt, then slowly spelled out, D...i...d......i...t......b...e...c...a...u...s...e......I......w...a...n...t...e...d......t...o."

"Well …" I reached out and stroked his cheek. "I'm glad you wanted to." I caught his hand and tugged, pulling him up until he was lying along my thighs, his fingers just brushing my softening dick. "What about you?"

He gave me an uncertain look. He couldn't deny he was a little aroused. I could feel it against my leg.

I gave him a long, magnanimous smile. "Honey, I'm not going to do anything you don't want...but is there something you want?"

He wrinkled his nose.

"What?"

"H...o...n...e...y?"

I shrugged. "The moment seemed to call for an endearment." The warmth and pleasure started to recede. "I'm worried that this might not have been a good thing for you, Mulder."

His hazel eyes narrowed. "B...i...g......b...o...y."

It was clear he didn't want to discuss any implications of his actions, so I grinned at him. "Yeah? Prove it."

That caught him off guard. He made a sort of snickering sound and went back on his haunches, pulling his piece out of his sweats and began to stroke. He was right. He was a big boy.

I watched him for a moment. "Would you like me to do that?" Something occurred to me. "Mulder, is there anything else you're curious about?"

His hand stopped moving. He shook his head.

"No, I meant...you doing me," I explained, quickly, crudely.

He shook his head again, his hand cupped almost protectively over his groin.

"Okay." I reached for him. "At least let me do that for you." Impulsively, I pulled him up and swung him into my arms. I couldn't help a little rush of pride. He'd gained some weight living with me. "Shh...we're just going to go upstairs, where it's more comfortable, that's all." I kissed him, a quick sealing of an unspoken pact.

Upstairs we undressed each other slowly. I let him take his time exposing me, and then exposing himself. I kissed him several times in the process, and tried to make reassuring gestures and sounds. He was still a little nervous about getting into my bed, but we kept it very simple and basic. I let him curl up against me, and I stroked him into orgasm. I couldn't help feeling triumphant when he arched against me, let out a guttural cry and stammered … "Ohhhggggggg … ssssssssskinnnner."

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

It wasn't a complete breakthrough. He could manage some words now, but the struggle was so great it seemed to choke him, and he had gotten used to the ASL, so he reverted back to it frequently. If I tried coaxing or bribing, he used one sign that wasn't in the ASL manual. He seemed to be more comfortable about me now, unless I came up behind him without warning. He still wouldn't go outside or answer the phone. But in the quiet of the house, he was friendly and even affectionate. He seemed very willing to stay in my bed henceforth, and I made certain he knew he was welcome.

Our sex was very simple and safe, hand jobs and blowjobs. I learned I couldn't hold him too tight or snuggle up behind him, spoon fashion. And one night, I'm not sure what I did, but after he sucked me senseless, I drew him into my arms and moaned out the only word I was capable of uttering, a long, contented, "Mine." He began to struggle and whimper, and tears spilled copiously until he got free of me, and ran, naked, downstairs. The next morning he was as bewildered as I was by his behavior, and asked me for forgiveness.

I was coming to the end of my leave, and I was growing sorrier by the day. We were falling into a very pleasant domestic situation and I was falling deeply in love. I wasn't sure if love was anywhere on his agenda, but he seemed happy with me, comfortable. He initiated affection, even sex, and smiled at me a lot. Every smile made me a little more smug.

The Friday before I was scheduled to go back to work, Mulder was called in for another seemingly pointless interview with an investigator. Having been a field investigator for both city PDs and the Bureau, I understood the need to, on occasion, take a firm tact with a witness, but I'd also seen someone like Mulder wrap intimidated or angry witnesses around his finger. A good investigator knows when to take a hard line and when to go soft. This was not a good investigator. And he was very surprised when the following Monday he found himself pushing papers in a nowhere assignment on the third floor.

The trouble was, this Agent Adams was there for that interrogation and he had it in his mind that Mulder was just a deeply closeted gay, terrified of being outed and therefore uncooperative in tracking down a sex offender. He took a very hard, and often downright offensive approach with Mulder.

He was very resentful when one of the A.D.s escorted the witness in, and that's all Mulder had become to him. He seemed to forget that he was dealing with one of his own colleagues, a Special Agent, a seasoned investigator and interrogator in his own right. But he assumed an inappropriate air almost immediately, demanding to know when Mulder had begun an intimate relationship with the perpetrator.

Mulder was stunned by the nature of the question and the ferocity in which it was delivered. He sat back, swallowing hard, sent a look to me that could have melted coal, and then shook his head.

"He never had an intimate relationship with the perpetrator," I insisted. "They were casual acquaintances."

Agent Adams shut his file impatiently and sighed loudly before turning to look at me. "You'll have to go," he told me imperiously.

I shook my head, determined. "Agent Mulder is still recovering from the injuries he suffered during the assault. His speech is still severely impaired. He needs someone to interpret for him."

Agent Adams gave me a tight smile. "Assistant Director Skinner, you know as well as I do that interpreted testimony is open to challenge in court," he said in a condescending manner. "We need this man's own words."

"And I'm here to make sure you get them," I replied. "This man is a highly trained behavioral scientist, I guarantee you that you won't -"

Adams started shaking his head. "No, I'm sorry. I can't allow it. Please instruct the witness to answer me directly."

I folded my arms over my chest and glared at him. "Ask him yourself."

Mulder met his eyes evenly. There was something cold and challenging there. It was as if he was wrapping himself in ice to preserve his still very raw emotions. I wouldn't want to be the one looking into that stare.

Agent Adams looked back at me. "Can he hear?"

I looked at Mulder. "I don't know … Agent, can you hear me?"

I was proud of him. He cupped a hand to his ear. He wasn't going to take this shit any more than he had to.

Adams sighed heavily, drew up a chair and sat. "If we can dispense with the comedy, please? Agent … Mulder … according to your statement -"

"He never made a statement," I protested.

"Assistant Director Skinner," Adams said tiredly.

"Sonny," I said as kindly as I could. "Do you know the difference between an Agent and an Assistant Director?"

Adams squirmed. "I don't really think that's relevant here, sir -"

"Yes, it is." I tapped my badge. "Because I'm here to tell you that you'll never get the chance to find out." I pulled the file from his hands. "Now, let's start over, shall we? Shake hands, introduce yourself, show a little respect for his position, his work, and this very unfortunate experience." I handed the file back to him, not gently.

Adams looked at me for a moment, as if he couldn't believe what I had said. Then he pasted a very tight little smile on his face. He did not extend a hand. "Agent Mulder, I want to express my appreciation for you coming in in the middle of your convalescence, and while I have every sympathy for your unfortunate experience …" he slammed the file on the table, "… if you don't start talking and I mean, right now, there is going to be no investigation and this son of a bitch is going to get off scot free. Or …" His smile got nasty, "… is that what you want?"

I was ready to throttle Adams at that point, but Mulder surprised me. He braced his feet for a lunge, jumped up with such force he sent his chair back against the wall as he came over the table and caught Agent Adams by the lapel.

Adams was squawking like Sunday supper on Saturday night, as my grandmother used to say, when Mulder reached into his breast pocket, plucked out a pen, clicked it decisively in Adams' face and let him go so that he fell back in his chair. Then Mulder, still kneeling on the table, pulled Adams' notepad around to him, and with effort using his weak hand, wrote out a very clear 'F'.

As he started on the next letter, I caught his wrist. "You've made your point, Agent."

Mulder was panting heavily as he backed off the table, and drew his chair back into place, but there was a look in his eyes that made it clear next time he'd be carving the word in Adams' forehead.

I looked at Agent Adams. "I suggest you change your approach, Agent."

Adam's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Agent Mulder, this was a very serious crime, and we have practically nothing to go on, outside your statement. There was almost no physical evidence to work with. No hairs or fibers in your car or on your person, no prints that could be retained from the evidence he attempted to burn. The s-semen -" he actually tittered "- has not been matched to any known sex offender. His name was phony, and the information he gave his ISP was all erroneous, right down to the name and account on the credit card he used to start up on line. We don't even have a scene where the crime took place. If we don't have some information from you, we don't have anything. And the longer it takes, the cooler the trail gets. As a seasoned investigator you know that as well as I do."

Mulder nodded and looked back at me.

"Ask him, Agent Adams."

Adams straightened his shirt and tie, smoothed down his thinning hair and reached for his note pad. "That's more like it. Now, how long did you know the person we've identified as Dan Hartley?"

Mulder spelled out the answer and I passed it on to Adams. "About six weeks prior to the attack."

"Did he represent himself to you by any other name?"

Mulder shook his head.

"When was the last time you saw him prior to the attack?"

"Approximately two weeks."

"And prior to that?"

"They were seeing each other every day."

Adams arched a brow.

I sighed, exasperated. "They were training for the marathon. They got together daily before work to run."

Adams made a face. "He didn't say that."

"No, but he has made that statement previous."

Adams shook his head and tossed his pen down in a manner I'll bet he practiced at home. "Sorry, that becomes hearsay. I can't accept it."

"Then why don't you ask him if he attests that what I said was the truth," I said through clenched teeth.

Mulder nodded.

Adams grudgingly noted that. "Why did you stop seeing him? The marathon was still several weeks away at that time."

Mulder looked uncomfortable.

"Well? Agent Mulder?"

He spelled it out slowly.

"He made a pass at me."

Adams shrugged. "Was this the first time?"

Mulder made a face at him.

"What was your response to him?"

"You just heard his response. He stopped training with him."

"If you please, Assistant Director Skinner."

Mulder began to spell again.

"I declined his offer." I waited while Mulder paused and began again. "I let him know that I was not interested in a romantic relationship with him."

"Why?"

Mulder's face darkened.

"Agent Adams," I said warningly. "I think you are about two words away from finding your own ability to speak severely hampered by your sphincter."

Adams shot me a look and then looked back at Mulder. "Forgive me, I meant no offense," he said in a tone that implied every offense possible. "How did Hartley respond to your declination?"

Mulder swallowed and paled visibly.

His expression made my neck prickle. "Agent Mulder?" I prompted. "Did he threaten you at that time?"

He was gone. Just like that. It was as if someone turned out the light and pulled down the shade. The dark eyes went vacant, the tense mouth went slack and there was absolutely no animation in his face.

Even Agent Adams recognized that something was wrong. He looked at me. "What is it? Some kind of seizure or something?"

I stood up. I should have stopped this long before. "I think that's the end of the questioning for today." I moved around the table.

"But, but -"

I reached for Mulder and brought him to his feet.

"He's not a very cooperative witness," Adams complained.

I reached across the table and snatched up the file, pushing it against his chest. "How'd you like me to shove this file up your ass so you can read it?" I offered hotly. "Let's see how cooperative you'd be, huh?" I threw the file down, and jerked Mulder toward the door. "Come on, Agent. Let's go."

Adams followed us to the door. "You're not doing yourself any favors, Mulder." He lifted his voice as we opened the door, eager to make sure his accusations were clearly heard by everyone outside the interrogation room. "If you don't help us, we won't ever find him. Maybe that's okay for you, but maybe his next victim won't feel so good about it."

Mulder didn't react to the implication, but I did. I let go of Mulder, swung around and caught Adams by the collar, dragging him up until his ridiculous little feet danced in the air. "You are an asshole and if you ever speak to one of my agents like that again, I will personally ream you so well you can pass a telephone pole after breakfast." I slammed him against the wall. "Have I made myself clear, Agent?"

"C-crystal," he squeaked.

I dropped him and reached for Mulder, a firm grip on his shoulder, guiding him through the crowd of onlookers, with an expression that said the same held true for the next person who breathed.

In the elevator, Mulder was suddenly reanimated, gripping my arm and struggling to speak. "B-backkkk," he said, choking.

I hit the stop button and looked at him. "Back where?" Did he want to take a swing at Adams before we left the building? Not that I blamed him in the slightest, but I didn't consider it a good career move for him.

"Va-va..." The words were literally curdling in his throat, his fingers threatening to break my arm.

"Virginia?"

He shook his head.

"West Virginia?"

He nodded. "Ffffffire."

"Where the fire was?"

He pulled his hand away and balled it into a fist. "Th-there." He gulped in breath. "Ha-ha-happened th-there."

- END chapter 07 -
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