I know he hates this song, and I know why he hates it, but he hasn’t touched the radio. His lips are pursed into a thin line, and he keeps glancing back and forth between the radio and the passing scenery, but he does nothing. I know he’s deferring to me yet again, thinking of me and my feelings, and shelving his own in some dusty linen closet in the back of his mind. It’s supposed to make me feel better, I think, but it makes me feel like crap.

He’s been doing it since our trip began, and at first I don’t know if I even noticed. You would think all sorts of bells and whistles would go off whenever he acquiesced to anything I wanted, since it’s definitely not his usual m.o. I’ve worked with the man long enough to know just how obstinate he can be. Hell, I’ve seen him argue points he doesn’t even believe in, just to be the Devil’s Advocate, just to be contradictory. And yet, when he simply agreed with everything I was doing, I just took it in stride.

And people say he’s self-absorbed.

I’ve taken him on one hell of a wild ride this past week, and the only serious complaint he made was when I let him get his ass kicked in some gay bar parking lot. And even then, there were no arguments, no questioning my actions. Hell, he’s the one who took care of me at the end of that little adventure. How messed up is that?

Maybe I scared him. Or pissed him off so badly that there are no words for it. I mean, how often have I ever let him see me out of control? Oh, right, never. Except for when we…

Or maybe, just maybe, he understands. Maybe he’s got his own self-doubts, insecurities. And maybe he wants me to know that he is okay with all this, with me, warts and all. Like I’m okay with him. And by okay, I mean helplessly, stupidly in love with him. I can’t imagine having gone through this alone. Nor can I imagine doing it with anyone else but him.

I touch his arm lightly, and he startles a bit, and then gives me what I suppose he thinks is a reassuring smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

I snap off the radio and take his hand in one smooth motion, and his smile becomes genuine, if only for a moment.

“I don’t mind that song,” he lies.

“It’s not really to my taste,” I tell him, and the look I get for that is something like one of gratitude. Again I think of all the support he’s given me on this trip, and I feel like there has to be something more I can give him than this. Some way to show him what his faith and trust have done for me besides turning off some shitty pop song that has no doubt made his life miserable in the past.

I squeeze his hand harder, then release it and let my touch fall onto one denim-clad thigh. I pretend to concentrate on the road ahead, but my peripheral vision doesn’t miss the widening of his smile. I recognize it as his ‘I’m twelve and you just offered me a trip to the circus’ smile, and I know it should make me feel better, but coupled with the fading bruises on his face, it just makes me feel even crappier.

I feel his hand cover mine, and the muscles under my fingertips relax as he leans back in his seat.

“How are you doing, puppy?” I ask him quietly, and something in my voice must alert him somehow, as the smile fades and is replaced by something keen and curious. He’s in profiling mode without even realizing it, I think. He doesn’t answer for a moment, and I keep my gaze firmly forward.

“I’m fine, Walter,” he finally says, and his tone is soft, almost hesitant. I don’t trust it.

“Fine?” I ask, and let my hand rub softly down to his knee and back up to his thigh, while his hand chases mine, catching it when I stop, and our fingers entwine.

“Fine.” His tone is firmer, and he offers me a smile, and I wonder which one of us he’s trying to convince. “Good. Glad to be here.”

“But?”

His reply is to clutch tighter to my hand, and I’m glad for cruise control and an open patch of road, since I don’t think he’d let me shift gears right now even if I wanted to.

“And they call me Spooky.” He mutters this, and laughs dryly.

“Just paying attention.” So far I haven’t been looking at him, but I risk glancing over now, and just catch something dull and achy on his face before he covers it with that infuriating lack of expression that I recognize from a hundred budget reviews.

“It’s nothing, Walter. Just a little tired, is all.”

Fox Mulder saying he’s a little tired is like Noah saying it’s a little damp outside.

We spent most of yesterday and last night in bed. Watched TV, ate, fooled around, talked a little, fooled around a little more. Mutually decided that despite an errant madness on my part that suggested we spend the rest of our lives at the Banff Springs Hotel, preferably in bed, home was definitely where we wanted to be.

I know he’s thinking about Scully. He knows I’m thinking about work. We’re both thinking about the future, although I haven’t got the balls to admit it, and apparently he doesn’t either, because neither one of us mentions anything smacking of commitment. We know it’s there, and I guess that’s enough for now, although my mind keeps going back to that little jewelry store in that little town with the craft shop, and I get these thoughts…

Those thoughts can wait, I decide. Right now, my puppy is tired, and, truth be told, I’m starting to wear a little myself.

We’ve been driving all day. There’s an unspoken sense of urgency now, unlike the trip here, which keeps us both going. No unscheduled shopping trips today, meals taken on the move, crossing the border without incident, stopping for gas only when we’re practically on E. I can’t explain it, and don’t know if I want to. I have a sudden longing for my couch, my bed, hell, even my paperwork.

I thought homesickness was just for kids at summer camp.

With a little effort, I disengage myself from Mulder’s hand, and he gives me a quizzical look. I ignore it and unfasten his seat belt.

“C’mere,” I say, putting my arm around his shoulders and tugging gently.

“I thought there were seatbelt laws in this state,” he counters, but I get no resistance from his body as I pull him to my side, and then push his head towards my lap.

“Are you sure about this, Walter?” his voice is muffled now, but if I look down I know I’ll see a smile. “I mean, do you know what the AMA statistics are on the incidents of car crashes involving—“

“Shhh.” I cut him off in mid-sentence. Part of me is dimly grateful for the roominess of the truck cab, the space between the wheel and myself. Another part is thinking about those statistics, and wondering if we want to test those odds. 

Instead, I just pet him softly, and then most of my thoughts concentrate on the way the cropped silk of his hair feels against my fingertips. Definitely a sensation I could never tire of.

“Walter…?” 

“Uncomfortable?” I ask.

“Nope.” In fact, draped at the angle he is now, his legs are stretched out, and despite what I was thinking earlier about the amount of room in the truck, I realize that there probably aren’t a lot of vehicles that he is completely comfortable in, with those long legs and all. I feel his agreement of this assessment as his body relaxes and becomes a little heavier. This is not a bad thing, I think.

“Good. Sleep. I’ll wake you when I’ve found us a place to stay for the night.”

When I feel his head moving under my hand, it’s not an argument, nor is it an attempt to distract me from my driving. Instead, it’s a jaw-stretching yawn, followed by an almost embarrassed laugh.

I relax my grip on his hair as I feel him turning his face up to me. I glance down between my legs to catch another of those ‘Sally Field at the Oscars’ grins from him, and again I want to feel good about his gratitude, and again part of me balks at it, thinking I owe him everything, and he owes me nothing.

I let it go as he turns back and his eyes slip shut, and then I’m just touching him again, his hair, the side of his face. I see a signpost up ahead listing potential towns, potential beds, and I pick the nearest one, making a silent wish for decent water pressure and a king-size bed.