Mulder had to fight not to roll his eyes. For this, Blue Eyes had just spent half a fucking lifetime in the kitchen. He took the proferred wine glass. His eyes, missing nothing, saw the slight tremor in the other man's hands. Fuck. He was having second thoughts; he must be. He considered Blue Eyes again. The guy had to know what the deal was, didn't he? Absently worrying his lower lip in between his teeth, he looked him over. Tall, broad-shouldered, in his mid-forties, pale blue eyes, dark hair. Completely acceptable. He'd had worse; worse had had him. But then, there was that tremor again.
"Is everything alright?" he asked and was pleased to hear himself, sincere, helpful and not at all like someone who was a step away from begging.
"I don't usually do this," Blue Eyes said.
Jesus wept. "Don't worry. I do."
He put his glass down and shifted closer to the other man who had taken up a careful position next to him on the couch. Sliding a hand between Blue Eyes' thighs, he squeezed. At least the guy was hard. He kept his eyes on him, stroking a finger lazily over his crotch and smiled as Blue Eyes groaned, leaning forward with his hips, pushing against Mulder's barely-there touch.
"Please me and I'll please you," Mulder whispered, his hand stroking with more purpose now. "It's so easy."
That seemed to be just enough of what Blue Eyes wanted. He was moving, pulling Mulder up with him into a standing position and kissing him. Mulder relaxed for the first kiss, cataloguing the strength in the arms wound around him and judging that it would do. He let Blue Eyes' tongue enter his mouth and endured the unwanted caution in its caress for a moment.
Then he whispered against his mouth, "Harder."
The hands moving up and down his back pressed into his flesh and Blue Eyes suddenly bit down hard. Mulder jerked his head in surprise, the familiar taste of rust flooding his mouth. It was enough to bring his flagging erection smartly to attention.
Blue Eyes drew away from him long enough to ask, "Do you want me to gag you?"
"No. That's not necessary."
What did he think this was, a lesson in consideration? Holding Blue Eyes' gaze, he slipped one hand into his pants pocket and brought out the small, sharp knife he kept in there. He ignored the chirpy voice inside his head that wanted to know what that fact - never mind about Special Passes to beat-me-bleed-me clubs - that fact said about him.
"You can use this. I don't scream."
Blue Eyes' hands stilled their roving caresses but he didn't say anything. Mulder smiled a shy smile, the one he saved for guys like these and held out his offering in his open palm. Blue Eyes looked at it a moment before his eyes turned back to Mulder.
Blue Eyes frowned. "You don't scream," he repeated.
All the work, his mind whined for a moment. It was always him doing all the work. He stifled the urge to sigh. Compliance, compliance - that was the key. It might not suit but it was the best way, the quickest way.
"Whatever you want," Mulder said. "Want me to scream, I'll scream. Just use it."
Blue Eyes ran a finger down his cheek softly before reaching for Mulder's outstretched hand. "This is going to be fun."
Mulder stood perfectly still, waiting for that first snick and the quiet, plush wetness that followed it. Blue Eyes wasn't smiling anymore and neither was he. His skin felt clammy; just standing there was making him sweat. Heat spread across his chest, gathering the blood under his skin and up towards the blade.
It was much later now and he passed over a glass of water and watched his guest try to hold it to his mouth.
"I cauh....cauh."
"What?," he asked, all tenderness now, playing the game. "What is it?"
Helplessly, the younger man gestured with his mouth to the cuffs holding his wrists together against the bedpost. He tried to speak again and had to break off as another coughing fit wracked his body. A thin thread of blood hung from his mouth when he finally stopped and he was shivering with exhaustion.
Solicitously he leant towards the tousled dark head, damp with sweat and asked, "Would you like some help drinking that?"
The gray-green eyes, now dark, moved behind their tightly shut lids, in response to his voice and he felt his heart swell until he thought it would rupture. For a moment he thought of all the people in the world, even at this moment, sitting down to a meal or some other mundane task, who would never know what it was to love someone this much. Examining his compassion, he found it to be a living, growing thing, large enough to encompass the universe, able to go beyond that inky divide that even light couldn't penetrate. He felt himself to be a god, an omnipotent being capable of any act of divinity. It felt wonderful.
He drew a little closer to the cuffed man, ignoring his ineffectual attempts to backpedal away from him. Working patiently, he disengaged the white-knuckled hand from the glass of water and held it to the split, puffy lips. Then drew it away again, feeling an incredible connection between the two of them, as the other man made a raw, gagging sound of despair. He was not very surprised to find a tear make its way down one of his own cheeks, unguarded.
"Look," he said softly, massaging away a phantom pain in his chest. "This is for you. Look."
Smiling, hesitant, his heart contorting painfully with the sheer weight of emotion, he wiped the tear off his face and held a glistening finger up to the other man's face. A faint whisper from the other man and he had to bend his head to hear him.
"Pleah...waugh."
He let him painfully rasp out the words a few times as he tried to swallow his irritation. This was a stubborn man. He had always known that, hadn't he? Well then. How could he expect him to look past himself and appreciate this new level of attachment they had reached, just like that? Never mind. There was still plenty of time for new lessons to take. It was a matter of incentive; that's what his father used to say.
"You want some water, don't you?"
A tightly distraught nod from his guest, his eyes flickering shut again, a muscle throbbing in the damaged face. He frowned, momentarily displeased with himself as his eyes lingered on the swollen jaw, marring the otherwise clean line of bone. He hadn't meant to do that. But he'd explained, after all. He knew the other man had understood him. He'd agreed, hadn't he, when he'd told him that his temper sometimes undid him? Yes, he had. He'd agreed. He felt the burgeoning anxiety inside him fade away. Everything was perfect once more. It had to be. The security of the ritual they'd learnt together over the past few hours was still welcome. He knew it would help them both regain their equilibrium. Old lessons before the new.
"Tell me your name and I'll help you with the water," he said engagingly.
There was no response. He hadn't expected any though. The other man knew better than to give in so easily. Punishment was a necessity that was attached to every deviation from the script. They both knew that. Slowly, languorously, he cupped one battered cheek, squeezing it before pushing inwards with his thumb until he felt something shift under his touch. Right on cue, a thin scream of pain issued from his guest, fraying what was left of his used up voice.
"Good, very good," he all but purred, feeling appallingly exposed at displaying such ready approval in front of this man who had stolen his heart from the very beginning. But he had nothing to fear. As he had known it would be, his bravery was rewarded manifold in the next instant.
"Muh....muh....."
Silent sobs were wracking the body in front of him, as his lover tried to form the words that would release them both. He was sure he could feel his very soul come alive, freeing him. A monster. Could a monster have a soul? A soul that was even now threatening to engulf the very body that housed it? He felt it expanding inside him, filling him with the emotions of a lifetime. Emotions denied to him. It was a kind of rapture he knew so reprehensively little of, a secret bliss that only this man here could provide.
He began to stroke the heaving chest in front of him, letting encouragement fall unheeded from his lips. "Yes, yes, that's it. Come on now. You can tell me. You can tell me your name, can't you? You know I can't give you any water until you tell me. You want to tell me, don't you?"
Another harsh sob and then the lips moved in a grotesque imitation of speech and he could finally make out the word being repeated over and over again, "Muhduh...MUH-duh... muhduh...."
Overjoyed, he pulled his lover up into a clumsy hug. Everything was perfect, everything.
He whispered the words he had been keeping at bay, bottled up inside him for so long. "I love you, Mulder. I always will. Not much more now. You'll see."
Mulder didn't respond but that was okay. He knew he had been heard. Mulder loved him too. He had given him his name, hadn't he? And he would show him just how much when he accepted his reward. He got up abruptly then, letting him sag back down against the bedpost.
"I'll be back, Fox. Don't worry, baby. I'm going to get your reward now."
This time Mulder responded but not in the manner he had expected him to. Throwing off some of his apathy and finding some remnant of his voice from somewhere, the younger man began to plead feverishly, mouthing nonsense phrases. He was overwhelmed by Mulder's earnestness, his willingness to give. Such a gift. This man knew, really knew, how to please. He was putting on the show of his life. But then, they both were.
He put out a possessive hand and caressed his lover's raw and bloody back, tracing a fascinated path through some of the deepest of the uneven welts scoring the pale flesh. His lover. He smiled and ignoring Mulder's attempts to flinch away from his touch, carefully removed the cuffs, trying to avoid tearing more of the bloodied flesh at his wrists. With not a little pride, he noted that the deceptively slender body still had enough strength to move itself onto the bed, before collapsing. He hurried to the kitchen and returned as fast as he could, not wanting to miss a moment of their time together.
He stopped short at the sight that greeted him on his return. He couldn't breathe for the rage that was coalescing in his heart, the very heart that had opened up to Mulder, welcomed him in. The man was struggling towards the door, holding onto the wall for support. A suspicion almost too awful to put into words, began to grip him. In five short, choppy strides he was by his side, angrily dragging him back to the bed.
"Why are you doing this? I love you. Why are you doing this to us?"
He shook the near-unconscious body until he could feel his own shirt begin to bunch and strain against his shoulders. Mulder refused to speak, the delicate skin around his mouth and nose turning a patchy, pale color. The awful suspicion seemed almost deranged to him now but it was pressing into his chest, bearing down on his ribcage, demanding egress. The euphoria of just moments ago was gone, wiped from his experience as though it had never been his to have in the first place.
He drew in a shuddering breath and said fearfully, "You're not Mulder. Who are you? Who are you?"
Abruptly, terribly, no sooner than he had given voice to it, memory flooded into him, sucking the air from his lungs and he recognized the unresponsive body under him. He couldn't remember his name but the events of the last few days came back to him now in a rush of clarity. He remembered how he had found him, assessed the green eyes, the lean body, the dark hair and taken him in. He had run away from home and had only been on the streets a few frightened days; fresh.
Even now, though despair tore at him at the thought of having to start all over again, he saw how easy this one had been. There had been some small victories, even if it was ruined now. All it had taken was a cup of coffee, some hot food and a few broken lies about the tragic death of a son he'd never had and whom the kid reminded him of. After that, it was a few days of rest, food fit for a gourmand and the run of the house. When it happened, he had caught the kid off-guard and unprepared for him. He had stored him, as he did with all of them, making sure he had one in hand, one that he could turn to in the cold hours after he had just lost one of them to the game.
It was always nice to come home to a warm body, especially if it was to sample it for the first time. It was a shame that nearly every one of them so far, had to be tied up after that first time. He knew that his Real Mulder would have much more spirit than these imperfect imitations. Still, after some experimentation, he had come to realize that having spent a few days, bound and fucked and bled, these Mulders were that much more docile when it came to the surgery. So it wasn't all lost effort.
After that, they were pretty much sedated the whole time. He frowned, vexed at the problem that always confronted him at that stage. He would have liked a lot more responsiveness from them but the drugs were the only way to set them 'free' for a little while. With the last few, he had even managed to elicit a kind of rote exhibition, just to add to the illusion that it was Mulder he had, finally and irrevocably his. A little more than an illusion, son, wasn't it? Just for a moment there I thought you went and lost your marbles all over a---
"SHUT UP! SHut--" He realized he was shouting and stopped abruptly. No point in taking chances, soundproof room or not.
When he spoke again, his voice was flat but quiet. "You got your rocks off, anyway, didn't you? Don't hear you complaining about that, Dad."
He waited a minute but the voice was gone. Goddamn bastard, that shut him up alright. He went back to simpler, more pleasurable thoughts. Thoughts of how good it felt when he had picked up his next acquisition, his next Mulder. The charge that he got from knowing his next Mulder-to-be was in his house, sleeping between his sheets, showering with his soap and eating from his fridge, was always so rewarding, so intense. He had been able to get hard every night the past week, lying next to this Mulder-to-be, separated only by a thin wall, listening to him breathe.
The guy moaned then, prelude to another bloody fit of coughing. He chuckled fondly. Oh this one had spirit, he did. He had lasted longer than he had been expected to. No one could be Mulder really, that went without saying. But this guy reminded him of the agent in some ways. And there was no faulting that ass, that was for sure. If Mulder's ass was anything as fine as this man's, - and it would be, of course it would be, Mulder was perfect - well, goddamn. He felt himself getting hard again and wandered over to the guy and squatted down beside his body. He poked a finger at his side.
"Hey! Hey, Einstein - you awake?"
Another moan and tears still spilling, making the man look even younger than he was. He slapped his ass in approval, pleased even though his hand came away bloody. Good, he was still responding. The blood wasn't that big a deal. It would wash off and he had scotchguarded the carpet, anyway.
He spoke carefully, so he would be understood. "Good, good. Don't go anywhere, will ya?" He grinned, unoffended when the man did no more than moan. "You're a whiny little shit, you know that?"
Amazingly the man tried for words again. He had to hand it to him; his eyes were having trouble focussing, he was coughing blood and snot but he was persistent, no question. He kept asking for his mother.
Feeling mischievous, he faked bewilderment for a while, earnestly egging the other man on. "What? I don't know what you're saying, guy. LOUDER. All that time your dad was beating on you, he didn't teach you how to speak clearly? Sheesh, man."
A particularly bad bout of coughing eventually ended his teasing. He ruffled the man's wet scalp. "Alright, alright. Just fucking with you, guy. Well- not literally. But tell you what, it's your lucky day, it really is. You've been such good company, you know? You get me right in the mood. Just stay right there."
His bleak mood had lifted as easily as it had descended upon him and now he was excited - like a kid, he thought, amused at himself - at the thought of the journey they had yet to finish. He got up nimbly and went into the kitchen to retrieve the knife he was using tonight, frowning when he saw the dull red coating on the blade. He really had to be more careful to wash it off, immediately after use. It was expensive; all his knives were expensive. After some hesitation, he got the brandy from the wall cabinet. Even though he was eager to get to the next Mulder, he wanted to make this old one last, a little.
Every lesson had to be learnt. Every consequence had to be borne. The guy shouldn't have tried to get out. It had ruined everything. He was supposed to be playing Mulder's part. The real Mulder would have never even thought about leaving. He felt the knife losing its weight, blending into his hand until it was like an old, familiar extension of it. He went back to the bed and looked deep into the dark, wide-open eyes, now flat and dulling fast. He delivered a hard slap to the side of the guy's head.
"Hey kid! Don't you die on me yet, you hear? I'm not one of those perverts who get off on fucking dead bodies. Gimme a break here for chrissakes."
As he began to apply himself to his work, humming lightly under his breath, he couldn't help wondering where Mulder was, right at that very moment.
Skinner cursed as the coffee maker suddenly cut out and stopped in mid-boil. He strode over to it, snapped the circuit breaker back into place and started the machine boiling again. It lasted precisely another minute before sounding a despairing rattle and coming to a halt again. He stared down at the gently hissing lid, resisting the urge to throw it into the garbage, or for that matter, against the far wall. He could probably fix it another day. Right now, he couldn't be trusted to glue his own fingers together. Feeling unreasonably savage, he banged his empty mug back down on the counter and opened the refrigerator instead. Dropping down to his haunches, he pushed a tired bunch of celery out of his way and, with some dexterity, finally managed to pull the six-pack of beer towards the front of the compartment. He had already liberated a can and popped the tab before he got back to his feet and it wasn't until he was in grateful mid-swallow that he wondered with a black, grim amazement, what in the hell he was doing drinking beer.
Anger and dread settled like stones in his stomach, weighing him down in equal measures. He moved away from the kitchen bench he was leaning against and went into the living room, resolutely keeping his overeager eyes away from the perfectly adequate and unopened bottle of whiskey standing on the sideboard. The picture postcard view mocked him from beyond the open windows. A star filled night sky yawned over the horizon, giving a panoramic view of the moon and bathing the driveway in a ghostly luminescence. The scene was saved from its eeriness by the yellowing warmth of the old style lamp posts, spaced along the gravel path at comfortable intervals. Instead of turning the lights on, he let the darkness draw him in and sat on one of the couches facing the street, his harsh swallows of beer the only sound in the room. When he finished that one, he got up and got himself another, moving with hard-won grace through the shadowed hallway. Only when he was part of the way through the second, his tongue nearly acclimatized to its bitterness, did he allow himself to think his bleak thoughts. Even then he remained vigilant, not allowing himself the extravagance of taking any one thought to its natural conclusion.
What he wanted was to see Mulder coming up that driveway. Limping, walking, running, crawling - he didn't care. Just so long as he was in one piece. After that, he didn't know what else he wanted. A crack at a showdown amongst other things, he admitted, rancorous at the thought that he was too old for these things. Well, if he was too old for it, where did that leave Mulder? Hardly a spring chicken, no matter what sleight of hand feats he managed with his goddamn porn collection. Maybe he was just drunk somewhere, he thought in a mildly alcoholic burst of optimism. Maybe he had just passed out in some bar and even now, some Samaritan was calling him a cab.
He would still kick his ass to the other side of the world and back until Mulder forgot how to talk. No doubt about that. He felt the promise of that thought ease some of the tightness from his jaw. No doubt about that, at all. But maybe the worst was still just no more than an echo of his own prejudiced imagination. Maybe, maybe. Maybe not. Skinner grimaced in annoyance and looked at his watch again. Guessing games were not his forte and neither was waiting. He sighed, trying once more without success to quell the dull anger that had been his constant companion since 9:00 pm when he had finally given up expecting Mulder to walk through the door with an armful of excuses.
His mind, in a rare moment of cooperation, took him back to his conversation with Scully. It seemed almost surreal now that he had thought he dreaded that meeting. This was dread. This nameless, gibbering monkey on his back, this impotence filling his veins like toxin; this was dread. He wondered now if he had done the right thing. The temptation to share the burden with someone who knew Mulder better than he did, was nearly overwhelming. In the end, he had settled on half-truths and omissions, a language they were both familiar with.
He had spotted her easily, her head a flare of color in the dim bar, like a match struck in the dark. She had let him come over to her, her cool expression managing to radiate both irritation and concern. They had managed to waste a good few minutes, fussing like first-timers over choice of drinks and seating arrangements, until Scully had, with her usual scorn of intrigue, bluntly forced the issue.
"Sir, what's going on with Mulder? Why are you working on the investigation with him? Why isn't there a taskforce set up?"
Repressing the urge to place a sheltering hand over his crotch, Skinner had settled his expression into something that felt a fraction more open than his usual fare. He had hoped it looked that way too. It was important to him that Scully understand that this was a favor being asked of her, as his equal, beyond the yoke of rank and uniform.
"There's only so much I can tell you, Agent Scully. Before you get wound up over that, understand this. Anything I tell you is more than what I should be telling you. You got that?"
He had stolen a cautious glance at her Mona Lisa face then, and had been gifted a delicately arched eyebrow for his trouble, a slight softening of the fine lines around her mouth. A small reprisal and one he had been both grateful and sorry to have received, knowing he couldn't return the favor.
"What can you tell me, Sir?"
As queries went, it was polite enough, but Skinner had heard the steel behind it and hadn't been fooled. He had told her every scrap of information he had about the killings, trying all the while to catalogue the minute changes of expression chasing each other across her face. There was some slight distaste at the details at first, the human being displacing the doctor for an instant, replaced by a professional interest and a telling lack of surprise at the news that the dead men had been surgically altered to resemble Mulder. She had obviously had her ears to the ground. He acquitted Mulder of sharing the information. This was one case where Scully's presence was not welcome, if Mulder had anything to say about it. Well, he didn't. Skinner had known from the moment they'd begun this conversation that Scully was necessary, possibly even vital to the investigation. Now he had neither room nor will left over for doubt. Mulder would just have to learn to live with that.
All the while his thoughts had stayed with Mulder, he had talked to Scully, pausing only when he ran out of words. She had frowned down into her empty glass, turning it in her hands, making small, concentric, overlapping shapes on her napkin. Leaving him to turn in the wind, Skinner ruefully realized, and bore it with a patience that came from years of catching flies. After a while, she had raised her head and turned her gaze thoughtfully on Skinner, a simple, graceful movement that couldn't hide the growing ire in her eyes.
When she spoke, her voice was low and clear, using the least number of words possible to make her priorities clear. "How is Mulder handling it, Sir?"
Skinner had wanted then to tell her that he cared too. That he wasn't the one out there helping the world fuck Mulder over. That he wasn't the bad guy here. Except that he probably was. Why else hadn't he any reassurances to give her? Mulder wasn't handling anything at all. Mulder had just stormed off into the sunset, making it clear he didn't know his head from his ass. His jaw had tightened at that, with the remorseful thought that he, Skinner, had had a hand to play in that little debacle, however unwarranted Mulder's reaction had been. There was nothing to be done but tell her as much of the truth as he could.
"He's finding it very difficult to cope, Agent Scully. Frankly, I think it was a very bad idea to have the two of you split up for the duration of this investigation. That's something I'm going to see reversed, hopefully by some time tomorrow."
"That's the way it should have been to begin with, Sir."
A firm refusal to let him off the hook. He still found it amusing how similar Scully and Mulder were and how aghast they would be that anyone could even contemplate such an unholy thought.
He had inclined his head with what he thought was appropriate grace and then continued smoothly, trying to press home the deal. "True, Agent Scully, but that's not what I arranged to meet you here for. It's my right to take you off an investigation or put you back onto it if that's what I think is best. I don't need your permission for that. "
Scully's clear, reproachful gaze had faltered then and he had felt uncharitably pleased for a moment. 'Ware, this old bear still bites.
"What I did ask you here to discuss though, was Agent Mulder. He needs you right now. "
She had chosen the option he had secretly hoped against. To keep her own counsel. For a few, long minutes she had refused to say anything. How could a mouth that expressive be silent anyway? She was going to sweat it out of him, if he wasn't careful. Mulder and her. She and Mulder. Pains in the asses, the both of them. Bright, stubborn lights, and instead of showing a man where the rocks were, like they were goddamned supposed to be doing, more often than not, they just winked out once the ship got closer to shore. Find your own way home, sailor. You're smart enough to hold your own hand now. Only he didn't feel smart or bright or lucky or anything of the sort. He wanted a large drink and some time off. Time off from this. Time away to sweat without having to look like he wasn't.
When she spoke, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Shocking. Vintage Scully, damn her. "What is it that you want me to do, Sir?"
Now what kind of question is that, Agent Scully? He was interested to note that he still fooled her enough to warrant being treated to a display of Agent Unsure Scully, Agent Sucker Scully. Reel me in, do, is what her clear eyes said to him, slightly wider than they needed to be in the dimly lit place. Only one sucker here, is what her straight, firm mouth was saying and he tended to believe that it was that which bore watching. But like the man said, nothing venture, nothing gain.
"I want you to talk to him, drag him out of himself a little, Scully. He'll do that for you. He does that for you even when he's so lost he doesn't even know his own name."
Christ. What it cost him to speak to her this way. It was one thing to have tacit understandings and speaking glances. It was entering into a different realm altogether to blithely pretend they had always said these things aloud. But he trusted her to know her lines. She would help him sustain the fiction; and she did. They had talked of Mulder, frankly and brutally, and for him, they had acted as if they had always done so. He had let his face show her then, the deeper truth, a truth which even Mulder could not be trusted with. It had been an even bigger risk to take than the one just transacted. No professional odds player would have recommended it. But he was tired of lies and frightened for Mulder. If one hadn't propelled him to that point, the other would have.
From the shrinking of her pupils to pinpoints and the shock etched into her suddenly naked face, he knew that she had understood him. Skinner had waited tensely to see what the next play would be and in another corner of his mind, bemoaned a life that when stretched from end to end, was no more than the exchange of one set of strategies for another, one set of rules for the next or the one just gone by.
Then Scully had driven the despondency right out of his mind with her next declaration, spoken from behind shut teeth. "I love him too, Sir."
He had had to admire her in that moment as she took the wind right out of his sails. Not giving an inch, she had absorbed his underhanded methods of compromise and made it clear that this was a conspiracy of equals. It was the same brand of compassion that Mulder practised and which, Skinner was beginning to appreciate, he was more often than not, subjected to.
"What kind of trouble is he in, Sir?"
"I can't tell you that, Agent Scully. I'm sorry."
"Then how am I supposed to help? What am I supposed to do?"
He had looked away then, nursing his own sorrow, before saying gently, "He doesn't want either of us to know."
She had snapped back, frustration driving the color high into her cheekbones. "Then how did you find out?"
He had said nothing and simply looked at her for a moment.
She had flinched then and said quietly with real feeling, "I'm sorry."
In the end, they had run out of novel ways to talk about Mulder so as to avoid an accidental betrayal of confidences or insights granted to one but not the other. But decisions had been made and bargains entered into. Scully had agreed to watch over Mulder with him, exercising a choice that she had never really had and Skinner for his part, had promised to try and cajole Mulder into speaking frankly with her. They had sat there a while longer and awkwardly shared another drink, feeling the kamikaze pull of their resolutions drawing them closer together.
When they had finally parted company, Skinner had felt a kind of rightness infect his world, a world that he hadn't even thought of as his own in a very long time. He had arrived home, buoyed by the conviction that the worst of this investigation would still see Mulder with a buffer in the form of Scully. It had taken him some time to realize that Mulder wasn't home but at that time he hadn't had much difficulty in shrugging off the faint uneasiness that had touched him. Now he sat, loose-legged and bellicose, drinking beer in the dark, unequal to the complexities of the spoken word. Now he could only sit and wait, an army all of his own, waiting for the war to come to him.
Turning his head, Mulder opened his eyes to look at the window. His mouth was trembling; he could feel it. He stared blindly at the play of moonlight as it stole through the curtains, leaving their dappled patterns on the rumpled bed covers. What a waste of a night, he thought dispassionately. He hadn't even come. Useless, fucking asshole had started crying. It was Mulder who had been getting hit, for fuck's sake. Always the same with these macho jerks. Soft as shit when you got them all alone in a bedroom. Disgusted, he stepped over the still softly sobbing man and looked around for his clothes. Only when he saw them in a hopeful trail around the living room did he allow himself the brief luxury of a frustrated kick at the couch.
Before the panic could set in, he clamped down hard on the urge to give further vent to his feelings. There was nothing more he could do. Best to put himself together and see if he could get himself a cab home. He paused for a moment, looked back into the bedroom and then went over to the man. The pale blue eyes were filled with revulsion, directed, Mulder recognized, at both of them.
He bent his split and puffy mouth to the man's ear and whispered regretfully, "You were awful. You really were." Gently he ran a hand over the still damp, sweat-soaked hair and left before the fresh series of sobs could begin to irritate him.
It seemed to take forever for the cab to pull up at the address that was still so new to him that he had to take it around with him, carefully printed out on the back of a bookmark. Feeling bones grinding against each other in every place from his jaw to his kneecaps, he limped up the driveway, slowly. Even that small incline sent cramping flares through his legs, birthing a blazing pain that threatened to stop him from breathing. He stopped for a moment, gasping harshly, the sound, unnaturally loud in the quiet night. Then he started again, and in this way, made it all the way up the drive. As he neared the front door, he felt a familiar sensation prickle the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. His heart in his mouth, wild thoughts of knife wielding maniacs piling up behind his throat, he looked up at the shadowy shape a few yards away. Skinner was standing in the doorway, his face expressionless, as he watched Mulder struggle up towards him.
END OF PART 5
