“You take it on faith, you take it on heart, the waiting is the hardest part…”

Mulder killed Tom Petty’s whining along with the car’s engine, then just sat quietly for a moment, staring out the window at the Blazer parked next to him, and wishing he’d taken an aspirin or ten before leaving the hotel. 

He’d bullied the desk clerk into giving him both directions and a courtesy car, and had found his way easily through the small mountain town to the Bow Falls turn off. He’d followed the road signs to this parking lot near the top of a forested mountain, and just beyond the perimeter of the lot he could see a hiking trail snaking up into the trees. He opened the car window, breathed cool, clean air, and could hear water splashing in the distance.

He got out of the car, locked doors and windows, and the breeze that ruffled his hair felt good on his cut and bruised face. He stood silently, tipped his face into the breeze, and the sounds of the forest soothed him. Then, with a resolute shrug, he started up the path.

Once out of view of the main road, the path steepened dramatically, and the sound of water increased in volume. Mulder felt something pulling uncomfortably in his gut, and he put a hand to his stomach as he continued along the path. Through the trees to the left of the path he caught glimpses of a stream winding it’s way through the woods, and he almost veered off to investigate, but he knew where his priorities lay, and it wasn’t with a babbling brook.

A set of rough hewn wooden steps had been slotted into the side of a steep hill, and he frowned grimly at them, then resolutely started climbing them, one hand still holding his stomach, where the bruised muscles complained painfully, while he used the other to grip a wooden banister of sorts, to help pull his body up. Surprisingly enough, his headache seemed to be fading, and he attributed this to the mountain air, then silently chastised himself for sounding like a travel brochure.

The first thing he saw at the top of the stairs was the waterfall. As he paused to catch his breath, he marveled at the torrent that the stream had become. While he had been ascending the mountain, the stream had been descending from the snow capped peak until it reached this spot, where it looked like part of the mountain had been sheared off somehow, and the water spilled over the edge with a muted roar. 

A moment later, he spotted Skinner sitting on a large rock overlooking the falls, and something cold and heavy that had been residing in his heart fell away with a sigh.

Walter had his back to him, and he approached the rock warily, not wanting to startle his lover, but unable to believe that the man wouldn’t know he was there. After all, he thought, where else would I be?

He stepped on a twig that snapped loudly, and he saw Walter’s head jerk up a little, but that was it. He made no move to turn around, no sound to greet Mulder. Disconcerted but undaunted, Mulder continued his approach. As he got closer, he saw that the rock was carved in places, and he had a suspicion that Walter had led him to a make-out point. He almost smiled at that. Almost.

He reached the back of the rock, and still Walter remained motionless and mute. With one hand he reached out towards his lover, then hesitated, and dropped his questing fingers to brush lightly across large faded but still legible letters on his side of the rock: W.K.+M.T.  A thought crossed his mind, and he hoped fervently that W.K. and M.T. were happy, and that he and Walter could find there way back to a place where they might want to carve their initials in a rock.  Then he came around to the front of the stone slab, and sat down next to the other man, surprised at how good it felt just to sit. He hadn’t come that far, but apparently mountain hiking of any duration was not on the prescribed list of recovery aids for a parking lot ass kicking.

He turned his head up and closed his eyes, letting the warm sun soak into his skin. It was weak warmth at best, this far up, and he was glad to have worn a jacket, regardless of the sunlight.

A stifled choking noise caused him to turn his attention to the man beside him.

Skinner had one leg pulled up to his chest while the other dangled over the edge of the rock. His hands were clasped around his knee, and he was pressing his cheek to his leg, face turned away from Mulder. His shoulders were shaking a little, but that was the only indication of his distress.

Mulder watched him for a long moment, feeling vaguely uneasy. Finally, he reached out a hand, but paused a hair’s breath away from touching his lover’s broad back, unable to bring himself to make contact, suddenly unnerved by the broken slump of Walter’s shoulders.

Neither man moved for a moment, and then Walter turned and raised his head.

He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his eyes were dark and shiny with repressed tears. A single wet track coursed down one cheek, evidence of a slip in his desperate bid for control.

Mulder made some small dismayed noise, but Walter’s words rolled over it, thick and gruff.

“Fox, you shouldn’t be up.”

Mulder pulled a face at his lover, a ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ frown, and his hand finally found the will to complete it’s journey as he splayed his fingers across the cotton-clad expanse of Walter’s back.

Walter appeared not to notice the gesture, and continued staring at his lover. As Mulder locked eyes with him, another tear slipped free, and Walter looked away, choosing to stare at the water crashing on jagged rocks far below them.

“How’s your head?” he muttered.

“Walter,” Mulder kept his voice low but firm. “I am going to be fine. How’s *your* head?” He squeezed the other man’s shoulder, hard.

Walter didn’t answer at first—couldn’t answer. Then he brushed Mulder’s hand off his back where it was still testing the tension there, and took both hands in his own in a tight grip—almost too tight. Mulder felt something in his fingers shift painfully, but said nothing.

Walter’s touch went from painful to nearly non-existent in the next heartbeat, and Mulder closed his eyes with a sigh, feeling those familiar fingertips brushing lightly over his features, assessing the damage to his face and soothing it at the same time.

He opened his eyes abruptly when Walter spoke.

“I once said I’d never be a party to murder.” He forced the words out in a trembly sort of a sigh that had Mulder leaning in close to hear him.

“In defense, or resistance. To save myself, or others.” His hands were back around Mulder’s, crushing them again. “But never…

“Last night, Fox, I would have gladly emptied my gun into that fucking bastard—“

“Walter—“

“Like Krycek. Without just cause. For no reason—no good reason at all—“

“Walter—“

“But he was hurting you! That’s all I could see! And I wanted to end it.” 

Mulder didn’t know if Walter was talking about Krycek now, or the asshole from last night. Either way, he knew that the words had to come out. He knew that his lover had at last confronted this particular inner demon, and he had to verbalize it to best know how to fight it. So he stopped trying to interrupt for a moment, gave back as good as he was getting in the hand –squeezing department, and let Walter have his say.

“I only knew that I had to stop it! And something cold—cold and bitter—came over me—I don’t know how else to describe it. I would have shot him again. And again. And—“ He turned his face away from Mulder again, afraid of what he might see reflected in his lover’s eyes. “And I didn’t have to. It wasn’t self-defense. It was murder. Plain and simple. I’m a murderer. A killer. A thug.”

“You didn’t kill that guy last night,” Mulder offered in a whisper.

“I knew if I even put one bullet into him, a standard shoulder take down—“ he laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t have stopped. I would have blown him away.”

“Walter.” Mulder’s voice was loud and clear now, and he jerked his hands out of Walter’s grip, taking his face in his hands and forcing him to look at him. 

“You listen to me. What you did last night—what you did to Alex Krycek—it was no more than what needed to be done. Don’t you ever doubt that. Are you hearing me?” He wanted to shake Walter, maybe slap him a little. He settled for tracing another errant tear with his thumb, brushing it away with infinite gentleness. Then it was his turn to look away, not in fear or embarrassment, but in order to gather his thoughts into a cohesive narrative of sorts.

“Walter, when I first met you, I thought you were a typical bureau paper pusher. Another by-the-book jerk that would stand between me and the truth I was seeking so desperately. I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t even want to know you.”

Walter’s eyes got wide, and Mulder hurried his next words.

“But you showed me something different. You showed me that you were a man of honor. Of integrity.” His hands slipped down Walter’s cheeks to rest on his shoulders. “You stood between me and a shitstorm, and never even got your shirt dirty—“

Walter snorted derisively at that, and Mulder did give him a little shake this time.

“Don’t, Walter. I’m not stupid. I know the things you did. The things you had to do. You had to walk that line daily. That line that would keep me honest. Keep me whole. And you did it right. Even when I thought—“ He bit off the rest of that sentence, knowing Walter wouldn’t hear the rest if he articulated the hurt he’d felt when he’d thought he’d been betrayed. “You never stopped being that man I learned to admire. That man I learned to love.” His voice dropped. “To trust.” Now he glared hard at Skinner, desperate to make him listen, to make him believe. “He wouldn’t stop, and you knew that. You only did what needed to be done. You protected me, and you did it the only way you could. It was right. And last night you did it again…” Mulder shook his head even before Walter could respond. “Don’t tell me what you did was immoral, or evil, or bad. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. And you know that. Walter, I trust you. Why can’t you?”

He didn’t think Walter would answer, but a moment later, soft words tumbled from the older man’s mouth.

“I want to.”

“Then know this, Walter: I will always trust you. Trust your actions, trust your beliefs. And trust your love for me enough to tell you when I think you’re wrong.

“You’re not wrong.”

A calm fell between them then. Walter’s shoulders grew less stiff under Mulder’s hands, and he loosened his grip, but didn’t let go entirely. His head was starting to ache harder now, but he ignored it, waiting to see if his lover had been paying attention.

“Is this what I’m here for?” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Mulder, but his lover hung on every word. “This is what I’m here for.” He gave Mulder a sad smile. “This is what you’re here for.”

“I guess it is.”

Walter hugged him fiercely then, wrapping his arms around him tight enough to make him groan.

“Oh, hell, Fox, I’m sorry! You shouldn’t even be up—I—I’m so sorry!”

“Walter?” 

“Fox?”

“Get a little, give a little, big guy.” He slid off the rock, winced at the pins and needles in his feet, and gave the falls one more glance, thinking he might like to come back here again some time. He held out a hand, and Walter took it, and stood in front of him.

“Take me home, Walter. Or, barring that, take me to a classy hotel, make a fuss over me, and show me you love me.”

They exchanged weary smiles.

“Are you looking for a little comfort, Puppy?” Walter may have been talking about himself.

“Aren’t we all?”

“I guess so.”

“Besides,” he added as they clasped hands and started walking back towards the steps, “I don’t think I’ll be ready for any of my usual athletic sex games until, oh, at least after noon.”

No laugh, despite his hope for it, but an increased pressure on his hand, and another smile, and Mulder thought that might be the best he could hope for, for now. He knew the bridge had been crossed, and he trusted himself, trusted Walter, trusted the future.