Chapter Two
I lie still; eyes wide open in the evening glow and watch him. Our closeness
drowns me in contentment. I examine each visible inch of him and realise that I
have never really studied him. Not like this. Not in this way. I lie for hours
recounting each time we met, be it strained or passionate. It never seemed to be
inbetween. And as I drift, dusk turns to darkness, then to nothing.
On waking, I am closer to Mulder than last night. The warmth of his thigh
presses against my groin and holds me. The touch of his body and the sweet
familiar smell that eluded me for so long is sufficient on its own to keep me
appeased.
It was always only ever about the sex before. The detachment. The freedom. For
both of us. Now I find that I've done too much thinking and I need more than
this. My mind is begging for so much more now and doubts edge into my take on
the situation. My glass is half empty once more.
He wakes shortly after me but does not try to move as he did yesterday. He tilts
his head towards me and greets me with a soft smile and lazy eyes.
It is the first time we have ever slept together, I mean properly. Slept. No
flirting, no frills, no sex. We used to hang around briefly after the sex but
neither of us was willing to spoil it by trying to make it anything more. My
lifestyle would have brought danger to his door, when he was perfectly capable
of inviting it himself. A public truth would have finished him.
Dark liaisons, secret meetings—we were both there for the same reason and
never had false expectations. We just knew that anything other than physical
gratification would not work. And yet we lie side by side and comfort each other
by simple presence, without any physical prelude. And it doesn't detract from my
happiness.
I want to cherish the time we lay together. In some ways, it is overwhelming. He
knows nothing of this place yet, of what he has unwittingly walked into and
today I must visit the site manager to discuss Mulder, his arrival here, his
future. He has become my responsibility. My liability.
I rise from the bed and walk to the bathroom without looking back. When I
return, he watches me across the room, eyes fixed. Serious and dark as though my
absence from his side cuts deep. At least I hope that's what it is. His eyes
follow my naked form and, for the most part, I stay with his gaze and meet it
with my own, spurred on by the attention, the intrigue, and the need. He watches
intently as I dress and leave the room to make us both coffee. When I return, he
has managed to drag himself up against the headboard to a half sitting position.
Nearly two days have passed since he arrived in town and, lifting the sheets, I
see that the bruises on his chest have started to turn. Sitting next to him, I
place my hand around his head, cradling one side of his skull with my fingers. I
hold my thumb against his cheek, a print to his skin.
"I have to go out this morning. Are you going to be OK here?"
He smiles reassuringly and I realise I'm mothering him needlessly. I have never
mothered anything in my life before now. Not an animal, let alone a person. I
think back, trying to place the events in my life that brought the change. The
places I've been, the faces I've seen. Their impact means little at this point
in time, and I realise that the causal effect of the change rests in the palm of
my hand.
"Alex, when are you going to tell me what's going on here?" He sighs.
He's waited for a moment when we are locked together, a chance to catch me
breathless and weak. He brings his hand up and places it over mine.
"In what way?" Ignorance is feigned for just one moment. A brief glimpse of my
past. I know he has to be told, but with knowledge comes complexity. He is so
simple in his needs at this point in time, and I don't want to be the one to
feed him with information that will only disillusion and pain him more. I just
want him to be in my bed, smiling at me. Needing me as much as I need him.
"What happened to you, Alex?" It's kind of nice that he's noticed. I'm far more
insular now, I know I am. It's been part of my life here and its just how I
wanted it. It has given me the chance to go forward; well it had, until the day
before yesterday. No one here knew me with any personal attachment and I've
never felt the need to make new friends.
I raise my eyebrows and question him without words.
"I mean, what really happened Alex?" He pauses. "To you." Silence resounds.
We have avoided this so far. Part of me wants to open arms and embrace him, but
then he has not enjoyed the luxury of thought that I have. This me is all new to
him. I want to bear my soul, but words once spoken can not be retracted, and I
struggle to find the right way to tell him. To find a way that emphasises his
importance in my life without it reeking of patronisation. Without scaring him
the hell out of my life.
I swallow air and feel my chest tighten, or is it my stomach knot? It's all
happening at once as our eyes stay locked and I give in to anything I once was.
"I thought I had lost you, Mulder." There is not a flicker across his face. The
smug insolent laugh I expected does not come. Instead, he tightens his grip on
my hand. Reassurance that he understands? I'm not sure it is anything so
obvious, so simple.
"That's it?" he asks.
I'm embarrassed by my own honesty, by my willingness to give myself over and
open myself up. If he is surprised or shocked, he doesn't show it nor let me see
it.
I nod, unable to elaborate further and unwilling to give in to my need to tell
him more. I am in danger of smothering him with each single thought that has
plagued my waking hours. I need for him to know, but don't want him to bolt from
here, from my life.
"Look, can we talk about this later?" I half mumble, loosening my grip, trying
to pull my hand away from him. He nods and holds onto my hand, electricity
building with the touch as he mouths a word.
"Thanks."
"For what?" I ask.
"For what you've done. Does my being here cause you problems?"
And he gently allows me to slip away from him, a reticent smile lingers as our
fingertips part.
"It's not a problem. It's fine." I lean over and push his hair away from his
brow and plant a kiss on his forehead. It feels so whole to give so much to him,
and yet I'm pained by what I want in return. What I need from him to keep my
sanity. I leave him propped up, with a pot of coffee and the promise of some
reading material later.
"I know you slept most of yesterday but you need to rest, Mulder. I'll look up
Seymour on the way back to see if he's got what he needs to fix your arm yet."
My voice retains the gentle undertones despite slipping back into normal
conversation.
"Thanks." The word hits me again. Could he really be thankful? Imprisoned in
this town, and with me? "I mean it Alex."
But that is only because he doesn't really know where he is.
I leave him with a smile and with space to sit back and think. Room to manoeuvre
those doubts, those inquisitions. Time for him to take in what very little I
have allowed to slip. The words few, their implication immense.
I call in to see Seymour on the way into town. He is a neighbour, I guess,
living in the main building on this farm. I've just never allowed myself to be
neighbourly. I knock before going in. We never lock our homes here; what would
be the point? Anyone here could pick any lock; the cameras pick up everything.
Besides, I have nothing of value. A life spent running, evading, traveling
light. I arrived with nothing and will leave the same way.
"Seymour." I call out as I go in, and he beckons me to the kitchen where he is
sat at the table.
"Coffee, Alex?"
"No thanks. Just had one."
"How's your friend?" he asks.
"OK. Looks better than yesterday. The bruises have started to turn on his chest,
his eye's going down too, but I think the arm is still killing him." Mulder
won't say as much but he winces too often and I find myself wincing with him.
It's almost as if our shared expressions will lighten the pain somehow. "I came
to see if you'd heard anything."
"Tomorrow. Fed Ex is delivering to the PO box, and there's a farming supplies
pick up scheduled, so I was going to ask them to collect. Should be OK to do it
tomorrow night."
I nod. The post office box is in the next town along. It's hardly ever used, so
none of the locals there ask questions. I don't think they even notice, to be
honest. None of us look out of place when we visit. Anonymous faces blending
into the crowd.
I leave Seymour and walk into town along the track. I couldn't leave Mulder
yesterday to pick the truck up. I just needed to be there. Even if it was only
to watch him sleep.
The day is warm; the light wind provides relief from the humidity. It's good to
be in the open, alone and away from the city. I was always a city person before;
the bustle, the noise. The sweet smell of diesel in the lungs and the ability to
disappear into the crowd. That was me all over. Now I find beauty in all that I
see here. The leaves on the trees as they grow then fall to the ground when
their season is over. Nature is so understated; it's beauty and complexity
outstanding. I never noticed the intrinsic relationships that evolve and sustain
life. And I think that what I was, is no different to the top end of the food
chain out here, and that's helped me to understand where I fitted in. If it
hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. There's always someone ready to
fill each void.
When I arrive in town, there is little going on. As ever. I knock at the door to
Taylor's house and go in, finding him in the living room. Taylor is one of the
few here that I had met prior to arrival, although only briefly. He is a short,
squat man. When he speaks, his words fill the room with simple consistent words.
Fear is instilled in the novice whilst the veterans take note of what is said.
He commands without effort.
He motions to me to sit opposite him and I accept as he pours coffee.
"So, Krycek. How's the patient?" His look is not without concern, probably more
for the fact that a death would have brought investigation. An ex FBI agent with
connections would not disappear without a trace as others do. Taylor knows it
was close, though he doesn't say as much.
"He's got a lot of bruising. Seymour's going to do some surgery on his arm
tomorrow. Other than that, he'll be OK, just needs to rest." I take a sip at the
coffee he's pushed across the table, watching him across the rim of the mug.
"Good, so what sort of timescale are we talking about before he's up and about?"
"I don't know, a week, two?" I try not to give much away, my veil doesn't slip
often. We are here to discuss options and there aren't that many. My hand
remains close to my chest.
"So, do you know how he found this place?"
ŒWas he looking for you?' is the question I think he wants to ask, but nothing
is ever straight. Avoid the obvious. That's the way it works.
"No, I haven't spoken to him about that yet. He slept most of yesterday." He
wasn't looking for me, that much I do know, and there seems little point in
concealing it. "And, no...he wasn't looking for me. He thought I was dead."
Taylor smirks a little. His manner is calming, comforting. He doesn't give the
air of someone so high in the chain of command. He almost goes out of his way to
understate his position at times like this.
"Ah yes, of course." He nods. "Have you told him about the replacements yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Then you two have a lot of catching up to do."
I force a smile and wonder whether his definition of catching up is anywhere
near to mine. No, probably not, but then he isn't me, and this is Mulder we are
talking about.
"But, Krycek..." He frowns. "What we need to discuss are the implications of him
being here."
"Yes." I respond with a heavy sigh. Taylor needs to know I am serious, that
anything he has learnt, about Mulder's and my past, is not going to interfere.
He continues with words delivered in good faith, not unlike a reassuring
teacher.
"I know I was unavailable when all of this happened, and you did the right
thing. It can't have been easy going to the board with it, but I think you will
get respect for the fact that you did. There are still doubters, Krycek. There
always will be. But, that said, his being here could create a long term problem.
Tell me, have you thought about what will happen when he's recovered?"
I move my coffee around the table, watching it swirl. My head stays down but I
look up to him. I have thought about it since yesterday. In the bar, though,
only thoughts of taking care of him crossed my mind. I shift in my seat.
"Yes."
"And?"
"And...I don't know. But I have thought about it."
"Well, the only choice he has is to stay with you here, Alex. You know that,
don't you?" Taylor is the only one here who uses both names, alternating each to
command or feign care. A show of strength or a momentary lapse into the humane
realm. It's the first time I've seen the latter.
I nod in affirmation, for his benefit more than mine, because I've been working
on options.
"He can't just leave after what's happened. And I think you know what would
happen if he tried to, Alex." And there lies the problem. When you're in, it is
a commitment they do not expect you to falter on. Some things change, others
don't. These people don't make hollow threats, it doesn't work like that.
I nod again, and muse through the silence that follows.
"But," he comes back after a minute or so, "with his background, you might find
that they will give him a job here. Something to tempt him from straying."
I lift my head in surprise, an option that had not occurred to me. My vision
restricted by escape or simply making Mulder a kept man. A bored, kept man. A
new twist is added to the web in my mind and I find myself toying with it,
throwing it around.
"Look, you've got a lot to think about, and time to think about it. But one
thing is clear, Krycek, this is now in your hands to resolve. I don't want him
causing problems, if he does, then it falls on both of you." The compassionate
look has changed to a chilling set of eyes that pierce me. And I know that he
means what he says. My blissful transformation of the last few months is
starting to fade, and I feel like I'm back where I was. Forever in debt. Owned
but unloved. Convenient but expendable.
When I return, Mulder is asleep again. I place a palm on his forehead, his
temperature has dropped off since yesterday. Seymour had been worried about
infection setting in on the arm, but the signs are good so far. He doesn't
wake with my touch, but moves awkwardly around the bed, and settles down
once more.
It is the afternoon before he stirs, nothing less than a perceptive ear
would have noticed. But I do, and take him some fresh water and sit by his
side.
"Hey." I smile and brush my hand down his cheek as he opens his eyes. Colour
returns to his cheeks in the wake of my touch.
"What time is it?" His voice is still sleepy, a murmur accompanied with a
faint smile. His lip is healing over, but each time he smiles, it opens a
little. I go to the bathroom and return with a tub of Vaseline. He looks at
the tub, and smiles some more.
"Hey, I don't think I'm up to that yet, Alex"
The morning meeting is now far from my mind, and I respond with a grin. With
Vaseline coating my index finger I trace along his lower lip, hovering to
press in where the wounds have opened. He parts his lips and looks at me,
our eyes locked. A serene moment that makes me forget where we are and who
might be watching. He doesn't know about the cameras. I will tell him soon,
I resolved to discuss it with him today. And I will. But for now the moment
is to savour, to enjoy. The world outside is theirs, this touch is ours.
The silence between us needs no explanation. Mulder allows me to caress his
lips and, all the while, soulful eyes watch my face as my finger follows the
contours.
"How did you get the lip and the eye?" I draw my hand away momentarily to
allow him to speak.
"When the guy came at me with the baseball bat, I started to back away. As I
turned to the door, I walked into a couple of punches. I didn't know there
was someone behind me. Why, does it look bad?"
"Not as bad as it did." I smile and continue on the lips.
"I really need to use the bathroom, Alex, do you think you could help me
up?"
"You sure?"
He nods. I admire his strength, determination, and resilience. Or is it
stupidity? I stand by the bed and lean over, positioning my arm under his
and around his back. The plastic arm is of little use around the house and I
rarely leave it on. Continual wear just causes chaffing, so I to take it off
whenever I am home. Lifting him gently, my balance is skewed without the
weight of the prosthetic but he helps as much he can, wrapping his arm
around my neck.
He holds me to steady himself, uneasy on his feet and we take a slow walk.
With my arm around his waist, we saunter along. Together, we are the
embodiment of impaired men. The thought forces a smile, knowing what we have
been through, wondering how we ever ended up like this.
I leave fresh underwear for him on the bed, for an extra touch, I make sure
it's my favourite silk. When he comes out of the bathroom, he stands by the
bed, and allows me to kneel and pull the silk boxers up his legs. As I do, I
allow myself the luxury of losing my nose in his groin, sucking air in
through flared nostrils whilst his one good hand grasps at my hair. It's the
little things like this that I enjoy most, but despite my most tender touch,
he is not ready for this yet. He needs to rest, and even labored breathing
will place strain on his ribs.
"So come on, Alex, tell me."
"About what?"
"You said we would talk later. Later is now." He hasn't asked much of me
since yesterday. He seems content to accept that I was looking out for him,
that only his interests were foremost to me. The truth is not a million
miles away from this, although it is somewhat tinged with any needs that I
had. He never found the trust aspect easy and the thought that this might
have changed instills a sense of belonging in me. A sense of need that I
feel myself feeding off.
As we walked across the room, I drew a deep breath when the bruising on the
back of his legs became visible. There were no abrasions, nor breaks of the
skin—just the formations of patterns, which now resemble an artists mixing
palette. As we talk, he leans against the wall; the prospect of lying on his
chest is too much at the moment. I rub Arnica gel into his skin, taking time
to smooth it in with a delicate hand.
It gives me the chance to talk to him, without watching his reactions. His
body movements are more responsive to my touch than to my words. A form of
compromise that makes opening myself up just a little easier.
"I was asking what has happened to you, Alex. I mean, where did the urgency
and need go?" He prompts me, thinking that maybe I have lost the link to
this morning's conversation.
"I got fed up with running. When you disappeared, it was the straw that
broke the camel's back. Everything in my life was a lie. Even you. Each
person I came into contact with got hurt, one way or another. I got sick of
the deceit, of running from everything. I needed normality."
"And here is normality?" he asks, turning his head to one side and looking
back towards me.
"No, this isn't normality. It's just the first step. Since coming here, I've
just calmed down, that's all. Mulder, this place is peaceful, tranquil, in
comparison to the way I've lived my life these last few years. I don't need
to look over my shoulder. There are no assassinations here. Just mundane
Consortium work that has allowed me time to think, and since I arrived here,
I have done nothing but think. I've calmed down, that's all. I'm just trying
to put my life into perspective."
"And what exactly is this place? You never really said." His head is rested
on his good arm now, the other one hangs by his side.
"The hub of their work. All the surveillance, tracking, monitoring goes on
here. That, and a fair amount of experimentation, the biological stuff. R&D
they call it, but personally, I think that's a rather nice way of putting
it."
"So, how comes I was attacked?"
"You asked too many questions."
He laughs, that all too familiar snigger that he has perfected. It combines
his ‘what me?' look of surprise with the disbelief of my answer.
"Mulder, you are lucky to be alive. If they hadn't recognised you, it would
have been a bullet to the back of the skull. They don't mess around here,
and they don't take chances with people walking in, shooting their mouths
off."
"You call this lucky? " He sniggers again, and I stand beside him, lightly
massaging his back and sides with gel where the bruises are most prominent.
"I know. It might not feel like it right now, but believe me, you were
lucky."
"OK, maybe. But one thing I still don't understand—you said you came here
just after I disappeared, so how did you know that I thought you were dead?"
"Because we see everything from here. The whole town is the most
technologically advanced place in the country. If something happens, we see
it. If we don't see it, we hear about it very quickly."
"So, who was it that was shot, or should I be asking what was it?"
I stop rubbing his back, leaving my hand resting over his left kidney and
take a moment to contemplate my answer. The weirdest feeling passes over me,
because he knows already, and it's a case of deja vu. I've seen the footage
from Skinner's office. I know what was said, how it was all so eloquently
explained to him. And how true it all was.
"Replacements."
He sniggers again, disbelief in the sounds that come from his throat.
"You know what they were," I add, "he explained it to you."
"You explained it to me."
"And you didn't once get the sense that the me you saw was distant,
nonchalant?"
"Maybe a bit."
"Well, Billy Miles was the first. Only they realised that the make up was
OTT, they knew he was indestructible, long before he was pulled from the
sea. So they kept going, refining, tuning. Until they reached the stage
where the replacements were as near to their human counterparts as
possible."
"But you're alive and you weren't abducted Alex. I don't get it."
"A DNA sample is all they need. The rest is just following textbook
instructions. Part of the refinement was using DNA strands, not needing to
abduct. That's why it's become urgent."
"And they had your DNA on file at The Bureau?"
"I don't know, Mulder. I guess. It was no surprise that the others in the
Hoover building were Government, is it?"
His teeth tug at his lower lip, his head turns to the wall once more.
I continue to provide a little light relief on his back, and wonder where
this information is going to lead him. He doesn't say much in response, its
almost as if the information is coursing round that brain of his, stopping
at intersections before deciding on its route. Sometimes the calculations
and ponderences seem audible.
"So, how do you know that I am not a replacement, Alex?"
"They have a notch in the back of their neck. It was the first thing I
looked for when I walked into the bar. Besides, I knew from the way you
protected Scully that you weren't. And talking of which…please tell me that
they don't know where you were heading?"
"Who, Scully and Skinner?"
"Yeah. The last thing we need is for them to head out here too."
"Scully knows the route I was on, I said I would call her every couple of
days." A rescued Mulder is one thing to contend with, but the prospect of a
heavy artillery follow up in search of him, dampens the soul.
"So, its no big deal. I'll call her and tell her I'm OK." His voice is
matter of fact, assuming that there could never be a problem.
"You can't just call her, Mulder. Each communication here is subject to
extremely close scrutiny. This is their flagship—the front-line. Calls can
be traced. There aren't any phones. To be honest, most of us don't have
anyone to call."
His silence troubles me, my words hang in the air, not an audible echo but
there is a chill between us, a rift forming.
"So, just how do I get in touch with her, then?"
"You don't." My teeth grind as I rub the words into his flesh with each
phonetic pronunciation. A rhythmic affirmation that leads to him pulling
away from the wall and standing upright.
He walks alone to the bed, my outstretched hand passed by, one offer of help
too many. The tensed muscles in his jaw ripple as he offers me his sternest
look. Sussing me out, eyes focused on a man left standing with a job half
finished.
"Alex, I need to speak to her. If I don't, she'll start worrying, she'll go
to Skinner."
I leave the bedroom and go wash my hands, hoping somehow that the brief
absence will dull the line of fire. But it doesn't. I should not have been
so naïve to think that it would.
"Jeez, Alex. Just what sort of place have you got me holed up in here?"
There is more feeling now, some emotional turbulence.
"I told you."
"You told me it is the most technologically advanced place in the country
but you don't have phones, and the Doctor doesn't even have a surgery. Why
didn't you just take me to the hospital?"
"I couldn't. I had to get permission for you to stay here, and that was part
of the deal. If I had taken you to a hospital, questions would have been
asked. It was never an option."
"Well, what were the options you overlooked then?"
"Mulder, it was this or the bullet."
For the first time in months my patience wavers as we stand without
compromise. Just like the old days, together yet never quite there. All I'm
looking for is a little gratitude, a little understanding, and for him to
know that I had no choice.
"It was the only choice I had."
I brush past him and go through to the lounge; the thought of stretching
this further is not where I want to be heading right now. And I find myself
thinking that it's always been the same. I might have changed and mellowed
but maybe we are just inextricably linked in a relationship that can never
flourish or be anything other than what it was. Some things are just meant
to be. A cigar is, after all, sometimes just a cigar.
The last 48 hours have taken their toll on my ability to see anything with
clarity, my vision blurred by his renewed presence in my life, and a future
at loggerheads is the last thing we need.
The TV provides little distraction as channel surfing becomes monotonous. So
many channels still so much crap. The remote clicks again and again as my
finger sticks to the buttons. And then he's there, standing in front of the
set blocking my view, my gaze so far gone that I did not notice his jagged
movements.
Even in it's battered state, his flesh is intoxicating, invigorating, and I
drink in the view and wrap a smirk amidst a sigh.
"What is so funny?" he asks, apparently hurt by my amusement.
"Funny? Nothing is funny. I'm just admiring, enjoying having you here. I've
just missed you and I'm glad you're OK." The truth is out, in my own shallow
way, and the bulge in my jeans is visible proof of just how quickly our
altercation has slipped from my thoughts.
"Come on over." I stand and gesture to the sofa, inviting him to rest there.
Slowly and methodically his legs move towards me, an unaided stumble of
sorts, and he holds onto my arm, steadying himself as he sits.
Mulder never complains about the pain. It troubles me that such visible
injuries do not warrant his attention, or maybe he's just become as tight
mouthed as me. There is pain across his face as his legs make contact and
support his weight, but he doesn't give an inch. A slight grimace, a feint
groan, but nothing like the protestation there should be.
I lift his legs from the floor and pull them around, forcing him to lie on
his back, all the while the distress in his eyes is hidden from me as he
chooses to keep them closed. I delicately push hair from his face and plant
a soft kiss on his forehead.
"I'll find a way of getting in touch with Scully for you. I'll sort
something out, don't worry."
There are other ways of doing things, and getting in touch with Scully will
not be a problem. I just don't want him to know that the surveillance
extends to each movement and word of every individual here.
His hand is entwined in my own, but it is limp, and there is no response to
my promise. "Are you worried about Scully's baby?"
Again, no response, just a tear building at the corner of his eye,
threatening to slide down his face. I wipe it away and kiss him again before
leaving. Of course he's worried, but he won't say as much. He hides it, and
lets it build up—it's not just the tears that threaten to slide, it's him
as well. And, as I place a rug over him, he accepts it without comment,
without opening up to me and allows himself to slip once more behind the
wall that he has built.
Nascosto
by Lush Virtues
It is early evening. Mulder has slept for most of the day in peace, despite his
injuries. The strain on his body overcoming his body clock. The King size bed
provides ample room for me to crawl in and lay by his side. He doesn't even wake
with my movements.
