Home-->Mom, Don't Go Here
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Listen to the Radio
“In the city late at night,
Another night, another fight… This nonsensical rhyme jangled through Fox Mulder’s mind as he half-walked, half-staggered down the dimly lit street, eyes focused on nothing but the cracked pavement beneath his feet. He tried to stop the voices in his head in order to make some sort of decision on what he was doing, and thought he might have succeeded as the words faded, only to discover that their passing had left a new thought in his mind, one he liked even less. The fight was one-sided, all his. He had come home to Walter’s apartment with an agenda, and he knew it, even as he slammed the door, dropped his briefcase and glared at his lover. He was yelling as he crossed the living room to where Walter was standing up from the couch, his welcoming smile melting into a confused frown as he tried to make sense of Mulder’s ranting. He didn’t speak as the younger man approached him, just continued to stare at him with that small frown. This only made Fox angrier, and more words spewed out of him, not words about the case that was no longer his, or the executive decision that had made him feel like a punished child, but words of a more personal nature, words intended to wound the man standing before him, words intended to deflect hurt. Walter’s hand slapping his face cut the words off cold. It wasn’t a particularly hard slap, but Fox’s cheek reddened as his eyes widened and he brought his own hand up to the spot. The silence was thick and heavy as the two men stared at each other. Walter made the first move, eyes darkening with remorse as he reached out in apology to hold his lover. Fox turned without a word, and walked out the door, eyes filling, a strangled sob barely held in check until he reached the elevator. It started to rain, and Mulder kept walking, kept thinking, kept crying. Another night, another fight… Too much tequila made it hard to dispel the words aching in his head. He didn’t want to think, but anything would be better than this dark refrain cutting into his brain over and over. He tried not to notice the lights shining out of the apartment window high above him. He had walked blindly for blocks, finding a bar, finding darkness and smoke and lost souls, and feeling welcome in the bleakness. He had drank without tasting what he was drinking, flirted automatically without realizing it, and nodded without argument when the bartender cut him off. Nearly collapsing off the barstool told him more than just that the bartender was right. It told him more than he wanted to know. I deserved it he thought dully, hand going back to his face, now wet with tears and rain, I wasn’t talking, I was accusing; I wasn’t listening, I was ignoring; I wasn’t letting him in, I was pushing him out. He walked into the foyer, and stood in front of the elevator, wondering if he could do this, wondering if he’d be invited back in, wondering why he insisted on destroying everything good in his life. He entered the elevator, and tried to make himself less rain-soaked, less tear-stained, less afraid. The apartment door opened before he could knock, and he found himself staring into dark eyes as tear-reddened as his own. They stood there for a long time, two men of conscience at an impasse, neither one willing to join, neither one willing to walk away. “I am such an asshole,” they said in unison. With nowhere else to go, Fox Mulder walked through the door Walter Skinner
held open for him.
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