Mulder sighed, closed the curtains, shucked his jacket, kicked
off his shoes, loosened his tie and stretched out his long
frame on the bed. He picked up the remote control and pointed
it towards the dark, silent box in the corner of the room. With
a small press of his finger it flared into life casting an
eerie green glow about the darkened room. Mulder frowned and
pressed a few more buttons. Static. Nothing but static. OK...
he'd already consoled himself with the fact that there would be
no porn channel but where was CNN? Where was the Paramount
Comedy Channel?
Mulder pushed himself to a seated position and grabbed the
leatherette folder from the top of the cabinet. He flicked
through a few pages of meaningless introduction and welcome
until he found the one that dealt with the TV... and gasped in
shock.
He'd already figured out that his 'hosts' were god-fearing
Christians by the way they greeted him like he was the original
prodigal son returned, but this was the last straw... the straw
that broke the camel's back. He sneered at his own remembrance
of the parables taught in Bible Study and took a deep breath.
So... his hosts didn't want to corrupt their hotel... or their
guests... with bawdy comedies, violent films and reality, but
the TV had to be there for some reason nonetheless.
The next paragraph brought a sinking feeling that left his
heart somewhere near his knees. Channel 6 had been set up with
a VCR link that would play... all day long... Walt Disney
classics. He bit his bottom lip to stifle the curse that
threatened to pollute the air... and flicked to Channel 6.
Anything being better than nothing.
The last ten minutes of Dumbo flowed by and then the room was
bathed, momentarily, in a pale blue light while the next film
loaded. Mulder found his eyelids becoming heavy as the long
journey finally took its toll and he drifted off to the sound,
and sight, of Walt Disney's Aladdin........
He was flying. The breeze buffeted him and, in the distance, he
could see the majestic mountains, their tops cloaked in a layer
of fluffy white cloud. He gazed down. Below him passed deep dry
valleys, stretches of yellow sand then, out of nowhere, fields
of ripening maize. A swarm of bees lifted off, encircled him as
if investigating this unknown aviator before flying back to
their green island within the sea of sand. Still he flew onward
until he was passing across thirty-foot dunes of shifting sand
that undulated across the desert floor in wave upon wave.
Mulder's dream self looked away from the ground and focused on
himself. He was not flying per se... he was lying on his
stomach on a beautiful woven carpet, his hands clutching the
edge where the tassels fluttered, whipped by the wind. His hair
was just a little longer. It streamed behind him, swept back
from his face. White, silky material billowed from his arms and
torso. He gazed down the length of his own body to the red sash
and the black pants. Ornate ankle boots made of the softest
suede with delicately pointed tips completed the look.
The scene shifted, the sky darkening as the sun set leaving him
bathed in star and moonlight. The desert floor disappeared and
ahead he could see a small mountain overshadowed by a much
larger brother. Slowly the carpet descended, floating down on
the soft warm air currents until it had settled on the
surprisingly flat and stone-free ground.
Mulder stood up and stepped forward towards the rock face. As
he drew closer his eyes perceived a soft light shining around
the edges of a large slab. He grinned, hazel eyes glowing. His
mouth opening to say the magic words: Open Sesame.
"Who goes there?"
The deep rumbling voice filled his mind and his ears, echoing
about the rocks. Mulder looked up to see a familiar, hated face
carved in granite. The stone-cast features dwarfed the Agent,
eyes glowing with malice at being pulled away from his slumber.
The giant carved and seamed face crumpled in dismay when it
recognised the man that stood before him and gave a deep sigh,
plumes of grey smoke rushing forward to surround Mulder in a
dense fog that gradually lifted away.
"Reveal the truth and you may pass."
Mulder frowned. What truth? How could he reveal something he
was still seeking? Words spoken long ago in an old warehouse
reverberated around his head.
//The truth... the truth. There's no truth. These men... they
make it up as they go along.//
"There is no truth."
The seamed face stared at Mulder malevolently and then, with a
final plume of acrid, grey smoke, it seemed to flow back into
the rock face. Fox Mulder smiled as the slab gently rolled
aside with just the barest whisper revealing a softly lit
tunnel that stretched backwards into the rock face. He stepped
inside and turned in time to watch the slab roll back into
place with a slight rumble of rock on rock.
The tunnel was dank. Light reflected with an eerie green glow
off the moss that grew on the moist walls. In places the walls
seemed almost transparent and he thought he could make out the
shapes of people embedded in the rock, their bodies still as
statues, the only movement a whitish shape squirming in their
abdomens. He moved passed the intangible figures cautiously,
his mind recognising what it saw but refusing to dwell on it.
The light grew stronger as he moved along the tunnel until he
found himself standing in front of a heavy damask curtain. He
drew the curtain aside and stepped into a chamber. More of the
heavy white damask draped from the walls like spiders' webs,
concealing the rocky surface. He took another step forward and
felt his foot sink into the rich, deep pile of a Persian carpet
that stretched from one side of the chamber to the other.
Mulder found his attention captured by an ornate dais at the
very centre of the room. Through the light, gauzy material he
could make out the naked form of a dark-haired man.
Despite the distance from the tunnel to the dais, another step
brought him to the side of the platform and he swept aside the
curtain so he could gaze at the partially hidden occupant. His
breath caught in his throat.
The man lay on his back with one arm curled above his head,
framing the mahogany hair that fanned out across the silken
pillow. A wide golden armband encircled the biceps; its
intricate filigree of mysterious symbols enhancing the ivory
skin. The almost hairless chest rose and fell with each gentle
breath that stirred from the beautiful lips.
Mulder sank down beside the recumbent figure, his eyes
travelling the length of the strong torso, across the dark
forest of hair with its dormant sex and down the long, finely
muscled legs to the perfect feet. He knew this body well... had
seen it many times in many places yet never had it been
displayed so innocently... so provocatively.
His eyes, darkened by a wave of desire, climbed back up to
caress the soft features; the slightly pointed ears, the high
arch of eyebrow, the delicate nose with its slight upturn and
that beautiful, luscious mouth with its deep cupids bow. Dark
lashes fanned the pale cheeks, fluttering slowly as the sleeper
dreamed.
Mulder pulled back in shock. This was Alexei 'Ratboy' Krycek...
traitor, murderer, liar... He looked down at the angelic
features in bewilderment and found forest green eyes watching
him.
"I didn't kill your father... I was there but I didn't kill
him."
Mulder's dream self frowned. His memory of that terrible night
was filled with strange images conjured up by the LSD in his
water supply; his father's pained yet resigned expression; the
promise of the truth that was broken with the sound of a body
falling heavily in the nearby bathroom. There was no reason to
connect Alex Krycek with his father's death... no fingerprints,
no footprints, no witnesses... no evidence at all,
circumstantial or otherwise, yet he knew Krycek had been there.
How? Why? Had he seen something after all? Perhaps he'd
glimpsed the familiar figure fleeing the scene. Perhaps his
father and his killer had spoken while he drifted and out of a
drugged stupor... had he recognised the husky voice?... Was Lee
Harvey Oswald working alone?
Mulder's mouth dropped open in surprise. Where had that
thought come from? And yet... Why had he never considered that
there might have been two or more 'killers'? The well-dressed
man Scully met at the funeral had inferred that Consortium
assassinations involved two operatives who left the gun behind.
If so, then why did they change their MO? And why did Alex
Krycek show up at his apartment block alone? Had he been at his
father's house alone? Had there been a second gunman? The frown
faded away. Was it really so hard to believe that Alex Krycek
was telling the truth for once. Could he have been at this
father's house with some reason other than murder in mind?
Perhaps if Cardinal had lived... perhaps Cardinal had....
"I didn't kill your father."
The soft, husky voice interrupted his thoughts but he had
already reached this conclusion and had tried to discount it.
Now it was impossible to ignore.
"I know. I've always known but I had to hate you. I needed to
hate you."
Alex Krycek moved and Mulder found his eyes glancing down to
the cruelly truncated limb. His long fingers reached out to
caress the scarred surface. He looked up as the back of a hand
stroked along his cheek.
"Is this why I needed to hate you? Because I wanted... want
you?"
A smile, tentative at first, broadened across the angelic face.
Then the form before him began to fade away, drifting into
shadow until only a trace of the bright eyes and smile
remained.
"Alex?"
Mulder reached out towards the ethereal figure as it
disappeared. The scene around him shimmered until he found
himself lying on his back, the wind ruffling his hair, watching
white clouds pass quickly against the pale blue sky of a new
dawn until they became too thick to see through......
Mulder blinked. The ceiling above his head was white. In the
background he could hear the murmur of the TV as Aladdin played
out. He reached out and grasped the edges of his strange dream
before they could fade away completely, sensing a feeling of
peace descend upon him for the first time in years. The
Psychologist in him recognised the importance of dreams and
this one had revealed two possible truths that he had been
hiding from himself.
First, was Alex Krycek's involvement in the Consortium so
nefarious? Was there more to the man than just a lackey
following orders? Did he follow some hidden agenda that was
merely a darker reflection of his own crusade? His dream said
'Yes'.
Second was the reason for this refusal to see Krycek as
anything other than an evil, manipulating bastard just a ruse
to avoid another truth? Was the hatred and anger he targeted at
Alexei Krycek just a substitute for the real emotions... a
cloak to hide the intense feelings of desire had coursed
through his mind and body whenever he thought of Alex? Again,
his dream said 'Yes'.
Mulder took a deep, shaky breath. This enforced time away from
the X-Files had cast a dark cloud over his life, putting his
quest on hold but perhaps the old adage was right... every
cloud had a silver lining. Perhaps these series of unwanted
assignments, checking out the purchase of raw materials that
could be made into explosives, had given his brain a little
down-time... time to drag out and examine all those thoughts
and memories that he had conveniently buried rather than face
head on.
Until he could reclaim the X-Files there would be plenty of
time to examine these thoughts and hidden dreams, and maybe, if
he were fortunate, those dreams would be of Alex.
Time to Dream
by Tarlan
It was just his luck to find himself in the Bible belt of
Midwest America. The hotel room was clean, quaint even, with
its chintz curtains and patchwork quilt spread across the
single bed. A copy of the bible was prominently displayed on
the bedside cabinet rather than being tucked away in the top
drawer where it could be ignored. A small hand-written note lay
on top listing passages of interest to the lonely traveller.
