Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 11
by Mik
"Your gun on the table, please." The mousy little bastard points to the corner nearest me. "Hands in view at all times." He gestures toward the chair. "Come along, Mr. Skinner. Tempus fugit."
My gun stays in my hand. "What do you want from me?"
"From you?" He actually seems surprised. "Nothing at all."
It hits me in the chest like a bullet: I'm not here to rescue him - I'm the bait! This is a fucking trap for Mulder! I jerk back toward the door, but the sound of him moving toward the table stops me.
His hands are going for the switch on the box. "I wouldn't do that, Mr. Skinner," he warns almost amiably. "Now, come back here and put the gun on the table before I lose my temper...and my control." He pats the box almost reverently.
I look back across the street and can see children in the play area, completely unaware that a madman sits just a hundred yards away. "Why are you doing this?" How many times have I seen Mulder engage someone this way, and walk away with no bloodshed.
He blinks slowly, annoyed by the question. I can tell by his expression he feels his motives are patently obvious to anyone with half a brain. "You know why." His glance dips to the photos. "He has to pay for what he did."
"Who?" My throat is going dry, and the words are an effort to get out. I can't let him hear them raspy and choked. How does Mulder always manage to sound so calm...even soothing in situations like this?
He shakes his head as if he's disappointed in me. "That won't do, Mr. Skinner. No more games."
"He did his job, that's all he did," I return.
"Oh, if that was all it was." He wrinkles his nose not quite daintily. "He offends me on so many levels." He pauses thoughtfully, and for a moment I think he might be having auditory hallucinations, but he's just considering the situation. For three or four seconds, Mulder's fate actually swings on a fine wire, but then I can see Malcomb reaffirm his decision. "No. He has to pay." He focuses on me. "If you please, Mr. Skinner. Gun just there." He points again to the corner of the table.
It is a long-standing axiom in law enforcement, the moment you put your gun down, you are dead. And yet, what other choice do I have? His hand is on the switch. I can't guarantee I could get an effective shot off before he set off the device. I might kill him, yes, but how many might he take with him? I sigh in defeat. "What are you going to do to him?" I ask, putting my gun down slowly. Why didn't I arrange for backup? I curse myself inwardly. Why did I think I was John fucking Wayne?
He inclines his head toward the chair, and I see the first hint of impatience. "Only what he deserves."
"He deserves to be left alone," I argue, but I sense that his 'control' is razor thin at this point.
"Always defending him." Malcomb shakes his head. "What is it you see in this pervert?" He gestures toward the photos on the table.
I glance downward and see they are more photos of us together. My gut tightens. This isn't revenge for getting caught. He's distressed that a 'fag' caught him! "That pervert is going to put you away forever," I tell him hotly.
He makes a face. "It's disgusting. It isn't natural."
"Oh, but blowing up innocent school children is?" I challenge.
He ignores me, spreading the pictures out over the table. None of these have been torn. These photos show both of us locked in that nameless battle of blind lust on at least two different occasions. Despite the incredibly grim circumstances, I'm moderately aroused by seeing Mulder's passion in glorious digital color.
He's shaking his head, his lip curled. "It's unthinkable."
With him momentarily distracted by our display, I inch backward, thinking I might just have time to grab my gun and end this before Mulder is brought back into harm's way.
"That won't do, Mr. Skinner." He jerks sharply toward the chair. "No heroics, please." Then one hand reaches out to gesture over the device on the table. "You're familiar with my work, I trust?"
"Bastard," I hiss, but I drop into the ladder-back chair.
"Queer," he retorts as if this should devastate me. He takes a length of plastic clothesline and loops one end around one post of the chair, then around my neck and then around the other post, so that any struggle on my part could result in strangulation. He's very good, I realize, horrified. He could do a lot of terrible things to Mulder before he killed him. I mustn't let this maniac get his hands on him.
"Jealous?" I taunt him.
He stiffens. I smile inwardly. Latent homosexual, with typical homophobic rage.
Mulder would be impressed. "Of course you are. Why shouldn't you be? Look at him. Isn't he gorgeous? I'll bet you wish you could get someone like that."
He jerks the rope tight around my throat. That's brilliant, Skinner. Make him lose control. Better to leave analysis to the professionals.
"He's just a woman with a dick," Malcomb snarls, taping my wrists together tightly behind the chair. "I can get plenty of women without the extra baggage," he says, making a dismissive gesture.
"Then why are you so angry about his sexuality?"
He slaps the table so hard I flinch, making photos fly, and the device rattle ominously. "Because no faggot, no queer is going to defeat me."
I was right! "Oh, I see, you're the Lex Luthor of homophobes, is that it?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. I've been spending too much time with Mulder.
His eyes narrow to dangerous little slits. "Just because he's a fairy and probably wears tights to get his kicks, doesn't make him Superman."
I feel my own lip curl up in disgust. "If you knew him at all, you'd know he has more balls than you'll ever have."
He responds by kicking my chair savagely.
For a moment, I wonder if his testicles are in some way damaged or deformed. Then I remember I'm not here to analyze him. "Anyway, it's his brain that should concern you, not his balls," I tell him calmly. "Gay or not, he's going to bring you down."
He has regained his composure. "We shall see, Mr. Skinner."
"He might not come, you know. They might send someone else. He's on medical leave -"
He was smiling too confidently. "He will come."
My eyes skitter back to the photos. That's what stood out when I first looked at them. There is no matching piece to the photo in my hip pocket. He sent the other half, the part with me, to Mulder. Shit. Now I'm the one about to lose control. "Just because he comes out here, doesn't mean he'll surrender -"
"He'll surrender, Mr. Skinner." He fixes a look just beyond me. "I've dealt with people far more dangerous than he, and I'm still alive. Yes..." his eyes come back to mine. "I'm still alive. He will surrender."
We sit for a while. He is on the floor next to an old Army duffel, glancing through something that reminds me of the Unabomber's manifesto, pages and pages typewritten, with words scratched out and overwritten. I wonder if that's what he imagines himself to be...someone like the Unabomber. I sense there is something else. I wish I could think the way Mulder does. Mulder would find the button and push before Malcomb dropped the lever that could end dozens of lives.
Occasionally he looks up at me and then to the photos on the table. "You were a Marine?" he asks at one point.
I nod.
Later he looks again. "What's the attraction?"
I decide to try another tack. Evidently he knows Mulder's feelings for me might be such that he'd sacrifice himself for my sake. I need to disabuse him of that notion, despite the fact that I came rushing here on the belief that Mulder's life was in jeopardy. "He's good in bed," I answer casually.
"You were a Marine," he repeats, as if that refutes my remarks.
"You don't think a Marine can appreciate a tight ass now and again? Especially a little slut like that." I shift uncomfortably in the chair. The rope is chafing just above my shirt collar. "You've seen him. Anyone could get hard for him. Gay or straight." I pause carefully. "Even you, if you let yourself."
He ignores the taunt. "But is that all it is?" He seems torn between dismay and relief.
"Of course." I feign horror. "You don't think I'd love him, do you? No, thanks. I save that for women without the baggage, as you said."
"You see?" He bounces to his feet. "I knew it. I knew you couldn't be gay. I just knew it." He stops bouncing. "Then why did you come when I called?"
I shrug as much as the restraints allow. "Because he is my agent. And because I've seen something of what you were capable. I didn't want any other lives endangered."
He takes this as a sign of respect and beams at me. "You're a very smart man. I might let you live."
Somehow, that's not very comforting.
Time drags on. I begin to hope that Mulder will either fail to show at all, or come so late that all the children will have been dismissed and Malcomb will have no further target. But at last I see his car roll to a stop at the curb behind mine. Mulder, in jeans and a grey silk shirt, bounces out of the car and pulls a gun. He moves toward the office, and I can see him check the address, and then the surroundings. I can see his face as he realizes we are across the street from the school. Both hands wrapped around the butt of his Sig Sauer, he comes to the door and pushes his way inside.
"Drop the gun, pussy," Malcomb commands. It's odd hearing such a term coming from him. He's starting to remind me less and less of a librarian. A librarian would never use that word in the scatological sense.
Mulder assesses the situation much faster than I did. With both hands in the air, he slowly kneels, and with eyes meeting Malcomb's, lowers his gun to the floor, stands up slowly and kicks it out of his reach without being told to. His eyes are on Malcomb, but I can feel that he is very aware of me.
Malcomb nudges me. "You've got him well trained." He looks up at Mulder and barks, "Where's the wire?"
Mulder tenses slightly. Well, at least he thought about backup. "What wire?" he says, trying to bluff. He reaches for his shirt and unbuttons it slowly, spreading it wide, showing off both scars. "No wire."
Malcomb isn't convinced. "Take off your pants."
There is a hint of panic in Mulder's eyes. When he hesitates, Malcomb moves to him, my gun in his hand, and eyes fixed up into Mulder's, opens his fly and tugs his jeans down sharply. He's wearing dark blue boxers. So I know he's wired.
Mulder flinches as Malcomb pats him down. He finds the wire, taped to Mulder's inner thigh and yanks, hard. Throwing the microphone on the floor, Malcomb grinds it under his heel. Then he grins at him. "So much for the wire."
"Skinner, are you all right?" Mulder calls, bending to collect his jeans.
Malcomb stops him with a light tap to the back of his head. "Leave them off. You seem to prefer being naked, anyway." He gestures toward the photos on the table. "In fact, your lover and I were just discussing you."
Mulder straightens and looks at me. "Are you all right?" he repeats.
"I'm fine," I tell him brusquely. "What are you doing here?"
"I got -"
"He's here because he knows I don't want or need you." Malcomb gestures with my gun. "I want him."
I don't like the look in his eyes. I didn't like it before, but now I really don't like it. He's eyeing Mulder as if he's the last crab leg in the buffet. I'm afraid that he'll take all of his homophobic rage out on Mulder. I want him out of here. Bad. Think, Skinner, think. Mulder always said you were good at crisis management. "What makes you think he'll stay?" I say with a sneer. "Why should he?"
Malcomb probably doesn't even realize he's leering. "He'll stay to save you, of course."
"Why should he?" I repeat.
Mulder has been trying to work his jeans over his trainers, but he looks up sharply. "I'm not going to let that bastard hurt you, Skinner."
"Why not?" I shift in my chair, finding myself in an aggressive pose despite the restraints. "You're my subordinate. I have an obligation to you. You have none to me. Go on. Get out of here."
"No obligation -" he splutters. "Skinner -"
I cut him off almost desperately. "Let's be honest here, Mulder. This is life or death. This is no time for games or fantasies. There's no reason for you to stay. And as your superior, I'm ordering you out of here."
Mulder kicks his shoes off savagely and his jeans go flying. In shirttails and stocking feet he comes to the table and jabs at the photos on the table. "This is why."
I make myself smirk. "I might be good, but not good enough to die for. Get your ass out of here."
Mulder seems taken aback by my tone. The bewilderment in his eyes hurts me. "I'm not talking about sex...Walter."
"Oh, please...you don't think there's more to it than that, do you?" I scoff.
He flinches again.
I nod toward Malcomb. "Ask him."
Malcomb nods eagerly. "He said you were a great lay but he prefers women."
The bewilderment is replaced by hurt. "Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly.
I need a believable reason, but I can't think of a single one because all I know is I love him too much to hurt him. But that means I love him too much to be a weapon of his destruction. "Because if I'm going to die, I want to die with a clean conscience. I don't want you living some fairy tale, thinking we were going to live happily ever after." I wait a moment. I'm not getting to him. "Because frankly, the idea of you playing the widow in mourning is more than I can stomach. Now get out of here."
He is quiet a moment. Then he shakes his head. "No. I don't believe you. I think you're trying to make me angry so that I'll leave, and you'll have saved me." He looks at Malcomb. "Let him go. You've got me now."
Malcomb seems to agree with him. He moves behind Mulder and pulls his hands back to tape his wrists the same way he taped mine. Then he moves behind the chair and cuts me free. "Go on," he hisses in my ear. "I'm sure your little pussy brought someone who can free your hands for you."
I rise, wanting to fight, to move Mulder bodily out of the room, but he's already taking the chair. He meets my eyes. "Was it a lie, Walter?"
I don't know what to tell him. Do I say yes? Will that give him the strength to fight? Or take away his will to survive? Do I say no and make him angry and dangerous? If I never see him again, do I want to regret my last words to him, whatever I say? I swallow tightly and literally cop out. "What do you think?"
Something inside him shutters. I'm no longer in the room. And I realize this is good. For the first time since he burst inside the abandoned office, he is actively thinking about the perp and the crimes he has committed and is about to commit.
The perp chuckles as he loops the clothesline around Mulder's throat. "Love hurts, doesn't it?" He puts the gun up to Mulder's temple. Mulder doesn't even flinch. "Now, listen carefully, Mr. Skinner," he says, almost silkily. "I believe I've warned you about heroics. I do not want to see that school evacuated. The first child that steps out onto that street will be shot. Right after Mulder's brains hit the floor." He pauses to gauge our responses to that remark. Neither of us have given him that satisfaction.
"Also," Malcomb continues, waiting to make sure he has our attention, "I don't want to see any S. W. A. T. teams moved into place, or any maneuvering out there that looks like you think you'll try to take this building. Is that understood?"
Neither of us moves. He pokes Mulder's temple roughly with the barrel of the gun. "Understood?"
"Understood," I say tersely, and start backing toward the door. Damn it, Mulder, why didn't you just walk out when you had the chance? Why do you have to play the martyr for us? Or is it because...I sigh as I reach the door, ready to nudge it open with my foot. I look back at him. He's not looking at me. He's looking beyond me at the schoolyard. Mulder...come on, you didn't believe me, did you?
"Mr. Skinner, you have about thirty seconds to get out of here, or you can stay and watch what I do to him."
"No." Mulder surprises me with the coldness in his voice. "He's not going to get off on this. Whatever you're going to do, I want him out of here."
Malcomb looks down at him, surprised at his tone. "I don't believe you're in any position to make demands, pussy."
"Look, I've taken enough shit off of him to know what gets him off. I only took it because I thought..." he stops, swallowing. "He's not going to have this."
Malcomb looks up at me, as if seeing me in an entirely new light. "Mr. Skinner, you surprise me. I had no idea..."
"Get him out of here," Mulder snarls, shifting forward in the chair. "Get him out of here or I take all your fun away." He starts struggling against the clothesline, effectively strangling himself.
Malcomb screams like a woman. There's no other way to describe it. "Stop that!" He stomps his foot. "Stop it!" He's enraged and he jerks the gun toward me. "Get out. Get out of here. Now!"
Mulder is writhing horribly in the chair, his body twisting around, pulling on the clothesline so that it is cutting into his throat. He's making hideous, choking sounds. All I can do is stare. Oh, my God, what have I done?
Malcomb aims the gun at him and then back to me. "Get out! Get out! Stop that!" He tries to hold Mulder still with one hand and keep the gun fixed on me. Finally, in frustration, he kicks at the chair, and Mulder crashes backward, the wooden chair splintering under him. He groans loudly.
"You see what you nearly did?" Malcomb shrieks at me, his hand shaking. I can see his finger twitch on the trigger, but at the same time I see something else. Mulder, rolling over, onto his belly, free of the chair, his shirttail pulled up, and a snub barrel Smith and Wesson grasped between his bound hands.
There is no way Mulder, firing behind his own back, can make any more than the most rudimentary aim before firing. I realize he really only has one chance, to fire off blindly and hope that a round or two hits before Malcomb can shoot me. I have to be ready to take Malcomb down if Mulder isn't extraordinarily lucky.
I brace myself, ready to move. I don't even hear the gunshots. I'm already diving and rolling. Malcomb jolts forward slightly, twice, looking stunned. He looks down to his fingers and is surprised to find blood dripping from a hole in his wrist. He seems completely oblivious to the one in his chest...right about where Mulder took a big, fucking needle just a few weeks ago.
As I come upright and move forward again, Malcomb is lurching ahead, my weapon hanging in the hand he's trying to support. I can see he wants to tip the table over, and possibly activate his device before he drops, so I do what a Marine's got to do. I drop to a slide as I reach the table, skidding under it, one foot upraised just enough, so that as I make contact with Malcomb on the other side, I bend his knee backward with a sickening crunch, causing what must be blinding pain and sending him staggering backward, arms flailing until he stumbles over his duffel bag and crashes into the wall. My gun goes skating across the floor, very near where Mulder had pushed his. It wasn't pretty, but Malcomb is disarmed, the table is still upright, and the device has not been disturbed.
Gasping, I somehow make it to my feet, glance back at Mulder and then limp toward the crumpled heap against the wall. I stand over him, panting from the rush of adrenaline, and he looks up at me for a moment, almost smiling. "At least," he begins, and blood is starting to dribble from his mouth, "at least you fight like a man."
I want to kick him, repeatedly, but I know it is only a matter of seconds before the door bursts open, and the room is full of men and women in dark blue FBI field jackets and guns. I have to somehow get those photos out of sight before they become 'evidence'. Backing up to the table, I scramble blindly to scoop them all into my hands, and jerk around just as the door is shattered by the sheer force of men coming through. Frantically, while everyone's attention is fixed on the whole scene, I shove the photos down the back of my slacks and pull my shirttail loose to hide the bulge.
Naturally, the first focus of interest for the agents responding to gunfire, is to the two men on the ground, but in a moment someone thinks to cut my hands free, and I kneel next to the young woman who is cutting Mulder loose. With her superior next to her, I can see she is struggling not to access his half naked form. As familiar and fond as I am of the delights to be found in the naked flesh of Fox Mulder, I'm more involved with less prurient aspects of his appearance. That angry red welt around his throat, for one, the disturbing greyness in his face, for another. I want to gather him up and hold him close, but all I can do is put on a concerned expression and say, "Agent Mulder, are you all right?"
Once he has been cut free, he rolls onto his back, still gasping, rubbing his wrists. He sends me a dead look. And it kills me. I send a glance toward the young woman between us. "Agent, if you'll excuse us..." Then I stop. Because we were both on scene where guns were discharged, regulations prohibit our unaudited conversation prior to debriefing. "Never mind." I stand and move away from them.
As I reach the other side of the room, where emergency technicians are struggling to keep Malcomb alive, I hear the young woman gasp. "Someone help! Quick."
I turn around and see the lower half of Mulder's body twitching spasmodically. The young woman is covering the upper half, trying to hold him still.
"Get off," I bark, hurrying back to his side. "No pressure on his chest. I think he rebroke that rib when he fell. It could be penetrating his lungs. It's a..." I look down in his face. His lips are blue. He is wheezing and gasping, but his eyes are telling me I'm right. "Tension...tension...tension something. Get them over here. Let that motherfucker die. I don't care. Someone get over here and help him. Now!"
I guess the tone of my voice convinced more than one member of the emergency staff to follow orders, and within minutes, Mulder's dealing with another one of those big, fucking needles. He makes a low, eerie sound, half pain, half air, and falls still.
A few moments later, he and Malcomb are on gurneys and being trundled into the back of a waiting ambulance. It offends me to think of Mulder being forced to ride to the hospital with the asshole responsible for putting him there, but there is no way to avoid it. There isn't another vehicle available. Damn budget cutbacks, anyway.
People are starting to approach me, congratulating me on the safe capture of Malcomb, and reporters are milling restlessly beyond a police cordon, pointing cameras at me. I have heard enough buzz to know that the official story, at any rate, has me rescuing another agent and bringing down a desperate, armed escapee, all with nothing but my cunning and years of administrative and field experience. Bullshit. I picked a fight with my lover and distracted a madman. There was no cunning involved there. I'm embarrassed and angry at the way I handled it. Mulder was the brilliant one.
I see Scully fight her way through the crowds after the ambulance departs, and she moves up close to me, and puts her hand on mine. "He'll be all right, Walter," she promises in a hushed voice.
Walter. I am touched. I want to tell her that I'm not so worried about him physically. I've seen him survive far worse. I'm worried that this time I may have gone too far. Broken things beyond repair. I may have lost him for good. "Thank you, Dana," I murmur, and pat her back carefully. Touching her in that way reminds me of something else that embarrasses and angers me. "Dana." I start to urge her away from the throngs. "I have some..." I sigh, and glance away guiltily. "I removed some evidence from the scene."
She doesn't seem shocked by this admission. In fact, she doesn't even seem surprised. "I had assumed you would," she says in an unreadable voice. "Photographs. Yes, I know. Mulder told me."
I goggle at her. There isn't a neater, more cunning expression. My mouth fell open and I'm certain my eyes bulged. "He...what?"
She's keeping her voice low and her eyes on the people milling around us. "He telephoned me this afternoon. He needed to get out away from the security you had set up. And I needed a damned good reason to help him."
"And he gave you one?"
She doesn't look away. Her cheeks are pink, but she has the balls to meet my eyes. "Yes, Sir."
Oh, thank God, we're back to 'Sir'. "I see."
She's quiet a moment, then glances toward the empty office building, which is now besieged by a forensic crew. "I had to assume there was as least one more," she says, and coughs a little.
"There were several. And I...ah...removed them."
She nods. "Understood, Sir."
"I need to dispose of them."
I can see conflict in her eyes. She doesn't hide it well, no matter how valiantly she tries. The agent in her is repulsed at the idea of destroying evidence, of being party to such a criminal act, yet the friend in her, the woman in love, will do anything required for the object of her affection and desire. She settles it within herself after a moment. "Where are they, Sir?"
I turn slowly, as if to look at something she's mentioned behind me. And as I do, I lift my jacket enough for her to see where I've wadded them up and shoved them into my slacks.
She lifts her voice slightly. "I have a first aid kit in the car, Sir. Let me look at that bump on your head." She puts a hand on my forearm and starts moving me toward a vehicle along the barricaded street. "I want you to know, Sir...I am only doing this for his sake." She pulls open the passenger side door.
"Understood, Agent," I tell her as she opens the back seat and indicates I should sit down. "I am only doing it for his sake as well."
She is kneeling over the back of the front seat, making a show of examining some imagined bump above my right temple. "Only his, Sir?"
I turn just enough to meet her eyes. "I don't give a damn about myself, it's his career that I'm worried about. He'd be too vulnerable in the field, if this got out."
"Yes, Sir." She pauses for a moment. "Just leave them on the seat under my coat," she says softly. "That should be all right, Sir. I wouldn't worry about it."
*******************************************
The trouble is, I do worry about it. I spend three days and nights worrying. I worry about Mulder. I've been to see him six times and he's either sedated or there are other people with him. When he is aware of my presence in the room, he is every inch the respectful, appropriate agent-with-his-superior. He is neither cold, nor warm. Maddeningly polite and agreeable. I have no way to gauge if his feelings for me have changed. But I suppose they must have. If Mulder's passions were still involved, there's no way he could be near me and not give me some indication; a wink, a private smile...something. But there is nothing.
I also worry about my own moral threshold. It gnaws at me that I removed evidence from a crime scene. Not, I have to confess in the intimacy of my own conscience, that I haven't done so before, but for entirely different reasons. There was no outside force bringing pressure to bear this time. No one's life was at stake. Just my pride and a concern for Mulder's well being. No, not even that is true. It's really no secret that Mulder and I are involved. I'm the one who pounded tables and made not so veiled threats to bring him back into DC and a position more in keeping with his skills. And it's my house where he's been recuperating. People can conclude things. They're trained investigators, for God's sake. No, I took those photos because I didn't want our lust to become an object of curiosity. I didn't want to see those photos passed around and snickered at in copier rooms and lavatories. Yes, it was for Mulder's sake, but it was also for mine. So all my principles have become meaningless in the face of my pride.
It's my pride that keeps me hovering outside the hospital room this morning. Mulder is being discharged today, and I've volunteered to collect him. Doctors have been in and out of his room since I arrived, and one of the IA people just walked out, tucking his micro recorder into a pocket. He gives me a nod as he walks by. But my pride won't let me go in, won't let me wait there, hoping for a crumb of his attention, a sign that he won't hate me forever, amen. People begin to look wonderingly at me as I pace. I expect I look something like an expectant father too cowardly to go into delivery with my wife. I'd rather face childbirth at this point, than his scorn. Hell, I'd rather be in childbirth right now, than to witness the final breath of an amazing and heartbreaking love affair.
Finally, drawing a deep breath, I move inside.
Mulder's up and gingerly moving around the room. A nurse is helping him box up the multitude of flowers, cards, teddy bears, balloons and other tributes he's received, not only from other agents and friends, but from parents of children who might have died without his involvement. I feel my chest swelling with pride. My lover, my...Mulder did that. He sees me watching, and he smiles ruefully as he wrestles one more stuffed animal into the box. "It's kind of embarrassing, all this stuff."
"You did good work, Agent," I say stiffly.
He shrugs. "I just did my job." His voice is flat, taking no satisfaction in my words.
His words, however, bring me a reminder of panic; a moment, tied in a chair talking to a madman. "You did far more than just your job, Agent," I say quietly.
He turns to the nurse and gives her some kind of signal because she gathers up the box and a vase of sunflowers, and says everything will be at the nurse's station when he's ready to leave. He doesn't look at me.
There should be something more for us to say, but I'm at a loss. I look at a small stack of newspapers on a chair. "Press clippings?"
He nods and I see a faint hint of color in his face. "Scully brought them."
I finger through a page or two. I've collected and read most of these. "Even the press believes you did far more than your job."
"Not really. It was just playing the percentages with him." He shrugs. "I took a chance. I thought I knew him well enough."
"Evidently you did." I look up again. "I have to know...where did you get the gun?"
He smiles and reaches for a pair of jeans on the bed. "I had it taped to my back." He looks at me for a moment, then steps into the jeans. "I got the idea from Die Hard...you know...the Bruce Willis movie?"
I nod. "It was very clever. But what if he had searched you more thoroughly?"
He shrugs and tugs the hospital gown over his head. He has another bandage over the area where the incisions were made. "That's why I had taped it so low, because I had a feeling even if he patted me down, he wouldn't pat me...there." He tosses the gown aside and reaches for a black tee shirt. "The problem was...once he had me in the chair, I couldn't reach it. Not without him seeing me struggling for it." He pulls the tee shirt on. "You gave me the perfect excuse to struggle."
"Mulder, I..." I hesitate. I am aware of people milling around just outside the door. "I...well, I'm proud of you. You were very brave."
"Bravery had nothing to do with it." He grabs a pullover and tugs it on. For a moment he looks as if he wants to say more. Instead, he collects shoes and socks and eases himself into a chair at the bedside. He holds the socks in his hand as if he's never seen such things before. "Skinner...what if..." he shakes his head. "Never mind." He bends carefully to put on his socks. He's wincing.
"Here. Let me." I'm kneeling before I know it, pulling the socks from his fingers and tugging one over his foot. "What if?" I prompt.
He forces a grin. "Why look, it's Prince Charming. I'll save you the trouble. The glass Nike is mine."
"What if?" I repeat, working his foot into a trainer. Much as I dislike questions that begin with hypothetical propositions, this one I need to hear.
"What if..." he lowers his voice, "...you could know for sure that nothing happened that night. Would that change everything?"
I am surprised by the question. And hurt. And a little defensive. "It's moot now, Mulder, because -"
"No. No, it's not moot," he insists. "We've been moving forward on a foundation of ignorance, trying to do the right thing, and maybe we just forced ourselves to believe that we...lo - cared for one another. What if that foundation of ignorance was removed? Wouldn't the whole relationship crumble?"
"I don't think so," I tell him, pulling the other sock up roughly.
"Walter."
The way he says my name forces me to look up.
"Nothing happened that night."
Why does it hurt so much to know that? I begin to lace a shoe tightly. "How can you be so sure? You'd been drinking for -"
"I'm sure." I don't need to see his face. His voice is full of conviction. "I woke up straight and sober about five in the morning. You were on the bed, fully dressed, on top of the blankets. I think my thrashing around made you come in and stay with me. I..." He is blushing again, and looks away. "I...undressed you. I meant it as a joke at the time. But the way you reacted when you woke up..."
I decide to forget just how I reacted, like a complete and utter ass. I'm quiet for a moment, lost, saddened, confused, uncertain. Does it make a difference? Should it? No. But does it? I don't know. "If you knew," I ask when I can find the strength to speak, "why did you come to Charleston? Why did you suggest it?"
His gaze comes back to mine, and fixes. "For the same reason you agreed to it, the same reason you made such elaborate plans. The barn door had been opened and we both got a look at the horses. We wanted a free ride, and our ignorance gave us permission to do so. I really thought that's all it would be...scratching that homoerotic itch that every male has, regardless of orientation. I didn't count on..." he falters, and his face goes dark red.
I actually feel my leaden heart lift for a moment. "What, Mulder? What didn't you count on?"
He shakes his head, resolute. "Nothing. It doesn't matter, not now."
'Not now'. What have I done? "Mulder, what I said to Malcomb -"
"Oh, I know." He waves it away. "But it got me thinking. Thinking I hadn't been fair to you. That you were probably just along for the ride because you're an honorable man. There was a chance we'd begun a physical relationship that night and you weren't going to walk away without acknowledging it. Well, now I'm telling you, there wasn't a relationship. Not 'til that night in Charleston. And..." he swallows. "Since I brought you there unfairly, I owe it to you to let you out of it."
I think my heart is in my shoes now. Why would he tell me unless he wanted to be free? I could have gone on for the rest of my life, blissful in my ignorance. I want to be ignorant. I feel as if suddenly I've got a bite of that illicit apple in my mouth. I didn't ask for it, it's bitter, but it's too late to spit it out. "Do you want out of it?"
He sighs impatiently and pulls his foot away from me, even though my fingers are still tangled in the laces. "That's not what I said, is it?"
"Damn it, Mulder." I yank his foot back and hold his ankles together. "I didn't want you to be a martyr for me in that room with Malcomb the other day, and I won't let you be a martyr to me now. What the hell do YOU want?" My voice softens to the urgent plea within me, the urgent need to know and understand. "What does Fox William Mulder want?" I catch his chin, suddenly not caring if someone outside might come in. "Tell me...you didn't count on...what?"
He surprises me by jerking free and standing. "No. You always expect me to put my neck out, expect me to walk the wire. Not this time, Walter." He whirls around to face me. "You tell me. What the hell do YOU want? Knowing now that nothing ever needed to happen. Knowing now that it was just -"
I'm not thinking. My body reacts before my brain can put together coherent thought. I have him in my arms, holding him tight. "Something happened, Mulder. We both got a look at the horses, as you said. And you're a beautiful animal that I want to ride for the rest of my life. That's what I want. Now, what do you want?"
He's twisting in my grasp. "No. You're saying that because we've come so far together. What if we didn't have to make the journey?"
"Don't do that to me, Mulder. You might as well say what if I'd never met you? Would I be in love with you then?" I give him an impatient shake. "I have met you. I have known you...in every sense of the word...and I do love you. No, I don't want out." I turn him carefully. "What do you want?"
He sighs. His eyes are closed. "I want," he begins in a voice that sounds as if breath is a struggle for him. "I want to know you're really where you want to be."
"In point of fact, I am not," I tell him.
He opens his eyes. They are wells of emotion, and...I think...tears.
I lean in for a kiss, very soft, only just brushing over his parted lips. "I want to be home," I tell him against his mouth, "in our bed, with you beside me, and a promise that we won't ever be apart again."
He pulls back from the kiss, and then from my grasp.
I look at my empty hands and then up at him. "Mulder?"
"I don't want it to always be about sex." He looks away, the color creeping back into his cheeks. "With us, it's always been sex. Did we have sex that night? No. But we got together to have sex. And because we had sex, we've been together, more or less, since." He smiles grimly. "I know, I know...that's all that should matter, right? I'm a guy, I'm getting laid on a regular basis, and the beer is cold. What more could I want?" The smile twists into something sad. "I want more."
I'm quiet for a long time. I know my silence only builds the barrier between us. But I need to know how to say this to him. "You want a home, a family, someone to meet you at the door after the long journey of the day, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to whisper into, someone to buy beer for?"
He nods jerkily. "Dumb, I know, but..."
"If that's dumb, then I'm the most ignorant bastard on the planet," I tell him with feeling. I reach for him again, pull him tight against me, and whisper fiercely into his ear, "I don't know what it was that brought us together, but it had to have been more than just sex. If we could never make love again, I'd still want you at the door at the end of every day, and in my arms at the end of every night." I press a kiss to his cheek and I'm surprised to find a tear there. "Come home with me, Fox."
I feel him shudder a little. And then gasp, "Walter, I can't breathe."
I release him so suddenly he stumbles. "Oh, my God. Is it your lungs? Let me get a doctor. Sit down...no, lie down. I'll be -"
"No." He gropes for my sleeve. "I'm okay, I'm okay. You were just squeezing too tight." He smirks at me. "Even if we never make love again? That's a sucker bet, Walter. You know I couldn't sit still for that."
I scowl at him. I just laid my soul bare and he's laughing at me, the little prick. "Do you think I'm lying?"
The smile fades. "No." He's still puzzling over something. His brows are knotted up like a Celtic cross. "But Walter, what if -"
I put a not too gentle hand over his mouth. "Enough 'what ifs'. They don't matter. Whatever way, for whatever reason, we're here. Would I change things if I could? Hell, yes. Malcomb would have been caught without costing the lives of six good agents, and you wouldn't have been injured, brought so near death, nor shipped off to California -don't start," I warn as his lips part in protest beneath my fingers. "That's another 'what if'. Right or wrong, I did what I did because I love you and I was terrified of losing you, and with good reason, as Malcomb later proved. But," I pull my hand away, "that's about the only thing I'd change." I kiss him again. "The only thing."
*******************************************
"When did you first want me?" he asks, settling back into my arms as the sweat and semen start to dry on our bodies.
"Oh, probably when I came into your room that night and found you naked," I confess. "My first look at the horses?"
He doesn't laugh. "When did you first love me?"
"I'm not sure," I confess. "I think I must have had some strong feeling for you all along, or I'd have never come knocking on your door that night. There was no protocol to check on you. You weren't even my agent anymore. But there was a basic need in me to know you were all right." I shift a little against him. "However, I knew without a doubt that I loved you before I left Charleston."
"But you left me," he protests.
"No. I ran away from you," I admit. "I was afraid of the enormity and ferocity of my feelings, and I thought I could...'get over' you. There's no getting over you, Fox. You're an immutable fact." I kiss his brow. "When did you love me?"
"That's easy. In Charleston. When I saw all the effort you went to for me. I mean, that hotel suite and everything. I thought, if this is what he does for a seduction...what is he like when he's in love?"
"And?"
He shrugs in my arms. "Just the same as you are in everything else; impossible, bossy, imperious."
"Oh, thank you."
"Just the way I like you." He turns in my arms, resting a palm on my chest. "Because it's you. And you are the one I love."
"Fox?"
He's getting drowsy, nestling in against me. "Hmm?"
"If all you did was undress me...for a joke," I ask thoughtfully, "why did we wake up in one another's arms?"
I feel him stiffen slightly, and lift his head. His eyes meet mine, round with uncertainty. "You don't think..."
"I don't know." I press my fingers to his cheek, urging him back against me. "I guess we'll never know." I chuckle softly.
He lifts his head. "You're just...oh, you bastard. You had me going for a minute." He tugs slightly at chest hair. "It's not that it makes any difference, I know...but it was nice to have everything settled." He waits a beat. "Nothing happened, right?"
"No."
He settles against me again.
"You're sure."
"Absolutely."
- END -