I can feel him on me. The rosy blush of warmth from the fingerprints imbedded in
my skin, the rising tightness of bruising over bone. I know it's all I have to
look forward to and yet I still come back for more. What does that say about me?
Am I a masochist? I think I have to be, to do this job. Or maybe I'm like one of
those woman who delude themselves into thinking that anything is better than the
complete lack of acknowledgement? That any touch, no matter how violent, means
that there's something there, some emotion that can be twisted into a warped
kind of caring?
So many times I've been here, haunting his shadow, ghosting in his steps,
protecting his sleep, watching his back. So many times I've done this and all he
ever repays me with is more violence, more anger. Yet I can't seem to stop
myself from doing it, from watching over him like some kind of guardian spirit,
hell bent on protecting him from all trespassers and enemies.
All I know is that it's completely pathetic. I don't have a life, I have an
obsession. The old man finds it amusing. I can tell by the way he looks at me
whenever I return to his side. Fortunately, he likes Mulder and wants him alive,
so he doesn't quibble on how the job gets done or who it is that stands watchman
over his favourite FBI agent's continued health.
I should know better. I'm showing a weakness that could so easily be exploited
but I just can't seem to help myself. It could get us both killed since Mulder
isn't the only one who's made enemies over the years. But I find myself just not
caring about it, not worrying because the ramifications of these actions are
bound up in the future and the future is something I've never hoped to
contemplate. I don't expect to live long enough to see it.
And still I come here—to watch, to guard, to smell. I think that's one of the
things I love about this place. He's been here so long that it smells like him.
It's faint, but just enough that even when he's gone it lingers like a fading
scent mark on the air. I miss that, the muskiness of him, not that it's
something I've ever had personal contact with, more's the pity, the scent of
sweat and heat that's surrounded him on more than one occasion during our
confrontations. It's so fucking hot.
He's going to be home soon.
I know I'm fixated on Mulder and that I'm not what anyone would call the most
balanced of people, but there is something about him. Some connection strung
taut between us that keeps drawing me back, and each time the pull is that much
stronger than the last. It's as if I'm being bound up in him, being slowly
absorbed into him, into his psyche with every visitation, like I'm being sucked
dry even as he grows stronger, more determined to find the truth. His truth.
I can see the changes that the search has wrought in him. The cynicism, the
anger that constantly seems to burn beneath the surface. It's almost subsumed
the man I met so long ago. Not so long in the chronology of measuring time, but
an age in the soul's measurement of it, in the measurement of my life.
He's becoming more and more like me.
That thought terrifies me.
Not much does, you know, not after all I've seen and done. But the thought of
Mulder becoming like me is one of the scariest eventualities I can imagine. With
that analytical mind of his and all the knowledge that he's hoarded over the
years, if he ever went dark side, I don't know if anyone would be able to stop
him. I know I couldn't. I'd just let him suck me down into the abyss with nary a
protest, so long as I could be with him.
And I know I'm not the only one that finds that a lose-lose proposition.
Past actions have shown that clearly. There's always been a power struggle
within the upper echelon, but you can tell who's got the wheel by what's being
done to Mulder at the time. The planners see Mulder joining the side of the
devil as the best possible outcome, hence the attempts to destroy the semblance
of control and balance he'd achieved by trying to remove Scully.
On the other hand, the thinkers see the anti version of Mulder for what he would
become—more of a danger than he ever could be on the side of light. A Mulder
stripped of all barriers, with no conscience or guilt to impede him, is a Mulder
that would happily watch all the plans and deals they've made go up in flames
while he laughs and throws more fuel on the fire so he can toast his
marshmallows.
The only thing worse than a wildcard is a psychotic, sociopathic wildcard and
that's what Mulder would become if they ever managed to break him.
Which is one of the reasons I keep coming back. I keep hoping that I'll be able
to help him by pulling that darkness from him, to diffuse it somehow so that he
won't lose the essence of who he is. Actually, that's bullshit, I'm doing it for
me—I don't want to lose the Mulder that I first met.
He was a fucking prick in those early days, but he was a lovable one for all
that. I've no problem forgiving his lack of trust, which is what made him act
the way he did, because he was right not to trust me anyway. I'm not saying that
it didn't hurt, and it still stings now and again, but I understand his
position. Would that he'd take the time to reciprocate. But he doesn't know what
I've been through, aside from a few causal events on the periphery of my
experience within this whole fucking mess of lies and deceit.
He's going to be home soon.
For once it would be nice if he could touch me with an open hand, instead of a
closed fist, but considering the circumstances, that's probably a hard ask. I
mean, he knows nothing about what I do for him, how I help. He's oblivious,
blinded by lack of knowledge and his own stubborn pride. Doesn't like being
outsmarted, does my Fox. He's the hunter, and the prey is not supposed to be
able to outwit his intelligence and cunning. What he doesn't realise is that the
rat has it's own brand of cunning and it's much more of a survival trait than
the fox's.
It's time for him to see that the worm, or in this case the rat, has turned and
that I've had enough. I'm not going to take any of this shit anymore. I've paid
my dues at the end of his fist and now it's time to put the past to rest and
wipe the slate clean. One way or another we're going to settle this tonight.
It's always been heading here, to this final confrontation where we make the
decision on how to proceed. Do we set aside the violent grievances and move on
to a less physically abusive working relationship? Or does one of us kill the
other? Not much of a choice really. The first is only a diluted form of the
relationship I really want from him and the second looks more and more likely to
be the only outcome.
The worst part of all this is that I really don't want to hurt him, but I'm
afraid that my instincts will kick in if he goes for me. I don't want to die and
if it means killing him to survive, I don't think I'll be able to help myself.
Even with only one hand I have more of a chance of hanging onto my gun than he
does, though his anger may make things a little more dicey. But brooding about
it isn't going to make a fig of difference.
He's going to be home soon.
He really doesn't have a lot of possessions. I always thought he'd be much more
of a pack rat given the state of his office. Maybe it's just that all the things
that he truly values are in that office. That's the place that he marks as home,
not this apartment. This is just where he comes to sleep and occasionally rest.
I don't think he even realises that fact, though.
I always map the place of everything when I visit, I can't help myself. I love
to know about him, all those little parts of his life that he doesn't show
anyone else. The things that even he doesn't notice anymore. God, I'm sinking
back into being completely pathetic again, but I can't help myself. My maudlin
thoughts are returning to circle like vultures around a tempting carcass.
He's going to be home soon.
There's a ritual to checking your gun. Pop the clip. Unchamber the round. Press
the bullet back into the clip. Slap the clip back in. Chamber the first round
and flip the safety on. There's something soothing about it. The formality of
the actions, combined with the sound of metal against metal, is almost
meditative for me. My breathing slows to match the actions and my head clears.
It gets me into the mindset I need to be in.
He's going to be home soon.
Considering the state of his couch, it's surprisingly comfortable. I can
understand why he likes to sleep here. There's a closeness about it that makes
you forget that you're alone, unlike the bed in the other room. Plus, it's
saturated with his scent. The human animal does so love the smell of it's nest
to make it feel safe. It's almost making me regret coming here, but this needs
to be done. We can't deny the issue any longer.
I'm on the way to hell in a handbasket anyway. I can hear his keys outside the
door. There's no way I can get out without him realising I was here. That whole
concept of time slowing down when you're faced with something momentous in your
life? Complete and utter bullshit. Everything moves so quickly that it feels
like if you blink you'll miss it.
He's through the door and closing it behind him before I realise he's done it.
It's only as he turns to walk inside that I make my move. I know he's not
expecting anyone to be here and I willingly take advantage of the fact. Ah, this
reminds me of the good old days back when he was doubting himself and I had to
show him the error of his ways, but this time things are going to go a little
differently.
Even through the light-dappled darkness I can see the snapping of his body into
instant rigidity at the soft click of the safety coming off. He does the frozen
deer in the headlights look so well, but I can see the morphing of surprise into
anger as he recognises me. It doesn't take long. I didn't expect it to. His
standard move towards me comes close on its heels, but it's halted in mid spring
by the splintering of wood by his ear. The look on his face is worth the beating
I took earlier at his hands.
"Sit down, tovarish. You and I are going to have a little talk about the shadows
within your soul."
Fox beats rat.
Gun beats Fox.
Here's hoping we both win.
Karoun means to stun or stupefy.
Karoun
by Sin
He's going to be home soon.
