Mulder refused to return any of
my calls this past weekend. I have no choice but to call him now to let him know that the
review board will be meeting this afternoon to formally acknowledge his censure; the call
just came down from the DD, and I do believe that Mulder is well and truly in for it this
time. My heart is aching over my decision; I had to do it, much as I hated to. There is no
other way to rein Fox Mulder in when he gets on these little kicks of his, and this time
it nearly cost him his life. True, my decision did have a bit to do with his nearly being
killed, but mostly because this isn’t the first time - and most likely won’t be
the last. All a censure will do is force him to think about his choices, and hopefully
he’ll choose wisely NEXT time.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I press the speed dial to his office.
This’ll be the first time I’ve spoken to him since Friday night...the night he
walked out on me. Walked out on us. At least here he HAS to talk to me. He gets the phone
on the first ring, as usual.
“Mulder,” he says, and I swear I can hear a bit of mourning in his voice.
“Agent Mulder, your presence is requested this afternoon at one p.m. sharp for a
formal hearing regarding your censure.” I let out the rest of the air I’m
holding in my lungs with an audible sigh, and he remains silent.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there,” he replies, and I’m at a loss as to what to
say next.
“I assume you can find your way, Agent,” I finish, and open my eyes as he once
again responds, “Yes, sir, I know where to go. Is that all?” He asks me,
seemingly hopeful that I’ll bring some mention up of this past weekend.
“That will be all, Agent Mulder.” I hang up the phone, and I can just envision
him down there, the receiver still up to his ear as I cut our connection; the only
connection we’ve had in 72 hours. Goddammit, I miss him. Of course I won’t let
him know that. I will maintain my steely gaze and my surly demeanor all the way through
the hearing, as a proper AD would. Inside, though, I’ll be dying....the knife in my
heart twisting that much more. I wonder if he knows what this is doing to me. Or if he
even cares. I take my wirerims off and toss them down onto the stack of folders in front
of me, rubbing the bridge of my nose as if that will make the hurt go away. No such luck.
************************************************
I swear I’ve been staring at the same damn file for the last two hours, counting down
the minutes until Fox’s hearing. I have one hour until the moment of Truth - I should
eat lunch, but I have no fucking appetite. Goddamn him, anyway. Why does he have to do
this to me? Does he truly have that little respect for me, that he’ll just run off
against all Bureau policy and procedure, sans backup, and follow any idiot’s whim for
a fucking X-File? He told me....that I don’t treat him as an equal. He told me that
he wants my respect; I’ve never given him anything less in our relationship, whether
it was professionally OR personally. I know he was drunk...but Goddammit, he hurt me. I
can only swallow back so much of his bullshit; and when it gets to be too much here at the
office, I have no fucking choice but to yank him back a bit...and he knows it. Outside the
office, I can take one hell of a lot more of his antics.....but here, people notice. And I
just can’t allow him to walk all over me here. I won’t.
My phone rings, and I nearly jump in my chair; it’s been deathly quiet in here all
morning, and I wonder if it’s the DD, wanting to go over some last minute details
with me.
“Skinner,” I growl, my jaw clenched; I think it might be permanently stuck that
way now, no thanks to Mulder.
“Sir, it’s me.” Shit. Mulder. Just what I need.
“I’m very busy, Agent Mulder. I have a censure to issue in less than an hour, as
you well know,” I tell him, “And there is quite a bit of paperwork involved.
Unless this is of the utmost importance, I will have to -” he cuts me off there.
“Walter, please,” he says quietly, and I close my eyes again, fighting the urge
to run down to the basement........Christ, Walter, get a grip. He brought this on himself.
“Agent Mulder, this is hardly the time or place,” I hiss at him. How fucking
dare he. Let me squirm all weekend, and then call me up an hour before his censure to
sweet talk me? I don’t fucking think so. Now I’m genuinely pissed. What an
asshole.
“Walter.......sir, please, I need to talk to you,” he begs, nearly a whine.
“You had your chance to talk to me, Agent Mulder. As I recall, I gave you several
chances to discuss this situation with me, and you neglected to respond. Several
times,” I finish sarcastically.
“Yes, sir, but....I really....I mean, it’s important. Really,” he says, and
he’s practically begging now. I think I’ll let HIM squirm for a change. Two can
play at this game.
“I’ll see you in forty-five minutes, Agent,” I tell him, and I hang up on
him. He’s not going to sweet talk me. Not this time. No, THIS time, Agent Mulder gets
to answer to the big guns......and not just mine.
************************************************
As in any and every formal hearing, there is an obscenely large cherrywood table, behind
which all of the Upper Echelons are seated, myself included. It is meant to be
intimidating, and judging from the look on Fox’s face throughout the proceedings,
that mission has been accomplished. Basically, Fox Mulder has been a very, very bad boy,
and his behavior will not be tolerated any longer; according to the DD and most of the
panel, anyway. I think they’re hoping for too much, but that’s just my own
personal opinion.
An hour and a half later, Fox sweating visibly during the process, the punishment is
handed down - two weeks suspension without pay, and he has to turn in his badge and
gun....to yours truly. Of course, the written and signed censure from the board will be
added to his personnel file, just to ensure that no one ever forgets about this little
escapade, and with that, the meeting is adjourned.
He stays in his seat until almost everyone has gone, his head hanging, chin resting on his
chest. His hands are folded in his lap, and I almost - but not quite - feel guilty. He
deserves this. He needs this. But oh God, I need him, and when do I get MY just dessert?
When is MY punishment over?
I watch him until everyone else has left the room, standing when I am the only one from
the panel left in the room. It’s just him and me now. He finally raises his gaze to
meet mine, and I see the start of tears in his eyes. I swallow hard and maintain my AD
stance as I walk past him, my gaze straight ahead - refusing to meet his, and head for the
door. He’s not only been brought down a notch, he’s been ridiculed in front of
the Bureau’s powers that be...that’s ultimately worse than any punishment I
could ever dole out on my own.
“Sir,” he says in a choked voice. I stop where I am, my hand outstretched as I
reach for the knob of the conference room door. I freeze as I wait for him to go on.
“I’m......I’m sorry, sir. Walter. Sir.” He’s obviously having
trouble with this, and as much as I’m fighting the lump in my own throat, I’d be
lying if I said I wasn’t delighted by his sorrow. I’m a surly bastard, am I not?
Isn’t that what he called me? Something like that, anyway.
I want to take him in my arms. I want to comfort him, kiss his tears away, tell him that
he’s brilliant and intelligent beyond anything that any of the assholes in the Upper
Echelons could ever know. But I don’t. I tell him flatly, “Your badge and your
gun, Agent Mulder. I’ll be in my office.” I leave him in the conference room,
his head hanging once again in total and utter defeat. I’ve won. Or have I?
*************************************************
The rest of the day is a blur....it passes in an unmemorable haze, save for the five
minutes that HE spent in my office, handing over his credentials, expecting some sort of
special treatment from me and receiving nothing more than a curt, “Thank you, Agent.
I’ll see that these are processed according to procedure.” I watch him leave my
office, and I can tell that he wants to talk, but I offer him nothing more than a cold
stare as he leaves. It’s my job. I have no choice. I’ll mourn later.
**************************************************
It’s only Monday, three full days after our falling out, yet it feels as though
it’s been weeks. I’m home now, my scotch firmly in hand, and I can’t quite
set the bottle down on the bar. It’s so much easier to keep drinking the amber liquid
a few fingers at a time, letting it slowly burn away my emotions.
I can see his face; I can see his profile as he looks out the window in despair, hoping
that I’ll somehow find a way to come to his rescue. I can see the defeat in his eyes
as he realizes that I have given up my authority in this situation, and his fate lies in
the hands of people who care no more for him than strangers would. These are people who
truly do not understand his quest, and I’ve given him over to them. He resents the
situation, perhaps even more than he resents me. I don’t know anymore, and I am
quickly heading towards not caring.
There’s a knock at my door. I don’t want to answer it; I know who it is. The key
that was his rests in my nightstand drawer, alone like I am. Why should I give in to him
now? Because he needs me? Where has he been the last three days? Does he not realize the
personal Hell I’ve endured over my own decision? Does he truly not understand how
much he means to me, that he could ignore me to this point and then come crawling back now
because HE needs reassurance? I head to the door and peek into the peephole, knowing full
well what’s on the other side. Or, more importantly, WHO’S on the other side.
It’s Mulder. I knew this was coming. I knew it when he spent that short time in my
office this afternoon handing over the items that have made him what he is for the last
ten years. His gaze bore into mine, silently begging for some sort of forgiveness, and
found only the cold bite of abandonment.
“What do you want, Agent,” I ask him icily, my heart freezing from my own words,
wondering what effect I will have on him.
“Please, Walter, I want to.....I have to talk to you. Please,” he begs, and I
find that I refuse to appease him. I won’t open the door. I can’t.
“No, Agent Mulder, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I tell him through
the barrier, my eyes closed and fingers crossed as I tell the most ultimate of lies. I
have to force myself to open my eyes; I don’t want him to do this, but it’s the
least I can do to give him my attention.
“Walter,” he nearly sobs, and as I watch him through the peephole, I see his
lower lip quiver in an all too intimate reminder of his weakness, the weakness that he
refuses to allow anyone but me and occasionally Scully to witness. Oh God, please make him
go away........
“Please, Walter, I.....I need you,” he cries, and I close my eyes and lay my
hands on the door as I tell him to go home and get some rest. I simply cannot allow him to
invade me in this manner. He left me, Goddammit. He walked out on me when I needed him.
It’s infantile of me, I know, to claim turnabout is fair play, but he needs to
understand......to realize how I feel, how he MADE me feel. I have no choice but to do
this to him. Unfortunately, I am doing the same thing to myself - and it hurts like hell.
“Mulder, go home. I can’t talk to you now,” I tell him, only imitating my
best growl. Then, as an afterthought, I throw in quietly (but just loud enough for him to
hear), “I can’t do this again, Fox.” I am once again ignoring my own
instincts to throw open the door and forgive him everything; but that’s what
I’ve done every time in the past, and look where it’s gotten us - nowhere. He
still runs off half-cocked, nearly getting himself wiped off the face of the earth in the
process, and he still expects me to pick him up, dust him off, and help him back up onto
his goddamned stubborn horse. Not this time, Fox. It’s for your own good. And mine.
Maybe this time you’ll realize....how much I really do love you. Even if it means
letting you go.
************************************************
I don’t know how many more fingers of scotch it takes to put me out of my misery,
only that I wake up Tuesday with a motherfucker of a headache. I nearly call Kimberly to
tell her I won’t be in, then I remember that HE won’t be there. If I don’t
show and he finds out about it, he’ll know how much this has all gotten to me. I
can’t have that now, can I? How much of a ‘rock’ would I be if I let him
know that a couple of nights without him made me drink myself sick? No. He doesn’t
get to win; Jesus, is this what I’ve been reduced to? Spite myself to spite him?
Ridiculous.
An hour late, but I make it in. Not too much scheduled today anyway. The big meeting was
yesterday, and it should remain business as usual for at least the next two weeks. No
surprises while ‘Spooky’ is out on unpaid leave.....I feel like an ass for even
thinking that, but it’s true. Scully’s been sent to Quantico to teach a few
classes, which should prove to be a nice change of pace for her. I know she loves being
out in the field, but without Mulder around, she’d just be bored here anyway -
that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
With my star duo out of the picture, work is surprisingly easy............and boring. The
X-Files consume so much of my time that without them, I realize just how boring this job
really is. The rest of my Agents are all ass-kissing wannabes who wish they could fill
Mulder and Scully’s shoes (and their solve rate), and by the time the third team
comes up to my office to ‘inquire about their co-workers’, I’m ready to
take the next two weeks off as well as.........Fox. I wonder how he’s doing. I wonder
if he’s alright. I pick up the phone and start to dial his home number, then slam the
phone back down into its cradle so hard I crack the damn thing. Goddamn phone. Goddamn Fox
Mulder.
“KIMBERLY,” I bellow uncharacteristically from my office, and she pops her head
in through the doorway cautiously moments later. I can see from the look on her face that
she’s wondering what in the Hell has gotten into me. I’m wondering that myself
as I explain the phone problem to her, and she promises to take care of it right away. I
apologize to her, and let her know that I’ll be taking the rest of the day off. I
can’t stand it anymore. I have to go see him. Now. I tell her she can go home after
she gets me a new phone, and the light in her eyes actually lifts my spirits for a brief
moment.......until I realize where I’m going to go, and what I’m going to do.
Reality does, in no uncertain terms, bite.
************************************************
Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing in front of his apartment door, and I
can’t quite make myself knock on the goddamned thing. Amazing how my motor functions
get all jumbled when anything to do with Fox Mulder enters the picture. Usually,
that’s a good thing; but not today. No, today I am going to do the one thing that I
know will make him crumble. Today, I remove myself from the proverbial picture. I have no
choice because he hasn’t given me one. And now, I’m refusing to give HIM one,
too.
Finally, after several moments of uncertainty, I knock. There is no sound coming from
within, but I know he’s home; his car was downstairs in his space, and unless
he’s out running, which I doubt - he likes to run at night - he IS here. I knock
again, and a couple of seconds later, the door opens. His eyes are completely bloodshot,
and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t slept at all; he’s even wearing the same
clothes he had on when he stopped by my place last night. He stares at me, his eyes
lifeless, and then he nods, silently inviting me in.
I walk past him, my hands shoved deeply into my trenchcoat pockets, making tight fists
that he can’t see. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, hoping that it will
help me to focus on what I came here to say. Aside from drawing what feels like blood
(judging from the stickiness there now), it’s an exercise in futility.
“Do you want some coffee,” he asks me softly, and I shake my head, frowning as
he goes to retrieve a mug for himself; ahhh, so that’s why he’s not sleeping.
Marvelous. He comes back and seats himself on his black leather couch-slash-bed, leaning
hard on the pillows propped up against the arm. He looks like complete and absolute Hell,
and I tell him so.
“Mulder, you look like shit,” I grumble at him, crossing the room and taking the
chair in front of his computer desk.
“Thanks. Nice to see you, too,” he replies flatly, sipping at the steaming mug
in his hand. He stares blankly at the muted television, waiting for me to go on. So I do.
“Fox,” I start, and he winces visibly at the word. I ignore him and continue,
“I had to see you. There’s something I need to tell you.” Is that ominous
or hopeful, I wonder. From the lost look on his face, it would appear that it’s
neither, simply more food for thought. Speaking of food, I wonder if he’s been eating
these past four days...Walter, that’s not why you’re here, I remind myself.
“And?” He asks, his gaze meeting mine. “Or should I say, but?” He asks
in his most snide, sarcastic tone. He’s not going to make this easy on me OR himself.
“Mulder, please. This is hard enough as it is. I can’t......I can’t do this
anymore, Fox.” I have to stop, because he’s already tearing up and I’m no
longer sure that I can do this. I stiffen in the chair, waiting for him to pull himself
together, but it doesn’t appear that he holds that capability anymore.
“Look, SIR. I know why you’re here. I’m too much for you to handle. I told
you when we started this that you’d throw me away. Just like my parents did, and just
like everyone else in my life has - except Scully. Unless you’re planning on taking
her away too, I can take whatever you have to dish out, alright?” He finishes sourly,
and I immediately bite back the lump in my throat - he’s going for the ‘poor
me’ routine, just like I thought he would. The only thing I hadn’t planned on
was just how bad that was actually going to make me feel.
“No, Mulder, it’s not alright. Nothing is alright,” I nearly shout at him,
jumping up from the chair and knocking it over in the process, “Goddammit, why did
you have to do this? Why do you DO this to me? To US?” I shout at him, unable to rein
in my emotions any longer, “Why can’t you feel anything, you miserable, selfish
ASSHOLE,” I yell, and I’m past caring about my decorum now. “YOU did this,
Mulder. YOU brought this on yourself. Going off on another fucking idiotic suicide
mission, following empty promises from God knows who....what the Hell is WRONG WITH
YOU?” I scream, in his face now, and he’s actually cowering away from me, trying
to burrow into the sofa. I go on, unable to stop myself, my anger and frustration and
love, yes, love for the terrified man in front of me exploding outward, “Don’t
you fucking realize that I fucking love you, Mulder? Why....why can’t you understand
that, you son of a bitch? Are your insides really THAT twisted around that you can’t
feel what I feel for you?” I manage to stop myself before I make him sink any further
into his sorrow (not to mention being swallowed up by his own couch), and I wait for a
response. It takes several minutes, during which I’m able to catch my breath and
kneel down in front of him, my feelings for him exposed like so many raw nerves, and
FINALLY he answers me. I’m fighting my own tears at this point, and losing the battle
quickly enough.
“Walter,” he says, tears running down his cheeks, the most sorrowful expression
on his beautiful face, “You deserve better than me,” he tells me, and I shake my
head, negating his words.
“Walter,” he says, his breath hitching a little. He reaches for my face with his
hands and I immediately pull away from him. I don’t want him to touch me; I
don’t want to feel him anywhere near me. I get back up to my feet and he’s
instantly off the couch. I nearly run to the window behind his computer monitor and pull
it open, breathing in the cool air, hoping that it will give me back my senses......and it
almost works.....until I feel his hands on my back.
“NO,” I shout at him, “Don’t TOUCH me,” and he steps back from me
cautiously, as though I’m a bomb about to be detonated. I feel like I’ve already
exploded, not wanting to taint him with my fallout. I step back from the window and gaze
at his face, utter concern directed at me from the hazel eyes I’ve spent hours and
hours looking into; hours of passion and conversation shared, hours of intimacy and
longing......and it was all for nothing. Wasn’t it? Is this all that could come of
us?
“I’m going,” I tell him in a hoarse whisper, “And I’m not coming
back, Mulder. I don’t want you back, either,” I tell him, and his bottom lip
begins to do that quivering thing, and it’s too much for me to bear. “It’s
the right thing to do, Fox, you know that as well as I do. I’m not......this
isn’t......it’s just not going to work out,” I finish, and I head for his
front door.
“Walter, wait,” he pleads with me as I head for the exit, shoving him forcefully
aside in my quest, ignoring his belated attempts at a truce. He tries to step in my path,
but I shove him aside and pull the door open, ever the stronger of the two of us. I look
at him one final time, drinking in the sight of him, tears, swollen eyes, and all.
“Walter, please,” he gasps, his sobs overriding his ability to form words.
In a last ditch effort to make my feelings known, I grab his face in my hands and kiss him
- hard - my tongue probing his pallette, drinking fully of him where others have surely
drowned. I release him after several moments, gasping for air and temporarily sated, then
I pull him to me in a final embrace. He says nothing, merely clings to me with the
desperate strength of a man falling too fast to be saved, and I open the door and remove
his arms from my waist, leaving him standing alone.
“I love you, Mulder,” I tell him, “I always have, and I probably always
will. I just wish you could comprehend it.....but you don’t, and you
can’t,” I finish, and he begins to sob quite loudly as I shut the door behind
me, hardly able to make my way down the hall to the elevator as I listen to him wail from
behind the thick wood. I get in the elevator and press “G” for Garage, the doors
sliding shut, closing a chapter of my life that I don’t think I’ll ever get
past.
*********************************************** |