SquidgeWorld Archive

Wakened by Silence
by JiM

He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence.
-- William Dean Howells

It had been a good day's hike, twelve miles and it was only mid afternoon. His muscles felt stretched and vigorous, well-used but still strong. The twinge in his right knee had disappeared and the golden New England autumn was all around him. His sierra cup pinged an idiot tune against the aluminum frame of his pack. He hung it there in accord with local wisdom that the sound would scare off the bears. He had not found that to be the case. The two bears he had encountered on the trail had been entirely unfrightened. They had merely looked up, considered him for a moment, then lumbered off, as content to let him go his way as he was to let them go theirs. But he still hung the cup over his left shoulder and found its syncopated rhythmic clanging pleasant in the long silences between shelters.

"Good afternoon, sir."

He looked up and was curiously unsurprised to see Fox Mulder sitting on a granite boulder by the side of the trail, a red frame pack leaning on a tree beside him. But this was a Mulder he had never seen. No Brooks Brothers suit this time -- just a pair of gray hiking shorts and a long-sleeved mint-green LL Bean t-shirt. Lightweight but decent hiking boots with raggwool socks neatly folded over the scree-cuffs. He looked long and lean and fit and entirely at home out here. But the smile on his face was the same as it had always been in Washington. Challenging, mischievous and... a touch shy? Skinner was surprised by a surge of some unnamed emotion within.

"Mulder," he acknowledged, wondering why he could find nothing else to say. His voice sounded rough and unused, even to himself. He hadn't spoken in three days, other than to return one-word greetings to other hikers he met on the path. His former agent just smiled again, got up and shrugged into his pack. Skinner automatically came over and hefted it, helping the other man to settle it more comfortably on his back before clipping his weight belt. It was heavy, heavier than the pack Skinner had set out with from Georgia.

"What the hell have you got in there?"

Mulder turned and grinned. "Steaks. Beer. Dry ice. A few other odds and ends."

Skinner stared. "Beer," he repeated stupidly. It had been two weeks since he had had a beer in the last town he had left the trail for, somewhere in New Hampshire. Beer was far too heavy in relation to its nutritive value to carry and there were no towns or easily-accessed stores on this section of the trail. After his last resupply run, he had resigned himself to at least a week more without fresh food and he was starting to actively hate the sight of dried legumes. And now Mulder had appeared in the middle of a stand of golden birches in backwoods Maine carrying beer and fresh meat.

It had been over six months since he had seen the man. Last January, Skinner had become conscious of a restlessness in his soul. After considering it for a time, he had begun to make his plans. By February, his letter of resignation was on the Director's desk. By March, he had gathered his equipment and said his goodbyes to all except Mulder and Scully, who had been out of town on a case. He had left them a short, stilted note and left for Georgia to begin hiking the length of the Appalachian Trail.

The first weeks had been hard, a period of adjustment. Not physical hardship, he was fit and a good outdoorsman. The difficulty for him had been in letting go of the past, in allowing the iron cloak of responsibility to drop away. They had ended a world-wide conspiracy together, he and his agents. Invasions and sacrifices and biological genocides had all been stopped and the nations of the world were now united in guarding against the threats uncovered from within and without. There were still earth-bound mysteries and madnesses to be investigated by the FBI but he found he could no longer do so -- so he left it to younger, hungrier men and women. And he had walked away, into the woods.

Without realizing it, Skinner had resumed hiking up the trail, Mulder falling into step beside him. This section was nearly flat, a simple dirt track covered in a decaying carpet of golden leaves. Their steps made almost no sound in the warm afternoon; he could clearly hear Mulder's breathing and the creaking of his pack, the scrape of his boot against an upthrust piece of gray granite on the trail. Always before there had been words between them -- angry, excited, cautionary, serious, practical, firm, directed. Now, there was just the friendly silence.

He had learned to appreciate the silences on the trail; an older man he had hiked with through the Smoky Mountains had taught him to listen to the different qualities of silence. They had once spent two weeks, hiking, cooking, camping and choosing trails with no words between them at all. When the quiet man had left him, Skinner had continued on in the same way, listening more than he spoke. He had made friends with other thru-hikers, seeing them again and again at various huts and shelters, and he knew they thought him to be pleasant, helpful and friendly, and a bit shy. But that wasn't true at all. He had merely lost a taste for the sound of his own voice laying down the law to someone.

Mulder hiked along beside him easily, a slight smile on his face. Still he did not speak. Which was odd -- it had always seemed to Skinner that Mulder had tried to drown him in a flood of words, to convince him, trick him, goad him, reduce him to permitting and agreeing to the insanely possible worlds that Mulder moved in. He wondered what had changed for the younger man, then realized the stupidity of his thoughts. Everything had changed for Mulder in the past years, everything. Family, blood, war, belief and faith -- it had all changed. Small wonder if he, too, felt like speaking less.

Another fifteen minutes easy hike brought them to a wide spot on the trail, perched on the side of the mountain. This was the shelter where he had planned on staying the night. There was a sturdy lean-to on one side of the trail, designed to shelter up to 6 people. He recognized the pair of packs and an anorak already inside it -- Pam and Deidre had made good time. He had thought he would catch up to them today or tomorrow; they had often shared their campsites with him. They were nowhere in sight, however. Mulder was looking at him expectantly and Skinner was suddenly loathe to share him with anyone. There were two flat camping areas about 20 yards back into the woods. He nodded toward one and Mulder immediately set off for it.

The campsite was opulent compared to some others on the AT. It was well-cleared, flat, and had a semi-permanent firepit lined with stones in one quadrant. Several logs had been conveniently placed around the firepit to act as seats. Mulder slipped the pack off his back with a sigh and leaned it against a log. "I'll go find some wood," he said and wandered off.

Skinner watched him go and was finally conscious of a tickle of curiosity. What in hell was Mulder doing up here? Then he mentally shrugged and set about putting up his dome tent. It would be small for both of them, and their gear would have to remain outside under a rain poncho, but it would be comfortable enough, he thought. There was no rain in the forecast, just dew in the mornings, although lately it had been a light frost.

Mulder came back with an armful of wood and dumped it next to the firepit. Then he went and rummaged in his pack, laying out matches and a brand new set of nesting cookware and a folding grill. Skinner came over to inspect it as Mulder built the fire with quick skill.

"Did you empty out EMS?" he asked, referring to a well-known outdoor supplier.

"No," said Mulder with dignity, watching his tiny fire begin to draw well. "I stopped at LL Bean's on the way up." Ah -- LL Bean, the other outdoor company.

"Why?"

"Because there are no McDonald's up here and I though it might be nice to eat well."

Which was not the answer to the question Skinner had asked and they both knew it.

Mulder got up and pulled a small plastic bottle out of a side pocket of his pack and handed it to Skinner. "Here. Go wash up and I'll get dinner."

Skinner read the label and grinned. Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Castille soap, preferred by all ecologically concerned hikers; trust Mulder to have researched the subject. Skinner had run out last week. Then Mulder handed him a brand new navy River Driver's shirt in his size and a towel -- an actual towel, not a thin, quick-drying hiker's excuse for a towel. Mulder had definitely done his homework -- Skinner was traveling with one t-shirt, which he was wearing, and one long-sleeved shirt which was nearly in rags this close to the end of the trail. A clean, new, warm shirt was an unthinkable luxury.

"You're spoiling me," he accused. The words echoed oddly around the campsite, rubbing up against the tree trunks and whispering against the nylon walls of his tent.

"Yes," Mulder agreed pleasantly, then turned back to his fire.

The spring was a little way down the trail past the shelter. He heard low voices, laughing sweetly. "Pam? Deidre?" he called from behind a narrow curve in the sandy footpath. "Is it OK to come share?" Hiker's courtesy demanded it, as well as prudence. There weren't a lot of opportunities for privacy on the trail and he had gotten and given some blushing eyefuls when the courtesies had been accidentally forgotten.

"Walt! Absolutely! We're decent," Pam's cultured British accent curled around him and urged him around the corner.

The two women sat on the bank of the tiny pool, feet dangling in the cool water. Both were in their mid-40's. Pam was light and quick and adventuresome. Deidre was quieter and less outgoing, although she was smiling now; Skinner knew that she had signed her divorce papers days before taking to the trail with her friend. They both trusted and liked him; the three had spent some long stormy days holed up in various shelters and had become fast trail friends. Skinner had even shared some gentle restorative kisses in the dark with Deidre; he remembered all too well the desolated feeling that had settled on him after his own divorce had been decreed. There had been no flash fires lit, only the gentle warmth of friendship and the companionship of food and fires in the night.

So he felt no shyness about stripping to his underwear and plunging into the waist deep water. He ducked, then came up with a shout. "Why the hell didn't you warn me it was this cold?" he groused as they giggled.

"Walt, it's a spring in the mountains of Maine in the autumn. What were you expecting -- bath water?" Pam asked reasonably. They continued to chat genially as he soaped and rinsed. The clean smell of peppermint mixed with the silver sweetness of fresh spring water and he found himself nearly drunk on the scent.

He was climbing out and reaching for his towel when Deidre asked, "What is that heavenly odor?"

They were all scenting the wind when he recognized it. Mulder.

"My friend caught up with me today. He brought steaks. And soap." He smiled at them as he toweled himself off. They politely turned their backs as he slipped into the dry and mostly clean pair of underwear he had pulled from his pack, then pulled his shorts back on. He shrugged into his new shirt and, when he emerged groping for his glasses, both women were staring at him. "I'll bring some down to you," he promised. The two had shared their bounty often enough. He wondered idly how many beers Mulder had brought and if he could sacrifice one to friendship.

"That is a good friend, Walt," Deidre said.

"No. That is a great friend," Pam corrected, looking pointedly at his fresh shirt. He grinned, pulled on his socks and stuck his feet back into his unlaced boots, then went clumping back up the path.

The shadows were lengthening as the sun set quickly up here in the north country. The campsite, tucked under the shelter of thick pines, was shadowed and would have been gloomy except for the homey sight of Mulder squatting on his heels, poking at four sizzling steaks. The clearing was filled with the sweet scent of cooking meat. Skinner paused to take it in, watching Mulder's long throat work as he took a drink from his beer bottle. Mulder looked up and waved him forward, handing him an opened bottle of Rolling Rock beer. Cold beer slid down his throat and condensation from the glass bottle wet his hand. The lunatic had actually packed beer and dry ice up here. Skinner shook his head in admiration, then dropped to sit beside him on the log, spreading out the towel to dry.

"Well?" Mulder asked.

"Shh. I am having a religious experience," Skinner said and closed his eyes, taking another deep swallow. Mulder's laugh, an unfamiliar sound, startled him. Well, neither of them had had much to laugh about in the past couple of years. His own laughter was still rare but had been coming back to him around campfires and across rude plank tables and standing beneath mountain-fed waterfalls.

He opened his eyes and smiled directly at his former agent. "Thank you," he said simply, meaning it. Skinner was surprised to see Mulder actually flushing -- or maybe it was an effect of the uncertain light in the clearing and the flickering of the flames. Mulder reached out and began fiddling with the steaks. There were long slices of potato grilling next to the meat. Heaven awaited. The lightweight and protein rich beans and legume stews Skinner had been eating had not fed the inner cave man; he was craving red meat like a junkie craving heroin. Then he remembered his promise.

"Do we have enough to share? My friends are down in the shelter...."

"It's your dinner, Walter. Give it to whoever you want."

"There're two of them," he said, watching the side of Mulder's face.

"Deidre and Pam? Yeah, I met them when they came past me this morning. They told me you were five or six hours behind them. They like you," he added, turning a steak.

"I like them." Then it hit Skinner. "You were waiting there for six hours?" The side of Mulder's mouth turned up and a tiny shadow deepened into a dimple beside it. "Today. Yesterday it was about eight hours. It was a little hard to estimate your hiking pace but the ranger at the last station in New Hampshire said you were going at a reasonable clip when he saw you last week. I figured I'd catch up with you somewhere around here." Skinner blinked, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Fox Mulder had gone to a lot of trouble just to track him down and then had waited for two days for him to appear.

"Why?" he asked again.

Mulder flipped two steaks off the grill and into the lid of his cook pot which he handed to Skinner. "Take those down to them before they get cold." Skinner clambered to his feet, conscious of some sore and tired muscles the beer seemed to have awakened. "There is one extra beer," Mulder said and handed it to him. "Get back soon, though. The rest of the food is almost ready."

Bemused, Skinner walked down the path to the shelter, where he heard his friends' soft voices and the hiss of their small Primus stove. They greeted his offering with shrieks and pressed a precious bar of Dutch chocolate on him in repayment. He refused their invitation for after-dinner hospitality absentmindedly, wanting to get back to Mulder. Smiling, he took back his empty pot lid and went back up the now dark path. Pam's voice drifted after him.

"I'm glad Walt has someone to care about him. And someone that...," she paused.

"Beautiful?" suggested Deidre.

Beautiful? Mulder?

"I would have said 'decorative'," Pam corrected. "But what I meant was that it's obvious how he feels about him. I wonder why Walt never mentioned it?"

"I don't think he knew," Deidre said slowly.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry. How thoughtless of me!" Skinner fled to the sound of Deidre's vigorous protests against the notion that she was lovesick over one Walter Skinner.

It was twilight now and fully dark under the trees. When he came back into the campsite, it was to the sight of Fox Mulder, motionless, staring into the fire. He was touched with gold and shadows, coiled energy momentarily at rest, and Skinner suddenly saw that he was beautiful. Thank you, Deidre, he thought distantly and moved quietly to sit beside Mulder.

Mulder handed Skinner a plastic plate heaped with grilled potatoes, a rare steak oozing juices and a torn off hunk of fresh Italian bread. He passed him a film canister of salt and a packet of steak sauce and a fresh beer. Loaded down with luxuries and new-found knowledge, Skinner said nothing and watched bright sparks dance upwards into the unknowable darkness.

They ate in companionable silence, staring into the fire and listening to night fall about them. Small animals moved in the darkness, night-hunting birds called above, the trees murmured gently against one another in the light breeze that was coming up. Skinner savored every bite, wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread, then washing that down happily with the last of his beer. Mulder had finished his food and put his plate aside. They sat side by side, watching the fire. Finally, knowing that Mulder would understand him very well, Skinner said, "Mulder. Why?"

Mulder took a deep breath; Skinner felt his arm move against his own.

"You left without saying goodbye," he said finally.

"So this is goodbye?" Skinner asked, feeling the night's chill creep across his back.

"No," Mulder said.

And, in the sudden silence, it was all very simple and right and good. A quiet happiness began bubbling up in him and he slid his arm behind Mulder's shoulders, pulling him close. "No," he agreed quietly and kissed Mulder's hair lightly. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"When was there ever a good time? When Scully got kidnapped? Or when you were arrested for murdering a hooker? Or the time I came back home to find you and Scully drawing beads on one another? Or while that cigarette-smoking bastard was sitting in your office? Or one of the numerous times either of us was in the hospital? "

"Point taken," Skinner smiled.

"Then the dust finally settles, I finally get my courage up, I get back and you've disappeared. Leaving a note. Bastard," he added without heat. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to track someone down when all you know is that he might be in one of 14 states?"

"Sorry," Skinner said. "I didn't know."

The younger man turned his head and touched his lips to Skinner's. That gentle touch sparked the wildfire that Skinner had always suspected lurked within. Suddenly, he couldn't get enough of Mulder -- the taste of his mouth, the feel of his tongue, the touch of his fingers tracing Skinner's jaw.

Dropping his mouth to Mulder's collar line, he inhaled deeply. God -- he smelled of sunlight and sweat and evergreens. Mulder trembled when he began lapping at that scent, tracing it across that long, strong throat. His fingers clutched at Skinner's shoulders and he squirmed once.

"Walter. Walter," his voice coaxed Skinner away from the curve of his ear and he raised his head with real regret. Seeing that he had finally gotten Skinner's attention, Mulder laughed shakily and said, "I'm about to fall off this log. Come on," he rose and tugged on one of Skinner's hands, leading him to the tent.

The firelight filtered into the tent and gave him enough light to slide in next to Mulder. Both sleeping bags were laid out side by side, sleeping pads underneath. The flick and whisper of skin moving on nylon was the only sound as they undressed one another. Then he saw Mulder's eyes gleaming at him, touched with the gold of the firelight streaming in through the open door of the tent and there was nothing left in him but gratitude and love and need.

There were no words. Their lovemaking was silent and gentle and there was a sense of rightness in the sacred silence between them. When the burning was done, they lay together, sweating and gasping, holding tight, sticking to the nylon of the sleeping bags beneath them. Skinner finally noticed that the skin under his stroking hand was pebbled with gooseflesh. "Come on, Fox. I'm afraid we're going to have to put some clothes back on."

Chuckling, Mulder sat up and started sorting through the clothing scattered around the tent. He pulled on his own t-shirt and shorts, handing Skinner his clothes before worming his way into his own sleeping bag. "We're going to have to get a double sleeping bag if you're going to keep up this fascination with the wild."

Pulling his shirt back over his head, Skinner stopped. "I have to finish this, Fox," he said quietly, pleading for understanding.

Mulder sat up suddenly. "I know! I meant, after we get home again."

Oh. Skinner slid into his own shorts then slipped into his own bag. He pulled Mulder over against his side and wrapped his arms around him, the nylon hissing and whispering between them. Not as satisfying as having Mulder naked against him, but it would have to do until... he did some rapid calculations in his head. Baxter Peak on Mt. Katahdin was the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail -- mile # 2,159, the end of five and a half months of quiet effort.

"We should reach Mt. Katahdin in about 6 days."

"Then I'll meet you at the trail head in 6 days."

"You're not coming with me?" Mulder shook his head, rubbing it across Skinner's chin in the golden darkness. "You started this alone, you'll finish it alone. But you won't be alone afterward. Ok?"

"Ok," he said happily and tightened his hold on the surprising man in his arms.

Outside, the night moved in busy silence around them and they lay together and listened to its whispers of futures and pasts and present peace.

end