Date: Wed, 19 May 1999

TITLE: Exaiphnes VIIa: Fireworks
AUTHOR: Marti
E-MAIL: oakgirls@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and MTA okay; others please ask.
SPOILERS: None (set post-FTF)
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATION: X (Homicide/Will & Grace), S, A
KEYWORDS: Mulder/other slash
SUMMARY: Mulder and Tim Bayliss hit a rocky patch in their relationship.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The next installment in the Exaiphnes series. No torture,
but a lot of angst. You probably don't need to have read the whole series,
but this does rely pretty heavily on Rachel's Part VI, "Blindsided." All
parts are available at
http://www.oocities.org:80/Area51/Dimension/3568/Exaiphnes/exaiphnes.html.
Thanks to Rachel and Vali for making sure my first attempt at Tim's POV
didn't fall flat on its face, and to Gerry and Jo-Ann for looking out for
Mulder's interests (thanks to them, there will be a sequel ;)).

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on the characters and situations created by
Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions as well as NBC
and Baltimore Pictures. As such, the characters named are the property of
those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright
infringements are intended.

Part 1/2

Monday, July 5
2:00 p.m.

It had been a long time since I'd offered to pick Mulder up at the airport.
What was that movie -- "When Harry Met Sally"? -- where someone said you
could tell how new a relationship was by whether the people still met each
other's planes. Normally, it didn't make sense to do it if I was working,
so he and Scully would just get a cab or something. But since I had the
holiday off, I was free to go meet them. I paced back and forth in the
waiting area, not sure whether I was anxious to see him or not. He had
been gone a week, investigating a case at Cornell University in Ithaca, New
York. A female student had been found in a gorge on the campus,
exsanguinated, and though it wasn't clearly an X-File, the local
authorities had decided to call in the experts.

Mulder had originally planned to come home on Saturday, but couldn't get
away. More witnesses to talk to, a consulting pathologist to be flown up
from Albany, the usual. You just can't hurry the investigative process, he
said. He had called me at work on Friday. I was stirring some non-dairy
creamer into my coffee when Meldrick announced that the phone was for me.
Having already taken one call that led to a stone cold whodunit -- a dead
guy in an alley, one bullet fragment dug out of the sidewalk, no witnesses,
no apparent motive -- I had been in no hurry to answer another. At first I
was thrilled to hear Mulder's voice, but my mood took a nose-dive as I
heard him say he wasn't coming back for three more days. I said that I had
looked forward to spending the holiday weekend with him: a music festival
in the Inner Harbor, dinner out, watching the fireworks from Mike's boat.
He said was sorry he was going to miss it, but he had no choice. Yeah, of
course. That's life when you're a hotshot FBI agent.

Do I sound bitter? I was trying not to be. I understand the demands of
life as a crimefighter. I was used to cancelled plans, even on holidays.
This time Mulder had insisted that I go ahead with my plans anyway -- why
should I sit around feeling sorry for myself when I could be out
celebrating? But rather than spend a romantic weekend alone, I decided
instead to take Meldrick's shift at the Waterfront on Sunday night. Now
that was what I needed to talk to Mulder about.

I looked around at the other people in the waiting area. There were older
couples probably waiting for grandchildren, fathers with kids waiting for
moms, college students waiting for friends. No other middle-aged men
waiting for a tall brunette and a short redhead.

I knew there would be an awkward moment when Mulder and I first saw each
other. There always was: could I hug him in public? Kiss him? Should I
hug Scully too? I imagined the other people trying to figure out the story
on us.

But today of all days I was not sure how I should act. The last time we'd
spoken directly was Friday night, when he'd called at bedtime. At that
point, I was still pissed at him for not being there, and I'd tried to bait
him into a fight, making some comment about him searching for vampires. I
know he didn't appreciate it, but fortunately he was sensible enough just
to end the conversation and suggest we talk later when I wasn't so
irritable. Since then I just had two voice-mail messages, catching me up
to date on his case.

Now I needed to catch him up to date on my weekend.

Finally I heard the announcement that their flight had arrived. There they
were; Mulder met my eyes and gave a Mona Lisa smile as he came through the
door. Both of them had their arms full with briefcases, trenchcoats and
laptops, so that solved the hugging problem. Instead, Scully leaned up to
kiss me on the cheek, and Mulder put a hand on my shoulder. I just smiled
and asked if we needed to go down to the baggage claim, turning briskly and
starting our little parade away from the gate.

As we walked, I kept asking questions about the case, Cornell, Ithaca,
anything to put off the inevitable "So how was *your* weekend?" This
strategy worked pretty well for a while, until we had collected their
checked luggage and walked Scully to her car. I suggested that we all go
get a late lunch -- then I could talk to her instead of Mulder -- but she
wanted to go ahead and get back to the city. She didn't mind taking the
same flights as he did into BWI, she said, but it did mean a longer drive
at the end of it.

"But I'm up for lunch," Mulder declared. "That little half a sandwich they
give you on the plane has no business being called a meal. What do you
think? Lista's? Maybe we can salvage some of the holiday. We still have
the rest of the day off." Since we were now in the relative privacy of the
parking garage, he reached over to put a hand on the back of my neck and
brushed his lips against my earlobe.

Damn. We really needed to talk.

Sunday, July 4
7:30 p.m.

Meldrick had been right when he said the bar was going to be a zoo over the
weekend. Even though the main festivities were over in the Inner Harbor,
everybody had somehow found their way to Fells Point looking for good
seafood and a bottle of Natty Bo. I guess they'd heard it was a good place
to see the fireworks. There weren't many cars on the street between the
bar and the stationhouse, but it was packed with pedestrians.

The bar itself was standing room only, and every time I poured one drink I
looked up to see somebody else asking for another. No wonder Meldrick was
glad I took his shift. Munch was on a date or something, and Billie Lou
wasn't coming in until later, so I was trying to handle it all myself. The
special apricot beer we had on tap was disappearing as fast as I could get
another keg started, and we were in danger of running out of the crabcake
special.

It was certainly not the way I had pictured this weekend. At first I had
told Gee and everybody else that I was unavailable for any kind of work,
but that all changed when, as Meldrick so aptly put it, my FBI boy
cancelled on me.

Most of the drinkers that night weren't regulars; no cops, nobody from the
neighborhood. Many of them seemed to have made the Waterfront one stop in
a pub crawl, and they headed back out onto the street after two or three
drinks. But one guy had claimed a seat at the bar early on and didn't
appear to be in a hurry to leave. As far as I could tell, he was alone,
nursing a series of Tanqueray and tonics while he watched the muted TV near
the front window of the bar.

We hadn't really conversed, except to exchange money and liquor
periodically, but when the activity finally slowed down for a minute, I
found myself at his end of the bar, looking up at the TV to see what was
holding his interest. It was a July Fourth concert, John Williams and the
Boston Pops or something.

"How interesting can that be with the sound off?" I asked as I wiped up a
wet spot on the bar in front of him.

"Fascinating, actually. I can figure out what piece they're playing just
from watching the clarinetists."

"Really?"

"Well, no. But it's a fair bet it's something by John Phillip Sousa." He
smiled and took a sip of his drink, stirring it first by tucking a finger
down into the glass and moving the lime wedge back and forth.

"You know you could be hearing the same thing live a few blocks away," I
noted. "Wouldn't that be better?"

"If I didn't mind being mauled by a sweaty crowd of people. This seems
like a better vantage point somehow. I spent most of the day in the Inner
Harbor."

"So you're in town for the holiday?" I turned away from him momentarily
when someone handed me an empty bowl that needed to be filled up with
pretzels.

"More or less. Working, actually. But I don't fly back until tomorrow."

Sounds familiar. At least Mulder wasn't the only one, I figured. "What
kind of work, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Law. Corporate law. A firm in New York is acquiring a shipping company
based in Baltimore. Most of it I can do from there, but I'm down here to
get some signatures, finish up some paperwork."

I filled the bowl back up and let him take a handful before I slid it back
down the bar. "That's one kind of law I don't know much about. I'm more
familiar with the law and order kind."

"You mean from breaking up bar fights between knife-wielding criminals?"
Another sly curve of his lips.

"No...actually, I don't think that's ever happened in here. I mean from my
day job. I'm a homicide cop."

At this point I realized I had several customers waiting with empty glasses
in outstretched hands, so I excused myself, promising to finish the
conversation when I returned. When I made my way back down to his end of
the bar, his own glass was empty, so I splashed a shot of gin into it while
he talked. He said he had considered going into criminal law, but it had
seemed too frustrating, knowing that you were making deals with people who
didn't deserve it, knowing there was no way to mete out justice perfectly.

I agreed; even when we did everything perfectly on our end, it didn't
guarantee a trial, conviction, or jail time. I told him I had often
considered getting out of law enforcement altogether, though the
possibility of law school had crossed my mind.

"No! Don't do it!" He leaned back his head and laughed, a deep baritone.
"You'd be better off tending bar full time. Less stress. I love my job,
but at the same time I don't think I would do it over again."

"What would you do instead?"

"I don't know, something to do with the arts maybe. My roommate is an
interior designer. Sometimes I miss having that kind of creative outlet."

Roommate? What kind of thirty-five-year-old man has a roommate? I mean, I
never knew quite what to call Mulder, but I wouldn't use *that* term.

Then he continued, "But then that's stressful too. She just got a big job
working for the most arrogant SOB, and he was making her crazy." I had
just decided she must be his girlfriend when he added, "What's worse is
that he was interested in me."

"So the feeling wasn't mutual?" I ventured.

"No. I only like nice guys." He gave me another dazzling grin, then
finished off the last swallow of his drink. "That's it -- I better switch
to club soda." Sliding the glass back across the bar to me, he said, "By
the way, I'm Will."

I shook his hand, cool and damp from the condensation on the glass. "Tim.
Good to meet you."

****

Sure, I saw the signs. I'm not as naive as I look. Maybe I hadn't had
that much experience with men before Mulder, but how could I not notice
that whenever I glanced back down to that end of the bar, Will was looking
in my direction. Something about him reminded me of Chris Rawls: dark,
slender, well-groomed, comfortable with himself.

I don't think I knew what to make of the whole thing. One part of me just
thought it was ironic. All those months of looking for interesting men and
not finding any until I was assigned a case with Mulder. And here was one
right at the end of my very own bar. I was a little surprised that he was
so up front about his sexual preference. I was sure I hadn't said anything
about being interested in men, but I had said I was a cop, which people
usually took to mean I was conservative about such things.

Mostly, I was sure I had not said anything about having a fella, as
Meldrick would put it, of my own. I don't know why. I didn't want to
encourage Will. Did I? I had to admit he was good-looking: the smile,
the wave to his hair, the square shoulders. But what difference did that
make? Nothing was going to happen. So he didn't need to know about
Mulder, and I didn't want to get started whining about him either.

The crowd in the bar was starting to thin out, as the light outside faded
and the time for the fireworks came closer. I moved back down the bar
towards the front window, collecting empty glasses and balling up soaked
napkins. When I paused to check the taps near Will's seat, I glanced in
his direction, noting that he still didn't seem anxious to leave.

"So, have you taken up residence on that chair, or do you plan to go check
out the fireworks?" I asked, not sure what I wanted the answer to that
question to be.

"I haven't decided yet. Where's the best place to see them?"

"Pretty much anywhere on this street. There's a walkway down to the river
just to the right there. That gets you closer to the water, but it will be
jammed with people."

"Are you going to watch?"

I grabbed up a few open bottles and started replacing their caps. "I don't
know. I've seen plenty of Baltimore fireworks in my life. Plus I have to
wait for my relief to get here."

But of course, as soon as I said it, Billie Lou came through the door,
taking off her scarf and fluffing her hair. "Bayliss!" she drawled. "How
you holdin' up? Let me just hang up my sweater and you can get out of here."

"I guess that takes care of that." I smiled but didn't meet his eyes. I
was folding up a damp towel on the bar, taking extreme care to get all the
corners perfectly straight.

Will slid back his stool and reached for his wallet to settle up his final
tab. "So, Tim...since you're heading out anyway, why don't you come with
me? It would be great to have a native to show me where to go."

****

I really have no excuse for what happened. It was just that it had been so
long since I'd gotten that kind of interest from anybody, even Mulder. The
truth was that things with us were slow getting back to normal after the
setback a few months earlier, when he'd gone on his last out-of-town case.
One day he called to say he wouldn't be home for a few days, and the next
call was from Scully saying he'd been in an accident. Mulder had been in
the hospital there for a few weeks, then on bed rest at home, then on desk
duty.

He wasn't the most compliant patient. Since he had to rest his eyes, he
had listened to as many books on tape as he could stand, and had called
Scully more than once a day to ask her to bring him open case files to work
on at home. When she wouldn't, he would lie in bed, looking for patterns
in the swirls on the ceiling, and then get more and more restless. Finally
I would get home and bring him a Coke or a magazine, only to have him yell
and say he didn't want it. Since he wasn't sleeping regular hours, he had
moved downstairs to the couch for several weeks. I felt like I never saw
him, and we barely said anything to each other.

But when he'd gone back to desk duty, at least he'd been home at a regular
time, so we had most evenings to ourselves. A rare treat, as far as I was
concerned. Sometimes we just spent these reading at opposite ends of the
couch, but that still meant Mulder was there, that he was back in our bed
every night and he woke up with me in the morning. He was bored out of his
mind at work, but at least he was there. Since the accident, I still felt
a pang of worry as I watched him head out the door to his early-morning
train, imagining what could happen, even just on the walk to the station,
everything from puddles to manholes to crimes against persons. And this
got ten times worse when he'd gone on this trip, his first out-of-town case
after the accident. I felt the void even more than usual.

But of course I wasn't really thinking about any of this when I walked out
into the humid July night with Will. I don't know what I was thinking,
maybe just that he was easy to talk to, and at least I was getting out of
the house like Mulder said I should.

We turned and walked along the cobblestone street, threading our way
between clumps of people. I had suggested that the far end of Fells Point,
where there were fewer bars and more houses, might be less crowded, if he
really felt as strongly about mob scenes as he'd said earlier. We were
able to walk most of the way down towards the water, near where Mike
Kellerman docked his boat, and I thought about how I had planned to take
Mulder out there to watch the display.

I felt like I should play tour guide a little bit, so I commented that we
had just passed a good vegetarian restaurant called Margaret's.

"So are you vegetarian, or just a fan of the occasional dish full of
buckwheat soba noodles?" he asked.

"Vegetarian. For about a year. I made several big changes in my life this
year, and that was one." To head off any inquiries into the other changes,
I turned it back to him. "How about you?"

"No. I try to eat healthy, but there's so much stuff I like I can't
restrict it. Eating out is one of my great pleasures in life. So many
great restaurants in New York."

"Here, too, mostly seafood. So you haven't been to Baltimore before?"

"Actually, I have. My college roommate was from Greenbelt, so I visited
him once or twice and we made some day trips. That's why I wanted to spend
an extra couple of days touring, see what I missed. I really like this
neighborhood. Do you live nearby?"

"A couple of streets over." I gestured vaguely in that direction and
pointed out the stationhouse. "So everything's within walking distance.
Sometimes it would be nice to get a little further away from work, but it
suits me."

He started asking about Baltimore, other neighborhoods. I knew the city
pretty well after growing up here and investigating dead bodies in nearly
every block. We talked about New York and I said I had only been there on
a couple of cases. He remembered the subway thing. Then he mentioned,
offhand, that if I were ever there to visit he would be glad to show me
around.

The fireworks had started, explosions of color reflecting in the water as
well as overhead. I'd forgotten how spectacular the display was. As Will
talked, the changing colors were also reflected in his hair and his eyes.

As with any Baltimore summer, though, the physical beauty was cancelled out
by the stifling humidity. Drops of sweat were trickling down my neck and
my t-shirt was stuck to my back. Somehow Will still looked perfectly cool,
but I knew I had to get back to some air conditioning very soon. I think
the heat must have been fogging my brain, because otherwise I can't explain
why I invited him back to the apartment for a cold drink.

End part 1, continued in part 2

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Disclaimers, etc. in part 1

Part 2/2

One good thing about having a live-in lover of the same sex, it's not
obvious which stuff is his and which is yours. No tell-tale tubes of
lipstick lying around. So I can't blame Will for not suspecting someone
else lived there. He followed me into the kitchen as I rooted around in
cupboards, trying to figure out what I could offer him. He leaned against
the butcher block in the middle of the room, and I was very aware of
brushing up against him as I slid past to get some ice from the freezer.

When we went back to the living room, I was a little surprised that he sat
down next to me on the couch rather than on the chair across the room. The
conversation had progressed on the walk over; he had been asking me about
what it was like to work on the squad without a long-term partner, since I
had mentioned that one of the big changes over the year was Frank leaving.
How had we gotten into that so soon? I hadn't really talked to Mulder
about it until several months in, and I still doubted whether he understood
how deep it went. But here was Will asking and keeping those intense eyes
trained on me and nodding vigorously to everything I said.

What really struck me, though, was how he kept touching my arm
sympathetically as I talked about Frank. And I guess I must have
unconsciously slid closer to him on the couch, hoping he would do that some
more, because finally it seemed like his dark eyes were right there and
then it was just a short step from looking at him to kissing him.

In retrospect, it was surprising that it happened at all, since we had only
met each other three hours earlier. I know that joke about how the second
date for a lesbian couple involves a moving van, while gay men move at a
more glacial pace. With Mulder there had been a fair amount of dancing
back and forth before anything definite happened.

But this was pretty definite. That was definitely his hand creeping up the
back of my neck, combing through my hair and pulling me deeper into the
kiss. That was definitely my hand reaching for his waist, curling my
fingers through a belt loop. There was no mistaking the tongue that
brushed against mine, sending a current arcing through my whole body.

God, it seemed like forever since I had kissed anybody like this. When I
said Mulder and I barely talked to each other for a month after he got out
of the hospital, I meant we hardly did *anything* to each other. Sure,
part of it was because his activity was restricted by doctor's orders --
after all, he'd had abdominal surgery -- but he hadn't responded to my
goodnight kisses either. He hardly even let me touch him to change a
bandage.

So I was exercising a few muscles that had been dormant for months. That's
why I was willing to let it go as far as I did, which meant untucking
Will's shirt, fingertips exploring the smooth skin of his back. His hand
slid up my leg, tugging at the waistband of my jeans, so I was sure he knew
how aroused I was. When I broke away from the kiss, it was just so I could
get better access to the milky skin of his throat. I'm sure I would have
called a halt eventually, but not for a few more minutes.

But he was the one who sat back first, brushing one hand across his lips
but keeping the other one pressed against my knee. "I'm not saying we have
to stop, but I do want to say for the record that I don't usually do this.
I mean, I don't make a habit of picking up cops in bars and getting them to
take me home."

"Don't worry; your reputation is safe with me." My face was still hot and
my breath was coming quickly. I easily could have dived right back in --
but then, after a couple more breaths, I realized I couldn't. We sat
looking at each other for a moment or two, then as he leaned toward me
again I put a hand out to stop him. "Actually, maybe this isn't such a
good idea."

The obvious thing would have been to invoke Mulder, but then I'd have had
to explain why I had kept him a secret for this long. So in the end I just
appealed to the fact that Will was from out of town, that there was no hope
of this going anywhere, that what we had was too good to waste on a
one-night-stand, blah blah blah. I did offer to call him a cab but he said
he'd walk back to the water taxi. I don't think he was too mad. He said
again that I should call him if I was ever in New York. Then I flopped
back down on the couch to lay awake all night figuring out what I was going
to do about this.

****

Monday, July 5
2:55 p.m.

"You look tired. I thought you'd be catching up on your sleep this
weekend," Mulder commented as we headed up 295, not so much concerned as
observant.

"I tried. Couldn't sleep."

"I figured you must have decided to work last night, since you weren't home
when I called." His message had said "Looking forward to seeing you
tomorrow."

"Busy night at the bar," I explained.

"See any fireworks?"

"Yeah." I didn't want to have this conversation in the car. But then I
didn't want to have it at Lista's either. "Hey, what if we just got
take-out and went home?"

I think he gave me a questioning look, but he agreed, so we ended up back
at the apartment, in our kitchen, unpacking paper sacks full of food. I
wasn't hungry. In fact, I felt like I was coming down with the flu,
alternating between hot flashes and chills.

Finally I just blurted it out as he was rummaging in the dishwasher for a
clean fork. "Mulder, I have to tell you something."

"Yeah? What is it?" He speared a piece of shrimp out of one container and
leaned back against the butcher block. I wished he wouldn't do that.

"I did go see the fireworks last night."

"I know. You said that."

"I didn't go alone."

He looked puzzled. He knew I didn't mean I had gone with Lewis or Munch,
but he obviously decided to make light of it. "What, you picked somebody
up on your shift?"

"Sort of."

He stopped chewing and set the container down on the counter. "I'm not
sure I follow."

"I got talking to this guy at the bar, and he was going to see the
fireworks and he asked if I wanted to come along, so I did..." Now that I
had started I couldn't stop talking until I got through the walk home, the
drink, the couch, and the kiss. I watched his expression get more and more
incredulous as I talked, or as close to incredulous as Mulder ever got. I
didn't move or take my eyes off his face, just kept gripping the edges of
the counter behind me since my knees felt like they might give way.

"I don't know what to say." He crossed his arms in front of him. His tone
was dead, absolutely neutral. "Here? You brought him here?"

"I was just trying to think of a place to get something to drink."

"You own a bar, for God's sake. Couldn't you just go back there?"

"Yeah...I don't know why it seemed like a good idea."

"Me either." He had turned away from me and was pacing in a little circle
on the other side of the island. He didn't say anything else for several
minutes. Then he looked at me again, pinning me like a butterfly in a
display case. "But you didn't fuck him?"

The word was like a little explosion in the confines of the kitchen. "No,
I didn't. We kissed, and that was it."

"Who stopped it from going further?"

"It was mutual." So much for complete honesty. But that was more or less
the truth, wasn't it? It wouldn't help to say I had been about to tear
Will's shirt off.

"I don't want to hear any more about this right now," he said finally,
walking out and leaving the food untouched on the counter. I heard the
door slam behind him. I didn't know what else to do except to start
putting the containers in the fridge so they'd be there for him later.

****

When he got back two hours later, I concluded he must have just been out
walking around, since he was drenched with sweat. I was sitting on the
couch, not doing anything. I had found that I couldn't keep my attention
focused on a TV program or a magazine. He walked past me into the kitchen
without a word, and I figured that's how it was going to be, the silent
treatment. But then he re-appeared with a glass of water and took a seat
opposite me. I tried to read his expression -- impossible, as always --
and waited for him to say something.

"So, do you think you want to be with this other guy?"

"What?" The possibility hadn't even occurred to me. My only thoughts for
the last twelve hours had focused on getting Mulder to stay. "No.
Absolutely not. He doesn't even live in the city."

"But if he did?"

"Wouldn't matter. That's not what this is about."

"So what is it about?"

"Don't think I wasn't trying to figure that out all night long. This is
the last thing I ever thought would happen."

"No kidding."

"I guess if I thought anything like this was going to happen, it would be
you."

"Why the hell would you think that?"

I didn't know how to phrase it so that it didn't sound like an attack.
Because you always seem so much less committed to the relationship?
Because I still wonder if you're a closet heterosexual? Because you don't
ever seem to be sweating it out when we're apart? I just said, "Because
sometimes I think I'm not enough for you."

"That's not true. You know that's not true."

"I hope it's not, but sometimes I wonder."

"I don't know what I could say to convince you of it." He set down his
glass and kicked off his shoes with such force that they went flying into
the hallway. "What I don't understand is why I'm suddenly on the defensive
when you were the one who screwed up."

Ouch. But he had a point. "Yeah, you're right. So go ahead and yell at
me." I wanted him to, so I could yell back and we could just get it over
with.

"Yelling won't help. Besides, I know you. You've already lectured
yourself more than I ever could. You spent the whole night flogging
yourself over it."

"That's for sure."

"So what do you need me to say?"

I wanted him to say he forgave me, but I didn't think it was time for that
yet.

"Look, I'm going to go unpack." He grabbed up his glass from the coffee
table and went back to the kitchen. I stretched out on the couch,
wondering if maybe it was my turn to leave the apartment, since there
wasn't that much room for us to get away from each other. I heard him
banging around in the kitchen, re-heating some of the take-out, and then he
went up the stairs, passing by me without another word. Fair enough. At
least he was apparently planning to stay here tonight.

I must have fallen asleep then. I wasn't relaxed, exactly, just spent. I
only woke up when I heard his footsteps on the stairs as he brought some
dishes back down to the kitchen. He must have taken a shower, because I
could smell the dampness and musky scent of his soap, and it hit me like
I'd been kicked in the chest. I wanted to follow him into the kitchen and
bury my face in his wet hair, breathing him in, and have him say it was all
over, we could just get back to normal.

But when had things last been normal, anyway? Last week? Before the
accident? The day he moved in? I had always thought that relationships
followed some kind of forward-moving pattern, but this one had stalled out
a while ago. He had only said he loved me back in April, after we'd been
together more than six months, and I couldn't remember him saying it again
since.

Damn, maybe this *was* hopeless. The only time in recent memory when he
had sounded like his old self was this week, when he called from Ithaca,
clearly thrilled to be back out on the road and working the kind of case he
loved. He wasn't finding his fulfillment at home, so maybe I couldn't either.

As I lay there waxing philosophical, he went back upstairs. What time had
it gotten to be? It seemed like the light from the kitchen window had
gotten dimmer, so I went to check the clock on the stove. 8:30. The
holiday weekend was winding down. I would have to start thinking about
getting back to work. Back to my stone cold whodunit, and probably more
cases just like it. Back to my desk without Frank.

When I imagined myself sitting there at that gray metal desk in that dark
room, stewing, I decided that I needed to get *something* resolved before I
went to bed. What could he be doing up there, anyway? He couldn't avoid
me forever.

When I stepped into the bedroom, he was sitting on the bed, glasses on,
surrounded by stacks of paper and file folders. "You're working?" I said
in disbelief.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He didn't look up.

"I don't know...but I'm sitting down there consumed by this problem, and
you're going on like it's any other day."

"I have to meet with Skinner tomorrow morning and report on our trip. I'm
trying to get my thoughts together."

"Aren't you at all distracted by what's been happening here?" God, was he
that single-minded?

"Not especially."

"Don't tell me you've gotten over it."

"I didn't say that."

"But you're just going to plow right on past it." I went to sit at the
foot of the bed, even though I knew it would irritate him when he had to
pull up his feet and straighten a stack of papers I had jostled. "I really
want to talk to you about this."

"And here I thought the beauty of sharing your bed with another man was
that you never had to talk about the relationship." He took his glasses
off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I just don't know what else to
say. You tell me it didn't mean anything, there's no chance of it
happening again, it was just a kiss. Fine. Let's just move on."

"How is that possible? Don't you want to figure out what caused it so it
doesn't happen again?"

"Uh, no. This kind of thing always makes me feel like I'm stuck in an
episode of 'thirtysomething.'"

"I just feel like I should try to explain it to you."

"Even if I don't want you to?"

Why did he have to be so exasperating? "I just wanted to say, Mulder, that
all I could think the whole time was that I missed you. I've missed you
for a while." I left it at that and went back downstairs.

When Mulder came down a couple of hours later, I was watching some mindless
sci-fi movie that I'd stopped on after a lot of idle channel-surfing.

"Are you coming to bed?" he asked.

"I thought maybe I had to sleep on the couch for a while."

"No. It's not that comfortable anyway."

He was silent through all the bedtime rituals of shutting off lights,
brushing teeth, and turning down sheets. I wasn't sure what to do with
myself as I tried to get situated in bed. We didn't always sleep
interwined, especially not lately, but we usually lay close for a little
while, me laying my head on his chest or spooning him from behind. I
doubted that was on tap for tonight.

I really wanted to kiss him goodnight, not so much as a sign of
reconciliation but more because I wanted to remember what it was like, the
taste of toothpaste on his lips, cool from the drink of water he'd just
taken. I wanted to touch him, revisiting the curves of his collarbone, the
planes of his stomach, now a little more drawn than they had been before
the accident. I wanted to get reacquainted with every mole, every muscle,
to trace the scar on his left shoulder, which had been there as long as I'd
known him, and then the new one down near his waist. That body had been
broken more than once, but it was still beautiful. I wondered how long it
would be before he let me near him again.

I turned over on my side to watch him get into bed. He sat back against
the headboard, knees drawn up, with a magazine. "I'm going to read for a
while. That OK?" If his tone had been a little harsher, it could have
sounded like a challenge, but I decided to assume he was just asking to be
nice.

"Sure. You finished your report?"

"Uh-huh."

"What time do you have to be in?"

"7:45." He didn't look at me, just kept flipping the pages of the magazine.

"So it's the 6:00 train?"

"Yeah."

I felt like I had to offer at least some gesture of goodwill before I could
go to sleep. "I'll get up with you and make breakfast, so you can set the
alarm a little later." I held my breath in, waiting to see if he would
accept.

"Okay. Good night, Tim."

Well, at least I could breathe a little easier. "Good night."

~End~

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