HURT

Author: Jvantheterrible

Date: June 24th - July 2nd, 2000

Rating: NC-17, but no heavy action. Heavy angst, though.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Chris Carter and the rest of his crew. I borrow them from time to time for my own therapy, and return them with no harm and NO MONEY being made/done.

Category: Sk/M, from Mulder’s POV for a change.

Author’s Notes: For amokeh, without whom breathing is a chore. Lyrics below belong to Trent Reznor of NIN fame (from the song ‘Hurt’). The concert a couple of weeks ago kicked ass, as usual. This story was inspired by chapter 17 of Xanthe’s novel, ‘24/7’. I doubt this will become a series, unless amokeh decides to get sappy again.....LOL. Thanks for surfing here.

Feedback: Absolutely, to rllnslvr@aol.com.

**************************************************

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end.....

**************************************************

I’ve lost everything and everyone that means a goddamned thing to me. Okay, I still have Scully. But everyone ELSE is gone. My sister. My father. My mother. Gone. Dead and buried; even if there isn’t irrefutable proof that Samantha is deceased, there might as well be. After another hellish week at the FBI, I can’t stand coming home to an empty apartment again. No messages on the machine, and I’m pretty goddamned certain that none are forthcoming. I don’t even have a good reason to call Scully up and debate about who knows what until the wee hours of the morning. Tonight, I’m on my own, and it’s all too apparent that I REALLY need to get a life. Maybe tomorrow, I think, as I crack open my newly purchased bottle of vodka, pouring a tall glass three-quarters of the way full and adding enough orange juice to make it...well, orange.

Ahhh yes, another Friday night at the galaxy’s premiere “Losers-R-Us” household. I don’t even feel like dribbling my basketball until my downstairs neighbors are pounding on the ceiling. That MUST be a bad sign, I think as I load up my VCR with one of my all-time homo-erotic favorites, ‘Oh Yes, Sir’, and lie down on my couch. Funny how that military General is bald; he reminds me so much of another authority figure...oh no. I can’t POSSIBLY be going there. Still, as I take a looong drink of my screwdriver, I can’t help but think - what if the big guy DID have a yearning for one of his most obnoxious subordinates? What if he DID want to...no, Skinner would never EVER do that. He would not, as we say, go there. Would he? I laugh to myself as I take another drink, shaking my head as I undo my slacks and reach in for my cock the minute that the General begins his poorly-acted tirade; hey, it gets me my kicks, anyway.

“Private, just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” The General asks the young dark-haired man in uniform that has dropped to his knees in front of his superior.

“Doing my duty, SIR,” the young man replies with a shout, unzipping the General’s camouflage pants in a flash, then pulling his boss’s erect cock out into plain view.

I wonder if Skinner is that well-endowed, I think as I stroke myself in time to the Private’s advances on the General; what would Skinner do if he could see me now, I wonder? I nearly spurt my mouthful of deadly screwdriver all over my lap as I think out loud, laughing and then moaning as I stroke myself into oblivion with the characters on my television. I’ve watched this one so many times I can almost come with them, but tonight I hold back. Something is bothering me. Or is it someone?

My erection starts to diminish as I recall today’s events. I release my penis for the moment and close my eyes, playing back the entire scenario. Yeah, it was another verbal reaming for me, with Skinner barely managing to contain his urge to physically throttle me. In front of Scully, no less. Jesus, if anything in the world is as embarassing as being busted in front of your perfect partner, I’d like to know what it is. She just sat there and refused to make eye contact with me while he railed on and on about how I am absolutely NOT to go off on anymore wild goose chases without backup; telling me that I’m lucky I’m not going up in front of OPC, and so on and so forth. He’s lucky he doesn’t have a fucking stroke in the midst of bitching me out as far as I can see. When he was finally finished ranting and raving at me, he released both of us. I stayed back a moment after Scully left, wanting to apologize, wanting him to know that I meant it, but he didn’t bother to even look at me. He just waved me off and refused to give me another glance. Shit. Now I’m pissed off all over again. I thought I was over it, but I’m not. He couldn’t even fucking grant me a LOOK? All I wanted to do was tell him I was sorry for fucking up.

I tuck myself back into my pants and sit up, grabbing the remote and shutting off the television - the image of the private sucking off his superior disappears immediately off the screen, and I grab my drink and finish it off in one long drag. I get up and pace around my living room, unable to let go of my anger. Why couldn’t he just look at me? Why couldn’t he just let me atone for my so-called sin? Goddammit. I feel just as frustrated now as I did this afternoon, if not moreso. I need another drink.

*************************************************

Whoa. Fixed myself another drink, and now I’m dizzier than hell. Still pacing; can’t decide what to do. I pissed Skinner off, and he’s disappointed in me. Just like my father. And my mother. And Sam; if I only knew where she was, I’m sure she’d be disappointed in me, too - for not being able to find her. To save her from whatever she’s been subjected to all these years - assuming, of course, that she’s still around.

And Scully. I drink one third of my new drink while I imagine Scully’s face in that meeting today, unable to look at me, ashamed of me like everyone else in my life. She doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve to have to work with the likes of me. Neither does Skinner. I don’t know how in the hell he’s put up with me all these years, but he has. I’m not even sure if he likes me. Does he? Or does he just despise me for all the shit I’ve caused him? What about Scully? Does she blame me for all that’s happened to her? It’s MY fault she can’t have children, MY fault that she gave up a brilliant fucking career in medicine, MY fault that she’s dragged through every little lead I can get my hands on, no matter WHAT the consequence.

Guilt, thy name is Mulder, I think as I slam another third of my drink, the room beginning to spin as I finish as much as I can in one drag. I feel...numb. I can’t feel anything anymore. Goddamned alcohol. Goddamned FBI. Goddamned family making me feel an inch tall for most of my life. Goddamned Skinner for putting me down in front of the only person in my entire life that I give a shit about. Or that gives a shit about me. Fuck! What is a guy to do, I think as I drink my second drink until I feel like puking...but I don’t. I just get angrier and angrier, pacing more and more until I can’t...take it....anymore.

***********************************************

Numb. Can’t feel anything, I think as I head for my bathroom. It’s not just the alcohol. It’s the feeling of failure. Failure to save my sister and my father. Failure to be there for my mother when she was so ill that she had to off herself to escape, not letting me know anything, just going away without any explanation whatsoever.

Failure to let Scully in on most of my leads; not wanting to risk her career, and hurting her at the same time simply because she is my partner. I do know better, I think as I peruse my medicine cabinet; whatever happens to me happens to Scully because we ARE a team. She IS my partner. God help her. I find what I’m looking for; something sharp. Something to make me feel again. I snap my razor apart and pull out the blade, my fingers shaking slightly from the drinks I’ve had tonight. Numb. I just want to feel something. ANYthing. This should do the trick...

*************************************************

I sit on the floor of my bathroom, my back against the side of the tub. The cold porcelain feels so good against my bare skin; I took my shirt off so I could have a smooth surface to work on. This should be just fine, I think, putting the corner of the blade to the skin on my chest and pulling down, towards my navel from my left nipple. I don’t feel it at first, but by the time the razor’s edge hits just right of my belly button, I’m in a slight bit of discomfort.

I can see the blood; it’s just a thin red line, but it’s there, and it means that I’m alive. I still can’t feel it, but if I’m bleeding, I MUST be alive. Am I? I’m still not sure, so I drag the razor across my right nipple, digging in deeper this time. Still can’t feel it. I toss back the rest of my second drink, and stare down at my midriff. I don’t know if I did it inadvertently, but from my vantage point, it sort of looks like an “X”. I ended that last line just to the left of my navel, and it’s definitely an x-shape of some kind.

I want another drag of my drink, but my glass is empty, so I actually stand up and head for the kitchen, the living room spinning as I walk through it. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, I think to myself. Blood drips down my chest and hits the waistband of my boxers, staining the elastic red as I attempt to pour myself another screwdriver. No luck; I can’t seem to get the liquid in the fucking glass. Wait a minute...I know who could help me. The GENERAL would pour me a drink. I’m suddenly sure of it, and I fumble for my cellphone in my jacket, which I threw over my computer chair when I came in. I find the phone and dial in Skinner’s home number, oblivious to the consequences of my actions by this time.

It rings three times before I hear his customary surly growl, “Skinner,” into the phone.

“Sir, it’s Agent Mulder,” I tell him, struggling not to giggle in my current state.

“Agent Mulder, do you know what time it is?” He says, and I let him know in no uncertain terms that no, I do NOT know what time it is.

“Sir, I have no fucking idea what time it is, sir. I was just wondering if you would mind...coming over and helping me for a minute. I’m having some trouble,” I slur at him, and he immediately questions me.

“Agent Mulder, it’s nearly midnight. Have you been drinking?”

“N-no, sir, I would never do that and then call you, sir,” I tell him, staggering around my apartment, “Would you mind, sir? I need...help, sir,” I finish, falling down onto my couch as I finish.

“Mulder...Goddammit,” He nearly yells into the phone, and then he’s silent for a moment. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” CLICK.

****************************************************

After I called Skinner, I got up off the couch and tried to make myself another drink, but failed miserably. I slumped down onto the kitchen floor with my bottle of vodka in one hand and the orange juice in the other, my chest still bleeding, and still feeling numb. Since the vodka was already one third gone, I decided to just pour the orange juice into the bottle and go with that. After getting more orange juice on myself than in the bottle, I decide, after assessing the bottle and finding it faintly orange, that I have the makings of the best screwdriver ever, and begin to drink directly out of my bottle of Stoli. No wonder the Russians like vodka; I decide that Stolichnaya is Russian for “Stupid American Fuck Who Drinks Our Vodka”, and I pass out on my kitchen floor.

Some time later, I hear a vague banging coming from my living room. I’m entirely too dizzy to get up, so I try to yell, “It’s open,” which to my ears sounds more like, “sssspen”. Apparently, it doesn’t sound much better to Skinner, and he kicks in my front door, busting part of the frame in the process.

I can’t see him at first, from where I’m slumped in the kitchen, and he calls my name from where he stands, half-in and half-out of my apartment. “Agent Mulder,” he growls, and I can imagine that he has his gun pulled, just in case...

“In here, sir,” I tell him, but it comes out more like ‘nhersirrr’. I can hear his heavy footsteps as he walks towards me, and then he appears, crouching down in front of me as he says, “Jesus Christ, Mulder, what did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing, sir. I was just wondering if you could help me fix a drink, sir,” I tell him, but it sounds to my ears like ‘nothinwondrnifyouhelpfixmedrink’.

He looks down at the bottle in my hand, clouded orange but still mostly vodka, and he takes the glass away from me, setting it with a resolute thump on the counter above my head. “Don’t move, Mulder. I’m going to go get something to clean you up with,” he tells me, and I nod drunkenly at him, hardly able to make my head move anymore.

I come to several minutes later when I feel the cold cloth being pressed against my chest, and I howl, mostly out of surprise more than pain. “FUCK,” I murmur, and Skinner just keeps the pressure on my skin, shaking his head as he continues to tend to me.

“Mulder, what in the hell were you thinking,” he asks tentatively, and when I look up at him, I see that his henley shirtsleeves are rolled up to above his elbows and he’s shed his overcoat. He looks...beautiful. Is his brow furrowing with concern for ME? It must be, because there’s no other drunk agent here at the moment.

“You’re beautiful, sir,” I tell him, and he appears to be blushing at the same time that he’s frowning at me.

“Agent Mulder, what in the hell happened here tonight?” He asks me, and I try to explain, but my vocabulary has somehow lost all ability to form vowels, so it comes out as ‘drnkn...ctmslf...n...clldbss’ and he just shakes his head at me and tells me to be still so he can finish cleaning me up. Once the blood has been swabbed off, he seems relatively satisfied that I’m not in any mortal danger, and he continues to dab at my chest while he orders me once again to stay still.

Following orders is all I’m capable of at the present time; when he’s done cleaning me up, he helps me up from the kitchen floor just in time for me to begin gagging while I’m in his grasp. He hurries me into the bathroom, and makes it JUST in time for me to drop to my knees and puke my guts out into the white porcelain.

He rubs my back while I empty out the entire contents of my stomach and then some, murmuring to me that everything’s going to be alright, getting up only for a brief moment to wet down another washcloth and begin swabbing my sweaty forehead with it. It feels good - and I don’t just mean the washcloth. His strong hand on my back feels exquisite; makes me feel safe, makes me feel...protected. I feel like I need to puke again, but end up heaving until it hurts, and then I attempt to stand up. Not a wise move on my part. If Skinner hadn’t caught me, I would have cracked my chin on the edge of the toilet.

“Easy, Mulder,” he says, his tone more gentle than I’ve ever heard it, “Let me help you.” He lifts me to my feet, placing one arm around my back and under my right arm, the other grabbing my hip in support. I reach for my toothbrush and he lets me lean against him so I can clean my mouth out, and when I’m done he walks me into my bedroom and lays me down on my back - onto the waterbed that I still can’t remember buying. The rolling of the bed causes me to gag again, but there’s nothing left in my stomach to get rid of. Skinner eases himself down next to me and props himself up on one elbow so that he’s facing me, and I look over and smile and ask him drunkenly, “Sir, did you ever think you’d find yourself in bed with me?”

“No, Agent Mulder,” he sighs deeply, “I never thought I’d find myself in bed with you. However, I’m tired, and it would appear that you are way past ready for some sleep, so here we are. Now shut up and go to bed.” He lies back and closes his eyes, as though setting some example for me, and I stare at him for a long time before I give in myself. His face is a study in perfection; if Michelangelo had had Walter Skinner to sculpt, surely he would’ve chosen the ‘Surly One’ over David. That nose, those cheeks, that chin. Not to mention his eyes; those chocolate brown eyes that can bore directly into your soul if you’re not careful. Shit. I actually have a hard-on. A hard-on for my boss. Friday night and I’m drunk and my boss is in my bed and I’m sporting a woody for him. Can’t wait to see what Saturday brings, I think as I drift off.

************************************************

Unfortunately, Saturday begins way earlier than I had anticipated. I wake up screaming in a cold sweat, more surprised at the strong arms that close around my shoulders moments later than at the nightmare I was having. I’m shaking, and I hear this gruff voice, “Sssh, Mulder, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re just having a bad dream, you’re fine, I’m here....” Oh my God. Who’s here? SHIT. It’s....it’s Skinner. He’s still here, in my bed, his clothes are off and he’s in his briefs, and now he’s holding me, and I’m shaking, and it feels.....it feels good to be held. My teeth begin to chatter in earnest, and he sits all the way up and pulls me into his lap, those massive arms wrapping around me as he pulls me to his chest, hugging me close to him. I swear....he...he just kissed my hair.

“Ssssh,” he soothes, his hands running up and down my arms as he holds me close to him, “It’s alright, Mulder. You’re fine,” he says, and for some reason, I find myself fighting back tears. It reminds me of...a long time ago, when...when my father used to comfort me. The only thing is...I don’t ever remember feeling so - comforted - back then. This? This is a WHOLE new ballgame.

“Sir,” I manage to whisper, pulling away from him for a moment, catching his gaze in the darkened room, “I....thank you for being here, sir,” I finish weakly, and I see the barest hint of a smile in his eyes. It doesn’t quite make it to his lips, but I can see the glint in his eyes, even in my darkened bedroom.

“Sleep, Mulder,” he tells me softly, and I can feel myself leaning towards his face, even before it actually happens.

“Sir, I..” my voice fails me as I physically lean towards him, my right hand materializing of its own volition, touching his cheek ever so gently, and I dip my face down until I’m nearly nose to nose with him, and ever so slightly, I brush my lips against his.

“Thank you for coming, sir,” I tell him, my lips barely touching his as I speak.

He’s frozen where he sits, seemingly unable to respond, until he wraps his arms more tightly around me and pulls me bodily against his chest. His grip makes my chest wound ache a bit, but I don’t even care, and I refuse to make a sound as he says, “You worry me sometimes, Mulder.” That said, he nuzzles against my cheek and finds my earlobe with his teeth, nipping at my earlobe gently.

I nudge against him, encouraging the action, loving the feel of his teeth on my skin. My cock is twitching again, and if I’m not mistaken, he is making a rather firm impression on my ass as I rest in his lap.

“Sleep,” he tells me, biting my ear hard enough to make me squirm, “We’ll talk in the morning.” With that, he pushes me back down onto the bed and throws one of his muscular arms across my waist, careful not to rub against my self-inflicted wounds. Moments later, ensconced in his heat, I find myself drifting off again, this time into uninterrupted and peaceful slumber - for what is most likely the first time in years, if not my entire life.

**************************************************

I don’t wake up again for the rest of the night, and when I do finally open my eyes, it’s nearly 10:30 Saturday morning - and I’m alone. I reach up to rub my eyes and the pain that flashes across my chest reminds me of my stunt last night. I can certainly feel now, that’s for damned sure. I groan at the marks as I sit up and survey the damage, clutching my pounding skull as though that will make the hangover any easier to bear.

The next thing I notice is hammering coming from the other room - that is ALSO not helping my headache. Christ almighty, I think as I slowly get up, who in the hell is making all that racket? I hobble into the living room in my boxers and stop dead in my tracks when I see A.D. Skinner wielding a large tool and beating the hell out of my doorway. It all comes back to me in a rush, and I nearly pass out on my floor, this time from shock. I thought I had dreamt it; well, most of it, anyway. The marks across my chest are a nice remnant of last evening’s activities - but I didn’t really - kiss - him - did I? I must have, because that was a part of my dream that I distinctly remember enjoying, and now I’m going to stop thinking about that while I attempt to yell at him.

“Sir, please,” I shout, clenching my eyes shut against my own voice and clutching my head again to keep it from exploding.

“Morning, Agent Mulder. I thought I’d fix your doorjamb. I busted the wood a little, but it’s all hammered back into place now, so it should keep out most of the riff raff. How are you feeling? Aside from what appears to be a splitting headache and the big ‘X’ across your chest, you don’t look so horrible this morning. Definitely an improvement over last night. Or should I say, this morning,” he finishes. Swell. He’s a fucking morning person. I should’ve known.

“The door was unlocked last night, sir. There really was no need to kick it in in the first place,” I tell him, frowning and plopping down onto my couch, my hands still wrapped around my skull. What is that smell? I don’t have food here, so what the hell smells like meat? I sniff the air tentatively, and Mr. Sunshine crosses the living room and goes to the kitchen as he informs me cheerily, “I went shopping and got some food for breakfast. You’ll feel better after you eat, Mulder,” he assures me as he turns slices of bacon with a fork and tosses scrambled eggs around in a pan, “Works every time for me.”

“Well, that’s YOU, sir,” I growl at him, finishing as I lay down on the sofa, “I don’t eat breakfast.” My head feels moderately better in this position, so I stay put while he continues to cook. I have to agree that it smells pretty good, but I’m not going to tell HIM that. Christ. Who does he think he is, anyway? Coming in here and taking care of me and putting me to bed and....holding me when I have a nightmare and....fixing me hangover food....and interrupting my train of thought so that I can’t suffer in peace.

“You can call me Walter, Mulder. I mean, sir is just so....formal, you know? I figure if you’re going to call me up in the middle of the night to come to your rescue, you can -”

Whoa. I stop him there, screaming, “FUCK,” as I sit up too fast, and shoot daggers at him with my look, “You did not rescue me, Wal - SIR, and I goddamn well told you that I don’t fucking eat breakfast, alright? All I needed last night was a little assistance making another drink. So you can take your Mr. Sunshine-Tool Man-Chef Walter-thing and...shove it. Sir.” For some reason, my little tirade doesn’t make me feel better like I thought it would, and now I actually feel a little guilty. Of course, saying that I feel a little guilty is like saying that Super Glue is a little sticky.

Skinner’s response to my outburst is to simply fix me a plate of food and set it wordlessly down on the coffee table in front of me with a cup of joe, his jaw clenched tightly as he returns to the kitchen to fix himself a plate. “What part of ‘I don’t eat breakfast’ did you not understand, sir,” I ask him snidely, and he ignores me, sitting down at my computer table with his back to me and looking out the window as he eats. He’s ignoring me! How fucking dare he! He’s in MY apartment, cooking in MY kitchen, and now he’s sitting at MY desk, eating...and ignoring ME! The nerve. The absolute fucking nerve of him, I mutter to myself as I pick up my fork and spear a bite of eggs rather violently. I continue in that manner as I eat the rest of the food he’s prepared, killing it with my fork and making a rather juvenile scene out of eating. It actually tastes good, and every few minutes I sneak a glance at him, but he steadfastly ignores me and my tantrum, sipping his coffee when he’s finished with the food, watching the traffic on the street below.

I finish the first meal that has actually been cooked in my apartment since...well, ever, and I get up to take my plate to the kitchen. He hears me move and he gets up as well, joining me at the sink with his dishes. I open up and load the dishwasher in silence, with him handing me the plates and silver after he’s rinsed them. I don’t even look at him, afraid of what I’ll see in his eyes if I do...or am I afraid of what I won’t see? This puts me in a bad mood all over again, because I really can’t say that I’ve ever been in this ‘morning after’ situation, and I have no idea what to say or what to do and FUCK does my head ever hurt. And my chest is throbbing, and, and, and. I close the dishwasher rather forcefully and rest my hands on the edge of the counter, head down, fighting the aches in my body.

“Here,” he says, holding out a bottle of Advil, “I bought these for you, and there’s some antibiotic cream in your bathroom for those cuts. I didn’t see anything in your medicine cabinet, so I figured I’d just....screw it. I hope you feel better....you look like you’re....I’ll see you at the office on Monday, Agent Mulder.” With that, he pulls on his coat and walks out of my apartment, shutting the door softly behind him. I sink to my knees on the floor, clutching the bottle of Advil to my chest gingerly, and let the tears roll down my face, relieved to be alone.

If I’m honest, there’s a different ache somewhere deep inside my chest; way deeper than the superficial cuts I made last night. An ache that is screaming for him to come back. I don’t even realize it when I cry out his name. I don’t hear the door open up again, ever so quietly. I don’t hear him pad softly over to where I am kneeling on the floor. I don’t realize that I have gone numb again, that I am even still alive - until I feel his arms around me, and that unmistakeable voice in my ear, all trace of gruffness gone, telling me that everything is going to be alright. And for the first time in my life, I believe it.

************************************************

The End? Hmmmm....