Title: Seven Year Itch part 1/3 Author: Rose Campion Feedback Email: rosecampion@earthlink.net Author's Website: Category: Romance Queer As Folk Pairings: Crossover Pairing Rating: R Archive at Gossamer: Yes Gossamer Category: Crossover Gossamer Sub-category: Romance Gossamer Keywords: Slash Summary: Mulder and Skinner have been living together for seven years in a small Indiana town when Mulder makes a trip to the big city of Pittsburgh. Seven Year Itch part 1/3 by Rose Campion Part 1 Please see part 0 (template) for warnings and summary. Seven Year Itch part 1/3 (a post-series X-files/Queer as Folk crossover) Warnings- kind of schmoopy. An "after it's all over" story. Spoilers- none that I can think of Disclaimer- I know, I know, write about my own damn characters, 'cause these ones belong to someone else. I can't help myself. I just want them to be happy. Make money from this? Ha, ha, good one! Archive- Yeah, wherever. Just keep my name attached. Fox Mulder thrashed around the bedroom, slamming the last drawer back shut again, the contents stirred to chaos, but at least neatly concealed. As he stood up, still furious, he got a glance at himself in the dresser mirror. When did my hair get so gray? He wondered at the sight of the generous streaks of silver through the brown. He was not without his vanity and the sight of the gray when his internal memory of himself had brown hair and no wrinkles only added to his ire. 'And when did the scope of my life get so small?' was his next thought as he struggled not to trip over anything in the small bedroom of the large Victorian house. King size bed, two dressers, no room for anything else, including people. There had been talk of ripping out the wall between this room and the alcove-like fifth bedroom, but nothing had been done about it in the six years they'd owned the house. Mulder settled on a substitute sweater, pulling on the dark green turtleneck, though he didn't quite give up hope yet. He stumbled out of the bedroom which had been built for people who averaged nearly a foot shorter than him and slept in beds half the size and into the long hallway. Bare wall board covered the walls and ceiling. Not yet taped, screw heads still visible along with the occasional work boot tread imprinted on the light gray paper. A number of paint chips had been taped up to the wall, with a dark gold color circled, their paint choice, but never utilized. He snagged an elbow on a screw that had popped out and had to pause to free himself. The wallboard had been hung when they'd had to gut the original plaster after it had started falling down in big chunks, after the roof had leaked. They were in the middle of suing the roofer now who in turn was in the middle of trying to place a lien on the house, unsucessfully so far. Two of the rooms on this level were still stripped down to the studs. The whole upstairs always smelled faintly of plaster dust, and under that, a trace of staleness from the mildew that they'd never been able to get rid of one hundred percent. Eau de old house. As Mulder passed through the hall he banged his progress with staccato fists on the unfinished wallboard, the annoyance of the unfinished work the icing on his cake of indignation. He headed down the stairs at a rapid clip. At least something in the house was finished, completely, and in good condition. The cherry wood trim, balusters, bannisters, spindles, risers and treads had all been lovingly and perfectly restored. Hand sanded until they were silk. Polished until they gleamed softly, even in the dim light of an early winter morning filtered through a stained glass window. But Fox Mulder was on the warpath and not in the mood for incidentals like bannisters. "Walter!" He called out angrily even before he hit the ground floor. "Walter! Have you seen my black sweater? The v-neck one?" Old reliable himself made an appearance, strolling casually from the kitchen, drying his hands on a damp dishtowel that he proceded to sling over his shoulder. The black, v-neck cashmere sweater in question was tightly stretched over shoulders that were wider than Fox Mulder's would ever be. The sleeves were pushed up over muscular forearms, but still damp from dishwater. If Mulder had been angry before, he raged now and slapped his hand hard against the cherry casing on the archway that separated the grand front hallway from the double parlor. The hallway was one of the few rooms in the house that was completely finished, from the converted gaslight chandelier they'd found in the basement to the blue grasscloth wallpaper, to the refinished quartersawn red oak floors. It was a serene place, a quiet transition from the outside world to their little private world. Normally, Mulder loved this space. The place where he dropped his briefcase and pretensions and came home. To the one person who knew him better than anyone else in the world. Who had seen Mulder's every flaw and wart and still wanted him. The one person who knew how many men Mulder had killed and where the bodies were buried. Old reliable. The mountain. The one Mulder loved. Walter. None of that mattered just at this moment. "Why the hell are you wearing my best sweater to do the dishes?" "I really didn't think you'd mind." Walter said, his voice low, soothing. Always the peacemaker, always the one to sidetrack an argument before it got started. Never mind that Walter did it because once he got angry, it was well and truly furious and both of them were well and truly sorry. Despite Mulder's easy shifts to the snappish side of things, it was Walter's temper that was to be feared. Thank God it never showed itself but rarely. "It's not your best sweater. It has holes now." Walter demonstrated, pulling the sweater off, revealing a bare chest. The old Victorian was always just this side of fridgid. Despite insulating as much of it as they could, it still cost a small fortune to heat through the wretched gray cold Indiana winters, so they kept the temperature low as they could stand. Walter shivered and almost, for a minute, Mulder relented and wanted to tell him to put the sweater back on. Almost. But not quite. Walter demonstrated one of the small holes near the waistband with a finger through it. Perhaps intended to diffuse, the gesture was fuel. "Just give me the goddamn sweater, Walter. I was looking for it. I was going to wear it today." Walter offered the sweater wordlessly, shrugging patiently as if to say, no skin off my nose if you want to head out in public in a threadbare sweater that should probably be relegated to the chores around the house pile at the very least though the rag pile would be a better place for it. Always calm, always reliable, Walter was stringently avoiding a fight. Mulder didn't yet take the sweater. "I truly didn't think you'd mind, Mulder." "Didn't think I'd mind? It's my favorite sweater. I don't think it's unreasonable that a man should be able to go to the place where he last put away his favorite sweater and find it there." Part of Mulder listened in detatched horror to himself continue to rant. Since when had his life become so small? So small that he was reduced to arguing with the same man he used to rail at about international conspiracies, shadow governments, dangers to the truth and freedom so great that they could hardly be spoken of- about a sweater. An nine year old sweater at that. No, scratch that. You needed two to argue. He was just going off on Walter in a way that part of him recognized far exceeded any true foul about the sweater. No real harm had been done. Yet, he continued. "It's mine. One of the few things around here that is truly, solely mine. And you always stretch out the shoulders and forearms when you wear it. It's too late now. I can't wear it today anyway. I'll have to wash it again before I can. It's mine! Got that? Mine! Someday I'll come find you wearing it covered with sawdust from the workshop and then I swear to God, I will shoot you. Just keep those big mitts of yours off of it." What neither of them said and both of them knew was that it was Mulder's last gift from Scully. They didn't really talk about Scully anymore, or all the rest of it. "Mulder, don't let's get started." Walter was not exactly pleading but he was trying to keep this civilized. "You're running late as it is. We can have this discussion when you get home." "This is not a discussion, damn it! It's me telling you to keep your damn hands off my sweater. What is there to discuss about that?" Walter looked at the sweater still in his hands. Years together had muted the alpha male in each of them, especially Walter, who wasn't too proud to offer peace instead of mutual headbutting. He approached Mulder cautiously with the sweater out, a sort of peace offering. When Mulder didn't take it, he draped it over Mulder's left shoulder. "I won't touch it again. I truly didn't think you'd mind. I'm sorry." Apology offered but not accepted. This was about far more than the sweater, Mulder realized, otherwise, the patient contrition from the other man would have ended it. And Walter truly was sorry, that much could be easily read in his expression, even hidden as it was by the wirerims he still wore, finally bifocals now, the kind with visible lines. Mulder's ire was not so easily satisfied with the admission of fault. Before he could stop himself, he found another raw subject to pick at, another argument to bring to front and center. "I don't suppose you were planning to work on the house this weekend, were you?" "Gayle and Doti were hoping I could start on their cabinet installation this weekend." Wrong answer, Walter! Mulder thought to himself. "Well, damn. At least do something about that popped screw in the hallway. I'm sick of ruining clothes on it." Mulder held up the elbow he had snagged. The small hole was going to get bigger, it was already starting to unravel. "I don't see why complete strangers get dibs when our house has been a construction site for months. That was the deal, Walter. You wanted this dump. I pay for it and you take care of it. Well, the mortage and the rest of the bills are current, but I can't see that you're keeping up your end of the bargain." Even in his state, Mulder knew just how low that was. Rubbing it in Walter's face that he was the one with the bigger income. Walter had left the Bureau with no pension, little savings, stripped of all desire to do anything at all like he'd been doing and only some equity in the Crystal City condo. The Bureau had completely used Walter up, forced him to resign, ground him up, spit him out and sent him on his way without even a handshake. Little wonder he refused to work for anyone besides himself anymore and only on his own terms. Little wonder he spent more of the summer months fishing or gardening than working and most of the time Mulder didn't say a word. It almost shut Mulder up, knowing that he'd crossed an important line. Almost. Walter didn't snap back, but that didn't mean that the temper hadn't been roused. Still under control, though his eyes flashed dangerously. His jaw clenched, something that happened less and less these days. Though it had been clenched so constantly while they were both at the Bureau that back then Mulder hadn't even known that the man who had once been his boss could smile. Yes, the clenching jaw meant the temper might make an appearance, but Walter was keeping it on a short leash at the moment. What Walter did was to scoop Mulder's garment bag off the quartersawn oak floor at the base of the fluted cherry newel post, where it had been waiting patiently. Walter handed it to Mulder in a way that suggested he'd better take it. Mulder did but opened his mouth to speak, the start of another rant. Hands freed of the garment bag, Walter gently put a finger to Mulder's mouth and said, "Hush. You're going away for several days and I don't want our parting words to be angry ones. We'll discuss this when you get home. I'll miss you, Mulder." "I don't think I'll miss you." Mulder snapped, even as he inwardly winced. "I think I'm glad to be spending some time where we're not tripping all over each other. I don't know why you like this house. I nearly killed myself tripping over everything in the bedroom this morning." Walter's only answer was to put his hands on Mulder's shoulders and physically turn him towards the door. "Goodbye. I'll miss you." He said grimly. It was obviously getting very hard for him to keep the temper on lead. "Did you want a ride to campus?" "No." Mulder took the hint and marched out the door, still clutching the garment bag, cashmere sweater draped over his shoulder. He nearly left without his jacket realizing that though it was the end of March, Indiana seemed determined that it was still winter. Snow flurries skirled on the wind, with promises of perhaps actual snow in the chill. He turned around for the jacket, wondering if he could sneak into the house without capturing Walter's attention again. He was met at the front door by Walter holding out his jacket. Mulder took it silently, noting that Walter had wrapped gun and holster in it, then turned away. He dropped his luggage onto the porch floorboards and began the complicated work of putting on the shoulder holster without making it look like he was arming himself. Rule number one of a concealed carry- never let anyone know you're carrying. He mananged to slip the jacket on at the same time as the holster, hoping he wasn't too obvious about it. He was no longer a fibbie, but he never went anywhere further than the mailbox without a weapon. He had enemies out there still and while none of them had yet invaded the haven of this small midwestern town, that was a chance he wasn't going to take. By handing him the weapon, Walter was communicating two things wordlessly. First and most obvious- take care of yourself out there. Secondly- get yourself together, man. How could you be so out of it to forget something so basic? Finally together, Mulder headed back for the porch steps. The screen door opened on its squeaky hinges again and Walter was handing him an overstuffed beige cloth briefcase. Mulder turned away without a word and started for the steps again. He heard Walter say, softly but quite audibly, "I love you." Mulder shrugged, not finding it in him at this moment to understand why this could be, much less respond in kind. He walked down the porch steps and turned down the path to the side of the house. Under the portecochere was an iron railing that had been sunk into the concrete of the driveway. Locked securely to this with the best kryptonite lock that money could buy was an ancient, battered three- speed, dark green Raleigh, bought at a garage sale. The lock cost three times as much as the bike. Fox William Mulder, one time scourge of the FBI motor pool, wrecker of rental cars, was reduced to this. No, this was his choice. He could easily own a car, if he wanted. Walter's truck complete with rusty chasis and locked boxes for tools was parked just up the driveway. He lived far enough away from campus that walking became an annoyance, but not far enough to justify another car. There was really very little in his world that couldn't be reached by bicycle. At least anything that he wanted to see. Still, he sometimes wondered what his former colleagues at the Bureau would say if they could see it. He was not without the memory of his vanity. He'd been sleek and well-dressed, and looked not a little hot, he'd thought, in his black trench coat as he would drive up to a crime scene, even if only in a low end Ford sedan. He was keenly aware that it was not exactly dignified to show up somewhere, slightly sweaty, on a bicycle nearly as old as he was. What would his ex colleagues call him now? Spoke-y Mulder? Wheelie Mulder? But he'd never once heard of a bicycle bomb. You could take the boy out of the paranoia, but you couldn't take the paranoia out of the boy. Mulder wondered if Walter knew exactly how often he was under the truck's hood and body, looking for tampering. Of course, he still swept the house for bugs any time a stranger was in the place. Nine years gone from the FBI, but still paranoid, though he hadn't found a bug yet. Mulder carefully bungee corded his bags to the rack, pulling out the folding baskets to full extension for stability, taking the time to stuff the cashmere sweater into one of the bag's outer pockets. The colorful cords were not quite long enough and protested at he snapped their hooks in place, but they held. Then he grabbed one of the flourescent colored strips of cloth he had wrapped around the handlebars and used it to wrap his jeans leg out of the way of the bike chain that would grasp at any bit of cloth near it. The chain guard was long gone when he'd bought the bike. On with the brain bucket, a stunt helmet like the boys riding their little bmx trick bikes wore. More dork potential than a streamlined race helmet, but also far more protection. After all he'd survived, all he'd gone through, he wasn't going to die of a brain injury from a simple cycling accident, not if he could help it. A moment, then, to unlock the bike, stow the lock and he was on his way, pushing off with one lanky leg then throwing it over the cushy sprung seat. He easily fell into the rhythm of pedalling, forgetting for a while his ill temper, the harsh words he'd spoken to Walter, his irritation at having to take this trip in the first place. All forgotten to the regular movement of his legs, up and down, round the pedals, again and again. All too soon, the trip to campus was over. He turned down a long driveway lined with oaks that had been tall and big enough around that a man couldn't put his arms around them since before he was born. Beyond the trees, he would see the serene campus, brick buildings tucked in among the perfectly kept grass and tall trees. In the summer, the trees plunged the campus into blessed shade, but even now their bare brances were essential architecture that held the very soul of the college in place. How had he come to this campus, to be an ineluctable part of it? He wondered this often as he made this very trip up this driveway. Nine years ago, his life was nothing like this. The only similarity was that he'd been carrying a gun back then too. It had all happened so fast. He'd gone from a nightmare of abduction and torture, death even, back to the ruins of a life, disgraced and dismissed from the Bureau that had been his life. He'd had to fight, not just for his own sanity and existance, but for the world's, against terrors that even now couldn't be spoken of, except perhaps with Walter. If he were to pull any random person off this campus, they would know nothing of the war he had fought and won at great cost, nor of the coverup that swept away any traces of the alien invasion that had been diverted. He'd been reinstated, eventually, but boxed away, doing wiretapping again and slowly losing what was left of his mind, bleeding in a way that no one but he saw. Somehow, in the shuffle that followed, Scully had ended up as ASAC in Philedelphia, no longer needing him, blossoming even without him, her career looking brighter and brighter the further she drifted from him. Words were inadequate to describe the pain when he realized that she and her child were best left alone. He'd started looking for an out, and had nearly decided that the best one would be from his service weapon. The world had been spared. The battlefield that had been razed and scorched to sterility had been his heart and mind and he had found he couldn't stand to live there much longer. Then his out came. A call. From a small midwestern liberal arts college. They had decided to start a criminal justice program, with a focus on interdisciplinary studies, including psychology. Would he be interested in interviewing? They knew he'd never taught before but they were a non-traditional college and they were specifically looking for professionals who had been in the field, made a difference in it. He had come highly recommended from an unmentioned higher up in the bureau and they'd been impressed by his writings on criminal profiling. They'd heard about his degrees from Oxford, that had impressed them. It was a tenure track position. Mulder had been on a plane as quick as it could be arranged. The minute he'd stepped from the rental car into a cracked asphalt parking lot surrounded by ancient trees, he'd known. This was where he would be. This would be his peace. Beyond the chittering of some squirrels and the distant sounds of students, the campus was immersed in quiet, apart from the world. He'd known even before he'd spoken the first words to the committee of interviewers that he would be teaching here. Later he would say that the Spirit had spoken to him, but at the time it was a sensation almost as eerie as any supernatural phenomenon he'd come across during his years investigating the x files. He just knew. He knew his future. It was one that he would survive. The college was religiously affiliated, with the Society of Friends. Of course Mulder knew about Quakers. He was from the east coast, Massachusetts. But he'd never been to one of their Meetings, the mostly silent Sunday worship services unique to their sect. His series of interviews had stretched over the weekend. Did he want to attend a meeting, he was asked, gently. It wouldn't reflect badly on him if he didn't, they told him. But perhaps he should, to understand better the kind of place he was coming to. Eager to do anything, anything at all to secure a position here, Mulder had agreed. Though he gone out of obligation, when he'd settled onto the simple wooden bench in the high, white room with no altar, it was here that his healing had started. The only ostentation of any kind in the Meetinghouse was a concert grand piano, pushed for now to the side. The walls were thick. Overhead plain wooden beams were exposed. On three sides of the room the windowsills were deep, as was the silence. On the forth side an entrance to a small fellowship hall, though they just called it a meeting room. That was what he hadn't expected. The silence. Perhaps thirty people sat scattered on the benches that were arranged on all four walls, the center of the room empty. For a long time, no one spoke, nor made any sound. Then a soft sigh from a woman, and a few words of hope for peace were spoken. Even with his eidetic memory, he couldn't remember what had been said, except that the tears slid painlessly down his face at them, without any wrenching sobs to drive them out for once, and he felt a prescence as palpable as any person walking into the room, comfort greater than any he had known before filling him. The interviewer sitting next to him, the dean of students, had handed him a tissue from her purse with no comment. And while it hadn't been alright, not yet, he was stronger when he walked from that room. From that moment, he had started to knit together again. Not that it wasn't hard. Not that he didn't struggle. Not that there weren't times when panic gripped him so hard he couldn't breathe and he thought he would die. But he knew after that Meeting that he was no longer in danger of eating his gun, ever. It had been a warm, late spring when he inteviewed, a hot summer when the call finally came, and a warm August when he finally found himself in front of thirty or so eighteen year olds, hanging onto his every word. He taught Intro to Criminal Justice, a section of a Humanities class that every student had to take and every professor was expected to teach, and an intro to psych class. And when he wasn't teaching, he was busy gluing his soul together again. Nine years later, he was still here, still teaching. A fixture of the college just as much as the trees and the brick classroom buildings. The war torn landscape of his heart and mind had mostly been replaced by the quietude of the trees and campus. The straw of hope he grasped at had become his separate peace, his refuge. He still went to meeting every Sunday morning. Sometimes, Walter even went with him, though more often, Walter went to the nearby Catholic church, finding his own brush with the Spirit there. Mulder understood. Walter liked ritual, procedures, and found the silence disconcerting. Mulder didn't often feel the presence of Spirit as viscerally as he did that first time, but the memory of that first time had been enough to keep him coming back. (Continued in part 2)