Dreaming is for Moonrise
The man in the passenger seat is far younger, hardly more than a teenager, and
he is small and thin, with a face so carefully devoid of expression as to be
almost doll-like in its blankness. He is simply staring out the window, very
pointedly not looking at the other man. The difference in age between them is
just barely enough to make them a possible father and son, but not even the
most casual glance would suggest this. Instead, the air of fear that weaves
thick in the car, the boy's youth, the older man's aura of guarded threat give
the scenario an angle of coercion, of crime.
This only goes to show how easy it is to misjudge things by their
appearance.
Alex Krycek is trying hard to keep his entire concentration on nothing but the
road, the mechanics of driving, but is not making a very good job of it. He is
nervous, jittery, a few precious heartbeats from scared shitless. The landscape
is vast and perfectly magnificent, but he's not here for the scenery. This is
the very last place on Earth he'd come to for recreation. There's nowhere to
hide out here, no merciful crowd to blend into, nothing at all to shield him
from the sound of his own memories. He never thought he'd have to come back. He
longs painfully for a nice, big city to disappear into. That will be their
next destination. Any damn city. Even DC for all he cares, as long as they can
leave this place behind forever. He would have taken them to somewhere crowded
and anonymous, gotten them a house with a big basement, anything. But there was
no time. The boy hasn't said anything, doesn't need to. Alex can almost feel
the pull of the moon himself. If the danger weren't so imminent, he'd be
excited. But there is danger. They need a safe place, and what sanctuary is
there for men on the run? Where can you hide a werewolf for three nights? What
would keep it locked up?
There is one place he is absolutely sure will hold just about anything, and
that's where they're heading. So what if it's the place he only goes back to in
his worst nightmares, the ones from which he wakes not screaming, but so
terrified he's beyond sound?
Again and again, he has to ask why he didn't just take the time when he had it.
How hard would it have been to settle down somewhere for a few days, look for
some convenient abandoned farm house with a wine cellar, and be done with the
problem? But the heady taste of rebellion, the exhilaration of doing one thing
right in a lifetime of wrongs, had apparently gone to his head. He had picked
a road and followed it, so sure things would work out eventually. The road is
taking them north-east. These aren't his usual hunting grounds. He doesn't have
any connections here. And suddenly time has run out, and he's got this boy on
his hands, this boy who has become not only his accomplice in giving his
erstwhile employers a run for their money, but also his lover. This boy, who
will, when the moon rises in exactly nine hours time, turn into a wolf.
Alex feels North Dakota close in around him like some dark and noxious cloud,
and again he has to fight down panic. He doesn't want to be here, yet the place
calls him, taunts him. He is almost positive of the fact that if he sat down
and had himself a good, long think, he'd come up with ten better ideas for a
werewolf cage than the one he is taking his charge to. However, it seems as if
he has been driving in a straight line towards it ever since he pulled the boy
out of that shower in Nevada.
Alex is tempted to check the back of his neck for implants, so strong is the
pull of Black Crow, North Dakota. The repulsion he feels is strong, too, but
not enough. He's being swallowed.
"Alex?" Oz hasn't spoken a word in the hours since they crossed the state line,
almost as if he could feel the turmoil inside Alex. But now his voice is
insistent.
"What?"
"What happened to you here?"
There is a fraction of a second when Alex thinks he might actually run the car
off the road. Then he regains control over his jumpy nerves and the car both.
Damn, the kid can pick his moments.
"What makes you think anything happened?" Fucking stupid question, but he wants
time to think about his answer.
"You're afraid."
"I'm not afraid."
"You can't lie to me, Alex." The tone is calm, a little resigned. Oz is very
good at hiding curiosity. The fact that he asked in the first place must mean
he's picking up some pretty heavy vibes. "You don't have to tell me anything,
but you stink of fear. I would just like to know what I'm getting into."
"You're not getting into dick, except a place to keep you behind bars until
your urges settle." And once more the mere thought of putting the boy down
there, locking him in, makes Alex's stomach turn over and his lungs constrict.
Even the car, which usually feels safe and cosy, seems too small suddenly, too
enclosed.
"Are you claustrophobic?" Fuck. For a second he's tempted to just strike out
and break the nosy brat's nose. The last thing he wants now is for anyone to
get into his head. Not even Mulder, with his endless analysis, his educated
psychobabble, could ever get beyond the walls Alex has erected around his
psyche.
Oz throws a quick glance at Alex and promptly zips it. Thank god for the boy's
good judgement. It will give Alex more time to come to terms with this return.
If there is any possibility of closure, it will come in these next few days. He
is not optimistic.
He refuses to tell me where we are, but I see a sign just before we go off the
main road. Black Crow. Seems like any other small town to me. There is nothing
even remotely ominous about the surroundings, but apparently Alex is going
through some personal hell of his own. He is not talking about it, but fear
radiates off him in waves so hot I'm starting to sweat. I haven't known him for
very long, and he's told me next to nothing about himself, but it doesn't take
a mind reader to know that he is a man not used to being afraid. So I'm afraid
as well, that his fear of whatever we're heading into will project itself as
violence. I haven't been afraid of him at all since Nevada, but now I am.
He takes me to a place that looks like an old quarry, or possibly a set out of
some post-apocalyptic B-movie. Cut into the crumbling rock wall is a door. An
unassuming metal door.
Alex gets out of the car and stalks over the dusty ground to the door. I stay
where I am, reluctant to do anything to arouse his anger.
"Come on!" he shouts without turning around. He's standing in front of the
door, staring at it as if he thinks it will open at his command. I walk up to
him, a little more certain of my safety, but still quite apprehensive. He turns
to me, and his face is paper-white with dark smudges around the eyes, which
seem enormous and almost black. Automatically, I take a step backwards. He
stares at me like he's never seen me before. "There are over two hundred silos
down here," he mumbles.
"What?" I ask stupidly. I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Missile silos," he answers, his voice tight but controlled. "They're supposed
to be filled with concrete, but they're not. There's something inside one of
them, number 1013..."
"What is it?" He looks back at the door and shrugs. "It's probably gone
now."
And that's all the explanation I get, for now he's already pushing the door
open.
"Get in. Sun's setting."
I scramble in after him, and the door falls shut behind me. Darkness engulfs
us. It doesn't bother me much. My happy little werewolf senses, as strong as
they get right now, make eyesight almost redundant.
"No!" The sound is something between a scream and a hiss, a desperate,
panicking negation. Alex is pounding at the door, completely lost in mindless
panic. The reek of adrenaline is making my head spin. Going against my own
better judgement, I tentatively touch his shoulder. He goes instantly rigid, a
tight tremor running through him into me, as if I'm touching some
malfunctioning electrical appliance. At least he's stopped trying to dig his
way through the unlocked door I think, and then he suddenly snaps around
and backhands me in the face.
I know he pulled that punch if he hadn't, my nose would be broken—but I
still fly backwards, landing gracelessly on my ass, clutching my smarting face.
He stands above me, invisible in the thick darkness, but his menace is clearly
present and accounted for. Then he reaches down for me, pulling me into a tight
embrace apologetic or still frightened, I don't know.
"Come on, Alex, calm down," I mumble tonelessly, trying desperately not to fear
him, forgive him, for he knows not what he does. "There's nothing in
here. I'd smell it if there were."
A little of the tension flows out of his body. His hands are around me, and
just for a few moments he lets some of his walls come down. "That's just it,
Oz," he whispers hoarsely into my hair. "Nothing at all down here. Just old,
dusty death."
"What happened?" I shouldn't push it, but I can't help my curiosity. What
horrors lie behind all this darkness? Will knowing them let me understand what
makes this man what he is? Somehow I don't think he'll be quite that
forthcoming.
"They left me behind."
"Why did you come back now?" He lets go of me abruptly, tensing up again. He
takes a few wavering steps away from the door.
"It's a safe place."
"Is it?"
"It's empty." There's something in his voice now that sets my alarms a-ringing.
Annoyance? Maybe, but there's something else, too... For once, my superior nose
fails to tell me anything about his mood. The reek of fear is too pervasive; it
covers all nuances. He's still afraid, but he's definitely sublimating the
panic now. And when a guy like Alex starts doing that, you'd do good in getting
the fuck away from him.
Only I have nowhere in the world to run.
He's got me by the arms before I even realise he's moved. Jesus, he's faster
than a cat. Got eyes like one, as well. He's all human; he shouldn't be able to
see shit in here. It's not completely dark; there's some sort of vent high up
ahead, but the light is so diffuse that even I have trouble distinguishing
anything.
He's just holding me steady like that, his fingers digging into my biceps, his
harsh breath fanning my face.
"What are we doing here in the dark, Alex?" I ask because I can't think of
anything smarter to say. His grip grows minutely tighter, and it's starting to
hurt now. Good thing I'll be changing in an hour or so, or I'd sport pretty
bruises tomorrow. "Hey!" The startled yelp is out before I can bite down on it
it sounds so sissy but he's slammed me against the cold concrete of the
wall, and it hurt, dammit.
"I'm dealing, Oz, that's what I'm doing," he hisses in my ear, and that throaty
whisper would be unbearably sexy if it weren't for those rock hard hands
bruising my arms. Hell, it's sexy anyway, but I'm getting pretty wigged out
here. He's sublimating, all right. Putting all his fears and whatever traumas
this place has left in him into some wild, violent sexual fantasy of his. Now
I can smell what it is he's up to, and it's sex, or something at least vaguely
resembling it. The smell of his excitement is both turning me on and putting
the fear of God into me. This kind of ambiguity is really not me at all. I
usually know what I want. Now, as he's pushing against me a lot harder than
strictly necessary, his knee nudging my legs apart, his hands leaving my arms
to slide up and come to rest on my throat, fingers right over my pulse, I'm too
scared to think straight, too fucking horny to fight back.
We've only been lovers, or whatever you want to call this strange relationship,
for two nights. There's been gentleness and need and kisses and all that stuff.
He hasn't even suggested anything more advanced than those few but incredible
blowjobs. But there's nothing gentle about him now. He's still fingering my
pulse, almost absentmindedly.
"Now you're afraid," he purrs, and the sound of it sends a cold spike of fear
into my gut. Why did I think I'd be safe with this man? He might not be as
full-fledged a psychopath as, say, Spike, but he's surely cultivating his own
unique brand of budding sociopathy.
"Alex..." I can't make my lips form the plea. Hell, I'm way too stubborn to
plead, and the word comes out almost as an encouragement. I don't know what
he's really gearing up to do. He probably doesn't even know it himself. Fuck me
through this wall or try to kill me? I know he can't make me actually die
he's not packing any silverware but he can surely make me hurt.
"Fuck you! Get out of my head!" he shouts, and I know he's not talking to me,
and now he grabs me again and just flips me around like I weigh nothing at all,
and my face is pressed unceremoniously into cold, rough concrete. He's got my
jeans pulled down in no time at all, and I guess I'm gonna get screwed now. And
it's definitely going to hurt. I can feel his erection pressing against my ass,
and then his hands are around my neck again, squeezing just enough to make me
see stars floating in the darkness. I know that I won't die from it, but it
doesn't make it any less frightening. I wonder briefly where this need to choke
me comes from. It seems to have some sort of sexual meaning for him. Maybe some
old lover had a bit of a kink?
Just as I'm starting to mercifully black out, he releases my throat, and I'm
left to my own devices, gasping and coughing. In my efforts to remember how to
breathe, I never notice him dropping his own pants before he lifts me up and
slams home.
I can't scream; my aching throat won't let out more than a sibilant sigh, but
there is quite a lot of pain. Not as much as I feared, though. Apparently, he's
made some kind of preparations, using I don't know what, spit or precum or
whatever, but the feeling isn't one of complete dryness, and dear god, am I
grateful for that.
Then his arms come around me, and he's moving slower, giving me some time to
adjust. I don't know when this stopped being about hurting me, but he's not
trying to turn me into wallpaper anymore. One of his hands creeps to my neck
and stays there, unmoving. He still wants to throttle me, apparently, but I'm
ready to take it as a good sign that he's hesitating.
The other hand has found my cock, found it hard and aching, and is now making a
good effort of alleviating the ache. I'm starting to forget about the sting in
my ass.
"God, you're as twisted as..." His whisper is bitten off, and I never get to
know who the template is. Someone who is into power games and autoerotic
asphyxiation, I figure. Just perfect for little Alex. "Slut," he hisses, but
somehow, the insult doesn't sound very sincere, and the last of the threat is
gone from his voice, and he's hovering somewhere between ecstatic and mournful.
His hand on my cock is picking up speed, and his cock up my ass is pulled
almost all the way out, and I'm anticipating a painful slam again, but
instead he does this little readjusting wiggle, and thrusts home, and
jesusjesusjesus that is not something they tell you about in biology class, and
here I am, howling like the wolf waiting inside me, splattering the concrete
with my come. He's gasping behind me, coming as well, and for a moment, we
slouch against the wall, sated and quiet as if we were just a couple of
ordinary lovers getting off. Then he pulls back quickly, and I'm almost sure I
can hear him whisper a hoarse little 'sorry' before he's gone off me and out
the door. Without his weight to support me, my knees buckle and I crumple into
a little, sad heap of trembling, exhausted flesh.
He's back almost immediately with a flashlight. While I'm still blinking in the
unexpected brilliance of it, he pulls me up, not entirely without gentleness,
and ushers me towards the beginning of a corridor across the room. I clumsily
pull up my jeans, wincing at the soreness and the stickiness, ignoring it with
a brave face. Now that I'm no longer scared, or horny, or even very upset
(internal memo: analyse lack of righteous outrage later), I can feel how close
it is to the Change. It's tugging at me with big, clawed fingers, and it's so
much scarier, so much more violent than anything Alex could think of in all his
unbalanced inventiveness.
There are endless rows of doors down this corridor. Other corridors branch off
pretty much arbitrarily, and I have no idea how Alex knows where he's going.
But he does, and it's not too long before we reach the door with the number he
mentioned. 1013. Why does he bring me here? Is this where they left him?
Whoever 'they' are, and whatever really happened. What lies behind that
door?
I'm about to find out, because Alex is opening it. With a good-natured (when
did he get good-natured?) nudge, he pushes me into the space behind it. And
my question is answered, and the answer is a big fat nothing. It's a missile
silo, all right, huge and vast and round, and echoingly empty. Alex flicks the
flashlight around the walls, and I catch sight of something small and white
just a little bit to the left of the door. It looks like a business card; at
least it's small and square and white. I make a move towards it, but Alex is
faster, and I never get a chance to see what the name on the card is.
Apparently, it has significance to Alex, because he frowns and stuffs it in his
pocket without offering an explanation.
He seems almost okay now, but I can feel that he's itching to get the fuck out
of here. When he leaves, and the door slams shut, I'm treated to an intense
false flashback of what he might have been feeling in some hypothetical past,
locked inside this very room. Knowing he's being left to die. I shudder at the
thought and pray quietly for him to please not ditch me right now. Come back
for me in the morning, Alex...
Tightly clutching the too-familiar calling card in his hand, he's already
halfway to the entrance hall when he hears the first howls. Incredible how the
voice carries in these empty rooms. The sounds start out as screams of agony,
move in pitch to almost-wailing, deepen to anger, lust, terrible, terrible joy.
Then the last part of humanity fades, and it is pure animal hunger. Alex is
happy to leave. He'd be happy to leave in any case. He's not happy about the
way things went down here. His most immediate sense of losing control, that
jagged-edged panic, is lying low now, but the price... he's not sure what the
price will be, but it might be the last of his own humanity. Dammit, he's
gonna do a Mulder What were you doing here, Mulder? Did you see the
ship? and actually feel guilty about screwing the boy. Okay, so it was
more like rape, when you get right down to it, and for fuck's sake, the kid's
not seen both sides of twenty, but it did help. He's never had to take anything
that hasn't been offered before, and he's not sure Oz had been precisely
refusing it. It had been more like some sort of resignation to pain. As if he'd
known exactly why Alex was doing what he was doing. As if he had allowed it
to happen...
You're placing the blame on the victim, Krycek a voice that sounds way
too much like Mulder's dry monotone mutters in the confines of his brain.
You're being so typical I'm almost disappointed. That's it. The very
last thing he needs is this phantom Mulder picking his brain. Bad enough that
the real one tried it so many times, that Oz seems to be able to read his every
emotion before he's even recognised it himself. Angrily, he scrunches the
business card with his one-time partner's name on it into a little ball and
throws it into the night. But of course it's too late, Mulder's back in his
head and he's not budging.
The world outside has never felt fresher. Silken moonlight highlights the harsh
landscape, taking away its edge, painting it in gossamer silver. Alex leans
against the door, filling his lungs eagerly with cool, balmy air, purging his
brain of unpleasant thoughts. He can do it for now, just exist as if he's
nothing but another shadow in a world made up of stark black and white. Forget
about the silo; forget about conspiracies, aliens, paranoid FBI agents with
grudges and brilliant minds, monsters... the one down in the silo, the one
within. Just breathe, slowly, savoring every taste of this freedom, which, such
as it is, is his alone.
You hurt that boy phantom-shrink-Mulder vents from his place somewhere
in the devious recesses of Alex's brain.
Jesus, what is this? Where did you come from all of a sudden? He had
definitely thought Mulder was a thing of the past for him, and then all it
takes is one little card, fallen out of a pocket, left in a place it shouldn't
be, and there the man is, disembodied, nothing but a ghost—mental flatulence,
perhaps—but annoying and undeniably desirable as ever.
The boy, Krycek.
Fuck off. He can't remember ever having an inner dialogue this
insistent. Maybe he really is losing it this time. Shoulda known Black
Crow was gonna finish me off.
You invented me, stupid. I'm not going anywhere. Think about the boy,
Alex.
Ha! Mulder never called me that!
Hmmm—that's true. Not even when I was boning your traitor ass. But how
many times did you wish I had? Stupid little fantasies, stupid little
fake-fibbie. You're a flake, Alex, always were. But we digress—think about
the boy, Alex.
The boy, the boy! He has a name!
Maybe he has—but you weren't thinking about his name when you were
slamming him into that wall, were you?
No, for god's sake, I was thinking about you!
This time, there is no reply, and Alex sighs in relief. Having his own fucking
subconscious turn on him is just way too much to handle on a day like today.
Still, the odd little exercise has been cathartic in its own,
bordering-on-committable kinda way. He does feel bad about roughing Oz up. He'd
just needed something to take his mind off the walls closing in on him. And it
had helped. Oz had taken it like a man and a half, too. The pint-sized werewolf
is not someone to dismiss with a shrug, that's for sure. Please, Ma, can
I keep'em?
He wonders if Oz will be hungry when he comes off his wolfy high. Somehow it
seems like the change, whatever it is like, should use a lot of energy. Alex
doesn't know much of anything about werewolves, but he's seen the same movies
as the next guy, and a common theme seems to be hunger.
There's bound to be a diner somewhere in Black Crow. Time to think about that
in the morning. Alex suddenly realises he's exhausted. All this angst and panic
and facing of assorted demons has left him emotionally empty and weary to the
bone. Sleep would be an idea. There's only the car to do that in, but Alex has
done that so many times, it works just as well as a hotel room. You learn to be
flexible when half the world wants to kill you and the other half wants you
behind bars.
Despite the day's ardors, Alex Krycek sleeps like the dead that night, curled
up in the cramped back seat. He doesn't dream. Around him, the world continues
on, the moon wanders steadily across the sky, stars twinkle, trees rustle,
animals go about their business as usual. Deep in the confines of silo #1013, a
very large and very ugly wolf sits morosely on a vast, cold, concrete floor.
The not-quite-animal is hungry, angry, ready to bite and tear and rip through
flesh, bones and just about anything else, but it's intelligent enough to know
that there is no way out of this place. Finally, it too lies down to sleep and
dreams of rabbits and deer and naked men.
I awake naked on a cold floor. I am not surprised. Being a werewolf, the whole
deal with phases and changes and chains and cages has very gently slid into
routine for me over the last year. Now that I'm awake and as good as human
again, apart from a few lingering traces of a dream teasing the edges of my
consciousness... bright gleam of panic in terrified eyes, the taste of blood
thick and metallic in my mouth, the steamy breath of a dying stag puffing and
curling around me, the reek of entrails, tempting, sweet, diving into it and
eating, eating...
I shrug, trying to avoid the feeling of excitement the dream has left in me.
These dreams are they memories or simply wishful thinking on behalf of the
wolf? I haven't spent more than two or three wolf-nights on the loose, and I
just don't know what mayhem my animal half was up to back then. There were
all those missing dogs and cats and sheep...
This is all just the ordinary run of things. I always wake up feeling high on
blood I hopefully never swallowed, reeling with some imaginary hunt. It's all
in a day for your average Teen Wolf, isn't it? Now, if Giles would just get his
tweed-clad butt to work and come unlock the cage, I will be just as sound as a
pound. I'll go home, maybe call Willow... is it Saturday? Hmmm, the Bronze
might be an idea... band practice seems likely to occur at some point. Only not
too late, of course. This was only the first night. Three nights a month to
explain away. Dev is always understanding, even though I never told him the
truth. Dev tends to jump to conclusions so damned quickly I never have to tell
him anything. Probably thinks I've got something on the side. Which I have,
in a way.
At this point in my post-lupine early morning ruminations, I find it in me to
open my eyes. And it's black around me. Deep, merciless, moonless-night,
bottom-of-sack-black. And quiet. And cold. Conclusions present themselves
quickly, even to my sleep-and-lycanthropy-addled brain. Silo. Alex. Last
night.
Shit.
I'm locked in a silo, at the mercy of someone I'm starting to suspect is
hovering just south of nutcase. Someone who last night, for reasons kept
mostly to himself, saw fit to slam me against a wall, slam me against a wall
and... well, do whatever. It's easy enough to pinpoint what happened, in the
obvious, physical way, but what really went down is just way too complicated.
Technically, of course, it can only be called rape. I must be callous. I
don't feel raped. Alex, trying to exorcise his demons, whatever they looked
like, by pounding his cock up my sore ass. Gentle, considerate lover turned
savage. Yeah, we've heard that song before. And we didn't like it back then,
either.
I get up, trying without much success not to think about what I'll do if Alex
has chosen to leave silo, demons and hapless victim behind. I feel his way to
my clothes. They're still lying in the same orderly heap I put them in last
night after I'd listened to the echo of Alex's footsteps fade to oppressive
silence in the empty corridors. Another thing that's just plain ordinary by
now; take off your clothes prior to change, thereby avoiding the embarrassment
of having to ask the librarian to find something for you to wear on your way
home in the morning.
Even though I put on my clothes, I'm shivering. I'm starving. I have a vision
of bloody steaks in glorious rows, lined up between plates of prime rib
dripping with grease, humongous hamburgers, bowls of meaty stew, grilled liver
(funny how I always hated liver before... now I could eat it raw and love it),
ham, long strings of sausages... It all fades when I imagine a whole stag,
still warm and twitching, blood streaming from the bites on its neck and
flanks. I could rip its gut open, stick my head in, find the liver and gulp it
down before starting on the rest of that freshly-killed banquet. Tongue is
good, so's the muzzle. And the heart is a rare treat, tough, a little bitter,
but very personal. I guess I should get nervous now that my fantasy stag has
mutated into something that looks almost human, but I'm so deep in tastes and
smells and the wonderful feeling of standing ravenous in front of the meal of
your life, I can't be bothered.
I'm halfway into a trance when I suddenly snap out of it. The door to the silo
stands open; Alex is there, looking at me with a small frown creasing his brow.
I banish the thought of warm meat from my devious brain.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, as if he can see some of the bloodthirst in my face.
"I could eat a horse," I say. Or you
He's apparently going through another phase of not talking to me, for he
refuses to talk or even look at me as he leads me through the maze. He seems to
have, at least superficially, gotten over his claustrophobia. I can smell no
fear or panic on him, and he looks cool. In fact, he's got that stone-faced
look I have come to think of as his professional face game face. By now,
I know better than to say anything. Nothing about him is reliable, nothing is
safe. Still, I've hardly ever seen a sight more welcome than his face.
He drives me into town, buys me breakfast by the truckload in a dank little
diner, all the while keeping communication down to the barest minimum, his face
staying forbidding, his eyes distant, scanning some inner landscapes I'll never
know anything about. I find it pretty easy to ignore him right back, faced as I
am with the pleasant task of refilling my body's depleted reserves. There is
nothing in the world that gives you a better appetite than shapeshifting. The
perky little waitress gives me funny look when I order my third round, but
thats easy to ignore as well.
Finally, after Ive eaten in silence for almost an hour, he looks me in the eye
for the first time this morning. His eyes manage to seem both completely
shuttered and painfully intense at the same time. Weirdness.
"Alex?" He looks away, and I'm almost sure he's ashamed. He's thinking about
last night. Maybe he wants to get rid of me. Maybe I am bad for him. Yeah, and
he's just fucking perfect for me, I guess. He's not going to say anything, I
suppose. I'll have to make this right myself. Dammit, that sort of thing
doesn't come naturally to me. "You don't have to say anything," I start. It
sounds irrevocably cliched and lame, lame, lame. "But you scare me. I don't
know if I can trust you."
He meets my eyes now, and this time there's no mistaking the expression. He's
pissed off, and no two ways about it.
"It's not my problem if you trust me or not. I'm just trying to stay alive."
His voice is perfectly cold. But it's still got that husky,
too-many-cigarrettes quality to it, and hell, if I can't feel a funny little
tingle in the places that matter. He probably can't help it, but he's too hot
to be this cold. Shit.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"I don't know." Well, that's reassuring. "Look, Oz. I'm not someone you want to
fuck with. You're already a liability. Try not to become a problem."
Now he's pissing me off. He's scared of something, and it makes him pissed,
and he takes it out on me. Real fucking mature. I have a temper, although it's
not in much use these days, but now I can feel it building up.
"I'm a liability? You fucking kidnapped me! I don't know, I was just living
under the impression that you wanted to help me. I actually thought you gave
a shit. Let's not forget who's been fucking who, okay?"
"I don't need this."
"Yeah, well, you've got it. You can try to kill me, but it won't be very easy
unless you've got some silver bullets for that plunky sidearm you pack. You can
ditch me right here. Just stop fucking with my head. I'm not your whipping
boy."
I am perfectly able to be angry in a quiet way, but somehow that doesn't seem
to work for me today. I'm almost shouting, and people are starting to throw us
uncertain glances. Alex is looking like he can't decide whether to shoot me on
the spot or just leave with the door banging. I don't think he's very good at
arguing. He's probably always been able to solve things with a bullet or two.
"You little shit," he hisses, and for a second I'm sure he's going to lose it
and just whip out his gun. But he's got more control than I've given him credit
for, and I can see his eyes turn shallow as he bites the bullet and shuts down
the anger.
"We don't have to talk about it," I say, trying to take advantage of the
moment. Trying to save my ass, I guess. Alex with pent-up emotion is worse than
angry Alex in many ways. "We don't have to talk about anything. You did what
you did for your own reasons. I can live with it. If you can, we're okay."
"I can live with a lot, Oz. I am living with a lot. You're just another
victim."
"Yeah, well, try not to fucking rape me again, or I might get really angry."
I say that in my sarcastic voice, but I'm told it sounds a lot like my regular
one, so I'm not sure if he got me. He doesn't bother answering. In fact, he's
tuned me out again and is looking out the window. I guess the conversation is
over. There's no apology forthcoming, not that I expected one. I won't be
hearing any heartfelt revelations of childhood abuse or whatever it was that
made him what he is. This isn't a Harlequin romance, and that's for sure.
When we get back in the car, he seems to have accepted my presence again. There
isn't much talk, but he's not ignoring me, either. I suppose this is the way
it's going to be. Why should we talk about what we feel, anyway? I'm not his
boyfriend; he's not my father. We're just a couple of strangers thrown
together.
Then he surprises me again. Just as I was beginning to think I had him pretty
much figured out, he throws me another curve ball. He turns to me, and actually
sgrins. Mercurial doesn't even begin to describe this guy's personality.
"I guess sex is out of the question, then?"
It takes me a good ten seconds to digest this. He rapes me, and now he wants to
sleep with me? Why should I want to? But I do. Of course I do. He's all I've
got, after all. The only one who knows where I am and what I'm doing here. And
he is gorgeous.
"Pull over." He stares at me incredulously for a moment. Then he shrugs and
does as I told him. I lean over to kiss him, and it's just as good as it was
the first time.
"You are twisted," he whispers.
"Always was," I whisper back. His hands are already roaming, and I'm burning
where he touches me. So this is how it's going to be. I can live with it. He'll
hurt me, and I'll forgive him because I have to. Not perfect, but perfectly
okay.
End. So far, anyway.
Take Me Away Part Three
by Wax Jism
Behold this endless, dusty country road, flanked by miles and miles of
yellowing fields, solitary farm houses, small towns. Followed by a curtain of
dust that rises in billowing clouds in the hot Indian summer air, a car, color
indistinguishable under a coating of dirt, is steadily making its way towards
the north-east. There isn't anything strange about this car. The passengers,
however, might merit a second glance from a casual observer. The driver is in
his thirties, tall and dark, with a face that by any rights should be far too
pretty to look this menacing, and eyes far too large and green to look this
cold. He is frowning slightly, as if reluctant or afraid. He seems to be
holding on to the wheel as if it is the only thing keeping him from falling
into the abyss.
