Christ oh Christ that was close. Oh, but the stubbled heat of his
cheek, the smell of him... faint reek of fear, this morning's cologne and
Alex can still smell it on his collar... And fuck that. Fuck that—
did he listen? Did he hear? That was the point here.
//And is he going to come rushing out that door any second now and shoot
you with your own fucking gun, you idiot. Move. Move.//
So he moved. But out on the street, walking fast, shoulders hunched
against the cold, he didn't feel any clearer. All he could do was play
the tape over and over in his head. Waiting in the dark. Magnesium
sparkle of adrenaline at the sound of the key in the lock. That secret
moment when Mulder entered, unaware of him, bent down—coiled spring
—and he could still feel the impact of flesh-and-bone in his
shoulder. A righteous tackle, solid and clean and they'd gone down.
Rolled and scrabbled. and when he'd come out on top he'd felt such
singing triumph he had to gloat. Had to hold it over Mulder's head
because he'd been dreaming that line for nearly a year.
//I can beat you with one hand you bastard, son of a bitch, cocksucker
—oh yeah... // and triumph blown out like a fucking candle. //...how
you beat yourself these days. // Like a fucking punch to the heart.
Hurt. And fuck fuck...
//fucking wimp what the fuck do you care if he cares? If he knows? Two
points for flinching, take your lumps and move the fuck on Special
K... //
And walking, walking. Long legs eating up the concrete. Hegel Place
was a pool of chill darkness—dark facades with warm lights glowing
and distant barking dogs. But go where? He'd had a plan, somewhere,
but his whole brain seemed to be knocked off its tracks, skewing around
in his skull like some kind of crazy machine. Tape machine, won't let
him go:
//I'm not here to kill you Mulder. I'm here to help you.// And he'd
been pretty fucking scared hadn't he? Made a joke of his last words,
but he was scared.
//You knew he could feel it right there between the gun and his gut.
The end of everything in your hand. One hand. Isn't that how you beat
yourself...? Oh fuck you... fuck you...// And Jesus, Alexander, get
a grip. Stop. Think. Stay alive.
He stopped in his tracks, reached automatically for his weapon,
remembering even before he could stop his hand that it was not where it
should be. Shit. He'd really gone too far. But still, the old man's
speech had just made Mulder laugh. And he'd realized for the first time
that Mulder really had lost it—lost the drive, the lunatic
persistence, had given the fuck up. And that just scared the living
shit out of him. Didn't know why, but it felt like somebody took a
great big ice cream scoop to his guts. Mulder had laughed, really
laughed—nice laugh—oh Christ but had all gotten tangled up with
the other thing. The other goddamn thing he couldn't get out of his
head and he'd—Christ—he'd kissed him. Fucking kissed Mulder and
this was nuts...
Nuts. Standing in the middle of fucking Hegel Place sprouting wood when
the whole world was going to hell.
And fuck the goddamn world and all the goddamn people in it, because all
he goddamn wanted to goddamn do was turn around and go the fuck back.
But, no. Now that he was breathing again. No, he wasn't going to go
back. And whoa...the clickclickclick of little heels and, Jesus!
Scully! On the other side of the street but Alex was taking no chances,
did his fade. Scully. She'd be heading up there now. Or would she
just stand outside under Mulder's window, looking up? No. That's what
dirty little Kryceks got to do. Pure and holy Scullys never waited,
never longed... She'd be up there in a minute and... Jesus...just by
being there she'd erase it all. Her thumb on Mulder's cheek. Mulder's
arms around her, pressing his face into her hair to rub him off, rub off
the kiss—his kiss, his mark—get Scully's lemony perfume on his
cheek instead and pretend it was nothing. Nothing. It was nothing.
He was nothing. No-one. Nothing but smoke and fucking shadows now.
More invisible every day.
And here he was again. Shadows like old friends and the fucking cold
October wind blew right through him. He had hours to kill before he was
supposed to meet the old man again. Hours.
And so fucking wired. The taste, the stubbled roughness of Mulder's
cheek still on his lips. Fucking kissed... Probably should just hole
up somewhere, jerk off, take a shower. Jerk off again. And he could
picture it, his own hand stripping his soapy cock, or later, on the grim
coverlet with spit—ah shit. Not what he wanted. Not at all. What
he wanted...Mulder's hand, those long, strong fingers gentle for a
change; that flat, throaty voice right at his ear...
//beat yourself these days...Isn't that...?//
Son of a bitch... and he hadn't even realized he'd started walking
again. Away from Mulder's, thank god. If only the fucking movie would
stop. Or go beyond. Except there wasn't anything beyond except his
fantasies. Sick fantasies, dreams so good he could taste them: Mulder
on his knees. Mulder pressed against a wall. A bank of payphones...
no, fuck, another movie he needed to forget.
"Finish it... Do it to me..." Begging, for Christ's sake. The
remembered whine in his voice made him cringe, shove his hand deeper
into his pocket. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And after that, dick in his hand
too hard to piss but good and clack of heels, women's shoes—he'd
giggled—so surreal—and then the sudden slam, his cheek against the
cold tile and the strange cold crawl across his neck...No! God don't go
there, Alex—don't. Bit down hard on his lip and pain and copper made
it go away. For now. He'd dream the dream tonight. Couldn't be
helped. All fucking Mulder's fault. Or not-fucking Mulder.
Who hadn't pulled away. Whose mouth had sketched something like the
echo of a kiss and stayed where Alex had left him. Not moving. Eyes
closed. And the crazy freedom of it—his own gun in Mulder's hands,
his kiss on Mulder's cheek, the fate of the world hanging between them
and everything shining out his fucking eyes as he backed into the
shadows—and then something, like a cartoon coyote looking down that
third step off the cliff and it suddenly hit him what he'd done.
Bottom dropping out and he'd gone all cold and heard something like his
father's voice from his own mouth: good luck to you my friend. And
fled.
Still fleeing. Walking faster, strides lengthening and then he was
running. As if he could get away but, Christ, he could feel it all
piling up behind him, just like thunder.
Thunder. And he didn't realize where he'd been running to until he
found himself outside the building and looking up.
Big, big mistake. But...
Shit.
His teeth were chattering, shivers rattling his bones like taser hits,
and getting colder every second even if that wasn't why, just...
//Jesus not alone tonight alone tonight I can't...// and even while
his brain was still scrabbling like a trapped rat in his skull, his body
knew, was moving again—step, grab and hoist and he was climbing the
fire-escape, the rough scrape and clang of his boots on rusty iron like
the terrifying clank of iron locks—and even so he crouched a long
time at the window, staring in, before he could bring himself to rap a
knuckle against the pane.
Longer still for the lump under the covers to stir, to rise blinking and
sleep-mussed and stumble to the window to gape slack-jawed and comical
back at him through the glass. Alex almost laughed, except it wasn't
funny anymore.
But the window was already opening and John's hand was reaching for him,
strong and clean and—Alex slid numb fingers across the upraised palm
—so warm...
//Jesus, John, didn't your mother teach you never to take a drowning
swimmer's hand? One hand... beat yourself... we're both going to hate
me for this in the morning...//
Sudden sense-memory of that strong, slim hand so gentle on his cheek,
his chest, his cock...
Deserving so much more than...this. But his hand kept right on moving,
gripped John's hand tight enough to grate the slender bones as Alex left
the cold behind one more time and came inside.
"Acts 4:6: ...and John, and Alexander..."
Acts 4:6
by The Spike
Door pressed shut so quiet and out in the hallway Alex leaned against
the wall, breathing hard.
