A Taste of...
He is out there, somewhere in the fog. I lost him tonight.
I followed him tonight, to his meet with his mysterious new
informant. The information on the shooter had checked out but
Mulder refused to give me the name of his informant. That isnt
unusual for Mulder, but the way he shifted in his seat and
refused to meet my eyes was. So I followed him. And then I lost
him. There is the scrape of a key in the lock and the door opens.
Without looking, Mulder turns on a lamp beside the door, then
throws the deadbolts before turning.
—"Sir?
I rise from the couch and stand there, just looking at him. A
mistake.
He looks like a refugee from the back seat at a drive-in movie.
His hair is ruffled, his tie loose, shirt collar and several buttons
open. His lips are deep red, bruised-looking. There is a
darkening welt on the left side of his throat. A hickey, Mulder, at
your age? I want to laugh.
No. I want to roar. I want to batter something to death, strangle
someone, drink his blood, because the most damning evidence
is in Mulders eyes.
—"Did I miss curfew, Dad? he takes refuge in sarcasm.
Before I know it, I am across the room, gripping his shoulders
and shaking him, hard, once. His hands come up and shove me
in the chest, hard, breaking my grip.
—"What the hell is wrong with you?!
We are both confused for a moment, because the wrong person
said that. But I continue talking, no, growling at him, although I
dont touch him again.
—"Are you trying to torpedo your career? Are you trying to get
arrested for treason? What the hell do you think youre doing,
meeting with Krycek?!
I close my eyes against the memory, but it does no good.
Mulders car parked in the lot at Roosevelt Island, cold fog
slinking around it. Nothing moving, until suddenly, there is a
figure at the passenger door, back to me. The door opens and
closes too quickly for me to see who it is. From this distance, all
I can see are two shadowed figures, first sitting, then grappling,
in the car. No—not fighting. Kissing.
I cant even name all that goes through me, but the chief
emotion is disgust. Ive sunk to a new low. I am sitting here, in
the dark, spying on my agent as he meets a lover, not his
contact. Then the passenger door slams open and the dark
figure spins out of it. I hear the slam and watch the shadow
cross the lot to melt into the other shadows.
I am colder than I have ever been. My anger is a cold, rolling,
roiling thing in my chest. It traps me with icy, violent clarity.
Because, for a brief moment, the figure straightened and I saw
his face clearly in the orange-misted streetlight. Krycek.
—"You saw me meet my informant, Mulder says coolly.
I want to shake him again. Hard. The ice that gripped me is
shards in my gut.
—"Oh yes, it is, Mulder. You know who he works for.
Ah, the refuge to be found in formula. You are my agent, I care
only as a professional would. There are dangerous implications
here for the Bureau and ...
No. No, you are mine. I didnt know that, before tonight. But the
cold has stripped away everything but that.
—"Why, Mulder? Why Krycek?
The words are out before I can stop myself. And I see that he
knows what I am really asking, but he answers another question
anyway.
—"He has information that I need, Sir.
Strange how, even in the gloomy light cast by that one
dust-encrusted lamp, I can see every nuance of his face. He
almost hates me now. I have what he thinks he needs and I will
not give it to him. I am protecting him and he doesnt want
protection. He wants answers. I know three of the Smoking
Mans names. But none of them would help. The daughter has
yet another name and never knew our nemesis by any of them.
—"I looked for her.
His eyes widen, then he looks down and away. Young. He
looks young and hurt and angry and I want nothing more than to
hold him and soothe him. Then he rubs at the mark on his neck
and I am swept by ice again. He holds out a photograph and
shows me the address on the back.
—"This is where she is.
- What did Krycek want in return?
I hate that tone in my voice. Its the one Sharon called my
rock-grinding voice. But I have no other voice to use now.
—"I didnt pass any classified material, if thats what youre
worried about.
No. No, cant you see, its everything. It cost everything. The
bitterness is rising, freezing around both of us, twisting his
mouth.
His mouth. How would it taste? What would it have tasted of
before Krycek?
Krycek. I know the taste of Krycek. Alex Krycek, back when he
was new and green and promising, kissed me. He looked so
malleable and freshly-minted, too sweet to be dipped in the acid-
bath of mysteries that swirled around Mulder. There was an
afternoon, in my office, when I looked up at the wrong moment,
too open for just a moment, and his mouth was on mine. Alex
Krycek tasted of hot brass and need. He was appetite and
greed. Thats what he invited in return; its what he calls forth—
the hunger that stops at nothing. Perhaps I should have known
then that he couldnt possibly be what he looked to be. I wanted
him, badly, almost as badly as he wanted to be taken. Instead, I
gently, firmly put him away from me and closed the door behind
him. I still dont know why.
The silence has gone on too long; I have stared too long.
Mulder says,
—"The shooters name cost a thousand dollars.
I am grateful for his veering humor and feel the ice crack as I
smile a little.
—"Write up the report and the Bureau will reimburse you.
He nods and strips off his jacket, dropping it on a chair.
—"And the photo?
He viciously yanks his tie out of his collar and drops it on the
floor. He will not look at me. I step closer. Now I can smell him,
register what I could not before, through the ice and the anger.
He smells hot and dirty, the back-alley smell of frustration
swirling thick around him. But beneath it, I can smell...
—"Please, just go, Sir.
No, not while he is looking at me like that. Not while he looks so
lost to himself.
I struggle to say something, to throw out some kind of lifeline in
the ice-bitter sea into which he has cast himself. Its just Krycek,
Mulder, I want to say. Its who he is, he cant help but draw you
under, too. I know, I remember.
—"Where did he touch you, Mulder?
He is as bewildered as I am by my words. We stand and stare
at one another and the space between us is filled with the silent
creaking and cracking of ice as it shifts in the midnight air. Then
he moves.
There is a warm whisper of sound as he touches his left
shoulder.
Moving slowly, so slowly, I reach out and cover his shoulder with
my right hand. He shivers beneath my hand, although he is
warm, so warm beneath the cloth. I rub a little, barely moving my
hand, wiping away Kryceks touch. After a time, he stops
shivering and stands, unresisting, beneath my hand.
—"Where else, Mulder?
His fingers barely touch his cheek; they are trembling. I catch
them in my left hand, and reach out, so slowly, to touch his
cheek with my other hand. Once again, I am struck by how large
my hands are. My hand curves and covers most of the side of
his face. His beard pricks at my fingers and rasps against my
palm as I soothe him. His eyes fix on mine desperately. The ice
is gone from between us and from within me. Now there is only
a summer warmth.
—"Where?
But he cant answer now. Its all right, I want to say, I know.
Instead, I draw him to me gently. I bend my head to his, but stop
and look into his eyes. He must want this, too. I will not take
from him; too many have taken from him. His eyes are dark and
unreadable now. But he sways forward, just a little. It is
enough.
I kiss him. I meant it to be mild, like a cleansing rain. But that is
not what he wants or needs. He wants the catharsis of
conflagration. His mouth opens beneath mine, drawing me in,
setting everything that has been between us afire. Now he is
hard against me, hands moving over my back and shoulders,
skimming up my arms, gripping my head. When we pull apart
for a moments breath, he grabs my hand and puts it against his
chest.
—"Here.
He is running my hand across his chest, fingers biting into my
wrist. I feel the hard muscles beneath my fingers, the elegant
bow of his collarbone. My thumb nestles in the hollow of his
throat and I feel the hunger beating within him. I feel the hunger
beating within me. I kiss him again, a sharp, hot pleasure. Then
I trail across his face, down to his jaw. He groans and turns his
head, baring his throat to me. Ah yes, now I remember. I draw
my lips down the proud line of his throat until I reach that mark.
Then I bite him, hard. His gasp gentles me again, immediately.
I kiss and soothe the wound, licking and sucking at it until it is
shaped to my satisfaction. I inhale deeply in the hollow of his
throat where his scent is strongest.
There is no more taint of Alex Krycek about him now. All I can
see and taste and smell about him is Fox Mulder. He tastes like
spring rain in the northern forests. It is a night scent, a midnight
taste that should be cool but is hot, so sweet and hot. Mine,
youre mine, the growl curls and prowls through my chest but I
will not say it aloud. Mulder has had enough of being claimed
and demanded and manipulated. I hold him against me, neither
of us speaking, for a long time. Time enough for our harsh
breathing to calm, time enough for me to stroke his hair and
back, soothing and gentling him until he remembers how
exhausted he is. He is sagging as I put some space between
us. He looks confused.
—"Sir? Dont you want...
Trust me, I want to say. But trust can only be given, not
demanded.
—"As if I could sleep now, he half-smiles.
I gently push him toward his bedroom. He stops in the doorway.
—"Arent you going to tuck me in?
I want to shout aloud at the teasing light that is back in his eyes.
—"Have pity on an old man, Mulder.
He smiles, a slow, cat-smile that sends hot ripples through me,
and says,
—"No mercy, Walter. When the time comes, no mercy.
I turn and run then, before I push him into that bedroom and
make love to him until he is unconscious. His soft laughter
follows me out into the hallway, twining around me. Out on the
street, I welcome the colds embrace again. It shocks me out of
the pleasant muzziness I fell into in Mulders apartment, in
Mulders embrace.
I walk more quickly now, not minding the sour tang of the fog.
My mouth is filled with the taste of spring rain and the promise of
Fox Mulder.
No Common Senses III
by JiM
Its cold tonight. Usually, I love cold weather; sharp, bracing, a
worthy opponent to be overcome. Not tonight. Tonight, the fog
is thick and chill and it touched my neck like fingers, crawling
against my skin. There is a cold, dusty scent in the air tonight—
the lonely scent of fog that I can almost taste.
—"Where the hell have you been, Mulder?
—"You followed me? There is anger blooming in his eyes now,
shoving aside the other.
—"Damn right I did, Mulder. And what did I see?
—"I saw you ...
—"Its none of your business.
—"Not anymore. Hes gone freelance.
—"The fact that hes available to the highest bidder doesnt make
me any happier, Agent Mulder.
—"And theres no other source for that information within regular
channels?
—"You wouldnt even tell me the Smoking Mans name. Sir.
—"What did Krycek want, Mulder?
—"It was cheap at the price.
—"That is cheap.
—"Well, thats Kryceks style, isnt it?
—"No charge, Sir.
—"Oh yes, Mulder. I want. But not now, not tonight.
—"I dont understand.
—"Youre tired, Mulder. Sleep.
