Chapter Two
He looks so peaceful, so gracious and at rest. A world away from the frail
broken man of yesterday. With the sheets pulled up to his neck the only
visible signs of events are his swollen black eye and his lips. Such perfect
smooth flesh split and torn apart.
I am not entirely sure whether he was conscious when I walked into the bar.
He seemed to drift between a comatose state and partial awareness. Awareness
of pain at least. If he'd overheard the conversations despite his immobile
state, he would have opened his eye. I'd like to think there would have been
some recognition. He always welcomed my soft tones, sweet whispers for his
ears only. When in close proximity he is tuned to the subtle distinction of
my breathing. Inches apart, it slips into more heavy infrequent patterns. He
knows them well.
Coffee is brewed; at least he will wake to the welcoming aroma and know that
he is in a safe, friendly location. There's no need for anything other than
for him to feel safe at the moment.
I wait, perched on the side of the bed for the moment, when those eyes open
and devour me once more. He doesn't need to speak to fill me with
contentment, to call to me.
Today, and for the next week or so, I am tasked with logging surveillance
work and translating. It means that I will be working mainly from home for
the next few days. Odd conferencing when projects cross over but nothing too
time consuming, I don't have any work that will lead me outside of these
walls for a couple of weeks. No manual break until next month.
Manual tasks in Nascosto are always shared around. We all take turns to be
barman or shopkeeper once in a while. It may sound weird, but it's nice to
get a job where I don't have to think too much. After all that I've done,
it's kind of humbling to help people pick their shopping out. It might sound
odd, with the training and experience we all have, but to get outsiders in
would be catastrophic and besides; I am not sure they would understand the
necessity of silence. People here understand meniality more than outsiders
understand silence.
I sit next to Mulder on the bed, with his hand cradled in my own, my fingers
splayed and wrapped around his. A touching of flesh that I hold dear until
he stirs. When he does so, it is with small movements. The legs adjust then
his hand pulls back from mine and he pulls at the sheets, rearranging them.
His head flits from side to side. A movement of uncertainty as pain creases
across his face with his attempts to shift his broken body. The cast Seymour
made is loose and coarse—the reparations to his skin still swollen and
bound. The medical opinion was to keep him bedridden until the arm is
pinned, avoiding crepitation. He could pass out again if he moves too much.
It makes me flinch just thinking of the loose bone ends grinding together.
I know that the hospitalisation following his return was a traumatic
experience for Scully. It must have been. Their relationship had developed
to an intense level and I think that only she would ever understand how I
feel as I sit here. Waiting for his eyes to open, hoping for a smile. For
recognition. For something. Scully and I are alike in so many ways but I
don't think she'll ever understand that. I don't think she'll ever know.
When he wakes, it is with a slow rising of the eyelids and a squint at the
light in the room. As he moves, he a lets a groan out, a throaty discomfort
from deep within. Sleepy hazel eyes adjust to the light and his head turns
to me. They focus gradually, but as recognition crosses his face, his one
good eye bolts open and fixes on me. He pulls his hand away even though
there is no longer contact and retreats as far as his body will allow. The
movements are minor but I notice the nuances. I always have. And he stares.
He just lies there and stares.
I try to smile, to comfort him with a reassuring hand but he recoils, my
smile is not enough. It is more heartfelt and honest than I ever recall, but
it is still not enough to comfort him.
"Mulder," I whisper calmly. "It's OK. You're OK"
He inclines his head to one side but the eye does not shift.
"Don't tell me," he croaks. "I went to Hell".
I allow myself a touching laugh but he does not match it. His face does not
move.
"You're not in Hell, Mulder." A pause fills the gap between us. "You're not
even dead."
He tries to lift himself a little, pressing down on his good arm to lever
himself up but the grimace that crosses his face tells that even such small
movements cause pain.
I try to rest my hand on his again but he pulls away, fearful of my touch.
Fearful of me. In a life before this, my touch was always enough and we
never allowed words to get in the way. I liked that about him. I still do.
I've never been big on speeches or explanations and he never seemed to think
they were necessary. Our lives survived on sparse conversation. More a
relationship of feelings expressed in actions.
I don't think I've changed in that respect but I don't know about Mulder.
It's been a long time and so much water has passed under the bridge. The
physical pain of the torture when he was abducted may have changed his
perspective. I worry that it has.
I don't come across as the sort to worry; I know a lot of people wouldn't
understand that side of me. They would never comprehend how I could kill and
deceive without pausing for thought, yet on the other hand be so sensual, so
desperate just to be held without words. For me it's a case of priorities. I
never saw the consortium work as anything other than necessity for survival.
If I hadn't acted with selfish intent, I would have died long ago.
There was a time when I believed that what I was doing was right, that it
was for the good of the whole. I think that belief slipped gradually because
I certainly don't recall one moment when it changed. It just got to the
stage where it didn't feel right anymore.
The only thing that ever really mattered was the part of my life I chose. It
mattered that I could give myself freely to Mulder. It mattered to me that
no one knew. But even that's history now. Everyone has their secrets. My
covert life was like everybody else's dark side, my secrets akin to their
normality. Arse about face, but it worked for me, so I stuck with it.
"And you?" he asks in a flat tone. A dull beat passes between us.
"No, I'm not dead either." I respond, still smirking. I can't help myself.
His words bring a smile to me, contentment.
He raises his hand to my face and allows his thumb to stroke from my
hairline, with the barest of contact, down my forehead to the bridge of my
nose. I shut my eyelids as the soft flesh lingers there, and swallow air.
There, the slightest of touches after all this time, sends shivers down my
spine. Warmth permeates my entire body where I sit immobile.
"It wasn't me, Mulder." His hand wanders, tracing contours, feeling flesh.
The back of his hand brushes down my cheek.
"Then who was it?" he asks.
"It's a long story." And it is. But I'm not sure he is ready for it just
yet. Way too much for him to think about. His brain will race, questions
will be asked and it's questions that got him where he is right now. It can
wait. I don't give him the opportunity to push it further.
"Do you know where you are?" I ask.
He purses his lips. He just looks so lost. So needy.
"It wasn't marked on the map." His response is matter of fact, almost
sarcastic. But it explains a lot to me. If it was on any map he would never
have come here. He would never have stopped to ask questions.
His hand drops onto the bed and, as it does, he attempts to lift his head
once more. Instinctively, I place a palm across his chest. His stomach
muscles contract as he tries to lift himself up a little and he winces,
offering little resistance against my hand. He closes his eyes once more and
the sheer relaxation that overcomes his body, as his heads hits back against
the pillow, is evidence of defeat.
"Mulder, do you have any idea what happened to you?"
"I was in a bar, asking the barman some questions and he...then..." His voice
trails off as he mentally retraces events.
He touches at his eye with his fingertips. The swelling has reduced the
visual severity but the eye is still nearly closed. When he touches it, he
shrinks back inside himself. His other eye is screwed and twisted back into
the socket.
"Your arm's broken. It's pretty bad." He opens his eyes and looks down at
it. "There's a doctor here that patched it up, but he's going to need to do
some surgery to pin it as well."
He nods. He doesn't pass comment or interrupt but lets me continue. He looks
gaunt and weak, as if the effort to converse is beyond him.
"The Doctor's going to come over first thing and give you some more
painkillers."
He swallows, taking it in as I continue.
"Broken ribs, bruising, but other than that, you're OK."
His eyes close again and his hand pulls at the sheets, readjusting them over
his body.
"I thought you were dead, Alex." His voice is strained, pained.
"I know. I'm sorry." And I am. When I found out he was alive, no thought
filled me more than leaving Nascosto and running. Taking up and off with the
sole intention of finding him. Of getting there by any means possible. But
like I said, I've changed. The old Alex would have done, but I knew that
such action would put me straight back to square one with a price on my
head. Back to running. I want that side of me gone.
You see, you don't leave this place. Everyone here is in for the long haul.
A minimum two years at least. Most people here have got warrants outstanding
or prices on their heads. Most choose to extend the two years. The seclusion
is embraced as a way to forget the past.
Two years seemed reasonable to me at the time. Long enough to take a step
back and work out what to do with my life. To leave the necessity of
violence behind. But when Mulder turned up yesterday, it became a noose. A
chaffing one.
"I don't think I've ever heard you say sorry." We sit out the beat in
silence. "Are you sorry because you're alive, or because this is just
another piece in your jigsaw of deceit?"
"No. I..." I'm lost for words. I thought I was his saviour, his rescuer but
I'm not. By saving him I have imprisoned him. "No. I'm sorry because..." and I
find that I don't really know why I'm sorry.
Sorry for the pain, for the suffering. Sorry that I never made it to see him
in hospital. Maybe just sorry for myself, because I thought that the first
movements he made would be the flashing of a smile like the old days. I'm
sorry for so many things but am unable to articulate any right now. I just
want him to be as happy as I am.
His turns his head to look at the ceiling, to divert his gaze from me, and
for the first time it crosses my mind that he is pissed off with me.
"Mulder." A deep breath, a sigh. "I'm sorry for a lot of things. I just
don't think any of them are important at the moment."
I stroke at his hand and he allows me to take it this time. I cover it with
my own and lift it to my face, planting the tenderest of kisses on the back.
"You are in a place called Nascosto. I came here after you were abducted.
It's one of the Consortium's remote communities. I work here, I live here."
His one good eye rolls skywards at the mention of the Consortium. Somehow, I
knew that it would. It was the chasm in our lives that we never managed to
navigate. We agreed to differ. Hindsight is such a wonderful tool and I
wished for months that I had listened to Mulder. He pleaded his case for me
to be shot of them. I didn't listen though. Just the one thing he asked of
me and I let him down.
"No, listen Mulder. It's not what you think."
"So tell me, Alex. What is it?" I look to his face, to his eyes. To his
teeth clenched firmly together as they were when we parted company in a
stand off that ultimately signaled the end of our relationship. I see all
these things again now, and I'm unable to look him in the eye. My gaze
drifts downwards as I recall.
"Cancerman was the one who fed me the information on the crash site, you
know that." He doesn't nod. "Somehow he knew I would come to you, it's what
he wanted. He knew that you would not be able to resist a foray into those
woods. I played right into his hands. I was just too caught up with the
opportunity to see you again that I didn't realise what was going on until
it was too late."
I pause and take stock. I haven't talked about it before and it's difficult
to admit failings. But I have plenty of sins requiring absolution. I want
Mulder to be the one to grant me reprieve from the guilt but he is still and
unemotional.
"When they took you, I went to see Cancerman with Marita."
He looks over; the first sign of intrigue crosses his face. I don't meet
him, but keep my head down. I feel each movement, each look. I don't need to
see it.
"I went to see Cancerman and I killed him." His eyes dart up.
"He was the last of the old school, Mulder. There were new boys in town and
it just happens that I did them a favour. So they offered me this place and
I accepted. You were gone, I had nothing to hang around DC for."
He seems taken aback by what I have said, the merest of smiles cracking
across his face. To me, it feels like a weight has been lifted, a burden
that I have carried with me has gone. That this one man could do that
instills warmth in me and reaffirms my reasons for wanting to save him.
I play with his hand, tenderly massaging his fingers with my own as I talk.
"I know it's no consolation, but I thought you were dead too." I pause,
allowing myself to slip into reverie. Recounting the months spent hoping he
would be returned, only to find that when he was, it was as a dead man.
"Do you have any idea how it felt not being able to go to your funeral?"
He looks up at me, a soulful look that feels like it has been shaped and
carved for me. Me alone. It is his turn to provide the reassurance now as he
grips my hand.
"No." His voice is now tranquil, faint, almost apologetic. "No, I don't."
"I spent three months hoping you would be returned, Mulder, praying that you
would be. But when it happened, it was all wrong. That wasn't how it was
supposed to happen, and I never got the chance to say goodbye."
I swallow hard. Things have changed between us already. We've never had this
much conversation all at once and certainly never got emotional with each
other before. He seems to sense that it is difficult for me to articulate
these things. His grip on my hand tightens a little and he tugs at it,
willing me to look up and meet his gaze.
"Alex, its OK. I'm here now. It doesn't matter."
I know his words are meant to pacify, to demonstrate understanding. And deep
down, I know he does understand. I think he is the only one that can. The
opportunity to grieve for Samantha never came to him and that is the one
true regret in his life, that much I know. He understands that sometimes we
just need to say goodbye in formal surroundings, a public display. An
opportunity to close the book.
The mind never lets go. Each day, snippets of the best times are recalled
and the grief gives way to a smile. You regret the worst times but know that
even they were an integral part of the relationship. I have spent a fair
time musing over those but know that Mulder and I may not have gotten
together without those bad times. So when I say he is the only one that can
understand what it felt like to be unable to close that book, I know that my
words are true. That he is the only one.
I gather myself together, unable to discuss it further, and stand up. His
hand is still embraced in my own, and I lift it to mine, holding it close to
my lips.
"Mulder, I'm going to call the doctor. You must need some painkillers." He
smiles faintly and nods. "I can't give you anything to eat until he's been
to see you but I'll get you some water if you like?"
"Please."
It's going to be a long road getting him back on his feet in these
surroundings. He was restless and I think that's why it worked before.
Soulmates on the run, meeting up when our paths crossed in passioned
embraces. I'm not really sure that it will work here within the solitude and
confines of Nascosto, but I have to try. I owe him that, at least.
As I walk towards the door, I feel him watching my every move, each step.
"Alex." His voice stops me in my tracks and I turn. "At least we both have
only one arm now. Well for the time being, anyway." And the smile that
crosses his face reassures me. It is a devious dirty smile, echoing thoughts
that only I would understand from this man. That smile is for me.
"Yeah." I smile back, head down looking up at him with my most flirtatious
grin. "But I've had a head start on you there, Mulder."
As I leave the room, an euphoric feeling wells up inside of me. One that
only he would understand, and that only he could elicit.
Nascosto
by Lush Virtues
When I wake, it is with a shock and a startled look around my bedroom. The
dimmed lights add warmth to the room. Propped against the bed, I look down,
realising I have fallen asleep fully clothed and, behind me; Mulder is still
out for the count. The clock says six but my body has had enough of sleeping
for now, I need to be with him. Need to be there when he opens his eyes.
