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Never Ending Story
“Rhymes that keep their secrets
Walter Skinner looked across the table, where his best agent, worst headache and finest lover sat picking at his food, making what appeared to be a spaceship out of mashed potatoes. He made a mental note to not let Fox pick out the videos next time they went to Blockbuster, then cleared his throat conspicuously. Fox added peas and carrots to the mess in the center of his plate. Walter sighed and turned back to his own supper. He finished eating in silence, every once in a while glancing over at the enigmatic young man he had taken into his life, thinking that there were easier things than loving Fox Mulder-like nailing jello to a tree, for instance. Aside from the age thing, the gay thing and the we’re-both-government-employees-what-the-hell-are-we-thinking thing, there was also the question that burned brightest in Walter’s heart and mind. How do you love a man who can’t love himself? Well, no one said life was easy. Finishing the last of his supper, Walter stood, picked up his empty plate, and cleared his throat again. Fox looked up from his plate, startled back to earth from whatever planet he had been inhabiting during the meal, looked guilty, as usual, then stood as well, plate-art in hand, and came around the table to stand next to Walter. “I’ll get the dishes,” he said, reaching for the empty plate his lover held. Walter didn’t relinquish it, however. Instead he held his hand out for Mulder’s plate. Again the quick guilty look, the one that made Walter want to go out and shoot every person who had taught Fox to look like that, and the plate, missing none of the food that had been put on it earlier, was thrust almost angrily at him. Walter regarded the sculpture for several minutes, turning the plate this way and that, until Fox was nearly squirming. He set it back down on the table, adjusted an angle, and then declared, “I like it.” Fox was taken aback. He had expected some surly comment about his eating habits, his attention span, and maybe even a stab about starving children in Africa, just for good measure. He realized that Walter had done it again. He seemed to always know just what Mulder was used to, then made sure he always did the opposite. It made for a torturous guessing game, and he thought again that there must be easier things than loving Walter Skinner-like not breathing, for example. Aside from the age thing, the gay thing, and the nightly-coin-toss thing, there was also the question that burned brightest in Fox’s heart and mind. How do you love a man when you can’t even love yourself? It’s worth it, though, thought Walter as he smiled at Mulder’s shocked expression. He’s exasperating, annoying, closed off, guilt ridden, orally fixated, and a pain in the ass. He’s also brilliant, beautiful, caring, orally fixated, and I love him. “You’re no Michealangelo, but I like what you did with the peas.” Walter smiled at Fox, gave him a sloppy kiss on his still gaping mouth, then turned away to put his own plate into the sink. Mulder followed him and put his arms around him from behind while Walter ran the water into the sink, resting his head on the older man’s shoulder, silently relishing the strong muscular back and the safety he found there. It’s worth it, he thought, as Walter turned to face him and he found himself looking deep into smiling brown eyes. He’s exasperating, annoying, rigid, anal retentive and a pain in the ass. He’s also brilliant, gorgeous, loving, anal retentive, and he loves me. “Jello,” said Walter, kissing his cheek. “Heads or tails,” was the reply.
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