“I don’t know where Mulder is. I don’t know that I’d tell you if I did.”- Walter Skinner, Nothing Important Happened Today

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
NEARLY MIDNIGHT

WALTER:
It’s only been three days, and it feels like an eternity. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop seeing the way he looked last time I saw him. That look of miserable determination on his face. I’d seen that look on his face in a hundred meetings before. It never pained me the way it did this time.

He didn’t want to go. He made that very, very clear. Just as clear as I made it to him. I didn’t want him to leave. Ever. Neither one of us had a choice though. Kersh and the rest of the alien version of the Sopranos saw to that.

It wasn’t that they’d simply put a hit on him. He’s been in more dangerous situations than that before, and it certainly never deterred him, never gave him pause in his unending quest, never scared him. But this time it was different. He wasn’t afraid of what could happen to himself. No, those sons-of-bitches had gone even further this time. They’d dragged out every last one of his relationships, flawed or otherwise, and threatened them too. Pragmatic bunch of bastards that they are, they knew how to get to him.  I remember his last words.

“They’ll kill her, Walter. And the baby, too. And you.  I won’t be a party to that. I don’t know what it is that I have that they want, or that they fear, but I won’t allow you, or Dana or Will to suffer because of me. I won’t!”

I’d soothed him as best I could, unable to soothe myself.  And when all was said and done, he had to go, and I had to let him. But I made him promise to get in touch with me somehow. To keep in contact in some way that they couldn’t trace. To let me know that he was all right. And, although I kept this last to myself, to let me know that he still loved me. As pathetic as that sounded, I knew that his support, even from afar, would be the only thing that could keep me from going completely ape-shit. Especially knowing that I would have to get back on that line—the one that I wouldn’t let him cross for so long, and that I eventually leaped over myself. The line that Agent Doggett would be trying to cross any damned minute now, and I was going to have to be the one to keep him away. To protect Scully, the baby, my lover, and myself I was going to have to play bad guy again, and that thought was like a stone in my heart. No matter the circumstances, Mulder’s abduction and all the craziness that followed, I had felt a sort of sneaking relief at being able to be just as plain and open as I wanted to be about where my allegiances lay. And now I’d be lying again. It wasn’t going to go over well with anyone, including myself, and I had to have Mulder with me, even just in spirit, to remind me that I was doing the right thing.

So I let him go, had myself a good cry after he left the apartment, put aside my feelings, and went to Scully. She had a good cry herself, and then we put on our ‘no biggie’ faces and went back to our lives, such as they were.

And here it is, three days later, and I’ve had to deal with Agent Reyes and her zingy theories, Kersh and his veiled threats, and most of all, the look of profound disappointment in John Doggett’s eyes when he said; “You’re afraid of them.”

I am afraid. But not for the reasons he thinks. I’m not afraid of losing my reputation, my freedom, or even my life, really. I’m only afraid for Mulder. 

But none of that matters now. 

It’s late. The bureau is, for all intents and purposes, shut down. I sent Kim home hours ago, and the only person I’ve seen in the halls is the janitor, sweeping up sawdust and lies in equal measure. The only sounds the squeak of his supply cart, and the hum of my computer. The only light comes from the hall. My office is dark, save for the computer screen. The message sits in my inbox, short, cryptic and unarmed. I read it, re-read it, read it again, and feel something I don’t have words for.

To: surly1@accesscomm.ca
From: unclebadtouch@sister.com
Subject: Your account

Marty: 
Either everyone that my eyes are tracking takes heart, else why are they eagerly replying? Get a train east and take my ideas. Don’t nod-I got her token. Right on our money: $42. Let’s open venues everywhere.  

Una
___

It’s a trick a boy scout could figure out, and one only a boy scout would bother with. I can’t help but laugh softly, even as I’m thinking he’s taking an awful risk. Then I glance at that return address, and I laugh a little harder. Bless the Internet, I think, for making it so easy. I stab the reply button, glancing around the room with my lover’s inherited paranoia, but even the janitor appears to have left for the night.

To: unclebadtouch@sister.com
From: surly1@accesscomm.ca
Re: Your account

Yes.
___

It will be enough. I check the time of his email, and then look at my watch. Then back at the computer. Send. Then Delete, Empty Trash, Sign Out.

I’m out the door a moment later, trying hard not to grin, lest Big Brother be watching. It’s a difficult task at best, but I hang onto my grim countenance, willing myself to look like just another overworked underpaid middle-aged bureaucrat with a briefcase full of bad news, until I have not only reached my car, but pulled said car out of the car park and driven several miles away. Only then do I allow myself the luxury of a smile.

WATERGATE HOTEL
MIDNIGHTISH

MULDER:
‘You have mail’, my laptop proclaims, and I almost jump out of my skin. I don’t move for a minute, letting my heart rate go back down and staring at the screen of the computer, which is the only light in the room. Then I set my gun and the mystical ice pick of doom down on the bed beside me and reach for the computer, saying a quick but fervent thank you to Scully for convincing me that a laptop was a valuable field investigator’s tool.

I notice my hands are shaking as I do a quick virus scan, then open my mailbox, and I try to still them, but adrenaline doesn’t dissipate as easily as, say caffeine, and there’s plenty of both in my system right now. I manage to type in my password on the second try, (take the stuttering extra d’s out of ‘badger’ and it works just fine), then squint as a single word reply comes up on the screen and sits innocently on a field of white light.

Yes.

I let out a breath I don’t even realize I’ve been holding, and it turns into a shaky laugh. Typical Walter, I think. One word, three letters, and yet they even look surly just sitting innocently on my screen.

It was a stupid stunt, and part of me knows that. The same part of me that is wondering, in my usual paranoid style, if this is really from Walter. If he got the message. If he understood it. I glance at the door, then to the weapons on the bed, then back to the screen.

I have to believe it’s him. I have to believe that no one intercepted my email. I remember it happening to Scully, and how the Gunmen had discovered it, and I wonder, but only for a moment. Then with ease I restore my faith in Walter Skinner, and I delete the message and sit back on the bed again, gun in one hand, alien weapon in the other. I don’t know that either will be effective if my faith is misguided, but I have to hope.

I want to believe.

Time passes as I sit in the dark and wait, and my mind conjures up images from the immediate past—Krycek, Doggett, Billy Miles, Scully…I know I’m doing the right thing, but it’s my nature to second guess, and I do it now. I wonder about the motivations, not just of myself, but also of everyone else. And I wonder how we all fit into this--this—I hate to say it, but this conspiracy that seems to affect every one. My mind wanders, and I let it, knowing that it’s a gift of some sort. I don’t question it, although I sometimes regret having it (a stray thought of Patterson filters through, and I squash it like a cockroach before it can hurt), and I know, too, that if I can just find the patterns, and the motivations, I can get myself and the people I love back on track. Back to that safe place where we can be together, and live somewhat normal lives. Maybe…

I carefully set my gun down beside me and reach for the paper cup of coffee sitting on the nightstand. It’s barely lukewarm now, but I gulp it down nevertheless. Threats of alien colonization may come and go, I think, but Starbuck’s is forever.

A sharp rap on the door. My cup goes flying and I scrabble madly for the gun. Again I have to calm myself before I can move. My heart feels like it’s trying to burst right out of my chest, if it doesn’t crawl out of my mouth first. Another knock, this time sounding impatient.

I slide silently off the bed and across the carpeted floor to the door. Leaving the locks on for the time being, I peek out the spyglass.

A dark brown eye peers back at me, then pulls back to reveal my lover in all his balding, surly, beacon-in-the-night glory, and I say a quick prayer of thanks to Scully’s god for allowing him to get my message, understand my message and respond to my message. Then of course, I assume the worst, and prepare for it.

“Walter?” After nearly a week of not speaking, my whisper isn’t an act. There’s no reply and I look out the peephole again. He’s frowning thoughtfully, and I wonder about that for a moment, then, just as I understand what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, he speaks:

“Puppy?”
 

It has to be him. I don’t think even alien torture could have pried that secret word from my lover’s lips, and I feel a weight lift off me. But I still need to be sure. I put the blade in my pants pocket for the time being, hide the gun with the palm of my right hand, and use the left one to unlock the door.

“Come in.” The words come out shakier than I intended, but it’s not just fear. I can hear the longing in my voice, and part of me relishes the love I have for this man, and his for me, but part of me hates it, too. Hates that there’s another person in my life now that I care about and that ‘they’ can harm. And have harmed. Because of me.

I move back and he steps into the room cautiously, looking around, not seeing much because of the dark, but I appreciate the gesture just the same. My Walter’s always been a ‘look before you leap’ kinda guy.

I close the door behind him and throw the lock, giving it a tug, just to be on the safe side. He’s moved further into the room, and his back is to me, but I can see that he is going to turn around now, and I have to do this quick. Before he has time to react with anything besides a startled “oof!” as I knock the breath from him, I ram my body into his, throwing him forward onto the bed. I shove the gun into his side, and grab his shirt collar.

WATERGATE HOTEL, ROOM 42
AFTER MIDNIGHT

Skinner fell forward with a startled grunt as Mulder tackled him and knocked the air from his lungs. He started to protest, started to rise up off the bed, and then felt the press of Mulder’s gun in his side, just under the rib cage. Of all the things he knew in the world, and there were lots of them, the one thing he knew for sure just then was that getting shot in the gut by his lover would be the crappiest thing that could happen to him tonight.

Mulder pinned Skinner to the bed, jabbed his gun into his side, and pulled hard enough on his shirt collar that he heard buttons pop. He squeezed and stroked the thick neck under him, and his struggling lover immediately stilled.

“Mulder, it’s really me,” Skinner said, keeping his voice calm and neutral. Mulder continued probing.

“Shut up.” He couldn’t find any bumps, any alien anomalies, but that really didn’t prove anything. 

“Mulder, listen to me. Your name is Fox William Mulder. Your badge number is JTT047101111. Your father’s name is debatable, your best friend’s name is Dana Scully—she’s a forensic scientist and she thinks you’re too good for me.”

No reply from the man currently straddling his body and threatening to shoot him, if he didn’t strangle him first.

“Um…lately for lunch you’ve been meeting me on that bench by the fountain, even though I tell you it’s dangerous for us to be seen together.”

“Anyone could get that information, you know.” 

Skinner heard the skepticism in his lover’s voice, but his demanding inspection of his neck seemed to be slowing down, and there was a lessening of the pressure in his side.

“Even that Scully thing?”

“Give me something else.” 

“C-Sharp.”

“Excuse me?”

“C-Sharp,” he said again, patiently. “It’s the note you hit when I make you cum.”

“Jesus, it is you.” 

Skinner heard both a smile and shaky relief in Mulder’s voice as his lover slipped off him and offered him a hand as he turned to stand up. He straightened out his shirt, frowned at the lost buttons, and then adjusted his glasses.

“Not quite the romantic reception I was expecting,” he commented dryly. Mulder shrugged.

“I had to be sure.”

“Are you sure now?” As he spoke, Skinner took the other man into his arms. Gave him a prolonged kiss before he could answer and moved his hands restlessly up and down Mulder’s back. 

“How about now?”

Mulder’s response was a soft moan and a hard press of his body to Skinner’s. They kissed and groped their way back to the bed, and this time Mulder pulled Skinner down on top of him, relishing the weight of the bigger man’s body as Skinner’s kisses became more demanding, and his hands worked at Mulder’s clothes.

Mulder dropped his gun.

As could be expected, their coupling was desperate and intense and as full of fear as it was of love. Their need for one another as frantic and dangerous as the situation they found themselves in, and as sweet and sure as life itself.

Mulder hit C Sharp.

Twice.

WATERGATE HOTEL, ROOM 42
MUCH LATER

WALTER:
I’ll have to wake him before I go, which is too bad, as I suspect he’s been living on pretty short sleep rations lately, but I wouldn’t want to endanger his life any more than I have just by coming here tonight. For now, however, I’m willing to just lie here and let him sleep in my arms. Willing to stand guard, to allow him some measure of peace, to protect him.

I glance down at him as he makes some sleepy noise and squirms in my embrace. He stills when I stroke my fingers lightly over his cheek, noting the raspy stubble and thinking that face-fur is a really bad look for him. Not to mention the damage it does. I grin ruefully and lick kiss-swollen lips, and feel the burn his wannabe beard has left on my face.

He makes another slurry noise, and his eyes open suddenly, a little too wide and unsure, and I smile reassuringly at him.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Hey,” back, and his voice sounds rusty, but whether it’s from a week’s disuse, or the strain on his vocal chords in the last couple of hours I don’t know. I  flick an errant lock of hair from his eyes, and he chuckles softly, tightening his arms around me.

“What?” 

“C-Sharp,” he mutters, still laughing a little. “God, you are such an asshole.”

“Whatever gets the job done,” I reply amiably, still playing with his hair and wishing fervently that we could just stay here, in this room, in this bed, forever. But I’m too old to play silly kid’s games with reality, and I guess he is too, as with a deep sigh of regret he pushes away from me and sits up, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. Not looking at me, he asks quietly,

“How’s Scully?”

I move then, too, knee-walking across the bed behind him and putting my hands on his shoulders.

“She’s holding up as well as can be expected, Mulder. Worried about you, of course, but she hardly holds the monopoly on that.”

He presses back into my hands, although I’m not sure if he’s even aware he’s doing it. I knead the muscles in his back a little harder, though.

“And you?” There’s more strain in his voice now.

“Well, aside from the grinding humiliation of letting John, Brad and Alvin think I’m completely neutered, I’m doing the best that I can.” I don’t have to say “..without you.” He knows what I’m thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tipping his head back to look up at me. “You don’t deserve this. But I need to—“

I lean forward and silence him with a kiss. “It doesn’t matter what they think, Fox.” I deliberately snarl a little, to make sure he’s hearing me, then slip around on the bed to sit beside him and take him back into my arms. “You and I, and Dana, too, we know the truth.”

“What truth is that, Walter?” he smiles an oddly shy grin at me, and I am reminded again of all that this man means to me, like I needed reminding.

“I love you.” The words come out muffled as I press my mouth to his, but he understands, and he lets the same three words caress my lips in return. I can’t leave, I think. But I have to. And if I don’t do it now, I may not have the courage to do it at all.

I stand and start reaching for my clothes. He watches in solemn silence, his eyes tracking my movements. 

He’s still sitting naked on the bed when I slip on my shoes, and make my way to the door unescorted.

“Be careful.” I can think of nothing else to say.

“Be strong,” he replies.

I walk out, let the door slip shut behind me, and rest against it for a moment, tears threatening. I don’t hear him moving, and I wonder again at what he’s doing, what we’re doing, and I hope and pray it’s the right thing.

From behind the door I hear a muffled sob, and I hastily move away, knowing it will be my undoing if I have to listen to him cry, and his undoing if I stay to listen.

We are going to get through this, I tell myself as I walk away. Somehow, we are. I am going to do whatever I need to. Whatever it takes to make this right for us again. And I don’t care what that is…

I reach the lobby, and see that it’s started to rain. I’ve no umbrella with me, but I think I’m strong enough to handle a minor annoyance like this…it won’t be all that I have to be strong enough to handle in the days to come, I’m sure…