He never knows I'm here. I'm too smart to let him know. Time must be passing as
slowly for him as it is for me. The minutes, hours, days seem to stand still, as
if it's been years since I last touched him. And he thinks he's handling it.
I can see it in the way he tries to carry on his life like it's normal, watching
his pornos, working day and night. He knows it's not the same, though, unable to
concentrate, unable to come from just a video. Last night he found a tee shirt I
had left there on purpose, and slept with his hand curled around it. When he
woke up, he smelled it, and tucked it into the cushions.
When I came to him that first time, I was determined to have him for my own, to
pull him into my skin, if only for a night. I knew the ice was thin, the danger
was there. And that danger was all but forgotten as soon as I kissed him. That
danger made it better. It was forbidden. And we liked it too well. He was mine
until duty tightened around his throat like a necktie, until he heard Scully's
voice on his cell phone.
We went in too deep. I began to come to him whenever I could. He would be
pacing when I got there, automatically taking off his clothes when he saw me in
the doorway, then he'd move to rip off mine. But something scared him. He tried
to resurface after we'd already drowned. He doesn't want to realize that he's
anchored to this. It won't let him go. I know he knows it too, because I see it
in every grimace and every wince, in every minute of every day. He thinks of me
and aches.
Mulder thinks I believed him that morning. He thinks I always believed him. But
I knew he lied. He always lied to me. And when he offered himself to me—he
lied and still gave himself—I took what I could get. I wanted whatever he
would give. And he entered me with a lie in his throat. Sitting here now, on
his desk, my feet propped in his chair, I am still taking what he's giving. I
watch him toss in thoughts of me. Hear his sighs and whimpers. Watch as his
deception—telling himself he doesn't want me—begins to crumble. See him come
back to me slowly. And it's enough for now.
I've seen how he's changed. He's not changed enough for Scully to see. Despite
what she thinks, she really doesn't know him at all. But enough for me to see.
There is a sliver of hate in him for her now. He still loves her, but he doesn't
love what he has to be to love her. He has to be strong, wear his shiny armor
without complaint. She never sees the worm eating away at his insides. And to
him his angels are no longer sacred. They are working against him. Although he
fights it, his demon desire is tempting him with an irresistible fire. His
supposed Hell becoming a Heaven in his mind. A mind tortured with conflict.
At least I have the comfort of truth. But I as much as I deny it, I know I am
the fool. While he resists fate, I tempt it, try to bait it. I am the fool
because I'll stay. Because I'll wait until he's ready again. Until I can have
him calling for me while he's fucking me again. Until he's so tired of fighting
it, he'll search me out. And I'll be here to be found. The hours creep by in the
dark. I love this time with him. I move off the desk and stand in the shadows,
still in easy view of his lanky form on the couch. After an eternity I hear him
wake in the dark. And he cries, whether because he forgot the dreams of me or
remembered them, I'll never know. And I listen to him cry. And I smile. And I
wait.
Ice
by Susan
I'm still in his apartment. It's been weeks now since he asked me to leave.
Correction—told me to. And I did leave. Quietly. Without a fuss. But I came
back. I still watch him; when he jerks off, pisses, dresses for work. And when
he dreams, tossing on that black leather couch, calling my name. When he sleeps,
when he dreams, it's my name he whispers. My name he screams. Sometimes I laugh,
and think about taping it and mailing it to Scully.
