Home-->Mom, Don't Go Here
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*** I can hear Walter shifting and settling next to me, but I don’t open my eyes. The mental picture I have of him twisting those wide shoulders, and tugging on the blankets with fists weakened by sleep is just enough for me. And if it wasn’t, the two thick arms that suddenly come round my chest confirm for me the reality that is my lover. ‘Lover’. Now there’s a loaded word. Lover: noun; someone who loves… Well, then, I suppose Walter Skinner is my lover. And I think I’m his. I mean, I’m his friend, bed warmer, confidante-well, sometimes-coffee pourer, paper-fetcher and channel changer. Only my opposable thumbs seem to distinguish me from a cocker spaniel. So does that make me his lover? Do I love him? Do I risk loving him? He loves me. He tells me that all the time. “Mulder, I love you,” he says, and “I love you, Fox,” he says. In fact, I think he said it three or four times tonight, although here’s a rarely documented fact that you may not be aware of: There is a direct correlation between aural stimulation, and visual acuity. Not to put too fine a point on it, tonight when he made my eyes roll back in my head, my hearing was reduced to damn near nil—beyond the oceanic roar that had replaced my heartbeat, that messed up sound I always make when I cum (Walter thinks it’s hot-there’s no accounting for taste), and his equally enthusiastic moans and groans, I was pretty much deaf to anything else, although— Hell, at that point he could have been reciting the Gettysburg address for all I know. But still— Is that what it takes to be a lover? To say the words aloud? If he did say them again tonight, and I’m growing more and more certain that he did, then does that make it-love-his feelings, whatever—does that somehow make it more valid than mine, because I don’t say it? Can’t say it? Does that make his feelings more real? The question comes back—am I his lover? Do I love him? Hell, yeah! I’ve thought it a million times, maybe more. And wondered about it ceaselessly. Wondered how this wonderful bear of a man managed to claw apart and shoulder his way through my walls, those amazing barricades I’ve erected between my heart, and ANY emotional commitment. It’s nothing short of miraculous to me, only because I know these walls. And these aren’t any of those lousy panel-job walls that you find in every rec room in Middle America. I mean, if you think Bob Villa can put up a mean wall on This Old House, you ought to see what an educated psychologist with a history of family abuse and abandonment issues can do! My thoughts suddenly turn to Scully, almost as if I’m asking myself, what about her? Well, what about Scully? She means so much to me. I care for her a lot. I can’t compare it to how I feel about Walter, though, it’s like comparing apples to spaceships. But Scully was there first. I’d like to think I invited her in, but the truth is, she bullied her way in through windows I didn’t even know I’d put in, ones that never would have been there for Walter if she hadn’t been there first. I have told Scully how I feel about her…she is so many things to me, from rabid vixen defending a den of little kits (or maybe just one big one!), to plain old working stiff partner, sharing hot dog lunches and war stories about life in the FBI trenches. And throughout it all, she somehow manages to perform some kind of arcane balancing magic on me that keeps me from that dark place that I go to in my dreams. (Not so much, now, with Walter to guard my sleep). It’s cold, that place; it’s the high place. It’s the man with the gun. It’s the dead woman in the tub, the monster in the cellar, the alien outside the door… Of course, while she’s chasing down my inner demons with a badge and the Hippocratic Oath, Scully is also not above berating me for my neurosis, narcing on me for defying protocols, and nagging at me to eat (I don’t know where she gets her ideas, but I know for a fact that chocolate chip cookie dough is a viable meal replacement). And I let her do all these things. Hell, I even love her for them, and I told her so. Well, I might as well have stapled a hundred dollar bill to her ass and shoved her down a dark alley, yelling “Victim here!” I don’t want to think about it, but once started, the thoughts race to lurid completion. I told Scully I loved her, and then, when she wasn’t getting abducted by aliens, or facing terminal cancer, she busied herself with getting shot, thrown at walls and through tables, stabbed, burned and tattooed. I think it’s a sign. She’s commented once or twice that I seem more distant these days. I think she even pulled the word ‘aloof’ out of her thesaurus once. I usually dismiss it as fatigue, adding a leer, which is sure to make her blush as she realizes exactly what I’m alluding to. Top it off with a smart crack about her little feet, or her lust for latex, and she’s completely deflected, without my ever having to explain to her that if I show her too much love, too much affection, then somehow, some way, the powers that be will find a way to take her away from me, again, and no doubt kick the crap outta her along the way. No, better that she think I am your typical male sex pig, with no sense of restraint, than for her to know that I’m scared. Afraid of loving her, afraid of losing her. Which, of course, brings us to Walter… Apparently we’re brain sharing tonight, for I feel him nuzzling my hair the moment I think his name, and although his words are fuzzy and sleep-thickened, I can make out the intent clear as day: “…mmm…love you…” Something like an icicle takes up residence in my left ventricle, while someone puts a match to the lighter fluid that has filled the right one, and a small shiver works it’s way up my spine. It should be easy to say back. Just to toss off those simple words like they were lighter than air. I could do it now, I think. He’s practically unconscious. Hell, he might not even know. I could just turn in his arms, give him a smile, maybe a kiss on the cheek, and just say it: “I love you, Walter.” I turn in his arms. I smile. I give him a kiss on the cheek. I open my mouth and say, “Me, too.” He doesn’t respond, and I sigh, thinking that at least I came close. Then I remember that close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and I sigh again, a little louder. “Stop it.” His voice is low and gruff, barely stirring the air between us, but it’s firm and understandable nevertheless, and his arms tighten their grip around me. I can feel his hands moving over my back, writing comfort in an alien sign language. I should tell him now, I think. Just say it. What’s the deal anyway? It’s just three words, for God’s sake. What could possibly happen if I just opened my mouth and— And just like that, my traitorous mind shows me exactly what could happen, all in a glorious and frightening Technicolor that I am incapable of in real life: --Walter dead, lying naked and utterly motionless, except for the carbon pulsing through his veins— --Walter being shot over and over again, by any one of a thousand ‘most wanted’ psychos— --Walter being taken from me, taken like Scully, like Sam… --and finally, and somehow the worst of all, Walter simply turning and walking away, rejecting me body and soul when I have finally laid myself bare and defenseless before him. This last thought is enough to make me physically shudder, and I feel Walter’s muscles tense up in automatic response. “Sorry,” I mutter, and isn’t it just like me, never mind the irony, that I can apologize for anything, anytime, just like that, but can’t seem to make the leap from loving my man to telling him that. “Hey,” He’s whispering now, tickling my ear with the weight of his words. “I know what you’re thinking. I got the message loud and clear tonight. Be easy, Fox. It’s enough.” I’m not sure I understand what he’s talking about, but he’s settling next to me again, still holding me tightly. Now, though, I can feel that certain tension that signals consciousness slowly seeping out of his muscles, which indicates to me that his wakefulness was a minor aberration at best, most likely a lucid moment in the midst of a dream that he won’t even remember in the morning. “Shh…” he says, resting his cheek on the top of my head. For a moment I just lie still and unthinking, enjoying the full sensation of being completely enveloped in my lover’s embrace. His touch, the warmth of his body, his distinctive scent, all combine to worm their way into my heart and soothe the ache there, and I think I might actually sleep some time this night, when I replay his words in my mind. I won’t wake him. He works tomorrow. Instead, I’ll try to make sense of his words by recalling the scenario that he mentioned. I hope to glean some understanding of what he’s saying from the night’s events. I have to grin ruefully into the darkness as I realize that I am profiling my own damned love life. Well, I guess it’s like they say: you can take the profiling away from the behaviorist, but… I don’t know why he made such a big deal over supper. I mean, he was working all day, and I’m here—why wouldn’t I cook? Okay, maybe just the concept of Fox Mulder cooking was enough to surprise him. Let’s face it, I’m always going to be more “Nigella Bites” than “Martha Stewart Living”, but it takes a special kind of stupid to fuck up stir-fry, right? I mean, what is there to it? Dump veggies in a pan. Stir. Fry. Fait accompli. Hell, it’s probably his favorite because it is so simple. Even I couldn’t screw it up. As for the wine, well, hell, it was on sale, and since I was there picking up beer for the weekend anyway…. So, the food was edible and he had something to wash it down with. Big deal. It’s certainly no soliloquy under a balcony, now is it? We didn’t do anything else all night. After we ate, I left him in the tender care of the couch and the television, while I checked my email and spent a few minutes browsing for any new and interesting adult sites. He knows what I think of CNN and their subversion of honest journalism, but he likes it, or at least says he does, and I don’t mind. Usually he just watches the ‘top stories tonight’, and by the time they get to ‘in other news’, I’m already shutting down the computer. And tonight was no exception. I heard channels changing, and I knew he was ready for company again. I know he enjoys our quiet nights, nights that I’m not away, that he’s not swamped with work. Nights when it’s just him and I, with no visitors (not even Scully), no agenda (beyond microwave popcorn) and no work (definitely not a problem for me anymore). He claims those are the best nights, just the two of us, goofing on the couch with a video or two for company. And he says he doesn’t always hate my choice of movies… It’s not like I was consciously trying to find one he would like tonight. I just remembered him mentioning kind of off hand like one night that he wanted to see this old gangster flick again, and saw it there at the store. And I had a coupon… Well, we almost didn’t get to see the movie at all, as Walter spent a long time impressing upon me his feelings on the wisdom of my viewing choice. And by impressing, I mean kisses so fervent that he had me gasping and hard in minutes. I think he likes to tease me, and I certainly don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, couch time is governed by Walter’s rules of conduct. He’s the driver on this particular relationship bus, and I am more than content to just sit in the first seat behind him. So we sat close, played with more popcorn than we ate, and played with each other when the movie dragged a bit. Which I’m pleased to note, was just often enough. I made sure he knew his distractions were more than welcome, enthusiastically returning every kiss, every pat, every sly grope. Good thing we’d both seen the movie before. He had me out of my mind and out of my clothes at roughly the same time. I think that’s the time when those wretched words are closest to being said. And not just because my brain is suddenly fragmenting into so many pretty lights, or because my craving for his touch is so extreme that I’d do anything for it. No, it’s because of what I see in him. Walter likes to watch me cum. I have no idea what possible appeal this can have for him, but there it is. Tonight we went from hot to hotter to hottest with very little in-between. It seemed that one moment I was feeding Walter popcorn, shivering when his mouth lingered over my salty fingers just a little too long, and the next thing I knew, we were in bed, splendidly naked, and his big hands were gently but insistently guiding me down onto his sheathed erection. I swear I can still feel his fingers digging into my flesh, even as I remember how he let me set my own pace, let me find a rhythm that suited both of us. I shivered as our positions allowed for deepest penetration, and let out some sort of cry, not one of pain but of passion, and I heard him clearly say, “Open your eyes, Fox.” I did, of course. Hell, if Kim at work can’t say no to him when he asks her over the intercom to cut her lunch hour short, what chance did I have? I looked at him, and he looked back, and it was like he was even more inside of me. Not just my ass, but my heart, my lungs, my blood, and my bones. Every cell in my body suffused with his strength, his passion, and most of all his love. I couldn’t pull my gaze from his, and I suddenly felt even more naked, as if that were possible, as he scrutinized me carefully and thoroughly, as if looking for the X that would point out the treasure on the heat flushed map of my face. He chose then to increase the speed of our coupling, and I cried out as he found that spot too long reserved for simple medical procedures, and I could feel myself tipping over the edge. I threw my full weight onto him then, and something both widened and darkened his eyes. I almost felt like I could fall into them. And he said. “I love you, Fox. Cum for me.” All those years at the bureau, and everyone always claimed I couldn’t follow a simple directive. I felt his orgasm deep inside me moments after I had exploded all over myself, and him, and then he was pulling me down on top of him, licking away droplets of sweat from my skin, still murmuring softly, the words muffled against my chest, my neck, then finally my mouth, but I knew what they were. I could only whisper his name over and over again, clinging to him with shaking ferocity, and return his kisses as they grew softer and softer, and then I was drifting away, still feeling him inside me… I woke up when he slipped under the covers beside me, and realized I’d missed yet another round of afterglow, and I think I tried to say something then. He simply kissed the words away, and settled next to me with a sigh… And now here we are. Feeling almost timid, I reach out one hand and cup the side of my lover’s face, letting my thumb lightly stroke his cheek while I sort out the last of my thoughts. And now I think I know what he knows. At least, if my profile has been correct, I’m almost confident that he understands. An old adage, but one that actually applies to real life; sometimes actions do speak louder than words. Or, if not louder, at least loud enough for now. I stretch away a little, peering through the darkness to see Walter’s face. He’s smiling in his sleep, and I match the little grin as I tuck myself back in to his chest, and whisper softly, “Me, too.” ***
If I send you roses for no reason at all-
Oh, I’m just a man, that’s the way I was made.
If you should wake up and catch me watchin’ you sleep,
Repeat Chorus
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