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Home For A Rest
“You’ll have to excuse me I’m not at my best
He was drunk. I know that’s no excuse, not for him, and not for me. But I cling to that thought, knowing that there is comfort in the shift of blame from man to bottle. I don’t know if he blames me or not. I don’t know if I want him to. It might be easier that way… Scully told me where to find him. I was leaving the office, late as usual, having spent several hours with their last case, trying to find a way to justify it at the budget meeting scheduled for the next day, not sure if there was a way, but hoping nevertheless. She caught me in the hall, gave me a look that I misinterpreted, and told me that he had left in anger and in hurt, nothing new for him, then told me why and gave me another look. This time my misinterpretation was deliberate. I felt like she could read my mind. After this many years in casa del Spooky, it wouldn’t surprise me. Then she told me where to find him. I knew the bar well. I spent many a scotch-blurred night there when the divorce was final, even more after she died. They have a guarantee in that bar, a promise that no lonely souls who walk in there will walk out again, except on the backs of their knees. Not the healthiest of rules, but few complain. He was seated at the bar, and the bartender was just in the process of cutting him off when I walked up. Mulder turned sharply when I barked out his name in my best surly A.D. voice, managing to both upset the pyramid of shooter glasses he had constructed on the bar as well as slide gracelessly off the barstool to puddle at my feet. I might have laughed had it been anyone else. I hauled him to his feet none too gently, found his coat draped over the seat of the next barstool, then turned to the bartender, who simply shrugged. “Hey, Shane, this is the guy I was tellin’ you about.” Mulder was addressing the bartender, seemingly oblivious to the fact that only my arms were keeping him upright. The bartender gave me a tight smile, then muttered something under his breath that might have been “Bastard.” Then, with a sigh, he asked, “Do you need a cab?” “I’ll make sure he gets home.” I glared at the man only because I didn’t know what else to do, then dragged a protesting, slurring Mulder out the door. He was staggering drunk, barely keeping his footing, and I held on to him tightly, not thinking about what I was thinking about, just concentrating on getting him to the car. Guilt rode on my shoulders, making his 170 pounds just that much harder to move along. But I do work out, often, and I managed. We made it to where I had parked and I pressed him up against the back door while opening the front, then shoved him roughly into the seat. He collapsed there like an unstrung puppet, sprawled across the seat, head down, breathing heavily through his mouth. I quickly got into the driver’s side, started the car and put down the automatic windows. I didn’t like the way he was breathing and, guilty or no, I wasn’t going to pay my penalty in re-used alcohol on the floor of my car. I put his seatbelt on for him. He had been mute to this point, and I suppose I would have been grateful for it had I known what was coming. I had just clicked the locking mechanism on the belt home when he suddenly came to life, pushing my hands away and fumbling with the belt. “Lemme go,” he demanded. “You have no right to do this. I wanna go home!” “Mulder, shut up!” I snarled. “You are drunk, and home is exactly where I plan to take you. So just put a lid on it!” I expected an angry drunken retort. I expected a sullen drunken silence. I expected physical violence. I did not expect tears. “Agent Mulder…?” I was dumbfounded. My own experience with tears has been pretty limited, I have to admit; mostly women’s, mostly used as tools, rarely my own. I was vaguely aware of my hand moving forward of it’s own volition to pat awkwardly at his shoulder. He wrenched away from me violently, buried his face in his hands, and, in a muffled voice I heard him say, “You hurt.” I drove him home. All the way thinking he’s right. I hurt. I bruise. I punish with impunity, take away chances before they exist, play political hardball with his life’s work, his heart’s desires. And then watch the pain unfold as if it wasn’t my fault, as if my hands were clean, as if I didn’t mean to. By the time I had parked at his apartment building, the tears had tapered off to occasional sniffles and hiccoughs, and the hazel eyes that focused on mine were, while still shiny with pain, at least a little less drunk. A little. But he couldn’t manage the seatbelt, despite several choice cursewords saved, presumably, just for an occasion such as this, and he didn’t protest when I offered a wordless arm around his waist to keep him from falling on his ass. Up to the apartment, and all the time thinking I don’t want to hurt this man. I admire him; hell, I think I even like him-and all I do is hurt him, in the name of my position, my pension, my safety. Found his keys, opened the door, and led him through the dark room to sit on the couch, thinking I don’t have to hurt him. I can show him that I don’t always hurt… “Coffee?” I asked, and something in my voice must have alerted him, or at least confused him, because he looked up at me from his half-sitting, half-lying position on the couch, eyes narrowing, wheels turning. I could see it happening, see him trying to read something mean into a soft word. I could also see that he was still drunk. “Just get out…sir.” A watery sigh and he closed his eyes. Somehow, I don’t know how, I knew he wanted me to leave, not to spare him embarrassment, or even pain, but rather, to prove to himself that I would leave, that I would hurt him by leaving, and that he deserved to be hurt. This insight startled me, but I couldn’t deny the true feeling of it. Maybe a little Spooky was rubbing off on me too. I sat down next to him on the couch, slipped off my suit jacket and tossed it on the nearby chair. Loosened my tie, and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. His eyes were still closed, but they flew open, alarmed when I put an arm around him. He struggled briefly, but I kept a tight grip around his shoulders, not painful, just strong. Slowly his struggles ceased as slowly I pulled him closer. When his body made contact with my chest, his arms snaked around my waist, seemingly of their own volition. I just held him there, enjoying the contact and enjoying the knowledge that I was not hurting him. He also kept his own counsel, face buried in my shoulder, hands slowly moving up and down my back. I relaxed my grip, he did the same, looked up at me, confusion and something else warring in his eyes, changing them from soft hazel to brilliant green and back again. “I will not hurt you, Mulder.” Each word was delivered in my softest voice. I lightly brushed my mouth over his, barely making contact, but making my intentions known nevertheless. He didn’t seem alarmed by my actions, just a little startled. I bent my head forward again, this time making the kiss more deliberate, taking my time to taste his whole mouth. When his lips parted I slipped my tongue between them and savoured him fully. I kept kissing until I felt more than heard a small whimper escape him. Pulling away, I gave him my best “I’m in control” look and told him again, “I will not hurt you.” “Sir-“ he began tentatively, but I kissed away his words, still holding him cradled to my chest. With my free hand I reached for his tie, deftly unknotted it and dragged it away from his shirt collar. The buttons were no challenge, and soon he was bare from the waist up. I let my hand roam the contours of his chest, pausing at each nipple to rub just a little harder with my thumb, swallowing the small sounds this evoked. If I had taken a moment to consider my actions, I may have reconsidered them. However, he chose that moment to press hard against me, and I was suddenly doing this for more than just the chance to prove my good intentions. If this was the path to hell, I was suddenly not just a traveler but a rest stop, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. With that same deliberate tenderness, I moved forward, pushing him back on the couch, still cradled on my arm. I covered his body with mine, and began an oral tour of his chest, tasting supple flesh over wiry muscle. Suckling at each small nipple in turn made him whimper and squirm beneath me, and I could feel his desire building. I recaptured his mouth, this time letting him do his own exploring, as I undid his belt and the buttons on his pants. A reshifting of my weight allowed me to fully unclothe him, and I abruptly abandoned his mouth again, reacquainted myself with his chest, then moved lower, pulling my arm out from under him to grasp his hips and place a small kiss on one of them. It had been a long time since Vietnam, but I guess it’s just like riding a bicycle. I took my time, prolonged his pleasure, and, when at last I allowed him release, I knew that this was the way it was supposed to go. This was the only, best way to show him that I would not hurt him. My heart was telling me where this was leading, and it sounded so sincere, so true, that it drowned out my mind’s guilt as well as my body’s desire. I knew those things would have to be addressed soon, if not now, but for right this moment, it was enough just to take Mulder back into my arms and press tender kisses to his damp brow and eyelids. I held him for a long time, carding his thick sable hair with my fingers. I felt his breathing relax into sleep, and I laid him back down on the couch. A worn but serviceable blanket lay across the back of the couch, and I pulled it down over his naked body. He stirred, and turned onto his side, but didn’t wake. One more kiss to his brow as I stood, and one last brush to an errant
lock of hair that had fallen forward; then I left him to his dreams, wondering
what was going to happen next, wondering if this was going anywhere, or
if he would even remember, but not wondering at all what I had done.
I hadn’t hurt him. And I wouldn’t again.
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