Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 08

by Mik

Well, Mulder was right. I don't think any of us should have been surprised. Yet, we all experienced that astonished rush of amazement, exhilaration, even pride before the reality struck, and we were closing in on a madman who had laced a convention hall with C-Four, poised to kill or maim thirty five hundred teens participating in a gospel choir convention.

Mulder had said he would be 'shaking his fist at God' this time. And he was. He had the rockers so sensitively set that the first deep reverberation of joyful music would have set them off.

He didn't even need to be there, but Mulder predicted he would be loitering nearby, because he needed to see his handiwork in action. And he was. He was spotted standing on a roof across the street from the center, with binoculars trained on the doorway of the building. He was practically wearing a banner that said 'Look at me! Bad guy alert!'

Mulder said he would put up a struggle, but not because he was resisting arrest. Arrest would be preferable to what would await him if 'they' got him first. He would struggle because his efforts had been thwarted. He would be enraged to be robbed of his glory. And he did. He fought, bit, kicked, swore and howled.

And now it is over. Malcomb is in protective custody, on a suicide watch, evidence is being gathered, the young people are scared but safe, and the Bureau looks heroic for a change. Scully and I are accepting congratulations and kudos, although we are the only ones who know that we're really accepting them on behalf of a man sulking on a beach in California.

I know for a fact he's sulking. Tom, Steve and Mulder have been out there three days, and there hasn't been one sound from him. I'm hoping that he'll see the bust on CNN and call tonight. That's why Scully and I hurried back to her apartment for a celebratory and slightly conspiratorial drink, and to wait for his call. It's not where I want to be when I talk to him again; how can I ask the questions I need to ask, probe for the answers I need to hear with Agent Scully standing at my side, eager to give her partner all the glorious details?

When the phone finally rings, at nearly midnight, we're both still grinning, and slightly buzzed on her Irish whisky and in danger of giggling at each other as I lunge for my phone. But it isn't Mulder's voice in my cell. It's Stephan's. "Where are you, Walter?" he demands. "Can you talk?"

"Sure," I said cheerfully, not yet comprehending that there's something strange and strained about his voice and manner. And why is he calling me Walter? He never does. "How was the wedding?" I ask jovially. And I don't really care, just give the phone to Mulder.

There is an abnormally long pause for such a simple question. "Fox is in the hospital, Walter," he tells me.

"What?" I actually look at my phone. I couldn't have heard correctly. I couldn't have. "Why?"

For a few moments words spill into my ears that are nothing more than jumbled and meaningless sounds. "He was fine when we got there, Walter. I swear he was fine. You know there is no way I would have let him fly cross country if I thought there was any chance of this happening." Stephan's voice is frayed with emotion. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know that," I assure him, bewildered. "What happened?"

The meaningless sounds continued. "As we were leaving the church, after the service, he complained of a sharp pain in his side, and then said it passed. By the time we got to the reception, he was pale and shaky, and seemed to have trouble breathing. I went to get him to a chair and he just collapsed on me."

"What?" I repeat numbly. "Why? What's wrong with him?"

More words, more jumbles of nonsense. "It was a tension pneumothorax. Popped his lung like a balloon. There was no other option than to aspirate him on the scene. The pressure on his heart could have killed him."

"I don't … I …" Scully has come up beside me, her hand on my arm. I look down. Her hand is so small. Her eyes are so wide and full of alarm. How can she know what's happened? "What does that mean?"

"It means we shoved a big fucking needle in his chest to take the pressure off." He is shouting at me, as if he's angry at me for not understanding. "We had to. He would have died otherwise."

"Is he..." The phone is shaking so hard in my hand, I can't hear him anymore. Maybe I don't want to hear what he'll say next.

"The air was going from his lung into his chest cavity." His voice drops into something that sounds a little like a sob. "We had to do it."

"Is he..." I grab the phone with both hands.

"He's going to make it. We saved him. He'll get over it." Stephan's voice is shaking harder than my hands. "He's in Cedars Sinai Hospital, with a nice fat tube sticking out of his chest. Come see him."

Oh, my God. "Did he ask me to come?" Why does it matter? I don't know...but it does.

"Oh, for the love of God, Walter," Stephan explodes. "He could have died. Don't you understand that? We had to put a hole in his chest just to keep him alive. Put your pride away and come see him."

"Thank you for calling, Steve." I put the phone down, still not sure I've understood what he said.

I didn't notice before, but Scully's fingers are digging into my arm. "What is it, Sir?" she's insisting. "Is it Mulder?" She gives my arm a shake. "What's happened? Walter? Sir?"

I lower the bewildered stare to her. "He had a tension pneumothorax. I don't..." I shake my head helplessly. "I don't understand what that means. He was fine this morning."

Scully's eyes brighten with a flash of comprehension. Suddenly she turns into a doctor. "A tension pneumothorax means the rib bone has separated again, and punctured the lung," she says, in a tone so calm it seems inhuman to me. "As the lung collapsed the air rushed into his chest, and created pressure on his heart and other lung. It can be fatal. Was he caught in time?"

I am struck by one horrific image. Mulder sprawled on the floor, gasping, his shirt ripped open as they … as they … I look down at her again. "He...they put a needle in his chest."

She nods, maddeningly complacent. "Probably the largest bore needle they had, inserted in the second intercostal space of the anterior chest on the affected side in order to decompress as quickly as possible." She looks up at me, expecting me to understand.

I don't, and I know the anxiety of not understanding is written over my face.

She pauses, considers, and says, "It's to buy a little time, 'til they can put a chest tube in. Is he in the hospital now, Sir?" She touches my arm again. "Sir?"

I nod jerkily. "Cedars, in LA. Good hospital." I pull myself together. "He's in good hands."

"Of course he is, Sir. Do you want me to try and get you on a flight tonight?" she offers, reaching for her own phone.

I pocket my mobile, empty my glass and collect my coat from the back of her chair. "I'm not going," I say, at length.

She's dialing. "All right, in the morning, perhaps. I'll call -"

"I'm not going," I repeat sharply.

She fixes me with a 'don't fuck with me' glare. "Sir, one of your agents is alone in a hospital on the other side of the country, due to injuries he received in the line of duty -"

I try to keep my voice gentle despite a tremendous desire to scream at someone, even her. "He's not one of my agents, Dana." He's not my...anything.

"Oh, but, Sir -"

"I'm not going." And with that, I square my shoulders and leave while I can still maintain my dignity.

It's not that I don't want to be with him. I do. I've done nothing but want to be with him ever since he left for California. I wanted him next to me at the press conference, basking in the glory he deserved. I wanted him in my bed the last three nights, I want him now, in my hands, in my sight, where I know he's breathing and his heart is going to keep on beating. But.

And it's a big 'but'. The look in his eyes as he left me at the airport made it clear how he's feeling about me. There is no good way to rush to his side now, not without being asked for. And the big stubborn asshole won't ever ask for me. So he suffers alone on the West Coast, and I suffer here alone on the East Coast. I think he's got the easier piece of this tragic-comedy. After all, he has drugs.

The phone rings from my hip pocket and I scramble for it, nearly swerving into oncoming traffic, as I pull it free and flip it open. "Hello?" I bark impatiently. Mulder? Do you need me?

It is a far calmer voice than I've heard, either on the phone or in my head. "How are you doing, Walt? Holding up okay?"

I jerk the wheel back, bringing the car into the appropriate lane, juggling the phone as I do. "Is he all right, Tom?" I demand anxiously. "Has something gone wrong?"

"He's sleeping." Tom's voice is far more soothing. It comes from being a Pediatrician, I'm sure. "I just wanted to check on you. I know Steve was pretty upset when he called you."

"He did have me a little bit concerned," I admit, turning into the gate of my complex. "Steve's always been great in a crisis. I'm not used to him coming unglued like that."

Tom's voice is sympathetic. "Well, poor guy...he took it pretty personal when Fox keeled over. After all, we were the ones who talked you into entrusting him into our care, and the first thing we do is make holes in that nice chest of his. Steve reacted as if it was all his fault."

"Sounds like something Mulder would have done," I observe with a weak laugh.

Tom laughs with me, as if he understands completely. "When will you be here?" he asks.

For a moment I can only sit there, before the gate, looking out at darkness, at nothing. What do I say? How do I explain? I can't come because he hasn't blinked? "He hasn't asked for me."

"Don't be so stubborn, Walt," he says, still in that painfully gentle voice. "Now is not the time. Play your pride games another time. Right now you two need each other. You need him as much as he needs you."

A car pulls in behind me in the drive and I blink at the headlamps in my rear view mirror. "Does he need me?"

"Oh, Walt." He sighs. Heavily.

"Seriously. Has he...missed me?" Just tell me he's missed me, I'll be on the next plane west.

"He told me a little bit of your history, Walt," he says, and I can tell he's picking words carefully. "He's gotten used to not missing you."

"I never did," I mutter.

"What's that?"

"Nothing." I straighten behind the wheel as the car behind me honks impatiently. "Keep an eye on him for me, Tom. And thanks for calling. I'll be fine." I press the 'End' button, drop the phone on the seat next to me, roll down my window and jab my code into the box savagely. Fine? That's a joke. I watch the gate lift slowly. I'd be fine if I was on a plane right now. If...

No, I tell myself, jerking the car down into the car park. I am not going where I'm not wanted. I won't. I tried to go back to Sharon when it was too late, and all it did was hurt us both far more than if I'd let it alone, and let her go. I feel a hitch in my throat. She might still be alive now if I had let her go.

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

Why is tonight so different? I've slept without him most of my life. I've slept alone for more than two years. I've only really shared a bed with him on a handful of nights, and most of those he was incapacitated by injury. But tonight the bed seems unbearably empty. I want him here with me. I want him to want to be here with me. I know that I'm being irrational. I'm the one who sent him away. I wanted to keep him safe and what good did it do? He's lying in a hospital bed alone. With a tube in his chest, where they 'shoved a big fucking needle'. It makes my chest ache just to imagine it. Something else makes me ache. That he's lying there in that hospital with a tube in his chest and he hasn't asked for me.

No matter how many times I roll over in bed, no matter how many times I punch my pillow into submission, no matter how many times I check my alarm, and my phone, and the answering machines, no matter how many trips to the toilet, or glasses of water, or fingers of scotch, I can't get his face out of my mind. The look on his face as he turned and walked onto that plane. Damn it, Mulder, I did it for you. I just wanted to keep you safe. Is that so bad? Was it such a crime to want to protect you? Never mind the result...what about the motive? You're the behavioral scientist. You're the one who knows all about motives. Can't you understand mine?

Long before dawn I've surrendered to the inevitable. I'm not going to get any sleep, and I rise, prepare myself a yogurt and slice of toast breakfast, much as I have every morning since I moved into this place (with the exception of those chaotic days when Stephan was here scrambling every egg on the Eastern Seaboard and Tom was puttering around tsking over his shoulder, and pouring coffee before I could put my cup down from the first sip). I spend my requisite forty-five minutes on the stationary bike, listening not to Fox News as I usually do, but some hideous thing called Animals Funniest Croc Files?

I shower, I shave, I dress. I check my hair and my tie in the mirror behind my bedroom door. I do all the things that I do every morning. And before I leave, as I slide into my suit coat, I look over at my made up bed, and wish I could see a dark haired head resting on the far side pillow. Sighing, I leave.

The fifth floor is still buzzing over the Malcomb bust. Waller surprises me by catching me at the coffeepot and congratulating me far too heartily to be sincere. That's something his boy, Mulder would have done. His boy? His boy? My fingers tightened around my cup and my lips tighten around my teeth as I attempt to smile graciously. "Just a lucky break, I guess," I say and take my coffee and my wounded pride back to my office.

By noon I can no longer sit still in my office. I want to call Tom and Stephan, but I can't do that. Not from my office. So I rise, straighten my tie and shrug on my coat, and take the stairs. Down, down, down...not quite to the basement, but to the second floor, where I find Scully at her desk in her little grey cubicle.

She looks up, and does a magnificent job of keeping the alarm in her eyes away from her face, out of her voice. "Sir?" she says, asking me a dozen questions in that one word.

"No word," I murmur softly. "I wondered if you..."

She shakes her head. "No word," she echoes.

I glance around. At five after twelve the second floor is pretty much a ghost town. "Agent Scully, would you be interested in a hot dog from the vendor across the street?" I offer.

"Thank you, Sir." She reaches for her serviceable bag, and I assist her in putting on her serviceable coat. We walk to the elevator in silence. We ride in silence. We emerge in the lobby silently, and stride out the front doors under the security cameras without a word. In fact, we do not speak until the hot dogs have been prepared, served and paid for. We take them to a nearby bench and sit. We eat, without tasting, without talking.

Scully is unnaturally fidgety. I know she wants to burst out with some sort of statement, opinion, observation, or just generally ream me, but she is too much a good agent to do anything but sit and wait for me to give her leave.

At last, no longer able to tolerate her fidgeting, I do so. "Permission to speak frankly, Agent Scully," I tell her.

She looks up at me, quizzically. "You want permission to speak frankly, Sir?"

"No. I'm granting you permission to speak frankly, Agent. It's clear there is something concerning you."

"Well, I...yes, Sir." She puts her half eaten frankfurter to one side and delicately wipes her fingers. "It's about Agent Mulder, Sir."

"I surmised as much."

She doesn't need time to compose her words. She has clearly thought this through and rehearsed all morning. "Sir, I think you have a moral obligation as well as a duty to go out to California," she begins like a round of automatic weapon fire. "Agent Mulder was principally responsible for the apprehension of a madman, and saving the lives of hundreds of young people. He deserves some comfort and acknowledgement from you."

I relax, somewhat. Apparently she is still looking at this as a Bureau matter. "Agent Scully, it would be more appropriate for someone from the Boston office to attend to him now. He is no longer in my jurisdiction -"

"Sir." Just that one word.

I look down at her. Her expression matches her tone. It is immutable. "I can't go, Agent Scully. You know he resented the fact that I encouraged him to go to California and out of harm's way."

"You ordered him to California, Sir."

I nod. That, too, is immutable.

She's staring at me intently.

"What?" I ask impatiently.

"Sir, you cannot claim that he is no longer in your jurisdiction if you're the one who ordered him to California." Those omniscient blue eyes dare me to argue.

The fact of the matter is I can't argue her logic. I weigh the situation as carefully as my lonely, sleep deprived brain may. It is really unfair to discuss such a profoundly personal matter without his consent, but a) I had already discussed it with Steve and Tom without his consent and b) he did indicate to me he didn't mind if Scully knew. "There is more involved than just that," I begin awkwardly.

"What more could there be, Sir?"

"Agent Mulder and I …" I glance around. "Let's walk, Agent."

She shoulders her bag and I gather up our vain attempt at lunch and drop it in a trash receptacle. We walk a block or so in silence. I hear her restless wondering even though she says nothing, betrays nothing. Finally I pause, scanning the street as if for cues. "Agent Mulder and I...that is...Fox and I have begun..." I didn't know how to say it.

She looks up at me, bemused. "'Fox'?" she echoes but her chuckle is suddenly smothered. Her eyes grow wide in comprehension, then darken. She looks away. She looks to the ground. She looks away again. She looks everywhere but at me. "I had no idea, Sir." Her cheeks are turning a dull pink.

"Nor did I, until this began," I answer stiffly. I look up and down the street again, wishing Mulder was here. He could make this work, make it make sense, make her understand.

She is quiet for a moment, and then, "Bureau policy prohibits -"

"I know all about Bureau policy, Agent."

"Yes, Sir. Of course you do."

We continue to walk, in silence. Several times I hear the catch in her breath that indicates she wants to speak, but she says nothing. Her silence says everything. "Agent Scully -"

She holds up a hand. "I don't want details, Sir. Please." She can't quite make herself look at me. "If you can assure me that Agent Mulder was in no way coerced into this relationship, then I'll accept your word and that's the last we ever need to say on the subject."

"Coerced?" I splutter. I'm too offended to say more.

My offense is nothing compared to hers. "What am I supposed to assume, Sir? You were his direct supervisor, the man who was responsible for keeping his department … his dreams alive …" her voice suddenly has an unexpected quaver and she turns away sharply, walking fast.

"Agent Scully," I say gruffly.

She stops walking and slowly faces me. "I'm sorry, Sir. That was uncalled for. I know you would not compel Agent Mulder into an unwanted relationship, any more than he would allow himself to be compelled. This has just been quite an unexpected..." she searches for a word. "...shock."

I have to smile grimly, in agreement. "Don't think it wasn't a shock for me … for us. It wasn't something either of us sought, I assure you. As a matter of fact, we both resisted it for a very long time."

Something in my voice must have reassured her, because she actually afforded me a glance. "May I ask how long...no." She shakes her head sharply. "That's none of my business."

"Since just after the f -" I cut off my words. "Just after his department closed," I finish quietly.

She takes a moment to process this. "Before he went to Boston?"

"Yes."

"Why did he move away, if you were … involved?" she protests, before she can stop herself.

"Because we had decided to end it at that point. We believed we could." It is my turn to avoid her gaze. "Well, I believed it."

She is staring at a crack in the pavement where grass is attempting, vainly, to grow. "Then that night, when he was so angry …"

I understand the unspoken conclusion, and recognize a feeling or fear she has long held. "He was angry at me, Agent Scully, not you."

She sags in relief. "All this time...all this time, I thought..." Suddenly she slaps me. Hard.

The strength of her blow surprises me more than the blow itself. I know she's angry. I even understand why she's angry. But I never expected such a wallop from that tiny body.

She glares at me, unrepentant. "You drove him to VSU. You put him in that warehouse. You put him in harm's way. All for the sake of your - your.." Her eyes dip below my belt.

I can feel myself blushing. "It wasn't exactly like that," I object weakly.

"Exactly how was it … Sir?" Her gaze is cold.

"I thought you didn't want to know," I counter.

She crosses her arms over her breast. "I changed my mind."

"Very well." I look around, spot another unoccupied bench and direct her to it. As we sit, her dissecting, expectant gaze never wavers. "How far back do you want to go?"

She is quiet a moment, evidently taken aback by my willingness to unload. "I guess I just want to know...did he...does he...does he love you?"

Such an odd question...yet, one I've been asking myself since I strong-armed him onto that plane. "I believe his feelings were very deep." I realize I'm hedging. Then I realize I'm not really sure what the answer is. "I don't know if they could be defined as love, only he can say that. And I cannot speak with absolute certainty what they are at this point."

"Why did you send him to California?"

That was easier to answer. "Because he had given me enough information for me to believe that his life would be worthless once Malcomb was in custody." She is still looking at me. "Because I wanted to keep him alive." She continues to pierce me with steel blue eyes. "Because I love him."

Her response is instantaneous. She softens, almost smiles. "That's what I wanted to know. Are you going to California?"

I shake my head.

"But why?"

There is a price to being a man. The greatest one we cost ourselves in having a pride that only another man can recognize and understand. At this moment, the price is the shame of an admission to someone who neither recognizes the pride nor understands it. "Because I don't know if he still loves me," I confess heavily.

To my surprise, this someone doesn't mock or judge. She stands. "I'd like permission to go to California, Sir."

"But why?"

She nearly smiles again. "To find out if he does."

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

There is a message from Tom when I get home. Even though the message is succinct and to the point, I still reach for the phone and dial the number he left for me. Hope springs eternal, I suppose.

Tom answers. He sounds as if I woke him. I glance at my watch. It's only eight in DC. That means it is only five in California. Why would I wake him at five in the evening?

"Tom, it's me, Walt. Did I wake you?"

"Oh, it's all right. I was just catching a little nap." He chuckles softly in that way that means 'I want you to think it's okay, but I'm really exhausted and you're a sonofabitch for waking me'. I have that chuckle down pat, myself. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine...busy..." I actually shrug at the phone. "How are you?" Screw the banalities, how is he, damn it?

"Yeah, you must be." There is reproach in his voice.

"I...uh...I never got to find out in all the excitement. How was your sister's wedding?"

"Oh, it was nice." He pauses for a good, loud stretch. "Very nice. She married a jerk, but we can't all get lucky, can we, Walt?"

More reproach. I grind my teeth. All right, fine. I'll ask first. "You...um...you said he's going to be discharged tomorrow? Isn't that awfully soon, given what happened to him?"

"Yeah, he's doing fine. Recovering well." Tom's voice is confident and reassuring. "There's no medical need to keep him in more than seventy two hours these days. All he needs is bed rest, and we can keep him in bed just as well as they can." He chuckles affectionately. "In fact, I may have to keep a leash on Steve or he'll devote himself to keeping Fox in bed."

Jealousy doesn't even deal me a glancing blow. There is something more pressing, more urgent than my horny brother in law. "Shouldn't he...wouldn't it be better if he came home?" I suggest. Bringing him back to D.C. would be a very reasonable excuse to come to California.

"I don't think he should risk a cross country flight just yet. It's fine, Walt. He's not in the way here. My folks are taking a cruise to celebrate getting the last kid out of the house, and Steve and I are house sitting for the week. We'll put him up here for a few days."

"How's he doing...you know...doing?" Well, Walter, that was profound, wasn't it?

Tom's voice is soft, but there is a dry note of humor. "You mean, is he missing you?"

I sigh. That's exactly what I mean. "Did you tell him we got Malcomb?"

"I taped the news reports for him and I'll show them to him tomorrow when he gets home and settled. There was a nice shot of you and his partner at that press conference. He should like that."

I make a face. I can't help it. Maybe he'll appreciate seeing Scully. "That was nice of you, Tom. How's Steve?"

"Asleep. We were kind of crashed in front of a ballgame." And he sounds as if he wants to get back to it.

"Well, I'll let you get back to it. Thanks for the update."

"You, too, man." There is a moment of heavy silence. "Come on, Walt, get on a plane tonight. You'll be here when he's discharged. A great surprise. He'll be thrilled to see you."

"Will he?" I ask heavily.

"Walt, it's hard at first." He sighs and I can hear him dragging up a chair and resigning himself to a long conversation.

"What is?"

"Dating another man … it's not your father's rules, you know. It's not the way you date a woman. The rules aren't the same, man. Think of it like walking toward a mirror image of yourself. The mirror isn't going to give, and neither are you. This mirror's got balls, Walt … just like you."

"Are you trying to imply that a woman is weaker?" I rub my cheek where Scully let me have it a few hours ago. There is definitely the sensation of a bruise. It will probably be purple tomorrow.

"Oh, hell no!" he laughs. "But women are, by nature, peacemakers. They'll give in a little easier than another man, for the sake of the relationship. Fox feels he was wronged, and he isn't going to give in, and neither are you, even though you both know you need each other."

"He doesn't need me, Tom," I say flatly, recalling something Scully did that was more painful than the slap, reminding me that I had set him up for all the damage that had been done the last four months. "In fact, he'd probably be a lot better off if he just stayed the hell away from me."

"That's the spirit," Tom says derisively. "Give up now, while you're both down. That way neither of you will have to risk any more pain, or worse, accidentally have a happy life." His sigh is impatient. "Look, I'm not going to try and sell you on the joys of this lifestyle, Walter. I know it's hard for a tough assed Marine like you to accept the idea of -"

"Damn it, Tom, you know that's not true. I don't care about that," I snap. "If I did, do you think Steve and I would still be friends?"

"- the idea of not being the only one wearing pants in the relationship," Tom finished patiently. "You aren't always going to get your way, Walt. You can't always pull that 'I'm the man, and I say so' shit with another man. Accept it now, get your butt on a plane and get out here where the other half of your heart is." I hear him yawn thoroughly. "Now, the other half of my heart is asleep in the middle of the floor and I want to get back there and join him. It's up to you, Walt. You know the number." He disconnects.

I put the phone down reluctantly, and find myself leaning back against the wall, rubbing my burning eyes. Damn it, Tom, didn't you ever have doubts? Didn't you ever wonder if you had gone somewhere and were no longer welcome? Was it always that easy for you? Didn't one of you need the other more? Was it always simple, easy, a matter of halves, equal portions? It's never been that way for us. Never been equal shares.

I hate to admit it but it's been largely me setting the rules, or trying. Just as he did as my subordinate, with the X files, Mulder can slide in under my rules and mandates, tiptoe through forbidden thoughts, and explore locked places in my heart. No matter how many times I've told him no, he keeps coming back. Until...

Until now. It's never been equal shares for Mulder. He's wanted one thing from the beginning, and I've slammed doors in his face, turned my back on him, shipped him off to the other side of the country, all in my arrogant belief that I knew what was best for him. And now he is lying in a hospital bed, with a tube in his chest. And now I sit here, weeping because he won't call me back. Weeping. Damn it, I'm weeping.

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

Another night, filled with restless longing and memories of those few moments holding him close; heat and sweat and tears and those low whines that he made in need, the soft, deep sounds that went to my balls, and the look in his eyes just after he came, the look of wonder, of peace, the little gasp, the smile that made me feel like the greatest love on the planet. That's it, Walt. Remember the sex. That's all it was about, right? Just wanted the thrill of a tight piece of ass just once in your life.

But I keep remembering other things. His eyes, mostly. I had never taken the time before to contemplate those eyes. Some might say they are too pretty to belong to a man, yet they burn with feelings too human to be defined by gender. He can kill with a look, he can raise the dead, he can build hope, he can smash it down, he can coax smiles and tears, he can promise, and he can lie. People always assume that Mulder is shallow and obsessed … or perhaps they see him as too deep for comprehension, but there's another part of him, a part no one sees, tries to see, or understands when they do see. It's a part of him that is real and human and vulnerable yet strong as steel down his spine. I saw it the night he walked into that hotel room, needing to know and terrified of the answers. I saw it in his eyes when I walked out of that hotel, thinking I'd never have to answer for what I'd done. I saw it in his eyes the night he forced me to swear my love for him. And I saw it when he got on the plane in Baltimore, believing that it had all been pre-sex propaganda.

The real propaganda was the campaign I waged to convince myself it wasn't anything more than sex and a little affection borne of long years of association. I resisted every fact or hint that I might feel something deeper, more profound. I ignored the tug in my heart when his name was mentioned, or the emptiness of my life when he was gone, or the gut wrenching, heart stopping grief I felt believing he was dead, or the euphoric, God praising joy I felt when I realized not only was he still alive, but that he had come to me in his need. I even ignored Stephan's prognosis that it was love, the near fatal kind. But now, in the moonless night, in the emptiness of my bed, I have to resign myself to the idea of love. Loving him, another man. Mulder.

There is a quote I read once, that the sweetest, most agonizing love is that in which reciprocation is uncertain. It sounds pretty, but at this moment, I feel like tracking down the author of such a sentiment and reciprocating with a few well-chosen punches. It ought to feel about the same.

And all I can do is wait. Scully is going to California in the morning. She will find out if this near fatal love is terminal...or DOA.

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

I actually jump at the sound of the buzzer on my phone. "Sir?" Kim's unnaturally tentative voice is just one more indication of the state I'm in. I've been growling more than usual the last three days, and even scolded her for making a mistake in a report only to find that the mistake was mine.

Even though I know I'm being a son of a bitch to everyone in swinging distance, it doesn't prevent the little snarl in my voice when I respond. "Yes?"

"Agent Scully is here. She said you were expecting her but I don't see her on your -"

"Send her in." I stand and run my sweating palms over my slacks, then over my tie. Then I sit down again, feeling foolish for feeling so eager.

Scully comes in, her face an impassive mask. That's it. That's all I need to see. She has the worst possible news for me, and doesn't know how to tell me. "A.D. Skinner, Sir."

"Sit down, Agent Scully." I stand again, belatedly, and indicate a chair.

We both sit. She smoothes her slacks down and flicks a bit of dust from the toe of her show. "Thank you for seeing me without an appointment."

"That's quite all right, Agent Scully," I say with false patience. "You know my door is always open to you."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." She is avoiding my eyes. Her mouth is a tight line. I'm dying inside.

"How … how was your trip to the West Coast?" I prompt.

"Very nice." She manages to look at me, her brows up, her eyes wide, trying to look positive and pleasant. "I saw Agent Mulder and your brother in law and his partner. They were very hospitable."

"Were they? And how is Agent Mulder?" Just say it, Scully. Say it and go, so I can go home and get tight for about six months.

"Oh, he was very cordial to me. The three of them took me out to dinner while I was there. We had a very good time. The food was excellent...seafood...do you like seafood, Sir?"

I grit my teeth. "Yes, very much."

"Well, it was very good. And Agent Mulder seems well recovered. Very affable."

"Well, that is good news." Shit! Shitshitshitshit.

She nods. "Seemed to be doing very well. Flirted with the waitresses."

I glance at my right hand drawer, thinking that I might as well hand her my service weapon and let her just put me out of my misery. "Is that right? Somehow...I've never pictured Agent Mulder as a flirtatious type." Except in bathtubs and showers, I add silently, heavily, jealously.

"Oh, he can be," she assures me with just a hint of a smile. "Sir … I have some paperwork I'd like you to sign for me, if you will?" She opens the manila file she had brought in with her. "Here."

"What's this?" I glance over it. It is a requisition for a plane ticket to California. "Agent Scully, I can't approve this. In the first place, your trip to California, while humanitarian, was not Bureau related, in the second place, you have the date wrong, and thirdly …" I look at it again. It is in my name. "Agent, what is this?"

She is smiling at me softly, with a light of forgiveness in her eyes. "Go see him, Sir. I've made all the arrangements."

I set the form aside, with finality. "Agent Scully, I will not go where I am not wanted."

"Oh, Sir," she's laughing softly, evidently laughter she's been trying to contain since she entered my office. "You are very wanted there."

"You just got through telling me how happy he is, affable, flirtatious..." I let it go. "I can't go."

"Of course he is, Sir. That's how I know he's miserable." She's laughing openly now, not even trying to hide it from me. "Sir, a happy Mulder is a miserable one."

I shake my head, resisting a need to believe. "That makes no sense."

"It does." She leans forward, a hand on the desk. "I know him better than anyone...even you. When Mulder is trying to hide his feelings, he puts on a happy face." The hand shifts to define a round circle around her face. "Bright yellow, with a big grin. It's patently phony. But in his eyes, it's another expression entirely. Believe me. When I walked in the door of their house, he literally looked past me to see if you were with me before he even looked at me. You are very, very wanted there."

I want to believe.

- END chapter 08 -
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