Lean On Me

“Please, swallow your pride
If I have strength you need to borrow
For no one can fill those of your needs
That you won’t let show.”
            -Bill Withers
              "Lean On Me"
 
 
 

Walter Skinner felt like a dirty old man.  He was trying to have a coherent conversation with Fox Mulder about the insanity currently reigning at the bureau, about Blevins, the Cancerman, and Scully, and he couldn’t stop staring down at the other man’s crotch.

Mulder didn’t seem to notice, though.  He was off in a world of his own, his replies to Skinner’s comments barely audible and spoken in an almost defeated monotone that tore at Walter’s heart.  If he hadn’t already been half in love with the younger man, the raw neediness in Fox’s tone surely would have tipped him over the edge.

For Walter Skinner was a man who needed to be needed.  He wasn’t a top, a dom, or a master, he was just a man to whom caring and nurturing, despite his surly exterior, were second nature, much like breathing.  He always tried to do his best by the people in his life, sometimes failing, but always giving an honest 100 percent.  Even in Vietnam, even with Sharon.

But now he felt like a dirty old man.

He hadn’t been able to help Mulder this time.  All he could do was sit by and watch, and wait.  He had been too late to discover what Roush was all about, too late to find Cancerman, or save him, or kill him himself. 

He hadn’t been able to help Scully either, despite dirtying his hands at the whim of a conspiracy he barely accepted as existing, let alone understood. 

“Not everything,” Mulder was suddenly smiling at him, and he pulled his gaze up to the younger man’s face, noting that even his smile looked tired and forlorn, and wanting nothing more than to take him in his arms.

Then Mulder told him about Scully’s remission.  He was stunned.  Had it been natural?  Or had some good come of all the pain?  Had he done the right thing?  Had Mulder done something?  His head reeled for a moment.

“Can I see her?’

Skinner didn’t know if Mulder’s reply was sincere or sarcastic, but he knew that he cared for Scully enough to try and mend some of the damage done recently by their mutual lies and their carefully concealed-from-each-other feelings for Mulder.

When she gave him a tentative smile, he returned it, knowing they would both have to talk about it, soon, when she was stronger.  In the meantime he turned on his not inconsiderable charm, greeting the priest with quiet respect, speaking deferentially to Scully’s mother and brother, and asking gentle questions of the good doctor herself, to determine what had caused this minor miracle (She had no idea).  He didn’t mention her weakened state, or the factors that had caused them-work, the X-Files in particular, and her partner.

She brought his name up first.  He was standing close to the bed, and she reached one tiny hand out to grasp his large one.

“Sir, Mulder’s been here since the meeting.  He’s exhausted.”

“So are you, Agent Scully.  You should be resting.  I’ll go-“

She squeezed his hand firmly, capturing his attention completely, and in a surprisingly strong voice for one who had so recently hovered so near death, said, “He needs to go home and he needs to get some sleep.  Could you make sure for me…sir?”  She arched one delicate eyebrow as she emphasized both the word need and the word sir.

That dirty old man feeling was creeping up on him again.

“Please.  For me.  For him.”

That tentative smile again, and more pressure on his hand, blue eyes seeming to look right into him, into his mind and his heart, reading the feelings there, accepting them, and then demanding that he act on them.

He let go of her hand and gently brushed at the gold crucifix dangling just below the hollow of her throat.

“You’re Catholic,” he whispered, not as an accusation, but almost like he was changing the subject.  They both knew what he was thinking.

“Sir, faith demands belief and acceptance, not stupidity and intolerance.  Please…” This last was barely a whisper as her strength seemed to fail and she lay back on the bed.  Her mother stepped forward immediately, concerned, and Skinner saw storm clouds brewing in Bill Scully’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Agent Scully.  You just worry about getting better-I’ll worry about your partner.”  They shared a secret smile, then he turned, made his good-byes to the family, and walked out of the room, feeling less the pederast and more the white knight.

Fox Mulder hadn’t moved from the hard plastic chair outside his partner’s room.  He had, however, slumped forward, and Skinner saw that he was holding the picture he had given him.  His shoulders were shaking slightly, and Skinner knew he was crying. 

“Mulder…” He wasn’t sure what to say.

Mulder looked up, startled.  His eyes were wet but no tears had fallen.  Skinner saw a drop of blood on his lower lip, and realized that Mulder had bitten it, and bitten it hard, to keep those tears at bay.

“Sir?”  He seemed surprised to see Skinner, as though he had forgotten that the other man was there, as though he had forgotten where he was himself.

“Mulder,” This time the words came easy, the unshed tears of his agent, coupled with his partner’s quiet request giving him strength of conviction.  “Agent Scully needs to rest.  She wants to see you tomorrow, but asked me to make sure you went home and got some sleep tonight.” 

“Scully-I should-I could-uh…” He shook his head, looking more confused and miserable as the words trailed away.  Skinner walked over to him and held out his hand.

“Come on, Mulder, I’ll drive you home.”

“I, uh, I have my car.”  There was no conviction in his tone.  He put his hand in Skinner’s but didn’t stand. 

“You also have a partner who will have my ass in a sling if I let you drive.  You’ve been going on nothing but adrenaline for how long now?  Let me help you.”  Skinner tugged slightly on his hand, trying to get him moving.  Mulder was worrying at his lip again, and Skinner wished he could put his lips on that sore red mouth and make it better.

“I don’t need help.”  His eyes beseeched Skinner to give him the lie.  Skinner refused.

“We all need help once in a while, Agent Mulder.  I can be more than just your boss, if you’ll let me.  I told you to remember who your friends are.  Tonight, I am your friend.  Come on.”

Mulder acquiesced with no more fuss.  He allowed Skinner to pull him to his feet and hand him his coat.  He slipped on the jacket, then with one last grief-stricken look at the blood spattered photo of himself and his sister, he tucked it away in the inside pocket.  He held up a hand to Skinner, then turned and pushed open Scully’s door, poking his head in but not entering.

Bill Scully shot him a dirty look, which he ignored, and Mrs. Scully gave him a careworn glance, but it was the tiny smile and nearly imperceptible nod from his partner that convinced him not to spend the rest of the night in the waiting room.  He boxed up his pain into the corner of his heart reserved for it, returned her nod, and let the door close.

Skinner was waiting a discreet distance away, and didn’t speak as Mulder walked away from Scully’s room.  He simply fell into step with Mulder as he continued on towards the exit, matching his pace to the younger man’s, and followed him out of the hospital.

Skinner led Mulder to his car, opened the passenger side door for him, then walked around to the driver’s side and let himself in.  He turned to look at the younger man as he started the car’s ignition. 

Mulder was staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing.  He was rubbing absently at his lower lip with one hand, while the other hand was resting on his thigh, clenched into a tight fist.

Skinner reached over and squeezed the back of his neck, lightly.  Mulder jumped, then turned wary eyes on his boss.  Skinner simply put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

They didn’t speak during the drive, and Skinner found the silence awkward.  He kept opening his mouth to fill the empty air with mindless inanities about how it would be all right and how everything would work out fine.  Then he would glance over at the man next to him, at the red eyes and the shredded lower lip, the bunched muscles in the neck and clenched fists, and he would close his mouth, knowing his words would be useless.

When they pulled up in front of Mulder’s building, Skinner turned off the car.  He turned to the other man, and they spoke at the same time:

“Sir-“

“Mulder-“

Skinner gave him a nod.

“Would you like to come up for a drink?  I mean, I was going to have one anyway, and they say drinking alone is the first sign of addiction.”  Mulder didn’t look at the older man as he spoke, and something like embarrassment made his words sound a little gruff.

“I think a drink sounds like just about the best thing in the world right now.”  Skinner reached over and brushed his fingers across Mulder’s cheek, getting that startled look again.

They got out of the car and entered the building.

In the elevator, Skinner barely managed to keep his face neutral as Mulder, standing next to him, leaned in just enough that their shoulders brushed.

On the fourth floor, Mulder stopped at the door of his apartment and stared stupidly at the police tape barricading the entrance.  Skinner stared too, for a moment, having forgotten that Mulder’s apartment was a crime scene.

“Aw, hell…” Mulder’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the crack of his fist on the wood door was startling loud.  He hit the door again, and again. 

Skinner grabbed his arms before he could strike again, and Mulder fell forward onto Skinner’s chest, catching the older man off-guard and almost knocking him to the floor.  Skinner recovered quickly, though, and wrapped strong arms around the other man, holding him tightly.

“Mulder, shhh…it’s all right…shhh…” Now all the inanities of earlier tripped over his tongue easily, feeling more right and less like bad cliches.  It seemed to be what Mulder needed right at the moment, and Skinner was only too willing to provide, only wishing in the back of his mind that he didn’t have to.

After a time, Mulder pulled away, and Skinner was surprised to see that his eyes were still dry.  He knew that there was still an emotional storm brewing, and he only hoped that when it came, Mulder would let him be his shelter from it.

“I’m sorry, sir, I truly am.  I totally forgot.  I guess I should find a hotel…”

“It’s all right, Mulder.  You’ve certainly earned the right to forget about this-“ He waved in the general direction of the door. “I think we all have.  But forget about the hotel.”  He noticed that he still had one hand on Mulder, just touching his arm, but, as Mulder didn’t appear to be uncomfortable with this, or even to be noticing, he chose to ignore the implications and continued speaking.  “I can guarantee I have a better stocked bar than any hotel, and I won’t charge you twenty dollars for an airplane bottle of scotch, either.  Hell, I may even have some of those complimentary ten dollar almonds.”

This earned him a ghost of a smile that turned up one side of Mulder’s mouth but failed to touch his eyes, which were still large and dark and filled with pain.

“What about the Famous Amos cookies?”

Skinner smiled back at his agent.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The drive to Skinner’s apartment was less awkward, though certainly not cozy.  Neither man was ready to discuss the feelings that were floating between the two of them.  Neither man wanted to talk about the events of the past three days in any detail, either.  It was still too fresh, too raw, and, while Skinner was more than a little interested in the manner in which Mulder had arrived in the emotional state he was now in, and what part he may or may have not played in it, he was also aware of the younger man’s vulnerability right now, and felt he had no right to push anything.  The words would come when they were good and ready, and when they did, Skinner promised himself he’d be there.

So when Mulder ventured a quiet question about the Redskins chances this year, Skinner gave him an understanding smile and gave his opinion on the team.  They felt there way around different sports, then movies (they had nothing in common there), and then books.  Mulder mentioned some authors that Skinner was unfamiliar with, then poets, including Whitman.  He was more than a little startled when Skinner recited a line from Calamus:

“Whoever you are holding me now in hand
Without one thing all will be useless
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, 
I am not what you supposed, but far different.”

“Leaves of Grass,” said Mulder.

“I have a soft spot for Whitman,” replied Skinner.

“So do I.” Mulder’s voice was quiet, and they didn’t speak again until they reached Skinner’s apartment building. 

“Really, sir, you don’t need to go out of your way for me.  I’m sure-“

“I’m sure, too.  Let me do this for you, Mulder.”  Skinner shut off the car and opened his door.  He didn’t look back to see if Mulder was following, just hoped that he was, and they entered the elevator together.  This time when Mulder leaned into him, Skinner put a casual arm around his shoulders.  He felt the other man tense under his grip, but Mulder didn’t move away.

Skinner opened the door of his apartment, hit the light switches by the door, then closed and locked the door behind Mulder as he entered. 

Mulder had been to Skinner’s apartment before, but never as an invited guest, and he felt strange and awkward.  He stepped forward into the living room, then just stood, looking around at the art on the walls, the furniture, the entertainment system, anywhere, actually, except at the man who owned said art, furniture and entertainment system.

Skinner dumped keys, change, badge and gun onto a small table by the door obviously put there just for that purpose, then slipped off his trenchcoat and suit coat.  He folded them over one arm and approached Mulder.

“Can I take your coat?”

Mulder didn’t reply, merely shrugged out of the suit jacket and handed it to his boss.  Skinner put it over his own and said, “Make yourself comfortable, Mulder, while I hang these up.  Bar’s just over there, if you want, or I’ll get us something in just a minute.”  He walked off down a short hallway to hang the coats in the closet, and Mulder turned to the bar.

He was still standing in front of the large selection of liquors when Skinner came back.  He didn’t look up at the older man’s approach, didn’t move when Skinner put a hand gently on his back.

“What looks good?” he asked quietly. 

Mulder shrugged. “I don’t drink.”

Skinner nodded, and ignored this statement. “Well, I’m a scotch man myself.  What would you be having if we were at your place?”

The question seemed to mystify Mulder for a minute, but Skinner didn’t push him, and, after a bit, the reply came.

“All I had at home was coffee and orange juice, sir.  I don’t know what I was thinking, offering when I-“

“That’s all right, Mulder.  We’re here now.  Did you want to try a scotch with me?”  He didn’t wait for a reply, merely reached in front of the other man and pulled a bottle of Ballantynes off the shelf.  He took it to the kitchen, and, when he returned to the living room a few minutes later with two ice-choked crystal tumblers of scotch, he saw that Mulder hadn’t moved.

Skinner sat down on the couch, set the drinks onto coasters on the coffee table, and cleared his throat loudly.

Mulder spun around clumsily, startled, and Skinner wondered for just a second about the life that had shaped the man standing before him.  The man who was so full of sadness that it affected everything he did, everything he said.  He wondered what could make Mulder happy.  He wondered if he could.  He doubted it.

“Have a seat,” he said.

The look Mulder gave him was an odd combination of suspicion and gratitude.  But he moved forward and gracelessly fell onto the couch next to Skinner, who handed him one of the glasses.

“To Scully’s return to health,” Skinner held his glass up.

Almost a smile.  At the last minute, some unknown guilt, or grief, or pain dulled the happiness Mulder felt knowing that Scully was going to be all right, but he raised his glass anyway and admired the sound it made as Skinner touched his own glass to it.  Good crystal.

Skinner drank off perhaps half the shot he had poured himself, but when Mulder tried to mimic his actions, he found the liquor too strong and he coughed and sputtered, setting the glass down quickly and trying to shake away the taste.

At any other time, with any other person, Skinner would have been laughing.  He had last seen the look on Mulder’s face on a stray cat he had once seen getting caught in the automatic sprinkler system out front of his building.

“I guess it’s an acquired taste, sir,” Mulder finally gasped.

“Would you like something else?  I could make coffee,” Skinner offered.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

This coming from the man who had faked his own death, convinced his partner to lie to her superiors about it, came back from the dead and accused the senior director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations of being part of a conspiracy to lie to the American people about the existence of extra-terrestrials, the results of which were lying in a hospital morgue right now, thought Skinner. Right; no bother.

“Not a problem, Mulder.”

“Actually, this is fine.”  He picked up the glass a little warily, took a tiny sip, winced as the liquor burned over his hurt mouth, but didn’t choke.  “I’m acquiring a taste for it,” he said dryly.

Skinner gave him a smile.  “Whatever you like, Mulder…” Then, softer, “Whatever you need.”

Mulder put his glass back down.  He turned to face his boss, scrutinizing the older man’s face with an intensity that Skinner was almost uncomfortable with.  Almost.  He took another sip of scotch and returned Mulder’s gaze calmly.

When Mulder spoke, his voice was soft and almost without inflection.  “I don’t know what I need, sir.  I thought I did, but now…with everything that’s happened-that’s happening…I-I-” His throat worked soundlessly, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down and his face crumpled, revealing not the man, but the lost little boy within.

This is it, thought Skinner, and he put his glass down.

“Let it come, Mulder.”  And he held out his arms.

The first cry rose out of Mulder’s throat like a living thing as he fell into Skinner’s arms, nearly knocking the wind from the older man with the force of his embrace.  Then muted sobs as he cried into the older man’s chest, the tears finally spilling from bewildered hazel eyes. 

Skinner could feel Mulder’s face hot and damp against his shirt, but he didn’t pull away.  He held Mulder tight, one arm wrapped around his shoulders.  He ran one hand through Mulder’s hair, carding it again and again, crooning nonsensical syllables, trying to convey strength and security in every sound, every action.  He could feel the muscles under Mulder’s shirt trembling and jumping, and he squeezed harder, trying to stop the shuddering.

In some ways it was like comforting a small child, but Skinner was all too aware that this was a grown man in his arms-and not just any man.  This was his underling, his agent, maybe his friend, definitely a man he was attracted to, and not just physically.  Mulder was a brilliant man, a strong man, beautiful in a mental emotional way that Skinner could only liken to a dark hero in a gothic novel.  A young Heathcliffe, brave but somehow doomed, maybe.

Or maybe not.  Perhaps this was the first step in healing a lifetime of hurt.  Skinner didn’t know.  He only knew that Mulder needed him and he needed Mulder.  It was enough for now.  There would be time enough in the future to decide where this was going, if anywhere, and time enough to manage the whens and the hows.  Skinner would be patient.  Mulder had certainly taught him that.  Remember the past and take care of the present, and the future would certainly take care of itself. 

Mulder’s sobs were tapering off slowly, and he had straightened a bit, easing some of the weight off of Skinner.  But his grip on the other man was still tight.  Skinner just held him, continued petting him, kept whispering reassurances to him.   He made no move to dislodge Mulder, and, after a long while, the younger man pulled back, still trembling, eyes wide and starey.  He struggled to catch his breath, which hitched unevenly in his chest.

“I-I’m sorry, sir, I-“

Skinner silenced him with his hand, brushing it gently across his mouth.

“Don’t apologize, Mulder.  There’s no need.”  He locked eyes with Mulder and held him with his gaze as he stood.

“Lie down here.  I’ll be right back.”

Skinner went to the kitchen and pulled a large mug from a cupboard.  He filled it half full with water from the tap, added an herbal teabag, and heated it quickly in the microwave.  The steam held the scent of wild berries and chamomile, until Skinner poured a hefty dollop of scotch on top of it.  Then he stirred in a couple of heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and took the concoction back to the living room.

Mulder was lying on his side, legs curled up nearly to his chest, as if he thought he could fold up and disappear.  He was still trembling visibly, and he didn’t look up as Skinner approached.

Skinner helped him to sit up, then handed him the cup, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“Drink this.  It may taste like shit, but it’ll help.”

Mulder held the mug in both hands, sniffed at it, took a tentative sip, grimaced, then gave Skinner a look.  Skinner nodded.

“Trust me,” he said.

It took nearly half an hour for Mulder to finish half of the contents of the mug, and by then the shakes had abated considerably.  He set the mug on the table and suddenly found himself yawning.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Mulder.”  It wasn’t a question, and Skinner moved to rise up off the couch.  Mulder caught his hand, surprising both of them.

“Stay.”  His voice was low and afraid.

“Whatever you need,” Skinner said again.  He sat back down and pulled Mulder’s head into his lap, letting the younger man stretch out across the full length of the couch.  He went back to playing with Mulder’s soft, dark hair, and felt the tension bleeding off the younger man under his silent ministrations.  He thought Mulder might even be falling asleep, when he heard him say:

“Sir, we need to talk about-about-“

“We’ll talk in the morning, Mulder.  Sleep.”

There was no more conversation.  Skinner held Mulder and sheltered him the best he could.
 
 

When Skinner woke up in the morning, his back was killing him, and Mulder was gone. 
 

You have to love a good vignette.  Always end 'em on a cliffhanger, I say. You can find the sequel, "I'll Be" back on the slash page, or just click here.