I look up and around me. The children in the room seem as thin and
sketchy as the figures they drew.
Scully and I finally hit pay dirt. I honestly cannot say that I am
glad we did.
Scully is on the phone talking with grim rapidity, a very tiny still
figure on her knee. She is calling in the troops. This is not the
time to keep a lid on my conspiracy theories and hope for more
evidence. Seventeen children, found in an abandoned lab.
Going in, I had hopes of proving a Syndicate connection. Now all I
wanted to do was get help for the kids, throw up, and get drunk.
The children were silent. All Big eyes in thin faces, staring at us.
I take off my coat and spread it over the shoulders of three children
who are huddled together on the nonworking heater vent. Two more
children scuttle over and wrap themselves in the folds. There's still
plenty of room left over.
I didn't want to think. Didn't want to wonder if Samantha had been
here twenty years ago. Didn't want to stare into the big, empty eyes
of these children.
I knew I would see them anyway, over and over again, in every
nightmare for years to come.
I could hear a chorus of sirens in the distance. Scully was off the
phone, and her coat had become the nest for three more children. I
took the tiny stick figure from her arms and left the room. I wrapped
him in my suit jacket, it was large enough to cover him completely,
face and all.
Skinner made it to the scene during the height of the organized
pandemonium of triage. He looked around and took a deep breath. Then
he surprised me. He strode over to a group of children awaiting
attention, got on his knees, spread open his arms and pulled them all
to him. Five children fit and a few moments later they weren't silent
anymore.
I learned then that wailing children could sound like music and a
coat could enfold you, but arms kept you warm.
After the ambulances departed, Scully along with them, I gave my
report to Skinner. I'd gotten a tip that morning, no—I didn't clear
a search and possible seizure with him, yes—I just called Scully
and we came on our own without backup.
The police and a team of Fibbies interrupted us. No one else was
found in the building, but there was evidence that more than
seventeen children had been kept here. They were going to search the
grounds and the facility inch by inch, and could we get out of the
way and leave it to the forensic experts?
Skinner and I walked outside. He said he wanted a full report in the
morning and left.
I saw the swirling lights of the police cars start to swim in front
of my eyes as I headed for my car. It wasn't where I had left it. It
was now parked by a clump of bushes at the side of the building. As I
approached, I saw the tail lights go on, the faint vibration of
the car being started and put into 'drive' and a dim figure in the
driver's seat.
The chill of the early evening blew through my shirt, and the
certainty that my shadowy 'source' was in the driver's seat froze my
spine. I walked stiffly to the passenger side of the car and got in.
Alex Krycek drove as the horror of the place receded behind the curve
in the road. I made a motion a few moments later for him to pull
over.
He did, and I got out and puked.
I got back into the car, sat back and closed my eyes. I was surprised
when, a moment later, a warm, heavy leather jacket was carefully laid
across my chest.
It was almost like being enfolded in someone's arms.
He's not my friend, but he is with me. "I want to get drunk," I said.
"Sure, Mulder," he replied without hesitation. "I know just the
place."
"Let's go then," I said.
I must have zoned out for a while, because when I woke we were
driving south on Route 5 headed for St. Mary's county, and we'd been
60 miles northwest of that at the lab.
Krycek was driving steadily at posted speed and chewing gum. He
glanced at me and saw I was awake and staring. "Want a piece?" He
asked. "There's more in the pocket," he waggled his fingers toward
the leather jacket, which was still across my chest.
I reached around and patted the jacket until I found a pocket with
the possibility of a pack of gum in it.
I didn't want to ponder how surreal the likelihood of pawing through
Krycek's jacket for gum, after the earlier happenings today, was. I
didn't want to consider him as my source much at all anytime. He had
become so after the Wiekamp fiasco, more or less. I saw him seldom,
in brief moments, heard from him occasionally, and got silent
information delivered often.
It had all been good stuff of varying degrees of importance. Today's
was much more. Then again, until now, he had not attempted so direct
or extended a confrontation, either.
The information I got this morning had seriously upped the ante
regarding him. I didn't want to consider what saving the lives of all
those children meant. I just knew the stakes had gone up—big time.
I found the gum in the fourth pocket, along with a roll of butter-rum
Lifesavers. The first had a pocketknife and a handkerchief. The
second had a folded up drawing of stick figures and a reduced copy of
the floor plan of the lab. I had felt the third pocket, but
recognizing the contents, had left it alone.
I really didn't want to think about why Alex Krycek had condoms in
his pocket.
He parked the car outside a low-slung clapboard building. The blue
neon sign flashed: girls, beer, and music—over and over. I got out
of the car. Another one-story building was situated across a dirt
parking lot. Its red neon sign blinked 'motel', then
flickered 'vacancy'.
The 'no' in front of the 'vacancy' was unlit.
I opened the trunk of the car. My keys were in my pocket; he'd
started the car with something else. I took the spare all-weather
jacket I keep tossed there and put it on. He came around the car and
joined me. I gave him back his jacket and he put it on. His hand was
on my back when I stepped from the sidewalk and walked into the bar.
The low ceiling in the bar is stained with cigarette smoke, and the
walls are covered in old photos of jazz era singers. Everything but
the liquor bottles and the singer, dressed in red sequins standing on
the tiny stage, is in black and white. I leave him to order drinks
and go wash my face and use the bathroom.
I return to find thick sandwiches and tall lagers in frosty glasses
at the table. He doesn't attempt conversation or make a toast. I sit
down and we eat and let the low voiced singer wash over us. She is
almost moaning an old song about the man who got away. It's perfect.
The singer takes a break and the piano man solos softly. The waitress
brings us another round of lagers. She is in short-shorts, a tiny
vest, and high heels. I wonder, briefly, if her feet kill her after a
long shift. She makes sure we both see her breasts when she bends to
collect the plates and used glasses. She poses and asks if there is
anything more she can get us. Her stance is as weary as it is
practiced. I'm not tempted. Krycek puts an extra ten on the tray. I
think she practically sighs in relief as she moves on to the next
table.
He places a cd by my napkin. The case is opaque, but I know there is
a disc inside. I am struck by the metaphor. Krycek is as opaque to me
as the item he just laid down. The information on the cd will be just
as mysterious; some of it will be useless, some important, some real
and some lies. It will contain a revelation or two, perhaps, as well.
I realize 'his' pose, as he waits for the barrage of questions, is as
weary as it is practiced. I wonder, not for the first time, how we
have come to this. I pocket the cd. "Thanks, Krycek," I say.
He is utterly still. "You're welcome," he says in a rusty voice. He
picks up his drink and clenches the glass tightly. He takes a long
sip and I can see the liquid painfully work passed the constriction
in his throat as he swallows. "You're welcome," he says again, and
this time I hear surprise and an actual sigh of relief before he
takes another sip.
The third drink lasts the length of an entire set sung by the low
voiced singer. She sings of loss and love, lovers and loneliness and
about men who go, and the ones she can't get rid of. She ends the set
with an up-tempo, innuendo filled rendition of 'The Cat Came Back'.
Krycek smiles when she husks out the lines, " He makes his mark and
leaves his scent, then leaves me to pay the rent. I don't care, don't
mind a bit. Whatever the cat's got; he's made a hit. Oh, my cat came
back, the very next day..."
I wonder if he's wasted. I'm not. The sandwiches and toll of the day
keep the alcohol from taking full effect. We've never had a drink
together before, so I don't know how well he holds his liquor.
He looks up and sees me staring. "Ready to go?" He asks.
"Where?" I ask in return.
"You drunk, Mulder?" I shake my head. "Wherever you want to go then,"
he says.
"Don't you have someplace you need to be?" I ask him.
"No. I need to let the guard dogs become sleeping dogs again before I
can get back on the inside. I have a place near DC where I can hang
out while I wait."
"Would you take me there?" I ask it without inflection. I'm genuinely
not daring him to reveal more or challenging him to prove he's
trustworthy. I don't really know how long this bubble of ease with
him will last, but saving those children today has bought us both
some time.
I can see him considering my question. "Will I have to move out
before you reach the pay phone at the corner when you leave?" He asks.
"Depends," I answer, "on what kind of a date this ends up being. If
there's going to be another one, I'll need to know where to pick you
up."
A flush spreads, moving up his neck and onto his face. "Sounds like
you're already trying to pick me up," he says.
"Well, Alex," I answer, "This time I'm not ditching you."
When we step into the evening air, the alcohol rushes to my brain, or
maybe it's the result of standing so close to Krycek. The night, as
always, suits him. I can believe things about him in the dark that I
have never want to face in daylight. "What happened to the other
children at the lab?" I ask. "Are there records? How far back to
these experiments go?"
He leans against the clapboard side of the building. He watches the
blink-blink-blink of the neon signs. "The answers are on the disc,"
he says slowly.
"I want to know your part in it! I saw the drawings in your pocket.
You were there earlier. What did you see, what did you do?" How
could you stand it I want to yell at him. How could you leave
those children alone? What if Scully and I hadn't come? Was the tiny
one already dead? I want to annihilate him. I want to make him
bleed for their suffering, for mine too. Was Sam in that place? Do
you know? What do you know? "Tell me!" I demand.
He looks at me. His eyes are large and clear and the blue neon
flickers across his leather jacket, making it shiny. He seems to be a
cold dark lake, rippling under a blue moon, and if I believe in him,
I will drown.
Suddenly he is all motion and heat. He shoves me against the car and
holds me there with his unyielding arm. "Don't you dare, you fuck!
Not now. Not after we've come this far today. Do you think I'm a baby-
killer? Is that what you need to believe so you don't have to face
what you almost started in the bar? You goddamn coward!" He yells in
my face. "You have the keys, get in the car and go home Mulder." He
shakes with reaction and rage. He steps back and lowers his arm. "Go
home." He stuffs the folded up drawings into my hand. "Your
nightmares are waiting for you there, like always." He hunches his
shoulders into his coat, spins around and heads back for the bar. I
watch him stop at the door and use his good hand to massage the back
of his neck, then shake his head, turn, and stride towards the motel
instead.
I actually get in the car and drive off before I realize I must be
mad to allow the old shit to take hold so quickly. I don't want to go
home alone, and if there are going to be nightmares tonight, he's
going to have a share in them too.
I make a U-turn and go back to the motel. I pull in just in time to
see him leave the office, walk to the room at the far end and open
the door. I hit the gas and park in the space in front of the
door. He hasn't closed it yet. Krycek turns around to face me.
I get out of the car and slam the door. I walk up to him and step
right up, invading his space. "Don't say later I didn't tell you to
go," he says and grabs my thin coat and drags me in the room.
He pushes me backwards and I land on the bed. He shakes off his
jacket, kicks off his boots, and puts his right hand on my belt
buckle. "This could've been nice, this could've been easy and slow
and fucking sweet, you bastard." He mutters all this breathlessly
while he tugs and fumbles at my belt.
I yank him by his shirtfront and he topples onto of me. He is
blisteringly hot and dangerously hard. His rigid left arm is twisted
in his shirt. "I told you," I say, "I'm not ditching you tonight."
I take hold of his head and grind my mouth on his. His hips jerk into
me and I wonder if either of us is going to last long enough to get
out of our clothes. We continue to tussle until I hear a groan from
him that is more pain than frustrated pleasure. "Wait, wait, Alex," I
manage to gasp. He shakes his head, but I insist by rolling him
beneath me. "Clothes, we need to get rid of our clothes." He tried to
grind into me harder. "Naked, Alex, skin, I want to feel you." This
gets his attention and he pauses as I gather the strength to get to
my knees and rip off my coat and unbutton my shirt.
I stand and take off my shoes, socks, pants, and underwear. He is
staring at me, bemused. I unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. As I
begin to drag the clothes off of him he covers his eyes with his
forearm, "Fuck, fuck," he whispers brokenly when I free his cock from
confinement. "Oh, fucking Christ!" he yells when I take hold of him.
He is so hot in my hand. He's thick and solid and he arches
uncontrollably when I do a down stroke and he comes with the
upstroke. I feel the force of it against my chest, but I am more
absorbed in the way his teeth bite his lip, and the abandon of his
exposed neck. In this moment, for this moment, he is mine—this
glorious creature belongs to me.
I catch my breath while he calms himself in a series of small
convulsions and desperate gulps of air. I get off him and pull his
clothes the rest of the way off. "Look at me," I tell him. He keeps
his eyes covered. "Look at me, damn you."
I can see it takes every ounce of his courage to remove his arm and
bring it down to his stomach. When he does, I see why. His eyes are a
wide and clear vivid green, and they show me a truth too naked for me
to misunderstand.
I run my hands gently up the sides of his thighs and torso, pushing
his shirt up over his smooth chest. It bunches at his armpits, and I
lean over and lay my face on his heart. I rest there a moment.
I don't want to understand it. Lust, need, his beauty, my loneliness,
mutual passion; these things I understand. He's the bad guy, I'm the
good guy—he's the betrayer and I the betrayed—he's the liar and I
want the truth, that's the way it is. The way it's always been. Oh
God, isn't it?
"Mulder," he says and nudges me with his hand. "I need to move." I
roll to the side of the bed and he sits up and unfastens his left
arm. He's not looking at me again, but I give him this moment of
awkwardness silently. He pulls the crumpled shirt over his head and
tosses it on the pile of clothing on the floor. He turns off the
light and joins me, lying back down on the bed.
He turns towards me and guilelessly rubs his face on my shoulder and
again on my chest. He begins to caress me, using his open palm across
my ribs and belly. I am rock hard and aching as he takes me in his
mouth.
He is not my friend, but he is with me and he promises a peace I
never knew. His mouth is slow and easy and so fucking sweet and I am
drowning in a dark blue lake.
"See Mulder," he whispers in the dark and I taste my salty remains on
his tongue, "this is what I meant." He kisses my jaw. "You are so
beautiful," he murmurs more quietly still.
I cannot give in, no, I must refuse him, but could I really be the
one to resist that kiss so true? I go under with a sigh.
I wake up and hear the shower running through the thin wall. His side
of the bed is empty. I get up to use the bathroom and see our clothes
have been picked up off the floor and are neatly hung over the backs
of the two chairs in the room. My gun and holster are on top of my
pile and his gun on top of his.
How did we get here, I wonder again. I could call and have him
arrested, shoot him when he comes out of the bathroom or dress and
just leave. I should do one of these things, if I stand for
the 'self' I have always been. Leaving and letting him escape in
exchange for his new role as my informant could be understandable.
Arresting him and attempting to bring him to justice for past crimes
would be the right thing to do. Shooting him as an act of vengeance
would be justified.
Instead I stand, naked and warm in the small room, knowing I will go
ahead and increase our intimacy and join him in the shower.
He turns and faces the open door and I see him in the light through
the skimpy shower curtain. He continues to run a soapy hand over his
chest while I piss. I step into the shower over the low rim of the
tub, he makes room for me. The water hits my head and splashes in his
face. I wipe the drops off his eyelids.
His face is more guarded again, but I can see that for what it is. He
expects everything and nothing. He has not given up or given in to
the possible vagaries of my decisions so much as he simply is waiting
for whatever comes next. I always thought he was controlling my fate.
I was wrong.
This time I reach for him and wrap my arms around his shoulders and
we kiss as lovers. We kiss and touch and wash each other and
ourselves. I turn fully into the spray and his hand drifts down my
spine and his fingers lightly trace the valley between my buttocks.
He makes no attempt to penetrate me; he strokes and when I don't move
away and leans into my back and kisses the nape of my neck and says,
once more, "You are so beautiful."
I turn off the shower, we get out and dry each other and ourselves.
I shut off the bathroom light and we go into the dim room together. I
shake out the sheets and bedspread while he gets the small strip of
condoms from his jacket pocket. I lie on the bed and wait for him.
I don't tell him I haven't done this since college. I don't ask him
how often and with whom he does this. I am not afraid. He is in many
ways inexplicable, but what I know he will be is a fiercely gentle
lover. I feel my body begin to thrum with a deep inner ache. I
honestly haven't wanted to be satisfied like this in ages. I want it
now, and I want him to be the one who takes me there. I think he may
be the only one who can.
So many surprises today, and he adds another to the tally, "I haven't
done this in a long time," he says. "When I lost my arm, it felt like
this part of me had been chopped off, too. I was able to get it up
once since then, so I know I can. I kept the condoms as sort of a
salve for my ego." His voice is soft, "Before Tunguska, I made it as
often as I could, and almost always with women. I needed to pretend I
was in charge of something that belonged to me. I haven't let anyone
fuck me since college, Mulder. It was a control I could not give up
once the whole thing began with Spender and I was in over my head."
He tears off a condom and hands it to me. "I am not a baby-killer, I
have never been a whore for them, and I want you to fuck me."
I hold the condom. I hold the condom so long that he begins to
fidget, "You have done this before, haven't you?" he asks with faint
apprehension in his voice.
"Yeah," I answer him. "Yeah, a long time ago. I remember how, Alex. I
remember how it can feel too." I start to hand him back the condom,
but tear the package open for him first. "I want to feel it again." I
put the condom back in his hand.
"Fuck me, Alex."
He holds the condom as if he's never seen the damn thing before. I
start to smile and I feel a happiness take hold that's part wonder,
part incredulity, and, most of all, a sense of rightness.
He smiles too. "Oh, yeah, Mulder. Oh, yeah." He lies on his side, his
arm is around my waist and he pulls me down to him. He whispers
things into my ear that sound so sweet, "Bastard and beautiful—
idiot, fool and yes—gorgeous and tight—oh!—You are so fucking
tight and I'm going to fuck you wide, lover—and deep, lover." His
hand and mouth are all over me, the condom lays crumpled between us.
He scrabbles for it eventually, when I am beyond cogent thought.
It's more than I remember. More of everything. Bigger, deeper,
hotter—he use my right hand to brace his left shoulder so he can
push harder, pump into me fully. His face is stripped of everything
but ecstasy and I am burning, burning in the heat of it.
He changes the angle of his body and his thrusts and, suddenly, my
cock is rubbing into his belly, his cock is hitting my sweet spot and
the sweat makes me slide and the friction is too much. "Now, Alex," I
yell, "Now!"
I call Scully first thing in the morning. She tells me a special task
force has been gathered together to provide help for the children.
She is going to stay with them in protective custody for a while. I
agree that's the best thing to do. I call Skinner and he reports a
courier, who couldn't be traced, delivered a tip. The information led
the FBI and the police to a house nearby the lab. Several scientists
and other assorted minions were there, tied up and waiting. Lab
reports detailing what happened to the children and video proof of
the men performing these deeds on the children was found in a box.
I look at Alex. He is driving us back towards DC. I have the cell
phone on intercom so he hears everything. He is careful to keep his
face bland, but his hand clenches and a small satisfied smile flashes
when Skinner says he's got the men in custody.
I tell Skinner I am with the informant. Alex frowns at me grimly. I
tell Skinner more information is coming and I need a few days to sort
through it all. He wants me to bring the information and the informer
into headquarters. I refuse and he allows this, not really expecting
anything else.
I hang up the phone.
"You have a computer I can work on at your place?" I ask Alex.
He thinks it over, relaxes and says, "Yeah."
"Let's go," I say.
Fini
He is not my friend, but he is with me
He's the thin man
I can feel his eyes when I don't expect him
He's the thin man
He is not my friend, but he is with me
He's the thin man
But He is with Me
by Flutesong
I looked at the stick figure drawings on the cheap newsprint paper.
Stick figures by the dozens, all of them carrying implements of
unknown and indecipherable shapes in their hands. All of them moving
menacingly toward smaller, cringing stick figures on flat beds.
Thin Man/ Suzanne Vega
Like a shadow is with a foot that falls
His hand is on my back when I step from the sidewalk
Or when I'm walking down these darkened halls
With a date for me
To arrive at some point
I don't know when it will be
In the back seat of a taxi down Vestry Street
His arm is around my waist and he pulls me down to him
He whispers things into my ear that sound so sweet
with a date for me
To arrive at some point
I don't know when it will be
And he promises a peace I never knew
I cannot give in, no, I must refuse him
But could I really be the one to resist that kiss so true
with a date for me
To arrive at some point
I don't know when it will be
