Well, all right. If that's the way it has to be I'll take it. Because the
night howls sometimes, you know that? Because for me there is nobody else.
Never was. Fucking never. Only he has been where I have, and brought back
some of the same imperatives...
From Tunguska, with love.
Love... Don't make me laugh, I have a split lip. I know who it is he loves.
We're not even friends. It's not—it's a gut thing, a skin thing, a dick
thing.
A dark thing.
And nobody else can give it to him, not even her—because only I know.
That's why when I come up his stairs in the conniving night I push a gun in
his face, so he can pretend he doesn't want this. And he blows me in the
dark, hissing insults between his teeth in badly accented Russian, making me
hurt him. I'm a stand-in. A substitute. That's all right, too. I remember
some of the same things he does—and some he'll never have an idea about.
He thinks a few days in the gulag qualify for a nasty time.
Oh, Mulder. You should try growing up in one. I love your cracked innocence
that thinks itself broken. You're beautiful. You don't know. You don't know
anything about me. You don't know anything about broken ... But your mouth
knows the taste of pain and want when it closes around me, when you go to
your knees and down on me in the lightless time. Some signal is recognized
and responded to. Hunger meeting need.
His mouth with the two messages, luscious and bitter with double meanings,
words of contempt for the punishment they gather, insuring his plausible
denial... Then the silent trance of lips and tongue and wet, depthless,
giving ecstasy that means, it has to mean...
It doesn't mean a thing.
( I don't go there. I don't want to die.)
When I walk out after the blowjob with him breathing behind me, I'm half a
gasp away from sobbing outright, with the nameless coalblack ripping
sensation in my chest that I always need two or three gulps of air to push
back into oblivion where it belongs.
He is the itch of a healing wound, maddening to the bone and impossible to
scratch. Intimacy rubs it to blood and tears of agony.
I miss the man even when he is in my face calling me an asshole before he
kneels in front of me to suck my dick.
He is a phantom pain, a missing limb, a nostalgia of screaming nerves and
mangled signals. I want him in me hanging by his teeth to a chunk of my
heart and for him to bite down .
I want.
Fox Mulder, listen to me. Listen well: I don't know what I want. I just know
that only you have it. I feel like someone in a William Burroughs novel,
addicted to some organic alien drug that makes you glow in the dark and turn
to blue jelly. I feel bad.
I wonder if you know that. I wonder if you would laugh at me for that.
Alex Krycek is feeling bad, someone break out the champagne. Right, Mulder?
Tolka slishi, chorny lisa ... Just listen: I only know that what I want is
inside you. In your dark, dark mind, shot with light from burning fires.
It's in the rift you carry everywhere with you, the screeching gap in your
soul on the other side of 1973. Where you stand frozen, screaming into the
thieving, diamond-white night sky. She's gone, Mulder. Samantha's gone. And
if I told you that you would beat me half to death and shoot me the rest of
the way, wouldn't you?
Because the truth hurts when it's in your face and wearing mine.
We are both of us insane. He risks everything for this.
I risk my life.
For this. This addiction perfected by the way we fit our nightmares together
like a jigsaw puzzle from hell. His mouth is hotter than ground zero of a
nuclear blast and I vaporize in it, trapped in my shadow. Mute. Destroyed. I
don't know what he's thinking when he takes me, when he hugs my hips and
gives me the only home I ever had. His eyes are open, but they're blank as
enamel in the darknesses he creates around my visits.
He will kill me one day. I belong to him.
What I want is inside him. In the obscure recesses of his body where I've
never been, in the mystery of his self. In the way his hair feels between my
fingers.
A phantom heartbreak. A missing link. Having a piece of him defines the loss
of him.
I'm coming back tonight, black fox. Let me at the flame. Let me in.
Let me in before I call this thing by name.
The Threat
by Wildy
Make me, he says. Take this, but I'll be damned if I give it to you, he
says. Reluctant victim of his senses and sneaky top from the bottom, that's
always Fox Mulder.
