“Fox on the run…”

With the refrain of the pop song he probably liked least in the world still playing in his mind, Mulder struggled blearily into consciousness. As the last vestiges of sleep rolled off of him, he wondered briefly who had replaced his eyes with boiling hot marbles, decided it was the same person who had rammed the steel spike into his stomach, and then realized he was alone.

He sat up abruptly, and the dull throb in his temples spiked angrily, making him cry out involuntarily and put his hands to his head, sure that his skull was about to shatter. After a moment or two, it didn’t, and he opened his eyes experimentally.

The operation was a success, and the room slowly came into focus. Large room, beige, generic mountain art on the walls. Expensive looking carpet, real wood dresser, big television. Crappy clock radio informing him it was far too early to be awake while chirping out lousy A.M. radio seventies pop. He gave it a baleful glare, then took note of his clothes scattered on the floor. He thought there should be something else in the room, and it took several minutes to figure out that the something missing was his lover.

“Walter?” The query came out husky and abused. He tried clearing his throat, and it only made him feel nauseated. Lowering his head, he took several shallow breaths through his mouth until the churning in his stomach abated, then decided he should get up and find the other man, make sure he was all right.

This decided, he lay back down again. Taking a second or two to relish the softness of the down-stuffed pillow under his head, he closed his eyes and started categorizing the various and sundry aches and pains in his body, skipping briefly over the one that flared up in his worried heart. He ran a hand experimentally over his torso, winced, and recounted the events of the previous night.

‘Stupid,’ he berated himself immediately. It had been stupid not to leave the bar together. Stupid to let Walter go with a kiss and a “be right there”, just so he could get the website address for the club. And double stupid for not watching out for strangers bearing homophobic gifts. After the parking lot slurpee incident less than a week ago, he should have been more cautious. After all, he was a trained field investigator. Or he had been. Checking out an area before approaching it should have been second nature to him. It used to be.

Apparently it still was to Skinner, else he never would have had his gun. What had he told the cop again? That he’d seen some suspicious looking guy skulking around the parking lot. That he’d gotten his gun out of the truck, and then headed back to the exit to get Mulder. That they must have missed each other somehow in the rows of cars, and then—

‘And then I caved and he choked,’ he thought. And what should have been a simple “so long, asshole”, had turned into an ass-kicking he definitely could have lived without, and another bitter shot to add to Walter’s already potent neurosis cocktail.

Not that Walter had said anything. But he didn’t have to. Mulder knew his lover pretty well by now, and he had picked up on the other man’s subtle cues, not needing to be a psychologist to assess the damage.

He remembered Walter cradling him in his arms, his litany of whispered apologies nearly drowning out the wail of the ambulance and police sirens. Shades of gray repeatedly washed over the scene for him, as he struggled to maintain consciousness, and time seemed to jump. The next thing he knew, Walter was helping him into the ambulance, mindful of his injuries, and he recalled the big man hovering over him just a little too much for the paramedics. He thought he remembered one of them trying to brush his lover off. Instead, Walter had brushed them off, growling at them until he had assured himself that Mulder was going to be okay. 

He remembered drifting for a few minutes then, floating away on the sound of Walter’s voice, feeling Walter’s hand gripping his tightly. 

Then coming back to reality with a howl when it was physically determined that he was all right, save for a few cuts and bruises. Nothing was broken, but that didn’t stop the pain. He recalled ice, bandages and a shot, and blearily looking for Walter, finding him standing outside of the ambulance talking to a man in a uniform-a cop, he thought, but couldn’t be sure. He saw Walter point at him, and then show the uniformed man his gun. Those shades of gray had begun sneaking up on him again, and he wondered for a moment if he was going to die as he glimpsed a vision in white—unarguably the ugliest angel he had ever seen...

He had roused himself when he heard Walter’s voice.

“Fox? Fox, come on, wake up.”

He could still hear the naked plea that had replaced Walter’s characteristic growl, and he remembered being a little scared by it. Walter’s hands were gripping his own again, tight enough to hurt.

One of the paramedics pushed a pill into his mouth, and he swallowed reflexively even as the pressure on his mouth made him groan. Walter was saying something, but he couldn’t hear him properly…something about a hospital.

He jerked himself out of his memory with a start, thinking ‘am I in a hospital?’ immediately followed by ‘why am I not in the hospital?’

“Because I hate hospitals,” he muttered aloud. And Walter knew that. He supposed he must have made some complaint, or argument that had him now lying in a comfortable hotel bed rather than a rock hard industrial one, but he honestly couldn’t recall. All that was left in his mind was the memory of a long drive through the dark, Walter’s touch, and Walter’s voice—more apologies, more assurances.

With that last thought, he decided to try sitting up again. He was more successful this time, and by successful, he meant keeping his balance in an upright position without wanting to faint or throw up. Eyes open again, with a nasty throb in the right one that told him more about the shiner he was probably sporting than any mirror could. He glanced down at himself, and was less than thrilled to see the huge boot-shaped bruise that had bloomed on his stomach overnight.

Any thoughts of just lying back and wallowing in his own battered lack of fabulousness were squelched by Walter’s persistent absence. Moving like a ninety year old with bladder control issues, he pushed back the covers on the bed, and carefully swung his legs over the side. Another few minutes to debate the merits of this action with his aching head and rolling stomach, and then he forced himself to his feet, wondering again why Walter wasn’t here, then wondering where exactly here was.

Feeling naked and achy, because he was, he moved slowly to the bureau, and discovered the answer to both nagging questions. A note, scrawled on Banff Springs Hotel stationary, short, to the point and in Walter’s neat hand.

You’re okay. Get some more sleep.
Back soon. 
No worries.
Walter

No worries. That line nagged at him for a moment. It sounded familiar, and he thought he might have read it somewhere, seen it in a book or on TV or something. And he seemed to remember that ‘no worries’ was some sort of code in the story for ‘plenty of fucking worries’.

He thought he should take Walter’s advice and go back to bed. Everything in his body was aching, not just his head and stomach, the two main targets of his assailant. More sleep would definitely help, and maybe when he woke up, Walter would be there, and they could talk about what had happened. And his lover would make him feel better, take care of him, help him.

Decision made, he hobbled painfully into the bathroom and started the shower, glancing only briefly at himself in the mirror, grimacing at the butterfly stitches and confirming the black eye. He wasn’t going to win any beauty contest today, that was a fact.

He thought about his and Walter’s conversation on the mountain just the day before as he let the hot water wash away a lot of parking lot grit and a little tension. He thought about where they were, where they’d been, and where they planned to go as he accidentally re-opened the cut on his forehead. He thought about his lover’s state of mind and those whispered apologies as he rinsed shampoo out of his hair and groaned aloud when the water pressure catalogued all the bruises on his head and body for him.

It took a lot longer than usual to dress, and he dimly realized that they would soon have to be finding a Laundromat or a clothing store. Jeans, t-shirt, socks, then lacing up his boots with all the efficiency of a three year old with attention deficit disorder.

He thought he should be angry when he couldn’t find the truck keys, but it only increased his worry, while at the same time giving him a clearer sense of his destination. He found his light jacket, his wallet and a growing sense of urgency, and left the room, hoping he wouldn’t scare the desk clerk too badly with his grim visage when he asked for the nearest rental car agency.