"Sunday, Bloody Sunday" by MJ

It is late, very late, at night. Fox Mulder knows this. Knows it by the darkness of the room, the silence around him. Knows it by the stillness in the air. He can't see the clock on the wall; the tube down his throat prevents that. But he can dimly make out night coming in through the window.

Tube, throat. Yeah, antiseptic smell. He's in the hospital. One more time. How long has he been here this time? He's not sure. There have been so many hospitals, so many intubations, so many "how did I get here" queries. This is just one more. And at least he wasn't on a case…at least he's fairly certain this had nothing to do with aliens, enemies, or viruses of unknown origin.

He just hates doctors, that's all. If he'd gone when Walt had told him to, he'd probably be home now. Don't think about it. Just hope you can get back to sleep with this fucking sewer pipe down your throat.

You recuperate a lot slower when you're pushing fifty, don't you?

Yeah, you do…

He feels like he's underwater. Like he has to cut through something giving him resistance before he can surface and see what's going on, even though he can see. Like there's pounds per square inch pushing against him, keeping limbs from moving. Even though, judging from the fucking tube, all of the fluid's probably inside him. The resistance is probably fatigue and medication. He knows this, but that doesn't make him any more comfortable. He can go back to sleep, slide under the influence of whatever medication he's been given. It's tempting. But he wonders how long he's been here, how long he's been out. He tries to remember how he got here; it doesn't register. What was he doing last? Oh, of course, Walter was away, had been for a week, he was going to take a run before Walter got in from that flight back from Schenectady.

Walter must be back from Schenectady by now.

Walter must have brought him in. Maybe Walter had been right; maybe he should have gone to the doctor when Walter told him to go. But six years, no, seven, of refusing to do what Walter wanted him to do at work, and ten years now of carrying on that same tradition in their home, made the idea of conceding to Walter Skinner an absolutely impossible concept. Walter was pigheaded, compulsive, anal-retentive, still had some kind of fucking drill sergeant fantasy—that had been the line he'd delivered to Walter during their last shouting match. It was a pretty good line, too, wasn't it?

Shit, Mulder, you just like to argue with Walt. The sex has always been great after a really good blowup, and it's never just been makeup sex, either. The bickering's been as much a part of their relationship as Walt's cooking, or his own insistence on watching Saturday morning cartoons, still.

Cartoons. He wonders what Bugs Bunny would do here. Walt hates it when he tells him that they're Bugs and Elmer in person. But hey, Walt can hunt…and he and Elmer even wear the same hair style. It's not just coincidence. It's a sign. They have been destined to be together since the day Elmer Fudd first hunted wabbit. The Universe desires the pairing of balding but cunning mighty hunter and tall, thin, lunatic. Only Bugs had to wear drag to get Elmer's attention, and he looks terrible in a dress…

Shit, he's delirious. Wait, though; if you know you're delirious, isn't that a good sign? You have to be in your right mind to be aware that you're not in your right mind…

He wants Walter. Wants him so badly he can taste it, need welling up inside him like air in a balloon. He is tired, and he feels like crap, and this fucking tube's down his throat, and hi hates being alone at night, has hated it with a passion since Walt left the Bureau, before Walt went into security consulting, since the afternoon Walt moved into his apartment and his bed permanently. And his arm aches, his hand hurts…

No, wait, his arm's all right, it's just been moved away from the bed, over the rail—the rail's pressure into his flesh is what hurts. But something's gripping onto his hand like a vise…With some effort, he shifts his eyes, looking out the corner, towards a man half-asleep in a chair beside the bed, holding onto his hand as if it were likely to go away on its own.

Walter.

Everything aches, but maybe…yeah. He can sort of squeeze back; not enough to really squeeze, but he can move it a little around the fingers holding him. Ah, that' s getting attention…Yeah, hi, Walt. It's me, Mulder.

Damn the tube; Walt will never know what he just said to him. "What's up, Doc?" At least, it was going to be that. Walt snorts back at him, kisses the hand. They look at each other, Walt in the chair with his head turned towards the patient, Mulder looking back out of the corner of his eyes—turning his head is too difficult.

Too much effort; he's starting to drift off again.

Walt moves his arm back on the bed for him, lays his large hand on top of Mulder's, watches him slide back under, medication pulling him down slowly. Walt stands, bends over, kisses him gently on the forehead. " 'Night, Bugs. I love you, too."