SquidgeWorld Archive

Self-Potrait
by JiM

I am standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking down toward what I think is their houseboat and I'm wondering when the hell I became such a coward. This is the second time I have come here intending to talk to them, needing to explain, just wanting to see them again... and I know I won't be able to go down there today. I'll just stand here and stare. Maybe it's progress. Last time, I wasn't even able to get out of the car.

It's been two years since I saw them last; two years since I walked out of my old life and left it all behind, leaving as little trail as I could. Two years since the morning that Dana Scully came into my office, closed and locked the door behind her. While I stared at her, waiting for an explanation, she smiled softly, came straight up to me and kissed me. Christ, it was good. Better than any idle daydream I'd allowed myself and a hell of a lot better than that enthusiastic but clumsy liplock she'd hit me with a couple of years before when Mulder was doing laps in the Bermuda Triangle. This time, she meant it, and it was hot and sweet and so good and my arms were locked around her waist and shoulders and she fit perfectly against me and she wasn't letting go any time soon.

She finally let me go and drew back a few inches, a cat smile on her face. "Agent Scully...?" I started, then she frowned. I tried again. "Dana...?" She smiled again gently. I still remember that moment. The morning sunlight turned her hair to flame and her eyes to sky and I didn't remember my own name, let alone that I shouldn't be allowing this to happen. "What's going on?" I asked, daring to let my fingers touch her hair and brush a strand of it back behind her ear. Her scent was cinnamon and roses and I wanted to nuzzle behind her ear and in the hollow of her throat, to know how it changed as she was touched.

"Come to dinner tonight and we'll tell you." She slipped out of my arms and headed for the door.

We. It hit me hard. It was an open secret that she and Mulder lived together now. In deference to Bureau appearances, Mulder maintained his apartment, but we all knew where he spent his nights and with whom. While my brain was still chewing over the possible implications of that invitation, she left.

What Scully and I had just done was the worst kind of betrayal of someone I'd betrayed too many times already. I had no idea what she'd intended but I knew I couldn't hurt Mulder like that. Neither would Scully, that much I knew. So what was going on here?

But damn, it had felt good to be kissed with hunger again.

I was still torn between shaking my head and grinning stupidly when Mulder showed up with a pile of useless paperwork. I was terse with him, nearly snarling with embarrassment and an idiotic sense of guilt, positive that he would smell her scent on me. I didn't even notice when Mulder closed and locked the door behind him. So I was unprepared for the second time that morning that a subordinate walked into my office and kissed me.

I hadn't even allowed myself to wonder what it would be like with him, which was just as well, because I couldn't have imagined it. He was so good, strong and hot and as sweet as Dana, in his own way. Hard against me, one hand locked behind my neck and his scent was cool and green and it got all twined up with hers in my head. When he let me go and I got a look at those gleaming eyes, I knew that somehow, they had figured it out. They had figured out what I had only ever half-suspected.

"Mulder?" God, I sounded pitifully hoarse and nearly squeaked as he let his hands slide down my arms, pulling away slowly.

"Scully forgot to tell you, dinner's at seven." He grinned, a wicked, light-filled look. "Dress is casual."

I clutched at his shoulders. "Jesus, are you two serious about this?"

He nodded, a gentler expression on his face. "Very serious, Walter. If you want it."

"Why now?"

He shrugged, so elaborately casual that I knew he wasn't nearly as cool about this as he was playing it. Well, that was reassuring, at least. "Because it looks like we're finally out of the woods, that things are finally quieting down. Scully and I have been talking about this for a while now."

"How long?"

"Since before the hearings started." Six months before, the whole mess had broken and the investigative hearings had kept us all on edge, never knowing when the summons would come, never knowing what we'd be asked next, what secrets we would tell or hear. But justice was being served and some of the bastards were going to jail, others committing suicide or having unexplained accidents. The public was getting to know the truth and Mulder and Scully were redeemed in the eyes of the Bureau. I was more problematic, but my testimony had been as unflinchingly honest as I could make it and I knew I had scored some hits on Spender and his buddies at FEMA and the NSA. A sudden frown creased his features. "We weren't wrong, were we, sir?"

I shook my head. "No, you weren't wrong, Mulder. But," an unpleasant thought grated across my consciousness, "I'm not into one-night stands." There, it was out on the table. I might wind up cursing myself as I slept alone tonight, but I needed more than that from them.

He grinned suddenly and looked endearingly relieved. "Neither are we, Walter. Trust us. Just come to dinner tonight and we'll see what happens."

I licked my lip, still tasting him on it, imagining her again, the scent of roses and pine needles making me reckless and stupid and so happy. I nodded. "Seven o'clock." He smiled again and was gone.

Two hours later, I was being escorted out of the building by Security, carrying a box of personal possessions and minus my gun and badge.

It's taken me two more days before I got up the guts to come here again. That's if I'm being honest. What I've been telling myself is that I have been too busy meeting with my lawyer and working my way through the mountain of trivial paperwork she has saved for me over the years. My condo is still being rented out so I am staying at a Hilton in town. My room has a phone and I have their phone number -- Jane, my lawyer, got it for me. I called yesterday, then hung up when I heard Mulder's voice. Christ, I'm a coward.

I wonder what the hell I'm supposed to say to them.

That last morning left me nothing. Or did I abandon everything left after the final blow? I wonder now, as I stand on the gangway and stare at what I now realize is an empty houseboat. Why the hell did they move to a houseboat? But I know. It's exactly the kind of goofy, irrational home that would appeal to all of Mulder's warped sense of humor and even some of Scully's.

The FBI, in its infinitely fucked-up wisdom, decided that it needed a scapegoat. Someone prominent, but not crucial to operations. Someone who had been too damned honest and looked like he might continue that way, someone who knew where the bodies were buried and who had damned few allies left after the dust had settled. There I was, ready-made for sacrifice.

I sat there that last morning and listened to my former colleagues and friends as they hung me out to dry without even a decent show of regret. My official sin? My own admission about the deal I made with Spender, the theft and destruction of Jane Brody's body and all the evidence surrounding her death. I was lucky to escape prosecution, they said, and they were right. So, there I was -- fired, no pension, no future. Then they threw me to the wolves. My face was on the six o'clock news as the FBI's show of good faith that they were rooting out traitors and collaborators in their midst.

I walked out of the Hoover Building and down the street to a bar. I spent one hour staring at a glass of Johnnie Walker and thinking hard and fast. By two o'clock, I was in my attorney's office and by three o'clock, I had signed a pile of paperwork, including a power of attorney and handed her the spare keys to my condo. I went home, packed a bag and simply... left.

I went to my brother's in Delaware first. He had already heard the news and was bewildered but welcoming. That is, until the news crews showed up on the front step the next morning. I knew I couldn't put him and his family through that, so I left.

I left. I'm good at that. I'm doing it again. The oldster who lives on the next boat to Mulder and Scully passes me on the gangway and stares at me suspiciously, then tells me what I already know -- they're not there. I can't just leave a message, not this time. My cowardice hasn't sunk to that level.

I left a message for them, that last day. I can still hear myself making that last call from my cell phone before I dropped it on the kitchen table in my condo and left it behind. I knew they wouldn't be home yet.

Mulder. Scully. By now you've heard. I guess I should have expected something like this. It's the logical conclusion of some really bad decisions that I made a long time ago. I, uh, wish it could be different. Take care of yourselves. Goodbye.

Goodbye. I sit behind the wheel of my car and stare at that empty houseboat and wonder why I ever thought of coming back. They don't need me any more now than they did two years ago. Stupid. It's time to end this, Walter. I turn the key and drive away. I will not come back.

This time, I make it an entire week before I return. So here I am, sitting in my car and watching the rain fall. I have spent days thinking about what they will ask, what I will tell them, what I cannot. Some are easy: where have you been? Living in a boarding house in Keene, New Hampshire. What have you been doing? Working the closing shift as a bartender and part-time bouncer at a roadside bar called "Joe's." Why? Because Joe pays me cash, asks no questions and likes the fact that no money ever disappears out of the till on my shift. Why did you leave? No answer.

It's a little late to take the Fifth here, Wally, I tell myself. Wally. That's what Joe and the regulars called me. That's what everyone there called me, except for Karen. Karen, the librarian who had already read whatever books I was checking out on my day off. Karen, who always stopped by the bar on her way home and had a single gin and tonic, extra lime, and who had been going home alone every night since her husband had died five years before. Karen, who stayed behind one night to point out the Northern Lights shimmering and dancing above us at two in the morning, then kissed me in the parking lot and told me that I was dying from loneliness. Karen, who took me home, made love to me, held me tightly, then listened to me talk and who heard everything I didn't say.

The next morning, she had smiled sadly and told me it was time to go. "I'm not kicking you out of bed, Walter, don't misunderstand. I mean, it's time for you to leave Keene. Go home, Walter. There's someone waiting for you, isn't there?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do," she said, with the same look she used to give noisy kids in the reading room. "You can't hide up here forever."

"It's been working pretty well so far," I muttered. She merely frowned at me, then made me breakfast and never mentioned it again. But she had planted a seed and I think she knew it. She wasn't surprised one night in late March when I poured her a gin and tonic and told her it was my last night. She kissed my cheek gently, wished me well and walked out, leaving her drink untouched on the bar. That was two weeks ago.

So now, here I am, standing here like an idiot in the rain. The memory of her words has given me just enough courage to get all the way down here. They're home this time. I can see movement behind the half-drawn curtains. A flash of scarlet that looks like Dana's hair, something dark in the shape of Mulder's shoulder. I remember other times I have come to them, times when we have all held drawn weapons on each other. Why were there so many of those times? Yet, none of those times have I ever been frozen the way I am now. Maybe someone ought to point a gun at me -- it always seems to clear my thinking enormously. Before I can even grimace at the thought, Fox Mulder steps out onto the deck.

He sees me immediately and stops, moving no closer. I get the impression that he doesn't want to spook me and I am pathetically grateful. He stares at me, cataloging, searching, assessing. I want to squirm, but I don't. God, he looks good. Still lean, still tall, hair a little longer than before, maybe a little gray threading through the chestnut, a few more lines around his eyes. Those eyes seem so much clearer now, calmer, even as they dissect me. Then he says suddenly, softly, "Hey, the Prodigal G-Man returns. Are you coming aboard, Skinner, or do you just want to stand out there until you drown?"

Vintage Mulder. Somehow, he has found the perfect thing to say. "I wasn't sure I was welcome."

He blinks at me, rain running down his face and slicking down his hair.

"We've been waiting for you. You made it kind of hard to issue an invitation when you fucking disappeared for two years." He is snarling near the end and somehow, that convinces me more than anything that he is serious. Then Dana steps outside to see who Mulder is talking to.

She is still so beautiful, hair long enough to touch her shoulders now, still the color of flames. She looks at me for an instant but says nothing; after all, Mulder is the talkative one. She just runs across the deck, jumps down and I am holding her again. She still smells of cinnamon and roses and now of spring rain as I hold her close and she buries her face in my neck, whispering things I can barely hear but which batter away at whatever defenses I might have left.

Then Mulder is there and he is holding me and pulling my head down to rest between them and I have never been here but I am home and I know it when he whispers, "You stupid son of a bitch. What the hell did you think you were doing, taking off like that and leaving us a fucking message!?" His arm is tight around my ribs and she is holding onto me with both arms and saying "Walter," softly and I haven't wanted to cry like this since I was nine years old.

More rain falls and we're all drenched before Mulder tightens his grip, then releases me and Dana says practically, "Let's get you inside and into some dry clothes. You're soaked," blithely ignoring her own waterlogged condition. They each take one of my hands and tug me on deck and indoors, into warmth and light and music.

I'm not sure how they manage it, but I'm half-stripped before I even know what's happening. Mulder is rummaging in a closet across the room and Dana has my sweater and jeans draped over the back of a chair. I don't even have time to feel embarrassed as Mulder briskly towels my legs, kneeling before me. Hell. That sight makes it a bit harder to pull on the sweat pants he's holding out. He sees and grins but says nothing. He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down onto a stool. His hands are so hot on my chilled skin... then Dana takes another towel and begins gently rubbing at my head and chest. Mulder squeezes my shoulders once, then lets go and wanders into what must be their bedroom, stripping as he goes. I might regret missing that show if Dana weren't here, now, smiling down at me, then cradling my head to her breast as she strokes the towels down my back.

Rainwater drips off her hair and runs in little pearls down her white throat. I touch my lips to one and drink the rain from her skin. The little gasp she gives is too perfect for me to have ever imagined it and now I know this is real.

There is slow jazz playing and the scent of something savory and meaty in the air, mixing with the the scent of rain and Dana and the sound of rain on the river. My arms are around her slim waist and her hands are moving over me slowly, flickers of warmth on my chilled skin. She presses a kiss to the top of my head, then slowly moves away. Now Mulder is back and he touches her cheek gently as she passes him on her way to change her own wet clothes. He has changed into faded jeans and a purple polo shirt, and he holds out a black henley to me. I shrug into it, the warmth and softness so good after being cold for so long. Mulder is no longer before me and I turn my head at a slight sound behind me.

"Relax," he whispers just before warm hands close over my tight shoulders again. "You're safe here," and he begins rubbing gently. I have always been safe with Mulder. Even when he was taking a swing at me, or pointing a gun at me, I was strangely safe with him. He never wanted to destroy me, he just wanted the truth, wanted the pain and questions to stop. Now, that's all I want, too. His touch feels good, solid, anchoring.

"Fox...."

"Shh. We'll talk about it soon, Walter. Not just yet. Let's get some food into you first, then you can tell us what the hell you thought you were doing." His voice rises some at the last and his hands tighten and I know that I'm in for it. Fortunately, Dana comes to my rescue.

"Mulder. You can yell at him later. Come set the table." And I am released, breathing a sigh of relief even as I long for the touch of their hands again. But it is a wholly new pleasure to watch the two of them moving around the small galley area, weaving and turning, nearly dancing as they dish up bowls of beef stew and pour glasses of beer, lay out utensils. It is homely and comforting and I don't remember the last time I was a part of something like this. I didn't even know I missed it.

The food is good, hot and well-seasoned. We sit very close together at the tiny galley table bolted to the floor at the junction of two of the benches lining the cabin. Dana and Mulder chat at me, eyes gentle and assessing, not expecting me to speak, kindly filling up the silences with gossip and funny stories. Mulder keeps filling up my bowl, pressing thick slices of rye bread at me, and it suddenly seems peculiar that Fox Mulder should be coddling me. I am not a starvation case; I have only lost a few pounds since he knew me.

Then comes coffee and talk. Hours of it. They drag the whole damned story out of me. Now I remember how everyone used to talk about Mulder's skills as an interrogator and Scully's cool, impassive interview style. Always, we come back to the same damned question: why did I leave? There isn't a thing I can hide from them. I tell them about that sham of a review panel; they had seen my life splashed on all the major networks and newspapers. Pretty soon, I talk about about Joe and Keene and the quiet life I lived at the boarding house and how I coached the bar's softball team. Then, somehow, I am telling them about Karen and what she said to me. That's when Mulder really loses it.

He starts low but works his way up in volume pretty quickly. "You stupid son of a bitch. You always have to take everything on yourself, don't you? You fucking run away every time!"

"Mulder," Scully says gently, trying to deflect him but it does no good. I can't even be angry at his words; they are all true.

"I was trying to protect you two. The shit was hitting the fan and there wasn't a damned thing I could do to help myself and I didn't want to drag you down with me." There. The truth is out. I stare at my hands and trace a water ring on the table top.

There is silence for a moment, then Mulder says quietly, "Bullshit."

Part of me wants to shout at him; part of me wants to laugh. Busted. Mulder can always tell; I wonder idly why it should be that he can see through me when I have been able to hide from every other person I ever cared about. Dana doesn't see it yet, but she trusts Mulder's instincts even as she shoots a questioning glance at him. She takes my hand firmly and arches an eyebrow at me and they are both waiting for me to say something. The boat rocks gently on the rain-swollen river.

I don't know what to say. Fortunately, uncomfortable silences are never a problem around Mulder.

"You just ran. You may have been kidding yourself that you were protecting us, but you went to ground because of your own goddamned pride and you didn't give a damn what we felt about it!" He is shouting again and I can't even shake my head to deny his words. That just seems to piss him off even more and then he's got a hold of me and is dragging me to my feet. And now his mouth is moving over mine, grinding my lips against my own teeth as his tongue demands entry, breath hot around me, in me. The taste of him, that forest scent, the heat, even the bruising feels like something I've missed in secret for years.

He is letting me go and I am rocking on my feet when Dana says with gentle humor, although there is something wild and hungry straining in her eyes too, "I think we've got his attention, Mulder." She stands up and takes my hand again, then very slowly, very gently, so softly, she is pulling my head down to hers and her lips are moving over mine, tempering the pain and wild pleasure of Mulder's kiss with the sweetness of her own.

Then, somehow, the lights are out and they have stripped away my clothing and I am drowning in the taste of her beneath my tongue, the touch of him along my back. Their whispers rub up against me, finding all my tender places and all I can do is to say their names over and over as they reshape me in the dark.

I don't sleep that night, I just lie there and hold them in my arms and listen to their sleeping breath, their dream-murmurs, the half-awake words of love as they shift and hold me tighter before sinking into sleep again. I am as sick and fragile as I had been after the shooting, as if any chance movement might tear me open again.

They seem to know. When the morning comes, they are very quiet. They touch me often, caresses, kisses and hugs, those thousand touches that bind one person to another, but they say little. What is there left to say, really? They wanted me, I came to them, they have me. There are no more demands for talk, for explanations, for reasons that I do not know how to give. They bandage me in a gentle silence I had never expected from either of them. I sleep between them that night, knowing I am loved and not understanding why.

After a few days, I finally ask Mulder what I am supposed to do with the rest of my life. Actually, I am shouting. He starts it, when I come home and tell him I have found a bar-tending job in Alexandria. Finally, he tells me.

"We're going to write a book."

"That's your thing, Mulder, not mine."

"It will be," he says grinning.

Once again, Mulder is right. It is my thing. There is a fierce pleasure to writing down everything that happened, exactly as it happened to me, to exploring how it looked and felt and what it meant. We have some trouble accessing official files, but Mulder's hacker friends take care of most of that and there are still those left in the Bureau who want to see the truth come out, no matter the cost to careers or image.

Dana merely smiles and continues her consulting work for the Bureau, ignoring the snide comments as rumors fly. She also ignores the hostile looks and threats of legal action as our book comes to press and rapidly becomes a best-seller. The public never tires of hearing about how they are cheated and conspired against by their elected officials and servants. Dana resolutely refuses to accompany us on the promotional tours, although she insists on choosing Mulder's ties for him and I make certain he wears them on camera.

I am allowed to be alone, but never lonely. Three people can overwhelm a houseboat and yet we never seem to get in each other's way. They let me be silent, but they touch me all the time; even I cannot mistake myself for an outsider. Sometimes, I hear myself laugh and the sound surprises me with its freedom. Comparisons are the danger; the man I was cannot live here with Dana and Mulder, cannot feel them beneath his hands, taste them in the night, hold them in the rain. That man cannot laugh with them, so I am letting him go, in bits and pieces, as we write these books.

It's not what I planned. It is, however, exactly what they planned and I know it, although they never say. Instead, Dana smiles and says, "I love you, Walter, and want you to be happy." Mulder reads over my shoulder and says, "Adverbs are cheap, Walter, use them occasionally." But his hands on my shoulders tell me the same thing as Dana's smile.

It's not what I planned, but it will do.

 
end