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Chapter 10-Black and White People
“Mulder? Mulder!” No response. “Shit!” With a groan, Skinner came to his feet, Mulder in his arms. The shotgun had rolled harmlessly out of Mulder’s grasp when he’d fallen, and Skinner kicked it aside as he carried his lover back towards the bedrooms. There were two doors off the hall. One of them was ajar, and it was this one that was emitting the wavering light that Skinner had noticed earlier; he entered that room. A hurricane lamp sat on an old fashioned washstand next to a large, quilt covered bed. Skinner’s eyes flitted rapidly around the room, noting several things that would bear closer examination later. But for now it was enough that there was light to see by and a warm place to lay his lover. The flickering lamp highlighted the blood on the comforter—Mulder had been already lying there, apparently. Ignoring it, Skinner draped Mulder’s prone form across the bed. The pained sound that followed came from his own lips as something in his back protested. Mulder remained silent and unmoving. Skinner hesitated, and then touched Mulder’s face gently. His hand came away wet with blood and tears, and that seemed to galvanize him into action. He tugged off Mulder’s shirt and pants, and found a blanket to cover him with when he shivered. He ran back to the other room, where he’d dropped his kit, scooped it up, found his flashlight and made his way into the kitchen. He was flicking at switches before he remembered that the power wasn’t on. The flashlight was FBI standard issue, and easily showed him a kitchen much more modern than he had expected. But his curiosity would have to wait. He found the sink, dowsed with his hands on taps, and discovered warm water. A mumbled “thank God”, half-prayer, half-entreaty, and he was fumbling through mostly bare cupboards until he found himself a large shallow bowl. Armed with water and cloth, he made his way back to the bedroom. Mulder hadn’t moved. Fighting the urge to rush, to touch, to act, he set the basin next to the lamp, then used his flashlight to find a second lamp; matches from his kit brought it to life, and doubled the light in the room. Mulder looked worse. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he started with the obvious. Like an archeologist brushing away the ages from an invaluable relic, he wiped away the grime and the blood. First on Mulder’s face, then working his way down his body. He rinsed the cloth often, and tried not to notice the way the water was turning pink. He recognized many of the injuries—the gashes on his cheeks, and matching ones on one wrist and both ankles. He’d seen them before, of course. But again, he noted differences that indicated that Mulder had escaped before the aliens could properly restrain him. Another silent prayer, this one of gratitude, and then Skinner was digging through his bag for the first aid items he’d bought, thankful that he’d been as pessimistic as he had in the grocery store. He was able to cover the arm and legs with gauze and tape, and staunch the flow of blood. But when he tried to bandage Mulder’s face, he felt the heat of infection before he noticed the puffiness of the wound, and Mulder moved for the first time, turning his head away with a small wounded cry. “Come on, puppy. It’s okay.” Skinner found himself saying as he held Mulder’s head steady to put antibacterial ointment on the wounds. He could feel Mulder resisting him under his hand, and while it wasn’t doing any good, part of him rejoiced at the feel of anything beyond slack unconsciousness on Mulder’s part. He finished affixing the bandage, and then turned back to his bag. He found the water bottle he’d been drinking from earlier. The water was warm and stale, but more importantly the bottle itself had a sports cap, and that made it easier for him to slip it between Mulder’s lips. He let the water dribble out, not forcing it at all, and while a lot of it spilled over the man’s dry lips and down his chin, some of it found it’s way into Mulder as well, and Skinner smiled in grim satisfaction as he saw his lover swallow reflexively. He touched Mulder’s forehead, brushing lank hair off of it, and thought his hand would be burned from the fevered heat coming off of him. Setting aside the water, he dug around his kit to find drugs. He came up with three different ones, two ASA and one ibuprofen, debated a moment, and then decided on the strongest ones. Cursing the childproofing, he forced open the bottle, shook out two tiny pills, and pushed them into his lover’s mouth. He followed that with more water, and then replaced the comforter he had pushed aside to tend to Mulder’s injuries. He watched for a moment, saw no movement, heard no sound, so he picked up the bowl of water and took it back to the kitchen, dumped it and replaced it with fresh water, rinsed out the cloth, and felt himself being watched. He whirled around, wished for his gun, and found no one there. “It’s okay,” he muttered, “I’m okay. He’s going to be fine. Just fine…” Mulder was sitting up when he returned to the bedroom. “Mulder?” He approached the bed with some trepidation. Mulder’s eyes were open, glazed and fever bright, and he was staring fixedly at a point somewhere on the far wall. As Skinner moved closer, Mulder’s eyes never wavered, until he was looking at something past Skinner’s shoulders. “How did you know?” he suddenly asked, startling Skinner with the rough tone of voice. He gave Mulder a confused frown, and was ignored. “Yeah, right,” Mulder scoffed. “What would a rat like you know about true love?” A pause, and Skinner knew nobody was behind him. Mulder was delirious, his wounds infected, and it was making him sick. Making him see things. Making him see— “Don’t you touch him!” Mulder suddenly yelled, and Skinner turned despite himself. There was no one behind him. He turned back to the sick man in the bed, pushed gently on his shoulders, trying to make him lie down again. “Mulder, come on. It’s me—it’s Walter.” “How do I know?” Skinner almost answered him, then realized he was still talking to someone else as he continued. “How do I know it’s not just more of your conjurings, Alex?” “Fox, please,” This was far worse than Mulder’s unconscious silence, Skinner decided, as frightening as that had been. He tried to get Mulder to focus on him, but when he reached for him, his hands were batted away. “Shut up, Krycek, just shut up!” Mulder screamed and lunged forward. Skinner caught him and wrapped strong arms around him. He struggled briefly, and then Skinner felt his arms come round him in response. “Walter?” a tiny sound, totally unlike his delirious ramblings. “It’s me, puppy. I’m here.” “Oh, thank God!” A shuddery sigh and he burst into tears. Skinner rocked him, stroked his hair, kissed his brow and whispered inane words of love. Months of worry, despair and separation vanished in a smothering wave of emotion between them, and for long moments, nothing else existed for them but the feel of each others arms, the texture of each other’s bodies. It wasn’t sexual although it was as strong as the force of an orgasm. And it wasn’t codependent; each man could feel his own strengths as well as his needs. It was something bigger and better than all of those things. When Skinner pulled himself gently away, his eyes were wet too. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he admitted in a whisper. “I knew you’d come,” Mulder replied just as softly. He leaned forward again, wordlessly asking for more comfort, and this time Skinner was able to take a less emotional inventory of the man in his arms. Mulder was hot—too hot—not just where he’d been wounded, but his face, arms, legs, whole body. Something was horribly wrong, and he could sense it, even if he didn’t know what it was. He moved himself forward so that he could lie Mulder down again. Mulder looked up at him, eyes sparkling in a teary and unhealthy way. “Scully?” he asked, and Skinner wasn’t surprised. “She’s going to be okay. Doggett’s with her.” Mulder’s eyes slipped closed with a sigh of relief, then reopened and he said another name. Skinner shook his head. “He’s not here, Mulder. You were imagining things.” Mulder shook his head. “No,” he protested. “I saw him—talked to him—he—he—“ Skinner put his hand over his mouth for just a moment, gently, and said, “Nobody’s here but me, puppy.” Mulder didn’t say anymore, but Skinner saw the argument in his eyes. “Can you sleep, Mulder?” he asked. “You need to rest.” “I’m fine,” he said, and they both knew he was lying. Neither man knew exactly what had happened, not even Mulder, who’d of course been right there. All he knew now was that he felt like he’d been hit by a tank made of wasps, and that the ones that hadn’t stung him had taken up residence in his head, making his eyes feel like hot marbles in his skull, and causing his thoughts to become painful and random and confused. He closed his eyes, muttered something about the wasp nest getting too big, and then lay still. Skinner just sat next to him on the bed, filling his senses with the sights and sounds of his lover. He knew there was more he should be doing, from finding out how a thirty year old cabin came to be so modern and thoroughly cared for, to trying to figure out if Mulder was in fact dying, as it appeared. But for just a moment, he let his own needs overshadow all of that, and just looked at him. Took him in. Rehung all the Mulderpictures in the den of his heart and added this new one to it. “I love you, puppy,” he whispered. Mulder frowned in his sleep. Skinner walked out of the room.
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