Well, fuck it.
Turning it over in his hands, cool smoothness of glass
against hot fingers, he stared in vain at the bronze-tinted
container and willed its contents to bubble up again. Like
amber, honey-sweet; it had felt thick and cloying on the
rawness of his aching throat, but now it was gone..
He slid the rest of the way down the wall that he'd been
using to prop his flailing limbs up, wincing as the rough
cement dug into his back. Chips of paint scratched where
his thin, torn shirt flapped open; he'd lost his trenchcoat
somewhere along the line. The other drunkards and homeless
louts huddled further down the street, nothing more than
vague, lamplit forms teasing the edges of his rapidly
blurring vision.
During the fumble for his cell phone, which also turned up
missing, he had to admit that he was a bit —
drunk
tipsy. The cab driver might misinterpret his somewhat
mangled, travel-worn appearance and refuse to give him a
ride. And besides, now that he'd scraped away the paving
pebbles that were poking his ass, this small expanse of
curb was really quite comfortable. Except that there was
nothing left in his bottle.
The wasted rabble down the street probably had something,
maybe some stale beer, but he wanted the good stuff. The
stuff in his icy, unmarked bottle, sold to him for a pricy
five bucks by the scruffy pretty boy who'd promised that it
would be the best he'd ever tasted —
finer than fine, pure as snow
get you drunk by the smell of it
and then sulked when Mulder turned down his offer for a
blowjob. Insipid little bastard.
Reminded of the lovely bottle once again, he brought it
up to chapped lips and sucked eagerly, catching one last
bittersweet droplet of alcoholic splendor. Magic, magic
bottle. If ever he'd been looking for proof of the
supernatural, this was the place to find it.
crunch crunch
And before his glazed eyes stalked a shadow, sidling
closer to his dark alcove, narrow grey line widening to
reveal a telltale ripple of muscle and the spiky buzz of an
ineffably stupid-ass haircut.
Oh, I know you, you're some crazy fuck who—
The shadow, now swallowing him up in its blackened swath
as it bent over him, spoke the language of mocking,
lackadaisical wonder. Spoke it to perfection, but Mulder
found that he didn't give a flying fuck anymore. "So you
finally had the nerve to get plastered."
When he peered up into the elfin face, it was so sweet —
nevermind the curled lip
and innocent that a sloppily delighted grin spread over
his own. The name wafted easily from his tongue, but there
wasn't a lot of memory to go with it other than the faint
sensation of skin on skin. "'lex."
mmmmm
A brief jolt of surprise widened Alex's eyes, smoothed
out the tiny wrinkles around them—he could just make
them out when the head was tilted so close to his—and
they hardened again, little marbled pupils practically
sneering at him.
"Right. C'mere, the car's just a few feet away." Then
his savior was yanking him up unceremoniously, his own arms
slung around the solid shoulders after his legs wobbled like
jelly. Before he quite knew where they were going, he was
sprawled in the passenger's seat with Krycek (was that his
other name?) grumbling because Mulder's boots were on the
dashboard. This was a grave sin, apparently.
".. been followin' me?" he slurred through the gurgle of
the engine, tracing jagged swirls along the bottle's plain
surface. Not quite realizing that he'd been clutching it
tightly in his hand, he was now absurdly gleeful that the
other man hadn't thought to take it away.
"It's my job, even if you don't have one anymore."
That brought the sharp knot of pain to the forefront of
Mulder's mind, but he couldn't be bothered to untangle it
in his current state of inebriation. "Jus' as well. Guy
with the shiny head was dyin' get me on his deshk with a
paddle an' a pair of cuffs.."
"Skinner?" Ringing note of incredulity there.
"Shkinny," Mulder repeated in a parody of mild contempt,
punctuating his words with a wheeze of a laugh. "An'
that Scully chick won't listen to anythin' you gotta say,
no matter what, jus' give ya shit day an' night—"
The car turned onto a busy street, flashing lights and
neon signs momentarily blinding him so that Krycek's
musings were his only companion. The man had evidently
recovered from his shock.
"I hadn't pegged Skinner as the bondage type."
Licking his lips, dry and cracked from the chill in the
unusually efficient air conditioning system, he endeavored
to respond:
"When ya been reamed by him ev'ry other day—"
and then suddenly, studying his companion's newly visible
profile in the glittery haze of headlights—strong curve
of cheek, razor-sharp, boyish dip of chin—had a rather
life-altering revelation.
Mulder watched his bottle as if it had grown two heads—or perhaps three—and then scrubbed at it reverently, his
goofy smile stretching to accommodate greater mirth. He
leaned over to poke Alex's shoulder, tap-tap, but fuzzy
nerve responses made it into more of a slap.
"This," he announced with a flourish that almost sent
the bottle careening through the windshield, "is a magic
bottle, 'lex."
"That would have to be the first thing your demented
mind would grab at, even when drunk. I should have known."
"S'got powerrrs."
"Right. Sure. What powers?" It was hard to catch the
subsequent mutter, low-voiced, ".. at least he's a silly
drunk.. "
"See—plain an' mah-sterious, with the shtuff inside,
s'got to be magic." After a pause, his voice drifted over
conspirationally, "A genie."
Though Alex's eyes remained on the road, his eyebrows made
a steady waggle ceilingward.
"F'real, I swear. You—" he jabbed a finger in the other
man's side for emphasis, "are my genie."
A muffled 'oof' of pain, and then:
"How do you figure?"
Stumped, Mulder considered this for a moment, until
another burst of inspiration hit him. It was actually
Alex's hand; they'd stopped at a traffic light and the man
in the driver's seat had taken the opportunity to knock
Mulder's feet off of the dashboard and whack him a good one
over the head. During the moaning and groaning that
followed, he was struck by the explanation he needed—though not before Alex's admonishments.
"I don't care how juiced you are, Mulder; keep your feet
off the dashboard. For that matter, just don't touch
anything. This is a new car."
fucking neat-freak punk ass—
"Comes from being an assassin." Light, conversational
tone, and Mulder shuddered. Had he really spoken aloud?
"You learn to keep things clean."
"Genie," he reminded his rescuer, tugging on the black
leather jacket insistently. "I rubbed this here bottle
an' you 'peared. Gimmie three wishes."
"Mulder, how many people have told you that you're
crazy? Insane? Psychotic, maybe?"
".. don't call me spooky f'r nothin," he said, with
asperity.
Alex's mouth worked silently, opened, fishlike, and then
slid into a sensual line. An odd, starry gleam was
reflected in his eyes.
"All right. Tell me your deepest, darkest desires, and
they'll become reality."
Just as Mulder was about to voice his wish, the steering
wheel swam into view. "Hey, you're drivin' with one hand.
Not s'posed to do that, y'know.."
Flicker of frown like a flash of lightning, and gone just
as quick. "I only have one arm."
Tentatively he reached out with his eyes, noting the
gloved hand that fell limp against the upholstery. The
cuff had ridden up, exposing a square of pale skin; of
ashes left after a blaze. Skin that had an unusual sheen,
almost like —
angels
plastic. Oh.
"Almos' had my arm cut off once," he confided, upon
conjuring a foggy memory of the incident.
"Same people who hacked mine off, probably."
Shimmering lights faded and withered; they'd entered a
more residential district of town. Perhaps they were
nearing his apartment.
"Well, I wish f'r you to get your arm back. In-fact,
did-you-know-that- "
A sharp voice cut him off, laced with sarcasm. "Very
touching, Mulder. But the genie Bible forbids any wishes
that would benefit the genie—or the bottle."
Mulder, whose next request was going to be a refill,
twisted his features into a pout. "Really?"
"It's in the contract. Try again."
Feeling sullen, he blurted the first thing that popped
into his mind; the thing that was always on his mind,
even when he was high as a kite. "Kay, I wanna know the
truth 'bout cancerstick an' the shadow governent."
"I don't see why it matters. Even if I tell you, you'll
never be able to do anything about it without your badge.
And without Scully at your side, no one'll take you
seriously—not that they ever did, of course." Was that
the ghost of a smile?
"Jus' 'cause she married some big shot physitician—"
"Physicist."
"S'what I said—physicist—doesn't mean she had to
report me for.. hey, I want my wish."
"Fine." There was a pause and an ominous glint of eye,
metallic grey. "The truth: cancerstick and his cronies are
sniveling, sell-out, alien fucking bastards."
"But I want the truth 'bout the black cancer, an' my
sister, an' Schully, an' my—"
"You didn't ask for that. Best be careful, Mulder; you
only have one wish left, and we'll be at your apartment in
just a minute. I've got places to wreck, people to poison;
you know. Typical genie stuff."
His last comment blew past Mulder like a gust of
hurricane force wind, leaving very little in the way of
logic in its wake. There was also the effect of whatever
had been in that bottle of his, which showed no sign of
wearing off in the near future.
"One!" he spluttered in outrage. "But I only got one
wish granted, an' that wasn't even a real one, 'cause you
tricked me."
"You've made two wishes. If you wanted to make sure that
they would both achieve the expected results, you should
have studied the terms outlined in my contract."
"I don't see no contract."
"It's in the bottle," Alex said with an imperious toss of
the head, as if this was something that Mulder should have
figured out long ago. And baffled, the former FBI agent
hefted the bottle up to his face, shoving it in front of
his best eye—the left one—and tried to discern its
contents. When the car abruptly squealed to a stop, he
almost dropped it on his feet, which were now scrunched up
beneath the dashboard.
Blinking, Mulder glanced over at D.C.'s resident spy.
He would have a stick shift, wouldn't he..
With the car in park near the entrance to a very familiar
apartment building, Alex lounged back into his plush seat.
Trailed his good hand in spidery wisps over Mulder's
shoulder, bare where the shirt had been torn during his
earlier carousing, and grinned wickledly.
pure evil, that's what that stuff was
"One wish left, Mulder. Make it good; remember? Your
deepest, darkest desires?"
Thought bubbles formed, glittered in the dark panes of
Alex's face as he watched, drifted. Popped, and sent a
heady rush of something —
need
threading through his veins and down to his cock. His
hand snaked out to explore smooth skin, hollows of bone and
toned flesh, and the wish was murmured with his mouth just
shy of the other's parted lips.
"I wish f'r a night of very hot sex with my genie."
But when he leaned in to ravish the enticing mouth, he
found himself pressing into a forehead instead. Then a
warm tongue descended upon his neck, lapping and sucking,
with a line of wet kisses lingering on his skin as it made
its way up, finally, to his lips.
holy fuck
Moaning wordlessly into Alex's mouth as a hand strayed
down to squeeze his thigh, shivers tingling down his spine
and arousal flooding his brain like high tide, he slid
his own hand over to cup that tight ass —
Suddenly, his companion shoved him back into the window.
"Like I said, Mulder, I can't grant wishes that would
benefit me in any way." A mocking sneer teased the corners
of his mouth. Ever so deliberately, he leaned over Mulder's
legs—'accidentally' brushing his groin with a well-placed
elbow—and unlocked the door. The occupant of the
passenger's seat was then dumped onto the sidewalk, shiny
black metal slamming shut in front of his face.
Mulder racked his brain, trying to summon up the worst
insult possible under such circumstances.
"MISANTHROPE!"
A snigger, and then Alex added, casually, "Your breath
isn't the sweetest either, Mulder."
When he opened his mouth to respond with another, equally
indignant though monotone-voiced shriek, the car whirred to
life and sped away. Not, though, before he could hear
Alex's exultant hiss of, "I'll be watching you!" and the
clatter of his precious bottle as the genie tossed it out
of the open window. Glass shattered heart-wrenchingly at
his feet, coruscating twinkle of diamonds in the moonlight,
and he struggled into a sitting position. Damn, but his
head was beginning to pound.
Well, fuck it.
There's no time for metaphors cried the little pill to me
"Lie Still, Little Bottle" (They Might Be Giants)
He said hey boy what's happening
"Three Wishes" (Roger Waters)
Genie in a Bottle
by Meri Lomelindi
Mulder tried to take a swig from the bottle and found, to
his chagrin, that it was empty.
He said, "Life is a placebo masquerading as a simile"
I knew that pill was lying
Too gregarious, too nice
But as he walked I had to sing this twice:
Lie still, little bottle
Don't twist, it ain't twistin' time
With every move you make you just disintegrate my
ever-troubled mind
What is going on
You can have three wishes
If you don't take too long
