It couldn't have been only six months ago that his life had
been normal. It wasn't possible that his entire concept of
reality had been shattered, so completely, from a single
meeting with a beautiful young man in a movie theatre...
He'd always been discreet, taking the most circuitous
routes possible to get there, always keeping his face
carefully shielded, circling the block around the theatre
several times before he went in. Sometimes he parked his
car so far away that he knew that it was only courtesy of his
photographic memory that he remembered where it was.
But even with all of these precautions, and all of his guilt, he
couldn't stop coming, couldn't stop feeding his obsession.
The movies were perverse, of course, nothing that he'd
share with his mother or even with his tough, ex-military
father. He hadn't known such a thing existed before a fellow
classmate in his senior year of high school had driven him to
Alexandria—a different part of the city than he'd ever seen
before, to the Stardust Theater. Once inside, he'd started
his journey towards becoming a man—he'd seen his first
nudie movie.
Most of them were no more than peek-a-boo shows—
shot at nudist conventions, imported from nude beaches in
Europe, they were ten or fifteen minute shorts, often with no
sound, of young (and sometimes not-so-young) women and
men au naturel. From his first view of them, he hadn't been
able to stop himself. He made it to the theatre at least twice
a month; sometimes, as much as once a week.
He couldn't help but hold himself above the other men
in the theatre; often they were the trenchcoat-wearing 'dirty
old men' of the streets, looking for a cheap thrill, or just a
warm place to sleep. A couple of them were older-looking
business type men, who kept their faces carefully trained
only towards the flickering screen, lest they meet the face of
someone from the office beside them. Only very
occasionally was there a man even close to Mulder's own
age, never were there any women.
He couldn't say exactly what it was that kept drawing
him back to the place; certainly he was a handsome man,
and he need never spend his nights alone, except by choice.
But none of the women that he knew touched him in any way
- they were pleasant and cheery and, on occasion, even
intelligent. But none of them were special in any way, and
he didn't take any of them seriously. His mother was
beginning to worry about him. Ever since his father had
died, three years earlier and under very mysterious
circumstances in their own home, she had been prodding
him to find someone and settle down. He tried, but could
make no more than a half-hearted effort at it.
The only constants in his life were his work and the
theatre. Until that one night...
It seemed like a perfectly ordinary night. He'd spent his
usual twenty minutes parking and doubling-back, to make
sure that no one he knew spotted him. He slid into the seat
in the back and unbuttoned his coat, as usual. But this was
to be no usual night.
After he'd been seated for about half-an-hour, a man
brushed past him, on his way to a seat. This wasn't unusual,
although the theatre wasn't particularly busy on this evening.
What was unusual was the fact that the man sat right
beside him.
Mulder's heart started to pound a little harder. He'd
been approached before once or twice while here, but it was
always in the back, in the public toilets that never seemed to
have working lightbulbs. And those approaches he had
managed to politely rebuff, without incident. Never had there
been any sort of threat to his safety, never had he come
close to anything that might end in a trip to the hospital, or,
worse still, the police station. He desperately wanted to
keep it that way.
He could feel the man's eyes glance at him, and he
shifted slightly away, keeping his hands carefully in front of
him. He found, to his embarrassment, that he was sporting
an erection—not unusual, in these circumstances, but he
hadn't been before the man had sat down. He wanted
desperately to convey, somehow—non-verbally, if possible—
that it was caused by the movie he was watching, and
nothing else.
But he could smell aftershave—something strong,
masculine, something that reminded him vaguely of his
father. It was a spot of cleanliness in this dingy theatre—with
its uncomfortable sticky spots and smell of guilt and
depravity. He could see by the man's profile out of the
corner of his eye that he was young, possibly as young as
himself. It was difficult to tell anything in the flickering lights
of the 'film' they watched. The man made no move, no
sound, and Mulder was just beginning to breathe again when
he felt it.
A hand travelled over the velvet armrest and brushed
against his own, held so tightly against his thigh that he was
losing the feeling in it. He never touched himself in these
places—he just came to watch, to burn up the sexual tension
that wouldn't let him approach the women in his office, to
pack it into these furtive nights in this theatre and then drive
them the long way home, finally released on his couch in the
dark.
But that hand—warm, dry, soft skin—placed itself over
his own and stayed there, waiting. Reason told him to rebuff
it, to push it away, back over onto its owner's lap, far away
from him, but he didn't. He did nothing, and his lack of
movement was as much a sign of acceptance as if he'd
screamed out at the top of his lungs.
The next movements didn't surprise him at all; he
watched, fascinated, as the hand moved up closer to the
centre of his body's heat, brushing lightly against the crotch
of his trousers, now straining against the pressure of his
erection, painfully held in its confines. He knew that
anything more than a gentle touch would lead to an
embarrassing scene, but nothing more came. The stranger
beside him felt him and then withdrew. It was as impersonal
as a survey, a blind man seeking his way, and he was bereft
at the loss of it.
A wash of disappointment hit him when the stranger
stood again, after a moment, and walked past him, out of the
row, and, he thought, out of the theatre. But something told
Mulder to look again, to see if perhaps he'd gone to
someone else in the dark. And when he raised his head, he
saw the figure of his silent partner, still at the end of the row
of seats—waiting.
Their eyes met across the impossible darkness, neither
of them seeing and both seen, and Mulder stood. As soon
as he did so, the stranger vanished up the aisle and out into
the night.
Mulder followed.
The cool blast of air that hit him when he exited the theatre
nearly knocked him over—it was like being struck by clean
water, after dirtying himself. He'd half-hoped that his 'friend'
might have disappeared, but he looked around, finally seeing
the familiar silhouette leaning against the brick wall of the
place, still half in shadow. Mulder told himself for the
thousandth time that this all was not happening to him, but
he felt himself propelled—as if his body was acting out
against his very will—and walked over to him.
He could be anyone. He could be a rapist, a murderer
- a cop. You don't know him. What are you doing? It didn't
mean anything, it was just a touch—you're just lonely. The
words circled through his mind, butting against his fears and
circling them, but he continued to move.
The stranger's face tilted upwards when he stopped,
barely two feet away. He was completely shadowed, now,
and Mulder couldn't see him any better than he had inside
the theatre. "I hoped you'd come," he said.
Mulder was speechless, his mouth dry, his hands
jammed deep into the pockets of his coat.
The stranger smiled at him. "Do you have somewhere
to go?"
No! Mulder's mind screamed at him. Just leave. Just
get away from him, from his mouth...
"Yes," he said, and turned, walking towards his car. He
knew without even glancing back that the stranger was
following him.
His eyes were dark, heavily-lashed, unreadable, and he
stared out the passenger-side window of the car, silently.
They said nothing in the car—the other man was acting as
though this sort of thing happened to him all the time. It
probably did, Mulder thought to himself, and then realized
that he wasn't acting particularly uncomfortable, either. He
groaned, inwardly. The whole thing was ridiculous,
impossible—just what the hell was he doing? Picking up a
stranger in a movie theatre, taking him home, taking him
upstairs, taking him to bed—
It was not going to happen. He told himself that over
and over and over. But, he couldn't make the words come
out loud to save his life.
Finally, after fifteen uncomfortable minutes, Mulder
said, "I don't really know any bars—"
The smile glinted at him again. "That's okay. I didn't
really think that you meant a bar, anyway."
"Oh? And what did you think I meant?"
"Your place, of course."
Of course. That's the direction I've been driving since
we got in the car.
He nodded.
"Or, if you'd like, I know a motel—"
Mulder didn't let him finish his thought. "No. It's fine."
He continued to direct the car towards home—his home,
that he was bringing this stranger to. After a moment, he
said, "I don't even know your name."
He could feel the heat of the smile that was directed his
way as clearly as if those lips had been pressed to his skin.
"Alex. Alex Krycek."
He nodded. "Fox Mulder."
"Fox? Wow, that's got to be real."
Mulder winced. Of course, I wasn't supposed to tell
you my real name. "Nobody calls me Fox," he said.
"Mulder?"
He nodded.
"I can live with that. You can call me Alex."
"Alex."
Alex turned his head again, staring out the window.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
"Nice place."
"Thanks." The way that his guest was smiling at him
made Mulder feel incredibly uncomfortable—and weak at the
knees, at the same time. He'd been wrong—those eyes,
which looked dark in the theatre and in the car on the way
over, were actually green. He shrugged off his coat and
loosened his tie. "Drink?"
"Sure." Alex gestured at the couch. "May I?"
"Please. Is scotch all right?"
"Anything is fine." Those white teeth were grinning at
him again, and Mulder had to turn away quickly.
Once in the kitchen, the only thing that kept occurring to
him was what the hell are you doing? He was ready to
throw himself on top of the other man, tear his clothes off,
and—
And what?
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the
icebox. This entire thing was a huge, huge mistake—he was
compromising his job, his family, his future—all for what? A
quick fling with a stranger? With a man? I can't do this.
He picked up the scotch and then put it down again. I've
just got to go out there and tell him to go. Focus, Mulder.
You can do this.
His resolve steady, he walked through the kitchen door.
What he saw when he stepped into the living room stopped
him dead in his tracks.
Alex had found the radio in the corner of the room, and
turned it on, and the light off. Soft strains of a local band
piped through, and he was swaying easily, unconscious of
the fact that he was being watched. He'd shed his jacket,
and the moonlight shining through the window threw a silvery
light on his face. Mulder watched him for a few moments,
rapt, before Alex's eyes opened and he asked, "No scotch?"
He shook his head.
"I don't think I needed it anyway," Alex smiled. "Alcohol
goes straight to my head. I'd hate to embarrass myself."
The music switched to a popular love song, and he
closed his eyes again. "I love this song, don't you?"
"I don't think I know it."
Alex looked surprised. "It's been at the top of the charts
for five weeks."
Mulder shrugged. "I don't listen to music very much."
"Ah. You must be one of those men who are married to
their jobs, then." He looked around. "This is your place?"
"Uh—yeah. Why?"
"It's just that—" he looked a little embarrassed.
"Sometimes, married men have a place away where they—"
he stopped himself. "But you're not married, are you?"
Mulder shook his head. "No."
Alex took a step closer to him. "I didn't think so. I can
usually pick out the married ones."
"You do this a lot?"
Alex moved even closer. "No," he said, shaking his
head. He stretched a hand out, brushing against the front of
Mulder's shirt. "It's been a long time since I met anyone
interesting. Even longer since I did anything about it. How
about you?"
Mulder could feel his own blush rising. "I've never—"
Alex looked faintly shocked. "Never? Then why did
you ask me to come here?"
"You're beautiful." The words escaped him before he
knew it. If he'd been thinking, he never would have put it in
those terms, but it was true—Alex was beautiful.
Alex looked as though he'd been slapped. For a
moment, Mulder thought that he'd gone too far, said too
much, that Alex was going to flee. But he didn't. Instead, he
asked, "May I kiss you?"
Mulder nodded, mutely.
His lips were soft—softer than Mulder had thought a
man's mouth would be. Warmth seeped through those lips,
and his were caressed, plundered, by a seeking tongue, wet
velvet and satin combined. Alex kissed him deeply, sliding
his arms around him until they were pressed tightly together.
Mulder was surprised by the feel of Alex's erection brushing
up against him. He'd thought that he was the only one
feeling so overwhelmed by the situation. But if that was the
case, then Alex wouldn't be here, would he?
The kiss ended, Alex was looking at him
apprehensively. Something in that look—some recognition
of fear, some question of what it would lead to—and Mulder
knew exactly what he wanted, no matter what it might mean
to his future. The future beyond the next few hours didn't
matter to him at all.
He took Alex's hand in his own and led him to the
bedroom.
He almost never used the bedroom when he was alone—he
was almost never not alone. He preferred the company of
his books and the couch, usually falling asleep to the latest
gruesome murder mystery or science fiction book. He
enjoyed sex but didn't understand women—didn't understand
their attraction to him and therefore unconsciously rebuffed
them as easily as he breathed, his own awkwardness and
fierce intelligence often enough to drive any but the most
persistent away.
The few times that he'd brought someone here had
been disasters—the sex had been good but it was different
for them than it was for him, he knew. Always afterwards
he'd drift into a sort of lethargic sadness, aware that he was
expected to shield and protect and cuddle, when he wanted
nothing more than to be protected himself. He'd know—he
usually knew well before the act took place, but more deeply
afterwards—that this was not the person for him, and then
would come the difficult task of extricating himself from an
'affair', of breaking promises and hurting her. It was just
easier to retreat into his own world and stay there alone.
He knew without being told that it would be different
with Alex—different on a deeper level than just male-female,
but because he wasn't supposed to be the strong one in this
situation. Alex knew that he didn't know anything of what
they were doing. He was being led.
It felt good.
"Lie down." Lips brushed against his ear, warm breath
whispering gently across the skin.
Mulder lay down on the bed, still fully clothed, and Alex
sat beside him, reaching gently up with his hands and
brushing over the cloth of his shirt. He pulled away Mulder's
tie, then undid a single button, and those warm hands were
against his skin, caressing him, fluttering over his collarbone,
down to where the undershirt prevented any further contact
of skin on skin.
More buttons were undone, and then Alex pulled the
tails of his shirt out of his pants and slid his hands down a
little, tugging at the hem of his undershirt, then drawing it up,
rolling it until it would go no further, Mulder's hands still
pressed flat against the bed as he watched Alex, rapt. The
dark head bent down and kissed him on the stomach, and
his entire body leapt up into that kiss.
"Whoa," Alex whispered, grinning. "Easy." He leaned
up and they kissed again. "We have all night," he whispered
wetly into Mulder's ear, and he forced himself to relax, to let
Alex do what he was doing, trying not to embarrass himself.
But everything that Alex was doing to him—even the
simple act of undressing him—was so deliciously erotic that
he was having trouble remembering any of his promises to
himself. He could feel the slide of his belt through the cloth
of his pants, as Alex pulled it away, his hands moving down
from their resting place on his stomach, just a little lower,
hesitating against the fly of his trousers, pausing for an
infinite second before opening them.
"Lift up," he whispered, and Mulder realized that he was
holding his breath. But he wasn't expected to speak, was
he? Just to lift himself up, to follow his instructions, to help
this man to undress him, so they could make love. He took
a shaky breath and lifted himself up from the waist.
The draught of air was cool against his bare legs, and
he shivered. Alex reached down and pulled off his socks,
leaving his lower half bare but for his boxer shorts. Fingers
trailed lightly up his legs, brushing only for a second against
his straining erection, then up further, teasing at his nipples
that he only now realized were hard and aching, too.
Alex reached for him, pulling him up, and he let his
arms fall back, the shirt shrugging off as he did so. Then he
raised his arms, without being told, and the undershirt was
removed as well. He was let back down on the bed, feeling
the coolness of the sheets as only a slight discomfort against
his skin.
He was startled to realize that Alex was still fully
dressed, except for the jacket that he'd removed earlier. He
felt his own nakedness as the hunger he could see in Alex's
eyes—hunger that he'd never seen before in anyone, not so
visceral, so immediate. It sparked a flame in him that was
something more than desire. It was rapidly shifting into
need.
He moved up onto his elbows again, and reached for
him, startled when Alex pushed him down on the bed and
buried himself in his arms, kissing him deeply. He reached
around, trying to figure out how to help Alex out of his
clothes, the seemingly simple act fraught with mystery.
Finally, Alex let him go and undressed himself, rapidly
shedding clothes and throwing them in a heap on the floor.
And then they were kissing again, side by side. It was
enough, enough to almost push him over the edge, enough
to devour the hot mouth of the man beside him—until it
suddenly wasn't, and he once again needed more than
touch. He was raking his hands up and down Alex's back,
digging his fingers in and then unclenching, moving
downward, over the curve of Alex's ass, still encased in his
own undershorts. He surprised himself by sliding his hands
under the waistband and connecting with the skin itself,
surprised more when Alex moaned into his mouth and
shifted back against his hands.
Basic biology insisted that they breathe or die, and Alex
moved back, his mouth open and gasping, his head thrown
back. "Oh, god, yes," he said, shifting against Mulder.
"Please."
A question formed itself in Mulder's mind and died on
his lips, as the certainty of what Alex was saying presented
itself to him. "You want—"
"Everything," Alex gasped. "I want everything. I want
all of you. Please."
Mulder rolled them over, till Alex was on his back and
he was on top of him. He had to shift to the side to drag his
underwear down, finally freeing his erection from its
confines. He'd never seen another man's cock—never since
he was in school and caught glimpses of the other boys in
the shower after gym, and never this heavy and erect, never
so fiercely alive and demanding. He dipped his head down
and kissed it, feeling the life that was pulsing inside.
Inside. The word shocked him—Alex wanted him
inside. And, pushing past his own fear and touching on his
desire was the knowledge that that was what he wanted too—
to feel the power of this man inside him, filling him,
extinguishing his need.
He fumbled with his own shorts, pushing them down
past his knees and then finally off. They lay naked together,
breathing hard, and Alex reached for him again, intending to
pull him over.
"No," Mulder said, and Alex froze, the fear darkening
his eyes. "I want you," he continued, low, brushing his hands
through Alex's hair. "I need you." Alex didn't move, didn't
even seem to be breathing. "Please."
He shifted his legs, unable to verbalize his need again.
If Alex refused him, he knew that he'd never be able to ask
again. But he knew that Alex wouldn't refuse him.
The head bent down over him once again, and he
thought that Alex was going to tongue him to climax, but it
only barely brushed his cock before moving farther down,
suckling at his heavy sac, and then further down still. Hands
nudged his legs apart and up, and he raised, to be rewarded
with the warm mouth and seeking tongue against his ass.
He gasped out when it invaded him the first time, and then
pushed hard against it, inviting the possession. It felt so
good—he'd never have imagined that something could
possibly feel so good.
Far too soon it wasn't enough again, and his moaning,
shifting body conveyed that to Alex, as well. He reached
over the side of the bed to where his clothes had fallen and
grabbed something. Mulder saw the flash of a tube of some
sort and grinned even as Alex looked slightly ashamed.
"I didn't want you to think that I went there looking for
this—" he said, but Mulder leaned up and caught his mouth.
"I'm glad to see you're prepared," he said, quieting him.
The lube was cool against his skin, much cooler than
Alex's mouth had been, but it soon warmed under the touch
of Alex's fingers and the heat of his own skin. The fingers
lingered inside him, further preparing him, before they were
replaced by the blunt head of Alex's cock.
The first thrust was a shock—a gentle pressure that
continued as he gave way, slowly, inch by inch burying itself
inside him. It was excruciating and he fought stopping Alex,
needing to do this, needing to feel him. He forced himself to
calm, to relax, to breathe, and before he even thought it
possible the burning was changing into something different,
from a painful fire into a unbelievable feeling of power and
strength. Alex had seemed huge to his eyes, larger still to
his body, but he was capable, he could take him. And he
was even able to demand more.
He thrust back, once they were completely joined,
urging Alex to start moving. It felt—not good, exactly, but
right, to be so used by him. And then it happened. Alex
moved, not only in and out, but shifting around slightly, as if
seeking something in Mulder's body. He didn't completely
understand what was happening until he felt it.
His entire body was on fire—his mind exploded into a
throbbing centre of pleasure, and he cried out. He opened
his eyes to find Alex smiling down on him, preparing to thrust
again on that exact spot. "Feel good?" he asked.
Mulder couldn't do anything but nod, his teeth clamping
down hard on his lower lip in an effort not to scream again.
All he needed was for one of his neighbours to come
pounding on his door now—
But god it was not easy! Alex seemed content to
drive him completely insane, pushing and thrusting and
hitting against that spot inside him over and over again,
making his penis rise and fill even more, and there was
nothing that he could do but try to hold on to the shreds of
himself and enjoy the ride.
He'd never before come without touching himself or
being touched, and he was amazed when the hot white
threads of his pulsing cock hit him on the stomach and chest
- amazed both at the intensity of his climax and the fact that
he'd managed to stay himself so long under the assault his
body was enduring. Alex, too, gave up when he felt the
clenching hot body around him wringing the come out of his
cock and muffled his own response, shooting deep inside
and then collapsing on top of Mulder.
The only thing that Mulder could realize when his brain
was able to process thought once again was that they were
still connected—Alex was still inside him. That realization
made him infinitely happy.
"When can I see you again?"
"I don't have an apartment on my own," Alex said. He
reached for his shirt over the side of the bed and pulled a
pack of cigarettes out of the pocket. "Want one?"
"I never touch them."
"Oh. Then I won't—"
"It's okay, really." Mulder propped himself up on one
elbow and watched Alex light the cigarette. "Where do you
live, then?"
"I've a room in a boarding house. It isn't the sort of
place I'd bring anyone, even if there was any privacy."
"You can come here." His mouth was working faster
than his brain, again, and Mulder dropped his eyes. "I mean,
if you wanted to," he said, wincing at his gaucheness.
"I want to." Alex cupped his chin in one hand. "Believe
me, I want nothing more." He crushed out the cigarette.
"We don't have to decide this all at once."
"No." Mulder pillowed his head on Alex's stomach. "I
don't want to think at all."
He wasn't terribly surprised when he awoke the next morning
alone, with nothing but the soreness of his body to convince
him that it wasn't a dream. They'd made the sorts of
promises that lovers made to each other, impossible ones.
Lovers, Mulder thought. He cherished the soreness for as
long as it lasted, sudden twinges arousing him from the
ordinariness of his day, and he fell asleep that night with
dreams of dark green eyes in his mind.
It continued along as almost a routine—Mulder had been
half-afraid that he'd never see Alex again after their first time,
but he did, after a week. He called and they met at an out of
the way coffeeshop.
"I didn't know if you wanted to see me again," Alex said,
his eyes shifted down to the table. "I wanted to call but I
didn't even know if you'd talk to me."
"I was hoping that you'd call," Mulder said, softly.
Those green eyes looked up at him, showing him part of the
range of delight that he knew they were capable of.
"I—I didn't know," Alex said, again.
Mulder glanced around—they were in a booth, and the
shop was quiet, so he took a chance. He laid one hand over
top of Alex's, startled to feel how warm it was, and damp.
He was actually afraid. He felt strong, and in control, the
way that he hadn't before when he was with this young man.
"Let's get out of here," he said. "We can go back to my
place."
He was rewarded with another smile, and Alex nodded
at him. He pulled his hand back reluctantly, and stood up,
laying down a dollar for their untouched coffee. Alex
followed him out and down the block to where he'd parked
his car.
"You always park so far away?" Alex asked, half-joking.
"Only when it's important," Mulder said, watching as the
green eyes glowed at him.
After that, he came to expect the irregular calls. They'd meet
two or three times a week, never risking a pattern or a more
frequent 'date' for fear of being discovered. Alex told him
that he worked for a shipping company, and although he
didn't have as much to fear as Mulder did as far as his job
was concerned, there was more than the possibility of being
fired that they had at stake. They could lose their families,
their apartments, their livelihoods, their good names—every
time a sexual scandal popped up on one of the back pages
of the newspaper, Mulder would pale noticeably, reading
through the scant details, sure that he would be next, that
the only thing to do was to give up Alex and renounce the life
that they were making together.
And then he would receive another call, and they would
meet, Mulder confident in his resolve to end it cleanly,
simply. But those beautiful green eyes would light up when
they saw his, and those lips would curl in a smile that was for
him alone, and all of his sureties would be gone again. He
would lose all of his doubts and fears in a few hours in Alex's
arms, and he would know that losing anything would be
worth it—as long as he didn't have to lose the man that he
loved.
It went on the same way for weeks, a lingering security of
happiness slowly ingratiating itself into Mulder's life for the
first time in years. The security he'd lost when his sister had
disappeared when he was a child, when his parents grew
distant and distrustful of anything and everything, when
nothing that he could do was good enough or right enough or
just 'enough' enough, was suddenly back again, a thousand
times stronger. Why he didn't see it coming, he would never
know.
Moonlight peeked through the corner of the bedroom
window, where the curtain didn't quite reach. He'd been
meaning to fix it for a while, but he couldn't seem to make
himself think of anything but Alex when he was in this room.
He shifted, sighing, thinking again that new curtains were a
must. He thought that Alex was asleep, but a low voice
proved him wrong.
"We need to talk, Mulder."
"Can't sleep either?" There was soft humour in his
voice, but Alex's next words cut his smile in two.
"I've been watching you," Alex said, quietly. He didn't
move, but Mulder shifted to lean on an elbow, concerned.
"What do you mean, 'watching me'?"
"It's my job. I was—assigned to you."
Mulder didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath
until it came out in a shaky rush. "Oh, my god—"
"Please, listen to me, just for a minute. Then, if you
want to throw me out, if you want to shoot me, you can."
Alex's eyes were desperate, pleading. He reached a hand
out to Mulder, and gripped one of his wrists. "Please."
Unable to speak, Mulder simply nodded.
"Most of what I told you about myself was true," Alex
said. Mulder remembered quiet conversations after sex,
when he spilled out the sketchy details of his own childhood
and Alex entrusted him with what he thought was his life
story. "My parents were immigrants. What I didn't tell you,
though, was that I didn't immigrate with them.
"I lived in Moscow, with an aunt and uncle of mine, until
I was eighteen. After that, I was recruited—"
"Oh, my god. You're a Russian spy," Mulder said,
cutting him off. He got up out of the bed, moving so quickly
that Alex feared he'd hurt himself. "It's not bad enough that
I've been sleeping with a man—" he said, almost hysterically.
"Now I find out that the man that I've been sleeping with is a
Russian spy!" He shook his head, incredulous. "Why did
you do this? Why me?"
"I told you—I was assigned to you. I was supposed to
get close to you and—" Alex bit his words off. "But it's not
like that anymore. They didn't care how I got close to you,
just as long as I collected my information. But I wanted you,
from the first time that I saw you sitting in that god-awful
theatre. And I have wanted you every night that we've been
together, and that is the truth."
"So why tell me all this now? Have you gotten
everything that you need from me, is that it?" His voice had
hardened, and he threw out the accusations. "Your job is
over and you're leaving, aren't you?"
"I haven't got anything," Alex said. "I couldn't take it,
not feeling the way that I did. But yes, I am leaving." He
laughed, bitterly. "I didn't pass them any information, so they
think that I'm not doing my job well enough. They're sending
me back to be 'disciplined.' But what happens to me isn't
important. It's you that I'm worried about."
"Me?"
Alex nodded. "There are some compromising
photographs that are about to land on the desk of your
superior—Skinner's his name, isn't it?" Mulder nodded,
mutely. "And he's also going to be informed who—and what
- I am. You're going to be named, Mulder."
Mulder's legs gave out completely, and he sat down
hard on the edge of the bed. "The committee."
"Yes, probably." Alex refused to look at him, but Mulder
could see the sweep of dark lashes against his cheek. "You
will never know how sorry I am that this happened. Ever
since that first night in that god-damned theatre, I've been
trying to think of some way out—some way that I could stop
being who I am, and you could stop being who you are, and
we could just be together. But if there's a way, I don't know
what it is."
His mouth so dry that he didn't know how the words
came out at all, Mulder just said, "When?"
"My flight's tomorrow afternoon."
Mulder nodded, unable to speak. He stood up and sat
down again, in rapid succession, his body movements edgy
and nervous. "So that's the end of it, then? The end of my
career, the end of you—" He shook his head. "I should have
known. I should have realized." He punched the pillow hard,
and Alex jumped. "Why didn't I realize?"
"Realize what?"
"That there was no way that any of this could possibly
be real. It was too good."
He stood and walked silently to the bathroom, closing
the door. Alex stared painfully after him for long minutes,
sitting up against the headboard of the bed, his arms
wrapped around his knees. Finally, he lay his head down
against them, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes that
refused to fall. It was too much his fault for him to let himself
feel pity for anyone except the man who's life he'd
single-handedly ruined.
It took him a long time to realize that Mulder wasn't
coming out, that he was probably waiting to hear the closing
of the door, knowing that Alex had left and he'd never have
to see him again. He brushed the tears out of his eyes and
got up, pulling his clothing on mechanically, tying his tie,
putting on his jacket. He'd nearly made it to the front door,
his hand on the knob, when he heard movement behind him.
"Take me with you."
He whirled around. "What?"
Mulder was standing in the doorway, naked—the sight
of his body almost painful to Alex. "Take me with you. You
said it yourself—I'm ruined. There's nothing left for me here.
Even if I don't go to jail, I'm going to be thrown out of the
Bureau, and I'm not going to be able to get work anywhere
else in Washington—hell, I'm probably not going to be able
to get work anywhere else in this country. I don't have any
options left—but I don't have to lose you if you take me with
you."
Alex shook his head, bewildered. "Why would you want
to be with me after what I've done to you?"
"Because I'm in love with you."
"No! I lied to you! I've been lying to you from the
start—"
"I know." Mulder shook his head, a look of defeat on
his face. "It doesn't matter. You think that I can just forget
what's happened between us? You must—feel something
for me, to have told me this." He moved closer. "You've
never told me what you feel for me."
"I love you." Alex moved back further, feeling cornered,
trapped. "But you can't come with me. I'm probably going to
end up in jail myself. Russia is not a country for lovers,
Mulder."
"Then we'll go somewhere else. Mexico, South
America. Anywhere you want to. I have some money—"
"God, no, don't. You want to be a fugitive? You want
to disappear and start over somewhere—never able to see
your family or friends again? It isn't any sort of a life, Mulder,
believe me—I know. You'd hate it, and then you'd hate
me, only there wouldn't be anything left for you. I couldn't
bear for you to grow bitter and angry because of me."
"But you'd see me go to jail?"
"It doesn't have to happen that way—go to your boss
before anything happens. Cut a deal with him. Resign
before they have a chance to crucify you. You can get
yourself out of this. Please." Alex put his hand on the
doorknob again. "I can't hurt you any more than I have
already. Please, just forget me."
He disappeared, and Mulder never saw him again.
Only the ache lingered, to make him realize that it had all
been real, once upon a time.
Mulder lived through the next few weeks in a daze, getting
up and going to work and doing his job and going home
again at night. He gave his mother excuses for not coming
to dinner and went out very little, eating at home alone, not
even considering a return to his old routine. He jumped
every time the phone rang, sure that it would be the
beginning of the end.
Finally, he received the subpoena, 'inviting' him to
appear in front of the committee. He was puzzled only that
he hadn't yet been disciplined by the Bureau. Every time
he'd been called into Skinner's office, he was sure that he
was going to be face with a handful of tawdry photographs
and a demand for his resignation. But it hadn't yet come.
Maybe they're waiting for you to be called to appear,
he thought to himself. But why -?
He couldn't figure it out, but he was almost relieved
when he was called to appear before the House UnAmerican
Activities Committee. Apparently, it was finally starting.
The television cameras weren't there—he was a Bureau
underling, assigned to minor cases, with no independent
name of his own, so they didn't care about him. The
newspapers, as always, were there, flashbulbs bursting in
his face. He scanned the crowd for any face that he knew,
seeing none. He was alone.
It started. He gave his name and his occupation.
"The question is a simple one, Agent Mulder." The
committee chair looked directly at him. "Are you now or
have you ever been a member of the Communist party?"
His mouth was just open to answer, when a dark-suited
figure approached the chairman. He closed his mouth.
The chairman was hustled off into a side office, and
Mulder was left alone, feeling the stare of dozens of people
on him, himself looking nowhere but straight ahead. Finally,
after an interminable delay, the chairman re-entered the
room, conferred with a few other members of the committee,
and sat down.
"It seems that in light of some new evidence, we will no
longer be requiring your testimony, Agent Mulder. You may
leave."
Mulder was stunned—too stunned to realize what was
happening until he was escorted out of his chair. He was
met at the door of the chamber by a red-headed woman who
took his arm and led him through a back corridor, away from
where the press was clustered.
"You've got to meet with Skinner," she said to him. "I
was sent to bring you back."
"Who are you?"
"Dana Scully. I'm the AD's new assistant," she said,
smiling at him. "We've got to get back."
She ushered him into Skinner's office and closed the door.
He sat down, still in a daze, at the desk.
"I'm sure you're wondering what's going on, Agent
Mulder," Skinner said brusquely. "I wish I could tell you that
I'm aware, but I'm not." He paused, looking beyond Mulder
to the back of the room. "However, I believe that this
gentlemen is going to be able to explain it to both of us."
Mulder turned around, aware for the first time of a third
person in the room, sitting on Skinner's leather couch—dark
suit, dark eyes, older man. He crushed out the cigarette in
his right hand before he began to speak.
"Agent Mulder," he said, with a cold smile and dead
eyes that sent shivers down the spines of the other two men,
"you were in quite a bind this morning, as I'm sure that you
are aware. It was only through some rather delicate
maneuvering on the part of myself and certain
acquaintances of mine that we were able to ensure your
extrication from this bind. We are quite certain that you will
be willing to return this favour."
Mulder found his voice for the first time in an hour. "In
what way?"
"We need nothing more but for you to do your job.
We're simply interested in expanding just what your job
entails." He picked up a file and slid it across the table in
front of him, close to where Mulder was sitting. "Have you
ever heard of UFOs?"
Witch Hunt
by Mona Ramsey
"The question is a simple one, Agent Mulder." The
committee chair looked directly at him. "Are you now or
have you ever been a member of the Communist party?"
