From: Palinurus <palinurus@geocities.com>
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 1998 10:57:52 -0700
Subject: Silence, by Palinurus, 1/1. M/Sk slash.

A post-Avatar. Mulder/Skinner slash. Rated R, although PG would really
do it in a non-homophobic world. Archive OK, feedback welcome. 


Silence. By Palinurus.


Echoing his mood, the weather had become even worse in the late
afternoon. The sky was slate gray and it was raining persistently, with
the occasional rumble of thunder to break the monotony. Even filtered by
the thin curtains, the light that fell through the large window was
almost gritty in texture. Exactly right for a day like this. A day to
get drunk quickly and silently. At least there wouldn't be any cheerful
voices walking past the oversized street-facing window today to remind
him of the existence of others. 

He poured himself another Scotch and walked over to the window, moving
the curtain aside a bit to stare at the wet, deserted street. On the
sidewalk across from him, a large dog meandered from one garbage
container to the next. Its coat was matted, too dirty and wet to make
out the color. The dog sniffed at the side of a container, stood up on
its hind legs for closer inspection. When there were no promising smells
it dropped back to all fours and moved on, out of sight, in search of
dinner. No one else came by for a long time.

The evening twilight deepened, and the streetlights came on. He turned
back to the room to pour himself another drink, then resumed his
position by the window, motionless, unthinking. It was so quiet outside
that the people, the city around him could have disappeared; he could
have been alone in the world. The windowpane was cool and moist against
his forehead. One streetlight colored the view a ghostly orange. He
stared the sodium lantern, studied its reflection on the gleaming
pavement.

The sudden knocking on the door startled him so badly that he almost
jumped. It took a few seconds to get himself back under control. He
considered not answering, but the visitor could have seen him standing
by the window, and he didn't want to give the impression that he was
going off the deep end. It was disconcerting that he hadn't noticed
anyone walking up to the door. One of the few advantages of this dreary
townhouse was that he could see who walked up the garden path. If he
paid attention.

As he detoured to the coffee table to put down his glass, he noticed his
hands were shaking. With eyes squeezed shut he took a few deep breaths,
then shook his head forcefully to clear it. Finally looking through the
spyglass, he muttered, "Oh damn". Then he opened the door, halfway. 

"Sir? I just came by to see if you're OK." 

To see if I'm not about to shoot myself. "I'm fine, Agent Mulder. Thanks
for stopping by."

Mulder closed his umbrella, shook it out, and countered, "Do you mind if
I come in for a moment?"

He sighed, then spelled it out, hanging on to his temper with an effort.
"I appreciate your concern, but I'd rather be alone right now."

Mulder leaned forward and said, "I could definitely use a drink after
today, Sir, and I'm sure you could too." He looked at the AD, clearly
prepared for the next round of sparring, almost challenging him to
refuse.

Skinner almost laughed. Yes, he could definitely use a drink. Another
one. 

He tried to gauge Mulder's determination, already suspecting it was a
wasted effort. The man was always determined, whether he went out to buy
a carton of milk or to save his boss from imminent suicide. It wouldn't
be easy to get rid of him. 

With another sigh he stepped back wearily to let the other in. 

Mulder took off his coat and draped it over the couch, taking in the
scene. "I don't suppose I need to tell you that every psychologist warns
against drinking alone?" 

"Mulder, for God's sake," he replied, exasperation brimming over. 

"Sorry. Anyway, it's not as if you're the only one here who occasionally
displays this urgent warning sign of depression," Mulder conceded,
sitting down. "Do you have another glass, or shall I just drink from the
bottle?" 

He had to dig into one of the boxes stacked against the wall. When he'd
finally retrieved a glass he held it up against the failing light,
trying to make sure it was clean. Then, shrugging, he held it out to
Mulder.

"Maybe it's time for a light?" Mulder suggested.

"I can see what I need to see," Skinner growled.

Mulder poured himself a generous shot and sipped, staring ahead, leaving
it to Skinner to pour himself another one. After a stretching silence,
he suddenly asked, "Why do you do this? Why do you go on doing it even
when it cost you your marriage?"

Skinner slowly turned his head. "What are you talking about?" 

"Shutting yourself off. Living through it alone. Denying there's
anything you cannot handle by yourself." 

"What the hell do you know about that?" 

"I spoke with her before the accident. She told me." When Skinner
blanched, he quickly added, "Though it's not as if the earth shook at
that revelation. Anyone who's known you for a week could draw up this
part of your profile." 

There was no reply, and he went on, "What I said about trust this
afternoon is still valid, you know. You can't do it alone. You don't
stand a chance. It's just too much at once."

There was a long silence, and then Skinner said quietly, "And what were
you going to do about it? It hurts. Badly. But talking about it doesn't
make it better." 

Restless again, he pushed himself away from the wall and began to pace.
"I'll tell you something that may interest you. I had changed my mind
about the divorce after the accident. I told her when she was in the
hospital, but then... it was a bit late, right? Strictly speaking, she
wasn't even there anymore. I could have saved my breath." The bitterness
in his voice surprised him. "So now I end up widowed instead of
divorced. Which is good, because it seems much less pathetic. Saved by
the bell, one might say." 

He leaned over the table to pour another glass, keeping an eye on Mulder
to check for a sign of disapproval. He was being watched, but there was
nothing in Mulder's posture or expression that he could reasonably get
angry about.

He resumed, "Of course, the divorce would have gone through anyway. It
was a sentimental gesture. Futile and meaningless." 

That whisky made him too damned talkative. He glanced at Mulder, who was
still watching him, distant, neutral; the counselor's face. The
streetlight was horribly bright, and he still had only the flimsy
curtains to shield him. 

Futile and meaningless; but it had felt real. One of the few real things
he had done in a long time. He felt his stomach contract and the
familiar vacuum open up beside it, spread out, reach up to pull at the
back of his throat. He quickly turned away from the stifling room, from
Mulder's searching gaze, to face the window. 

The street was still deserted, the rain was still falling, now only
visible through the pockmarks it made in the surface of the puddles.
What time was it? He didn't want to check his watch. Certainly before
nine. He should have bought a TV. He was too preoccupied to read. Some
music would have been nice, but he hadn't gotten around to doing
something about that, either. As it was, there was nothing to do but
drink and look at the puddles. It really was no wonder that he felt so
empty. He felt his shoulders sag a bit, and shrugged, just to feel the
muscles. He still had those.

When he heard Mulder get up and move over to stand behind him, he didn't
react, tried to keep his shoulders loose. From much closer than he
expected, Mulder said, "It was futile, but not meaningless." 

Suddenly bone-tired, he rested one arm against the window, his forehead
against the arm. He still held the whisky glass in his other hand; why
didn't he just let it crash to the floor? "Alright, so maybe it wasn't
meaningless. It just makes no difference anymore. No difference
whatsoever." He closed his eyes and wished that the day would be over.
Although the night might well be worse. And then another day. At least
tomorrow he would have his office back; a better home than this.

Mulder spoke again, still closer, close enough to almost make him jump.
Close enough to make him feel confined. "I don't think you should be
alone tonight." Soft voice.

He laughed then, loudly, and said without turning, "What are you going
to do, hire me another hooker?" Immediately ashamed, he sighed, balled
the hand against the window into a fist. Oh God, why can't it be
tomorrow now...

The touch was so furtive he didn't notice it at first. One finger
trailed along the bare skin of his forearm, down to the hand still
clutching the glass; he almost dropped it then. For an instant, his
whole awareness was concentrated in that arm. When it moved outward
again, the silence in the room seemed almost supernatural. He could hear
his own breathing, ragged, and Mulder's, rapid but quiet, almost
inaudible. He could feel it move the hairs on the back of his neck. 

The soft sound of each individual raindrop against the window. 

He was unable to gather his wits. I'm flushed, he thought, I'm blushing
like a schoolboy. It's a good thing there's no light here. 

The heat dissipated from the one finger through his arm, setting muscles
and nerves on fire, lighting a blinding flare in his gut, radiating
warmth through the rest of him. Now the finger was backed up by a whole
hand, soft, so soft... His cock was rising rapidly again, continually
out to spite him, to punish him for the long, long drought. 

It was so hard, so unbelievably difficult to resist the temptation to
lean back, to give in. But he was almost sure he would collapse on the
spot if he did. No more strength even to hold himself up.

Is he coming on to me? 

It seemed impossible. Not even Mulder would take such a chance, and
certainly not at such an awkward moment. Has he made any gesture before,
something subtle, so subtle I missed it? He racked his brain for more
information, for clues to make sense of what was happening, but drew a
blank. He means... he must mean something else. Alone tonight.

He must have been rooted in his indecision longer than he thought. Long
enough for his grace period to expire. Mulder moved behind him, a very
slight movement, more like a shifting of his balance; and then he felt a
hand on the unprotected side of his ribs. The unexpected warmth made him
gasp, the sound horribly loud in the deep, sticky silence. And it
finally roused his brain. A wave of agitation swept over him. Trapped
between the two hands and the window, he began to squirm. 

The hand on his waist immediately disappeared, left a cold, cold patch.
He breathed, then began in a slightly hoarse voice, "Mulder..." He felt
the other tense, now poised for retreat, and his next breath was shaky
with emotion. "It's better if I stay by myself," he managed. 

The hand on his wrist disappeared as well. 

Mulder stepped back and quietly said, "Alright. I'm sorry." Turned,
picked up his coat. Put it on. Headed for the door, opened it and
stepped out. 

He's leaving. Do something, you idiot, he's going to go. He's going to
leave you alone.

Powerless, he watched as the door was softly closed. Then he took a slow
step, another, to the door; but he didn't open it. Instead, he leaned
against it. 

Tired. I'm exhausted.

After the while he opened his eyes, and noticed Mulder's umbrella
leaning against the doorframe. He forgot. Maybe he'll come back, it's
raining cats and dogs outside, Mulder, you'll need an umbrella, it's so
wet... 

After another minute he swallowed, then went over to the couch. Sitting
down, he tried to remember into which box he had stuffed the blanket.
Too tired to move or think. He got up and found his trench coat, lay
back down to clumsily cover himself with it, legs sticking out. He
shivered, then reached for Mulder's half-empty glass and drained it
before falling asleep. 

~:~

The night was as silent as it had been before. He had found himself
crying when he woke up, and it scared him. Now that had stopped, but the
infinite sadness wouldn't go. He sat on the couch, breathing slowly,
shivering, wondering if he would ever be able to gather enough energy to
reach for his coat to cover himself against the chill.

I should call him. He's right, I can't do it alone. Who would be
surprised if I'd be dead in the morning? Do people die just because they
are too tired to go on living? Get up. Call him. He'll be grateful when
you wake him up at four in the morning for a change. 

After a long time, he got to his feet and shakily walked to the
bathroom. He peed and drank a glass of water, studiously avoiding his
image in the mirror. Back on the couch, he covered himself with the coat
again, and lay still, staring at the ceiling.  

~:~

In spite of the exhaustion brought on by too many bad nights, he found
himself almost cheerful late the next morning. The tentative sun shone
into his office, which was beginning to look presentable again. When
he'd stepped in a few hours before, he'd barely taken the time to take
off his coat before starting to clean up the mess. Kim had done her
best, but had wisely stayed away from what was left of his meticulous
but idiosyncratic filing system. He attacked the job with a vengeance,
driven by what he recognized only after a while as a need to re-conquer
his territory, to erase all traces and scents of the intruders. Now it
was finally beginning to lose the taint of violation, and he almost felt
at ease again. He sat at his desk, cleared of most homeless documents,
getting back to being the master of his fate. 

Now he was grateful for his resolve the previous night. He had been
sorely tempted, but the consequences would have been horrifying. He
certainly wouldn't have been able to sit here and simply feel content.
It would have become one more problem to deal with, another part of the
awful mess that the past week had left behind. And that was something he
couldn't afford right now.

Although there was no denying that the night had been bad, so bad that
it had briefly made him fear for his sanity. A night to forget, as soon
as possible, like several other nights before it. The sooner he got
things back to normal, the sooner he'd be able to sleep again without
waking up in tears.

He looked up at a knock on the door. 

"Sir?"

"Come in."

Scully stepped in, Mulder following on her heels. "Here's the report.
You'll see though that several questions remain unanswered."

"The identity of the man I shot...?"

"We ran his face and fingerprints through every available database.
There are still no matches. And we're doing a dental record search, but
that'll probably be a dead end too. Regarding the other man, the
telephone number that we had for him has been disconnected, and there's
no record of an account." 

The weariness that suddenly gripped him was hard to fight. "Don't waste
your time, Agent Scully. You won't find him. Just get whatever forensic
evidence you need off the body you have, and bury it." Sitting down, he
looked at his desk; all the satisfaction he'd felt a moment ago had
disappeared. 

She began to leave, but behind her, Mulder stubbornly stood his ground.
It annoyed him unreasonably. "Is there a problem, Agent Mulder?" 

"Yeah. There's something else I think you'll find missing in there. An
explanation for how you knew to be at the hotel last night." As Mulder
turned to face him, the anger was clearly visible. "I was hoping you
could fill in that line item yourself." Defiance, and something else...
something that made him feel guilty. 

"I'm afraid I can't do that, at least not at this point in time." He
could hear the defensiveness in his own voice.

"Why not?" Mulder countered, almost before he'd finished.

"Because whatever I believe may have happened... has no place on an
official report." That was the truth, although it wasn't the whole
truth. Accept it, Mulder. Please. 

"Then why don't you just tell me, off the record." It was a plea, clear
and simple, and there was the reason for his guilt. As usual, Mulder
steered toward maximum clarity, and maximum pain.

Cornered, he saw no other option than to dig in his heels. "If you'll
excuse me, I have a lot of catching up to do. The OPC did a number on my
office." God damn you, Mulder. For forcing me to do this. For making
yourself so miserable. For never, ever leaving well enough alone. 

He stared at his desk again, unable for a moment to look anywhere else.
When he looked up again, Mulder was still waiting. He suddenly reminded
Skinner of a dog, unable to believe that he'd been beaten for no reason
but expressing affection, and unable to cut his losses and leave. "But I
want to thank you for the quick turnaround on this," he added, ashamed
again at the half-hearted apology, which contained another rejection: if
I'd let you stay last night, it would have taken longer.

Mulder nodded, slowly, taking in both points, and didn't move. Only when
he started aimlessly sifting through some papers did Mulder turn and
walk away. 

When the door finally closed, he sighed and sat back, tense, angry, and
inexplicably upset. He reached into the drawer where he'd kept his
wedding ring ever since Sharon had first told him she wanted a divorce.
He had barely thought about it all that time. Now that he could be
certain that it was too late had he found the little envelope again. He
picked it up and put it back on his finger, experimentally. It felt like
home; but it was an empty home. Futile. Meaningless. 

He went back to work, but the almost weightless joy he had felt earlier
that morning didn't come back. He took the ring off again, put it back
in its little envelope, and hid it in the drawer. He got up and paced a
bit, then picked up the phone. "Kim, could you ask Agent Mulder to come
up again for a moment?" As soon as he disconnected he regretted the
call, considered canceling the request, then reconsidered again. No use
acting like you've lost your resolve, old fool. He sat behind his desk
and waited, jaw clenched.

Mulder immediately pissed him off by stepping in without knocking. Like
he owns the place already.

"Agent Mulder... Please close the door." He waited until it was securely
closed, then resumed, "I wanted to - " A horrible doubt gripped him
again, much stronger now because of its immediacy; but there was no way
back. "I was wondering if you have time to come over tonight. Around
eight or so." It sounded suitably nonchalant, at least.

Mulder's expression didn't change; it was as if he hadn't heard. 

When he's made up his mind, he's going to punch me. Or laugh in my face. 

The silence was the most excruciating he'd sat through in a long time.
He would have given an arm to be able to take his words back. Come on,
you bastard, I deserve some punishment, but this is -

"Why don't we make it seven instead, and I'll bring some Chinese?"
Mulder said. "And you buy a TV." He wasn't quite smiling, but then,
Mulder rarely did; this was as close as he'd get. Without waiting for a
response, he got up and left. 

~.~

It turned out that the TV produced only static without a cable
connection. There seemed to be no end to the practical complications of
life, the little annoyances that served to remind a widower of his loss
on a daily basis. If Kim hadn't suggested buying a VCR at the same time,
and Mulder hadn't brought a Superstars of the Seventies tape, they would
have had to struggle through an awkward dinner, side by side on the
couch, eating Chinese from the carton. The thought made Skinner squirm. 

Even while they were watching the tape, he found that having Mulder for
company was taxing. He really had no idea what to say to the man, and
Mulder seemed to be in an uncharacteristic quandary as well. His
brooding silence fit with Skinner's suspicion that Mulder was looking
for an opportunity to get him to talk. The thought made him restive. He
finished his first beer (again brought by Mulder) in no time, and as
usual in times of social unease, he longed for a cigarette, preferably
spiked. 

Things got marginally better when they had both consumed a few beers,
but deteriorated again when dinner was finished and the effect of the
alcohol wore off. Mulder unwisely chose that time to finally begin his
counselor's siege. 

"So what are you going to do now?"

Having had plenty of time to prepare, Skinner was ready, armed to the
teeth. "What makes you assume I'm going to *do* something?" 

"Well... of course you've had a rough time. Most people would need some
time to recover."

"I can handle it, Mulder."

"That's what you keep saying. But it looks to me like you're just
sweeping it under the carpet and stamping on it to make the bulge go
away. I'm not sure that qualifies as 'handling it'."

"Are you implying I don't know what I'm doing?"

"I just don't think it will work. Also, you seem very lonely. Isolated."

That pissed him off. "And who are *you* to lecture me about loneliness?"

"I happen to be one of the world's greatest experts on loneliness. I
know what I'm talking about."

"Don't get cute with me," Skinner growled. He got up and fetched himself
another beer from the paper bag that leaned against the wall next to the
TV. He was irritated enough to consider not offering one to Mulder, but
realized that that would betray his frayed temper. He held one up, but
Mulder shook his head. The refusal annoyed him as well, as it made him
look like a bitter, lonely drunk. "Why can't you accept that not
everyone is like you, Mulder?"

"Usually people are much more like me than I assume."

"Well, your analysis is off by several miles this time." The weakness of
his defense filled him with loathing. A scathing, scalding riposte was
called for, but he was too tired, too slow. He sat down again heavily
and stared at the silent TV. 

"So why am I here, Walter?" 

He closed his eyes. "Why do you think you're here for any other reason
than because you so very obviously wanted to be here?" 

Mulder shot up and turned back to look down at him. "That's bullshit,
and you know it! Jesus, Walter, why can't you ever quit playing
hide-and-seek?"

"Mulder, why the hell won't you stop prying and prodding? I didn't
invite you over to give me a third-degree, damn it. I was really hoping
for a quiet, relaxed night, not for an arm-wrestling contest." He set
his half-empty bottle on the table with a bang and sat back, staring
pointedly away from Mulder, who had risen and grabbed another beer from
the bag, and was now equally pointedly staring at him.

After a few minutes of terse silence, Skinner couldn't sit still
anymore. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, angry with himself for
chickening out, praying that Mulder wouldn't feel inspired to accompany
him.

"It's raining," Mulder observed. 

"I just need some fresh air, I won't stay out long." He grabbed his coat
and almost ran out the door, sighing in relief once he'd closed the door
behind him. God, it was good to be alone.

It *was* raining rather heavily. More heavily than he'd realized. After
two blocks, he noticed that it was very cold too. He should have put on
a different coat, and brought an umbrella. With a smirk, he thought of
Mulder's umbrella, still sitting next to the door. In the dark, it was
almost impossible to avoid the puddles, and his feet were getting wet in
their useless office shoes, which would probably be ruined by the end of
this foolish flight. He cursed aloud when he realized he had also
forgotten his keys. Damned if he'd go back now, like a wet, cold,
defeated sheep.

After walking a few blocks, he was thoroughly chilled, and the cold rain
on his scalp was beginning to give him a headache. He had been out less
than fifteen minutes; not long enough to go back without looking silly.
It would be nice to have a quick drink somewhere, but it was a
residential neighborhood, and there wasn't a bar for miles around. 

A few blocks later he felt a drop of ice-cold water running down his
spine, making him shiver. He stepped into a bus shelter and sat down,
staring out into the darkness from his luminescent cell. It was dry, but
the cold seemed worse; a minute later, he was shivering convulsively,
and feeling like an idiot. Just a few more minutes, for the sake of
dignity... fuck it. He got up and hurried back, almost running most of
the way, walking the last bit to let his breathing slow down. It was a
struggle not to laugh at himself. 

He hoped fervently that Mulder hadn't left. Leaving a guest to go for a
walk in the pouring rain... He almost giggled when he walked up the
garden path, said a one-line prayer, and rang the doorbell. The door
opened immediately; Mulder must having been waiting next to it. 

"You're a bigger fool than I thought," he said when Skinner stepped in,
quaking with cold despite his best efforts. 

"OK, I am," Skinner conceded, "but you're a pain in the ass." 

"I wouldn't be such a pain in the ass if you weren't - oh what the
hell," Mulder sighed, helping Skinner to peel off his sodden trench
coat. "If this doesn't give you pneumonia, I don't know what will." He
hung up the coat, then intercepted Skinner's course to the couch,
grabbed his elbow and pulled him along to the back of the house. "Take
your clothes off. Where do you keep your towels? I couldn't find them." 

"In one of those boxes...  actually I only use one. It's in the
bathroom." He sank down on the bed, noting with mild wonder that Mulder
had managed to find some sheets and his comforter, and made the bed.
Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he started
stripping as ordered. Mulder started the shower and then tactfully
disappeared to the living room. He quickly slipped into the shower. It
was a long time before he stopped shivering, and he suddenly wondered if
Mulder's dire prediction about pneumonia might be correct. 

After drying himself, he put on a clean pair of boxers and got into bed.
It was overwhelmingly gratifying to lie in a real bed again, as opposed
to the couch - although it was a good couch. The soft, heavy comforter
felt a lot better than a coat, too, or even a blanket. He closed his
eyes in contentment; even his residual shaking now felt good, a reminder
of very recent but past hardship. Vaguely wondering what Mulder was
doing, he drifted off. 

It seemed an instant later that he felt the bed move, and the
realization that Mulder had joined him almost woke him up completely.
"What time is it?"

"Quarter to ten. I hope you don't mind I used your towel. I also
borrowed a pair of boxers, although they make me feel like a midget." 

It was ridiculous to be in bed so early. He had probably been in bed
before ten last night as well. It was ridiculous to have only one towel.
It was ridiculous to lie in bed next to one of his agents, and to feel
nothing but this pleasant equanimity. He'd really  have to stop doing
all these ridiculous things.

Mulder moved closer, spooned up against him, and wrapped an arm and a
leg around him.

"What are you doing?"

"You're shivering, I'm trying to warm you." 

He sighed deeply and tried to isolate the feeling of Mulder's hand
against his chest. The spot seemed much bigger than it could be. Then
Mulder began to move against him, pushing him forward a bit, then
pulling him back. He waited a bit, the asked again, "What are you doing
now?"

"I'm rocking you to sleep."

He wanted to giggle again. "I'm not a child."

"Watch it, don't make me argue. Feel how easy it goes? It's like we have
a common hinge somewhere... Now go to sleep."

He smiled and felt his body become warm and heavy, and his thoughts slow
down.


--
Carla (Palinurus)

"The floggings will continue until morale improves"
http://www.geocities.com/televisioncity/set/2938/slash.html