I remember him, he was very young
Mulder stood at the water's edge, staring at the shiny surfaces of the wet rocks
that lined the beach at his feet. He pulled his coat tighter against the bitter
wind blowing in off the Bay of Fundy. Scully had declared that he was crazy to
travel up to Nova Scotia at this time of year. He was beginning to think she
was right; December was the wrong month to choose to enjoy this locale. Still,
it was everything he'd wanted: solitary, quiet, unencumbered by any reminders of
his life and blessedly devoid of conversational platitudes.
The light of the rising sun was sharp and brilliant, a diamond with plenty of
silver lining. He found that, despite the maritime winter weather, he was
looking forward to the coming day. It had been far too long since he'd arisen
in the morning and actually anticipated simply experiencing life.
Small fishing boats were already making their way out on the bay, attracting
swooping gulls whose cries echoed over the water. A high cliff wall rose up
steeply to the right, providing a refuge for the puffins, terns and other birds
that used it as a way station along one of their primary migration routes up and
down the Atlantic coast.
The freezing sea breeze whipped at the sand and tough salt grasses near him,
cutting straight through his pants and gradually numbing his legs. His knees
were starting to ache but he remained where he was, unwilling to leave until the
sun had broken through the distant line of dissipating fog on the horizon that
obscured the opposite coast of New Brunswick.
The sharp tang of the sea combined with the scent of the pine trees that the
cottage behind him nestled in. It was an idyllic setting, an excellent
counterpoint and haven from the commotion and distraction in the wake of his
departure from the FBI, dealing with his new son, Scully's baby, and his life
there.
Scully had made it clear that the baby was hers, her long-wished-for child, and
although she was completely content with Mulder's presence in their lives, she
couldn't handle living with Mulder as her husband day-in and day-out, as a
permanent fixture in her home. He'd offered to be there for her, in all
capacities, but Scully had professed a deep-seated awkwardness with the idea.
The problem was, she explained, he needed them more than she and the baby needed
him. His sense of obligation and duty towards them was borne from his
insecurity and need for a family. It was understandable; he'd not had anyone
else but her throughout it all.
He'd said she was his rock, his lighthouse. She had been his only friend and
partner and... even occasional lover, throughout the long years they'd both
spent fighting the giant unseen shadows behind the scenes; shadows that had
claimed the lives of many of their family and friends. But yet again, Scully
showed more practical sense than he and pointed out that they couldn't exactly
tolerate each other's personal habits and life-style, their individual pursuits,
and that he wasn't exactly suited for bringing up children. He'd had to agree.
Feeling secretly relieved, Mulder had retreated and returned home, settling down
to try to make some sense of what he'd recently been through, and trying not to
feel the sting of her rejection. But his apartment had very quickly taken on
frighteningly mundane dimensions. He'd spent so many years there, yet it didn't
seem like home anymore. In fact, it had never felt like home; it had always
been his base of operations more than anything else. Home equaled family and he
had no family left. He wanted to believe in the phrase 'home is where the heart
is', but he had no heart to call home.
He was empty. He had nothing left.
His hope of eventually salvaging a family with Dana and their son was
overshadowed by the fact that she was right: neither of them were suited to
provide each other with anything but a sort of awkward comfort and it wasn't
what they truly wanted. They simply couldn't provide each other with what the
other needed or wanted.
Part of him felt hurt by her rejection but another part was glad, because he
knew how she had gone through a cycle of first developing a crush on him (which
of course was a mutual attraction), then a sisterly supportive presence,
followed by a period of estrangement and joint sexual frustration followed
finally by a cool, calm understanding that their partnership was stronger than
any fleeting romantic notions that she might have had, or that he might think
that she still retained. Of course, it might still be a purely self-defensive
argument on her part, for he knew instinctively that she still loved him.
He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was alive and had a
new, unexpected, unlooked-for lease on life. After all, he'd had been diagnosed
with brain cancer. Not wanting to subject Scully and the other people in his
life to the long and eventual disintegration of his existence, he'd kept it
quiet. But he'd resigned himself to eventually dying, even to the point of
ordering a tombstone. The growth of the tumor had been unpredictable and the
doctors had not really been able to give him a clear time frame he could count
on.
It had been with a sense of finality and liberation that he had stepped into the
circle of light, joining the other abductees in the forest clearing in Oregon.
After all, he'd been searching for the truth his whole life; it made a strangely
fitting epitaph for him to take that particular journey. And he'd done so with
a clear conscience, for he knew whatever the cost to himself and his friends, he
was dying anyway. Cats leave their owners to die, many times seeking a private
place to pass away. Mulder wondered if it were intentional on the pets' parts,
to not subject their beloved owners to the experience of having to witness their
death.
The nightmares he suffered from now were truly terrible. He rarely got a full
night's sleep anymore. Vivid and horrifying, reliving the few moments of
slurred and regained consciousness aboard the alien bounty hunters' craft, the
nightmares continued until he desperately set himself a new sleeping pattern.
Light naps, with stops and starts. Dozing, really.
He could no longer count how many times his memory had been wiped, or identify
the false memories that had been inserted, compare them to the real ones, or
even if any of the memories he COULD access in dreams and regressive therapy
were real and not illusory figments his own subconscious was coughing up.
Every so often he'd sit up with a start, feeling as though he'd been hit by a
strong jolt of electricity, particularly in bed when he was just drifting off to
sleep. Not only that, he was starting to question his sanity. He'd never done
that before. But objects kept disappearing, objects that he needed, like his
wallet, keys and driver's license.
Strangely, they would re-appear a few hours later in a place he KNEW he hadn't
been in that time. Gremlins, elves, aliens and ghosts suggested themselves in
the privacy of his mind, but an even quieter and damning voice in the back of
his mind kept whispering about lost marbles. He had no explanation however, and
knew that it wasn't madness.
He'd had a full psych-evaluation prior to retreating here, as well as continued
monitoring of his physical health since he was discharged from the Naval
Hospital. He was normal, disgustingly healthy and fit, both physically and
mentally.
In a way, enforced retirement from the FBI was almost a punishment. Especially
when he thought of Scully, with the baby, returning to active duty from her
maternity leave. And Agents Doggett and Reyes—they were fine, but only Reyes
seemed at least partially open-minded to entertaining metaphysical solutions to
physical phenomena they couldn't explain, let alone how to apply them to
properly ascertain the answers.
Mulder was actually glad he was far from the X-Files now, so that he couldn't
get upset at what he would undoubtedly perceive as gross ignorance in the face
of what was arguably HIS field: the investigation of the paranormal.
He almost laughed: Reyes would love it here, with the whale-watching and local
ghost stories. It was the summer feeding ground for over a hundred humpback
whales.
There was too much pain and death behind him to relax. Even coming to this
quiet place hadn't helped; if anything, it had brought it out in greater
strength. Faces of people he'd killed while in the Bureau haunted him in his
waking hours, as well as the impressions of people and places he'd seen. Now
that the pressure was off, the lid on his box was coming right off, too.
All the horror, all the fear and the dread, the doubts, the emotional pain and
loss he'd suffered over the years were surging to the fore. A rational part of
his mind suggested that it was simply a natural process of releasing suppressed
trauma. He'd been fine for so long, taking things in his stride that not very
many other people could have handled. He'd assumed that it meant it hadn't
touched him. More and more, he suspected, the boundaries between his physical
reality and the Other Side were crumbling. He was falling apart from the inside
out, a bizarrely paradoxical breakdown—of his inner structure, rather than his
own self... the walls in his mind, not the core of his being.
He had got to the point where, when Dana had finally given birth, he couldn't
bear to see his 'son'...
The child was so obviously a product like himself, a genetic curiosity that
would garner attention from high and low. If they didn't force an awkward
importance onto little William, no doubt the baby would bring it on himself with
his achievements once he grew old enough to begin displaying what he was capable
of.
Mulder felt strangely distant towards William. The baby WAS more Scully's than
his. He didn't envy either the child or Scully, although his long-suffering
partner had wanted this baby more than her life was worth. She'd risked so much
and suffered for so long...
It tore at Mulder's heart to have to witness it. It was so beautiful right now,
in the beginning. All beginnings ARE beautiful... The sheer potential of little
William's life... But the inevitability of his own understanding of the
long-term outcomes cast a shadow on his ability to feel happy for them. He
could see too much in the future.
In running away from it all though, he faced his own end. He could see it
looming like a dank, mediocre specter: a tedious collection of hours spent
dreaming about the solutions to puzzles that he'd never solved, trying to
resolve the night-terrors and the holes in his conscience. He was not old, not
yet. He still had many years left of his natural life, the one he'd been handed
in an extraordinary circumstance following his abduction, but he felt as though
the accumulation of experiences he'd undergone in the last forty years had taken
their toll.
He felt very old indeed. And worst of all, he could see the endless boredom and
lack of direction in his now aimless life awaiting him. He no longer had the
fire that had always driven him to continue. In a way, it was far worse than
his dry spell he'd experienced that had culminated during Scully's second
abduction on the bridge and Cassandra Spender's disappearance.
This was different in that he was inviting it; he wanted to fall apart. He
wanted the edifice he'd kept strong for so long to crumble to make way for a new
structure, a new approach to life. Hell, he'd DIED... And come back from the
dead after being abducted by aliens—hardly orthodox life-experience from any
point of view. He had come full-circle and was now left holding the remnants
of any enduring strength or understanding in his resurrected hands.
Mulder wondered if perhaps the sum of his life's pursuits had resulted in
bringing him to this point, having to face a truth about himself that he'd
always projected onto the mysterious, the supernatural, the unexplainable, in an
attempt to validate his own existence and not have to take the responsibility
for his own state. It was a painful thought, but very hard to deny in the
absence of anything to distract him from it. Between the open sea, the cold sky
and the empty shoreline, the only thing that remained to hold his attention was
the sun, ever brighter now that it had lifted above the rapidly clearing fog on
the horizon.
All too soon, the brilliance of the rising sun faded into the pale light of an
ordinary day. The clouds began to obscure the disk, creating a shiny coin in
the sky.
It felt like rain was approaching. He could feel it in the air, the sense of an
impending storm. Yet a peculiar hope colored his perceptions inside and out,
the feeling of 'something' that the day might still bring. He sighed and
surrendered to the bitter cold of the wind, allowing the winter sea breeze to
force him back up the beach and return to the warmth and security of the
cottage.
He liked the different lifestyle, the change of pace, that living here afforded
him. It was a wonderful opportunity to do the quiet things he'd always wanted
to but had never had the chance. Catch up on his reading, his thinking... catch
up on a lot of things.
As he made coffee, he busied himself by clearing the kitchen of what scant
dishes had accumulated there and noticed that the fridge was getting low in
food. Mulder was fully aware that staying inside the cottage—whatever the
weather—wasn't exactly conducive to healing, or taking advantage of a balanced
retreat. He needed to venture out occasionally. This was a perfect opportunity
to prove to himself that he could still function in spite of his self-imposed
breakdown.
He drove along the quiet road to town. The embankments were lined with snow and
the asphalt surface was black and dry. The comforting neutrality of the
landscape sustained him, enabling his mind to hold onto the reality of where he
was as the contrasting black and white flashed by. No blur of city
surroundings, no distractions, a tidiness that grounded him, providing a
stability lacking in his inner state.
In way, he mused, the black road was his life, the white piles of snow on the
wayside were the uncharted terrain he'd never stopped to investigate, the
detours he'd never taken in his single-minded pursuit of the 'truth'. He
suspected that his own inner truth finally lay in all those places that he'd
never taken the time to see, the roses he'd never had the time to stop and smell
along the way.
It was Christmas Eve and the roads were curiously empty of traffic. He hadn't
attempted to make any friends and by the time he'd turned onto the main highway
from Kentville to Digby, he was resolved to spending the next two days doing
anything but moping over the fact that he was destined to spend Christmas alone.
With honor be it spoken
Alex sat alone at the table, his coffee cooling and the danish sitting uneaten
on the plate. The bustling breakfast crowd of the other hotel guests went
unheard as he stared out the window at the harbor. The clouds were thick and
soft metallic-blue, as if in a watercolor painting. They gave the overcast sky
a colorful character. He could see the squall line out to sea, far away in the
distance. It wouldn't be long before it drenched them all with driving rain and
wind. Even now, a few drops of rain splashed on the windowpane.
He'd driven all the previous day to reach Bar Harbor, Maine, to take the ferry
to the peninsula of Nova Scotia. He disembarked from the ferry at Yarmouth,
then drove to Digby, checking into the inn late last night. He'd been surprised
at the homey comfort of the seaside hotel. The establishment was obviously
situated in a tourist trap but so far they were all that their brochures
claimed.
There was a strange sense of familiarity and nostalgia about this place, almost
as if he felt he had been acquainted with this town for some time, or that he
should know it from somewhere. Despite the tourism factor and the smell of fish
emanating from the wharf that all the local residents didn't appear to notice,
there was a cheerfully laid-back atmosphere here. And there was a noticeable
cultural flavor that was highly individual. Called by many the 'Enchanted
Land', Nova Scotia had personality. He could even see why they'd named it 'New
Scotland'... It had that same maritime, pristine beauty, a timeless ambience
with coastal scenery.
In spite of the evidence of recent heavy snowfall over the past week or so, Alex
found himself hankering to drive around the peninsula and explore, although the
ferry crossing the night before had been very rough and he suspected it would be
another day or two before he wanted to do any intensive traveling. And besides,
he had a mission to see through first.
Fox Mulder.
Mulder had come up here a few weeks before, after spending several months
commuting back and forth between his parents' houses at Greenwich and Martha's
Vineyard. Alex had suspected it was because Mulder was tying up all of his
loose ends and preparing to disappear. He'd been right. He was glad he'd been
monitoring Scully's phone line, else he might have had a much harder time
discovering where Mulder had hared off to. And Mulder hadn't even called Scully
since he arrived here, apart to let her know that he'd made it okay.
Mulder was staying in a vacationer's cottage twenty-five miles east, along the
coast. It was a bit out of the way, but Alex could see now that Mulder had
chosen this place to hide in. He was almost envious that Mulder had found it
first. He could see himself settling down here for good, endless days spent
watching the boats and relearning how to enjoy the simple things in life: surf,
waves, lights on the water and maybe even the cold of the Atlantic winter.
He rubbed absently at the remnant of his left arm, above the prosthetic. He'd
long since obtained a high quality replacement model but it didn't help him to
keep the stump from suffering the effects of cold and damp weather. The cold
was getting to him even in the breakfast room that was warmed by the quaint
fireplace. He picked up his coffee and drank, and sampled the danish. He was
gratified to find that it really was as good as it appeared.
Alex ended up ordering the full breakfast. By the time he'd finished it, he was
convinced that the hotel's food was some of the finest he'd ever eaten. Maybe
it was just the sea air that gave him back his appetite. But he suspected it
was actually anticipation that was even now buoying his spirits.
However it went, he was going to see Mulder. Alex hadn't seen him since the
man's body had been exhumed and taken to the Naval Base at Annapolis, Maryland,
and in fact hadn't even had a chance to talk to him after he revived. The
excitement he felt was of course tamed by the knowledge that Mulder would
probably lunge at him on sight, stammering imprecations and oaths, barely
comprehensible in his rage, fists flying. He hoped not. He really didn't want
a scene. Then again, maybe Mulder had changed and cooled down since his...
death.
Alex shivered. It had been a close call, far too close for comfort. He'd only
just managed to inject the vaccine into Mulder's infected body before Skinner
had come down the hall and entered the hospital room. And he'd lost Billy Miles
entirely; the alien virus had transformed the deputy's body before Alex had the
chance to inject it into him as well. He'd regretted wasting that vial of the
vaccine just to make a point, but Doggett had pissed him off royally.
Out of the window, Alex noticed that the roiling, swollen clouds had darkened
and the line of the falling rain had nearly reached the wharf. How apt, he
suddenly thought, that his meeting with Mulder after all this time would be
shadowed... by a rainstorm.
He sighed and finished his second cup of coffee. Well, there was no sense in
delaying the inevitable. He left a generous tip at the table and departed from
the inn.
As he pulled his car away from the inn, conspicuously black amongst the more
cheerfully colored cars in the parking lot, he saw that the rain-clouds wouldn't
last long. Unfortunately, the view out over the bay showed evidence of a
sibling squall moving in behind them. He didn't envy the trawlers braving the
rugged seas out there just now.
When he reached Digby he drove into the center of the town, cruising down the
street, slowly looking for a parking space downtown. He needed to pick up a few
supplies. The streets weren't as crowded as he would have expected on Christmas
Eve. The streetlights and shops were all decorated gaily with clusters of
tinsel and lights, setting the streets aglow with holiday cheer. He felt a
sudden sense of melancholy descend upon him. He still wasn't sure exactly where
Mulder WAS, or which cottage he was staying in.
Mulder had been careful not to actually say it aloud to Scully over the phone;
Alex could tell, from monitoring her calls. Probably didn't want to run the
risk of having Scully come up, Krycek thought with a chuckle. In fact, that was
just the handle he needed, he realized. Mulder had come up here to hide and
would probably swallow a tale spun around Scully's concern...
He grinned to himself, thinking of Mulder's dismay when he told him that Scully
was looking for him.
He was startled to see Mulder walking along the sidewalk up ahead. His heart
jumped up into his throat. He stared after him, until Mulder disappeared into a
grocery store.
Holy shit. Was it, actually -? But it had been. It WAS Mulder. He'd recognize
the man anywhere.
It wasn't really serendipitous, as he had expected to be coming across Mulder
later on anyway, but it still struck him as fortuitous to see his quarry here in
town rather than having to track him down along the coast. That might have
taken days.
He quickly parked a few cars away and doubled back, waiting a few furtive
moments outside the store before following Mulder inside.
I hear there's trouble in Shangri-La
Mulder had just collected up all his grocery bags and turned to leave, when he
nearly ran into someone standing between him and the door. A tall someone in...
black boots... with black jeans... his eyes traveled up to take in the black
jacket... the black gloves and a smirk, accompanied by a pair of twinkling eyes
in a familiar face that never failed to irk him.
Mulder's stomach twisted and he could feel his heart sink as Krycek looked back
at him, matching his stare. Krycek didn't move out of the way.
In a dangerously calm tone, Mulder asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Krycek smiled grimly. "Scully sent me." He surveyed the store, watching the
people around them.
Mulder felt like someone had hit him in the midriff. "S-scully sent you?" he
squeaked, dismay overcoming him, followed quickly by disbelief. He cleared his
throat. "Why would she do that? I mean..."
Krycek snorted. "Apparently, you worried her. I went by your place, just to
drop in and check out how things were going. I found your apartment rented out
to someone else and so I swung over to Scully's. It was strange, actually,"
Krycek admitted. "Instead of going for her gun or her cellphone, she let me
inside and picked up the baby. Then she started on this whole song and dance
about how you'd run off to the ends of the earth in the middle of winter. She
kept bleating the same thing, that you were unhinged, and you needed someone to
make sure you were okay."
Mulder sighed heavily. "I TOLD her, I explained it to her, that I needed some
space—and some time." He stepped around Krycek and deliberately did not wait
for him to catch up with him. He left the store, walked to the car and put the
groceries in the back seat. He turned to see Krycek had followed him out.
"Jesus, Mulder. You look like hell. I'm getting seriously worried here,
myself. Are you sleeping, nights?"
"You don't look so good yourself, Krycek. You look gaunt, haggard... I'd say
you haven't been eating well. Hey, I have an idea. There's the grocery store—why don't you go back into it and give me a chance to slip away here?" He
turned away with another sigh of resignation.
Krycek regarded him curiously. "Have you called her even once since you got
here?"
"I—yeah, the night I arrived. Look, Krycek, I'm sorry but I really don't think
it's any concern of yours."
"It is now. Scully made me promise that if I was passing through the area, I'd
check up on you."
Mulder rubbed his temples with his free hand. He shifted agitatedly from one
foot to the other on the sidewalk. "I don't need a sitter. I'm fine. I came
here to get away from everything familiar and —screw this, I don't need to
explain myself to YOU. In fact, if anyone ought to be able to understand, it
should be you, Krycek. For God's sake, can't I just live here for a little
while without everyone acting as though I'm coming unglued? I am just fine, I
don't need any help and I want to be left alone. Go home. Enjoy your
Christmas."
He walked away from Krycek, up the street towards the drugstore, leaving him
standing on the sidewalk.
Unfortunately, Krycek caught up with him, matching his stride. "Don't tell me
you came all the way out here just to sulk? That's pathetic."
"I'm so sorry I've disappointed you. Maybe I wasn't clear a moment ago. Leave.
Me. Alone."
"No can do, Fox. See, I'm not at all convinced that you ARE all right. I'd
hate to report that back to Dana. She might come flying up here, swaddling
clothes and all, just to check on your psychological state. Imagine what she'd
do if she found you whining and pouting about life, the universe and everything
instead of enjoying your impromptu vacation in this... this... brisk wintry
clime. She'd commit you. Again."
"No, she'd shoot me, again, to put me out of my misery. Come to think of it,
why haven't YOU shot me yet, Krycek?"
Krycek nearly stumbled. "What? Why the hell would you think that I would—"
Mulder stopped and turned to regard him. "Yeah. Why haven't you? That's a damn
good question. An even better one is: why haven't I shot you yet? Level with
me. What the FUCK do you want? Why are you really here? And don't give me any
more crap about Scully sending you; I don't buy it." Mulder delivered all of
this in his usual monotone. He didn't want to attract undue attention from the
residents of Digby.
Krycek grinned at him. "That took you long enough. Come on, admit it; I had
you going for bit, there. And as for putting you out of your misery, well—I
don't know about the FBI, but where I come from we don't usually shoot
workhorses after they get too long in the tooth. No, in the Motherland, we let
them run away to a nice little retirement cottage out in the middle of the
freezing wastelands and languish in fits of dramatic sulking until they die of
boredom. That's what you're doing here, isn't it?"
"Krycek... Go to hell."
"I knew it. You're sulking." Krycek snapped his fingers and grinned as he said
this.
Mournfully, Mulder said, "Why the hell are you bothering me? Go pester Skinner;
that's your favorite pastime, isn't it?"
"He doesn't react the same way you do, Mulder. I can always get a rise out of
him, but he hasn't quite got the left hook that you have."
Mulder continued on down the street, feeling the irritation in him at Krycek's
presence rise to new heights. He congratulated himself for not turning on the
smug son of a bitch right there in the middle of the street and pounding him
into the concrete. While they were both aware he wouldn't KILL the man, Mulder
still wondered at his newfound patience. "If I want to disappear out here for a
while, what business is it of yours?"
"You tell me. You always have so much fun telling me who and what I am, and
coming up with such interesting theories as to what I'm doing, why should I
deprive you of having a good time? Besides, if I told you, I'd have to shoot you
after all."
Mulder groaned. "You can dispense with the cloak and dagger. Who are you
working for, now?"
Krycek gave him a sidelong glance as they stopped before the drugstore. He
looked down at the sidewalk and then away, looking up the street. "I'm not
working for anyone. I'm... out of a job, actually."
Mulder's brows rose. "No kidding? What a coincidence. So am I. And we both
happen to be up here on the edge of Canada, just before Christmas. I take it
you haven't got anything better to do than stalk me?"
Krycek shrugged and gave him a noncommittal look. "Not really."
"Get a life, Krycek," Mulder said, and left him standing outside the store.
Once inside, Mulder surreptitiously peered from the corner of his eye as he made
his way around the shop. Krycek was waiting outside by the door, obviously
intending to rejoin him when he left to return to his car.
Damn him.
As he perused the shelves for toothpaste and Tylenol, his eyes came to rest on
the condoms. He found himself staring at them. He tore himself away with a
jerk. What the hell am I THINKING, he thought to himself as he went to the
check-out counter. Jesus. No. No way. It wasn't going to happen. No.
Fucking. Way.
Still, the knowledge that Krycek had followed him all the way up here, just to
check on his state of mind... it was rather interesting, to say the least. He
didn't think Krycek had any idea just how much that gave away about his motives,
whether they were conscious or not.
He took a breath and tried to ignore the fact that the man who apparently found
it impossible to leave him alone was still standing outside, hunched in his coat
and stamping his feet to keep warm. Taking out his credit card, he handed it to
the sales clerk with a slight frown. As she rang up the total, he couldn't help
wondering if Krycek had located him via a paper trail, or even electronically,
via his credit card usage. Damn. He should have brought more cash, but the
whole business of having to convert US dollars to Canadian had seemed
unnecessary with the credit cards, so he hadn't converted that much. Just
enough to tide him over through the holidays. He had wondered if he should move
off to some other location after the New Year came in. Now he was convinced it
was going to be a necessity. He sighed to himself. He'd hoped he wouldn't
have to. He liked it here.
As Mulder walked out, letting the door swing shut behind him, he deliberately
ignored Krycek, who once more fell into step beside him.
Huge fat raindrops began to pelt them, looking and feeling suspiciously akin to
sleet. Mulder didn't speak. Sure enough, Krycek cracked first.
"Mulder, is it really so hard to believe that people might be concerned about
you?"
"People? No. But you? Yes, I do find that hard to believe, considering all the
shit you've put me through over the years."
Krycek was silent beside him as they continued on down the sidewalk, passing
women carrying shopping bags and children wearing hats and mittens.
Then Krycek replied, "Maybe my memory isn't what it used to be but you know
something?" He gave a short, insincere laugh, "In all honesty, I can't think of
anything I've done to you... or FOR you... over the past few years that hasn't
been in your interest somehow."
"Honesty," Mulder repeated, dryly. "Now there's a word that sounds truly
foreign, coming from you." They came to stand beside his car and he turned to
Krycek. "Well, this is my stop. See you around, maybe." He looked up and down
the street. "It's not that busy—if you run, you might get back to your own
car in time to catch up and follow me back home."
"Mulder," Krycek said tiredly, "Why can't you ever give me the benefit of the
doubt?"
"We both know what you've done and what you're capable of," Mulder replied, just
as tiredly. "You might want to reconsider tailing me, too. You're safer in a
public place out in the open here. Imagine what I could do if I had you all to
myself."
"Yeah, imagine," Krycek sighed. "Look, Mulder, all I want is to talk; that's
all. I just want to talk. Surely that's not too terrifying a prospect for you
to handle."
"About what? Krycek, there's nothing to talk about."
Krycek gave him a knowing look. "How are you sleeping at night? Having any fun
dreams? If I were you, I know I'd be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder. What harm could it possibly do you to indulge me, here? All I want
is to talk, I swear. Nothing more."
Against his own better judgment, Mulder considered it. Then he considered the
open, innocent-seeming face that Krycek wore, staring back at him through those
lashes that always looked too thick and long for Mulder's comfort. They fringed
Krycek's eyes, making him look oh-so-sweet... Finally, he answered, "All right,
but I'm warning you: I'm not up to playing any of your games. And if this has
anything to do with the Resistance or the alien virus, I don't want to hear it."
"No aliens, no viruses—no games, I promise. You have my word."
"Oh, joy. I have your word," Mulder muttered. He went around to the driver's
side of the car and said, "Try to keep up." He climbed into the car and started
the ignition, pulling away from the curb far faster than he probably should
have, attracting stares from others along the street.
Once he was back out on the highway, he kept checking the rear-view mirror and
at first, he thought maybe he'd given Krycek the slip, but then he saw the black
dot that began gaining on him despite the weather and the road conditions. The
sleet was coming down harder now, too, which also caused him to lose what
headway he'd made.
As he drove, he tried to concentrate on the road but his thoughts kept going
back to what possible agenda Krycek might have for wanting to talk to him. He
could hardly trust him, and he certainly didn't believe the bullshit story
Krycek had fed him about having joined the ranks of the unemployed. Krycek
hadn't held down a legal job since he'd left the FBI. The only thought that
reassured him was that no matter what Krycek was after, he wasn't in a position
to be able to do anything about it. Krycek couldn't get him to run off on some
wild new lead, nor did he have the resources of the FBI at his fingertips
anymore, to go investigating the latest alien menace or crashed disk.
By the time he pulled into the driveway that led through the trees to the
cottage where he was staying, Mulder's curiosity was engaged. What exactly did
Krycek want? What possible benefit could Krycek find in bothering him yet
again? And on Christmas Eve, no less? And just how the HELL had Krycek found
him? He'd been so careful not to leave a trail, even to the point of using an
alias and alternative passport. Fox Mulder was still officially in the U.S. of
A.
He parked the car and turned in time to see Krycek's car come to a halt not far
away, behind him along the driveway. As he watched, Krycek got out and came
walking towards him, his boots crunching on the frozen gravel.
Mulder sighed and started gathering his groceries out of the back seat. Krycek
came to stand beside him and asked, "Can I help?"
"Grab that. And that one there." Mulder shut the front door and waited until
Krycek had removed the last two bags, then he locked the car. He walked up to
the cottage, withdrew his keys and shifted the bags he was carrying to pause and
open the cottage door.
Once inside, they both wiped their boots on the mat and Krycek silently followed
him into the kitchen to deposit the bags on the wooden table.
As Mulder took off his coat and hung it up on a hook to dry, Krycek stood,
looking around the place. Finally, he commented, "Nice place you found here,
Mulder. Remote, out of the way... It would have taken me a while to find you."
"Speaking of which," Mulder countered, "How'd you find me?"
"I was monitoring your calls," Krycek replied, absently, rubbing his gloved hand
through his damp hair, unintentionally making it spiky. "Is that real wood?"
He nodded. "This is... it's really nice here."
"Don't get too attached to it," Mulder said. "What did you want to talk about?"
He turned to put the food away, taking items out of the grocery bags.
"I came to offer my services."
Mulder stopped in surprise and looked back at him. "Okay, I'll bite. As what,
my psychotherapist?"
"Why not? Can you think of anyone better to lend a sympathetic ear to all
you've been through? And I won't think you're crazy if you start talking about
aliens and UFOs, either. Think about it: we're the only two people in a nine
hundred mile radius—at the very least—who actually share the same
perspective. And the same experiences."
Mulder grimaced and returned to emptying the bags, putting food in cupboards and
in the fridge. He stashed a frozen salmon steak in the freezer. "Somehow, I
don't think that qualifies you as a therapist. And I have my doubts about you
sharing my experiences—you weren't abducted, killed, buried and then dug up
again."
"I was thinking more along the lines of friendship," Krycek admitted.
Mulder stood and straightened, looking back at Krycek, noting that the man's
nose was no longer as red from the cold, his jacket wasn't dripping as much and
his hair wasn't as spiky now that he was starting to dry out from being in the
cottage's warmth.
"Krycek, you really don't want to be around me right now. I'm dealing with a
lot of issues and I'm actually inviting a nervous breakdown. I'm trying to sort
out a lot of trauma and stress and it might be detrimental to your own physical
and emotional well-being to be hanging around here. Don't say I didn't warn
you."
Krycek gave a shrug. "So? Do you think that there's anything you could tell me
that would equal the shit I've been through?"
Mulder sighed. "Working with corpses, bodies, creatures... Creepy fucking
monsters and deranged people... Mentally disturbed and possessed violent
criminals and psychopaths. The scum of the earth—literally, as in slime and
fungus, brain-eaters, practitioners of voodoo and Satanism, vampires, werewolves
and demons. That enough for you?"
Krycek grinned. Then he said, "You never had your arm cut off; you weren't
possessed by a Black fucking Oil creature and left to rot in a hole for weeks.
You weren't—"
"Ah, yes. The sob story," Mulder commented. "I wondered when you'd start on
that one. This is the part where I'm supposed to feel sorry for you, isn't it?"
Tightly, Krycek replied, "No. But it does give me a weird kind of handle on
being able to relate with some of the stuff you've been through."
Mulder sighed and said, "Come on, let's go outside. Walk along the beach."
"It's going to rain again," Krycek pointed out.
"After all we've been through, you're worried about a little rain? Shame on you,
Krycek." He picked up his trench coat and then put it back, selecting instead a
slicker with a hood. No sense in getting wetter than necessary. He
deliberately did not want Krycek feeling at home here. Might as well get him
out into the cold to speed this process up.
Krycek didn't look happy at the thought of going back out into the cold wind and
rain, but he followed Mulder out of the back door through the kitchen and
outside, down to the beach. They picked their way carefully through the dunes
and the slippery rocks, to walk along the shore.
Sandpipers were gathered along the beach, picking up crabs and shellfish that
had found their way up onto the wet sands.
"So, why'd you pick this place?"
Mulder took a breath. "Well, to be honest, I did kind of... run away. I needed
someplace out of the way, where I could fall apart in private. Put myself back
together again in a new way that makes sense, taking into consideration the, uh,
twilight zone factors. I can't say it's been easy. I keep wondering why I
bothered. My head drove me here; it's my heart that's calling me back there
again. It isn't like I wanted to desert Scully. Or the baby."
Krycek nodded. Then he said, with a grin, "Was that the big head or the little
head, Mulder?"
Mulder shot him a disdainful look. "Very funny. Scully and I love each other,
and besides, I don't see any beach-babes out here, do you? It may be a solitary
wilderness but it's a beautiful place."
"You could do worse, I guess. It's a bit cold and wet. Still, you could get
yourself a yacht, spend your time avoiding news about your son and trying not to
cry over the fact that Dana Scully found you less than suitable father
material." A gust of wind blasted at them momentarily, and Krycek shoved his
gloved hand in his pocket, shivering. "Fuck, it's freezing out here, Mulder.
And it's going to rain. Again," he added meaningfully, glancing back up at the
cottage.
"Did you want something? Or did you just come here to discuss the weather,
Krycek?"
"What are you doing for Christmas? No, let me guess: you packed a bottle of lube
and the latest Playboy. So, I guess you won't really be alone—you'll have
your Playmates to keep you company."
"You're a riot, Krycek. Still, it's better than what you'll be doing. With
lube and a picture of me."
"I don't—"
"The pictures in your head. Yeah, I can see it now. You always did get off on
me touching you. I could hit you a couple of times, just for old times' sake.
Give you some material to take away with you—whadd'ya say?"
"And a very Merry Christmas to you too, Mulder. You're not right in the head.
You're a neurotic egomaniac, you know that?"
"Sticks and stones, Alex. And you don't want to give me any ideas. We're
surrounded by stones out here."
Krycek gave a weary sigh. "Mulder, don't you get tired of hating?"
"Not at all. I love to hate you." Mulder's voice was practically
inflectionless.
"No problem. I hate to love you," Krycek rejoined, his tone just as flat,
wondering at this point why the fuck he had even bothered to search out Mulder
in the first place.
Mulder stared at him, and a fierce, cold smile gradually grew on his face as he
nodded, "I thought so."
Krycek flushed as he realized what he'd said, and then frowned darkly. "You
know, sitting out here in glorious self-pity isn't going to help. And neither
is projecting all of your problems onto ME. You've been doing it for as long as
I've known you. Haven't you ever stopped to ask yourself why that is?"
"I don't have to. I know why. You're a lying, murdering traitor and a coward.
You stabbed me in the back, sold my partner down the river and killed my father.
Shall we go through the list of other felonies? Crimes? Murders? Why bother;
you know them just as well as I do."
"Jesus," Krycek swore, "You never stop, do you? You never stop to think. I
didn't have much of a fucking choice, Mulder! They'd have killed me if I'd
strayed from the Project—you KNOW that. Bill Mulder was about to blow the
whole thing. He knew Cancerman would react. He was expecting someone to show
up that night."
"Wait, did it go something like this? To pull the trigger, or not to pull the
trigger: the Krycek dilemma. Oh well; hell, the old bastard got himself
involved, he brought it on himself. Bang." Mulder stopped and looked back at
him, accusing him with his eyes. "Was it anything like that?"
Krycek shut his eyes momentarily. He turned to regard the cresting waves that
rolled dangerously close by on the rocky beach. The tide was up. "I had an
obligation to get inside as deep and as far as I could without compromising
myself, to prove my loyalty to them. I wasn't betraying you; I was proving
myself to THEM. One false step and I was history. Why can't you understand
that? I was with the KGB, for God's sake, a mole! If they had suspected at any
point that I was straying, I wouldn't be here now. And then the fuckers tried
to frame me, just because. Fucking Cancerman—Jesus, Mulder, you think YOU'VE
had it rough. I'd like to see how well you fare after puking up Black Oiliens
and being locked in a fucking silo for weeks on end."
"Whatever gave you the impression that I want to know? I don't CARE, Krycek.
It's ancient history. And you aren't even sorry for the things you've done.
You're standing here giving me justifications and excuses for your crimes.
You're a real piece of work."
"Yeah, it's all my fault," Krycek sneered, bitterly. "Never mind that if it
weren't for me, you'd be dead several times over, and all your friends and
colleagues with you. Never mind that I managed to take down the bastards where
no one else even came close. Never mind that I've had to take more shit than
you can possibly imagine in your worst fucking nightmares, for years on end.
Not to mention having my arm cut off. Need someone to do your dirty work for
you? No problem; get Alex Krycek to do it. Jesus, Mulder—even when we were
partners in the FBI, you weren't any different. Do this, and then, do that. Run
and fetch, 'boy'. Not to mention the 'alien problem'. I've had to run around
doing a fucking balancing act for years now, juggling Rebels and Resistance
leaders with one hand and the goddamned Consortium on the other. And somehow,
I've managed to cope. But that isn't enough for you, is it? No, I'm supposed to
suffer eternal damnation and torment for my 'crimes'. Let's see, just how much
more SHIT can we put on the pile?" Krycek exclaimed, angrily.
Mulder raised his voice, answering, "It's not my problem." He stopped walking
again, and looked at Krycek. "That was quite an impressive little diatribe
there, though. I have to hand it to you. That was almost convincing."
Krycek stared at him. "I meant what I said, Mulder. I know you're going
through a rough time right now. I just—" He fell silent, pausing, obviously
trying to regain his composure. "I thought maybe you might need help, is all. I
wanted to offer a truce—friendship—for a little while. In the spirit of
Christmas and all. Can't we put away the knives and the accusations for a few
days, at least? A détente, between Russia and America. You and me."
Mulder regarded him steadily. "Alex, you aren't fooling anyone but yourself. I
don't need you. You need me. Otherwise you wouldn't have followed me up here
into the ass-end of nowhere just to make this extraordinary offer of
'friendship'. And after all the shit you've pulled, what makes you think I'd
trust such an offer in the first place? I don't know you. I don't know you at
all. And I don't WANT to know you. Why can't you understand that? Or is it
too subtle a point for you to wrap your head around? That Fox Mulder, ex-
Special Agent and investigator of the supernatural, seeker after truth, doesn't
need you."
"Got it all figured out, haven't you? Yeah, you've really got my number, secret
agent man," Krycek retorted. "Jesus, it's so fucking impossible for you to step
down from your moral high horse, even for your own sake, that you'd rather
suffer a nervous breakdown than accept an offer of help from me, unworthy
scumbag that I am."
"You obviously weren't paying attention when I said that this was a deliberate
act on my part. I WANT to have that breakdown. I came here to have one. I
need it and I want it, so I can get past the things that are causing it in the
first place. And you know something? It's a sign of maturity and health that I
can actually handle this process. I suspect that you, on the other hand, are
teetering on the rocky edge about to fall off into a very large pit that you'll
never be able to crawl out of. The danger for you is far greater. Just think
what might happen if you suddenly developed a conscience and moral center."
Krycek snorted, scornfully. "Yeah. My psyche is just all knotted up with
guilt. Maybe a conversion to Catholicism would help. No doubt they'd sort me
out. Maybe a hairshirt... Or, you can tell me, Mulder, some flogging? I'm sure
you'd love to flog me. You'd be practically panting at the prospect."
"Whatever does it for you, Alex. Maybe religion can save you. I'm starting to
wonder if there is anything left that would."
The wind was up and the rain was starting to fall again, this time in earnest.
Krycek stared at him, intensely. "So you'd rather remain out here sulking in
self-imposed exile, falling apart in there," he nodded in the direction of the
cottage, "then accept my friendship and help?"
"Alex," Mulder stated, dryly, "at this point, I'd PAY you to leave me alone."
Krycek stopped and let out a frustrated breath. Then he turned to regard the
sandpipers that were beginning to depart the beach under the new onslaught of
rain. Slowly, quietly, he said, "Okay, Mulder. Have it your way. I guess there
really isn't any point, since you so obviously believe that I'm the source of
all your problems."
"Now who's feeling sorry for himself? You can't deny that every time anything
goes haywire, you're there at the center of it, playing puppet-master and
manipulating everyone. I've noticed that whenever the shit hits the fan, YOU
show up. It's kind of hard to disassociate you from shit, after a while. And
inevitably, you seem to think that all of it can be solved with a gun. The
right bullet, in the right person, at the right time."
Krycek glowered. "I can count the number of people I've killed on just this one
hand. What's your score, Mulder?"
"Killed, or murdered, Alex?" Mulder replied. "Maybe it's a moot point to you.
But I seem to remember a dark night where I found you lurking outside my
apartment building with the murder weapon that killed my father in your hand.
Tell me how I'm supposed to pretend that doesn't make a difference?"
Krycek coldly replied, "No more difference, I guess, than if I told you that he
was the one who put that gun in my hand."
Mulder paused as a sudden flash of misgiving went through him, then asked
hesitantly, "What are you saying?"
"Bill Mulder placed himself in that position. If he'd told you anything about
the Project, Cardinale would have killed YOU, Mulder. Come on, you know damn
well that they always sent two men out on those kinds of jobs. Why do you think
it was the same gun that Cardinale used to shoot Skinner?"
"You really don't want to bring up Skinner," Mulder warned him. "You killed
him, made him suffer. I was there; I saw it with my own eyes. You blackmailed
him, controlled him—you can't weasel your way out of that. The responsibility
for that lies solely with you."
Sadly, Krycek replied, "I didn't have a CHOICE, Mulder. If I'd let him be, he'd
have continued to make the wrong moves. He was on your side, he really was.
But he didn't know who he was dealing with. And I saved his life, by injecting
him with those nanobots. If I was controlling him, no one else COULD. He'd
made himself a major target, by constantly pulling strings for you! THEY didn't
give a shit about him; they would have killed him. He didn't have your immunity
or standing within the Syndicate. Scully barely did, through association with
you. Both of them would have been dead a long time ago if you hadn't proven to
them so vividly and unforgettably that to take away those closest to you, your
support system, caused you to behave irrationally, out of control! I've
constantly had to clean up the messes you leave behind! THAT is why I always end
up in the thick of the SHIT that you stir up in your wake! Can't you understand
that?" Krycek was practically spitting the words, in his passion.
Mulder put his hand to his forehead and rubbed it, wearily, wishing they could
bring this to a close and go inside out of the rain. "That's all beside the
point. Krycek, I can't help you. I just want to be left alone, to fall apart
in peace. For some reason, you've always associated redemption and the hope of
finding your own peace of mind with ME, probably out of some kind of sick
projection of need and hero-worship. I have the integrity that you wish you
had. I've been the honest advocate of the truth while you've skulked about in
the shadows, too damn afraid to come to terms with the real horror of what
you've become."
"I am NOT—"
"And what makes you think I'd believe a word of this, anyway? You're a
pathological liar. You're the one who needs help. You need a breakdown too, but
damned if I'm in a position to help you. Maybe later. But that's not an
invitation and I'm not making any promises. Now, why don't you just get back
into your car and drive home, back to wherever it is that you came from? I
don't need you. And I'm getting really tired of finding you on my heels whenever
I turn around. It's getting embarrassing. I didn't solicit your help and
you're making a fool of yourself by continually following me around. Just...
just go home, Alex. Try to get on with your life. I'm trying to deal with what
has happened to me and move on. You'd do well to follow my example."
Mulder turned and walked away, up the beach, back through the dunes without a
glance behind him. He didn't want to encourage Krycek to remain, in any way. A
part of him felt sad and even slightly wistful, but he knew it was natural to
feel sympathy for someone in Krycek's position, no matter how terrible the deeds
they'd committed. It was easy even to feel sympathy for the Devil. And he
should know, having made intimate acquaintance with many devils great and small
in his years with the X-Files. Krycek had a point; he had been through hell.
Poor bastard. Actually, truth be told, Mulder found it far easier to find
sympathy for Krycek than for the Cigarette Smoking Man.
Shit.
He glanced over his shoulder but Krycek had gone... Or was at least out of sight
down there under the dunes. What a day. He wondered why he was letting what
Krycek said get to him. Bastard. Why'd he have to come snooping around? Every
time he thought he was free of him, there was Alex Krycek... always turning up
like the proverbial bad penny. Krycek was like a dog, who bit the hand that fed
but couldn't stop himself from hanging around in the alley out back,
pathetically hoping for scraps and the occasional bone.
Or boner, in this case, Mulder thought, morosely. The man was an open book.
It was far better and easier for him to return to the cottage and make himself
lunch, sit down before the TV and a warm fire, and put Krycek and his father and
Scully and the Cancerman and the whole damn, tangled, bloody business out of his
mind. It was why he had come here, after all.
Somehow, the rest of his day didn't have the sense of hope that it had when he'd
watched the morning arrive.
You can consume all the beauty in the room, baby
Alex stormed off down the driveway, back to his car. The freezing, driving rain
lashed at his face, making it nearly possible for him to believe that his eyes
weren't wet. But the drops running down his face were hot against his cold
cheeks.
Fool, he thought caustically. What else did you expect? From MULDER, no less?
Idiot, IDIOT!
He got into the car and slammed the door, sitting behind the wheel and taking a
deep breath. Mulder was right. It was embarrassing for him to come out all
this way just to beg Mulder to accept his friendship. Christ, what the hell had
he expected? All the carefully thought-out points that he'd gone over before,
they had fled his mind the moment he'd found himself in Mulder's presence. It
was as if being near Mulder somehow rendered him incapable of intelligent
thought, speech or action. Mulder's proximity turned him into a mindless,
spineless idiot.
He felt helpless and entirely foolish. He'd stood out there with his heart in
his hands, holding it out to Mulder and saying, here, take this... Make
mincemeat of me. Let me care about you.
Jesus CHRIST.
He sighed and wiped his face. Okay, he sternly told himself, this was a fucking
waste of time—cut your losses and get the hell out of Dodge. He was lucky
Mulder had been in a contemplative, intellectual mode and hadn't lost his temper
or given into his usual pattern of violence. That would have been just a
perfect ending to that sordid scene.
And it hurt, it really did; to have Mulder rebuff him. Claiming that he'd come
crawling to Mulder, seeking forgiveness and mercy, out of need and...
He angrily turned the key in the ignition and drove off, scattering gravel from
the tires as he sped away. He clung to his anger in an attempt to keep at bay
the disappointment and heartache that suddenly consumed him. It didn't work.
The hell of it was, Mulder was wrong... but he was also right. Why was he here
at all, if not to try to befriend Mulder? And Mulder refused to believe him, to
take his offer at face value. The self-righteous, arrogant, selfish prick.
Dammit! Alex slammed his hand against the wheel in frustration.
Why did he want anything to DO with someone like that?! Why did he keep trying,
why did he even care? Why care if Mulder wanted to sit up here and sulk? Why
care if Mulder was out here, all alone, falling apart? Facing his nightmares and
the ghosts from his past, reliving the demons and the bodies and the aliens and
the torture on the ship and being dead and... Fuck, FUCK!
The answer was somewhere in that image, of Mulder sitting alone in the cottage
at night, waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat. Shaking. Alone. Afraid.
Falling apart.
Damn it. He knew what that was like. And he also knew how it felt to be going
through it alone. And he didn't think that it was Mulder's pride that stopped
him from accepting Alex's help. It was the simple fact that Mulder didn't trust
him, or even like him. In fact, Mulder hated him, he truly did. And understood
all too well that he couldn't leave Mulder alone.
But he did wonder if Mulder had any idea WHY Alex found it impossible to turn
his back on Mulder for good. Oh, he'd be the first to agree that he found
Mulder attractive. He always had, from the first time he'd laid eyes on the
man. In fact, Mulder had been the same attractive, insufferable, self-righteous
and insulting bastard from day one. No, it wasn't the sexual chemistry that he
was sure they were both aware of.
It wasn't even the reluctant admiration that he also held for Mulder's sheer
perseverance in the face of incredible odds to surmount any obstacle, the
relentless persistence he showed in any circumstance, his undying integrity in
the face of mediocrity and stonewalling bureaucracy, government players and even
downright evil people.
He wondered if Mulder had any idea that it was he, Alex, Mulder's very own
personal nemesis and unrecognized bodyguard, who'd saved his life back in
Maryland with a vaccine, developed not by Mulder's father as he'd claimed but by
the Resistance.
He let out a derisive breath. Mulder would probably claim that the gift was
tainted from having come through such an infamous agency as the rat-bastard,
murdering traitorous liar, Alex Krycek. Mulder was deluded and didn't want to
face the simple facts because they were unpleasant. That maybe the reason
Krycek always showed up in the thick of things was because he cared. He gave a
damn about the neurotic, washed-up man whose sanity was hanging by a thread back
there.
The man who never gave him an ounce of either credit or courtesy, in all the
years Alex had known him.
Ungrateful, self-centric, fucking egomaniac, he thought, a fresh wave of fury
sweeping over him. Couldn't even give him the credit of actually possessing any
real concern for the situation, beyond that of a meddling mercenary.
He'd manipulated the downfall of the entire Syndicate and all Mulder could do
was whine about his issues over his father—who'd trapped himself into that
mess in the first place. And what kind of man let his wife fuck around with his
best friend behind his back and then pretended he didn't know about it? What
kind of man kept THOSE kinds of friends? And what kind of man then blamed his
son for his actions, and let that same boy grow up to shoulder the guilt and the
weight of his sister's disappearance, and all merely out of fear and guilt over
his own involvement in the Project, and simple resentment that he'd been weak
and let another Project Leader screw his wife? Fuck.
Mulder was living in denial about his father, himself, his past, his own family,
and his associations over the years with any number of shady individuals. Had
Mulder imagined that Deep Throat and X were somehow innocent of any wrongdoing?
Those bastards had been in it up their eyes; they were hardly role models. And
Mulder KNEW it.
But Mulder always responded to 'bad guys' who had recanted, who were in the
process of converting to 'the good side'. He loved the whole theme of
redemption; it allowed him to play the part of the White Knight who enabled them
to find their peace and soothe their consciences. Mulder liked to be the savior
who led by example, guiding the lost souls back to salvation.
Yeah, Mulder hated him because Mulder COULDN'T save him. No, instead, he kept
saving Mulder all the time. What a fucking nightmare... Poor Mulder; having to
feel beholden to someone who wasn't worthy... Poor, poor baby. Fucking son of a
bitch, who always vented his frustrations on HIM...
Mulder always did enjoy hurting him. When he couldn't actually physically
strike him, Mulder resorted to petty emotional cruelty and wielding his
intellect like a sledgehammer. It wasn't that Alex was stupid, but there was
that awful, minor detail about losing his composure when Mulder was around. It
was hard enough simply trying to keep himself from jumping the man.
He drove back to Digby, cursing himself for being a stupid, heartsick wretch
with delusions of becoming friends with someone who hated his guts and made the
argument that Alex was projecting onto him, when he didn't have the sense to see
where he was projecting onto Alex, himself! Fucking bastard son of a bitch; I
hope he jerks-off so hard tonight, his dick drops off. He can cry himself to
sleep and Alex Whipping-Boy Krycek won't be there to take his frustrations out
on. Boo-fucking-hoo...
By the time Alex had arrived back at the inn, he had stopped swearing and his
anger had diminished from a raging fire to a glowing ember inside. He sat in the
car and took a deep breath, staring at the fishing boats that had all come back
to the docks down by the wharf, in the rain. He realized he couldn't let Mulder
talk him out of it, just because Mulder was afraid of him. Because that was the
cause of Mulder's distrust, Alex was certain of it. Mulder was afraid to need
him, afraid to accept his offer of help or friendship... Afraid to discover that
maybe Alex Scumbag Krycek wasn't such a bad guy after all.
And besides, regardless of whether Mulder admitted it to himself or not, he
needed Alex right now. Mulder was feeling sorry for himself and despite his
earlier claims of maturity and inner health, he was displaying near-suicidal
depression. Alex had only seen him this bad once before, when his new patron,
the Brit, had ordered him to take Mulder the information on the rebel leader
being held at the Air Force Base.
He'd let Mulder convince him. Holy-
He'd fallen for it! He'd actually swallowed the entire thing that Mulder had
handed him... Idiot! He chuckled suddenly. Damn! What a fucking joke... on him.
He shouldn't have given in so easily. He laughed out loud. Fucker probably
thought that he'd got rid of him! Damned if he was going to slink away with his
tail between his legs just because Mulder called him a bad name or two. Jesus.
Well, the worst that could happen was that Mulder would shoot him.
Yeah, Mulder needed him. Mulder needed cheering up. He couldn't allow Mulder
to talk him down into a mutual bad state... He needed to be there for Mulder.
He cursed himself for being a weak-minded IDIOT for having let Mulder talk him
out of it in the first place.
Oh well, it had been raining, cold and windy and Mulder was being an annoying
sanctimonious son of a bitch...
So. The mission was still on. He was going to return and get Mulder to give in
and accept his help if it was the last thing he did. And THIS time, he wouldn't
let Mulder get to him. He'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book—aversion
therapy. Mulder was a master of manipulation himself, and oh-so-good at
understanding just how to pull someone in... or push them away. He'd pressed
every one of Alex's buttons. Damn him.
Well, Mulder was not going to push him away this time. Mulder was in for a
surprise.
There was also the little matter of being at a loose end, himself. Alex had
nowhere to go and nothing better to do. And it was Christmas Eve.
He had to check out before the hotel closed, too. Mulder was going to find him
camped on his front door for Christmas. That thought warmed him inside, along
with just how Mulder would react when he discovered that Alex hadn't left after
all.
Chuckling, he went inside to find out what time they were actually closing up
the inn for rest of the holiday and the winter season, but when he asked, the
lady at the desk helpfully told him that they were still serving a late
Christmas supper for the guests before they departed—and a few people who had
made special reservations at the beginning of the month to celebrate a Christmas
meal together, at this very inn. She explained that they weren't expecting many
but it was a special occasion, and they had a glut on lobster at the moment. It
wasn't too late for him to make a dinner reservation if he wanted.
Perfect, perfect! It fit in with his plan perfectly. With a grin, he made
reservations for two. Then he picked up the phone.
It rang perhaps seven times or so before it was picked up and he heard Mulder's
familiar droning monotone, sounding actually suspicious... Probably wasn't
expecting anyone to know he was there. Krycek was the only one who COULD be
phoning.
"Mulder."
"Hey, Mulder. It's me."
There was a deep sigh. "What do you want, 'me'?"
"I thought our little chat didn't really go down the way I'd wanted it to.
Well, that, and it's Christmas Eve, and you're all alone out there by
yourself... And I'm here in this great little place that serves fantastic food.
You need cheering up, you're obviously languishing in abject misery. Why don't
you come by for dinner?" "Followed, I suppose, by candlelight, dessert and mood
music? Alex, give it up. I'm not interested in your attempts to prove how
friendly you can be."
"Mulder? Don't hang up. This is an offer you can't refuse. If you come by, I
promise it will be worth your while. I have information here that even you
would kill for."
There was a silence. "Keep talking."
"No, you have to meet me here. You don't get anything unless you actually show
up."
There was a pained reply. "Krycek, why are you doing this to me? Why won't you
leave me alone?"
Lightly, he said, "Come on, Mulder, go with it. Don't be a party-pooper. And
something else... I really WILL call Scully and tell her just exactly how
desperately on the edge you are if you don't show up for dinner here tonight. I
swear I'll do it. I'll make it sound as if you're about to eat a bullet in
despair over the hopeless waste that your life has become."
"Gee, lies AND threats for Christmas... Krycek, you'll spoil me."
"Meet me at the Kingfisher, just outside Digby. Our reservation is at
seven-thirty."
There was an even heavier sigh, and then the phone was put down.
He hung up himself, grinning.
He'd hooked him.
Before the dawn of separation
Mulder parked and got out of the car with a feeling he identified as
anticipation. He wanted it to be fear and doubt. He couldn't justify feeling
good about seeing Krycek again. But he felt slightly bad about the way he'd
treated Alex earlier. He hadn't meant to be cruel, or harsh. The bastard WAS a
murdering, untrustworthy slimeball, and he couldn't account for the need to make
amends for having hurt Krycek's feelings.
Perhaps it was that he couldn't really justify continuing to rail at the man,
now that they were both in a neutral position, without anything between them but
-
Nothing but the cold, hard facts. No more Consortium, no more FBI. No more
sister to find, no more agenda to pursue. No more trying to save the world and
fight alien invasions, from opposite sides of both the globe... and the law.
Krycek had killed, in what he could only describe as cold-blood. How could he
overlook that fact? And why was he feeling sorry for someone capable of such
behavior? Hell, he'd felt less pity for truly pitiful mutant monsters and
wrecks of human debris that'd led utterly futile lives, yet he'd treated it all
as just part of his job. Just another good old case on the X-Files. Actually,
Scully had often pointed out to him that he tended towards sympathizing and
showing concern for destitute misfits because he couldn't help relating with
them, identifying with their position—so tentative and on the edge of
humanity...
Actually, Krycek was on the edge of humanity, too. But, he was still human,
wasn't he?
And he felt more remorse now for having been shitty to the man than he had for
not doing more for burnt-out monsters who'd lost their way.
His mental train of thought was abruptly brought to a halt by realizing that
he'd entered the inn and was standing by the desk. The receptionist was staring
at him. She had matching tiny red and green gift boxes for earrings. "Those
are cute," he said, absently, watching them swing as she moved her head.
She smiled widely at him. "Why, thank you. And how may I help you?"
"I have a dinner reservation with—ah—" he fell short, uncomfortably, suddenly
aware that he didn't know what name Krycek was registered under, here. "I'm Fox
Mulder. I'm meeting someone who's a guest here?"
Her face lit with recognition. "OH, yes—Mr. Mulder. We saved a table for you
and your friend. We have a Christmas party going on just now in the adjoining
room—I hope you won't find it too raucous," she grinned over her shoulder as
she led him into the dining rooms. "Last night of the season, and all."
"Do you get a lot of business around this time of year?" Mulder inquired,
wondering why an inn would be open during the winter months, instead of the
summer.
"No. We're closed for the winter but we re-open for a few weeks before
Christmas, because of the tourists. We invariably have a wedding or something
like that here." She chuckled. "Digby IS known as the most romantic place in
Canada, after all!"
"It is?" He wondered if Krycek had any idea. Maybe THAT was why the bastard
had—but... no, he'd picked this place himself. Huh. Now that WAS spooky, he
thought. How in the hell had he managed to pick-
"Why, yes," she replied. "We were voted the most romantic in a recent magazine,
too. The sunsets, the fishing fleet, the views... You know." She grinned at
him.
He smiled back. "Yeah. It IS nice here."
"How long are you staying?" she asked.
"A few weeks. I've really enjoyed it here, though."
She chuckled. "They all say that. Now, I'd be willing to bet that you'll tell
all your friends about it, and if they ever come up here, they'll all say the
same thing. 'He said it was such a beautiful place. I didn't believe it but he
was right!' It happens all the time," she chattered. She led him to a table
where Alex Krycek was sitting, situated by the window.
"Here you are, sir. There's ice, water, and the wine, too. I'll be by soon to
take your orders, okay?"
"Thank you," Mulder said, feeling a bit dazed.
"Thanks," Krycek grinned up at her.
After she'd gone, Mulder sat down across from him. "Well, well, well. What's
someone like you doing in a place like this?"
Krycek's wary expression didn't change. "What do you mean? Here, have some
wine. I opened it, to let it breathe," he said, half-jokingly and poured
Mulder a glass of the Seyval Blanc.
"Digby," Mulder said, as if that made everything clearer now. "It was voted the
most romantic place in all of Canada, this year. And the last. Apparently this
is quite the honeymooners' idea of paradise."
The lights on the harbor caught his eye, and he peered through the window. The
boats, trawlers and smaller fishing ships were moored at the wharf, in the cove.
The falling flakes of snow subdued the lights illuminating the boats. He
wondered briefly if he'd be able to drive back, if the snow kept falling and
began sticking to the roads.
"You're kidding," Krycek stated, as if he didn't believe it for an instant.
"No, seriously, Alex. The waitress was telling me about it. She said that
everyone who visits here always recommend their friends, and they always agree.
It's the sunsets, the stunning vistas of the coast and the bay, here."
"Really?" Krycek sounded surprised. "Well, it IS nice. I SAID you'd picked a
good spot, coming out here. Why'd you pick it, anyway?"
"I tried to think of the most inaccessible, remote and uninviting place I could,
to ensure that no one from my past would follow me. Little did I know that I was
inviting you into a tourist trap with romantic trimmings. Merry Christmas."
"Thanks, I think," Krycek responded, not really knowing how to respond to a
civil Mulder. "I meant, why Nova Scotia, but never mind."
Ha. Krycek was cracking already. Maybe there were better ways to have his
revenge AND watch Krycek come undone, than beating him up or hurting his
feelings... Mulder had to stop the smile from wandering over his face. "So,
what's good here, Krycek? This is your treat—you dragged me away from my
retirement cottage, just when I was settling down into a really great sulk in
the dark, cold rainy night. What did you have in mind? Wine me, dine me and feed
me up to the latest alien threat for a good mind-wipe, just for old times'
sake?"
Handing him the menu, Krycek ignored his commentary and stuck to the bare
essentials. "My treat, indeed, Mulder. Well, the lobsters here could give
Rudolph a run for his money. And I was thinking, the octopus—"
Mulder coughed and sipped his wine. "No. No way in hell are you getting me to
eat octopus. Besides, I don't want to die of ink poisoning. Imagine how
embarrassing that would be: lying in the coffin on view for all to see, ink
running out of every orifice."
"Mulder, have you ever actually tried octopus? It's all in the way it's
prepared—squid, too. They're both really good with a lemon-butter dip, or
even cocktail sauce."
"I'll stick with the swordfish and scampi, thanks."
"Come on, live a little." His eyes dancing with mischief, Krycek commented, "I
thought you were open to extreme possibilities and new experiences."
"I'm not as eager to expand my culinary horizons. I'll try it, just to taste
it. All the same, I think the swordfish is less likely to stage a revolt from
within, after I've eaten it."
"You never know. The movie showed that swordfish can be fishier than mollusks."
"Movie? Ohhh, right. Swordfish... Yes, killing as a means to an end... No doubt
John Travolta's character in that film became a role model for you, Alex. Or
have I got it backwards—they modeled him after YOU?"
Krycek didn't reply. His gaze narrowed and he seemed to distance himself
without moving, retreating back into his usual impassive mask.
Score one for me, thought Mulder. Then realized that in gaining that little
victory, he'd slammed shut the door that had opened between them during the
small talk. He sighed through his nose and picked up his wine glass. "Look,
I'll trust your judgment. You can order for both of us. I don't have your
prowess in the art of ordering cephalopods."
Krycek's gaze flicked down to the table, then up to regard the rest of the room.
"You'll never be Martha Stewart, Mulder."
"Thank god for small favors."
Krycek scrutinized him closely.
"What?" Mulder demanded.
Krycek shook his head and frowned, looking away again. "I never took you for a
cynic. It just seems so out of character for you to be so cynical and flippant
at the same time. But, maybe I don't know you as well as I thought."
"Good point. But I'm willing to make an effort to behave myself, if you are."
Krycek replied with a wink. "I'll be on my best behavior, Mulder. I won't
grope you, or even pinch. Besides, I wouldn't want to draw back a stump. I've
only the one arm left."
Mulder felt sick, at the reminder. He opened his mouth but the waitress came by
to take their orders so he shut it and let Krycek order. He hoped Krycek knew
what he was doing. He contented himself by mostly staring out the window at the
boats in the dark, as the snow continued to fall slowly, between them and the
lights. Every flake disappeared instantly as it fell into the water.
Krycek picked the Seafood Platter and the swordfish steaks, with a glance to
reassure Mulder that he wasn't going to order anything with tentacles, along
with potatoes, fries and various side dishes and dips. The waitress smiled
cheerily and walked away, leaving Alex to smirk at Mulder.
"You look pleased with yourself."
"I am," Krycek continued to smirk. "I have every reason to be. Mulder, I'm
going to prove to you that great fun can be had with just a plate of seafood and
a bowl of butter."
"Sounds kinky. I guess I'm in."
"It's not kinky at all. It's quite the rage, here. That, and Lobster Newburg.
I was going to order the Newburg, but then I realized you were a virgin to
authentic Nova Scotia seafood. I'm making a great sacrifice, you know."
"Last Tango in Digby. Sounds like one of my porno videos."
"I wasn't flirting, Mulder, so you might want to dispense with the cheap humor.
You never were any good at adlibbing."
"Considering your performance down at the beach today, Alex, I'd say your own
talents lie in the dramatic arts. You should be doing tragedies. But I guess
you've already been involved in enough of those in real life."
Krycek sniffed and sipped from his wine. "Nope. You're not getting away this
time, Fox. You're in for the long haul. You can't push me away again. You
need me; I know you do. I've seen you like this before. You've lost your will
to go on, haven't you?"
"Well, considering what you did the last time you thought I needed my spirits
lifting, maybe I should worry about being groped. Last time, you kissed me.
And again, the perennial question, Alex. Why should YOU give a damn? I'd've
thought you'd have the last laugh if I lost all my marbles and ended up back in
the psych ward."
"No way. This is much more fun. I can't taunt you if you're locked up, Mulder.
I can't cheer you up, either."
"Why taunt me at all? Why can't you—" Mulder stopped, and looked away,
disgruntled.
Krycek leaned forward, his face and his voice both serious and disturbingly
caring. "What? Why can't I what?"
"You offered friendship," Mulder pointed out. "So far, I see very little
evidence of friendly behavior. All you've ever DONE is taunt me, and I—"
He stopped short, as the waitress arrived with the huge plate of fish and
seafood on a trolley, and two large plates of swordfish. Then she unloaded two
large bowls of melted butter beside them.
"If you need more, just holler," she smiled. "If it gets cold, I can reheat the
butter. And let me know if you need more rolls or wine, or anything. Okay? Bon
Appetite, gentlemen." And she tripped merrily away, probably to dream of what
she was going to buy with her substantial bonus for working on Christmas Eve.
Krycek watched her depart, his eyes fixed on her pert backside as it shifted
beneath her skirt. Mulder also turned to look and then sat back, feeling
ridiculous.
"Just like Pavlov's dog," he muttered.
Krycek shrugged. "She's cute."
"Well, that was extraordinarily fast," Mulder commented, a bit shocked at the
rapidity with which the chef must have thrown all of it together.
"I told them ahead of time what we'd probably have," Krycek admitted. "They'll
be closing the kitchen early tonight. We have about an hour and a half to
plough through all of this, all of our issues, and dessert too."
"Krycek," he reminded, indicating the plate of weird-looking creature pieces.
"You got me into this. How is one supposed to eat these—these THINGS?"
"Surely you're not a stranger to shrimp, mussels or crab, Mulder?"
Mulder grimaced. "They look like something that Scully and I investigated
once..."
"They probably are, knowing all the kinds of weird, fucked-up things you used to
investigate in the hopes of finding intelligent life. Now, these are shrimp.
Jumbo, too... juicy little critters, aren't they? Don't eat the tails, just the
juicy part. And the swordfish—just eat it like you would salmon. Mulder,"
Krycek gently reminded him, "You have to pick up your fork, for that."
"Most of this is finger food, anyway. Wait...that," Mulder pointed accusingly,
"is squid. I know it, I can FEEL it. I can even smell it."
"Don't be such a baby," Krycek muttered. "Here, I'll take it away." He picked
up his fork and removed the offensive items, putting all the pieces of squid on
his plate beside his own swordfish. "There, it's all gone. Happy now?" he
asked, with a lift of his eyebrows.
"Thanks for saving me, Krycek. You're my hero," Mulder replied, sarcastically.
"So, what is this stuff you've ordered, here? The only thing I really recognize
are the potatoes with the green prickly stuff on it."
"New potatoes with dill, Mulder," Krycek corrected, dryly.
"Yeah, well, when I order out, I usually get Chinese. Not sushi."
Krycek sighed. "This isn't sushi, this is seafood, the cuisine classics of Nova
Scotia's finest." He leaned forward to snag a morsel of lobster, with his
fingers, dipped it in the melted butter and chewed with a look of satisfied
contentment.
Mulder began to see a pattern developing. But he was game. He leaned forward
and selected the least obnoxious appearing piece of food from the plate and
followed suit, dipping it with his fingers into the butter and then eating it.
Jesus. Fucking delicious. Incredible, in fact.
The look on his face must have given him away because Krycek was laughing.
"Told you."
Mulder picked up his fork and began to eat his swordfish. He closed his eyes
and couldn't help savoring the rich, subtle flavor, garnished with lemon and a
sprig of parsley. He hadn't been living all this time when he'd made do with
pizza and takeout, he thought to himself. "Fattening me up for the slaughter,
Krycek?"
"Not at all. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
Mulder choked on his mouthful. "I thought this was just dinner," he said,
wiping his eyes with his napkin and then glaring in what he hoped was his most
accusing expression.
Krycek was unfazed. "It is."
Mulder sighed. "Krycek, you don't have to bother with this seduction scene if
all you're after is a quick fuck."
"I'm not."
Oh, shit. That—that could be taken either way. Mulder looked down at his
plate, not really seeing the food on it. Toying with his fork, he considered.
He wasn't stupid—he knew that Krycek was interested, or he wouldn't keep
pursuing him like this. Either Alex really wasn't looking to get laid from this
and really did just want to have a quiet dinner with him, to 'help him relax'
and everything... Or he wanted a hell of a lot more than just sex and Mulder
wasn't prepared to even consider the implications THAT would entail. The
commitment alone was a terrifying prospect.
Dryly, Krycek said, "For god's sake, Mulder, stop looking so terrified. I'm not
going to rape you in public. It's not my style."
"I wouldn't know, would I?" Mulder fell back on his usual sniping which, now
that he thought of it, came a little too easily when he was anywhere near this
man. That in itself began to blink like a neon warning sign in his head. Shit,
he thought. What have I gotten myself into, here?
Krycek thoughtfully selected a piece of fish and dipped it in the tartar sauce.
"Exactly my point. You've never known me at all. You assume and project a lot,
but you never want to get to know me. Not really. It would challenge the
carefully constructed theory you have in your head about my character defects."
Mulder's response was bitter and he said it without thinking. "Funny. I never
thought of cold-blooded murder as a 'character defect' before."
Krycek stared back at him, an expression of regret and resignation clouding his
face.
Abruptly, Mulder wished he hadn't said it. And just as suddenly, almost like
having a light bulb switch on in his head, he realized he didn't want to push
Krycek away again like he had on the beach earlier in the day. The nearly
irresistible impulse to break through Krycek's carefully maintained icy calm and
composure was what had led to so many instances in the past where he'd given
into it and just... Attacked him. Righteously, with God and the angels on his
side.
The pattern made itself even more apparent and clear in his mind... That
knowing, infuriating smirk Krycek always wore. It made him want to beat it off
Krycek's face. He found himself breathing harder. He wanted to—to hurt him,
to force SOME kind of reaction, some evidence of suffering or remorse or...
Quickly, Mulder continued with an accusatory tone, "You just want to get laid."
Krycek choked on his mouthful, hastily grabbed his napkin. Then he sipped from
his wine glass and began coughing and laughing, alternately. Finally, he said,
sniggering, "Mulder, there's as much a chance of me getting laid tonight as
there is of Santa Claus coming down your chimney with a flying saucer stuffed in
his sack just for you. You're an uptight, conservative, homophobic, repressed
whiner. Did I say whiner? I meant wiener. A tight-assed wiener. In fact,
there's more chance that a flying saucer will land on your roof, and a bunch of
grays will come down your chimney and subject you to a thorough rectal
examination. Which reminds me, are you sure you haven't got any locator chips
inside of you, somewhere? As I have no doubt you are well aware, most alien
abductees have implants... That way, they can always find you, when it's time
for your annual anal probing." Krycek was laughing.
Curious, and not a little stung at the thought that Krycek considered him an
uptight, conservative wiener, Mulder asked, "I'm sure. I was scanned.
Repeatedly—by HUMAN doctors. And how can you—How can you be so sure? You
don't know me at all. You can't just dismiss me like that; there is no way in
hell that you know me well enough to make that kind of judgment about me."
"I know you well enough. I know you hate my guts. You always have. In fact, I
noticed it the moment we met. Remember that? You instantly formed this
irrational, antagonistic dislike for me that went way beyond your usual paranoid
suspicion. I always wondered why that was."
"You were an irritating, brown-nosing rookie who snatched the Cole case out from
under me," Mulder stated, remembering it well. "And besides, my 'paranoid
suspicions' about you turned out to be true, remember?"
Krycek's smirk intensified. "Uh-huh. And that's why you've never been able to
keep your hands off me."
Mulder squirmed. "Alright. I'm willing to admit that maybe a part of why I
hated you was because you—" He stopped short, aghast at what he was saying, what
he had been about to say.
Krycek looked interested. As well he might, thought Mulder. But Krycek only
nodded and said, "Because I what? Go on. This is getting better by the
minute."
Mulder sighed through his nose and continued to eat, instead.
When Mulder didn't reply, Krycek carried on. "Interesting comparison, wouldn't
you say? You don't like it when I make judgments about your character and
personal habits, but you're always very quick to make them about mine. It isn't
very pleasant on the receiving end, is it? But don't take it to heart, Fox. I
was joking, that's all. Don't take it seriously. In a way, you could see it as
my helping you to loosen up, relax a little. I'm trying to help you get back
your sense of humor."
Bitterly, Mulder picked up his wine glass and chugged down a healthy gulp, then
another. "Thanks. I knew I could count on you to give me the most interesting
Christmas present ever."
"It's called the 'truth', Mulder... But that's not my Christmas present to you.
Neither is the sense of humor, which was always really warped anyway, and I
guess maybe you're better off without it. No, I've got something much more
special in mind for you." There was a disturbing glow in Krycek's eyes as he
said this.
Mulder found himself wondering if he should be looking forward to this 'gift'
Krycek had for him... Or running for cover. "I can't wait," Mulder commented.
"Wait a minute." He looked back at Krycek, a sudden thought occurring to him.
"You said you had information for me."
Krycek's gaze slid to the half-cleared seafood platter between them. He selected
a large shrimp and swirled it in cocktail sauce. Mulder found himself watching
with fascination as the plump shrimp disappeared between Krycek's lips. He
quickly lifted his eyes back to meet Ale—Krycek's...eyes... Twinkling eyes...
Really nice eyes... that sparkled knowingly back at him even in that very
moment.
Fuck. He was starting to succumb to suggestion here. It was the wine. It was
the dinner... It was the butter... melted, salty, dripping...
He took a deep breath and drained his glass.
Chewing with a thoughtful expression, Krycek said, "I do. I have information for
you, but it's kind of in two parts. I can't just give it to you, here. And
besides, there's my Christmas present as well. I certainly can't give that one
to you here, either. I'd be arrested. We both would."
Mulder snickered. "For what? Intent to theorize? Breaking Canada's regional
laws against conspiring to uncover the secret Canadian government's plans to
colonize the world?"
"No. Good guess, though. But wouldn't it be ironic for you and I to spend the
night in the local jail together for indecent exposure and committing lewd acts
in public?"
Mulder stared. He blinked. "Okay," he finally said, sitting back in his seat.
"Now I KNOW you're coming onto me."
"Not at all," Krycek grinned, toothily. "I just thought it was funny, that's
all. Come on, you've got to admit that would really be ironic."
"It would, indeed," Mulder agreed. "You can at least tell me what the
information pertains to."
Krycek shook his head, quickly. "Nope. Not here. You see, it's rather...
damning evidence. I'm implicated in it, implicitly. I can't tell you, when
there's still a chance you'll grab some local constable and have me thrown in
the local jail over Christmas with only a lonely, horny... constable for
company." Krycek grinned again, enjoying the way Mulder squirmed in his seat
once more.
Krycek waited, until just as Mulder was about to speak, and added, "I knew it.
It's the prison fantasies that turn you on, isn't it, Mulder? I'll just bet
you'd love to sling my ass into the slammer. You'd frisk me, cuff me, escort me
to my cell—personally—bend me over... and then give me a full body-cavity
search... Wouldn't you?"
"You wish," Mulder retorted, flatly. He could feel his face getting hot though
and he wondered how the hell Krycek could have found out the exact details of
one of his most private, unvocalized jerk-off fantasies... Then common sense
prevailed. It was one of the more widely known 'private and unvocalized'
fantasies of many people, male or female. He cleared his throat. "In your
dreams, Krycek. Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Immensely," Krycek murmured, not smiling, his eyes fixed on Mulder's face.
"But if I can be serious for a minute," he trailed off, swallowed and then
leaned forward, carefully selecting another shrimp. This time he made more of a
production of it, dipping it and coating it liberally with tartar sauce and then
deliberately and slowly placing it between his lips, before sucking it into his
mouth—and pulling the tail off with a slight pop. Mulder couldn't take his
eyes away.
Krycek said, chewing with a contemplative gaze at him, "Mulder, if I didn't know
any better, I'd think you were sitting over there daydreaming about how good it
would feel to drive your cock into me, very hard, right across this table. Am I
right?"
He stopped and looked up, just before the waitress returned to their table.
Mulder sucked in a breath and remembered to unclench his fist. He didn't know
if he wanted to pound it into Krycek's soft, full lips and make them bleed, or
grab Krycek's dick under the table and fist him, right then and there—when the
waitress left. Or maybe just go down on him under the table. Or—yeah, drive
his cock into him... Oh jesus...
Yeah, pour a little of the melted, cooled butter into his palm, dribble a little
between Alex's asscheeks and then just—just—slide into home base... oh fuck—
He didn't even hear what they were saying, his heartbeat was pounding in his
ears and his bloodstream pulsing, rushing in his head. The waitress smiled at
him, gave him a slightly puzzled little frown and then left.
Krycek gave him a strange look. "Snap out of it, Mulder. You look like you're
on drugs or something." He took in Mulder's dilated pupils and flushed face.
"Jesus, you ARE going to get us arrested. I'd say we're closer than ever to
spending the night in that cell, Mulder. Come on, I was only kidding about
doing it on the table. You're the one with the repressed, homophobic issues,
right? I was just teasing you."
Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Teasing?"
A furtive expression darted over Krycek's face, as if he was suddenly aware that
he might have taken it too far. "Yeah. I was only teasing. Come on, Mulder,
you don't think I was serious!"
Right. Krycek had just blown his cover. Mulder realized that Krycek must've
been dying to find a way to bring all of those homoerotic references into a
conversation with him... He returned to his swordfish, fork in hand, and began
polishing off the potatoes too. "These are really quite excellent," he
commented.
Krycek regarded him. "Are you angry? I haven't offended you, have I? I was
only joking, Mulder. I wasn't trying to upset you."
"Not at all, Alex," Mulder replied, lightly, his voice a reflection of pure,
smooth congeniality. "I should thank you, in fact. You've answered so many of
my questions and in such record-short time, too. Usually, trying to get anything
out of you is like...having to beat it out of you. It's really been the most
illuminating chat we've ever had."
Krycek put his glass down. "Mulder, what is your PROBLEM? You know damn well
that I've been on your side, for years now. Why do you keep harping on about
the same old shit, year after year, every time we meet? It's getting tiresome
with you trotting out the old morality rope and attempting to lynch me with it."
"The end justifies the means, for you. 'Kill all violence'... Isn't that an
oxymoron?"
"At least I'm not a hypocrite. How many have you slain in your life? Innocent
or not?"
"That's not the same thing."
"You carried a gun for years. So did Scully. Jesus, talk about compensation...
She made up for her lack in height and masculinity by becoming trigger-happy."
"Scully was not trigger-happy," Mulder said, disapprovingly.
"She shot YOU, Mulder."
"To save me," Mulder retorted, angrily.
"What a coincidence," Krycek said, sitting back, his eyes flashing with
satisfaction at having maneuvered him into a corner. "That's practically the
story of my life. I have to keep shooting people around you in order to save
you. Why, I wonder if that puts me on an equal footing with Scully? Maybe if I
shot YOU to save your life, you'd forgive me for the rest? It worked for her,
after all. Hell, if I'm lucky, maybe you'll even give me a baby..."
"You don't want to get into this, do you? I mean, it was because of YOU that
she ended up being unable to bear a child, getting cancer and practically DYING,
Krycek!"
"Lower your voice, if you don't want to get us thrown out," Krycek sighed.
"Explain to me the difference between killing and death, Krycek."
Krycek exhaled. "Mulder, death is as valid a part of our existence as life is.
You of all people should know that most find it extremely inconvenient to think
about death until it bites them in the ass—or someone close to them. Just
because I—and you, in fact—have taken lives, doesn't mean that we're devils
incarnate."
"True. But there's an old Buddhist term called 'karma'. It means 'action or
deed', and it's said that we get back what we put out."
"Bullshit! Now you ARE being a hypocrite. If you truly believed that, then why
didn't you pursue a career that wouldn't entail you carrying a loaded weapon?!"
"Killing is an act; death is an experience."
Krycek stopped cold, his mouth parted. He shut it and turned away, sitting back
in his seat.
"It is an enormous responsibility to shorten another's life," Mulder continued.
"Not only do the Buddhists, Tibetans, Chinese and the Hindus and a major portion
of the non-Christian religious world population believe that we eventually reap
the rewards of our actions later on, but they have an exemplary record for
spiritual, cultural and traditional values. I'm not saying I'm considering
becoming a Buddhist, but you have to admit they have a point."
Krycek glowered. "And where is the warrior, in this little utopia? Where is the
appropriate place for the soldier, the warrior, the protector?! The one you call
when you want something taken care of, or a particularly difficult wild animal
slain? Christ, with this pacifist trend, we'll all end up a bunch of mamsy-pamsy
New-Age emotional wrecks with crystals in our hands," he sneered. "Who's gonna
save all our asses from the Black Oil, then? The Grays? The shadow
governments? WHO?!"
"Uh, Alex... I think it's your turn to lower your voice."
Breathing hard, Krycek turned away, staring bitterly out the window. He closed
his eyes.
"I agree," Mulder murmured.
Krycek opened his eyes and blinked. "What did you say?"
"I said, I agree with you. We can't have one without the other. It's like the
yin and yang, the eternal balance of the forces of nature. We need the hawks
and the doves, the warriors and the priests."
Krycek sighed through his nose. "Yeah. And you're the Shaolin monk, seeking
justification for killing through Zen. What a crock of shit."
Mulder laughed, quietly.
Krycek's face darkened further.
"I'm not laughing at you, Alex. I'm laughing—because you're right. I see it
now; I've always been the 'caped avenger', suffering under the delusion of the
whole Superman complex that most westerners have... the need to become an
immortal star and yet not have to apply themselves to the rigors of faith,
rather than science. I sit on two stools, between God and Science and I never
choose, I just—sit. And now I've fallen in the crack," he ended, forlornly.
"Now I see why my life has ended up... here." And he picked up his glass and
raised it, with a self-mocking smile.
He could practically see the apprehension rising on Krycek's face. Calmly, he
said, "Don't worry, Alex, I'm not going to kill myself or you over it. Now,
what about dessert?"
Krycek gave a snort of disgust. "I KNEW you weren't paying attention. She was
telling us that we need to get out of here if we want to be able to make it
home. The snow is piling up outside."
Mulder glanced outside, and then around the inn. The loud party crowd had
already dispersed. People were pulling on coats and jangling keys.
"Okay," he said. "Let's go."
Krycek didn't stand up when he did though, and Mulder asked, "You aren't staying
here, are you?"
Krycek swallowed. "Actually, I don't know where I'm staying. They're closing up
here, for the winter. Um, I—" he stopped and bit his lower lip, looking so
lost and mournful that Mulder sighed.
"Okay, okay, you can stay with me. Come on. Get up, let's go. We've got to try
to get home before they close the highway."
"I'll have to drive behind you—I've got to pay the tab and check out and get
my things."
"Whatever."
Mulder left the inn, and it was with a slight buzz from the wine that rapidly
dissipated as he kept the window rolled down to clear his head, that Mulder
found himself driving back to the cottage for the second time that day, with
Alex Krycek in tow.
I guess we don't believe
That things could go that far
We all believe in people...
That we think believe in God
Somewhere in the night...
Someone feels the pain
The ones who walk away
Try to love again...
When Alex pulled up and parked just behind Mulder's car outside the cottage, the
snowfall had become a flurry of huge white flakes, pouring down from the sky as
if from a torn pillowcase raining feathers.
The light was on in the living room, casting a warm glow from the window out
onto the snow, backlighting the cottage and framing it against the dark pine
trees behind it. Alex found himself staring at it; it was too picture-perfect,
like a postcard.
He shut the car-door and locked it, going to the trunk to remove his two bags.
Everything he owned was in them; he had intended to settle down wherever Mulder
was planning to be, otherwise he would have traveled more lightly. He hadn't
lied to Mulder. He really was at a loose end right now, without anything better
to do and no better idea of where to go.
The waves boomed and crashed down past the dunes in the darkness, and he could
see the distant flashing of a beam out across the water in the distance, from a
lighthouse.
In a way, this cottage was his lighthouse, for now.
It was going to take nerves of steel to withstand Mulder's strange, oscillating
mood swings here tonight and probably for as long as he stayed, too. But, it
was what he was here for. He took a breath of the cold air and thought, forward—
time to start trying to heal the past, pick up the pieces and build something
that, although fragile and tenuous at best, was more than he'd ever believed
he'd have a chance at.
He rapped on the door with the knocker. The door opened, framing Mulder with
the warmth and cozy firelight behind him. Alex quickly said, "Mrs. Claus sends
her regrets. She can't make it this year. She's too busy knitting mittens for
the European Orphans Fund. But I bring gifts."
"Well, you're not Greek, so I guess I can accept them. As you haven't brought
me a flying saucer, I'll let that go for now." Mulder shut the door behind him
and said, "Take off your boots."
Alex did so, after putting his bags down. Standing and surveying the
surprisingly spacious, well-kept and comfortable room, he commented, "It's even
nicer in the evening."
"If you like it that much, you can keep it after I move out," said Mulder,
sitting back down on the couch. He turned on the TV and then, seeing the
flickering quality, flicked it off again. "The weather's screwing up our
reception. You don't happen to know what the forecast is, do you?"
"Nope. Sorry." Alex took off his coat and hung it up on the peg on the back of
the door. He walked over to couch, his socks threatening to skid out from under
him on the bare wooden floor, and sat down on the opposite end from Mulder.
Looking over at him, he said, "Thanks for letting me stay here."
Mulder gave him a sardonic look. "You'd have showed up anyway, eventually.
This way, I think I've done you the favor of saving you about two or three hours
stuck out in a snowdrift on the highway."
Alex smiled and looked away. "Thanks, I guess. Listen, when are you...
thinking of moving out?"
"A week or so. Why, are you anxious to move in?"
Alex didn't look back at him, trying to not let his disappointment show on his
face. But his heart sank a little with Mulder's words. "No, just curious as to
what your plans are."
"They haven't changed. So. You said you had information for me?"
Jesus. He had said that, too. Although of course, he'd said it at the spur of
the moment in the attempt to keep Mulder from hanging up on him... Damn.
Okay... pull a rabbit out of nowhere fast, he thought to himself. Then he
remembered and grinned slowly. Standing up, he carefully padded across the
slippery wooden floor and went to retrieve an item out of one of his bags.
Returning to Mulder with it, he held it out to him, waiting for Mulder to take
it.
Mulder frowned at it, reading the label. "'Kava-kava root'?" Mystified, Mulder
asked, "What's this for?"
Krycek sat back down and shrugged, folding his arms over his chest and sticking
out his feet to rest them on the low table before them. "It's used as a natural
substitute for Prozac, Zoloft and Paxil, in the treatment of depression and
stress. I didn't know what else to get the agent who has everything—including
P.T.S.D."
"Very funny. Is it good?"
"Yeah, it's non-habit forming; I take it when I don't want to develop any
addictions but I really need a boost. It's fairly harmless stuff."
Mulder looked over at him, thoughtfully. "Thanks. Uh, is that it? You said the
information came in two parts, and that even I would kill for it."
Alex snorted and said, "Come on, I had to say something that would get your
interest. And can you really say that you didn't have a good time tonight? At
least better than you would've had, sitting out here all alone?"
Mulder nodded, slowly. Then he got up, stretched, and said, "I've got cognac.
Want some?"
Alex wondered since when did Mulder drink brandy of any kind... oh well. They
were already on the outer edges of sanity anyway; why not just go with the flow.
"Sure." The knot of tension that he found in the pit of his stomach hadn't
gone yet; maybe the drink would help. He was a little worried about mixing it
with the wine they'd drunk, earlier. Still, Mulder'd had more than he'd
consumed with the meal, and neither of them were driving anywhere else.
End of the line, he thought. Mulder came to stand before him, holding the
snifter out to him. He took it mechanically, then felt himself growing warm as
he couldn't avoid touching Mulder's fingers when he took the glass from him.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Mulder sat back down and also put his feet up. "I think that instead of helping
me break down, you've helped me to break through."
Alex waited, sipping at the cognac and letting the fire trail down his throat
and warm him, solidifying his resolve to not fuck this up. Don't babble, he
thought. Let him get it out.
Sure enough, Mulder started up again. "I think I was afraid to let down my
guard with you—not just because of your past betrayal, although we both know
that was reason enough—but because I was afraid that I might actually be able
to understand your point of view. Agree with it, even."
Shocked into speechless silence, Alex could only stare back at Mulder and wait.
He sipped again, wondering what strange, psychedelic reverie Mulder was entering
now.
Mulder continued, "I've been thinking a lot about what you said, about the hawks
and the doves. We've been standing on the opposite ends of the argument, when
in fact we represent two very necessary parts of the whole, like the yin and the
yang. I'm not going to make like Elton John here, and start singing 'The Circle
of Life', but I want you to know that I do comprehend your position, Alex."
Alex was starting to feel lightheaded. This was... unprecedented. "Uh,
Mulder—"
"Seriously, I do see the contrasts between your life and mine, and they look a
lot like the same pieces on the board. I played white, you played black. But
now that we're no longer playing the game anymore, I can see that taking a step
back from my own position is the only thing that will save me, or help me to
actually win anything, win what I want. My peace of mind. And I think you're
the same. You're facing the same challenge, to actually step away from the
board and refuse to play the game anymore."
"I—can agree with that analogy to a point," Alex began, "but I fail to see
how—"
"Please, let me finish. It doesn't mean that I can forgive what you've done, or
even accept it, but I think I can accept that you've changed, and that you—both of us—we have an opportunity to change, here. Isn't that what we both
really want?"
Feeling like a rug had been pulled out from under him—and a little like a boat
tossing on the waves outside in the dark, Alex replied, "Yeah."
"So, can we both admit that we were wrong? And that the other has a point,
about the shortcomings of the other, so that we can help each other learn how to
achieve a balance, both within our own selves and together?"
At this point, he was willing to do just about ANYTHING to resolve the constant
fighting and the tension between them. Alex sighed. "Yes. But Mulder, I've
always been willing to—"
"I know you have," Mulder nodded. "So let's make a deal. Here, tonight. You
help me to get through this and achieve that peace of mind I want, and in
return, I'll help you to find the same thing. What do you say?"
Alex swallowed, hard, scarcely able to believe his ears. There had to be a
catch in this somewhere.
"No tricks, no more games, and no lies," Mulder said, gently.
Alex finally looked back over at Mulder, nodding slightly. "Very well. I'll go
along with it. I'm in."
"Good. And no more killing."
"Mulder, in my life, self-defense has necessitated a certain amount of—"
"Okay, but that's self-defense only. No more killing," Mulder stressed.
Alex flushed. "Do you think I get off on it? What, do you have some kind of
mental image of me charging around blasting at people, or some shit like that?
I've HATED having to kill anyone, and I don't take pleasure from it. And to be
honest, I haven't yet killed a single, truly innocent person. Just because I've
had to discharge MY firearms a few times in your vicinity doesn't mean I'm a
bloodthirsty killer."
"I didn't say it does. I'm saying that you've got to understand something here.
That killing people is part of what causes YOUR nightmares, Alex."
"You think I don't know that?! Believe me, my conscience is not the issue,
here! And I have to say that the dreams about having my arm sawed off are a
helluva lot more disturbing!"
"Alex," pointed out Mulder, softly, "you don't need to shout. I'm not accusing
you, or judging you."
"Aren't you?"
"No. I'm pointing out, as any good psychiatrist would, that maybe—just maybe—
your state of mind, and your emotional self as well as your subconscious would
have a better chance of healing if you made a pact inside with yourself to not
kill anyone anymore. To give it up. To actively decide to give it up and
henceforth AVOID any line of work that might require you to do so."
Alex let out his breath and closed his eyes. As if he pursued it as a fucking
HOBBY... Opening them, he said, "I already have."
"I'm glad to hear it," Mulder said, a note of superiority and yet also approval
in his voice. Somehow, Alex felt simultaneously glad and patronized at the same
time. Mulder turned to regard him, adding, "So have I. And so I guess I should
do MY part, and accept your offer of friendship."
Relief washed over Alex at these words, although a wary voice in the back of his
mind whispered a warning, that beyond this door were pitfalls and opportunities
for vengeance. He swirled the contents of his glass and nodded. "Good.
Thanks."
He felt stiff and awkward, wondering how the hell he'd managed to get in this
far without Mulder turning on him. It was only a matter of time before Mulder
came to his senses and threw him out...
"Great. So. You said you had a Christmas present for me? Was this it?" Mulder
held up the kava-kava.
Alex flinched, wondering if he dared to actually do what he'd had in mind,
earlier. He felt far too raw and exposed right now to suggest... Oh hell, what
better chance could he hope for, then right now? Why not try his luck? He
grinned. And finished the cognac. Lowering his voice, he said, "Oh, I know just
what to give you for Christmas, Mulder. A blow-job. Free; no strings
attached."
Mulder considered him first with outraged shock, then as he considered it,
gradual smug satisfaction as he let the suggestion settle in his mind. Slowly,
he replied, "Okay, Krycek. Although somehow I can't help thinking that this is
your Christmas present to yourself. You must be—"
"But there's one condition."
"Ah. Naturally. Why didn't I see that coming?" Mulder was sarcastic.
Krycek smiled, gamely. "You have to keep your eyes closed. I'll be watching;
if you open your eyes, I'll stop."
"Why?" Mulder was suspicious.
"Why not? Think about it. This way, you don't have to remember that it was me,
and you can have the added bonus of thinking of anyone you want while I do it."
"Yeah, but why do YOU want me not to watch?" Mulder persisted.
Krycek paused. "Because this way I don't have any strings attached, either."
Mulder considered this, too. "Alright."
Krycek's eyes widened slightly.
"What, did you think I'd pass up an opportunity like this?" Mulder asked, wryly.
"No, I didn't. In fact, you'd have to be utterly insane to pass this up." Alex
found himself tensing in every muscle, unable to stop a slight trembling as his
nervous system kicked into overdrive. He found himself hardening rapidly,
unable to stop the sudden shift of temperature and the air between them from
arousing him.
"Okay. So do it," Mulder said, the tiny quiver in his words giving away his own
arousal and excitement.
"So close your eyes."
Without taking his eyes from Mulder's, watching the man carefully to ensure he
didn't open them, Alex got up, approached him, then decided to just go for it.
He climbed slowly over Mulder, his knees on either side, trapping Mulder to the
couch, and lowered himself right onto Mulder's lap, fixing those startled hazel
eyes with his own as Mulder's eyes flew open in shock. Slowly, he leaned in,
pressing a kiss—jesus, at last, at LAST—to Mulder's full, slack mouth. There
was a ringing in his ears, and the warm, non-threatening sensation of Mulder's
lips against his own was intoxicating. So... nice and warm and sweet and—oh
god—so hot-
Mulder pulled away and tilted his head back, scanning the ceiling.
What the hell -? "What is it? What are you doing?" Alex asked, baffled.
"I'm looking for the mistletoe. I don't remember giving you permission to kiss
me, just to blow me."
Alex sighed. "A little finesse, please. We have to work up to it; I'm giving
you a Christmas present. Just...let me do this my way. Now, close your eyes...
And this time, keep 'em closed."
Mulder's eyes narrowed, but then he closed them, obediently.
YES, Alex thought, triumphantly. And promptly began to nibble at Mulder's lips
once more, this time moving slightly in place, in Mulder's lap.
Mulder's breathing was increasing in pace and getting heavier, and this time, he
returned the pressure, moving into Alex's kiss.
Alex took this as a hopeful sign and lightly, tentatively flicked his tongue
against Mulder's upper lip. Dancing over Mulder's lips, waiting, he was
rewarded with Mulder finally parting them and letting his tongue-tip dart out to
meet Alex's.
Alex felt a coil of lust encircle, clench in his lower belly and shoot down to
his cock, which leaped in his jeans. He moaned against Mulder's mouth, unable
to help himself.
He couldn't stop, he didn't want to stop, he should never ever leave, just stay
here like this forever and let himself go under...
Mulder pulled back, turning his face away to the side again. "I knew it," he
muttered cryptically, but he lifted his hips slightly under Alex, making the
hard lump of his own confined erection obvious against the back of Alex's right
thigh.
Alex's leg burned beneath the denim from the heat of Mulder's body and the
knowledge that it was Mulder's hard cock there, beneath him, pressing into his
leg.
Wildfire raced along his veins, shooting thrills of adrenaline and pleasure
inside of him. He'd never thought he'd be here, doing this to Mulder. The
sense of long-awaited fulfillment was marred with the awkwardness of the moment,
however. Like a heavy hammer falling in slow motion upon him, he realized there
was no going back. Alex froze in place.
Mulder cleared his throat, his eyes dutifully closed. "Uh, Alex?"
Alex quickly kissed him again, as much to try to pretend that everything was
fine as to keep Mulder from becoming aware of his inner conflict.
He wanted this so badly, so very, very much. And here it was, all in front of
him—UNDER him, wriggling slightly with obvious arousal. He drew back finally;
he could tell from Mulder's lukewarm response to the kiss this time that Mulder
could somehow instinctively tell that the energy had shifted between them.
The kisses were too much. Stupid, stupid! He should have just gone down on him.
What was the problem? This act...
Of love, of worship. That was the inherent problem. It signified too much for
him.
For Mulder, it was just a blow-job.
Not very much time had passed at all, realistically, although he felt
lightheaded from the bewilderment of having been handed too much, too soon. He
hadn't expected Mulder to capitulate so quickly. He'd expected more diatribe,
more castigating judgmental morality lectures.
He began to have second thoughts, and then realized that if he backed out now,
Mulder would think he'd chickened out. Sliding down over Mulder's knees, he
ended up on the throw rug at Mulder's feet, his hand palming the length of
Mulder's cock through his jeans. Mulder's head was back, his eyes still closed.
There was a slight tremor in Mulder's hands—Alex smiled. Alex was willing to
bet this was affecting Mulder far more than he'd expected.
He deftly unbuttoned the top of Mulder's jeans and then said, lowly, "Lift up,"
as he began to tug at Mulder's waist. Mulder quickly tore down the zipper and
shucked the jeans over his hips, exposing his shorts that tented instantly.
Alex couldn't help make a little sound of satisfaction at the sight. He reached
up again and pulled Mulder's shorts down; again, Mulder wordlessly assisted him.
Nice, very nice, Alex thought with approval. Mulder's cock was certainly above
average. He briefly reminisced that it was a damn waste and a crime that Mulder
had been hiding this thing away all these years. Who'd ever have guessed he was
hung well enough to have starred in his own porno films?
He grabbed it and Mulder sucked in a breath, involuntarily. Keeping an eye on
Mulder's face, watching to ensure he didn't open his eyes, Alex leaned over and
licked tentatively at the head, just the tip. Mulder tensed all over and made a
strangled sound; he was breathing harder.
A spark popped in the fireplace, making both of them jump, and Mulder's hands
flew to Alex's head. Drawing back, Alex said, "No, no. Let go. I'm not going
to do this like that."
Mulder let go, his head back, practically panting. Jesus, he was going to
hyperventilate, Alex mused. Been a long time, eh?
He licked at Mulder's cock again, this time inching his way down the length of
it with his tongue, familiarizing himself with it. By the time he made his way
back up to the crown, Mulder was trembling. Finally, Alex opened his mouth and
took it in, until the glans was pressed against the back of his throat. He
began a light sucking motion, up and down, no longer giving a shit if Mulder
opened his eyes or not. But Mulder behaved and kept his fists at his sides and
his eyes closed.
The sense of control over this man, of dictating his pleasure, was tantamount to
finally having the dominance he'd always dreamed of. HE was doing this to
Mulder; he was going to make him come. His own cock was aching, impatient,
confined in his jeans.
He could feel the excitement in Mulder welling and gathering in his cock, he
could tell that Mulder was very close. With his hand, he kept up the
accompanying pace in a grip at the base, light and fast strokes in tandem with
the bobbing of his head on Mulder's dick as he began to come.
Salty, rich and bursting onto his tongue, flooding his mouth with copious
spurts, Mulder climaxed with a keening moan. He sounded like he was in pain.
Alex tried to swallow it all but couldn't help letting some of it drip down
Mulder's shaft, as Mulder continued to groan and jerk slightly under him. Alex
lashed at the head with his tongue, his grip tighter, working Mulder's cock
until at last he stopped coming.
He pulled away, leaned back in again to lick at the escaped juices, cleaning
Mulder's cock with washes of his tongue, then looked back up.
Mulder's face was fevered and damp, he looked debauched and his eyes were open
but they were bright and dark. Mulder's lips were pressed together but he was
breathing in a measured pace, catching his breath back.
Alex raised his brows at him. "Not half-bad, I take it? Merry Christmas,
Mulder."
He nonchalantly got to his feet, considered his palm briefly, and then licked at
it, cleaning it off in front of Mulder who stared at him, unable to take his
eyes from Alex's tongue.
Mulder swallowed. He didn't say anything.
Alex looked down at him, taking in his softening cock in its dark nest of curly
hair. Mulder was beautiful like that, exposed and vulnerable in his debauched
pleasure. Mulder looked somehow more than naked, still sitting there in his
shirt, with his jeans and shorts pulled down.
Mulder finally met his eyes. The combined intensity of Mulder's obvious release
and wonder was mixed with vulnerability and an unspoken question of... why. Why
had he done it? Why would Alex DO it, in the first place? Was it something
he'd wanted, thought of often?
Alex couldn't help smiling, slightly. He slowly licked his lips. He turned and
walked away into the kitchen, commenting, "Well, that was even better than the
lobster. Thanks for dessert."
He went to the refrigerator, found a carton of orange juice, wrinkled his nose
and searched further.
Mulder came into the kitchen. "What are you looking for?" He'd brought their
glasses with them, which he put on the counter by the sink.
"Well, after all that protein, I need something—ah, here we are." Alex
withdrew a half-empty bottle of red wine. He shrugged. "I don't want to keep
knocking back brandies, you know?" He picked up a clean glass from the drainer
and poured a small amount.
He could feel Mulder's eyes roving over him, taking in his still-hard cock—and
his nonchalance despite the self-conscious tension between them.
"Was it good for you?" Mulder drawled.
Alex tipped the glass back, draining it, enjoying the way the chill wine
followed Mulder's come nicely, smoothly, down his throat, chasing the slightly
bitter aftertaste. "It's certainly not something I do a lot," he said, vaguely.
Mulder's eyes flicked down to his erection and back up again, and then blinked.
"Are you expecting the same in return?"
Alex frowned slightly. "Are you offering?"
Mulder folded his arms in front of him, then unfolded them, as if aware that it
made him look defensive.
Too late, Alex thought, his eyes narrowing. He turned away and put the wine
back in the fridge, put the empty glass next to the others and took a deep
breath. "Mulder, there's no need to analyze it to death."
"I'm not," Mulder returned.
Yeah, right, Alex grinned to himself. "Lobster, butter, and Mulder," he said
softly, admiringly.
Mulder exhaled. "Look, I don't know what you expect but—"
"I said, there's no need to analyze it to death. No guilt-trips, no head-trips,
no excuses. And no strings," Alex added, watching Mulder closely.
But Mulder seemed to accept this for the time being. He relaxed slightly. "It
WAS a present for yourself, too—wasn't it?" He wasn't asking.
Alex nodded. "Yeah, I suppose."
Mulder gave him a look. "You suppose?"
Alex let out a snicker. "Mulder, give it a rest. Why are you trying to read so
much into this?"
Mulder's eyes shifted, and he looked away, out the dark kitchen window at the
snow piling on the sill outside. "I'm not. I'm trying to figure out why."
Right on cue. Good old Mulder-brain, whirring away, mulling over all the
angles, the possibilities...
Shit. Mulder was good at that. He would figure it all out eventually; coming
up with rare and precious theories that even Alex in his wildest imaginings
couldn't have dreamed up to explain 'why'.
So, he played it dumb. "Why what, Mulder? What's to understand? You just got a
blow-job. Enjoy it and move on. I know you rarely get them, hence my gift to
you. Why not just take it at face value?"
Mulder bit his lower lip. He sighed. "Because nothing IS face value, with you.
There's always some other agenda, some game afoot."
"Thanks very much," Alex snorted. "Shall we adjourn back to the living room, or
do you want to camp in here and plan Christmas dinner for tomorrow?" It was an
oblique reminder that he was here for the next few days, at the very least.
Mulder passed a shaky hand through his hair. He swallowed and replied,
resignedly, "Okay. We're having salmon. I think there's enough for both of us.
You know, I hadn't planned on having a guest."
Alex shrugged. "Don't worry; I won't eat you out of house and home." He
preceded Mulder back to the living room, sat down on the couch and put his feet
up. His erection had subsided briefly, but he hoped Mulder wouldn't start
talking about it again, or he was going to have a very long night.
In fact, it was getting late. That's when he realized he would be sleeping on
the couch. There was only the one bedroom in this cottage. Now why couldn't
Mulder have picked a larger house... One with enough room for at least ONE
visitor-
Of course, he realized, on the heels of that thought, Mulder really had not
planned for visitors, and if he brought anyone back, they'd have been staying
with him in his bed...
That thought made him jealous and testy and he put it from his mind. Here I sit
and here I stay, he thought resolutely. No way Mulder is getting rid of me now.
We've crossed the line and even if he doesn't have the balls to see this
through, I do.
Mulder slowly sat down on his side of the sofa.
Curious, Alex asked, "Mulder, why don't you have a Christmas tree?"
Mulder shrugged, halfheartedly. "Didn't need one. I don't usually celebrate
holidays. I don't see the point. It's either an excuse for families to
celebrate their togetherness, or a religious event. I don't have a family and I
don't follow any spiritual traditions. Besides," he continued a little more
morosely, "it reminds me of Sam."
"Yeah," Alex agreed, reflectively. "I've never had time, family or religion..."
Mulder regarded him. Then yawned, expansively.
Alex snickered, unable to help it. "Big day?"
"You know it." Mulder looked away. "Alex, you're welcome to stay but I'm
afraid all I have to offer is this couch."
Alex nodded. "I know. Don't worry, I'm fine with that."
"I'll get you a blanket."
"Thanks."
There were a few moments of awkward silence and then Alex yawned, himself.
"Contagious," he murmured.
He felt content, entirely satisfied with how the night had turned out and very
pleased with the results of his dinner with Mulder. And at least he had a
chance to work something out with him. He was almost afraid to question it or
think about it too much, for fear that Mulder might change his mind.
Mulder yawned again. "Well, I'm gonna hit the hay. There's more wood, if the
fire dies down."
"Thanks."
Mulder got up slowly, padded off out of sight and returned a few minutes later
with a thick thermal blanket.
Alex took it, looking up at Mulder. "Thanks," he said again.
"Sleep well," Mulder said, turning to leave.
"Good night." Wondering, Alex watched him go upstairs.
Part of him wanted to follow him but the wary side warned against taking too
many liberties with Mulder's hospitality. He sighed and settled into the couch,
enjoying the fact that the cottage was out in the middle of nowhere, on the edge
of the world, quiet.
Very quiet. The only noise he could hear in fact was the distant blowing of the
wind as it gusted against the roof and danced around the gables. There would
indeed be drifts outside come the morrow and he smiled to himself, knowing that
they wouldn't be able to travel anywhere. For better or for worse, Mulder was
stuck with him now.
The firelight flickered, casting comforting shadows against the walls of the
living room. Alex was aware of enjoying being here purely in a material sense;
the safety and security of the warm interior contrasting with the cold blizzard
outside gave him a glow inside that he'd not felt since... jesus, it had been
years.
He sighed happily, letting his head fall back against the couch. He allowed
his eyes to close, breathing in the smell of brandy and firewood. There was a
faint background scent of mildew—probably from the wood inside the cottage's
walls... It actually didn't detract from the charm of the place but lent it a
quaint air.
The problem that he faced was not Mulder's considerably important 'breakthrough'
but the chip on Mulder's shoulder concerning the past. Alex was tired of having
to defend his actions. From any number of possible points of view, he still
couldn't find a chink through Mulder's ironclad belief system that insisted that
he, Alex Krycek, was the Devil. It was getting tiresome—the endless
intellectual fights to the death in the arena of Mulder's 'conscience'. The Ivy
League morality set, versus the modern ronin warrior.
He slipped into sleep while mulling over the few choices he had left to explore
in his attempt to 'help' Mulder whilst simultaneously healing the rift between
them for once and for all. Rift? He chuckled briefly; gaping chasm, rather!
Oh well. At least he let me blow him...
You can consume all the beauty in the room, baby
Because you are so heartbroken
You can consume all the beauty in the room, baby
Before the dawn of separation
You can consume all the beauty in the room, baby
Show me the way back
Mulder was standing in the living room of his father's house in Martha's
Vineyard. Bill Mulder stood to one side, shaking his head with a disapproving
expression on his face.
"Dad?"
His father advanced on him, standing too close, staring into his son's face.
"I'm so disappointed in you, Fox. Consorting with a felon. The same man who
killed me—how could you?"
Stiffly, Mulder didn't answer, realizing immediately that his father was dead,
it was just a dream... but he couldn't wake up. The same old cycle of guilt and
shame, followed by the despair of never having his father's approval or
understanding. The memory of it overwhelmed him, the bitter older man's heaping
of guilt onto him—and secret resentment of his son's integrity and
brilliance... A part of him KNEW that it was just a figment of his own
inability to cope with what had happened, but it was too horrifying to have to
face his father again like this. WHY couldn't he ever have anything NICE to say
to him?
Mulder knew instinctively that he had to do something, anything, to stop this;
to halt his father's shade, to stop him from haunting his subconscious.
In his hand was a gun. He held it up, for the first time feeling not a whit of
hesitation but instead a tremendous charge of power and control. "Get out of my
life," he said, calmly, and pulled the trigger. He watched with a sense of
relief as his father looked surprised and fell backwards, almost in slow motion.
Power and release flooded over him. Then guilt at feeling so relieved that his
father was dead. That he had shot him.
Trying to turn away and find his way out of the house, out of this sickening
dream, he tried to cry out but was unable to. He was choking, suffocating and
he couldn't breathe. Paralyzed, he thrashed helplessly, trying to shout.
He woke up with a start, his limbs flailing, feeling someone holding him down.
"Mulder... Mulder! It's just a dream—wake up!"
He recognized Krycek's voice. Gasping for breath, choking, shivering and
cold... Feeling sweat pouring clammily from him, he blinked in the darkness.
Blessed fucking darkness of the bedroom—thank GOD. Never again was he going to
drink before bed, never.
Krycek's body was pressed in against his, and Alex's arm was around him.
"Mulder? You okay?"
The horror of what he'd just done in the dream flooded over him and he clung to
Alex, gulping breaths around the tears that spilled unbidden from his eyes.
Silent sobs wracked him and all he could do was hold on to Alex, wishing to God
that he could stop dreaming about his father, his sister, his mother... Even as
the rational part of his mind knew with crystal clarity that this was the exact
outcome he'd invited by choosing to face the trauma of his past that he'd
weathered so bravely for so long.
Alex didn't say anything more, just waited patiently, letting him cry into his
t-shirt, soaking it.
Finally, Mulder felt the grief lift its hard claws from around his heart and the
tears stopped flowing. Sniffing, he murmured against Alex's warm chest, "Thank
you."
Gently, Alex lifted his hand and smoothed Mulder's forehead, running his fingers
through his hair. "Hey, it's alright. I get nightmares all the time. It's all
part of letting it go, working it out."
"I know that," Mulder said, a little testily. "I just—" He stopped, feeling
another surge of dread and sadness go over him. He held onto Alex tighter.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Alex asked, quietly.
He shook his head. Then said, "My father again. Blaming ME for his fucking
mistakes, his decisions. I had a gun and I killed him. I shot him. And... I
wanted to. I enjoyed it." He squeezed his eyes shut in the darkness and rested
in the embrace and comfort of the very same man who had—
A tremor seized Mulder and he tensed in Alex's hold.
The same thing must have occurred to Alex, because he whispered, "I'm sorry,
Mulder. It doesn't help, I know, and it won't bring him back. But I'm sorry."
Mulder shook his head. "No. It's not that; it's not you, Alex. I think the
reason I always hated you was because I never had the chance to have his
forgiveness—and yet I know that the bastard would never have given it to me.
I hated you for not having a problem in killing him. It didn't touch you. You
did what I couldn't do without forever carrying the guilt of killing him. And
there is no good reason I can think of, to thank you for it, yet..."
Alex exhaled. "Mulder, he made his own choices. He resented you, for so many
reasons."
"I KNOW that, but I still loved him. I don't hate him, even now—even though
he was the one who threw Samantha to the wolves. He sealed her fate. I
think... I think that the Smoking Man influenced his decision."
Alex snorted. "Believe it. You were that black-lunged bastard's 'hope' for the
project. They were waiting for you from the beginning—you didn't have a
chance. They were expecting you to take the reins after they could no longer
hold them."
Slowly, Mulder said, "So, really, Dad was upset that I had shown the integrity
and strength of character that he hadn't. I showed him up for what he was, even
then."
"Exactly. Mulder, you were just a kid! And your mother—"
"Don't. I don't want to talk about her, not with all this. Not right now.
That's a separate issue."
Alex backed off. "Okay. Sure. Listen, you want to get up? Go downstairs?"
"No." He nestled in against Alex, enjoying the unfamiliar but warm security of
Krycek's presence. This was different, non-sexual, non-threatening... He
breathed easier, allowing himself to relax into him, letting the quiet gesture
of Alex's hand still silently and unobtrusively stroking his hair to lull him
into contentment. Then it occurred to him—he must have been thrashing about
making noise, if Alex had heard it all the way from downstairs. Next, it came
to him that Alex might return back down to the couch. He cleared his throat,
the suggestion sounding slightly dangerous in the quiet, close darkness. "Stay
with me?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Alex promised, a little huskily, although Mulder could
hear the promise in his voice.
He tightened his own hold on Alex in response, and then sighed.
After a while, Alex licked his lips and said, "Uh, Mulder? Want to turn over?
I'm getting pins and needles in this position. I need to move."
Mulder obediently rolled left, to face the other side away from Alex. This
time, Alex got up, slid between the covers to join him in the bed and put his
arm around him, moving up against Mulder once more, fitting snug against his
body.
Wow. Spooning—Mulder hadn't done this in a long while, let alone be on the
receiving end, on the inside of the spoon position... It was novel and nice.
Very nice indeed. Alex was wearing just shorts and a t-shirt and Alex's legs
supported the backs of Mulder's thighs.
Alex had angled his hips away from him and Mulder's eyes opened in the dark. He
was suddenly very aware of their position, the proximity of Alex to him in a
BED... and the near-certainty of Alex's arousal. The man had always desired
him, had been unable to ever keep it a secret, and now Mulder was left with the
unmistakable impression that in spite of this fact, Alex was doing the honorable
thing by not forcing the issue. He briefly wondered if Alex was expecting him
to make a move.
Under the circumstances, probably not. Mulder grinned in the darkness.
Why not? Comfort sex, more than just a blow-job and less easy to forget but
surely understandable when one examined the circumstances more closely.
Especially the way that Alex was breathing, his arm around Mulder keeping him
tucked in tight and close to him, his breath against the back of Mulder's neck.
Mulder could feel the tension even as Alex struggled to remain calm. He could
feel it in the tense way that Alex was holding him. He smiled, with a sense of
falling into something that they both wanted. He let out a breath, and a murmur
of contentment, while snuggling backwards even closer, this time deliberately
shifting his ass back against Alex.
There was no mistaking Alex's condition. Alex tightened his hold further and
sucked in a breath, then held it. Mulder found himself holding his own breath
out of sheer sympathy. Waiting for Alex to breathe again, it came as a slight
shock when Alex said in his ear, "Are you trying to get yourself fucked?
Because if you want it, you're going the right way about it." Alex's tone was
almost accusatory, as if reminding Mulder that if he wanted this, it was HIS
decision...
Which was partly true. Oh, the hell with it. He answered by moving back again,
this time rubbing his entire body back against Alex, Alex's erection trapped
between his stomach and Mulder's crack, burning him through the thin cloth of
his shorts. He was rewarded with Alex's groan.
"Mulder, don't be a pricktease."
He cleared his throat. "How much more obvious do I have to be?" he asked.
Alex inhaled. Then deliberately rubbed his cock along the length of Mulder's
crack. "Mulderrrr," he said, with a lilting note of warning.
Mulder closed his eyes. "Do it," he said, reaching around behind him and
pulling his shorts down, exposing his bare ass to the slide of Alex's silky cock
against his skin.
Alex's grip around him hardened, and Mulder could feel the barely restrained
tension rippling through Alex as he held him against his body. Then Alex's lips
began to mouth the back of his neck, leaving a trail of wet flames in their
wake. "Want you," Alex breathed. "So much."
Mulder shivered from the heat and the lightheaded arousal that swept over him.
He bit his lip and reached around behind him to tug at Alex's shorts—but
discovered he'd pulled them down.
Alex began to bite and lick at Mulder's neck and shoulder, as his hand trailed
over Mulder's chest, finding one of his nipples and caressing it with rough
fingers.
"Hang on," Alex said, a little breathlessly, pulling his hand away. Mulder heard
him flailing about with the pockets of his jeans, which lay by the bedside, the
sound of a tube being squeezed and then heard the unmistakable sound of Alex's
hand fisting his own cock. Then Alex reached around him again.
The delicious heat and satin comfort of Alex's body holding him close was nearly
perfect. Mulder realized now that it would be so easy to let this happen. He
rubbed his ass against the brand of Alex's weighty cock. The head of Alex's
erection was leaving a trail of pre-ejaculate on his skin and it didn't take
very much maneuvering for either of them for Alex's slickened cock to find its
way to Mulder's hole.
His face flaming, Mulder held still, his right leg lifted slightly beneath the
covers. Alex began to push forward slightly, letting the tip of his cock slip
into Mulder's tight anus. Rocking gently, over and over, holding him in place,
completing the embrace by finally sliding into him with longer, burning thrusts.
Filling him, reducing him to an undulating motion not of his own volition—like
a boat caught up in a wave and being borne out to sea. He was trusting Alex not
to hurt him, but Alex seemed totally enthralled with their current rhythm and
showed no signs of backing out of this act.
It was slow and hot and entirely engulfing. Mulder felt possessed, claimed...
the feeling was compounded with the way that Alex was still mouthing the back of
his neck, occasionally letting teeth graze his skin. Alex was mounting him,
like a tiger with its mate... The thought was so enticing and vital, he gasped
and pushed back against Alex's cock, driving it deeper into him.
Alex froze, then matched his movement with a thrust of his hips into him,
repeating it and shafting even deeper until Mulder could feel Alex's balls and
his dark pubic hair pressed up against his ass.
Alex was as far inside of him as he could go, and he desperately wanted more, it
wasn't enough. Mulder whimpered.
With an answering growl, Alex thrust into him again, this time sinking into him
harder, with a proprietary hold on him.
The sense of letting go, of being used and taken to another place, swept any
other consideration out of Mulder's mind. It was another world, a dark and
beautiful place where he could finally stop worrying about all the intellectual
considerations and emotional problems that he faced day after day. Even the
impressions of his recent nightmare were dashed to pieces in the wake of this
searing, burning pleasure that plunged inside of him along with Alex's cock.
Alex's hand was gripping him just above his hip, on his waist.
"Harder, harder," Mulder gasped out, wanting to be fucked, at last, wildly,
yearning for it desperately.
With a moan, Alex bucked against him, shoving his hard length deep into Mulder
over and over, sending shooting stars streaming up to his brain as Alex rubbed
against his prostate repeatedly.
Mulder reached blindly down to grab his cock and began jerking on it, with a
familiar motion.
Alex panted against him, "That's it; come, Mulder, you're so fucking gorgeous
when you come, oh god—" he broke off, with a whimpering moan. Alex hurriedly
let go of his waist and put his hand on Mulder's, wrapping it around him even as
Mulder continued to work up and down upon his own dick. It was as if they were
both doing it together, and combined with Alex's cock impaling him hard and fast
and deep, he finally started to come.
White lightning burst behind his eyes and sparkled there as he trembled as if in
the grip of a seizure. Mulder shook with the force of his orgasm, his body
shaking against Alex's as he shot hard, again and again. He yelled, his voice
joined with Alex's as Alex came inside of his ass, flooding his insides with wet
heat.
As he lay there, the tides of pleasure washing through his body and trickling
into every part of him, he could feel the tension and the pain receding, chased
away by the heat and the protective intimacy of Alex's body wrapped against his
own.
Alex's cock gradually softened and he began to pull out of Mulder. Hastily,
Mulder said, 'No, no! Just... just stay there. Don't move. I want to keep you
inside of me."
Alex gave a heartfelt groan, resting his forehead against Mulder's hair.
"Mulder, oh Mulder," he said.
Mulder shifted, settling himself back into Alex like a cat seeking the right
position. He gave a huge sigh, loving the sensation of satiation and
completion.
Alex's hand was moving on him again, over his leg, up along his hip, sliding
around to hold him. Alex's breathing was still unsteady.
"Stay with me here, tonight," Mulder said.
Alex's arm tightened around him. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, lifting
his head to place a kiss on Mulder's ear, and another on his cheek before he lay
back down.
Comfort and warmth, at last. Mulder felt tired but now he didn't dread falling
asleep. Alex was holding him. He was all around him, surrounding him, against
him, even inside of him...
We should have fucked years ago, he suddenly thought. And there was always
tomorrow. For a first time, it had been so sweet and hot. He closed his eyes
and smiled to himself. Gotta do that again. And again, he thought.
Maybe letting Alex stick around here was far more beneficial than he'd supposed.
He drifted back into dreams, this time with the relief and support of knowing
that if he awoke, Alex would be there.
Touch My Mind
by Jami Wilsen
"And he whispered to me in the darkness as we lay together...
"Tell me where to touch you so that I can drive you insane.
Tell me where to touch you to give you the ultimate pleasure.
Tell me where to touch you so that we will truly own eachother."
And I kissed him softly and whispered back, "Touch my mind."
(author
unknown)
No one spoke like him, he was someone
And I carried on, like I couldn't stop
All of it for us baby
And you, you got in my way
Stood between me and my friends
It was my sin, it was my shame
You were unconscious to the pain I was in
I hear there's trouble in Shangri-La
I run through the grass
I run over the stones
Down to the sea
Show me the way back, honey
To understand this light that we carry
And let it light your way
Of course, you know, I generally take it
Well I make accommodations for you
And consider this
You used to be my love
I make excuses for you
I run through the grass
I run over the stones
Down to the sea
Show me the way back, honey
I know you can, I've seen you do it
And it brings up the wind
And it rises around you in pillars of color
But the promise has been broken
As you walk through the shadow of death
You try to see no evil
But you are heartbroken
You say, dear God, make it stop!
Brings up the wind
Rises around you
I hear there's trouble in Shangri-La
Pillars of color
Trouble in Shangri-La
I make accommodations for you
