Beautiful and tranquil and...pure. Yeah, that was the word. I hadn't even
thought it in so long the idea was foreign to me. Was anything pure anymore?
Was anybody? I was—pure evil, at least in Mulder's eyes. From his point of
view, I guess it probably looked a hell of a lot like the truth. I'd done what
I had to do to survive. Other people had died to keep me still breathing, still
walking around—minus an arm, but after everything I'd been through in the
past few years, it was an acceptable loss. I was alive, and I didn't regret it.
Most days, anyway.
The plane banked, and I unbuckled, moving to one of the vacant seats on the
other side of the aisle, peering out the window. I could see something a little
ways off in the distance, something lushly green and hilly and surrounded by
water, with a distinctly sandy-looking beige ribbon rimming its outer edge. An
island.
An island somewhere in the South Pacific. Not Oahu or Maui or any of the other
Hawaiian Islands—I'd had a stopover in Honolulu last night, just long enough
to catch this little single-engine chartered job and take off into the skies
again. They'd stopped once during the night to refuel, but hadn't taken on any
other passengers; I was still the only one. Not Tahiti, not Bali either. I
didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care, as long as I got there soon;
my muscles felt like they'd turned to lead, my eyes gritty, burning from lack
of sleep. All I wanted was someplace to lay low for a week or two, a place to
rest and regroup and not have to look over my shoulder every other fucking
minute. Someplace quiet. Someplace warm.
My boss hadn't shown for our last meeting, but he'd left me a package at the
usual dropoff point, my locker down at the Chain Bridge Road Greyhound station.
Inside was twenty thousand in cash and a note:
"Mr. Krycek—
If I have not contacted you in person by this time, you must assume that I am
dead, and under no circumstances should you try to contact any of my—our
—former associates.
The tide has turned, and in a way none of us would ever have expected. I
advise you to leave Washington—for a short time, at least. The small stipend
I have enclosed should be enough to help you on your way.
Stay alive, Mr. Krycek, and contact Mulder when you return. He believes—or,
if he does not by now, he never will. The rest I leave for him to explain.
Good luck to you."
No signature, not even an initial, but that was hardly a surprise. I'd been
working for the guy for months now, and he'd never told me his name. I didn't
know any of their names; to me they were a bunch of dried-up old farts huddled
in a Manhattan apartment, dark three-thousand-dollar suits blending in with the
shadows and the dust motes, sipping their coffee and scotch with such fucking
civilized grace while they planned the world's end. Men like them didn't have
names. Officially, they didn't even exist. The apartment was leased to the U.S.
Justice Department—my boss had let that much slip once, but only once—
and if anyone happened to pay the place an uninvited visit, all they'd find
would be musty air and four stark, bare walls. If I even tried telling anyone
everything I'd seen and heard in all those dark, quiet, closeted meetings,
they'd call me crazy. As crazy as Mulder.
God, that was funny.
"Better buckle up, sir," the pilot said, giving me a quick over-the-shoulder
glance, "we'll be landing in a couple minutes."
There was no airport within my range of vision, not even a runway, but I'd
noticed back in Honolulu that the plane was equipped with pontoons for water
landings. It glided to the ocean's surface smooth as glass, touching down a
little ways off from a pier I spied in the distance. As the plane drew closer,
two tiny ant-size figures grew gradually larger, more distinct, finally
assuming normal human shape and proportions. Two men—one thin and
dark-suited with a shock of spiky white hair, the other shorter and
heavier-set, wearing a hotel bellman's uniform. There was a golf cart a few
feet behind them, I saw as I climbed out of the plane, feeling distinctly
awkward in my scuffed and dirty jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket. If they were
expecting their usual class of guest, they were about to be extremely
disappointed.
"Mr. Krycek?" the white-haired guy said, coming toward me with a smile and an
outstretched hand. He had blue eyes, the most startling, deep shade of blue I'd
ever seen, like the sky up in the mountains after it'd just snowed. Crisp and
clean and...icy. I shivered.
"Um, yeah, I'm Krycek. How'd you know who I—"
"We received your reservation just last night. I'm your host, Mr. Roarke.
Welcome to Fantasy Island."
I gaped, looking him and the bellman up and down, biting back a giggle. He
couldn't've said what I thought he'd just said. Could he? "S-So where's the
midget?"
"I beg your pardon?" Barely-disguised indignation brought his British accent
front and center. Oh, this was good. He sounded like my ex-late-boss's twin
brother.
"And, um...shouldn't you be wearing a white suit?"
"Oh." Roarke's lips quirked up sourly, and he clasped both hands behind his
back. For just a second, though, I could've sworn I saw those frosty blue eyes
twinkle. "You're referring to the previous management, and they haven't been in
residence for quite some time, I'm afraid. I trust you've had a good flight?"
So much for getting a rise out of the guy. "A little long, but I guess it was
okay."
"Good. I'll have Cal retrieve your luggage, and then I'd be happy to show you
the hotel—"
"I don't have any luggage." Off his surprised look, I added, "I, um...left town
in a hurry. Didn't have time to pack."
"Ah, well, these things happen. The hotel has an excellent men's clothing shop,
which I'm sure can take care of any additional wardrobe needs for you. Please,"
Roarke said, ushering me toward the golf cart, both of us climbing in. We drove
up a long, winding pathway leading to a sprawling Chinese pavilion tucked in
the lee of a nearby hill, elegant off-white wood accented with red trim. Just
the sight of it was soothing; I could feel the muscles in my back and neck
finally starting to unclench, giving the rest of me permission to relax. It was
all I could do to keep my eyes open.
"Perhaps we should put off the hotel tour until you've had a chance to rest,"
Roarke said as the cart pulled into a red-and-white tiled courtyard, rolling to
a halt. "Have a seat in the lobby, and I'll see that you're checked in."
I probably should've protested, but I was so fucking blitzed I could barely put
one foot in front of the other; I shuffled into the lobby like some sick old
man, dropping down in a nice overstuffed armchair. I was just nodding off when
Roarke gently shook my shoulder, pointing toward the nearby elevator. I didn't
even notice which floor he pushed the button for, but thankfully my room was
close to the elevator, two, maybe three rooms down. Roarke opened the door with
a flourish, gesturing for me to go in ahead of him.
Everything was white, pure gleaming white—walls and ceiling and thick, plush
carpet, the kind that looked like you could sink into it all the way up to your
knees—a wide, frothy sea of white. The furniture was white too, but a
slightly different shade, cream with red trim, just like the hotel's facade,
even the huge big-screen TV in the living room's far corner. An open door led
off to one side, and I followed it, stopping dead in the doorway, staring. More
white, fluffy, soothing, ivory-toned white this time, spread over a king-size
bed. I went over to it, letting my fingers skim the comforter, grabbing a
handful. Goosedown. Light, warm goosedown. I hadn't slept under a goosedown
comforter in...Christ, since I was a little kid. My grandmother's house out in
the country, snow blanketing the ground and a fire flickering in the fireplace
all night long and sweet, rich mugs of warm cocoa before bed. I ached at the
memory.
"I trust everything meets with your approval, Mr. Krycek?" Roarke asked from
the doorway.
"I-I can't afford this."
"But... your reservation—"
"Yeah, I know I have reservation, but nobody told me I was getting booked into
the damn honeymoon suite!" God, this was embarrassing, but I didn't have much
of a choice. I still had a bundle in my pocket, but places like this ran a
thousand a night, easy. I didn't know how long it'd be before it was safe for
me to go back to DC; better save my pennies now, or I'd be scrounging for them
later. "Um... d'you have anything a little less, um—"
"These are our standard accommodations, Mr. Krycek," Roarke explained. "And
there's no need for alarm; all your expenses here have been paid in advance. My
apologies for not making it clear, but I was under the impression that your
travel agent had already told you."
My mind flashed back to DC, to that dingy little hole-in-the-wall travel agency
a few doors down from the bus station; I doubted I'd even have gone in if it
hadn't started pouring down rain all of a sudden. It was the weirdest travel
office I'd ever been in—hell, the weirdest office, period—no computers,
no fax machines, just this little old guy in a natty grey suit and bow tie
sitting behind a decrepit typewriter. He'd grinned and offered me a chair and a
cup of coffee, and before I knew it, I'd handed him three grand in cash and
booked myself a vacation. All I'd told him was I wanted the first flight out of
town, preferably to someplace warm. I figured he was probably ripping me off,
but one look at that Santa-Claus-ish gleam in his eye and I forked it over
anyway. Jesus. I wasn't usually such an easy touch.
But now it looked like I'd lucked into a bargain. "He, um...probably did tell
me, I guess I just wasn't paying attention. So... everything's included?" I
asked one more time, just to make sure. "Everything?"
"Yes. Sort of bed-and-breakfast style, you know," Roarke replied with a tiny
smile, and—God, there was that twinkle again. I wasn't imagining it. "If
there's nothing else, I'll leave you to relax, then?"
"Um... yeah, thanks." I stood there in the middle of the bedroom for what seemed
like a long time after I heard the living room door close, finally moving to
the full-length window on the opposite side of the room, parting the white
linen drapes, looking outside. I had a beautiful view of the lagoon where my
plane had landed, translucent blue-green water lapping gently at golden sand;
it seemed to stretch into infinity, touching, melding with the sky.
The soft, liquid wave-sound reminded me I hadn't taken a piss since last night
in Honolulu. The bathroom was a religious experience, all creamy tile and
monogrammed Egyptian cotton towels hanging off polished chrome railings, so
fucking shiny I was afraid to touch anything. I peed for what seemed like five
minutes straight, then peeled off my clothes and prosthesis and jumped in the
shower. No way was I getting in that nice clean bed, not till I'd washed all
the grunge off me.
The hot, steamy water revived me a little; by the time I climbed back out, I
felt about ten pounds lighter. There was a robe hanging on the back of the
bathroom door, made from the same smooth white cotton as the towels, the same
elegantly-entwined "FI" insignia stitched in fine gold thread over the right
breast. I pulled it on.
My nose wrinkled as I scooped my t-shirt up off the floor, catching a quick
whiff of it. Padding back into the bedroom, I found a phone on the bedside
table, a hotel directory on a pull-out card under the phone, running my finger
down the list until I found it—guest laundry services. I punched in the
extension, told them to come up and get everything, no rush, no starch,
tomorrow morning was fine. I dumped everything I'd been wearing, leather jacket
included, outside the door, hung up the 'Do Not Disturb' sign, pulled back
those white, white sheets and dove between them. I didn't even bother taking
off the robe.
It was like lying on a cloud, soft and springy, enveloping me like a kiss. My
eyes closed, and I drifted a little, everything that'd happened in the last few
days sifting through my exhausted brain. My boss's note. The money. DC. The
plane ride. This place. The note. Mulder.
Hazel eyes danced through my mind, startled hazel eyes, a cheek stubbled and
warm under my lips. I'd kissed him, and he hadn't pulled away. I could've
almost sworn he'd leaned into it; if he'd shifted a little more to the right, I
would've hit him square in the mouth. It was the first time we'd touched with
any kind of tenderness since—
No. I wasn't letting myself get wound up in thoughts like that, not now. I
toyed with the sleeve of my robe, running my hand up and over it, savoring its
plush, luxurious feel, tracing the monogram with my fingertips. Maybe this
really was Fantasy Island; hell, if anybody'd told me last week I'd be grabbing
a few days' R&R in a place like this, I would've called it a fantasy. Well,
right now my number-one fantasy consisted of catching a few z's. The rest could
wait for later—not that thinking about it even then would do one fucking bit
of good.
The note. Black oil. Mulder. Fluffy white clouds. Blue, blue sky and bluer sea.
Mulder...
Sleep came for me, wrapping me in its warm, senseless blanket, deep and black
and without dreams.
It was still light out when I woke up, but a quick glance at my watch, then out
the window, told me it was the next morning—about eight-forty the next
morning, Hawaiian time. Christ only knew what time zone I was in now, but the
sun was already starting its slow creep upward in the sky, so it was probably
closer to ten than nine. I grinned; it'd been a long time since I'd felt safe
enough anywhere to sleep straight through until I didn't feel exhausted
anymore.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbled, reminding me of something else I hadn't done
since I'd left Honolulu. I called room service, ordered one of everything on
the breakfast menu and hopped in the shower again, adjusting the spray to tiny
hot, then icy-cold, needles, blasting any lingering murkiness from my brain.
There was a razor laid out on the vanity, and shaving cream, though apparently
I'd been so wiped last night I didn't remember seeing it. The razor glided over
my skin like a lover's whisper, leaving it moist and baby-smooth, with a hint
of the cream's spicy scent. I was just tugging the robe back on when I heard a
knock at the door.
"Points for timing, not to mention promptness," I murmured, opening the door,
eyes widening as the waiter wheeled in a cart with enough food on it to save a
small African country from starvation. I motioned for him to park it by the
couch, but stopped him before he could lay the covered dishes out on the coffee
table. This first-class treatment was starting to make me a little nervous.
"S'okay, this is fine, really," I said, fumbling in my pocket for the twenty
I'd stashed there for him, but he waved it away with a polite smile, heading
for the door.
I tore through my ham and eggs like a vampire fanging a nice, juicy throat,
inhaling the whole plate so fast it made me dizzy, chasing it down with hot,
hot French roast coffee with cream and one teaspoon of raw sugar. Waffles came
next, with syrup and real butter, topped with fresh strawberries. By the time I
got to my double-portion of crispy hash browns, my stomach was screaming uncle.
I slumped down in my chair with the world's dopiest grin on my face. Fantasy
number two, slam-dunked.
Another knock, but there was nobody there by the time I swung the door open,
just my jacket and jeans—hangered and plastic-bagged and dangling from the
doorknob—and a neat, string-tied bundle of my t-shirt and boxers sitting on
the carpet. A delicate, vaguely floral odor wafted up, teasing my nostrils. I
picked up the bundle, sticking my face right in it, inhaling deeply. Fabric
softener. I hadn't had clean clothes in so long, I'd forgotten what they
smelled like.
It seemed a crime to shed the lovely, plush warmth of my robe, but I did,
hanging it back on the bathroom door and pulling on boxers, jeans and t-shirt,
unwrapping the jacket. They'd done a great job on the dry-cleaning; it hadn't
felt so supple and buttery-soft since the day I'd bought it—they'd even
oiled the zipper and stitched up some rips in the lining. I was impressed.
But there was only so much they could fix or clean. The jeans were pretty bad
—frayed at the waist and pant-cuffs, the knees so scuffed they were just
about ready to tear clean through—and the t-shirt already had small holes in
the armpits. Time to pay a visit to that men's store Roarke had mentioned.
It was in the lobby, just a couple doors down from the registration desk. The
Armani suit display in the front window almost made me turn tail and run, but I
sucked down a breath and went in—hell, my money was just as green as anybody
else's. I picked out two new pairs of jeans—one blue, one black—and four
t-shirts, then segued over to the swimwear rack. Speedos in every style and
color of the rainbow; I eyed the red for a couple seconds, but finally chose
the royal blue. There was a beach towel in the exact same color, so I got that
too. Then came three pairs of new boxers and, on a whim, a black leather
carry-on bag that matched my jacket perfectly; if nothing else, at least I'd
leave this place with a couple decent changes of clothes. Handing over four
crisp C-notes, I sauntered back to the elevator with a carefree ripple of
pride. I couldn't remember the last time I'd bought something without worrying
about how much it cost. I could definitely get used to the feel!
ing.
It was way too gorgeous a day to stay inside, and I didn't intend to; racing
back to my room, I shucked my clothes and the prosthesis in record time. My new
Speedo fit like a second skin, but I'd wear the robe over it, at least until I
got down to the beach. I could do without everybody in the lobby staring at the
arm that wasn't there anymore.
'Everybody' turned out to be almost nobody—with the exception of the front
desk clerk and the salesguy in the men's clothing shop, I got out of the hotel
without seeing a single other employee or guest. Following a well-marked
footpath, I padded down to the beach, the sand warm and fine as baby-powder
under my feet, finding a well-shaded spot under a huge palm tree, spreading out
my towel. It was the biggest towel I'd ever seen, easily as big as the
comforter on my bed, a dark blue inksplotch on the sand. Chuckling, I shrugged
off my robe and sat down, scooting to the bottom edge of the towel where a
narrow strip of sunlight fell, flopping back, arm flung over my eyes, digging
my toes in the sand. God, it felt great.
I was pretty close to nodding off when I heard an almost imperceptible shuffle
and slide—footsteps on sand. I sat up to see Roarke walking toward me,
taking his time, hands in his suit pockets, giving me a small smile when he saw
that I'd noticed him.
"It appears you're enjoying your stay with us, Mr. Krycek. No, please don't get
up," he added, waving me back down on the blanket, gaze flicking over me,
lingering momentarily at my left shoulder. "Relax, please. That's what you're
here for, isn't it?"
"Looks a little deserted," I remarked, nodding toward the rest of the beach.
There still wasn't anybody else around, either down here or up on the hotel
terrace overlooking the lagoon.
"Yes, well, as it's the off-season, you're our only guest at the moment. So if
it's peace and quiet you're looking for, you're in luck—until the next plane
arrives in four days' time."
Blue eyes locked on mine, razored ice-shards shooting straight through me. I
had to look away.
"What are you looking for, Mr. Krycek?"
"I-I'm not looking for anything. I'm just taking a vacation."
"Oh, I think you are. And the truly wondrous thing about this place is, things
that are impossible in the outside world are completely possible here. Whatever
you desire, you can have."
"C'mon, you're kidding, right? You can't mean—"
"I never kid the guests, Mr. Krycek. This really is Fantasy Island.
Everything you've heard is true." Another smile, warmer this time, and suddenly
the twinkle in his eye was back. "Except for the midget and the white suit, of
course."
I grabbed the robe, yanking it up over my shoulders, covering my left arm. My
stump. It was silly, I knew, feeling so embarrassed all of a sudden; Roarke had
already seen it and he hadn't run screaming in the other direction—but then,
I was a paying guest. Wouldn't do to piss me off.
Still, it was tempting, so damn tempting to just say the words, to call his
bluff and ask for it, ask for my arm back. If he was lying, nothing would
happen—no harm, no foul—and if he wasn't, I could live the fantasy, if
only for a few days. A few days of not having to put on that fucking prosthesis
every morning. A few days with no phantom pain. A few days of pretending I was
whole again. Normal again.
But who'd give a fuck? Who'd even notice, besides me? I'd gone to bed alone
last night, showered alone, had breakfast alone—and here I was now, sitting
on a beach in paradise, alone. I'd been on the run so long I'd gotten used to
it. I'd stopped wishing for what I knew I could never have.
"There's someone..." I murmured, gazing out at the ocean, clear turquoise waves
tearing at the shore with sharp frothy teeth, "someone I care about. I'd like
to have him here with me."
"So why isn't he, if I may ask?"
"We've, um...got kind of a love-hate relationship. I love him, he hates me." A
laugh, low and ragged, bubbled up from my throat; I had to bite down on the
sleeve of my robe to stifle it. "All I want is a few days where I can...pretend
four years ago didn't happen, that I didn't betray him. Where I can pretend he
doesn't hate me."
"Ah, I see. The way it should have been," Roarke nodded. "Well, as fantasies
go, it's a fairly simple one, though in your case far from perfect."
"What d'you mean, in my case?"
"Well, as I've already pointed out, the object of your fantasy isn't actually
here, so we'll have to improvise, extrapolate his appearance and personality
from your memories of him. Which may or may not be what you really want." One
corner of his mouth quirked up slyly. "Of course, that's for you to say."
I was nodding before he was even done talking. I didn't want to think about it,
didn't want another chance to back out. If I had it, I knew I'd take it, and no
way was I going to sleep in that beautiful, empty hotel room by myself tonight.
"Yeah, yeah, it's fine, it's what I want, so could we just—"
"You're sure? There's only one fantasy allowed per visit, so if you'd like to
give it a bit more thought, please feel free—"
"Look, I've made up my mind, so let's get this show on the road, okay?"
An arched eyebrow, then, "Very well. Done," he said, snapping his fingers.
I was expecting thunder, lightning, maybe a few dark clouds, but nothing. Nada.
Zip. Not even a slight shift in the breeze. If this was magic, I was pretty
fucking disappointed. "That's it?"
"Yes."
"So where's my fantasy?"
"Believe it or not, it's already begun," Roarke said with a smile, turning,
heading back toward the hotel. "Enjoy yourself, Mr. Krycek."
I sat there for a long time, scanning the beach up and down, staring out at the
ocean. Nothing happened, nothing but the wind finally kicking up, waves growing
choppier, one whitecap after another rolling towards the beach—
Except one of them wasn't a wave. Someone was swimming out there, arms and legs
slicing the water, clean and precise as an Exacto knife, heading for shore. I
could see a dark head bobbing and weaving, then a tall, slender red-Speedoed
body stood, walking the rest of the way through the surf up to the beach.
He looked tanned and gorgeous and he grinned and waved when he saw me and
GodohGodohGod I was not fucking ready for this. "You should've come in with
me," Mulder said, diving onto the towel, stretching out next to me. "The
water's about seventy degrees, fucking perfect. You'd love it."
I ran two fingers along his arm, water still glistening on his skin like new
diamonds, touching him, touching his skin, solid and warm, just to make sure he
was really there, really real. I could feel the pulse softly thrumming in his
wrist, skimming my thumb over it, absorbing its rhythm. He looked thinner than
the last time I'd seen him, as thin as he'd been four years ago and slightly
less broad in the chest and shoulders. His hair was still wet, but I could see
a few stray spiky strands wisping out over his forehead.
He was here with me, right here, the way I wanted, the way I remembered. Talk
about hitting the fantasy jackpot. "I, um...m-maybe later," I murmured when he
kept staring up at me, obviously waiting for me to say something. "Looks like
it's getting a little rough out there."
"I thought you liked it rough." One push sent me tumbling over on my back,
Mulder swooping down on me like a hot stormfront, tongue jabbing past my lips,
invading my mouth. He tasted wet and warm and salty-sweet, and it took more
than one push to get him to stop before air starvation made me pass out. "Well,
only sometimes, huh?" he grinned, propping himself up on one elbow, looking
over at me, his other hand resting on my left shoulder, rubbing gently,
absently. "You okay?"
"Y-yeah, I'm fine, why?"
"You got a funny look on your face there for a second, like you get when your
arm's hurting. Is it?"
Now that he mentioned it, it wasn't. That was weird—my shoulder usually
ached all the time from the weight of the prosthesis. Even when I'd taken it
off for awhile, I sometimes got the sensation that my fingers were still there,
still wiggling on the end of a perfectly good arm, though lately that only
happened when I was tired. It hadn't happened last night, though. "No, I'm
okay, I'm fine, it's just... your, um... enthusiasm caught me a little off-guard,
I guess."
"Sorry, babe, I didn't mean to. C'mere," he whispered, leaning in close,
dusting my forehead and eyelids with tiny butterfly kisses, working his way
down to the tip of my nose, both of us giggling by the time he reached my
mouth. He was gentler this time, taking his time, planting soft little pecks at
each corner, waiting for my lips to part for him before coming inside. A tiny
urging, and he was rolling half on top of me, hands all over me, one of his
thighs between both of mine. I gasped, holding onto him, arching and thrusting
up under him like a horny dog, both of us rock-hard in seconds. He lifted up a
little, breaking the kiss, giving me a half-sly, half-questioning look. "You
want?"
I was way past the capacity for rational speech at that point. Tugging him back
down, mouths locking again, I snaked my hand down, sliding inside his Speedo,
grasping, stroking his cock, pulling the red material down as best I could.
Mulder skinned it down and off in a single quick, jerky movement, then did the
same with mine, flinging them to the sand a few feet away. Perfect place for
them.
The tip of his cock prodded my belly, wet, leaking with excitement. His skin
was wet too; I could smell the ocean-scent still clinging to him, clean and
salty and mixed with the musky tang of sweat, sending a fresh surge of lust
spiraling straight to my own cock. I slung my thigh over his hip, pulling him
close, pulling him in, thrusting, rolling against him, letting him know I was
ready.
He was ready too, more than ready, but he held himself in check, moving slowly
at first, heat and sticky-moist friction building until we were both bucking
and plunging blindly, plowing each other's bellies, swamped and drowning in
each other's wake, going down for the last time. He had me on the edge, right
there on the fucking edge and he knew it, grinning, mouth slashing down like a
sharpened straight-razor, stealing my last breath, pulling back, both of us
gasping, bathed in sweat. "C'mon, babe, do it, I know you can do it. Come for
me..."
And I did, screaming his name, warm silkiness jetting from my cock, all over
me, all over both of us, Mulder following a split-second later, coming so hard
I could've sworn I saw his eyes roll back in his head. He didn't pass out,
though, and luckily neither did I, rolling him gently off me and onto his side
before he got too heavy, resting my head on his chest, arm wrapped around his
waist. I could hear his heart thumping wildly, hear him mumbling sweet, gentle
words I couldn't quite make out, feel his fingers tangling in my hair. I kissed
a trail down his chest, tasting sweat and semen, both of us finally going
still, silent.
The sun had crept halfway up our towel by the time we opened our eyes again. We
were both smeared sticky with come from crotch to chest, so we took a stroll
down to the water to wash up. Mulder dragged me in up to my waist, splashing me
like a gleeful five-year-old until I was so wet I figured I might as well just
plunge in head-first and get it over with. The water was as warm as he'd said,
warm as a heated pool from the midday sun, blue-green liquid silk pouring over
me. Heaven on earth.
"You, um... didn't happen to bring sunscreen, did you?" Mulder asked.
I knew there was something I forgot to buy when I was out shopping this
morning. Damn. I shook my head.
"Then we'd better go in," he said, cocking his head toward the hotel,
"unless you wanna be toast in a few minutes. That sun's getting nasty."
I nodded, trudging back to the towel with a sigh, giggling when I scooped my
brand-new blue Speedo up off the sand. It was ruined, ripped all the way up one
side-seam, same as Mulder's. No wonder he got them off us so fast. Mulder
shrugged when he saw what he'd done, then handed me my robe and picked up the
towel, draping it around himself toga-style, covering all vital areas. At least
we'd be marginally decent until we got back to the room.
We walked back hand in hand, though I felt my face go red as soon as we entered
the lobby; I hadn't seen anybody else out on the beach all day, but that didn't
mean they hadn't seen us. None of the staff blinked an eyelash, though, smiling
politely as we passed through on our way to the elevator, not even when Mulder
kissed me full on the mouth—with tongue, for Chrissakes—right as that
heavy-set bellman walked by.
We laughed our asses off all the way up to the fourth floor, racing each other
to the door, through the living room, into the bedroom. Mulder threw off the
towel, launching himself headlong onto the bed, hurling a pillow at me, but I
caught it before it could smack me in the face, smacking him with it instead,
rolling him onto his back, straddling him, pinning him down, laughing so hard
my ribs felt like they were going to poke right through my skin. When I'd
caught my breath I leaned down slowly, smiling, teasing him with tiny little
nips all over his face, saving that luscious lower lip of his for last, sucking
it into my mouth, finally dipping in for a real kiss, tongues dancing, delving.
"I love you, you know. Always have."
I don't know what made me say it. Maybe it was because I knew none of this was
permanent, none of it mattered; I could do all the things I'd always wanted
with him, say anything and everything I'd never said, and I'd still come out
squeaky-clean in the wash. Maybe I just wanted to hear myself say the words for
their own sake, give them their own permanence and reality, something I could
take away with me when I got back on that plane in a few days. The perfect
souvenir of a perfect fantasy.
He didn't say anything, just smiled, a different kind of smile this time,
gentle and distant and even a little sad, giving me a nudge to get me to roll
to my side beside him so that we faced each other. It felt nice, calm even,
lying here together touching, kissing, without any sexual urgency this time,
just being together, enjoying the moment. We'd never had that before. I'd never
had it before with anyone, period.
He fell asleep a few minutes later, turning onto his stomach, burrowing into
the covers like a lazy kitten, face half-pushed into the pillows. His skin
looked dark, tawny as bronze against the sheets' snowy whiteness. Yesterday I'd
thought that pure blue, blue sea just outside my window was the most beautiful
thing I'd ever seen. I was wrong.
I slipped my arm around his waist again, and closed my eyes.
There was something very small, very warm and very, very wet crawling down the
back of my neck, tracing the line of my vertebrae, licking, tasting. The tip of
someone's tongue. Mulder's tongue. Mulder's fingers stroking my shoulder,
carding through my hair. There were plenty of other ways to wake up out of a
sound sleep, but they couldn't feel as good as this.
He stopped when he realized I was awake, hand resting on my hip in silent
query, but when I didn't move, didn't protest, he picked up without missing a
beat, Braille-reading a bumpy trail all the way down my spine with lips and
tongue and teeth, blowing warm air on the moist, love-bitten stripe he'd just
painted, chuckling at my shivers. He'd done the same thing that one night we'd
spent together four years ago, the night I'd killed Cole, I remembered muzzily,
flipping over on my stomach. He'd stayed with me, held me, calmed me, fucked me
senseless, seduced me awake and fucked me again. The first time I'd killed a
man; that's what I'd told him, and he'd believed me. He'd trusted me then.
A quick shift and slide, and Mulder was scooting down between my splayed legs,
mouth hovering right over the spot where my spine sloped down to meet my ass,
breathing on it, flicking his tongue out, teasing, barely touching. My cock
jumped, twitched, hips arching off the mattress, chafing the soft, warm sheets,
pushing up into Mulder's face, giving him what I knew he was waiting for. I
wasn't sure what I was waiting for, but in the next second I found out,
Mulder's hand slipping deftly into the cleft of my ass, spreading me, holding
me open, one finger sliding in up to the first knuckle, giving a few
experimental thrusts, pulling out.
Warm breath replaced it, warm breath and Mulder's tongue laving me from anus to
balls and back again, pushing all the way inside me, in and out and in like the
world's tiniest, wettest, most velvety cock and that was it, I was moaning,
pounding and twisting my pillow so hard I tore the inside lining, feathers
pouring out, spilling onto the floor.
And suddenly he stopped, pulling away, leaving me hanging, hovering on the
brink, leopard spots dancing an insane waltz over my corneas, pulse pounding so
fucking hard inside my head I thought for sure this was it, the end, I was
dying, I was gonna burst an artery any second and fucking die in this bed—
Then I heard something, something close yet weirdly muffled, dimly realizing it
was the bedside table drawer opening and closing, and he was back, kissing my
shoulder, murmuring something to me, something low and soothing that I couldn't
understand, a finger easing back inside me, cool, slippery, two fingers now,
opening me, getting me ready.
I was just starting to get into it, swaying with his new rhythm, impaling
myself on his hand, when he pulled out again and then I felt it, the tip of his
cock pushing into me, gently, gradually, sinking in all the way, hot as a live
coal, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart. I couldn't move, couldn't
think anymore, all I could do was lie there, trying not to forget how to
breathe, and suddenly his hand was reaching up, closing over my death-grip on
the pillow, fingers entwining, draping himself over my back, mouth close to my
ear, lapping, nipping at the lobe, thrusting into me, long and hard and deep.
I'd forgotten how big he was, like a huge steel bar splitting open my spine,
but I moved too, grinding, arching my back, meeting him stroke for stroke,
pushing my cock into the sticky, bunched-up sheet, pain fading now, turning to
fire, fire and lightning seeping under my skin, shooting, spiraling along every
nerve-ending, swamping my vision. I could still hear him whispering, though,
murmuring to me, a dark, erotic stream poured straight into my brain, and that
was it, I was sobbing, screaming, shattering like a sheet of glass with a brick
flung through it.
Mulder's eyes were the first thing I saw when I opened mine, hovering over me,
huge and hazel and terrified. "Jesus, Alex, you scared the shit out of me!"
"Why, whatsa matter?"
"You've been out cold for the last couple minutes. I thought I was gonna have
to call 911 or something."
"I don't think they have 911 here," I chuckled, sitting up gingerly, every
muscle in my thighs and lower back voicing a loud protest. "But maybe they
should. Christ."
"Look, just don't do that again, okay?"
"It's not up to me, stud-muffins."
He blushed, actually blushed; I could see his skin pinkening from forehead to
neck. It made him look like a shy little kid, so fucking adorable. "Alex..."
I pulled him close, kissing him, tousling silky, spiky hair. "Next time I'll
fuck you through the mattress, and we'll call ourselves even, okay?"
He ducked his head, then, glancing back up with a grin, "So...you hungry?"
We ordered room service and sacked out on the couch in front of the TV, gorging
ourselves on pizza and beer and chips and just about anything else we could eat
with our fingers, nodding off halfway through Letterman, spooned together,
wiped but happy. I didn't care if the rest of the world disappeared. I almost
wished it would.
//An earthquake woke me with a harsh sudden jolt bed shaking so hard I almost
got dumped on the floor no not an earthquake Mulder thrashing whimpering next
to me having a nightmare—//
//Sliding closer arm wrapping around him stroking his shoulder kissing his
throat holding him like that time in Tunguska I'd gone back in his cell after
they'd brought him back from the experiment he was delirious out of it sobbing
calling Scully Scully help me and I'd held him held him in both my arms held
him till he calmed down fell asleep Christ I could still feel it soft satiny
strands whispering between my fingers fingers that weren't there anymore—//
//And he calmed now quieting still and quiet dark wispy hair spilling over my
pillow skin like coffee with cream against white white sheets turning to me
opening his eyes deep hazel irises swimming in inky black—//
//Grabbing me pinning me kissing me tongue shoving in my mouth opening me
making me take it making me taste it cold thick liquid black cold oozing
bleeding out of him out of his mouth his nose his eyes out of him into me—//
And I jerked awake, sitting straight up, panting, heart skipping. Sliding to
the edge of the mattress, I slumped over, head between my legs, anything to
stop this fucking pounding inside my skull—
And at the door. I waited, staring stupidly at the far wall, glancing down at
Mulder lying there next to me sleeping the sleep of the extremely well-fucked
and hoping whoever it was would give up and go away, but minutes went by, and
the damn knocking persisted. Standing up shakily, I snagged my robe up off the
floor and tugged it on, lurching to the front door, yanking it open. "This
place better be on fucking fire, or I'm gonna rip somebody a new—"
It was Roarke. Smiling, hands clasped behind his back, wearing the same dark
suit he'd had on the day I got here. Either the guy didn't sweat or else every
suit in his wardrobe was identical. "Ah, it appears I've woken you. My
apologies, Mr. Krycek. And no, as it happens, the hotel isn't on fire. But were
you aware you've had the 'Do Not Disturb' sign out for the past two days?"
"So?"
"Well, the housekeeping staff was becoming a bit concerned and asked me to come
up and see that you're all right. You are, I trust?"
"Yeah, I'm, um...fine," I murmured, hand rubbing through my hair, a sudden rush
of blood turning me prickly-hot from forehead to chest. "Look, I'm sorry I took
your head off there, but I just—"
"No apology required. However, if I may make a small suggestion, perhaps you
might want to take breakfast down in the dining room this morning, and give the
housekeepers a chance to tidy up your suite." With a nod, he was heading back
to the elevator before I could get another word out.
Closing the door, I leaned against it with a sigh, wiping grit-rimmed eyes. The
living room was a mess, last night's dinner dishes still scattered over the
coffee table, one bath towel on the floor, one hanging off the edge of the
couch, both stiff and streaked with dried semen. Well, at least we'd had the
presence of mind not to come all over the furniture.
By the time I stumbled back to the bedroom Mulder was beginning to stir,
yawning, stretching, squinting at the early-morning sun streaking in through
the window. "What's goin' on? I thought I heard somebody at the door."
"Yeah, it was Roarke," I replied, flopping back onto the bed. "We're getting
kicked out so the maids can clean the room."
"Mmmm, 'kay," he mumbled, sitting up, yawning again, hugging his knees.
"Wanna go for a walk before breakfast?"
"A walk?"
"Yeah, you know—putting one foot in front of the other, actually going
somewhere."
"I'm not going any further than the fucking dining room."
"Aw, c'mon, it'll be fun. And besides," he added with a grin, leaning in for a
deep, wet kiss, "all that exercise'll just make you hungrier for later."
"Like with you I need another excuse."
"Al-ex..."
A groan. I knew when I was licked. And if I had my way, I'd be back in this bed
being licked all over very, very soon. "Okay, okay, I give."
Forty-five minutes later we finally emerged from the room, showered and shaved
and neatly dressed. My new blue jeans were a little short on him, and
deliciously tight in all the right places, but since I didn't have a second
pair of sneakers, we had to stop down at the men's store to buy him a pair,
then headed out for the beach.
The sun was perfect, warm and golden without that steely backbone that promised
hellish temperatures later. We strolled along hand in hand for what seemed like
miles, finally veering off on an overgrown footpath leading up into the trees,
green and shady and silent. It was nice, I had to admit, just being with him
like this, enjoying the solitude and each other, both of us practically crowing
with simultaneous joy when we came upon this gorgeous little grotto covered in
orchids and hibiscus and birds-of-paradise, a riot of red and yellow and violet
and a million other colors I couldn't begin to name. Another week here was
starting to look like a definite possibility.
"C'mere," Mulder said, grabbing my hand, picking a white orchid, tucking it
behind my ear, kissing me, both of us breaking out in giggles. "Now you look
like a native."
I pushed him flat against a mossy tree and kissed him back, hard, then took off
up the path, laughing, fingers entwining again when he finally caught up with
me. The path climbed into the hills, hills becoming steeper, thick, dense
rainforest enfolding us, lush, breathtakingly beautiful. Finally we saw
something up ahead, a small building at the foot of a mountain, and we headed
for it, both of us winded by now, grateful for a place to sit down and rest a
few minutes.
It was a station, a tramway station—I could see the cables stretching all
the way up the mountain, the mountain itself so tall I couldn't see the top of
it, just wispy patches of fog clinging to where its peak should have been. I
shivered, but followed Mulder inside.
But it didn't look like there was anyplace to sit, except inside the tramcar.
Mulder had its door open before I could tell him not to bother, going inside,
collapsing on one of the hard-backed seats, making the car sway a little. I
hung back, looking inside but not going in. This was all a little too fucking
familiar, and it was making me nervous. "C'mon, Mulder, let's go back to the
hotel. I'm getting hungry."
"In a minute, okay? Let me get my breath back."
My back and legs were aching, so I finally caved, going in, sitting down,
perched on the edge of the seat, foot tapping the floor.
Mulder flashed me a sour look, getting up, going over to look at the tramcar's
control panel, flipping a switch. I just about hit the fucking ceiling when the
car's motor whirred to life. "Hey, it works!" he said, grinning like a little
kid on Christmas morning.
"Okay, okay, so it works, so turn it off and let's get going already."
"C'mon, let's take a ride up to the top."
A sudden chill swept me. "Unh-uh."
"Why not?" Now he sounded like a whiny little kid.
"Because I don't want to. Come on, let's go," I said, standing up, heading for
the door.
"Okay, fine, you can wait down here," he replied testily, flicking another
switch, making the car shimmy and jerk. "I'm going up to the top."
I made it to the door, but I didn't step out, just stood there, hand poised on
the door-latch, staring at it, finally yanking it closed, securing it, sinking
back down in my seat. I wasn't spending the rest of the morning sitting in that
fucking station waiting for him to come back for me. Mulder shot me a tiny
triumphant grin, gunning the car's motor, easing it out of the station, up the
mountain.
It was a long ride, long and bumpy, rising through the green, green hills.
Looking down and back, I could see where we'd come from, the station, the
forest and the beach beyond, all the way down to a tiny pale splotch that had
to be the hotel. I had no idea we'd come this far, all the way to the opposite
end of the island. It was another world over here.
In more ways than one. The car hit a fogbank as we cleared the second tower,
marshmallowy white enveloping us then just as quickly receding, the trees
around us shimmering, changing shape, no more palms and rainforest, now it
looked like pines and maple and oaks beneath us, leaves turning red, yellow
with early autumn. Just like that day at Skyland Mountain four years ago. Oh,
shit. Oh, Christ.
Things inside were changing too. Mulder'd turned suddenly nervous, agitated,
pacing from the window to the control panel and back again, swaying the car,
beating his palm on the glass, muttering, "Come on, come on, goddamn it!" I
was up out of my seat, ready to tell him to reverse it, take us back down, but
it was too late, the car was already pulling into the topside station, docking,
with Mulder flicking the motor off. "I'm not going out there," I snapped,
seizing his arm, "and neither are you."
"What the hell's the matter with you, Alex? C'mon, let me go—"
"Take us back down. Now."
"Are you crazy? Scully's out there, I've got to—"
"Damn it, you don't understand, this isn't real, none of it's real, you don't
have to go out there, if we turn around and go back it'll all just go away—"
"C'mon, Alex, let me go right now, I mean it—"
"NO!"
His eyes turned cold, flinty, like stagnant grey ice-shards right there in
front of me, exactly the way he'd looked back in Tunguska, the last time he'd
pounded the living shit out of me. "Get your fucking hands off me," he snarled,
jerking away, striding out of the car, out of the station.
He was halfway up the hill by the time I caught up with him. It was dark now,
black and unforgiving except for the headlights up ahead, car headlights.
Scully's car, parked at the side of the road at the hill's summit, engine still
running, front door and trunk open, a man bending over the trunk, reaching in,
lifting Scully out. Duane Barry.
Mulder was running now, and so was I, struggling to keep up with him, but my
foot snagged a rock and I went down, smacking the ground hard, getting up just
in time to hear Mulder's voice calling out, calling Barry's name, ordering him
to freeze—
And then the sharp, brittle crack of a gunshot.
I saw him fall, saw him hit the ground in eerie slow-motion, bright red
blooming in the center of his chest, saw Barry standing by the car, Scully's
gun in his hand, but it was all darkening, melting away, the car, Barry,
Scully, everything but Mulder lying there on the cold, cold ground, gasping,
wheezing, one hand scrabbling, digging convulsively in the grass. I fell to my
knees, cradling him, dragging off my jacket, covering him with it, trying to
keep him warm.
"S'okay, baby, s'okay, you're gonna be okay, everything's gonna be okay, I'm
gonna get you down from here, get you to a hospital, just hang on," I babbled,
stroking him, rocking him, leaning down, giving him a tiny, chaste kiss. His
lips were already cold, cold and blue as a corpse's, working, trying to say
something, only a thin, wordless rasp coming out. All he could do was stare at
me, right up at me, eyes wide, deep and hazel—
Glassy now, glassy and flat and lifeless.
I could feel the last breath seeping out of him, his body going limp, leaden in
my arms, like wet, shredded paper. His eyes were still open, and I closed them,
gently kissing each eyelid, laying him back down on the ground.
I didn't get up for a long time, just sat there looking at him, memorizing
every feature, every strand of silky brown hair. Wetness stung my face, but I
didn't wipe it away; my handkerchief was in my jacket, but I left it where it
was, keeping Mulder safe, keeping him warm.
I heard a soft underfoot crunch of mulch and pine needles but didn't bother
looking up. I knew who it was, who it had to be. Roarke. "I trust your
fantasy's played itself out to your satisfaction, Mr. Krycek?"
My knees wobbled so much I could barely stand, but somehow I did, glaring at
him, fighting the urge to smash him across that smug British jaw. "This is
not what I asked for."
"Actually, I believe it is. If I recall correctly, you said one of the things
you wanted for your fantasy was to pretend you'd never betrayed him. I merely
recreated the scenario of your original betrayal and allowed you the
opportunity to make a different choice. Which you did."
"Bullshit. You call that a choice?"
"You had an inkling of what was going to happen the moment you saw that
tramcar, but you got on anyway. Admit it—you couldn't bear to let him go up
there and face what you knew he'd have to face alone. Again."
My mouth suddenly tasted like the Mojave. "I-I didn't mean for him to get
fucking killed."
"Different choices naturally bring about different consequences. Perhaps
stopping that tramcar, keeping Mulder from the top of that mountain for those
few crucial minutes was the best thing you could have done for him. You may
very well have saved his life that night. I'm surprised you've never considered
that possibility."
I heard him but I didn't listen, just marched past him, back down the hill,
back to the tramcar, getting in, slamming the door, heading back down the
mountain without him. Funny, but the station only had space for one car. I
wondered how Roarke had gotten up there so quickly.
My other new clothes—the ones Mulder'd been wearing, and my jacket—were
laid out neatly on the bed when I got back to the room, comforter and sheets
crisp and pristine, just like the day I'd arrived. It looked like I'd never
been here. Like Mulder'd never been here.
But then, he never had. The man I'd spent the last three days with was a ghost,
a shadow of the past made flesh from my memories. Somewhere along the line
fantasy and reality had lost their sharp edges in my mind, started to meld,
merge. I'd told a fantasy I was in love with him, but even in my fantasy I
couldn't make him say the words back to me, because I knew it wasn't real. But
I'd wanted it to be real, to be the way it was, not the way it should have
been.
I didn't see Roarke again until it was time for me to board the plane the next
morning. "Take care, Mr. Krycek," he said, extending his hand. I didn't take
it. "You have a second chance waiting for you at home," he added with a tiny
smile. "Not all of us can say that, you know."
I got on the plane, closing my eyes until we were airborne, staring down at the
sea, black now, not blue, a solid sheet of black below me. Rippling black. Oily
black.
I had a three-hour layover in Honolulu, and I spent it in a bar knocking back
vodka, Stolichnaya, straight shots, icy-cold, finally slapping down a twenty
for the whole bottle, taking it to a dark, quiet back table. Something started
poking me in my side when I slumped down against the seat cushions; I dug
around in my pocket, fishing out the note. My boss's note.
I skimmed it again, and again, slugging another shot, and another, savoring the
slow burn slithering all the way down into my belly, words swirling, swimming
in front of my eyes. I didn't know what he meant, what any of it meant, not
anymore. The end of the world was coming, and I didn't give a fuck. Maybe I
should've told Roarke; he might've gotten a couple laughs out of it, if he'd
believed me at all.
No, there was only one person who'd believe me now, if what my boss's note said
was true. One person I had to see once I got back, no matter how much it ripped
me up inside.
I wondered if I could buy another bottle to bring with me on the plane.
Mulder didn't come home the first night I staked out his apartment, or the next
night, or the next. Finally I went up and picked his lock, slipping inside
unnoticed, flicking on the light, checking out the bedroom when the kitchen and
living room proved empty. He wasn't there, and it appeared he hadn't been for a
few days, at least; everything was covered in a fine film of dust, dirty plates
still on the kitchen table, piled up in the sink. Looked like I was in for a
wait.
Kicking back on the couch, I turned on the TV, flipping channels until my
stomach started rumbling. There was a pretty good Chinese restaurant across the
street; I called in an order on my cell phone, heaving myself off the couch to
answer the door around forty minutes later. There wasn't a single clean plate
in any of the cupboards, so I washed what was on the table and sink, drying one
for myself, stacking the rest in the dish drainer, plopping myself down at the
table, digging gratefully into my fried rice and kung-pao chicken.
A few minutes later, there came a sudden twist and crunch of a key in the front
door, and Mulder shuffled in. He looked like he'd been dragged through a
knothole backwards, face stubbled and sunburned, hair sticking up in unkempt
tufts, wearing dirty jeans and heavy boots and a snow-vest over long-sleeved
thermal underwear. He blinked when he saw me sitting there, shaking his head,
tossing his battered duffle bag on the floor next to my chair. "I think this
must be a nightmare, but after the last week, it's hard to tell," he mumbled,
yanking out the other chair, plopping down, hands on either side of his face,
staring at me. "Christ, I'm not dreaming, am I?"
I choked back a snort. "Mulder, you don't know how funny that is."
"Huh?"
"Here." I shoved a carton at him, unwrapping a fresh set of chopsticks. "Eat
first, then we'll talk."
He downed the rice quickly, and looked a lot better once he had—well, more
alert anyway. "So where've you been for the last few days?" I prompted.
"The Great White South."
"What?"
"Antarctica."
"What's in Antarctica?"
"Whatever it was, it's not there anymore."
"Mulder, you're not making any sense."
So he started talking, low and raspy, gazing down at the table, telling me
about the case he and Scully'd been working on, the bombing in Dallas, the
bodies they'd found in the exploded building there, the Bureau trying to break
up his and Scully's partnership, bees and cornfields out in the middle of the
desert, Scully's disappearance, what my boss had told him—and given him—
minutes before he'd blown himself straight to hell, the mutated black oil,
Antarctica and what he'd found there. Finally he ran out of words and just sat
there, giving me a shrug and his usual moody stare, plainly wondering if even I
found all this too fucking crazy to believe.
"So she's okay?" I prompted.
"What?"
"Scully. She's gonna be all right?"
"Y-Yeah. We both got a little frostbitten, and she, um...had to spend a few
days in the hospital in Sydney, but we're okay."
Silence. I could hear the kitchen faucet slowly dripping; I probably hadn't
turned it off tightly enough when I'd finished washing the dishes.
"Well, it's good to know it works," I murmured. Off his look, I added, "the
vaccine, I mean."
"You already knew your boss had the vaccine before I mentioned it, didn't you?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "The Russians've been working on it almost as long as
the Americans. I, um...stole a vial of it back in Tunguska, and my boss
blackmailed me into handing it over to him. At least now I know he didn't save
it to use on himself and those other Consortium bastards."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"If it wasn't for you, Scully'd be dead now, or..." He trailed off, biting his
lip, rubbing a hand over his face. "You helped save her life, and I'm
grateful."
I didn't know what to say to that. Maybe there was nothing to say. All I knew
was I wanted out of here, and right now. I couldn't sit here listening to this,
to his fucking gratitude, not for another second. "I-I'd better go," I said,
getting up.
"I didn't believe what you said before," Mulder said softly. "About the war,
the invasion. I believe you now."
"Because of what you saw in Antarctica?"
"And Texas. And Skyland Mountain, and Tunguska and everywhere else I've been in
the past five years. I should've trusted my instincts, and I didn't. I lost my
nerve."
"And I gave it back to you?"
For a second it looked like he might actually be mulling the question, but
apparently he'd decided it wasn't worth his time, because all he did was shrug
again. I'd had enough of this evasive bullshit. Turning, I headed for the door.
"Hey, where're you going?"
My hand was on the knob, gripping it, poised and ready, but the sound of his
voice froze me in place. "Why the fuck do you care?"
"Look, Alex, if you need a place to stay..."
Alex. Alex, not Krycek. He hadn't called me that—not really—since that
day back at the Hoover Building four years ago, the day he'd asked for the keys
to my car. The day I'd disappeared. I didn't want to turn back, didn't want to
face him again, but suddenly my legs had their own ideas. "S'okay, I-I'll,
um... get a hotel or something."
"You don't have to."
"I've got money," I snapped. "I can take care of myself."
"That's not what I meant."
I could see what he meant; it was all there, in the way he sat, the way he was
looking at me now, relaxed, open, all guards coming down in front of my eyes.
I'd never seen him this way before, not for real, anyway. Maybe he was just
tired, too tired to keep up the effort. Maybe everything he'd been through in
the past week had taught him to live in the moment, grab what you can when you
can, look doom in the face and flip it off. Not a bad philosophy to have,
considering what we both knew was coming.
"Don't go," he said.
Two words. Two short, simple words were all I needed to hear. I stepped back
into the kitchen. "Y-You sure?"
"Yeah, I am," he replied with a tired little half-grin, getting up, heading for
the bedroom. "I'm gonna have a shower. You look like you could use one too."
I heard the water coming on in the bathroom, heard Mulder opening the shower
door, stepping inside, but all I could do was stand where I was, glued to the
spot, paralyzed. He hadn't seen me without my jacket since Tunguska, and I'd
been careful not to let him see or touch the prosthesis the last time I'd been
here in his apartment. He didn't know, and I didn't know how to tell him.
But maybe showing was better than telling. My Fantasy-Mulder had seen and
accepted my loss, and me, without qualm or hesitation. The real Mulder wasn't
all that different. Whatever he'd been in my fantasy had come from the way I
remembered him—and I had a pretty good memory.
I'd shed most of my clothes by the time I got to the bathroom door, kicking off
my boxers, snapping the straps on my prosthesis, laying it on the vanity. The
room was already humid, hazy with steam, but I could see Mulder behind the
foggy glass, soap in his hair, sticking his head under the spray. Now or never.
I slid open the door and climbed in.
It took him a minute to finish rinsing and see me, really see me. His mouth
dropped open a little, astonished but not repulsed, eyes finally meeting mine,
swallowing hard. "Tunguska?" he mouthed.
I nodded. "How'd you—"
"Somebody tried to do the same thing to me. Can I, um... I mean, is it okay if
I—"
"You can touch it if you want."
His fingers were slow and gentle, stroking down from my shoulder, tracing the
jagged scars, hazel eyes taking in everything, biting his lip. "Does it hurt?"
"Some. I guess I'm used to it by now." I shrugged. "It's no big deal, it's just
an arm. I've got another one."
"'Kay," he murmured, accepting my apparent acceptance of it with a nod, giving
my shoulder a squeeze, reaching up for the showerhead, waggling it, spraying me
from foot to neck, both of us breaking into giggles. I flashed back to that
first day on the beach, and felt myself starting to relax.
I slumped back against the cool beige tile, letting the water hit me, lazily
watching Mulder wash himself with a thick, sudsy sponge and rinse off again,
groaning in happy relief, half his exhaustion seeming to fall away in an
instant, swirling down the drain with the soap. Then, grinning, he turned to me
with the sponge, starting with my neck and shoulders, down my right arm and
across my chest and belly, dribbling slick, bubbly water all the way, leaning
in, coming closer, bodies touching before our lips did, wet and slippery and so
fucking perfect my knees almost buckled under me. "You want?" he murmured,
nipping, teasing, half-kissing, half-biting. His stubble scratched but it felt
good, sandpaper skin and that full, silky mouth blazing a trail down my throat.
"Y-Yeah, but—"
"What?"
"Bed."
He gave me a look. "You sure?"
"I'm gonna fall on my ass in a minute if we stay in here."
"Okay, okay, gimme a sec," he chuckled, stepping back, stepping out to let me
rinse off, throwing me a towel as I climbed out, barely letting me dry off
before he was pulling me along into the bedroom, tumbling us onto the bed
together, kissing me deep and hard then pulling away, staring down at me like
he'd never seen me before. It was the same way for me, I supposed—except I
felt like I was about to get my cherry popped for the second time in a week.
"What?" he asked.
"What d'you mean, what?"
"You've got this goofy look on your face, and I wanna know why."
"No, you don't."
"Yeah, I do. Give."
"Mulder—"
"Give it up, Alex. I mean it."
Christ, how was I gonna say this? "I-I've just been, um...fantasizing about you
for a long time, and now that this is really, really happening...I d-dunno,
it just seems kinda... weird. But in a good way," I added quickly.
"You've been fantasizing about me," he repeated, completely deadpan. "For a
long time."
"Yeah."
"How long?"
"Oh, days. Months. Years."
He grinned. "Really?"
"C'mon, Mulder, your ego doesn't need that big a boost."
"Well, if you're not gonna put that sexy mouth to good use, I will. C'mere."
And down we went in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling and roughhousing,
shoving rumpled clothes off onto the floor, me sliding down between his legs,
licking, sucking his balls, tonguing the silken tip of his cock, opening,
taking him deep. He hit the back of my throat on the first stroke, gagging me,
making me pull off and try again, swallowing him more slowly this time,
wrapping my tongue up and down the length of him, gliding back down to the tip
to tickle and tease. Fingers winding in my hair told me I was on the right
track, soft gasps stabbing the air as I plunged and kept plunging, sucking him
harder, faster, gasps turning to moans, moans to one long, rasping cry, his
cock jerking, spasming, hot, salty cream jetting over my tongue, down my
throat.
I gave the tip of his cock a last kiss and scooted up next to him, stroking his
shoulder, his chest. He looked beautiful, lying there panting, sheened with
sweat, smelled beautiful too, like come, all warm and spicy. I gave him what he
wanted, what I knew he wanted when he reached for me, pulling me down, shoving
my tongue between his lips, flicking, dancing, entwining, letting him taste
himself. My cock jumped, twitched in response, prodding his hip.
"Hmmm... and how're we gonna take care of this?" Mulder wondered aloud,
grasping, squeezing me, grinning at my sharp intake of breath. "What d'you
want?"
"Um, doesn't matter, anything you want—"
"Got that right here," he replied, stroking my arm, leaning in for another
kiss. "Look, Alex... if you wanna do me, I don't mind."
I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. He'd never suggested this before, not four
years ago, not back on the island. It'd never occurred to me to ask this of
him, even within the framework of my fantasy; it'd just seemed so unlike him to
willingly give up that kind of control, especially to me.
But maybe that was what he needed now, what we both needed. He lived so much
inside his own head, breaking free had to be the ultimate relief. Maybe that
was his fantasy. Far be it from me to keep it from coming true.
He was already rolling onto his stomach, but I stopped him, turning him on his
left side; no way could I keep my balance lying on top of him with only one arm
to steady myself. All I wanted to do now was hold him, anyway, and I did, arm
wrapping around him, fingers toying with the soft, crisp hairs dusting the
center of his chest, tweaking pebbled nipples. The low, throaty little sounds
he was making told me he'd started that slow, sweet climb back to full arousal,
but despite my own throbbing cock, I was in no hurry. I wasn't coming inside
him until I had him begging for it.
Soft, wet kisses were the way to start, trailing my lips from his hairline all
the way down one shoulder blade, then the other, sweat prickling, stinging on
my tongue, inhaling salty-musk richness. I could've spent a whole day like
this, licking him from forehead to ankle and back again. That lower lip of his
was a goddamned meal in itself.
My hand drifted down, tickling his belly, reaching lower. God, he was half-hard
already and getting harder, straining, pumping into my hand, grinding his ass
into my crotch. His firm, plush ass.
So much for restraint; my last tattered shreds ripped, blowing away like a flag
in a hurricane. Shoving two fingers in his mouth, I growled, "you want it?" and
he did, biting, wetting them, teeth dragging as I tugged them away, reaching
down and around, parting him, probing his anus with one tentative fingertip. He
felt hot and satiny and he relaxed instantly for me, both fingers sliding in
with ease. "C'mon," I heard him breathe, ragged, desperate, horny as hell,
"c'mon, Alex, I'm ready."
I hoped he still had what I needed in the bedside table, and he did; I rolled
the rubber on in a blur of motion, slicking it with extra lube, sliding back,
thigh slung over his hip, arm around his waist, positioning myself, giving a
tiny push, gasping, sinking in all the way in one long, deep stroke, like a
knife splitting a perfectly ripe peach.
He was a furnace inside, scalding, crisping me all the way to the ends of my
hair, but I held back, taking it slow and easy, kissing, biting his shoulder,
waves of pleasure pulsing up through my cock, flooding my brain, shoving me
right to the fucking brink. He must've known what he was doing to me, because
he gave a tiny squeeze, tightening his muscles around me again and again and
that was it, I was pounding, slamming into him, grabbing, pumping his cock, and
he was coming, shooting all over my hand, me following, coming so hard my
vision went red. Hazy, fading red.
He was lying curled at my side when I finally opened my eyes, one arm draped
lazily half-across my belly, soft breath tickling my chest. "You okay?" he
asked muzzily, looking up with a sleepy smile. "You kinda conked out there for
a couple minutes. I was starting to get worried."
"S'okay, it's not the first time it's happened."
"So... when do I get to hear about all these great fantasies of yours?"
"Jesus, Mulder, anybody ever tell you you're an egomaniac?"
"Hey, that's Mr. Egomaniac to you."
"Smart-ass."
"You're breaking my heart."
"Pain-in-the-ass."
"Takes one."
I groaned. "Case closed."
"Aw, c'mon, Alex. Tell me."
This was too much. For a single freaky nanosecond I could almost swear time had
spun backward to a week ago, and I was still on the island, in my room, lying
in bed with my fantasy man. The one I'd fallen in love with. The one who wasn't
real.
"Goddamn you, Roarke," I murmured. "You and your fucking second chances."
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing."
Silence.
"So... you gonna tell me or not?"
"Not," I answered firmly, tousling his hair, leaning in for a kiss. "I think
I'll show you instead."
The End...
Fantasy Man
by Sugar Rush
The sea was blue, and so was the sky, joining
seamlessly up ahead on the horizon, flawless and clear as a huge blue topaz.
I'd forgotten anything this beautiful existed. Beautiful and tranquil—
staring out at it was starting to lull me into a nice dopey trance. I didn't
mind; it was probably the best I'd do until I got wherever I was going. I'd
never been able to sleep on planes.
