Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 06

by Mik

At some point in the night, Mulder shifted toward me. When I wake (was I ever truly asleep?) I feel his cheek on my shoulder. I lift my head. Scully's resting her head against him. What a picture we must make. I'm also aware that, despite a horrifying wound and near fatal blood loss, there is an impressive erection digging into my side. I can't take credit for it. After all, the woman of his dreams is right next to him.

He feels my movement and opens his eyes. He blinks, allows memory to engage and pulls away from me. I'm sure he would blush if he had any blood to spare. "Morning," he croaks.

On his other side, Scully murmurs restlessly.

I pull away, sit up. After all, I'm not supposed to be enjoying the situation. I rub the back of my neck and look down at him. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Like hell." He squirms. "Uh...Sir? I need to..."

Scully sits up. "What do you need, Mulder?" she asks. One side of her borrowed pajamas is covered with blood, and she recoils from it.

Mulder makes a face at her. "Nothing you can help with, Scully," he says. He struggles for a moment to sit up, and then surrenders. "Nothing I can help with, either."

"I can," I say decisively. I throw the bedclothes back and scoop him up into my arms like a child.

He reacts with all the indignation his condition allows.

My arms tighten around him. "Don't struggle," I warn. "You've got stitches." His body feels so much warmer to the touch now. In fact, it almost seems hot, but that may just be in comparison to the deathly chill that enveloped him last night.

"Sir, the IV," Scully cries and scrambles across the bed to shut off the drip valve and detach tubing from the shunt taped to his wrist.

I deliver him to the bathroom, Scully tagging after us. "I can handle this, Scully," I tell her, shutting the door.

"Uh...you don't really need to handle anything," Mulder says softly. "I've been potty trained for a few years now."

"Shut up," I tell him affably, easing him to his feet. With one hand around his chest to keep him upright, I aim him for the commode and strip his sweats down to his knees. His body feels good against me. I am surprised to feel more muscle definition in his chest since the last time I held him. Mulder's been working out.

"Uh … now what?"

I gesture with my free hand. "Go."

"And you're just going to stand there?" His eyes meet mine in the mirror. They're bright with indignation.

"I'm not letting you go," I tell his reflection. "Swallow your pride and let me help you. I don't want you on your ass right now. It might rip stitches." I smile faintly. "Don't tell me you've got a bashful bladder."

He scowls at me. "No. There are other things that will prevent urination, you know."

I look over his shoulder. "Stop thinking about Scully and go. I'm not going to spend all damn day in the bathroom with you."

"Scully's not the problem," he complains softly. "And you're not helping matters, rubbing my chest that way."

It was for me! "Okay." I pull my hand to his shoulder, but he's starting to sway without my support. I hook him under the arms with both hands, turn him around, and lower him to the commode. "It'll work, Mulder. I'll step outside. If you start to feel dizzy, grab the sink. But stay where you are. I'll be back in a few minutes to get you, and if I find out you tried to stand up, I'll put a hole in your other side."

He glares at me. The tone I've taken is working to reduce his desire. I'm smiling to myself as I step out of the bath.

Scully has stripped the bed, and the bloody sheets are in a pile on the floor, along with the bloodstained pajamas, but she's nowhere around.

Stephan ambles in, looking too cheerful, given the gravity of the situation. "Where's the little patient?"

I jerk a thumb toward the bathroom door.

"Is Dr. Fireball with him?"

"No, he's potty trained."

Stephan stops smiling, frowns at the bathroom door. "He shouldn't be up. I should have put in a catheter."

I shake my head. "You'd enjoy that too much."

"Huh." He follows me to the linen closet, helps me pull down sheets. "Didn't Thomas and I give these to you as a wedding present?" he asks.

"I don't know." I think about it. "I don't think so. We didn't have a king-size bed when we were first married. And you weren't with Thomas then."

"Ah, that's right. I was still pretending I hadn't gone over to the Dark Side." He laughs easily. "Honestly, Walt, of all the relatives and in-laws, you have always been the most tolerant. Thanks."

I shrug, feeling uncomfortable, at this moment feeling particularly deceitful. "Sharon loved you," I say in a voice that seems sanctimonious even to me. "That was good enough for me."

We flip the mattress over and begin redressing the bed. I still haven't heard the toilet flush.

Scully comes in, her cell in her hands. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was going to do that, but I got a call. They've finished the autopsies and are going to release the names."

Stephan and I look at her expectantly. I might still be under the influence of that heady rush of pleasure that comes from knowing I've aroused the object of my desire, but the fact remains that that object might be in danger from outside forces as well. "What about Mulder?"

She shakes her head. "They haven't finished searching the bombsite, so they're not sure if there were any other fatalities."

"Should we manufacture one?" I ask.

Scully, as usual, is in favor of moderation. "Let's wait and see," she says, tucking her phone into a pocket. "But in the meantime, there's no need to advertise that we've got him. Where's his car?"

I nod toward the South part of the complex. "At the back of my parking space, covered with a tarp. It'll be safe enough for a few days."

She reaches for the laundry. "Leave that," I say. "You're not here to do laundry. See if you can find something else to wear. You're going to ruin that suit. You know," I pause and flick a glance at Stephan, "there are a few of Sharon's things left in the back of the closet. She was a lot taller, but those would be a better fit than anything of mine."

She nods gratefully and starts to turn away.

"Fireball," Stephan says.

She looks at him sharply.

He pushes the closet doors open wide, and goes to the back, as if he's intimately acquainted with my closet. I can hear him rummaging around. "Ah, here we go." He pulls down a box. "I don't think she ever wore these." He pulled out a pair of white denim overalls.

"I don't think she ever owned those," I retort. I may not have been the most observant husband in the world, but I'm pretty sure Sharon never wore white denim overalls. Not her style.

Stephan looks at me. "They were her goal clothes. You know, the things she'd wear if she ever lose those last five pounds?" He holds up the box. "She'd been doing it for years, Walt."

Scully, realizing that she is in the middle of a very sensitive situation, takes the overalls, and a pale pink tee shirt, and disappears.

I feel an unexpected lump in my throat and I turn away. "Take those away, will you?" I ask, and then go to the bathroom door and knock. When there is no answer, I push the door open.

He's leaning shakily, against the sink, trying to get a look at the wound. His face is an eerie mixture of flushed and paled, and his fingers are visibly trembling as he fusses with the bandages.

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" I demand, catching him just as he starts to slither to the floor. I reach over and flush the toilet, and gather him back into my arms. "Idiot." I kick at the bathroom door and Stephan comes to open it for me.

Mulder doesn't argue. He doesn't even have the grace to look chagrined. He just lays, limp in my arms, letting me bear him out of the bathroom.

"What was he doing?" Stephan asks, coming over to restart the IV.

"Trying to count his stitches, I suppose," I grunt, easing Mulder back into the bed.

"Thirty two," Stephan tells him, matter of fact. "And we just changed this bed, so please don't pull them out and get blood all over the place."

Mulder looks at him sourly. Then he looks at me. "Coffee?" His voice is still raspy.

I look at Stephan.

He shrugs. "I don't see why not. It was basically a flesh wound, according to Dr. Fireball. There's no danger of peritonitis. But given his blood pressure, it better be decaf." He looks at Mulder. "Can you live with that?"

He nods.

"I'll go see about some," Stephan promises. "We also ought to start thinking about some kind of nourishment. I wouldn't recommend Big Macs, but maybe some chicken broth and..."

"If he says jello, I'll kill him," Mulder says through clenched teeth.

I look at Stephan apologetically. "He has jello issues."

"I was going to say ice cream, but I wouldn't dream of stirring up childhood trauma," Stephan retorts and saunters out.

"You're really a hard-ass, aren't you?" Mulder sighs, laying back against the pillows.

"And you're a hardhead," I retort, wanting to touch that hard head. I refrain. "How's Boston?"

"Common," he answers. Then he shifts, wincing. "It's okay. It's D.C. with a tonier college, and more statues. Did I dream it, or did you and Scully sleep with me last night?"

"No dream. You had a chill and we were keeping you warm."

"Gee," he says, and he actually grins. "I never heard it called that before."

"Hush," I warn him, but I have to smile. "It's nice to know you're going to pull through. We had our doubts yesterday."

"Huh," he says, imitating Stephan. "Where's Scully?"

"Changing."

"Does he really call her Fireball?" He doesn't wait for my response. His smile fades. "We've got to move fast. Malcomb is going to strike again."

"How do you figure that?" I sit down on the side of the bed, ready to absorb his peculiar wisdom.

Mulder draws a deep breath and closes his eyes. "He's been in the Shadows for a long time, probably recruited very young, and he's always chafed at being little better than an errand boy." He smiles grimly. "In a weird way, he reminds me a little of Krycek."

His voice is weaker than it should be, coming in little bursts, but when he's this focused on something, he could be underwater and still talk. "He discovered a talent for laying explosives and it gave him a little notoriety and a taste of spotlight. He liked it. But he wanted more, and no one was willing to give it to him. So, now he's going to take it for himself. That's why he gave you so much time, and no demands. He just wanted to see his handiwork on television. He had one of those pocket televisions with him, and he kept changing stations to make sure that he was center stage on every channel. He doesn't have a death wish, and he knew there was a S.W.A.T. out there, ready to take action if we negotiators couldn't work something out soon." He flicked a glance at me. "Negotiators. What a joke. He was just killing time with us. Then he put his hand on a trip wire, and told us we could take the kids and go. They grabbed kids and ran. He fed wire and headed for the fire escape. I followed him. He shot at me. When he ran out of wire, the rockers went and the place exploded."

"Okay, so why do you think -"

"Because he knows he's marked. He knows someone's going to come for him, in the dark of night, a little injection, a silencer, who knows. He wants that once in a lifetime, mother of all fifteen minutes. Only this time there will be no letting people go."

"What are we going to do?"

He jerks his focus back to me. "We?"

"Well, you sure as hell aren't doing anything for a while."

"I've got some files up in Boston. See if there's a discreet way to get them down here. He knows who I am. He may be buying himself a little time by taking credit for getting rid of me. I don't want to take that away from him. I don't want him to feel he has to hurry."

I know it sounds farfetched, but I've seen him in action too many times to doubt that expression, that totally convicted tone of voice. "Okay, I'll nose around a little, see what I can do about getting your -" I see a light in his eyes. He's formulating a plan.

"We'll send Scully up there," he suggests. "If I'm dead, it's only natural that the executor of my estate - and that is Scully - would go up to clean out my office. If she doesn't mind, that is."

"Mind what?" Scully has come back into the bedroom. Except for being way too long for her, the overalls fit fine. Sharon would have had to lose more than five pounds to wear those. It's a cute look for Scully. It makes her look like a schoolgirl, almost. A schoolgirl who could kill you in a heartbeat and then take you apart to see what made you drive her to homicide. She has coffee cups in her hand, and she brings them to the bed. Her tone is halfway between impatient and indulgent. We all talk that way about and around Mulder. "What is he trying to talk you into, Sir?"

"He wants you to go to Boston, to clean out his office before anyone else does. He has files on Malcomb that he needs to review. We can't just request them, it would be a dead giveaway - literally." I shoot a glance at Mulder. He's gaping at me.

"Scully, the A.D. made a pun," he croaks.

Scully does not smile. She will never smile at anything I say. It would breach her all too important protocol. "I'll go to Boston," she agrees. "It makes sense. I'm the executor of his estate. It would be perfectly natural." She kneels on the bed, and holds out a cup of coffee to me. "That's decaf. This is regular. Dr. Riley made some of each."

"You might as well call him Steve," I tell her, taking my cup. "He's calling you Fireball."

She makes a face, the only indication of how she feels about that. Ah. That face is enough. She looks at Mulder. "Are you up to giving me an exact list of what I need from your office?"

Mulder struggles to sit up, and winces with the effort, but brushes away Scully's hands. "There's a floor safe in my office. I'll give you the combination. In it are five files. Two of them are about Malcomb. You can bring the others, if you want. They may come in handy someday."

I've lost them now. I don't exist for them. I pick up my coffee cup, and go downstairs. Stephan is in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. He glances up at me. "How's he doing?"

"He's plotting the downfall of a mad bomber," I say grimly. "He must be doing fine." Never mind that he's flushed, and his eyes are too bright and his voice shakes and his hands tremble and he can't stand upright without assistance. He's going to catch a bad guy. He's fine.

"Walt." Stephan turns off the burner and looks at me. "Does he have any idea how you feel?"

I'm blushing. I know I am. Still, I suck it up and give him a coldly bewildered stare. "Do I know what you're talking about?"

Stephan gives me a slightly pitying look, goes to the kitchen door, looks out and comes back to me. "Come on, Walt. I know the signs. He's more than just one of your agents. I knew it yesterday. You're too damn protective and possessive of him - and I don't just mean your actions. It's in your eyes too, man. And if I had any doubts, there were three people in bed this morning, and two of them were men."

"He was cold," I insist. "Agent Scully and I -"

"Walt." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Don't feed me bullshit, please? You're talking to someone who's been on the raid already, okay? You're either in love or lust with that guy. And either way, if you haven't acted on it already, it's just a matter of time." He returns to the stove, turns on the heat and stirs idly. "I hope, for his sake, it's not just to satisfy an itch, or your curiosity. I get the impression he's a nice, sincere …" He sighs and flicks me another careful look. "I don't want to denigrate your 'Special Agent' but he's a kid at heart, and a casual little 'experiment' on your part might really cause him a lot of damage."

I match his sigh. "I know. Agent Mulder's had a very...difficult life. But he's exceptionally good at what he does. I wouldn't allow anyone to denigrate him - or harm him." I meet Stephan's eyes, and I feel such a need to confess. If anyone could understand what I'm going through, it would be Stephan. "I don't know, Steve," I admit. "I'm so damned confused I don't know if I'm up or down."

He nods sympathetically. "It's understandable, Walt. You're so straight you make rulers envious. But why wouldn't you be attracted to him? Look at him. He's a babe."

I shake my head. "That has nothing to do with it. I've been looking at him for five years, and his looks never meant anything to me before." Reluctantly, I spill out the story, in short, sanitized bursts.

He laughs at me, the son of a bitch! "Get me Danielle Steele," he crows. "I'm gonna' write me a romance."

"Knock it off, Steve," I growl.

"Okay, okay." He puts his hands up in mock fear. "No jokes." He sobers and puts one of his hands on my shoulder, in comfort. "No jokes, Walt. It's a mind fuck when it happens, isn't it? You don't know what to do, but you know you don't want to give up getting next to that body."

I shake my head. "It's not just the sex, Steve." I shrug. "That's nothing new to me. I saw it happen all the time in 'Nam, just not to me. I could almost justify it now. It's been two years since Sharon...left. But this is something else, something unexpected."

"Love?" Stephan's expression and tone of voice are filled with approval.

"No." I stop, struck by how easily I can deny it, and still know it's true. "Well, maybe it is. Whatever it is, it's deep and it's strong." It's my turn to glance back at the kitchen door. "I want to hold him and protect him, make him happy. I want to touch him all the time. I want to have him looking at me - only at me."

Stephan smiles at me with pain and empathy. "I know, Walt, I know. I know exactly what it's like. How do you think I felt? I was Big Daddy's oldest son. I was Regular Army, for crying out loud. I was the one who wrote up the other soldiers when I caught them with their dicks in their hands. Then I came home and fell in love with this huge, black motherfuckin' Marine!" He makes a weak little gesture, as if to indicate how powerless he felt. "He knew right away, but I fought it for a long time. Then one night, after a long, grueling shift in ED, we went for a beer together, some honky-tonk place he liked. We were just talking, you know, letting our hair down, and I looked into his eyes and bam!" He smacks the countertop with the palm of his hand.

I flinch.

He doesn't see it. His eyes are far away. "I knew, then. I mean, I knew. I hustled him out of there so fast, I'm not even sure we paid our bill. I was glaring at anyone who looked his way. I took him back to my place. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but he'd been there before so he showed me the way." His voice grows soft, almost regretful. "Afterwards, I was so embarrassed, I cried. And he just held me and soothed me and promised me it didn't mean anything. But Walt, it meant everything."

What he is saying mirrors my own confusion so much, I want to cry for him. But instead, I blunder stupidly away from the emotions and into the details. "So...uh...you're the...um...top?"

Stephan grins mistily at the word. "No, Walt, we take it in turns. You mean you haven't let him do you? Oh, Walter, you've got to let him have a shot. There's nothing like it, when you love someone and trust someone. It's an incredibly giving experience."

And therein lies the confusion, I think. Is it really love? Is it really trust? I know I told him I loved him. I know I believed it at the time. I know I missed him so much when I allowed myself to think about him. But I was able to force him out of my thoughts so easily. Could it be I didn't really want more than an easy avenue to sex? Someone I can sleep with but don't have to talk to? Someone who will meet my physical needs without disrupting Sunday afternoon football? I close my eyes, remember the horror that hit me like bricks when I saw Scully climb out of that car; the absolute conviction that he was dead. I think about how good he felt, leaning up against me in that jacuzzi. I think about the sound of his breathing, when he lays in my arms after sex.

When I open my eyes, Stephan's watching me. "It's love, isn't it, Walt?"

I nod.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," I confess. "How do you and Tom deal with it? Isn't it hard? You're doctors, you're professionals."

"It's easy for me. I'm an internist. Some women actually prefer coming to me because they feel safer. Tom had some problems at first, since he's a pediatrician, but his practice is thriving now. Tom's originally from California, and his family is very open and understanding about it. They had a bigger problem with me being white than the fact that I'm male." Stephan's smile broadens. "But they got over that shock, too. His mom and dad love me as much as they love Tom. And we've been together...how long now? Fifteen years." The smile fades. "The hard part has been my family. You and Sharon were the only ones who accepted me. Tom says you're the only man in my family that doesn't make him feel like a freak. Tom's going to love this news."

I put a hand on his arm. "Stephan. No one can know. More for his sake than mine. He's out in the field, and there's a very strong feeling about gays out there. He might not get the backup he needs in a critical moment." I squeeze tightly. It isn't in me to beg, and yet I say, "Please, Stephan. I'm asking as a brother, as a friend. Keep this to yourself."

Stephan looks a bit hurt. "Walt, what do you think? Tom's Radio Free Europe? This is between us, Walt, family. It won't go any further, but you're going to need some support, so is he. Let us be there for you, man. We're old campaigners."

We heard a step on the stairway, and broke apart, him focusing on soup, me sipping coffee. Scully came into the kitchen with an empty cup. "Is there any more decaf? He's looking pretty miserable and he said it's the first thing that's made him feel human in two days."

Stephan indicates the pot to his left.

Scully pours and pauses. It's obvious that there is something on her mind.

"Are you going up to Boston today?" I ask, trying to forestall anything else that she might want to discuss.

"Oh, yes, as soon as I can," she says, still frowning. "I just hate to go off and leave him, well, leaving both of you …" she hesitates. "He told me what happened, and I have to agree, he might really be in danger, if word gets out that he wasn't killed in that explosion. You need an extra gun to protect him. If I go to Boston, you're on your own."

"And what am I?" Stephan protests, pouring broth into a large mug.

She smiles, patronizing. "No offense, Dr. Riley, but we need someone who is capable of -"

Stephan turns, towering over her. "Honey, I was field stripping assault rifles while you were still letting Ken play doctor with Barbie."

Her face flushes hotly, and her blue eyes, very bright, shoot to me.

"He's a retired colonel, Regular Army," I explain. "He did two tours in Nam, went to Grenada, and was a medic in Desert Storm."

Scully's eyes lower contritely, to the cup in her hands. "I...I didn't mean..."

Stephan puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Fireball. Look, you don't need to worry about your precious partner. We're not going to let the bad guys get him while you're gone. If we need another gun, I can call Thomas. He's still in the Marine Reserves, and licensed to carry."

"Thomas is Steve's partner," I explain, feeling a need to say something to reassure her.

She nods, still looking at the coffee. "I'll...I'll go see about flight reservations." She turns away, and leaves us.

Stephan waits until she's out of earshot. "What is with this guy? He's got everyone panting after him. Are you sure they've never...?"

I nod, rubbing my eyes. "They have an amazing, and unique relationship, Steve. I've never seen anything like it. They love each other, there's no doubt about that. They'd take a bullet for each other any day, but they have a connection that defies definition. And he's just as protective of her, when he's upright."

Stephan shakes his head. "I am amazed. How does she feel about -" he cuts himself off as Scully reappears at the door, looking a little concerned. "Have you got a thermometer?" she asks. "He's asleep again, and he seems febrile. I just left him five minutes ago, and now I can't rouse him."

"Uh oh." Stephan puts the spoon down and moves, Scully just a step ahead of him.

"Have you checked for possible wound infection this morning?" she asks as they race each other up the stairs, me on their heels. "I checked him last night, but I assumed you did, this morning."

"No, I thought you did," Stephan counters.

They both burst into the room and skid to a halt. Mulder's curled up on his side again, his face very flushed, his breath is obviously shallow. We can see his sharp little pants from the doorway.

"I've never seen infection come on this fast before," Stephan says, as Scully scrambles up on one side of the bed, and Stephan kneels on the other.

"Nor I," Scully agrees, gently rolling Mulder onto his back. "But we don't know what kind of bacteria he might have been exposed to before he got here. You can tell by the abrasions on his side and on his forearms, that he had to drag himself or catch himself on something before he made it to his car. Perhaps he was exposed to some sort of agent that resisted the normal efforts to clean the wound. Oh, my God."

At the sound of her voice, I creep a little closer to the bed. Stephan has worked the bandages away, and around the sutures, is a raised, red and pussy circle. Stephan looks up at me. "Walt, go get a little more of that fine old bourbon of yours. Fireball, hand me the phone. I'm going to call Thomas and ask him to pay us a call, and bring us an extra gun, and some antibiotics."

When I come back upstairs, the bottle in my hand, Stephan and Scully are working in tandem, to break sutures, murmuring to one another like a seasoned surgical team. "He's probably been feeling the onset all morning, but attributed it to the blood loss, so he didn't mention it," Scully is saying. "That's Mulder. He never complains if he's hurt. He got hit by a car once, broke three ribs, and told me he just got the wind knocked out of him."

"Oh, a tough guy, huh?" Stephan says, smiling grimly. "Walt, give me that bottle. Here, Scully, get the towels under him, I'm just going to pour this through. It's unconventional, but there's nothing too conventional about any of this, is there?"

Mulder jerks and gasps as the bourbon burns at his flesh, but he doesn't open his eyes.

"Walt," Stephan snaps. "Come hold this guy down so we can stitch him back up. Come on, Walt," he repeats on a bark when I don't immediately respond to his command.

I climb up on the bed and lock my arms around his upper body. He's writhing and moaning and burning hot to the touch.

"Fireball, I'll hold his legs," Stephan continues, shifting on the bed, to wrap his arms around Mulder's knees. "You stitch him up." He grins at me. "Anybody ever see Gone With The Wind?"

"That's not funny, Steve," I growl, having to tighten my grip. Even in this weakened state, Mulder's strong, stronger than I remember. He has been working out.

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

Scully's gone to Boston. Thomas is on his way, with a couple of guns and two types of antibiotic. Mulder's been phasing in and out of consciousness for about six hours. I've nearly paced a hole in my carpet at the foot of the bed. Stephan brings me another cup of coffee, and tsks me, gently. "He's going to be fine, Walt. Relax. I checked the wound a little while ago, and the swelling's already gone down, and he's less febrile. Sit. You're going to drop."

I go to the edge of the bed and sit down. Behind me, Mulder shifts and moans. I turn to look at him. Come on, Mulder. Wake up.

His eyes flutter slightly, almost as if in obedience, though Mulder is never that obedient. Those hazel eyes fix on me. A frown furrows his face. "What … what the hell's going on?" he mutters.

"Do you remember getting shot at?"

He nods faintly.

"Your wound got infected." I rise, move to the edge of the bed. "You've been out for a little while."

He stretches tentatively, gasps in surprise, and stills. "I feel like I got tackled by the Redskins - all of them, even the water boy."

I smile. "We had to hold you down while Scully stitched you up again."

"We?"

"Steve and I."

"Oh, great," he drawls. "I hope you fought for my honor."

Perversely, I grin at him. "No, we had an orgy while you were unconscious."

Mulder surprises me by gesturing with his middle finger.

He's going to be all right.

Stephan comes into the room, refolding his cell phone. "Tom just called me from the front gate." He looks across the bed, sees that Mulder is awake and smiles at him. "How's it going, son?"

Mulder's taken aback by this shift in Stephan's approach to him, and he nods dumbly. He looks at me. "Who's Tom?"

"My partner," Stephan supplies. "Sorry to disappoint you, Agent Mulder, but I'm spoken for."

Mulder just scowls at him.

"Anyway, Tom is bringing meds and guns." He eases down on the bed. "And Chinese food."

Mulder and I both look at him.

"None for you, my boy," Stephan assures Mulder. "My offer for broth and ice cream is still good, however."

Mulder merely settles back on the pillows and closes his eyes.

"Come on, now," Stephan chides, but softly. "You haven't had anything more substantial than a cup of decaf and a sip of bourbon that was taken in a very unconventional way. You'll have to swallow something to take the antibiotics. I hope you're not allergic to anything."

Mulder shakes his head but doesn't open his eyes.

We hear a sound downstairs. I reach for my gun. "I'll go."

It's Tom. Tom Graves, M.D., is an amazing piece of work. I've always liked him, even though sometimes, he scares the hell out of me. He must be six six, if he's an inch, built like a tank, and the color of bittersweet chocolate, but his eyes are almost the same shade of green as Mulder's when he's hot about something. When I admit him, he's looking anxious, even with his arms full of Chinese food. "Hey, B.I.L," he says. (He calls me that for brother-in-law.) "What's going on? Why did I need to bring a gun?"

"Didn't Steve explain it to you?" I ask, taking the bags from his hands.

"We're talking about Steve, here," Tom reminds me with a deep chuckle. "This man doesn't explain anything. He never remembers that some of us come in at the middle of the movie."

I laugh appreciatively. In some ways, Stephan and Mulder are a lot alike. "A beer, Tom?" I ask.

He nods. "So?"

"So, one of my agents - that is, one of my former agents, got injured in the line of duty. Because there are still people out there who want to make sure the job was done right, we're keeping him under wraps while his partner collects some evidence. We've turned my condo into a temporary safe house. Since some of the people we are concerned about may have connections to the Bureau, I can't just call up and request security." I hold out a beer. "That's the plot up to this point."

Tom nods again, popping the beer cap off the way Mulder does, with two fingers. "Okay. Where is our patient?"

I tilt my head, indicating the stairs. "My room. Steve's with him."

"Oh, no, you left your agent alone with Hot Pants?" Tom starts for the stairs, a mock frown marring his face.

"Relax, Tom. Steve already told Mulder he's spoken for and..." I pause. "...Mulder's spoken for, too."

Tom turns at the first step and looks down at me. At first, he's not sure he heard what he thinks he heard. Then he arches both brows high. "Oh?"

I know I'm blushing again, and I just nod, avoiding his eyes.

"When did this happen?"

"I don't know," I admit helplessly.

"Oh, Brother In Law," Tom says and there is a note of sorrow in his voice. "This is a tough road to ride, and you've had no experience at it."

I appreciate his concern. Stephan just doesn't understand. It was easy for him, so he assumes it will be easy for me, for us. "I know."

"What about him?"

I shake my head. "It's a whole new road for him too."

Tom is quiet for a moment, then he sighs. "Come on. Let's go up and see what we can do."

Mulder is a little surprised at Tom's arrival, but I think simply because of his size.

Tom comes to the side of the bed, handing antibiotics to Stephan. They embrace briefly, and Tom looks down at Mulder. "How's it going, son?" he asks gently, the same words Stephan used but so different coming from him.

Mulder looks from Tom to me and back again. "Fine," he croaks.

"I'm Tom Graves," Tom says in that deep, slow voice. "I'm Steve's partner." He waits a beat. "Does that shock you?"

"No," Mulder manages, finding his tongue. "He said he was spoken for."

"Does it shock you that I'm black?" Tom persists.

Mulder just stares at him. "I wouldn't know," he answers honestly. "I'm colorblind." He smiles a little at his joke.

Tom smiles at him stiffly. "A lot of people say that -"

"No." Mulder shifts a little. "I really am."

Tom looks at me. I nod.

"How did you ever get into the Bureau?" Tom asks, tucking into his pocket and coming up with latex gloves.

Mulder shakes his head. "I have no idea," he says in a voice that clearly says on this evening he wishes he hadn't.

"So, what about you?" Tom asks, kneeling at the bedside, pulling the bedclothes back. "I hear you got injured." He snaps the gloves into place, just the same way Scully does it, loudly.

"Yeah." He seems a little more comfortable with Tom's bedside manner. "But it's not too bad."

Tom pulls back bandages. "There's still some infection here. Steve, hand me the Silvadene." He spreads some of the ointment around the wound gently. "There. We'll start you on a regime of antibiotics, and you'll be good as new." He pats the tape back into place and pulls the bedclothes up.

Stephan comes beside his partner. "Now, we're going to feed you, and then you and Walt are going to get some sleep, and we're going to go downstairs and keep lookout. Okay?"

Mulder looks absolutely panic stricken, and his eyes, dark gray now, jerk to me, accusingly.

"I told them, Mulder," I say quietly. "We need some help, some expert help. They've been together fifteen years. I figured they'd be experts, by now."

"But what if someone breaks in?" he manages.

I have to laugh. Mulder isn't worried that I sold our secrets. He just wants experienced security guards. "Steve's a retired colonel, and Tom, here, is still in the Marines. I think we'll be in good hands."

Mulder's answer is to close his eyes.

In a few minutes, Steve brings up a tray. There's soup and ice cream and meds for Mulder, and a plate of assorted Chinese entrees for me.

Mulder must still be feeling pretty punk, because he doesn't even send a covetous glance toward my food. He barely takes any of his own.

Afterwards, I am pleased to climb into bed, beside him, and hold him. He's still very warm, and he seems to suffer from the occasional tremor of pain, but the IV's been disconnected, and he's able to settle into my embrace without tangling us in tubing, so I feel very content.

"I can't believe you told them," Mulder whispers as I turn out the light.

"Steve guessed," I confess.

"How?"

"Because I was a nervous wreck, worrying about you, because I nearly took his arm off for touching you unnecessarily, because I slept with you last night."

I feel him chuckle beside me. "Softy," he says.

"Hush."

"Hey, Walter?"

"Yes?"

"Did you miss me?"

My hands tighten around him. "Baby, you have no idea."

He relaxes against me, snuggling up under my chin. "Good."

- END chapter 06 -
Back to novel page
Back to Chapter 5