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It's funny the things you can remember from your childhood: favorite toys, missing teeth, first bicycles...those awkward first kisses on a sunset-drenched porch at the end of a summer day. But those memories aren't mine. My memories are distant and hazy, a fog in which actual events are mixed in with a boyhood spent dreaming I were somewhere else. Somewhere, anywhere, but that dank, oppressive apartment on 16th Street, with no favorite toys, first bicycles, or love. I've always been a survivor -- and a dreamer -- because of those days. Mama tried, of course, but she was defeated long before the move from Russia. She trudged through her days, desperately clinging to the woman she always imagined herself to be before she was burdened with children she could barely feed, and a husband who treated her like she never mattered. It begins as repression, and then becomes disassociation, until it's come to the point that I can only recall the bad memories when I look back -- all except those summer nights outside on the fire escape. Mama used to tell me stories, old Russian folk tales that always had a moral but never ended happily. They were meant to be lessons about human nature: love conquers all, but the lovers had to suffer to appreciate what they had been given. Love was a gift that was rare and never to be taken for granted. I've identified a lot with those stories of romance over the years. Mama's stories have stuck with me because she needed me to understand that I was worthy of love, despite all the evidence to the contrary when I was growing up. She did her best to protect me from most of it, but I was lost long before then. I hung on her words of dashing princes, magical princesses, and star-crossed lovers regardless. As the years went on I began losing more and more of myself to the work, the underhanded dealings, the shady double-crosses, and the death. But I stayed alive, playing the game and moving my pieces to keep them on the board. The survival instincts I honed in that roach- and rat-infested hellhole -- where violence was commonplace -- never left me. And neither did those stories Mama gave me. They were like a beacon light I kept hidden in the darkness of my soul. I never allowed anyone to see that deeply. Open yourself up and you only discover you're unprotected; you learn to keep silent, stay vigilant, hide your emotions, don't let anyone get to know you, fight attraction, and shoot first, ask questions later. Rules to live by, right? I'm a tough son of a bitch. I've been through shit that would make better men weep. I could pull a trigger with a smile. I've welcomed the evil -- thrived on that cold, empty *nothingness* that washed over me. I drank it in. It kept me alive. So when did I become so broken? When did Mama's stories start becoming relevant in my life again? I thought I had them safely buried beneath the exterior of the man I claimed to be: the unrepentant killer. But when I met him I knew I had been lying to myself. He saw through the illusion the minute those intense hazel eyes met mine, and the persona I had carefully constructed for years crumbled at his feet. And so my world began and ended with his kiss. It was during our first case together, the Augustus Cole killings. I was young and ambitious, and thought nothing of taking a relative run-of- the-mill job as a man on the inside. Spender had taken me under his wing, and I was anxious to prove myself. I find it bizarre now that I thought this man actually cared about me like a father. Only later did I discover it was all a smokescreen -- a sickening, bluish cloud of deception that I honestly never recovered from. I was devoted not to a cause, but to Spender, because I craved the attention and supposed respect. Reading up on the man they foolishly referred to as "Spooky" Mulder, it became clear to me that I was really going to have to impress him in order to get him to trust me. He was an Oxford graduate, a golden boy within the Bureau with a preternaturally brilliant mind. He may not express it as frequently as some men, but Fox Mulder is an extremely emotional individual. Of course, it took me some time to learn that, because he's frustratingly guarded. I discovered that he was already raw from the dissolution of the X-Files, as well as his separation from Scully, and my sudden introduction did nothing to build a bridge between us. I tried, though. He made getting to know him one of the hardest jobs I've ever attempted. Surprisingly, I found it easy to believe the outlandish theories he spouted. I don't think I could ever explain *why* the weird UFO shit made sense to me, but in hindsight I'm glad he was the one to open my eyes. And I never lied to him. I did attend the FBI Academy with a number of assholes who used to whisper his name in the hallways like he was some crackpot mad professor. It makes me laugh to think that I would fall in love with a man more comfortable believing in little green men than seeing what was happening right in front of his face. I never planned for it to happen, either. I didn't purposely use seduction techniques to build his trust, although we had been trained in such artistry. We just...clicked. I know, I know, it's a banal term for what occurred, but there it is. We spent days and nights working that damn case, and after engaging him in discussions about everything from Bigfoot to our preferred flavor of Pixy Stix (I'm a grape man, he's cherry, which he claims is because of our age difference), I realized my assignment wasn't the thing that was motivating me. I discovered a true connection with this man whose background couldn't have been more contrary to mine. I had been prepared to do my job, report back to Spender, and move on with the rest of my career, dubious though it was. I thought I had lofty goals to attain -- money to make, people to crush -- but suddenly that all became like a distant buzzing in my ears when he was around me. The night we finally cornered Augustus Cole in the Bronx Station train yard I had made up my mind to support Mulder's battle to expose the truth. The assignment didn't matter anymore, nor did the promises of advancement and monetary gain. The only thing I cared about was spending more time with the man who made me quiver when he laughed at one of my stupid jokes. The moment I pulled the trigger and dropped Cole will forever be etched in my memory, not for the shooting, because, hell, I had killed before, but for its aftermath. Oh, Jesus, I was scared. Yeah, I admit it -- it's a pretty ballsy statement from a guy who barely bats an eyelash at blood spray. But when I saw Cole with the gun my entire existence narrowed down to the perceived threat against Mulder. He hardly considered me his partner, yet I was already protective of him. Never in my life have I cared what someone thought about me until it came time to face what I had done to protect Mulder. I was shaking, sweating...basically a nervous wreck when we both kneeled over the body. I did see a gun. I saw him draw. I did what I had to do to save my partner's life. Mulder surprised the hell out of me when he said that I did the right thing. I barely heard him, though, because I had all these thoughts swirling around in my head, especially the fact that I had essentially screwed up my entire mission and may have put my own life in danger because of it. Then it hit me, and at that point I wasn't really thinking about the dead man in front of us, or Mulder. I was thinking about how there was a really, really good chance I was going to have one of the shortest tenures of any Syndicate member before or since. He must have noticed the look of sheer terror on my face, because as my life began flashing in front of my eyes and my mind drifted to near- hysteria, I felt his hand on my cheek. It was a hesitant, gentle caress, like he was getting my attention. I looked up at him then, and he brushed the hair from my eyes. My hair was longer then. He always loved running his fingers through it. After I came to my senses I realized his fingers hadn't left my face. "Shhh, I got you," was what he said. He said that over and over, while he softly rubbed my cheek. I remember the soothing tones he used as he talked to me, until eventually he was holding me and I had no idea how I had become entangled in his arms. He was murmuring in my ear, telling me everything was going to be all right, when I felt his lips brush my forehead. Had I planned this? No. Did I seek out a relationship with another man? I never had before, so, no. Was I actually looking to get involved with my superior while I was on assignment for the men that wanted to take him down? Of course not. Was I ready when those round, supple red lips met mine? Oh, yes. I don't know who was more surprised: me when he actually did it, or him when I slid my hand around his waist and drew him closer so I could feel him against me. It was better than what I had fantasized during all those long hours spent hunched over a computer screen, watching his mouth move and barely paying attention to what came out of it. He never caught me staring, but there was more than one occasion when I was almost sure he nibbled on that bottom lip on purpose. God. Just picturing it makes me hard. That's where this bizarre "love thy enemy" affair began -- on the floor of a dirty, confined loading dock, his fingers gripped in my hair and my groin pressed against his as we practically kissed the life from each other in a frenzy before backup arrived. I was never the same afterward, and that repressed 7-year-old boy who thought folk tales and magic were real awakened to believe in love again. I wonder what Mama would say if she knew I were the fairy princess, and Mulder had become my prince. Our relationship has always been fraught with tension and confusion, because neither of us can verbalize what we're feeling. It's a constant give and take between he and I, with moments of divine clarity in which we connect and the doubts disappear, coupled with pure antagonism. The nights we've spent together tend to outweigh the negative aspects of the bond between us -- and I do call it that -- because we give ourselves to each other so completely that everything else becomes irrelevant. When he holds me and whispers that he wishes it were all different, I actually believe him. I submit to the harsh treatment because I know expressing our status could mean our deaths. I've put myself in danger numerous times to aid him on his quest, although I've never told him exactly how often he would be groping in the dark if not for my intervention. I let him believe that he was the one to make remarkable discoveries, despite the fact that he probably should have been killed a hundred times over by now. I revel in the gorgeous look on his face when he calls me Alex and shares his enthusiasm over a case I secretly handed to him on a silver platter. I gave him the receipts for that Queens bust; I pointed the way to Wiekamp Air Force Base and sealed my insistence that he get his head out of his ass with a kiss; I made sure Skinner didn't get the opportunity to give up on him; I even hunted down that damn cloaked UFO to show him how serious I was about getting even with that cigarette-smoking son of a bitch. I admit I cried when he was taken, because I was forbidden to interfere. I didn't even cry when they took my arm, but the tears wouldn't stop as I watched them lower him into the ground, knowing he was still alive. The Syndicate's New York branch has yet to recover from the devastating blow dealt by the alien colonists, but there are still covert factions across the globe that know who and where I am. I was helpless. I wanted to rush up to Scully and scream at her that she was burying the only reason I have to live in this world. I felt like pawing at that dirt myself to free him from the hell they subjected him to, but doing that would expose me, decreasing his chances of survival. I still believe love conquers all, although I had some doubts while standing there at the foot of his grave while my insides felt like they were pouring out. I eventually had to threaten Scully's baby to coerce them into saving his life. I've come to realize that I can't live without him. Can't, and won't, no matter how much they threaten me. I never wanted to fall this hard. I tried to resist it -- I've often wondered what he would say if I offered to just take some money and get out of town. I'm not brave enough to do it, though. It'd be so easy if I could. If I could force myself to abandon his touch, or his lips, or that brilliant mind of his...we'd both be safer. It'd be so easy. Doubtless, he knows it, too. I've seen how hard it's been on him: the subterfuge and lies, the fabricated stories he tells Scully when we're together, the barely suppressed hunger that radiates in his touch when we make love. Then again, why doesn't he leave *me*? I asked him that once. "You've been a fighter for how many years?" he asked. I couldn't remember...since I learned to cook for my brother and myself when I was eight, maybe? "That constant struggle made you who you are, Alex. You burn with it. I'll never be complete without that fire." He kissed me then. "I need you in my life." I never asked him again after that. We haven't been able to see each other since he returned to the world of the living. All of me aches for him, and I told him as much during one of our sporadic phone calls recently. He told me it's too dangerous right now for us to get together, and while my heart protests, my mind knows he's right. Luckily, I've found a solution. I have information he can use about this new secret program instituted by another facet of our corrupt government. The military has been experimenting with a new alien threat they're calling the Super Soldiers. I'm on my way right now to warn him; I don't know how much he already knows, but at least I'll get to see him. I can't wait to see the look on his face when I drive up. Perhaps we can go away when this is all over, to a place where there is snow on the ground and it's too cold to do anything but stay under the bedcovers all day. God, I haven't felt his hands on me in such a long time. We can drive for hours and chat the way we used to. I'll argue that the original Star Wars films are, and always will be, better than the re- mastered versions. I'll stick by my claim that hockey is better than basketball and listen to him try and refute it. I'll tell him the jokes I've been saving, just to hear him giggle that high-pitched laugh without acting self-conscious. And I think I'll tell him one of Mama's stories. He needs to know that love conquers all, and I'm going to be the one who makes him believe. Exeunt *** "Easy" You've been a fighter for how many years? It'd be so easy Look at this world & what it's comin' to It'd be so easy |
It Conquersby RhymePhile |