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Every Morning
“Every morning there’s a heartache hanging
It’s morning, but only in the technical sense. The sun isn’t up yet, although the slice of sky that I can see through the half-closed blinds does have that metallic brittle look to it that I recognize as dawn’s approach. I glance over at the clock on the bedside table-it reads 4:24 am, and I wonder why I am awake. I don’t wonder long. Every detail of last night is etched into my memory like initials on an oak tree and signifying just as much. Most days I am grateful for the ability to remember, the ability to hold onto even the most minute details of every report, every conversation, every feeling- I wish I had amnesia. I know my mind has the ability to block traumatic events-even with drugs, hypnosis and a damned hole drilled in my head, the memory of my sister’s abduction is hazy, unsure, unreliable. Still, I have clung to half-remembered truths where she is concerned, my life becoming a running tribute to an event that I am not sure about. I have devoted myself to a cause that may or may not have actually happened. I know that last night happened, and I don’t need a hole in my head to remember it. My body knows it, my mind knows it, my heart knows it. And yet, I want to deny it. To deny the truth. Me, “Spooky” Mulder, who’s been shouting “the truth is out there” with the voice of a righteous martyr, demanding that the truth be revealed, that the names be named, that the word come forth though the heaven’s fall-Jim Garrison on crack. And now I wish I could censor the truth. Walter suddenly shifts behind me, muttering something unintelligible, and his arms tighten around my waist. I can feel the heat of his body pressed tightly to mine, chest to back, groin to ass, and I like it. I revel in his touch, the strength of him, and the passion. Lust is a truth that I am glad to reveal. There is a certain honesty to it that cannot be denied by word or thought. It is what it is, and when it happens it happens. Just to prove my point, if only to myself, I move back against him, rubbing myself provocatively against him, feeling a not so subtle shift of muscle against my backside. He wants me. I want him. Attraction based on mutual physical need. It’s a primitive, animal thing, and I readily accept it, just as I have accepted him into my body, several times now. Not only accept, but accept willingly, an active participant in sexual congress, meeting his needs with my own. However it happened, this is the body he wants, and I want to give it to him. I can’t help it; I sigh aloud, and Walter moves again, hugs me tighter, slips a leg between mine. I think he is awake, and I hope he is and I hope he’s not, and then he is still again, and his breathing takes on a regular rhythm that I can feel as warm breath on my neck. My mind, my memory, wanders back to last night again. I never questioned his motives, never tried to find the truth behind his actions. We started this with what I thought was perfectly clear intent. He wanted to fuck me; I wanted to get fucked. Okay, I was drunk the first time, but if you were going to proposition your boss, who also happens to be a man, and an ex-marine, and presumably straight, you would need a good dose of Dutch courage yourself. Turns out he was going to ask first. Regardless of who grabbed the situation by the balls first, pun definitely intended, the results were spectacular. A first kiss, lingering and strong, two big arms around me, his tongue inside my mouth, tasting, testing, and I never felt less drunk in my life, although I was having trouble standing. The dizziness of vodka had been replaced by wooziness brought on by lack of oxygen. Those kisses haven’t changed for me. Here we are a month later, and, last night, he again reduced me to man-shaped jello with a kiss. When his mouth is on mine, I lose all sense of reason, and find I can only cling to him, kiss him back, and hope he stops before I pass out. Or hope he never stops. He never stops. In hindsight, maybe this should have been a clue. I mean, there hasn’t been a whole lot of lovin’ goin’ on at Casa del Spooky these days, hell, ever, but I haven’t exactly been celibate either. And now, looking back with that cursed memory again, I can picture the other men who have come and gone, again pun intended, with a certain clinical detachment, and I find a remarkable similarity in their actions, or rather, lack of action- No kisses. Oh, the sex was great, to be sure. I never complained, neither did they. But something was missing, and I don’t just mean names. Or beds. But there was something cold that I may have missed in the heat of the moment. It was always the same-get off anyway you can, I wanted to, the trick wanted to, and I don’t think he cared whether I had eaten supper that day, and I know I didn’t care if “Force 10 From Navarone” was his favorite film. It was just that physical need. And once satisfied, I felt no need to go back for seconds. Now I want seconds, thirds, millionths… Some investigator I am. I should have known this was coming the first time. Again, it was all about the kisses. Not just the passionate, scary kisses at the start, kisses that left me senseless and reeling, kisses that branded me, that made me want him more than ever. And not just the soft afterglow kisses either, the kind that made my body tremble, hypersensitive from orgasm and responding to every soft touch of his lips. But all the kisses in-between, those were the ones that should have tipped me off. A soft kiss on the cheek when I would come over for supper, or to spend the night. Inappropriate kisses on my ear, my nose, my chin, just because he felt like it, never a word of explanation, just his mouth on me for a moment, like he was laying claim to whatever part of my anatomy was handy. Kissing my forehead, damp with sweat when I woke up from nightmares (which, I’m happy to note, has been happening less and less lately). Not a kiss in the pucker up sense, just his mouth resting on my hair, or brow while he whispered nonsense and held me tight, making sure I knew I was awake and safe. All those kisses were his way of affirming something that I can’t believe. And now he says he loves me. He actually said it out loud. It’s not that I doubt his sincerity. Walter Skinner is nothing if not honourable. I just can’t understand why he needed to say it. The kisses were enough for me, and they were something I could return. Something tangible and physical and easy to give, easy to take, and no need to look beyond the moment with them. Somehow, the words scare me more than anything in any X-File. I know he believes he loves me, but how can he know? He may love my body, but he doesn’t know me enough to say he loves me. He can’t love me. How could he, when he knows how truly screwed up I am? When he knows he can’t depend on me. When he knows that I can’t- won’t- Everyone I love gets hurt. Everyone I love leaves. Everyone I love dies. The mantra of Mulder, and I feel my eyes water just thinking about it. I can’t let him love me, even if he wants to, even if I want him to, even if I- Not going there. I pull away gently, not wanting him to wake up, and, thankfully, he doesn’t. I slide out of the bed and reach for my clothes, quickly dress, then turn, much like Lot’s wife, to look at him. Walter looks so young when he’s asleep. No furrowed brow, no gritted teeth. He still lies on his side, arms still outstretched, holding air now, keeping it safe and warm. I have to leave, but first I have to tell him something, somehow. I only want to keep him from harm. I return to the bed, lean over, and kiss him gently on the lips. He smiles in his sleep, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like my name. “Gotta go.” I whisper as the first tear falls. I don’t risk a second look back, merely walk away, touching my mouth and savoring a last kiss.
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