Broken
Date: March 12th, 2000
Author: Jvantheterrible
Rating: NC-17 - Sk/M
Disclaimer: Characters belong to CC and Co. Story belongs to me and my
readers...all two of you. LMAO.
Summary: Skinner’s finally had enough of Mulder’s antics in and out of the
office.
Feedback: Welcomed to Rllnslvr@aol.com OR Jvantheterrible@yahoo.com
Flames? No thank you. The lyrics are Trent Reznor’s (Nine Inch Nails), and
the album is, in fact, Broken. For all of you NIN fans out there, if there
are any reading, you’ll notice there’s also an album called Fixed. Hmmm.....I
smell a sequel <g>. Also...I replaced a word in the lyrics...b/c Mulder isn’t
a real spiritual guy.........religiously speaking. Ok, in MY opinion. That’s
all.
*******************************************************
This is the first day of my last days
I built it up, now I take it apart
Climbed up real high, now fall down real far
No need for me to stay
The last thing left - I just threw it away
I put my faith in love and my trust in you
Now there’s nothing more fucked up I could do
Wish there was something real
Wish there was something true
Wish there was something real
In this world full of you..........
I had to ream Mulder’s ass again today. I have no idea why he insists on
ditching his partner on a seemingly regular basis, but both Scully and I are
sick of it. Scully hates it because it hinders her part of the investigation
(not to mention the unprofessionalism), and I hate it because I worry about
the son of a bitch when he’s out there with no backup.
The other thing that Mulder’s actions cause is a rift in what would be a
perfectly enjoyable evening together. For months we go along just fine, able
to leave work at the office and come home to relax together. Then he gets a
wild hair up his ass, and all hell breaks loose in both places; he’s never
taken criticism well, and he takes my tirades to heart in the worst way.
‘It’s too personal coming from you’, he tells me. I tell him that he knows I
have to do my job, no matter how I feel about him on a personal level. Most
days he remembers that. But I don’t think he remembered that today.
I’m dreading going home, because today was one hell of a screw-up on his
part. He could’ve gotten himself killed this time, narrowly avoiding doing
just that when he took off after receiving a call this morning from another
anonymous informant, asking to meet with him at some warehouse in the middle
of nowhere. If Fox hadn’t been late for that meeting, he would’ve been blown
to fucking pieces when the place went up, which it did just as he was getting
out of his car. He still needed to go to the hospital and have some bits of
glass removed from his arms and the back of his head - didn’t drop and roll
quite fast enough. Not to mention the complete and total loss of yet another
FBI vehicle, thanks to Agent Fox William Mulder. The DD already has a healthy
amount of disdain for me where the X-Files Department is concerned, and this
episode has done very little to endear myself to him further.
So finally, here I am at six o’clock on Friday night. I should be ecstatic to
go home and unwind, but instead, I’m getting more wound up. Dammit. Damn Fox
Mulder. Luckily, he’s been out of the office since our meeting after he was
released from the hospital, so I’ve had a chance to calm down a bit. I
imagine he’s home and a couple screwdrivers into the evening by this time.
Just what I need; a drunk and emotional Fox to go home to. I’ve put it off
long enough - I grab my coat and my briefcase and head for the elevators,
trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him when I get home. Worse yet,
trying to imagine what he’s going to have to say to me.
(Insert one hour phone call w/amokeh here, hence our new .wav file upon
loading main page of site. ---Jvantheterrible.)
**********************************************
Well, I was right about the screwdrivers, anyway. Mulder’s propped up on the
couch, his bare feet on the coffee table when I walk in. He makes no effort
to get up or speak as I hang up my trenchcoat. His head is bandaged around
the back; they had to shave some of his hair off to get to the glass
fragments, and his arms are also wrapped up from wrist to just above the
elbows. He’s wearing sweats and an FBI-issue t-shirt, and judging from his
voice when he finally does manage to slur a half-assed hello at me, I’d say
he’s about two (tall, I notice) drinks deep; just what I was looking forward
to. He doesn’t look at me, only continues to channel surf so fast that
there’s no way he’s seeing anything at all, so I head upstairs to shower and
change. It feels good to sluice the day’s stress off of my skin; I only wish
that I could do the same to my heart. That is going to take a bit more work,
I’m afraid. Jeans and a tee-shirt feel heavenly after today, the carpet
beneath my bare feet almost a caress in comparison to my dress shoes. I take
a deep breath and head downstairs, preparing to deal with my other half.
"How are you feeling, Mulder?" I ask him, trying immensely hard not to growl.
He just glares at me, and answers with a curt, "Fine," putting an end to that
discussion pretty quickly. I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out at him;
what I really want to do is grab him by the shoulders and shake him and ask
him why he has to be such an inconsiderate asshole, ask him why he has to
worry Scully and I to death over his behavior sometimes, ask him what he was
thinking. I don’t do any of those things, instead being my ever polite and
tolerant self as I ask him, "Are you hungry? I could fix you something to
eat," and I pause, waiting for a response. He shakes his head at me and turns
his gaze back to the television. I sigh audibly and head into the kitchen to
fix dinner for one. No sense in making enough for two; when he’s like this,
he won’t eat, and I’m hardly about to force him after our day.
I stay in the kitchen while I eat, stealing glances into the living room
every so often to watch him. He’s upset, and I don’t think the alcohol is
going to be much comfort to him. Of course, neither am I. I shake my head at
that thought and finish up my sandwich. I go out to the bar and pour myself a
couple fingers of scotch, preparing to join him on the couch, and he makes a
production of scooting as far away from me as he can when I sit down. My jaw
is clenching already, and I fight that urge to shake him once again, instead
taking a long drink of the amber liquid, closing my eyes and relishing the
feeling as it burns down my throat. Mmmm, this is good shit.
"Mulder," I start, and I can see his eyes roll at me as I turn to face him,
"Mulder, do you want to talk about it?" Whew, got out a whole sentence; I’m
on a roll now.
"No, Walter, I do not want to talk about it." He crosses his bandaged arms
across his chest in defiance, as if that will silence me. Sorry Fox, no such
luck for you tonight, you selfish bastard. If I weren’t so pissed off at him,
I would feel badly about thinking that way of him; but I am that pissed, and
he’s lucky I don’t voice my opinion. He knows I’m upset, and he’s doing
everything he can to push my buttons; the attitude, the ignoring, the stance
he’s assuming. He knows how to do it, too; he’s a pro. Usually I can forget
about it, but not this time. As lucky as I am to have him here with me, he
came too goddamned close today to not being ANYwhere anymore, and I’m going
to tell him about it if it’s the last thing I do or say.
"Fox, I really think that we should -" he cuts me off, and I prepare to let
him have his say as he stands up and begins to pace around the room.
"Look. I hate it when you call me that when we’re arguing," he grumbles.
"Call you what - Fox? That IS your name. And I didn’t know we were arguing,"
I finish calmly. So far, so good.
"Goddammit Walter, stop being obtuse! You know goddamned well that I’m pissed
off at you. How in the hell could I not be after your behavior today?" He
stops pacing and puts his hands on his hips, glaring at me.
"MY behavior?" I give him a sharp laugh as I say it, and his eyes darken even
more, "You have some fucking nerve, Mulder. YOU’RE the one that nearly got
killed today, not me. My only crime is giving a shit about you, which I do,
immensely," I finish softly, my voice even, and I’m trying not to shake with
the anger that his last comment dredged up. Stay cool, Walter, this is only
the beginning, I think to myself. Ironically enough, Robert Frost’s ‘Miles to
Go Before I Sleep’ pops into my head. Christ, isn’t that the truth.
"You didn’t have to issue a censure, Walter. For fuck’s sake, I was following
a lead," he yells.
"You ditched your partner AGAIN," I tell him, my voice stern, teeth clenching
against my will, "AND, you were almost blown to fucking smithereens in the
process. Not to mention going through unofficial channels, as usual, AND
destroying another vehicle," I tell him, making him squirm a little where he
stands. He doesn’t back down, though. If anything, this makes him even more
upset. Sometimes the truth does hurt, I think to myself, and I bite the words
off before they can come out.
"You’re such a fucking martyr, aren’t you, Skinner?" He spits out, and I feel
a knife go through my heart; he never calls me that. I shake my head at him
and toss back the rest of my scotch. I think a few more fingers are in order
at this point. I get up to retrieve the bottle, and Mulder storms over to me
and gets in my face; yes, he’s definitely had a few drinks this afternoon. I
hope they didn’t give him pain pills for his injuries; Jesus, here we are
arguing and all I give a shit about is his well-being. If I didn’t care so
much, I’d have knocked him flat by now. Maybe it would knock some sense into
him if I did......
"Mulder, you’re drunk," I tell him dully, and I grab the bottle and head back
towards the couch. Fox steps in front of me and blocks my path, trying to get
me worked up. I won’t let him do it to me - I can’t. He needs me, I know he
does, and I just can’t give into his ravings. "What is it, Fox? What do you
want from me?" I ask him, exasperated, and I try to go around him but he
grabs my wrist, the one holding the empty glass, and pulls me towards him a
step to stand before him, nose to nose.
"I want you to treat me like I matter," he says drunkenly, and I turn my head
away from him. He releases my wrist and grabs my face in his hands, forcing
me to look back at him, pissing me off monumentally, "I want you to treat me
like I’m an equal in this relationship, you surly bastard," he sneers, and I
pull away from him forcefully. I turn back to the bar and set my glass and
the bottle down, resting my hands on the black leather that cushions the
counter. Deep breaths Walter, get a grip; I’m not far from my original plan
of shaking him until he breaks.
"Fox," I start, and I can hear him practically hiss at my use of his name, "I
do treat you as an equal in this relationship, and you damn well know it. I
have no choice but to be your superior at the office. It’s my fucking job,
Mulder. I told you this wasn’t going to be easy and I meant it. Do you
honestly expect me to let you run off without backup and get yourself killed?
DO YOU?" I finish off by yelling the last part, and he flinches a little at
my voice. Goddammit, he’s making me lose control as only he can. I’m more
pissed at his ability to do that than anything else.
"I wasn’t going to -" he starts, and this time it’s my turn to cut him off.
"Yes, Mulder, you were going to get yourself killed. And for what?" I seethe,
"For some goddamned unnamed asshole, calling you up and promising you a
fucking X-File? I may be a surly bastard, you ungrateful ass, but I am not
stupid. I care about you, Mulder. If anything were to happen to you when you
run off......" my voice trails off, and I stop yelling and gather my
bearings, closing my eyes and feeling a lump in my throat at the same time,
"You don’t leave me any choice, Mulder. You don’t think about what you’re
doing before you do it. I can’t allow your actions at work to go unpunished,
don’t you understand that? Just because you and I....just because we’re....."
I can’t go on without being emotional, so I stop. Unfortunately, Mulder
continues on my behalf.
"YesSIR," he spits out with as much sarcasm as he can muster, "Just because
we’re fucking doesn’t mean that I’m beyond the long arm of the FBI’s law,
SIR," he finishes, and I nearly lose it right then and there. I turn away
from him and try to get my shit together before I smack him into the next
solar system.
I wheel around and look at him, frightening him with the intensity of my
gaze. I can see him shrink a little when my eyes meet his, and I immediately
try to reel myself back in. "Fox, don’t you understand? Don’t you realize how
much.....how deeply....I care for you?" I tell him, choking back my
frustration as the words leave my lips. I try to move towards him, but he
backs away as many steps as I take forward. Goddammit, now who’s being
obtuse? "If anything were to happen to you...I don’t know what I’d do...what
Scully would do....." I tell him, and Scully must be the magic word, because
he turns away from me then. I don’t envy his relationship with Dana; if
anything, it keeps him grounded - most days.
"Don’t bring Scully into this, Walter. It has nothing to do with her. This
has to do with us," he says, and I swear he’s getting more drunk as we
‘talk’.
"The hell it doesn’t have anything to do with Scully," I tell him, "She cares
about you as much as I do, if not more, and you scared us both today Mulder.
Scared us to death." I watch for some sign of retribution, but none is
forthcoming. Goddammit he’s stubborn.
"I’m not involved with Scully, Walter. I’m involved with you. And Scully
doesn’t have the power to censure me." He turns back to look at me, tears in
his eyes, and for some reason, it doesn’t affect me at all. I am beyond
feeling sorry for him. He needs to understand how I feel, where I’m coming
from, and there is some part of his intellectual make-up that is not allowing
him to see things from my perspective. It’s far past time that he did realize
where I’m coming from. Tonight is the night, I think.
"Well maybe we should give her the power to censure you. I’m sure she’d do it
more often than me," I tell him, instantly wishing that I hadn’t said it.
His gaze is one of pure anger, his hazel eyes almost green in their loathing
of what is going on between the two of us at this moment. I’m sure I don’t
look much different; my eyes are probably black with anger and frustration at
his inability and unwillingness to understand this entire mess of a
situation.
"Yes, why don’t you do that, AD Skinner," he says mockingly, once again
driving the knife through my chest, "I’d much rather answer to Scully. At
least she understands me, understands my work," he finishes, "And I’m not at
her mercy emotionally, either," he says, the first tears finding their way
down his cheeks.
"Fox," I murmur, going to him, intending to take him in my arms and kiss him
better. He has other ideas, however.
"Get the fuck away from me," he growls, and I stop not one foot away from
him, my arms still outstretched. I drop them to my sides as he continues to
rail on against me.
"You don’t give a fuck about my work. All you care about is coming home and
curling up next to me, asking me how my day was, and getting a piece of ass.
You want to prove that you’re the boss, don’t you, Walter? You just want to
be in charge. In charge of me at work, and in charge of me here," he sweeps
his arm around, indicating that I want to rule the roost, so to speak, "and
FUCK whatever I feel." Dear God, he’s worse than I thought. THIS is worse
than I thought. I can’t fix this, if this is really how he feels, I don’t
have a chance in hell of doing anything to reverse his attitude.
"Mulder, please; you don’t realize what you’re saying. You know that’s not
true. None of that is true. Please, come here," I beg him, reaching one hand
out to him, but he slaps it away and my anger is rearing its ugly head once
again.
"I’m going home, Walter. I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back. You’ve pissed
me off for the last time, do you hear me? You don’t respect me, you don’t
respect my work, and you don’t respect my feelings. Fuck you, Walter Sergei
Skinner," he says, and moves to go upstairs. I’ve had all I can take, and I
grab his arm and pull him into a forced embrace, wrapping my arms around him
and holding him so close to me that he can’t possibly fight back. I don’t
want any of this; I only want him. I try to convey my feelings to him while I
hold him, ignoring the fact that he’s sobbing freely in my arms, trying in
vain to push away from me while I squeeze him tighter.
"Mulder," I whisper to him harshly, "You’re drunk. Just let me hold you, let
me take care of you until this all passes. Tomorrow we can talk again, and
you’ll be feeling so much better, so much more able to deal with this,
please, Mulder," I beg of him. My pleas fall on deaf ears, and he shoves me
away resolutely with a hard push, nearly toppling me over in his force. I
catch my footing and gaze back at him, begging him with my eyes to let this
go for now. He can’t possibly know what he’s saying, what he’s doing......
"Fuck you," he hisses, and I allow my head to droop, finally beaten by his
drunken words. He goes upstairs, nearly tripping halfway up, then regains his
balance and continues. I hear drawers opening and closing, then the sound of
what can only be my closet door being slammed shut. He stumbles back
downstairs about ten minutes later, his bag overflowing with the posessions
that have been left here for months on end. He’s quitting everything,
including me.
"Mulder, please don’t do this," I tell him quietly, my anger gone, replaced
for the moment by my longing to make everything better. He refuses to give me
that choice or chance.
"Goodbye, Walter," he slurs, and in one last ditch effort, I grab his keys
out of his hand; he’s not going to drive himself. No way. "Goddammit, you son
of a whore, give me back my keys," he yells, and I close my eyes and shake my
head, refusing to give in on this one final point.
"No, Mulder. If you want to kill yourself, fine. But I won’t assist you in
your goal," I tell him, tears in my own eyes now, "You can damn well take a
cab home. I’ll call them for you. Just go downstairs, and they’ll be here in
twenty minutes."
"Fine," he snarls, and then he slams the door shut behind him, and he’s gone.
Fox Mulder has left the building - and my life.
****************************************************
Saturday morning I drove his car to his place. I buzzed, but of course he
didn’t answer. I left the keys with the doorman, strict instructions to
deliver them to Mr. Mulder. The man in the monkey hat agreed, and I slipped
him a twenty to ensure his service.
I have no idea what he’s going through right now. All I can assume is that
he’s alright, and I pray to God that he is. We’ve never had an argument like
this in the past. I keep hoping that he’ll call me, but by Sunday evening, it
appears that he’s keeping his word; not one phone call from Fox. I feel like
my heart is shrivelling in my chest; he can’t possibly realize what this is
doing to me. My lover is gone, and I’m lost. I want so badly to call him, to
try and bring him back to me despite our differences. I miss him so much. He
must not care; he couldn’t, not even after hearing my pleadings over his
goddamned answering machine.
I play the last message over and over in my mind, trying to figure out if
I’ve given him even an inkling of how I feel about him. "Fox, it’s me,
Walter. I know you’re upset. Please call me back; I need to hear from you. I
don’t know how you can throw us away over this, but I’m begging you not to. I
love you, Mulder. I need to hear your voice; please, call me back tonight. We
both have to be at work tomorrow, and I know you’re pissed at me,
but....BEEP." His machine cut me off. Goddammit.
************************************************
End of Broken.