"…I'm still standing better than I ever did. Lookin' like a true survivor and feelin' like a little kid…"

I woke up startled and almost tumbled out of the bed as Mulder shoved me hard, some incoherent moaning noise coming out of him. I hauled myself up to a half sitting position, coming more awake as he flailed wildly beside me, all arms and legs and mindless thrashings.  Nothing new, but it caught me off guard nevertheless. It had been a while since it had happened, but I knew what to do.

I scooped him into my arms and held him tightly. It was a struggle to contain my sleeping lunatic as I wrapped my arms around him. I ignored the occasional slap and kick as a limb broke free from my embrace, and spoke quietly, but in a clear firm voice that he usually responded to.

"Mulder! Mulder, can you hear me? Wake up! Fox, it's me. It's Walter."

"No-o-o-o!" he wailed, still struggling, still sleeping. That sound made my heart ache in a way that a million nanobots could never do, and I know that pain was reflected in my voice, which took on a more desperate note.

"Come on, Mulder; come on, Fox. Come back to me. It's okay, Mulder, come on…" My words trailed off as I felt him stiffen in my arms, then droop, lax and suddenly heavier as the tension began bleeding off his body. With relief I loosened my grip a little and dropped a kiss on his sweat-dampened hair. He was still muttering, I thought I caught the word "clown", and then he sighed and I heard him quite clearly say, "Okay, okay, I'm with you." His hands, which had been clenching and unclenching reflexively now clutched at my arms, and I gave him a squeeze in return, then reached one hand over to the nightstand, to turn on the small lamp there.

He chose that moment to open his eyes, and the sudden brightness made him squint. His upper lip curled in a curious, dog-like manner that I don't think he was even aware of, and he brought one hand up to shield his eyes. His features relaxed, and he gusted another huge sigh.  I held him tightly, but didn't speak, soothing him in the only way I knew he'd allow right now.

His night terrors are extreme to say the least. I suspect they would drive lesser men mad, as threatening and sleep depriving as they seem to be. He doesn't often talk about content, but I've heard him call out during them, made out occasional words, and guessed a lot during the course of our relationship, and some of the things that appear to be going on during his nightmares even give me chills. It scares me to have to witness him enmeshed in his dreams; I can't imagine what it must be like to be an active participant.

Mulder loathes his nightmares. They don't scare him; he hates them.  He feels like their continued existence is a personal attack on his character, a reflection of weakness in him, some defect or flaw that makes him feel unworthy of compassion, incapable of love. And if I baby him at all when he wakes from one, if I even hint that I might be concerned about his reaction, it only seems to anger him, or make him feel worse. 

It's a touchy situation at best. I ache to tell him all those crappy cliches that mothers have been telling children since time out of mind, that it's okay, that he's safe, that I'm here, that I love him. But I know he won't hear me. Or if he does, he'll only be embarrassed, and think less of himself as a result. The first few times around this particular night-terror block, I tried to be the uber-protector, crooning affirmations like an idiot, only to have him turn away, rejecting me so thoroughly and completely you would have thought there was a steel wall between the two of us. Of course, in the rational light of day, he then felt just about as shitty as I did, and spent more time than is decent asking for forgiveness, blaming himself. But after a time, I thought back to my own past sleep-disorders, and life with Sharon, and I knew that Mulder and I weren't so different, after all.

I found the answer in brute force, in a sense. Oh, not pain, never that. And never anything against his will. I would never do that. No, I just provide a strong physical presence that Mulder can draw strength from, if he thinks he needs to, without asking, without fear of reprisal, or accusations. Rough affection can make him feel strong without feeling weak for needing it in the first place. Not the easiest task, and certainly not one I figured out overnight, but if Mulder was so easy to read, so easy to be with, I doubt the attraction would be the same. My mother always said I liked a challenge…

So, as usual, I just smiled as I held him close to my chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat slowing to something approaching normalcy as he came more fully awake.

"I feel—"

"Like hell," I finished for him, and got a sigh and a half-grin in response.

"Water? Aspirin?" I kept my voice purposely gruff, not thinking about his nightmare now, but about the amount of alcohol he'd consumed earlier.

"Mmm…in a minute." His voice was soft, but his grip was hard, as if he expected me to jump out of bed immediately, and he couldn't bear to let me go.

"One too many," I suggested, and got a curt nod and a murmured affirmative.  I noticed that he wasn't shaking off whatever it was that had haunted his sleep this night with his usual speed, and I surmised that it must have been a bad one, indeed. Either that, or maybe the addition of the drinking we'd done earlier. Whatever it was, it wasn't going away as fast as either one of us would have liked, so I opted, just this once, to press just a little more than usual, hoping I wouldn't hit one of those conversational landmines he has strewn so carefully across his psyche.

I touched the side of his face, lightly, stroking his scruffy cheek, then running my thumb briefly over his lower lip, making him look up at me. I gave him what I thought was a meaningful glance, and said, "Well, beer will do that to you." Even as I said it, I knew damned well that he wasn't lying here trembling in my arms because of a damned Bud Light. But I couldn't ask outright. I could only hope he would understand the meaning beneath my words.

"Wasn't the beer."

I admit, I was surprised. Sure, I'd been thinking about more than his potential hangover when I mentioned it, but I didn't really think he'd pick up on it. Or if he did, that he'd acknowledge it.  A bad one, I thought again. And then I didn't know what to say next, how to keep this wholly unexpected dialogue going, so, feeling like actions would speak louder than words, and probably be more appreciated, I carefully disengaged myself from his embrace, which got me a sigh but no comment, and got up to search out some form of hangover cure.

Mulder made a face as he swallowed the aspirins I handed him, then made another at the taste of the bathroom tap water, which was the only thing I had to offer him to wash down the pills. He handed the glass back with a groan and put his hand back over his eyes, not moving until I was back in bed with him. I held an arm out and he cuddled in close. 

After a few minutes time during which neither of us spoke, I gave him a searching look, which he mentally skittered away from, dropping his gaze and absently running his hand over my chest.  I think he was trying to distract me, and for a moment I almost considered letting him. But something dark and uncertain that I saw in his eyes before he looked away convinced me otherwise.

"Better?" I asked, touching his forehead lightly.

"Some," he said, pushing my hand away.

Another silence, this one bordering on awkward. He petted my chest again, and just as it suddenly occurred to me what he was doing, he spoke.

"Those guys were jerks." The words were soft, like he was having a hard time pushing them out of his mouth. I placed my hand over his to show him that I was not only in total agreement with this assessment, but that I knew how hard it was for him to talk at all right now.

"It happens, Mulder. You know that."

"I know, I know, but…" I got another troubled look and gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. "But, dammit, I'm forty. I'm too old for this!"

That didn't make sense at all, but I hoped if I just kept holding him, he'd enlighten me. And he did.

"I mean I just never thought about it, y'know? I thought fag bashing was for high school. That all that crap was done once I turned twenty-one.  I know what you're thinking. That we live with it everyday that we're together—with our co-workers—your co-workers," he amended hastily. "But somehow that's different. Not right, but, I don't know, understandable, somehow.  No, not understandable. Subtle. Just words, I guess.  Not so...It just never occurred to me that men—not boys—men—would want to—to—" He stuttered to a halt, gulped air for a moment or two, then resumed, still in a strident tone of voice that worried me.

"Men don't do this! Men don't throw things. Men don't beat the crap out of other men just because they're queer. It's a teenager thing—a college thing—a backassward redneck thing! I can't understand it, and it scares me, Walter."

I hastened to allay his fears. "It was just coke, Mulder. I can get a new shirt."

"No! That's not it at all. Don't you see what this really is, Walter? For the first time, I think, since we started seeing each other, I really feel like it's a dangerous thing.  I have to face the fact that—that you could die…"

"Fox—" I didn't want to hear the end of the sentence.

He was determined to get the words out. "Walter, you could die because I love you."

I think both of us were a little shaky after that. I know I had his hand in a death grip just above my heart, and he buried his face in my shoulder, breathing in short panting gasps, as though he'd just run a marathon.

But after the horrible implications of what he had said had time to run through my mind, I let go of his hand and tipped his face up to mine, gave him a rough kiss on the mouth, and asked,

"Is that what you dreamed tonight?"

He nodded.

"Mulder, listen to me." I found one of my old surly A.D. voices and put it on, making sure he was paying attention. "I am not going to die because of you."

He didn't look convinced.

"Either one of us, Mulder, could be in danger, anytime. I've told you that before. It's just life, and nobody gets anywhere giving in. Do you understand me?"

A tiny nod, this time.

"Besides," I adopted a lighter tone, "You're watching my back, right?"

A more positive nod, and a ghost of a smile flitting across his dark eyes, lightening them briefly.

"What's say we get in a bit more down time before the morning?" I pushed just one more time: "I'll stay up 'til you fall asleep."

"Promise?" 

Oh, Mulder, I thought, what must have gone on inside that brilliant mind of yours, to make you sound so unsure, so needy? I could only guess, but I didn't want to. 

"Of course." I replied easily, and kissed him again to seal the bargain. His mouth grew mobile under mine and I deepened the kiss.  He tasted a little like aspirin and a little like fear, and I tried to swallow both, to assuage his doubts, to let him rest.

He pulled his mouth off of mine with a gentle tug and closed his eyes, whispered, "Thanks, Walter," and squirmed in closer. I could feel his breath warm on my chest, and one hand stroked lazily up and down my flank, then settled with familiarity on my hip. He sighed once, and just before I felt the heaviness in his limbs and the slow settled breathing patterns that would signal to me his return to sleep, I swear I heard him whisper, "I trust you."

I wish I could say the same. Oh, not about Mulder. I trust the man with my life.  I just don't know if he can trust me with his.

Then he was fast asleep, and I was the one with all sorts of monsters capering and gibbering just beyond reach, keeping me from sleep. 

The sun was just coming up when I finally nodded off. Mulder had rolled away from me in his sleep, but as I drifted away into a swirling dream state populated with slurpees and rednecks, trucks and guns, aliens and rats, I thought I felt his hand brush mine.