I've heard all the screaming from upstairs, and I know
what's going to happen. While I stay on the couch, watching
'Soylent Green', Alex will run across my vision, straight out the
door, slamming it behind himself. Probably taking my Jeep, he'll
drive off. Next, Mulder will come stalking downstairs, debating
whether to run after his lover or not. Thirdly, Jordan will come
downstairs, and ask me why they were fighting, where Alex has
gone, when he's coming home... all sorts of questions I don't know
the answer to.
Not everything happens as I expect.
The screaming continues on cue, and I can hear the too
-familiar hurt-and-angry tone in Alex's strained voice. I cringe as the
door slams violently, and return my attention to the movie. Soon
after the door, I hear the heavy footsteps down the stairs. Alex
comes into my line of vision. His face is contorted in pain, and I
want to comfort him. Ignoring me, as he often does, Alex walks
straight out the door. The sound of a car engine follows, and the
squealing of tyres. I hope it's not the Jeep. Alex isn't the best of
drivers when he's angry.
The softer, calmer footsteps of Mulder sound, and soon
he's at the bottom of the steps, looking at me. I meet his eyes.
I've always wondered what Mulder thinks of me. It can't
be much—simply the father of his lover—but I wonder. Perhaps he
sees his future, an old man who should retire, but is so obsessed
with his work that he refuses. Someone who so neglected his
family that they... (Don't go there. Don't think about Catherine. If
you don't think then you can't hurt....)
Mulder sighs, then runs both hands over his face. I look
up at him, but don't say anything. His shoulders suddenly move,
and I can see that he's sobbing.
This unnerves me. Mulder's never cried before, at least,
not that I've seen. Such an open show of emotion in front of me... I
mute the television. Mulder stumbles in his self-inflicted blindness,
and eventually reaches the couch. He sits down next to me—in
that place that's just a tad close for comfort. I shift my weight
awkwardly.
After a while, during which I simply watch the actors
onscreen play out the drama in silence, the sobbing subsides.
Mulder draws in a breath, and his hands fall to his sides. The left
brushes my thigh on its way down.
"What..." Mulder sounds like he's struggling to get his
voice under control. "What are you watching?"
"Soylent Green," I reply easily. My voice sounds terse,
strange.
There's no answer from him, and I press stop on the
video. Flicking the television off, I turn to Mulder. "What was the
fight about?"
His gaze wanders, to the windows behind me, the dead
television screen, out to the foyer, and back onto my face. "I don't
really know," is his reply. "Which just exemplifies what an
insensitive jerk I really am."
In surprise, my hand shoots to his shoulder. "Don't talk
like that. You're wonderful to, for and with Alex." I become
instantly aware, once the words leave my mouth, of the burning
sensation between my hand and his shoulder. As if afraid of
getting bitten, I snatch it back, leaving it down uncomfortably at
my side.
Mulder's watching my face, and I know he can't know the
feelings inside me. I hope. He smiles without moving a muscle in
his mouth, and softly, replies, "Thanks."
That mouth. I wish he'd use it to smile. Alex has talked
about Mulder's lower lip—often in delirious sleeptalk—but I've never
noticed it.
Noticed it before.
These thoughts are wrong. That's the only word for it.
He's my son's lover, but...
Without warning, Mulder moves forward on the sofa and
puts his arms around me. I don't know what for—comfort?
something further?—but, slowly and after a pause, I return the
embrace. We simply sit there, holding each other. He feels so
different than anyone—than Catherine. Even different still from
Peter—and so I would hope.
Mulder moves forward, sideways, until my knee meets
his groin. Difficult as it is to believe, the younger man is hard. I
can't believe it, I truly can't.
One word flashes through my head: Why?
Why is a gorgeous, taken, young man like Mulder
getting a hard on for a boring, ugly, depressed, old guy like me?
We stay like that for a while longer, until he starts
moving a little, grinding his groin into my knee. I want to pull back.
I should pull back. We both should.
Instead, Mulder meets my eyes. I don't know what he's
seeing there, but some sort of light in my eyes encourages him.
He slides down my shin, winding up on his knees, on the floor. I
know what he wants. I don't know why, but I do know what.
Bringing both hands up to the waistband of my pants, he
unbuckles the buttons on the front. One hand gently slides inside,
and I can't supress my groan, which brings me back to reality.
I can't pretend this away. I'm not Alex, and shouldn't be
in this situation. Mulder isn't Catherine, and this isn't right. It isn't.
Mulder senses something's wrong, and looks up at me.
(Something's wrong? Try everything.)
His hand is inside my underwear, and his other hand
comes up to touch my cheek. It's an apologetic gesture, nothing
else. Neither of us moves.
There's the quiet sound of the door opening, and then the
not-so quiet sound of it slamming shut. My gaze freezes.
Alex walks through, not looking at either of us, and
straight up the stairs. Mulder sees also, and takes both his hands
away.
Shame washing over me, I do my pants up, and stand
up. I can't look at anything except my feet.
After a minute, Alex comes back down the stairs.
Finally, I look up, and see Alex, whose face is beyond hurt,
holding Jordan. Jordan won't look at me, but in the dim light, I see
tears glinting on her cheek. Perhaps she saw... (No. Don't even
think that.)
I want to move forward, take Jordan from Alex and just
hold her. Remind myself that my relationship with Catherine
shouldn't be disregarded and forgotten, even though she's gone.
But I can't.
Mulder has an expression of utter shame on his face,
and I imagine I look similar.
Alex looks at us both, locking us into his steely glare.
To Mulder, he says, sounding utterly disgusted and hurt,
"You slut. You sick, disgusting, whore."
The words cut deeply, and Mulder steps back as if he's
taken a physical blow.
Then Alex turns to me. "And you. You sick, old, fuck."
Holding Jordan tightly, he walks out the door. The way
he closes it softly, without making a noise, slices through me.
I hang my head.
end
So, has your father ever done something like that?
Double Edge of Betrayal
by Fleur
The way one responds to emotional injury is always an
indicator of personality. I know this firsthand. Myself, I'll either
throw myself into work or go completely over the edge. My son,
Alex, will go—leave the house, drive away, try to leave it all
behind. Jordan will try to ignore whatever it is that hurts, and I
suppose in that vein she's the same as Alex.
