Title:” Portrait By a Neighbor - A Houseboat Variation” Author: JiM Fandom/pairing: XF, M/Sc/Sk Rating: PG Date: 2/00 Archive: Yes, just ask Warning: There be hints of heterosexuality lurking amongst the slash. Be forewarned. Feedback: jimpage363@aol.com Note: With grateful thanks to Edna St. Vincent Millay and to Dawn, who started the WHOLE series one rainy night. Also to Mona, who keeps a great page. Webpage:The other houseboat stories can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html * * * “Portrait By A Neighbor” - A Houseboat Variation by JiM * * * It isn't nosiness, exactly. It's just that when folks live so close together, like we do in the marina, you get to know all about one another. I live alone, and I like people, so it's only natural that I watch them, yes? And I like watching my younger neighbors, the ones in the slip next door, very much. They're ... interesting. Mysterious. Beautiful. A little tragic, a little funny, and very kind to a nosy old geezer who can see more than they might suspect through the half-drawn curtains of their houseboat. They aren't married, not that I can tell. He calls her "Scully" although she introduced herself to me quite prettily as "Dana" when I brought them a plate of housewarming brownies. She calls him "Mulder" and refers to him as her partner, which is a little odd in these days. It's obvious that they are lovers, although one might have to watch for a while to be certain. They move and work together like old friends; the bits of conversations that I overhear as they go back and forth past my houseboat are often laughing, full of teasing and gentle tones, sometimes acerbic, but rarely anything romantic. And yet, I have caught glimpses... sometimes, he takes her small, heart-shaped face between his large hands and strokes his thumbs over and over her cheeks before bending to kiss her with a tenderness that takes my breath away. One night, late last summer, I stepped out on deck to try to catch a cool breeze and I saw them locked together, dancing on the deck, barely moving as they swayed to some old blues tune. She cradled his dark head against her shoulder as they circled, his hand tangled up in hers and pressed against her heart. Neither is young, although they certainly seem to have the vitality and energy of younger men and women. I think she works for the government in some capacity; twice, I have seen sober-faced black suited men and women arrive to pick her up late at night, muttering about "briefings in half an hour" and "the Director has flagged this case...". Mulder just watches her go, a leashed mixture of longing and resignation on his face. The second time I saw it happen, I went over with a plate of cookies and commiserated with him on our shared insomnia, not asking where Dana was. He was pleasant, distractedly chatting with me about all sorts of things -- the man keeps more intriguing trivia behind those beautiful hazel eyes than any ten game show contestants could. She arrived home just before 2 am and I saw an entire conversation flash silently between them in the moment it took her to shrug off her overcoat and the time it took him to pour her a cup of the herbal tea. She shook her head, he nodded, his expression lightening, and that was that. I didn't know what he did for a long time. At first, I thought he was simply lazy; maybe it's my age showing, but househusbands never seem to be quite right to me. He rarely left the boat; I often saw him sitting and staring at a computer screen and I assumed he was whiling away his time surfing the Internet while Dana supported them both. Then I looked deeper and he seemed to have that same bruised look, deep in his eyes, that my brother Frank had when he came back from Viet Nam. I saw a kind of tattered faith, threadbare, but still holding in his gaze and I wondered what the trauma had been. I resolved to be kinder in my heart about his apparent sloth. Then I happened to be browsing in a bookstore and saw one half of his sardonic grin peeping out from a row of paperbacks in the 'True Crime' aisle. Fox Mulder's titles took up most of a shelf. I bought one, took it home and read it. It was a surprisingly good read, for an account of the hunt and capture of a grisly serial killer. In some of the paragraphs, I could almost hear Mulder's voice drawling with irreverence and impatience at foolish bureaucracy; in other places, his sense of humor or grim purpose were startlingly familiar. The author's notes on the back of the book told me that he had been a profiler with the FBI and I wondered if that explained the look in his eyes; in both their eyes, really. They keep their distance, friendly but still a little aloof to most of us here at the marina. They rarely attend any parties and they have few guests. I guess that's why I noticed when the tall man started coming around. The first day I saw him, I was washing down my decks, trying to scrub away the winter grime. I'm always looking for a distraction from that boring task, so I looked up hopefully when I heard the car drive into the parking lot. It didn't look familiar, so I went back to work, only noticing later that the driver hadn't gotten out. A few days later, I saw that same blue car again. This time, I was taking my trash to the dumpster at the end of the float and I watched as the driver sat for a few minutes, then turned off the engine and got out. He was a tall man, balding, and whatever hair was left was as steel gray as my own. He wore glasses that flashed as he looked up and down the float, just standing there at the edge of the parking lot, looking down on the river and the marina. His gaze seemed to fix on my boat and I walked back slowly, wondering whether or not to call the police. I felt him looking at me when I swung myself back aboard. Those eyes passed right over me and I felt myself weighed, judged and dismissed in a single instant. Then I realized he was looking at the boat next to mine, where Mulder and Scully lived. I felt a chill suddenly. I stepped inside to get my phone and when I came back out, he was gone. I didn't know what to say to Mulder or Dana, so I said nothing. Perhaps it was a mistake. The next time I saw the tall bald man, he was standing halfway down the gangway, just looking at their boat. I had my arms full of groceries, but I nearly dropped them when I saw him standing there, blocking my way. "Excuse me," I quavered at him. He was wearing torn jeans and a battered leather jacket and a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. His head whipped around and I felt that measuring gaze on me again. After a moment, he flattened himself against one railing, leaving barely enough room for me to pass with my burdens. I felt that same chill again as I brushed past him, but something made me turn at the bottom of the gangway, my feet back on a deck, now back on my home territory. "If you're looking for Dana and Mulder, they've gone out for the day." Which was true. I had heard them cheerfully arguing about who was going to drive and how long it would take as they'd left early this morning. Those dark eyes rested on me again, then he said in a clipped voice, "Thank you." "Would you like to leave a note or a message? I could give it to them when they get back," I offered, not understanding my own impulse when everything about this man suggested danger, if not to me, then to my neighbors. "No!" he said sharply, then "Thank you," as if remembering a formula. Then he turned and strode back up the gangway, got into his car and left. The incident troubled me enough that I puttered on deck until the light went, then I lingered around my portholes until I saw them come home that evening. Mulder was carrying a huge pink stuffed bear, the kind you win on a carnival midway, and I remembered that the state fair had begun yesterday. Dana was laughing at him and stopped to poke a tuft of candy floss into his mouth, effectively stoppering whatever nonsense was rolling out of his mouth and into the dusk. They both listened to me seriously, but without a sign of alarm. Mulder made me describe the man twice and he and Dana shared a look again. She cocked an eyebrow and he nodded, the corner of his mouth inching up. "It looks as if we’ll finally be able to finish it, Scully," he said softly. "Maybe," she said. "That depends on whether or not he comes back." "He will," Mulder said with absolute confidence. Then the two of them seemed to remember that I was there and thanked me kindly for my concern. They tried to reassure me that the strange man was no one to worry about, but I knew better. I had looked into those eyes. So I kept watch. Someone needed to be a good neighbor to those two. He came back again, about a week later, on an afternoon of rain. This time, he had made it all the way down the gangway and was standing out on the float when I noticed him. He was just standing there, bareheaded in the rain, staring at their houseboat . He was wearing another pair of patched jeans with a worn trenchcoat over a thin sweater. I didn't know if they were home and I didn't know what to do - call them, call the police? I settled down to watch and see. After a few minutes of covert observation, I began to think that perhaps Mulder was right; the stranger didn't *seem* threatening to me now. He just stood, in the shadow of one of the large cruisers tied up at dock and he let the rain soak into him as he stared unwaveringly, almost hopelessly at the houseboat. He seemed frozen in place, unable to go forward, unwilling to go back. I wondered how long he would stand there, wavering, nearly shuddering with the tension. Then Mulder stepped out on deck, a bag of garbage in his hand. He stopped dead when he caught sight of the soaked man on the float. There was suddenly a humming kind of tension that stretched between the two men, tightening with every breath. I was reaching for the phone to call the police when I heard Mulder speak, the sound carrying clearly across the water and through my open porthole. "Hey, the Prodigal G-Man returns. Are you coming aboard, Skinner, or do you just want to stand out there until you drown?" The words were abrupt, almost rude, but Mulder's tone was so gentle that I was left thinking that he had said something very different indeed. Apparently, the man called Skinner heard the something different, too. Some of the screaming tension left his shoulders and he raised his head a little, some pride seeping back into his stance. "I wasn't sure I was welcome." Mulder frowned, a gentle rebuking expression. "We've been waiting for you. You made it kind of hard to issue an invitation when you fucking *disappeared* for two years," Mulder's voice had dropped to an accusatory growl near the end. I had never heard him swear before and as I blinked in surprise, I nearly missed it when Dana stepped out on deck and saw the stranger. She said nothing at all, just rushed across the deck, jumped down to the float and ran straight into the tall man's arms. He caught her up and wrapped her tightly in his embrace, holding her to him for long moments. I couldn't hear what she said to him, but I could see the effect of her words on the bald man. His eyes were closed, but his face suddenly folded, his jaw clenched and his lips tightened. I wondered if he were crying. Her hands stroked lovingly over his shoulders and head and his hands tangled in the back of her sweater as if she were his only anchor. When I looked to see what Mulder thought of his lover embracing another man, I found that he was already in motion. He, too, crossed the deck and jumped down lightly to the float. Then he came over to them and wrapped one arm around Skinner and one around Dana and I could tell that he had begun whispering to the bald man as well. One of Skinner's arms jerked free and he clutched Mulder to him, holding onto both of them as if he were about to be washed away in a great torrent. Mulder drew the bald head down to his own shoulder and he and Dana cradled the big man between them for long wet minutes. Finally, after some more quiet talk, Skinner let Dana slide back down onto her own feet and he slowly released his desperate grip on Mulder's back. I watched without understanding as my two neighbors each took one of the tall man's hands and led him aboard their houseboat and drew him inside. Through the half-drawn curtains, I stared shamelessly as they stripped away the newcomer’s soaked clothing and toweled him off, then dressed him in some of Mulder's sweats. There were many gentle touches, soothing caresses that seemed to belong to more than just Dana and Mulder. I spied shamelessly on them throughout the evening. They ate, coaxing their guest as if he were a sick child. Then they talked, long hours into the night. Dana and Mulder listened mostly, but sometimes Dana talked and Mulder yelled. Somewhere around midnight, Mulder stood up and slammed his fist down on the table, then he dragged Skinner to his feet and kissed him. Hard. I was shocked speechless and apparently, so was Skinner. The only one who seemed to have been expecting it was Dana. She smiled tenderly at the shell-shocked man, said something soothing to Mulder, then gently, softly, slowly, took Skinner into her own arms and kissed him, too. They turned the lights out not long after that, so I didn't see what happened. But I have a pretty good idea. Skinner didn't leave that night. Nor the next. When he did leave, Dana went with him. I fretted about this, covertly watching Mulder as he sat and stared at his computer screen for three straight hours, wondering if I should bring him some brownies and sympathy. But the other two returned before dusk, each carrying several battered pieces of luggage, which is when I knew that Skinner was there to stay. And stay he has. I don't pretend to understand it, although some of the younger folks around the marina nudge and wink at each other when one of them passes. They still keep pretty much to themselves, although Walter is very kind about helping me with some of the heavier upkeep on my boat. Once, near the end of the summer, he invited me over to their boat for a barbecue. I found him a pleasant, if quiet conversationalist. He wasn't eclipsed by Mulder's cheerful chat nor Dana's friendly courtesies so much as content to rest in the shadow of their conversation. Now that I no longer see him as a stalker of my favorite neighbors, I see that he, too, has the same brittle after-action look in his gaze that is slowly dying out of Mulder and Dana's eyes. I still say it isn't nosiness, exactly, that lets me know so much of what happens over there. The curtains are never fully drawn, so how could I help but see if Mulder welcomes each of them home with the same caresses and kisses? How could I shut my ears when I hear Dana cry out in pleasure as she is loved by those two beautiful men? Now Walter Skinner is as beautiful and mysterious to me as the others. I am too old to feel shock or envy; instead, I feel a certain joy that these three have found some peace and love together. I may never know what caused the wounds they all seem to share, but at least I been witness to a great and unexpected healing. Finis Feedback gratefully received at: jimpage363@aol.com