Pilgrimage
At that time of the night
Merlin's patience lasted on the long cab drive from the DOJ, into the bar, until the beers arrived.
Merlin looked back and forth from Tomas to Dio, from blue eyes to brown, letting every ounce of frustration, exhaustion and impatience of the last three days show in his face, his voice.
"All right, we're here. We're out of the DOJ building, across town, in a little out-of-the-way bar in an out-of-the-way street. No one knows us here." He leaned across the table, palms flat on the scarred, nicked wood, voice a gravelly snarl. "Now what was so fucking important that you had to drag me halfway across town to tell me?"
"You misunderstood us, Agent Mulder." Tomas's blue eyes icicle sapphire, tone just as cold. "We don't have information for you. You have information for us."
"And what information would that be?" Matching tone for tone, cold for cold.
Tomas leaned across the table, glaring, dangerous. "Tell me everything that happened Friday night."
Merlin felt the flush start at the back of his neck, the tightness beginning in his crotch, as he replayed a snippet of the conversation he and Alex had early Saturday morning in his head.
::Fuck you, Merlin::
Merlin tuned back into the conversation as Tomas finished talking. "...from the moment Luis entered the bar until the moment he left."
"Why?"
Tomas was unprepared for the question. Several possible answers piled up on the back of his tongue, while he sorted through the stack, choosing the wisest response. He opted for the truth, or at least an expurgated version of it.
"I heard Alex's version of the events of that evening. It....something about it doesn't make sense. I wanted to hear it from your viewpoint. Perhaps your eyes will show me what I need to see to make it add up."
Merlin blinked, blinked again as he mentally reviewed the video of the confrontation in the bar. "What in specific doesn't add up?"
Tomas shook his head. "Not yet. You first. Afterwards, I'll explain."
"Where do you want me to start?" Looking at Dio, nursing a beer, silently observing.
A hint of a smile played around Tomas's handsome face, the first of the evening. "Start at the beginning, continue to the end, and then stop."
"...and the bar security arrived just as Alex hit the exit and disappeared. The whole time Alex was headed for the door, Luis just watched. Didn't make a single move to stop Alex. Just stood there and let Denise pound on him. He could have squashed Denise like a bug—after all, Luis is a good four inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. He didn't. He let Denise land those punches, with barely a token defense."
Tomas sat back, nursing his beer, contemplating. Blue eyes focused on a spot eighteen inches in front of him and almost a year earlier. It just didn't make sense. To quote Mr. Spock, the behavior was illogical. He took a deep breath, ran his hand through his blond hair, and looked at Dio.
"Alex was right. It doesn't add up."
Dio looked at him over his wire-rim glasses, rested one hand on top of his lover's. Eyes warm, full of love. "Can you put your finger on what doesn't add up?"
"Logistics. His stated goal and his actions are contradicting each other." Tomas looked to Merlin for support. "You're following what I'm saying, aren't you?"
The computer that Merlin called his brain was frantically testing scenarios, trying on alternative viewpoints. "I think so. Spell it out for me, using small words."
Tomas nodded, continued. "Luis told Alex—hell, told the whole room—that his intention was to leave and take Alex with him. Got that so far?"
"So far so good." Merlin smiled, and saw its echo on Tomas's face.
"If you were planning on kidnapping someone, would you make a public announcement to that effect in front of a crowd of witnesses?" Tomas saw the awareness start to dawn in Merlin's hazel eyes. "I didn't think so. You also wouldn't make a grab for someone in front of several dozen possible rescuers either. You would wait until the mark left the building, until you could get the mark alone. Luis knows this." Derisive snort. "Hell, he has first-hand experience at kidnapping Alex. If that was really his plan, all he would have had to do was wait outside by Alex's bike, in the dark. Very simple, very easy. But he didn't do that."
"If that's true, and he wasn't trying to kidnap Alex, then what the bloody hell was he trying to do?"
Both men turned and looked at Dio in unison, with the same calculating light behind their eyes.
"Luis made a fumbling attempt to grab Alex, not ever planning to succeed." Merlin ran his tongue behind his teeth, thinking, calculating. "His goal wasn't to force Alex to come with him, but to scare the hell out of Alex. Luis wanted to make Alex run like a scared rabbit. His goal was to get Alex on the run, on the road, far away from the bar."
Tomas's proud grin was the beam of a teacher with his prize student. "Exactly. The $64,000 question is : Why?"
"Because....because there was something at the bar Luis didn't want Alex to see."
"Or," Dio's deep baritone, "there was someone in the bar who Luis didn't want to see Alex."
Merlin stopped breathing as that realization hit him. "fuck. Luis was at the bar in the first place to meet the representative for the Colombians. If Alex had stumbled onto their meeting..." Merlin followed that thread to its knotted conclusion. "There would have been a bloodbath."
"I think it's more than that, Merlin. I'm not sure exactly what, but there's something else going on. Luis needs Alex out of the way and on the run, out of everyone's reach, including his own. Alex did exactly what Luis wanted—hit the ground running and went underground."
"But what purpose would it serve to have Alex out of Luis's grasp, when the time came to turn him over to the Colombians?" Merlin rubbed his eyes, brain spinning 78 rpm.
"Unless Luis had no intention of turning Alex over to the Colombians."
Both Merlin and Dio turned and stared, openmouthed, at Tomas.
"What the hell are you saying, T? Are you saying that Luis was trying to protect Alex?" Dio gazed slack-jawed at his lover.
"Do the math, D. Luis succeeded admirably in getting Alex the hell out of Dodge, paranoid and looking over his shoulder. What other motive makes sense? Why else would he do it?"
"Tomas, this is Luis we're talking about here." Dio met Tomas's eyes across the scarred table, talking without words.
Tomas refused to back down. "I know what you're thinking, Dio. You're wrong."
::After everything I've....hell, we've been through in the past ten months, you still think I have feelings for him?::
"Am I?" Dio continued to stare into his lover's sapphire blue eyes.
::I hope to g_d I am wrong, Tomas. I don't like the implications if I'm correct::
Merlin covered his eyes with his hands, sighing loudly. "Trying to get inside that sick, twisted head of his and figure out what makes him tick is an exercise in sociopathy. If, if your hypothesis is correct, Tomas, what kind of game is he playing with the Colombians? What the hell is he up to?"
"That I don't know, Merlin. But I plan on finding out."
Quiet.
Still.
Peaceful.
Silence undisturbed by phones, footsteps, interruptions. No disruptions. No emergencies. No minor wounds to be cauterized before they became bleeders.
Walter Skinner needed this after the afternoon, after the week, after the ten years he had put in at the FBI. This was his sanity. This was his reward for getting through the twelve-hour days and the six-day weeks, month after month, year after year.
This is why he was still in his office, with the door closed, at 9:30 that Sunday evening. He wasn't working on next months budget. He wasn't getting ready for the meeting he had in less than fourteen hours with his boss. No, he was on a fishing expedition in some old case files. He was fishing for answers to questions that even the lead investigators had forgotten about.
The singular Skinner concentration had kicked in, and the rest of the world had gone away. His focus had narrowed to a crime scene photograph from a seven year old murder in Pensacola. Skinner's focus, his ability to tune out everything around him for hours at a time, had earned him the respect of his colleagues, several promotions, and the nickname "Bulldog."
That singular Skinner concentration was in full swing when a knock on his door yanked him out of his reverie with a start.
Skinner looked at the door, puzzled. Kim, his secretary, had gone home hours earlier, leaving behind a grateful boss and a gift certificate to Starbucks on her desk for a Monday morning treat. The cleaning crew was already gone. Who the hell would be in the building at the waning hours of Sunday evening?
"Come in." Curiosity overcame habit, common sense.
"I hope I'm not intruding, sir."
"You're not, Agent Mulder."
Skinner sat back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, and watched Merlin walk across the room to the other side of the desk. The younger man had obviously had a few drinks—his movements were loose, his eyes a shade too bright and his defenses down. Merlin looked...almost relaxed. Casual, as he sat in the leather office chair and cocked his head, watching his boss watching him. Skinner idly wondered if Merlin enjoyed his view as much as Skinner enjoyed the panorama from his vantage point.
They both sat there for a long moment, not looking, not not looking. Visceral possessive growl building in the back of Skinner's mind.
Skinner bent first, with just a hint of a smile.
"So, what brought you back here tonight, Agent Mulder?"
"Curiosity, sir. Something you said has been tickling the back of my cerebellum all evening, and I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep until I got an answer."
Skinner arched an eyebrow, amused. Playing it out for everything it was worth. "Is your cerebellum always this ticklish, Agent Mulder?"
"No, sir." Deadpan face, mischievous look in his eyes. "Only about certain things." A wealth of meaning in those words, a rich subtext clearly understood by both participants.
"OK, I'll bite. What did I say that took a feather to your corpus collosum?"
"It was about a certain bar, sir. The 511." The mischievous look was back, and it brought friends.
"What about the bar, Agent Mulder?" Skinner was curious now. Curious to see where this conversation was leading, and who was leading. Curious about the enigma sitting across the desk, relaxed, loose, delicious.
"Sir, as you may recall, earlier this evening you referred to the 511 as an S&M club. Before I came up to your office, I reviewed my notes. Nowhere in my report did I state that the 511 was anything but an ordinary bar. It is, as a matter of fact, an S&M club, but that knowledge is not publicly disseminated."
Skinner let a small smile play across his face. The conversation was getting more amusing by the moment. "And your point is, Agent Mulder?"
Merlin took a long look across the desk, paused, and waved a red flag in front of the bull.
"Deputy Chief Skinner, how did you know that it was an S&M club?"
The hint of a smile on Skinner's face came to full bloom. In the right light, his smile could be described as predatory. He unlaced his hands from behind his head, rested his forearms on the desk and leaned over confidentially.
"How did I know it was an S&M club, Agent Mulder? Because I've been there before. "
"For a case, sir?"
Brown eyes met hazel, caught. Everything unspoken dancing across the high-tension wire between them.
"No, Agent Mulder. Not for a case."
Merlin hesitated, for just a moment, and then went charging ahead.
"Have you been there....recently, sir?"
"Not for quite a few years, Agent Mulder. Why?"
"Just curious, sir. They've made quite a few changes and additions the past eighteen months or so." Merlin got up out of his chair and started moving toward the door. He got halfway across the room, turned, and winked at his boss.
"Sir, if you ever feel like checking out the new and improved 511, give me a call."
Another smile, almost as predatory as Skinner's, a slow, loose-hipped walk across the short distance to the exit, and the door closed behind him.
Chapter 2 – Great Divide
Took a look down a westbound road
Alex sat in the diner of a truck stop on Highway 80 right outside Toledo, head in his hands, watching the rain sheet down from the sky, thinking blasphemous thoughts.
Rain had knocked him out of his planned trajectory. Rain, teacups and buckets and cats and dogs worth, had forced him and his motorcycle off the highway to take shelter at a greasy diner on the topside of Ohio.
Finally, after almost an hour of making calculations in his Palm Pilot, he walked over to the bank of pay phones and started the dominoes falling.
Headed out to my big two-wheeler
When the phone was finally picked up on the sixth ring, he didn't expect to hear a voice on the other end. He knew that there were ears listening in the silence, minds processing, the Collective anticipating every word he would say. He was accustomed to it by now—as accustomed to it as to the full-body pins-and-needles sensation he always felt when in their presence. They had no explanation.
"Crow, it's Alex"
Silence
"The fecal matter has impacted on the rotating oscillating air circulation device." He let some of the panic and frantic energy come through in his voice, though it was wholly redundant. They already knew.
He heard movement from the other end of the phone, and he sensed another ear pressed up against the receiver. Not Crow anymore.
"What happened?" Tim's quiet, breathy voice, as if he were unaccustomed to using it. With that crew, maybe he was.
"Luis happened."
::Fucking hell, it' s been ten months. How fucking long will it be before I can say his name without the fear?::
" Are you injured?"
Alex fingered the ring of violet bruises on his neck. " Not seriously. Not yet."
"What do you need?"
Alex paused for a moment, knowing that seven other pairs of ears heard every word, seven other minds delved, read, processed. " I need the traveling kit. And some information."
"ETA?"
Alex looked at his watch. "Four hours."
"It will be ready." All business. Plans set in motion. It would be ready, too. "What information do you need?"
"A phone number." Heart-beats piling on top of one another.
::I' ll make it better, Merlin. I promise. It' s my job to make everything better, isn't it?::
"Whose?" Alex wasn't deaf—he heard the snap and hiss behind the bland presentation. The impatience of a human behind Tim' s machine facade almost made him smile. Almost.
"Walter Skinner. Deputy Chief of a joint FBI/Justice Department Task Force."
"Home?"
"Correct." ::Getting snarky, are we, kids? Or is the whole lot of you PMSing?::
A millisecond pause, and then Crow' s melodious tones. " The number you requested is XXX/XXX-XXXX." Perfect intonation for a phone recording. Alex had to laugh.
"You've been practicing that with a tape player, haven' t you?"
"Nope. Just doin' what comes naturally. Four hours?"
Crow was the most human of any of them. That's why she was the Face—the one member of the collective that anyone outside a very select circle ever got to see.
"Four hours."
"We'll be ready for you." **Click**
Alex took a deep breath, and started dialing again. One down, one to go. Looking at the world through an aquarium—refraction throwing everything off, disorienting. Tilting the wrong way on its axis.
***Ring*** ***Ring***
" Hi, you've reached Sasha and Misha' s. Just keep in mind—if you' re not part of the solution , you' re part of the precipitate. Leave a message. If we like you, we'll consider calling back."
::They' re not kidding, either. If they return your calls one time out of three, it must be love::
" Sasha, Misha, it's Alex. It's payback time, boys. Remember that big favor you asked me four months ago? Well, it's my turn now." Alex looked at the palm pilot in his hand, numbers scribbled across the screen, hieroglyphics. "I need a big favor, and I need it tonight!"
Took a bead on the northern plains
Dio finally managed to manhandle a very drunk Tomas up to their hotel room and onto the bed, where Tomas immediately fell into a deep, loudly snoring slumber. Dio sat by the bed for a long time, just watching Tomas breathe. The fear was back, right next to that huge empty place in his soul, his gut. This emptiness and Dio were old friends, on a first name basis after two months of living in each other. The pain was there, too, but he carefully avoided touching the edges of that recently healed wound. Scabbed over—not healed. It would never heal.
Alex was gone. Again. Disappeared, maybe of his own volition, maybe not.
Dio unstrapped the holster at his lower back and pulled out his Beretta, passing it from hand to hand. Dio hated guns. Didn't want to have anything to do with them. Refused to carry one. Until Luis. Until he discovered just how quickly and easily the people he loved could disappear, and exactly how little the thin shell of late 20th century civilization actually covered of the ugliness that lived underneath. Now he always carried his Berretta in its holster at the small of his back, even into therapy sessions. His innocence was just another casualty of Luis.
::Luis!..Alex!..Dammit, Alex, don' t go pulling this shit with me, with us. You don' t think we love you, Alex, but we do::
Dio pushed that thought away and reached for the phone. He needed to hear Alex' s voice, prolong the illusion, even if it was nothing but a recording. His fingers knew the number by heart.
" Hi, you've reached Alex' s voice mail. To leave a message, press 1. To hear the inspirational thought of the day, press 2.
Alex' s melodious tones and self-amused smirk carried clearly across the phone lines. Dio sat back on the bed next to his snoring lover and took one deep breath, then another. The message was a new one, obviously recorded in the last six hours. Alex was alive, and well enough to put a new message on his voice mail.
" Today's warm and fuzzy thought of the day is brought to us by those cheerful boys at the Albert Shen Self Help and Self Realization Experience."
"Let me get you off to the right start by keeping it real: life sucks.
It's like a great big kick in the crotch.
With a steel-toed boot.
Filled with the foot of a big, burly Swede, named Sven.
Then, when you're down, it gets a couple of its buddies to help stand you up, and does it again, this time with a running start.
So, I figure just suck it up and grin and bear it.
Just pack some ice on the tender spots and sit and think happy happy thoughts until you're feeling better and/or can stand.
Send a couple of drinks down for moral support."
Laughter bubbled up in Dio, spilling over until he thought he would not only wake up his sleeping lover but everyone else on the fourth floor of the hotel. The message was so perfectly, typically Alex. He couldn't have been any clearer if he had sent a telegram. Life sucked right now, but Alex was going to be fine.
Stood alone on a mountaintop
Deputy Chief Walter Skinner was sitting on the patio of his Virginia house, nursing a vodka tonic, when the phone rang.
He checked his watch—11:30 P.M.
He knew from long experience that a call at this hour could mean only one of two things.
The first unpleasant possibility was that one of his agents had been injured, or worse
/I' m sorry, Mrs. So-and-so, but I have some very bad news. It is my duty to inform you that your husband, Agent so-and-so.../
Skinner knew it was part of the job when he signed up. He had ridden with the Deputy Chief when he was just an agent to his partner' s house on a cold October afternoon back in 1979. That day, that car trip, still played a recurring role in his nightmares.
The other unpleasant possibility was that his brother was calling him from jail, again. This would make his fourth DUI, and the judge had been explicit last time in the consequences of another conviction. Prison time. SERIOUS prison time, and being the brother of a high-ranking FBI official wouldn't get his fat out of the fire for this one.
He took a deep breath before reaching for the phone, mentally steeling himself for another night of cleaning up someone else' s mess. His calendar was booked tight tomorrow, starting with a breakfast meeting at 7:30 a.m.. Oh, well—it wasn't like this would be the first or last night he had gone without sleep in his career. Best get it over with.
::And behind door number one...::
" Skinner here."
" Hello, Deputy Chief Skinner."
The voice was male, and very definitely not official. Perfect phone-sex-line voice. This wasn't a call from the hospital, or the police station. He could hear the self-satisfied purr emerging from the receiver.
"Who is this?" If the person on the other end of the line hadn't used his name, he would have suspected this for a prank call. An obscene prank call.
"This is Alex Krycek, Mr. Skinner."
Blink.
Blink.
The last time Alex had spoken to Skinner, earlier that day, he was cursing at the Deputy Chief in Russian and accusing him of blackmailing his junior agents into illicit sex in the executive bathroom. That had been before the young man' s unauthorized disappearance, short-circuiting the bureau' s plans for his authorized disappearance into protective custody.
::I really need to get my phone number changed::
"Where are you, Mr. Krycek?" His coldest, most formal voice, reserved for agents who lose their gun, their badge and their car in the line of duty in the same month.
"Upstate New York, sir. Pennsylvania is beautiful this time of year. The next time you have a long weekend, you really should come down and enjoy the scenery. When was the last time you took a vacation, sir?"
He clenched his jaw. Thought about the lecture he had received during his last trip to his dentist. Unclenched his jaw.
"Why are you in upstate New York, Mr. Krycek?"
Skinner could hear that grin again. "It' s the state between where I was two hours ago and where I will be two hours from now. It' s also the quickest way to get to Canada, sir. Although, in the grand scheme of things, it would have probably shaved a couple of hours off the overall trip for me to cross the Canadian border from Washington State, but I wanted to get the unpleasantness with the passports over with as soon as possible, before someone got the brilliant idea of slapping my photograph up in post offices across the country."
"Why are you going to Canada, Mr. Krycek?"
"You have to go through Canada to get to Alaska, sir."
"I see."
::When did I lose control of this conversation? On second thought, when did I have control of this conversation?::
"Do I need to ask the next question, Mr. Krycek, or can you extrapolate from the last three and save me the trouble?"
The grin was back, glowing through the telephone wires. "Let me put my telepath hat on....Hmm. Survey says, the next question is 'Why Alaska?' Am I right, sir? Do I win a prize?"
He nodded.
"I am going to Alaska because it' s very far away from Washington, D.C., from Luis Christien, and even farther away from Colombia. My hunch is that the Colombian hit men who are after my fair backside will dislike cold weather so much that they won' t bother making an expedition to a state with climate that resembles the inside of my freezer. I've also had a yen to visit our fiftieth state for a while, and now seemed as good a time as any. Oh, and you don' t need to keep calling me Mr. Krycek—I don' t stand on formality much. Just call me Alex."
Dentist be damned. "Why are you calling me at 11:30 at night, Mr. Krycek?" A little extra emphasis on the formality.
"To speak to you, sir. Why? Do you often have people call you late at night and say nothing? If so, you might want to speak to your local constabulary about this problem you' re having with prank calls."
::Like this one?::
"What did you need to tell me that necessitated calling me at 11:30 at night from hundreds of miles away?"
The glow was gone. He heard one deep breath, then another. "I' m calling to make sure Agent Mulder doesn't get penalized for my actions, sir."
Agent Fox Mulder. Brash, headstrong Agent Mulder who had trouble with authority figures and some of the best instincts he had ever seen in his fifteen years with the bureau. Agent Mulder with the facial scar he received in the line of duty and the most amazing hazel eyes...
"What sort of penalty are you referring to, Mr. Krycek?"
"I don' t want..." Pause as he sorted his words, carefully selecting his next few. " He shouldn't get in trouble for my untimely exit. He had absolutely no way of knowing that I was planning on leaving. Hell, I didn't even know what I was planning until I left the building. He didn't know, he couldn't have stopped me, and it would be very unjust to discipline him for something that was out of his control and not his fault."
Discipline.
If you ever feel like checking out the new and improved 511, Deputy Chief Skinner, just let me know
::A quicksilver grin, and a wink, and he was out of my office, and I was pinching myself to see if it was all a dream. Did one of my junior agents just invite me to accompany him to an S&M club? And did I just respond in the affirmative?::
" I don' t think he should be reprimanded for not being precognitive, Sir."
Skinner brought himself back forcefully to the conversation at hand.
"All right, Mr. Krycek, I will consider officially not reprimanding Agent Mulder," pause, " if I get some answers from you."
"I can't turn myself in, sir." The words were rushing out, tripping over themselves in their haste. "I'm a little too fond of my corporeal existence and attached to this mortal coil for that to be a viable option."
"I want some answers, Mr. Krycek. If you give them to me, I will be much more charitably inclined towards your friend."
One deep breath, then a pause. "What do you want to know, Sir?" Quiet, resigned.
::It' s my turn, Mr. Krycek::
"Why did you run?"
"Because if I didn't, I would end up dead."
"Agent Mulder informed you that you would be put in protective custody and kept safe until the trial was over. That arrangement is good enough for witnesses against organized crime figures and other people needing federal protection. Why wasn't it good enough for you?"
"You don' t understand, sir." A little note of pleading. Skinner fought back a smile. "You can' t protect me from Luis Christien. You don' t know what he's capable of. You've never seen him in action. I have. Sir, in my life I have run across a lot of scary individuals. I have NEVER met anyone who scares me as much as he does."
"You' re afraid of him?"
"I' m not afraid of him, sir. I'm terrified of him, and with good reason. He' s wealthy, he has connections, and he has absolutely no morals or ethics. The man is a sociopath, sir. If he wants me dead, I would be dead, and there would be nothing that you or the Federal Bureau of Investigations would be able to do to save me. My only hope for saving my skin is to stay out of his reach until the trial is over."
"You don' t believe that the FBI has the resources to keep you safe?"
"The only person who has the resources to keep me safe, sir, is me."
Bingo.
Skinner had the answer to the problem that had been bothering the back of his brain since Alex dashed out of his office more than eight hours earlier. Skinner had been trying to figure out the Alex puzzle since that morning, using his skills that had been honed as a young agent in the Dallas office, which had been gathering rust since. Alex' s behavior in his office, the information in his file, didn't make sense. Now it did.
"This isn't the first time you've had to rely on your wits and your own abilities to keep yourself safe, is it, Alex?" Subtly shifting to using his first name. Formality gone, gentleness in its place.
"No, sir." Quietly.
"As a matter of fact, I doubt you have ever let anyone else take care of you, except when you were so sick or incapacitated that it was a choice between giving up control and dying." His voice was soft, like velvet over steel. Soothing, enchanting, weaving a spell.
"Yes, sir."
"That' s what it' s all about, isn't it? Control? You have to be in control at all times, or else the consequences would be catastrophic, wouldn't it?"
"Sir, if I lose control of a situation, people I care about tend to get injured, or worse."
Unbeknownst to almost everyone, Walter Skinner had a gentle streak a mile wide. His house was filled with plants and birds, and the occasional homeless cat or dog. He had always had a pronounced weakness for lost causes and small children, and a magnetic attraction for strays of the animal and human variety.
Alex was a stray, a green-eyed wild cat, hovering in the shadows around a fire, terrified of the flames yet needing the warmth to survive. Skinner understood strays, knew how to care for them, knew what to do, what not to do to have them eating out of his hand. He very much wanted to have this particular stray eating out of the palm of his hand. Or other places...
"You have to be in control in order to ensure the safety of the people around you. You're the only one who can protect them, keep them safe. Is that right?"
"Yes, sir." Hesitantly, having no idea where this was going and not sure he liked being along for the ride.
"It gets exhausting, doesn't it? You can never take a day off, never drop your guard, never relax." Deep voiced, flowing like honey down the phone line.
"No, sir."
"But that' s what you want more than anything, isn't it? You just want to share the burden, let someone else take their turn being on point, so you can relax for a few minutes. Do you dream about it—having someone else take control for just a little while?"
"Yes, sir." Airy little sound, less words than a verbalized whimper.
::Breathless already, Alex?::
"You want to be the one being protected for a while, don't you? You want to feel safe for a while, cherished, guarded, instead of it always going in the other direction?"
No answer, just the sound of breathing.
"You're tired, I can tell. Blood and gut and bone tired. Tired of planning, tired of strategizing, tired of thinking and tired of feeling.
"Let me take some of that burden for a little while, Alex. Let me protect you. Let me show you what it feels like to be safe, to be cherished.
"You don't have to do anything, don't have to say anything, don't have to be anything. All you need to do is surrender a little bit of that control. Let me be in control, just for a little while.
"I know you're tired. Rest here with me. Let me be in control." The frightening smile was back. " I promise, after a few minutes, you won't be able to think at all and the only thing you will be able to feel is my hands all over your body"
A quiet gasp and low shudder on the other end of the line, then a thump, a muffled expletive and a flurry of giggles.
"Dammit, sir," Alex tried to snarl, but the effect was greatly blunted by his continued giggles. "Next time WARN ME before we have that kind of conversation!"
"Why?" Skinner asked wide-eyed, the model of innocence. "Would you have hung up on me before I could start?"
" No, you fucking moron, I'd make sure I wasn't in a frigging phone booth! Ow. I think I injured myself!"
Skinner couldn't help it. He started to chuckle, then laugh, and the harder he tried to stop, the worse it got. He sat down on the cold concrete floor of the patio, cradling the receiver with his shoulder, and laughed until his sides ached and tears ran down his cheeks.
"Are you alright, sir? Or do I need to hang up and call 911?"
"No, I'm fine." Skinner was wheezing and wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve. "You just—it just struck me as funny, that' s all."
"So you find the idea of me getting so flustered and distracted that I nearly concuss myself on a pay phone amusing, do you?"
"So that got you flustered and distracted?" Skinner couldn't keep the pleased smile off his face.
"I plead the fifth. I refuse to testify on the grounds that....."
"If that little monologue got you all hot and bothered, young man, you are in deep, deep trouble. Once upon a time, in a previous incarnation, I was considered the master at phone seduction. Alas, that was quite a few years ago, and my skills have since rusted into oblivion. You are in the presence of a skilled artisan, I will have you know."
::A skilled artisan who has definite plans to get you more than flustered and bothered. Damn, how long has it been since I've wanted to do that to someone?::
"So are you trying to tell me that the next time I disturb your tranquil evenings reverie, I should be certain to be in a comfortable, private location?" Another 500 megawatt grin and hope in Alex' s voice.
"Are you trying to tell me that there will be another phone call?" Grinning.
"Could be, sir. Could be."
Chapter 3 – True Colors
"I'm on the outside
Alex finally arrived at the small, nondescript house near downtown Chicago, at the intersection of Halsted and Dayton avenues, at 2:30 in the morning.
He was exhausted.
He was beyond exhausted. He hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours, and the only things at this point that were keeping him going were fear, adrenaline, and pure stubbornness. He'd been on the road since 3:30 p.m. the day before, and the muscles in his legs and back were starting to spasm. Slowly, quietly, he parked the motorcycle and got off, wincing audibly as his spine creaked and popped.
::I am too young to feel this old, and way too old for this shit::
As he walked onto the porch, the full-body pins-and-needles sensation returned. The Collective knew he was here now. Before he could touch the doorbell, the security light on the door switched from red to green, the mechanical click loud in the early-morning suburban silence. He pushed the door open and walked into the darkness.
Eight pairs of eyes tracked his entrance, eight minds sifted through his, delving deep into the dark corners of his gray matter. The prickling sensation in his skin went from annoying to nearly painful. He dragged his palms over the skin on his upper arms, pushing hard into the muscles, trying to soothe the irritated nerve endings. His brain had long ago accepted the intrusion—his body was much less forgiving.
Footsteps approached in the darkness, quietly and expertly, someone experienced at navigating in the misty twilight illuminated only by the glow of multiple computer screens. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a girl standing next to the stairwell, leaning on the banister, watching him. Her light brown hair was black in the partial light, her white T-shirt gray, her eyes gleaming yellow. He shook that thought out of his head quickly, before the Collective could pick up on it. That was one area of his head he didn't want eight sets of feet traipsing through.
"Hey, Crow."
"Alex, you look like shit." She walked closer, almost close enough to touch. She wouldn't. That rush of images, thoughts was too strong for any of them individually. Only after they were interfaced would she put her hands on his.
"Three words, little girl. Kurte Moj Trubku."
"In your panting, sweaty, wet-dreams, Alex." She smiled her best Jack Nicholson smile, managing to look both impish and deranged simultaneously. The image of her instead of Jack in the scene from "The Shining" hatched into his imagination, making him laugh. From the background, he heard a snicker and a quiet "Here's Johnny!"
He spun around, and found himself face-to-face with the Collective.
Eight men and women, ranging in age from barely seventeen up to their mid-forties, sat in front of laptops and desktops scattered through the room. Each was wearing headsets, simultaneously watching him and typing. The silence was cut only by the click of eight keyboards, and the static hum emerging from the earphones.
"Alex, what the hell happened to you?" Crow was standing next to him now, peering at him as if she expected him to fall over at any moment.
Alex sighed. "It has been a really, really lousy weekend. Started out on Friday night..."
"Yo, doofus," Crow interrupted. "Don't tell us. Show us."
Alex chuckled again, to himself, leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and started remembering everything that happened over the past seventy-two hours. As he showed them his memories, the typing sounds slowed, then stopped, as each mind opened to take in the images.
Alex remembered the multicolor hues of the clothing heaped on the kitchen table. He remembered the terrifying feel of trying to breathe and nothing coming in, as his windpipe was compressed by the links of his necklace tightening under Luis's grip. He remembered candy-apple red pumps, and running for his life. He remembered talking to Merlin for hours, and the horrifying realization that everything he ever knew about his life was built on a lie.
When he thought back to the kiss, to the way Merlin felt in his arms, he heard snickering and "Eew, gross!" from the backmost corner of the room. Tim, most likely. The youngest and most sheltered member of the Collective, barely seventeen, had no life experience outside the commune where his parents lived and now this house, these people. He flipped a bird in his general direction, and felt as much as heard the "So's your mother" in reply.
Alex felt....drained. Drained of energy. Drained of memory, as if reliving it for an interested audience sapped all the color away, leaving it sepia-toned, bad black and white. Drained of emotion, of feeling. Alex took a step, miscalculated, nearly fell before Crow's strong arms appeared around his middle, holding him up.
"Up, up you go, Alex. C'mon, you're too big for me to carry upstairs and put to bed like an overgrown toddler. One foot in front of the other." Crow's running patter, and he wasn't even sure if it was coming from outside or inside his own head. With major force of effort, he pushed her away, leaning hard against the wall.
"I...I can't stay here. They'll be looking for me. I have to...."
Crow smiled, a beguiling, dangerous smile. "The only thing you have to do, Alex, is walk up the stairs and take a left at the second door." The grin was gone, and in its place determination, well-banked anger. "Listen very carefully, Alex. You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere. Not until you get a couple of hours of sleep. You're no good to the Collective dead or in a hospital—again."
She didn't understand. He had to make her understand. He had to make his sleep-deprived brain work. "If they find me here..."
She smacked him upside the head, too hard to be merely playing. "Hello!" The look in her eyes spoke volumes. "Telepaths here, remember? We'll know before they get within two blocks of this place. And I promise, we'll wake you up before we get to the firefight. Our early warning system works just fine, as we demonstrated to you when they tried to kidnap Manny..."
Alex couldn't hide the proud grin that bloomed on his tired face. He and Tomas had come to the rescue, tires squealing and guns blazing, when Manny's parents hired security officers to masquerade as police and drag their son home against his will. That was one of the best nights of his life. They needed him, and he was there. He hadn't let them down. He was their protector.
/ Let me protect you, Alex. Let me show you what it feels like to be safe, to be cherished/
As the memories of the conversation earlier that evening flashed across his brain, Alex hid his face, trying to hide his blush, the rush of blood away from his brain towards his face, and down lower. Crow smirked, arched an eyebrow at him. "Alex, Alex, Alex. Been a busy little boy, haven't we? Two of them? Tsk, tsk, tsk." She swatted him gently on the ass. "Bed. Now." Before he had a chance to open his mouth. "Alone. Geez, Louise, you barely post-pubescent boys are all the same..."
Dreaming. Remembering
He could smell the salt in the air, hear the faint cries of the gulls, feel the tides pulling even through walls and locked doors. The drug's gravitational pull was strong on him, sucking him back down, wrapping him in layers of gauze. His wrists itched fiercely under the restraints, where the scabbed-over wounds were starting to heal under their bandages, but even that wasn't enough motivation to overcome inertia and sedation. Neither was the dipping of the bed, as another body weight was added. Strong arms pulling him, rearranging him like a rag doll, draping him over the latest occupant of the bed was almost enough, but not quite.
Then a cool hand started gently stroking down Alex's back, from the nape of his neck, between his shoulder blades, finally stopping at the elastic of his boxers, only to start again at the back of his neck.
That was enough motivation.
Alex opened his eyes, lifted his head, found Luis watching him, his face only a few inches away. Alex tried to push away, move, but he was so tired, and the drugs made him so weak... Alex closed his eyes, put his head back down on Luis's chest. He hated this, hated the drugs, hated Luis, hated himself for being pathetic, for being weak. The rage in his chest coiled tighter and tighter, crushing his lungs, and the screams were building in the back of his head, looking for escape.
"Kitten, look at me." Heavily accented, crystal-clear English.
Alex found himself looking into Luis's coffee-brown eyes. There was an odd expression on Luis's starkly handsome face, somewhere between regret and longing. Alex was almost surprised—soft emotions were a side of his captor he hadn't seen before.
"Kitten, you've been here for over a week. On the first day, I told you we could do this the easy way, or the hard way." Alex tried to look away, but he was imprisoned by a hand at the back of his neck, steel grip under the necklace.
"Every time, you took the hard way. Every Single Time."
::What, and you're disappointed? You expected me to make it easy for you to keep me here against my will? E'bat-kopat::
Alex knew better than to give voice to any of the thoughts that were running through his head. The bruising on his back and legs were a vivid reminder of Luis's bad temper and sick joy at using his belt as an instrument of discipline.
"You don't like the way the drugs make you feel, do you, Kitten?"
The glare Alex gave Luis was pure 190 proof hatred, cold enough to kill. The fingers on the back of Alex's neck tightened, pulling the necklace snug against his throat, threat clearly implied.
"I asked you a question, Kitten. I expect an answer." Luis's voice dropped half an octave, now a definite snarl. The links of the necklace were starting to bite into Alex's neck.
Alex looked away, clenched his jaw, swallowed hard.
"No." Little more than a whisper. The scream in the back of his head was almost deafening.
::I hate you so much::
"Kitten, I don't give a damn about how you feel about me right now. There will be plenty of time to change your opinion of me later. Right now, you will learn the rules, and you will obey them. Or I will keep you on the drugs until you can be more...agreeable. Do you understand?"
The chain bit into his neck again, and he nodded, rage still boiling in his veins.
"Good." The hand moved down from Alex's neck, started stroking his back again, long, slow strokes.
"This isn't military school, Kitten." A hint of a smile crossed Luis's face. "There's no book of do's and do not's for you to remember. There are only four, and I'm relatively sure you can handle that many. You're a very smart young man—that's one of the reasons I chose you."
Alex turned away, put his head back down on Luis's broad chest. He couldn't stand to look at the other man anymore, couldn't stand the psychotic intimacy, the crazy farce of lovers cuddling on the bed.
"Eventually, Kitten, you'll be given free run of the house. After that, free run of the island— if you can behave yourself and follow the rules.
Rule #1—If I give you a direct order, I expect you to follow it. No questions asked.
Rule #2—Do not try to hurt yourself.
Rule #3—Do not try to hurt anyone else in the house.
Rule #4—Do not try to escape."
Alex felt the cold numbness start to build inside his chest, frozen teardrops pushing their way out between tightly closed eyelids. He focused on his breathing, concentrating on slow inhales through the mouth, long exhales through the nose, trying to ignore the tendrils of ice that coated the inside of his chest, constricting his heart.
::That's it. He's never going to let me go. I'm going to die here::
Luis's voice was soft, almost gentle. "I know this is hard for you, Kitten. It always is, the first few months. I will make it as easy on you as I can, if you are willing to meet me halfway." He dropped a kiss on the top of Alex's head. "I'll make you a deal. I know you're really, really tired of being in this room. If you behave yourself for the rest of the day, you can spend the night in my room tonight. Do you think you can do that—do you think you can be good for the next eight hours?"
Alex forced down the laugh that was burning the back of his throat. "Luis, you've got me sedated and chained to the fucking bed. How the hell do you expect me to 'be good'"?
Another smile, this one making Alex's skin crawl. "You're very resourceful, Kitten—you'll figure out a way."
"Alex, wake up."
"Alex, wake up!"
"Alex, dammit, WAKE UP!"
Alex cracked open one eye, nearly blinded by the sunlight flooding the room. Crow was standing by the door, arms crossed over her chest, wearing a disreputably stained t-shirt and equally threadbare boxers—obviously stolen from one of the men living in the house. She did not look amused.
"Are you awake now, Alex?"
He ran his hands through his sleep-rumpled hair, nodded.
"Good. You were having a nightmare. Anyways, it's time to wake up. Check-out is at noon." She turned to leave.
::fuck. shit. Did everyone in the house get a front-row seat to my nightmares?::
"Crow?"
Hand on the doorknob, she didn't turn around. "What?"
"Did you...did everyone..."
She looked over her shoulder at him, hand still on the knob. "Did we see your dreams? No." Definitely irritated. "How did I know you were having a nightmare? Easy. I have the room next door, and you talk in your sleep. Loudly." She glared at him. "Anyways, Alex, the inside of your head is someplace that none of us like to be. It's a nasty, dark place." She turned quickly and left the room, before Alex could do anything else to irritate her.
A few minutes later, a freshly combed and washed Alex wandered downstairs, past a few sleeping bodies sprawled on the couches, laptops still buzzing nearby, headsets still emitting their crackling staticky hum. He drifted quietly into the kitchen, where Crow and another man were sitting at the table, reading the Tribune and eating breakfast.
Before he could sit down, Crow looked up from her paper and pinned him with her eyes.
"Alex, I'm sorry I was being such a little shit earlier. It's just been a really rough couple of weeks chez Collective." Grey eyes apologetic. "I won't burden you with the details, but the next time you swing by, there might be some new faces—and a new Face."
Alex nodded. "Understood."
A young black man looked up from his bowl of brightly-colored cereal and smiled at Alex. "We were beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up."
"Sorry, Robear. I didn't mean to sleep until almost noon. You guys should have gotten me up earlier."
He shrugged. "No biggie. Sasha and Misha were here about three hours ago. Your truck is parked outside, and your bike is stashed safely elsewhere. The traveling kit is by the front door, and I've got some extra documentation for you here."
Alex gazed at Robear groggily. "Extra documentation? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Catch." A manila envelope came arcing in his direction. Alex caught it with one hand.
"What is it, Robear?"
Robear just gave him a look that spoke concisely about his opinion of Alex's IQ. "Just. Open. The. Frigging. Envelope. Already. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, you can be difficult!"
Alex did as he was instructed. Inside was a complete dossier on Anna Romanek, professor of Russian at Cal Poly, including a recent picture, her address, and a map to her house. There was also two smaller manila envelopes, one with the name "Fox Mulder" written across it in black marker, the other "Walter Skinner."
At the bottom was another, smaller envelope, this one white. Alex opened it carefully, saw a flash of green. He nearly dropped the envelope, fingers suddenly shaking as he pulled out one $100 bill after another. A small multi-colored card fell out between two bills. It was a Platinum Master-Card, the name Alex Krycek on the line right above Collective Computing.
Alex looked up from his handfuls of green, eyes wide. "This....there's $5,000 dollars here."
"And a credit card." Robear added helpfully.
"...and a credit card. Why are you giving me $5,000 dollars and a credit card?"
Robear's grin was wide and almost insufferably self-satisfied. "Because you're going to need it. You've now got a new cell phone, a new laptop with a cell modem, clean license plates and registration on your truck, cash and a credit card. In exchange, I need everything in your wallet except your driver's license."
Alex blinked a couple of times. "Why?"
Robear snorted, shook his head slightly. "Because," in a tone often used with small children and idiots, "you're going to disappear for a while. That means no using your credit card, no using your calling card, nothing. We will be keeping all of those here for safe-keeping. You will be welcome to take them back when the trial is over—though with the picture on that license, I don't know why you would want them back."
Alex rubbed his eyes again. This was too surreal. The Collective was never known for altruism—it was an organization that depended on ruthless practicality for its very survival. Alex was allowed to be their friend for the same reason that others outside the core group were tolerated—they had skills that were required for the Collective's continued existence. Yes, they liked him, but the only reason he was there was because he was useful to them. This generosity was vastly out of character.
"No, Alex, we haven't been smoking monkey crack." Robear, grinning broadly. "You have no idea how much time and energy it took to make Peter Cryder disappear and have Alex Krycek appear in his place four years ago. Beautiful piece of hackery and forgery. Beautiful. You die, it gets wasted. Who looks at the identity papers on a corpse, anyways?"
Alex slid easily into his best Upper East Side Jewish accent. "I'm hurt—hurt by this lack of concern for my emotional well-being." He brought the back of one hand to his forehead dramatically, closed his eyes, sniffed away tears. "I'm not feeling any love in this room," he choked out. "You don't love me anymore!" He put his head on the table, dissolving into loud sobs.
Robear and Crow applauded. Alex hopped up, smiling, and took a bow.
Chapter 4 – In the Office
"She was married when we first met,
The whole time Merlin was walking from his cubicle to his boss's office, he was mentally beating himself up with steel-lined gloves and trying out new career choices.
:: Maybe I could get a job at one of those 1-900 psychic hotlines. Or maybe I'll go to Meteorology school and become a weatherman. I wonder if the Weathermen are taking applications. I wonder if there are any Weathermen who aren't in prison or dead...::
His so-called friends in the Task Force weren't helping. When word got around that he had been summoned to a meeting with Iron-Face Skinner, someone put a CD of dirges in the player. A betting pool was immediately started on Merlin's method of suicide after he received the axe. The main debate running in email was whether Merlin would, in a fit of post-termination depression, throw himself in front of a bus laden with tourists or just jump off the roof of the DOJ building. Merlin's partner, JJ, put $10 on the bus. The pool was up to $230.
::Just my luck—I finally get the guts to proposition someone I've been lusting after for months, and I get canned for it. Maybe I'll take a job on an Alaskan fishing boat...::
Merlin stood for a long moment outside Skinner's office door, building up the courage to knock.
::Summoned back to the scene of the crime, and all that good criminal justice technobabble. This is just too fucking poetic for words. What did I do in a previous life to get the local reigning deity this pissed off at me?::
He thought of walking away, contemplated pounding on the door with his head, thought better of it when his boss's secretary wandered by with an armful of files.
"Just go on in, Agent Mulder. He's in there with someone from VCU, discussing your case."
::My case? What the...:: His arm, working independently, knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Just the sound of the man's voice was enough to turn the butterflies in Merlin's stomach to rabid piranha. After a silent—and very fast—appeal to any persuadable holy figures for courage, he opened the door and walked in.
Into something completely other than what he had expected.
Instead of a review panel, convened to discuss his sexual harassment of his boss, Merlin found Walter Skinner, jacketless, sleeves rolled up, leaning over the conference table, talking to another man. Skinner's back was to Merlin, and the younger man indulged in a moment of sheer lust watching the object of his desire unnoticed.
::Does he have any fucking idea how beautiful he is?::
Broad shoulders, lean muscle, brick wall of a chest, heavy dusting of hair on his forearms barely camouflaged behind starched white shirts. Tight abs, strong legs, flat muscular ass masked by tailored dress slacks and jackets. Black handle of his service revolver poking up from the small of his back, an exclamation point in a sea of white.
Merlin's palms itched. He wanted to touch, feel warm skin and muscle, taste sweat, draw his fingernails across Skinner's broad back, remove the Sig and kiss and lick the hollow underneath. He wanted to feel the larger man's pulse through his skin, listen to him breathe. All the blood flow from the upper half of his body was diverted to his crotch, making thinking impossible. The best Merlin could do was chew on the inside of his lip and hold onto the doorknob for support, hoping his legs wouldn't give out under him.
Skinner looked up from the paperwork spread across the table, and locked on Merlin. The DC arched an eyebrow at his recalcitrant agent, and a hint of a smile flickered across his face. For just a second, Skinner dropped the Deputy Chief mask. Underneath, he looked smug. Self-satisfied. Preening before an appreciative audience. Then the mask was back up and all Merlin could see was his own reflection in chocolate-brown eyes hidden behind tortoiseshell frames.
::You like knowing I've got a hard-on for you, don't you, sir? You get off on that, don't you, sir?::
"Thank you for joining us, Agent Mulder." The sound of his voice made the muscles in Merlin's stomach quiver. "Since this is your bailiwick, I thought you would like to be in on this meeting. I'd like to introduce you to Agent Collins of the Violent Crimes Unit. Agent Collins has a Ph.D. in Psychology and nine years experience profiling violent criminals. I've invited him here to help us locate our errant Mr. Krycek."
Merlin sidled across the conference room and pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table from the gray-haired Collins. "VCU? I don't understand. Why did you call them in? What can they do?"
Agent Collins chuckled. "I've been reading your case reports on Mr. Cryder..."
"Krycek." Merlin responded with more venom than absolutely necessary. "His name is Alex Krycek. Not Peter Cryder, not Peter Romanek. Alex Krycek." Merlin was surprised by the rush of protectiveness elicited by the mention of Alex's name. Skinner gave him a sideways glance, eyes narrowed, saying nothing. Once again, Merlin was certain that his boss could see through him like glass.
Collins, expression as sour as a mouthful of lemon, continued. "Mr. Krycek, and I believe I have a handle on where he is headed, and where he can be apprehended."
"Apprehended, DC Skinner?" Merlin addressed the questioning look to his boss. "I was unaware that Alex had done anything worthy of getting arrested for. Last time I checked, there was no outstanding arrest warrants for him. Who's the criminal here, sir? Alex or Christien?" Hands balled into fists under the table, Merlin watched his boss, waiting for an answer.
"Actually, Agent Mulder," Collins broke in, "Mr. Krycek is a witness in a RICO statute case. Therefore, we have the legal right to place him in protective custody, voluntarily or otherwise. His abhorrence of being detained, as your report stated so bluntly, is simply not a concern of the Justice Department or the FBI."
Merlin was starting to violently dislike Agent Collins.
"Arresting him is not our preferred option, Agent Mulder." Skinner's bass rumble from across the table distracted Merlin from thoughts of 'accidentally' shooting the VCU agent. "Collins has graciously agreed to help us locate Alex. We can't keep him alive if we don't know where he is."
There was something about the tone of his boss's voice when he mentioned Alex's name that caught Merlin's attention, and he looked Skinner straight in the eye, searching for something under the surface.
::Alex? You called him Alex? What the fuck's up with that? When did he go from Mr. Krycek to Alex?::
"Agent Collins, please continue. I believe you were telling me where you believe Mr. Krycek will be hiding."
Merlin turned his attention back to the older agent, dressed in a blue suit that made a valiant attempt to cover his paunch. "Yes, please. I'm anxious to hear your educated opinion."
Collins cleared his throat. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he wasn't sure if Merlin was making fun of him or not. "As I was saying, Deputy Chief Skinner, I believe that Mr. Krycek is looking for a safe place to go hide until the danger is over. Considering his background and the recent parentage issues in his life, he will be drawn to places that remind him of his childhood. I believe we will find Mr. Krycek hiding in an abandoned house within a few blocks from where his parents lived when he was growing up."
Merlin bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. From the expression on his boss's face, Skinner was having a similar problem.
::Agent Collins, I see that you've set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public::
"We appreciate the work you've put into this profile, Agent Collins, and we will be reviewing it thoroughly..." Skinner was giving his canned "We're done, now get out of my office" spiel, but Merlin wasn't listening. He was wandering down a back alley in his mind, following a lead, making the intuitive leaps in the process that won him his nickname. Collins didn't offer to shake Merlin's hand, and Merlin didn't watch the older agent leave. Once he heard the door close behind the VCU agent, Merlin turned and looked at his boss again, and started guffawing.
"Where the hell did that man get his Ph.D. in Psychology—- mail order?" That set of another round of chuckling that ended with Merlin's head laying forehead-down on the slick cool glass-top wood conference table, snorting and laughing. He looked up at his boss, at the indulgent, amused expression on Skinner's face, and he lost it all over again.
After Merlin finally managed to catch his breath, sides aching from laughing too hard, he glanced back at his boss. Yup, same expression. Merlin rested his chin in his palm and basked in the gaze, for just a moment.
"Sir, if you keep looking at me like that, your reputation as 'Old Stone-Face' will be permanently ruined."
Skinner shrugged, the half-smile still on his face. Merlin wondered what it would take to make the man smile, really smile, at him. He decided at that moment that he wouldn't stop trying until he could make it happen.
::You have it so bad for him, Merlin::
"You don't laugh very often, do you, Agent Mulder?"
"Nope." Merlin waved his hand airily toward the closed door, towards the departing atoms that once belonged to Agent Collins. "Not often do I get such a perfect buffoon to laugh at, either. I feel like I should thank you for letting me see that. Better than anything I've seen on Comedy Central recently."
"So I'll take it that you had some issues with his profile."
"Issues? Jesus, sir, did they teach classes in BossSpeak at Quantico?" He chuckled again, mostly to himself, as he stood up and walked away from the table. "You could say I had issues with his profile. His profile was full of shit. That man couldn't find his ass with both hands, a flashlight, and a brace of guide dogs."
Skinner snorted. "Well, now that you mention it, his profile was quite....creative."
Merlin looked at Skinner, aghast. "Creative? Creative?? That profile was a work of fiction. Please tell me you weren't planning on following his suggestions...."
Skinner chuckled slightly. This was a different side of Agent Mulder. Looser, more relaxed, less guarded. Human, instead of the breathing incarnation of an FBI agent. Skinner liked this new incarnation, and idly wondered how he could encourage this behavior without crossing too many boundaries or violating too many Bureau rules.
::Bureau rules be damned. I want it, he wants it, we're both going to have it::
Skinner pulled up the chair next to Merlin; sitting so close he could feel the younger man's body heat, smell his cologne. His skin tingled with the closeness, and he knew Merlin felt it too.
"Alex called me three nights ago."
Merlin did the math. Three nights ago would have been Sunday; the same day Alex started his cross-country jaunt. Merlin hadn't heard from Alex since the meeting in that same office earlier on that fateful Sunday. He arched an eyebrow at his boss, evaluating.
::Why the fuck did Alex call you? Why didn't he call me? He doesn't even know you!::
Skinner saw the jealousy simmering behind Merlin's hazel eyes, and he wondered, not for the first time, if there was something more going on between Mr. Krycek and Agent Mulder than met the eye. There was nothing in Mulder's report that indicated that the two had been close friends previously, but obviously there was some relationship. It would all become clear eventually, he was sure. He could wait. Skinner was a very patient man.
"Well, sir? Are you going to tell me what he said, or do I have to get out my Ouija board and channel your answers?"
Skinner smiled, a real, amused smile, and Merlin's heart stopped beating, just for a moment.
::That does it. I am so fucking lost::
"I'll tell you, Agent Mulder. He called to protect you. He didn't want his disappearance to reflect badly on you. He didn't want you 'disciplined', quote-unquote." Another one of those rare, heart-breaking smiles. "Interesting choice of words after our conversation earlier that evening, wouldn't you agree?"
Merlin looked away, tracing the pattern in the carpet with his eyes, face hot. He knew he was blushing, knew Skinner could see it. Merlin had a sneaking suspicion that his embarrassment pleased his boss in some way he didn't want to examine too closely.
Skinner let Merlin squirm in his own skin for another moment, then continued. "He also told me that he was on his way to Alaska. He said that he believed he would be safe there."
"Bullshit." Merlin was still talking to the carpet.
"Pardon me, Agent Mulder?"
Merlin looked up at his boss. "Bullshit. He's headed west, yes, but he's not going to Alaska."
Skinner frowned, and Merlin bit his lip, trying to resist the urge to soothe the frown lines between his boss's eyes with his fingertips, kiss them away. "You sound awfully certain of that fact, Agent Mulder. You sound like you know where he's headed."
Merlin stood up and walked to Skinner's desk, putting the last piece of the puzzle in place. "I do."
"Enlighten me, Agent Mulder." Eyes fixed on the younger man's face, voice doing that snarling thing that made Merlin's stomach do flips.
Merlin turned around in front of Skinner's desk, faced the older man. "He is going to the same place you would go if you found out that the man you had called "Father" for twenty-four years was no blood relation to you." He paused, watching Skinner try to follow the trail he left.
"You would go have a long talk with your mother, sir. And that is exactly where Alex is heading—to his mother's current residence in San Luis Obispo, California."
Chapter 5 – Letters
"I finally found a reason—
TO: MKANTWEAPONS1@hotmail.com
Tomas—
As I predicted, Provo sucks. Next time, it's your turn to make the biennial Utah trip.
I wish I could put my finger on what exactly it is about this city that makes me twitch, but it's something subtle. It's in the depressing homogeneity. Everyone's blond and blue eyed. Everyone has perfect teeth. Everyone is tall, thin and small-boned. I feel like I wandered into an Aryan Poster Child Convention.
This place makes me feel like more of a freak than I do normally. It's worse than Texas. At least South Texas has shitkickers for local color. Provo doesn't even have rednecks. It's bad when I'm nostalgic for the Klan...
I delivered Weapon #2 last night—only 14 more to go. The money was wired to our 'other' account this morning. As you expected, Mr. Clair also wanted the 1814 sabre, as well as the 1816. He introduced me to several of his friends, and we now have two more orders for pre-Civil War swords. (sigh) This means more trips to this godforsaken state, doesn't it?
Next stop—California, and the estate sale of Mr. Braithe. His son promised me first dibs on the guns, provided he gets a 5% pre-auction percentage. I swear, Bratishta, it felt positively South American, arranging to slip the man a few $100 bills. Bribery makes the wheels of commerce spin like a Matchbox car.
Miss you. Miss Dio. Wish I was home.
Love,
Alex
The phone rang at 12:45, rousing Merlin from his comfortable perch on the couch, staring blankly at the television. He had seen this particular bootleg MST3k at least twenty or thirty times, and the jokes were starting to wear as thin as a Denny's omelet. A little late for telemarketers, and his partner JJ was happily asleep by this hour, or up with his newborn daughter. Probably a wrong number, he shrugged to himself as he groped on the floor for the cordless.
"What?"
"Hello, Merlin. I hope I didn't wake you." Quiet voice, still fighting off sleep. Familiar voice.
::Alex::
"I wasn't sleeping. I almost never get to sleep before 2 a.m."
"Must be a bitch getting up to be at the Hoover building by 8 a.m. What does that give you, four hours of sleep a night?" Underneath the light tone, something dark in his voice.
"You sound like my partner. 'You need to get more sleep, Mulder. You really should get more exercise, Mulder. Here—try this soy bran bar, Mulder. My wife picked you up some vitamins at the health food store, Mulder.'" Merlin did a well-practiced imitation of the Austin, Texas born and bred John Jones, affectionately known as JJ.
"It's nice to have someone fuss over you from time to time, isn't it?"
"It has it's good points, yes. Alex, I'm assuming you aren't calling me at this ungodly hour to criticize my sleeping habits."
Long pause.
"Alex, what's wrong?"
A low chuckle. "You haven't known me long enough to read me so well, Merlin."
"Alex, you're about as transparent as glass and as subtle as a cement block. Something's wrong, and obviously you called me to talk about it. So instead of dissembling about how much sleep I get every night, why don't you tell me what you called to tell me, so we can both get some sleep."
Merlin knew he said the wrong thing the moment it came out of his mouth.
"I...I'm sorry, Merlin. I won't keep you up any longer. I won't bother..."
"Alex, shut up."
Alex went very silent. Even across hundreds of miles of phone lines, Merlin could hear Alex clenching his teeth.
"Alex, that didn't come out the right way. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Tell me what's going on, please."
More silence. Time for a stab in the dark.
"Bad night, Alex?"
Quiet voice. "Yeah." More darkness.
::Good guess. Care to go two for two?::
"Nightmares, Alex?"
"Yeah." Quieter. Barely audible.
"Tell me about the nightmares, Alex."
"Merlin, you're a shrink, right?" Little-boy voice that made Merlin want to pull Alex back into his arms and chase the bad dreams away.
"I'm not a psychiatrist like Dio, but I have a Master's degree in Clinical Psychology. Is that close enough for you?"
"Yeah, that's close enough. I just....I just need to talk to someone who will understand. Someone who's been there, you know?"
"I think I do. What do you want me to understand, Alex?"
Sharp intake of breath. Merlin realized Alex was crying silently on the other end of the phone line. "I'm so fucked up, Merlin. I'm so fucked up..."
"Breathe, Alex. It's all right. It's just a dream. It can't hurt you." Merlin crooned quietly into the phone, offering comfort with his voice. Weaving a spell. "Shh, shh. It's all right."
Gradually the younger man's breathing evened out from the muffled whimpers and gasping. Merlin heard cloth rustling near the phone, realized that Alex must be wiping his tear-stained face.
"I..I'm sorry, Merlin. You have better things to do then listen to me lose it over the phone."
"It's all right. I don't mind. Do you want to tell me what happened tonight, Alex?"
"I dreamed about him. About Luis. I dreamed he was in the bed of my truck, in my sleeping bag with me. I dreamed he was...he was touching me. Sucking me off in my sleep, like he used to do. I tried to stop him, tell him no, but it never made any difference. I pretended to sleep through it, but it didn't change anything. I woke up yelling, begging him to stop touching me..." another ragged gasp, "and I realized I had come all over myself."
More quiet crying sounds from Alex's end of the phone. Heavy breathing, as Alex tried to get the tears under control.
"Shh, Alex. I know. I've had someone do that to me, too. It's humiliating, degrading, realizing someone was having sex with you while you were asleep, or drugged."
"You don't understand!" Frantic crying noises, trying to stifle the sound. "I knew you wouldn't..."
"Alex, please explain it to me. I want to understand. Please."
"It was degrading. It was humiliating. It was one of the worst things that ever happened to me." Ragged breathing. "And now that it's over and I'm safe, I'm having wet dreams about being...being..."
::You still can't say the word 'rape', can you, Alex?::
"Alex, it will be OK."
"No, it's NOT OK! I'm not OK! It's been ten months, and I'm still just discovering how fucked up I am, how fucked up he made me!"
Merlin marveled at how smoothly he shifted gears over into ShrinkMode. "Alex, talk to me. Tell me what is so screwed up about you."
"I hated it. I hated it, and I wanted it, and I wanted it to stop, and it felt awful and it felt really, really good. I didn't want to do it but he made me and he made me come and I couldn't...I couldn't..." Sobbing in earnest now.
"Shh. Shh. It will be all right, Alex. Just breathe. Just breathe."
Whimpering, little broken words. "....all my fault...all my fault.....nothing but a whore...."
"Alex, I need to tell you something very important. Listen to me carefully." Quiet voice undershot with steel, pulling Alex back from the dark place inside his own head.
"Are you listening, Alex?"
"Uh....yes. I'm listening." Voice rough with tears and pain.
"Alex, what Luis did to you was classic brainwashing technique—straight out of a CIA textbook. Sleep deprivation, food deprivation, and rape. If you can force your victim to respond sexually, all the better. You said yourself he was trying to break you, and he almost succeeded. Raping you was just another way to do that."
"No. No. It wasn't....it wasn't like that. He didn't...."
"He didn't rape you, Alex? Is that what you're trying to tell me? It wasn't rape because he made it feel good? I'm going to let you in on a little secret here. You're a human male. You're hardwired to respond to certain stimuli, no matter what the source of the stimuli is. The old joke is true -the right stimulation in a sensitive place, and you'll belong to anyone. Your nerve endings don't care if the stimulation is coming from a man, a woman or a well-trained dog. And your brain can only override so much."
"But I went to him willingly!" Self-hatred bubbling through under the pain.
"Alex, he set that up. He set the entire thing up with getting you in his bed as the end goal. He kidnapped you, held you against your will, and sedated you when he didn't like your behavior. Oh, and he also gave you one thing, exactly one thing that felt really, really good and took the pain and terror away for a little while. Of course you're going to seek that out. It was the only escape you had. He wanted it that way. He planned it that way."
Alex felt like he was going to be sick again. "Oh, god...oh, god..."
"Alex, it's not your fault. None of it is your fault. It's all his. He set up the situation. He did it to you. You were just trying to survive. You did what you had to do to survive."
"I don't...I can't....God, it's hard to think about this. I spend so much time just pushing the memories away..."
"But no matter how hard you push, they just keep coming back, don't they? They won't stay in their little box, no matter how many times you lock the door."
"Speaking from experience, Merlin?"
"Ya wonder why I decided to get a Masters degree in Psychology, Alex? I wanted to figure out what was going on inside my own head. I figured it would be cheaper than spending the rest of my life in therapy." Short pause "Alex, can I ask you a question?"
"Umm, sure."
"Did you get any therapy when you got back? Have you had any professional help in dealing with this?"
"Yes....no. Dio wanted me to, but I refused. I thought I was dealing with things OK. Anyways, Tomas needed the help so much more than I did. He completely fell apart after we got back. Suicide attempts, self-mutilation, bullemia—he was a mess. I spent most of my time the first few months just taking care of him, helping him recover. Dio tried, he really tried to get me to see someone, or just talk to him about it, but I didn't want to. I thought if I just kept looking ahead, kept putting one foot in front of the other, I would be OK."
"How about when you were in the hospital?"
Small chuckle. "The first shrink I was assigned to was crazier than I am. Jesus Christ—talk about Physician, heal thyself. I didn't want to be alone in a room with that man, much less telling him my innermost thoughts and feelings. There was another shrink—at least I thought he was a shrink at the time. It's a really, really long story, but he listened, and he helped me. He probably did more good than anyone or anything else at that hospital. After I got out, Dio dragged me kicking and screaming to a therapist who specializes in trauma victims. She tried, really she did, but I couldn't tell her. I wanted to, but I just couldn't. I just couldn't."
"I'm glad you felt you could talk to me about this. No, scratch that. I'm really flattered that you did. Touched."
"Yeah, Merlin. Touched in the head." Low chuckle interrupted by a huge yawn. "I can trust you, can't I? You're not going to go telling tales outside of school, are you?"
"Alex, when I get to work tomorrow....later today, I will report that I did talk to you. I will not give any details on what we talked about—merely the fact that we did. Please note that at no time during this conversation have I asked you where you are or told you to turn yourself in. To be brutally honest, right now I am less worried about the Columbians getting their hands on you than I am of you doing something stupid."
Complete silence on the other end of the line.
::Ba-bing. You hit the jackpot::
"You have been thinking about it, haven't you, Alex?" Gentlest voice, talking to a child.
"If Luis....if Luis....I'd rather be dead than go back there. I won't let it happen, Merlin. I can't." Scared little-kid voice again.
Merlin put on his best imitation-of-his-deputy-chief-voice. "Alex, promise me you won't do anything stupid. Promise me if you start to give in to those thoughts that you'll call me first. Promise me."
"I promise." Another jaw-dislocating yawn.
Merlin fought off a yawn himself. "Alex, go to bed. It's way too late, and some of us have to work for a living, instead of gallivanting across this great large country of ours."
"Merlin?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For...for listening to me. For not being horrified. For being there."
"Anytime, Alex. Anytime."
TO: MKANTWEAPONS2@hotmail.com
Alex—
Next time it will be my turn to go to Utah, I promise. As a matter of fact, I'll take the next two trips to Provo. Just come home safely, OK? You've got Dio and me worried sick.
As you requested in our last phone call, we had the exterminators come by. Our house is clean, as is Dio's office and all the cell phones. Apparently, you don't rank high enough on anyone's priority list to go to the trouble of placing surveillance on us. Good news—you're also not on the National Crime Information Computer. That means that you can make it to the Oklahoma 1500 Gun and Knife Show as we planned, without worrying about the instant background check bouncing.
Three days and counting until the anniversary. Plane tickets are purchased, and packing has commenced. I will see you, same place as last year, same bat-time, same bat-channel.
Miss you, Alex. Love you. Be careful, and we'll be praying for your safe return.
Love,
Tomas
Chapter 6 – Broken Thoughts
"I wear this crown of shit
Skinner had just resumed his usual position behind his desk after a grueling meeting with his boss when his cell phone rang. He stared at the phone in his fist for a moment, trying to figure out who would be calling him on his private line. No one—no one—had this phone number, aside from immediate family. He would have given the number to his close friends, except that he didn't have any. Just a steady procession of co-workers, acquaintances and one-night-stands with aspirations of houses in the suburbs.
The phone trilled again, and Skinner answered it on autopilot.
"Skinner."
"Just one question, sir." The words were snarled through gritted teeth. "How the fuck did you know?"
::Alex...::
This was a different Alex, a different voice from the post-orgasmic, sated, sleepy goodnights less than twenty four hours earlier. This voice screamed of rage looking for an outlet, of betrayals old and new.
He put on his best talking-off-the-ledge voice. "How did I know what, Alex?"
"How the fuck did you know that I was searching for my mother? I get to her house, and the entire Los Angeles branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigations is lying in wait like a flock of vultures."
Skinner's head was spinning, working all the possible angles. Obviously, Agent Mulder's cover was blown. He needed to contact the young agent, let him know that Alex was in town, cordon off the neighborhood if necessary.
"Alex, can you hang on for a moment? I've got another call..."
"Don't bother trying to call Merlin, sir." Voice dipped in anger and acid, burning in Skinner's ear. "He won't find me. I'm long gone. And yes, I'm sure it was Merlin. I can spot those Armani suits of his six blocks away."
Skinner blew out a long breath, silently chanting a litany of curse words in several languages.
::Well, this quiet afternoon has now gone completely and utterly to hell::
"You saw your mother. You didn't..." Skinner didn't get a chance to finish the thought.
Alex snorted in disgust. "What kind of monster do you think I am? You think I'd hurt my own mother?" His voice dropped in pitch, dropped the disgust, pain showing through the thin spots. "I talked to her. That's all. Just. Talked."
"How did it go, Alex?" The spot behind his chest wall ached, sympathy pains for the man on the other end of the phone line.
Skinner could hear the shrug, see the hopeless cast in those green eyes. "I don't know, sir. I don't have any objective criteria to judge it on. Is it a bad talk if I have to hold a gun on her to get her to leave with me? Is it a good talk if, at the end..." His voice broke. "If at the end, she tells me she still loves me and wants to be part of my life? You tell me, sir. I've never done this before."
Skinner released the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "I don't know either, Alex. This is a new one for both of us." Almost as an afterthought. "You'll be all right."
Alex 's voice was quiet, barely audible. "You know you're the only person who says that to me. Everyone else asks if I'm all right. I can tell by the way that they ask it that they expect me to be falling apart. You just tell me that I am all right. Everyone else asks the question. You provide the answer."
"That's because I know you will be. You're not broken, Alex. Far from it."
"How do you know?" Lost little boy voice. Wanting desperately to believe.
"Alex, did I ever tell you I was in the war?"
"No, sir. You never told me." A quiet chuckle. "I don't know much of anything about you."
"I spent three years in South-East Asia. Laos, mainly, but also Kampuchea and Vietnam. I was a soldier in a bloody, unwinnable war. I've seen a lot of strong men in bad situations. I recognize the look. That's the look I see in you."
"I..." Alex paused, swallowed. "I don't feel very strong sometimes."
"Alex, the first time I met you, I knew you. Not you in particular, but I knew who you were, what you were made of. You reminded me of the Amerasian street kids I saw in Hoh Chih Minh city. The police called them cockroaches, because as many times as they tried to eradicate them, destroy them, they kept coming back. They were strong in the same way that you're strong. You're strong, Alex, because you've had to be."
Skinner could hear Alex start to relax, feel the tension start to evaporate. "I don't understand you, sir. Everyone else, when they look at me, all they see is the damage. To them, I'm a collection of broken pieces. It's what defines me. You...you don't see me that way. You see the parts between the broken pieces."
"That's because I've had a lot more experience in dealing with people who have broken pieces. You don't go through a war, experience the things I've lived through, and make it out unscathed. It doesn't happen. The guys I went to war with, my real friends, are all broken. Scar tissue is strong, Alex. You're strong. Whether you believe it or not."
"Are you broken, sir?"
"Yes." Without hesitation.
"Where?" More of the little-boy hesitant voice that went straight through Skinner's chest wall and made his heart hurt.
Skinner took a deep breath, a quick prayer for courage.
"Alex, I did a lot of things while I was in Laos. Ugly, brutal, horrible things. My subconscious, even after fifteen years, has still not come to grips with all of it. I get nightmares a couple of times a week. I hate, absolutely hate?, the dark. When the lights are out, it's too easy for me to see things that aren't there."
Another quiet chuckle from Alex. "Believe me, I understand. There are too many things that hide in the dark."
Neither man spoke for a moment, lost in their own darkness.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Alex?"
"Thank you for telling me."
Alex could hear the 500 watt smile from the other end of the phone line. "Anytime, Alex."
"No, I mean it. I don't know the first or the last thing about you. You, on the other hand, have my entire life story sitting in a file on your desk. I think you probably know things about me that I don't even know about myself."
Now Skinner's curiosity was peaked. "Like what?"
"Like..." Alex quickly sorted through his thoughts. "Like I don't know if I graduated from college or not. The car accident happened three days before finals my senior year. I never took any of them. I don't know if I got incompletes in those classes or not."
Alex didn't have to elaborate on what accident he was referring to. Both men knew that the car accident in question killed his adoptive father and fatally injured his adoptive mother.
"I have some good news on that front, Alex. You did get your degree. You have a Bachelor of Arts in Language Studies from the University of Chicago. You even managed to pull off a high enough GPA to graduate Cum Laude. You got better grades in college than I did."
"Wow. Damn. That's pretty cool. Not like it matters much—the diploma has the wrong name for me to hang it on my wall. I just...wondered about it sometimes."
"Alex, are you trying to tell me that you never got your mail or anything that belonged to Peter Cryder?"
Mouthful of bile, words dripping. "I'm. Not. Peter. Cryder. Peter is dead. He died in the accident." Swallowing hard, trying to regulate his breathing with little success. "After the funeral, I walked away with my truck, my laptop and the clothing on my back. I haven't turned around since."
::Note to self, Walter—treat the subject of the Cryder's death like the buried land mine it is::
"Alex, I'm sorry to be prying into an obviously very sensitive subject, but I need to know—what happened to your parents estate?"
Another shrug, audible in the early evening twilight. "I don't know. I don't care. Dead and buried along with them. It's probably out there somewhere, accruing interest."
"You're serious. You really don't know anything about the probate or the resolution of your adoptive parent's wills." The surprise was evident in Skinner's voice.
"Sir, I'm sure that their attorney busted his butt trying to find me, without any success. I've had no contact with anyone from Peter's life. So fucking what? So I got their house. I will never, ever walk back into that house again. I would burn it to the ground first." Throat tightening around his words.
Skinner listened to Alex's raggedy breathing for a long moment, giving Alex the time to calm down, also giving himself a chance to organize his own thoughts.
"Alex, are you all right now?"
"Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I just....I can't think about it. I expend a hell of a lot of mental energy not thinking about it. If I think about it, I'll fall apart, and I can't afford that right now. I don't think about them, I don't think about Luis, I don't think about my childhood. I just shoot the thoughts down if they stray too close."
"Sounds like you've gotten pretty good at thought-murder."
"That's me—a fucking assassin." Another short bark of laughter.
"Alex, I'm going to let you in on a little secret." Slipping into Deputy Chief mode, dealing with a recalcitrant agent. "You are a very wealthy young man. Your maternal grandparents owned property, businesses, and a large amount of stock. When they passed away eight years ago, it went to your adoptive mother. It now belongs to you. We're talking about a net worth of nearly a million dollars here, Alex....Alex? You still there?"
"Umm, yeah....Just picking my jaw up off the floor. You did say a million dollars, didn't you? One followed by six zeros?"
"Almost a million dollars, Alex."
"shit. Whoa. Wow." Quiet laughter. "Tomas will never let me live this down. The boy likes money the way the rest of us like oxygen. He's pissed enough at me for walking out on him and Dio the other day in your office..."
"You've been talking to him pretty regularly, I'm presuming." Wheels spinning, working out the logistics of getting a phone tap.
"Just about every day, sir. By the way, don't waste your time. All trying to tap their phones would accomplish is pissing Dio off. Thanks to our paranoid friends, their house gets swept for bugs more frequently than your office does."
"Stop reading my mind this instant, young man." Stern voice ruined by the laughter that was bubbling up around the edges. "Take my word for it, Alex. You really don't want to know what goes on behind this follicularly challenged skull."
"Actually, sir, I do. I meant what I said earlier. I don't know anything about you."
"Just ask, Alex. Provided it isn't confidential information, I'll do my best to answer."
Long pause, as Alex tried to string the right words together. Skinner listened, amused, wondering if Alex would have the courage to ask him about his sexual history.
"Um, sir....G_d, I can trip over my tongue in eight different languages. Everything I'm trying to say either makes me sound like a Monty Python skit or Miss Manners..."
"Alex, just spit it out. I've been working for the Justice Department for fifteen years. I'm awfully hard to shock, or offend."
"O-kay. This isn't going to come out right, but what the fuck." Quick breath. "Sir, have you ever....have you ever had sex with another man?"
::He shoots, he scores::
Skinner laughed, entirely too pleased with himself. "Alex, I can say with some degree of honesty that I have a great deal of experience in that area. Women too, but primarily men."
"I...I didn't know, sir. I wasn't sure just how far in the closet you were. I don't have a lot of experience in dealing with people who aren't completely out. You'd have to be in a coma not to realize that Tomas and Dio are. That's the way it is with most of our friends. I...I'm glad. I'd hate to think what would have happened had I been the more...um...experienced of the two of us."
"Something like the blind fucking the blind?"
Snort. "You have such a way with the Queen's English, sir."
"Should I take it from your previous statement that you don't have a great deal of experience with men, Alex?"
"Sir, in all honesty, I don't have a great deal of experience. Period. I've had five lovers in my life—two men, three women. Granted, I was involved with one woman for almost a year and a half. Would have married her, too."
"What happened?"
"She knew me better than I knew myself. Story of my life, eh, sir? We were to the point of discussing receptions, and rings, and everything was great. Then she sat me down and told me that she couldn't marry me because she knew that I, deep down, wanted to be in a relationship with another man. She said that she would rather call it off now than in ten years, after we'd been married and had a couple of kids, when I realized who I was truly attracted to. That hurt. It hurt a lot. To make a long story short, I got over it, and she was the one who ended up introducing me to Michael, who became my first male lover."
::Liar::
"I don't think you knew this, Alex, but I was married for eight years." Skinner's tone was dreamy, far away. "I married Sharon right after I got back from the war. I knew. She knew. We had a comfortable arrangement. I had a long-term partner for almost five of those years." Voice wistful, almost sad. "He ended up being transferred to California. I still miss him. That was the beginning of the end of my marriage."
"Hold on a minute." Trying to keep the shocked tone out of his voice and failing. "Are you trying to tell me that your wife knew that not only were you fucking someone else, but you were in a bloody relationship with another man, and she didn't use your nuts as target practice?"
"Yes, Alex. She knew before I married her. I've almost always had more than one lover at a time. I have.... We'll have to save that conversation for later, but let me just say that I have very intense kinks. I don't necessarily expect the person that I am in a relationship with to share all my kinks, but I do expect them to understand that I will occasionally look outside for fulfillment."
"Probably a good call to save that conversation for later, sir. Just tell me that your kinks don't involve live farm animals or dead circus performers."
"Let me put your mind at ease on those two counts, Alex. Can I take a turn at asking the questions?"
"Umm, sure, sir. Shoot."
"Have you always been interested in both men and women? Or is this just a relatively recent thing?"
Barrel of the gun digging into the soft flesh under his chin. Blood dripping into his eyes from the gash in his forehead, where his head bounced off the wall. Pounding and shouting from the other side of the locked door
" You should never have come back here, you cocksucking faggot. You should have stayed dead."
The pain was back, tearing into Alex, tearing him in half. He didn't dare look down, because he knew he would see his pants soaked in blood, and more blood staining the seat of his car. He closed his eyes tightly, gritted his teeth, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.
::it's not real it's not real it's not real it's not real it's not real it's not real::
"Alex? Are you still there?" Concern. Compassion.
"I...I'm sorry, sir. I have to go now." Alex quickly switched off the phone before he could say anything more, say anything he knew he would regret later. He sat in the front seat of his truck for almost fifteen minutes, knees pulled up to his chest, until his hands stopped shaking, until he could breathe again.
Chapter 7 – Crickets and Early Morning Conversations
"I need you
Deputy Chief Skinner was so engrossed in preparing for the MacAllister meeting that Kim had to say his name three times before it registered. She looked...confused. Perplexed. Baffled even. Very unusual for his very competent secretary.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but there's someone on the phone."
Pause. Skinner sat behind his desk, waiting for the punch line that never arrived.
"Is that someone on the phone asking for me, Kim?" Odd. Normally she wasn't this unnerved by a simple phone call.
"I think so, sir. He's looking for, um....Skin-Man." There was just a hint of a smile around the edge of her mouth. He could tell she was biting the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.
Only years of military training kept Skinner from wincing, looking away or grinning. He felt the blush creep across his ears, kept his face still by sheer willpower.
"I'll take it, Kim. If Agent MacAllister shows up early, let him wait."
::Bobby Sioux, one of these days....::
After the door closed behind his secretary, Skinner reached over and gingerly picked up the handset, as if it was about to transform into a scorpion and sting him.
"Skinner here." Aloof. Businesslike.
"Skin-Man! I haven't heard from you in a dog's age! What's up?" Deep voice, strong Cajun accent, bellowing so loud Skinner was sure Kim could feel the vibrations through the walls.
"Bobby, congratulations. Within twenty-four hours, everyone in the Justice Department will be calling me Skin-man behind my back."
"What can I say—I have a gift for it. It's a dirty job, keeping you in line, but someone's got to do it." Bobby was grinning audibly, and Skinner could see him in his mind, flash of white teeth, permanent tan from the Louisiana sun, brown/gray hair kept military crew-cut short more than a decade after his retirement from active service. Bobby Sioux was the only man who had ever beaten Skinner at arm wrestling, even though Skinner was more than four inches taller and had fifty pounds on his former Sergeant.
"You live for this, don't you?" Skinner was smiling, almost in spite of himself.
"Hell, yes, boy! You may be Mr. Big-Shot FBI to everyone else, but to me you're still Wally Skinner, green behind the ears PFC, who keeps dropping his gun and his dick. Don't forget, I knew you when you had hair."
Skinner involuntarily groaned, ran his hand along his exposed scalp. "I'll have you know that baldness is very in this year. Just look at Tom Cruise, shaving his head. Women love that."
Hysterical laughter from the other end of the phone line. "That's a good one, Skin-man. When was the last time you were on a date with anyone but your right hand?"
Skinner tried for indignant, but got stuck at offended. "I'll have you know..."
"Don't even bother, boy. I believe your tall tales about as far as I can drop-kick your lily-white Texan ass." Voice dropped in tenor, lost the laughter. "Your message said you were calling about business. What's going on?"
Skinner shifted gears, put aside the Wally hat, put back on the Deputy Chief. "Bobby, I need to know everything you know about Alex Krycek."
Bobby swore, fluently. Creatively enough to make a sailor blush. "That son-of-a-bitch went after Alex again, didn't he? Is that what you're calling to tell me?"
"Which son-of-a-bitch are you referring to, Bobby?"
"The motherfucker who kept Alex and Tommy on that island and tortured them. Christien. If I had gotten my hands on him..."
"Bobby, relax. Luis Christien hasn't tried to kidnap him again. He's safe—relatively speaking."
"Then why are you calling me? Since when is it Justice Department business? We couldn't even get the Chicago PD to return our phone calls." Skinner recognized the tone in Bobby's voice—righteous fury. Someone was threatening a member of his family, and Bobby was not about to let it happen without a fight. This was the Bobby Sioux of song and legend—lifer Sergeant, hell in a firefight and even better in a bar brawl.
"It's complicated, Bobby." Malicious grin. "I'll try to explain it to you, and since you're from Louisiana, I'll speak slowly and use very small words."
Bobby cursed. Again. In English, Creole and Vietnamese.
"When I get my hands on the son-of-a-bitch, I'm going to tear him limb from limb. He was planning on selling Alex to the fucking Colombians! I am gonna make him..."
"Bobby, I have some other questions for you. Sit down and shut up. You're not helping me or Alex like this."
Bobby paused. For about two seconds.
"I don't know where the boy is, Skin-Man, if that's what you're about to ask. I haven't spoken to him in almost two weeks. Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. The boy needs some space right now, some privacy. Cut him a little slack, Wally. He's a good kid."
"I know he's a good kid, Bobby. I've spoken to him several times."
"Since he left on his little cross-country jaunt?"
"Yes."
Skinner could hear Bobby's arched eyebrows, feel his grin from twelve hundred miles away.
"Do tell, Skin-Man. You got a thing for the boy?"
Skinner could feel his ears getting hot, and knew that they were turning red.
::Dammit, Bobby, how do you do that? You're the only person alive who can make me blush::
"Not a...thing, precisely. Interested, yes. And I'm quite certain that he's interested in me as well."
Skinner expected a dirty comment, a leer, some bad innuendo from one of his oldest friends and former C.O. in Laos. What he got was something completely different.
Bobby's tone was gentle, with an undercurrent of steel. Almost parental. "Walter, don't you tell me you're planning on playing with the boy. I know the games you like. He couldn't handle it. He's not strong enough yet."
Skinner huffed into the phone, insulted. "Give me some credit for brains, Bobby. I live by three rules—safe, sane and consensual. Playing with Alex might be consensual, it might even be safe. Sane? No way in hell." The seductive purr Skinner had used on Alex two nights earlier was back. "No, I have other plans in mind for him, Bobby."
"Just be careful with him, Walter. As much as he may try to hide it, he's broken, and the glue hasn't set yet. Don't be stupid, all right, Tex?"
Skinner put on his best offended dignity. "I'm hurt by your insinuations. When was the last time I did anything stupid?"
::How about making plans to take one of your subordinates to an S&M club? Would that count?::
"Skin-Man, where would you like me to start on the list? Five minutes off the plane in Charlie territory...."
Merlin was not having a good week.
He flew all the way from D.C. to Northern California to track down Alex, only to have his cover blown less than a block from the Romanek's house. He then had to deal with the humiliation of his boss, and object of his latest full-blown infatuation, notifying him that his cover had been blown because he was "too noticeable in Armani" and suggesting more low-key clothing might be an appropriate investment. His partner, JJ, made a snide comment about dragging him to Sears for suitable stakeout wear.
Now Merlin was back in his cubicle at the Justice Department, working late on a Friday night, catching up with paperwork, and making up excuses to avoid doing his expense reports. His weekend loomed large and empty in front of him. None of his regular basketball buddies were available. JJ was too busy with his newborn daughter and wife still on the mend from her emergency C-section less than three weeks earlier to play. Agent Otsuko was on assignment in Kansas, and Jimmy was on vacation.
::Looks like it's my videos and me this weekend. Great. Fucking wonderful.::
Merlin gave up on his expense report at 8:15, and slowly made his way out to the parking garage, nearly deserted that late on a Friday evening. As he approached his car, he noticed...something...stuck under the windshield. Something colorful.
A careful look around the secure parking garage revealed absolutely nothing out of the ordinary—security cameras in every corner, lights, and cars. When he got closer, he realized that it was a piece of bright-red paper, with something printed on it. An ad of some sort, he theorized.
::This is a secure facility. How the hell did someone get in here to leave a note under my windshield?::
A few more steps, and he grabbed the red sheet and looked at it more closely.
It was the latest flier from the 411, listing all the upcoming events for this weekend. On the back, in black marker, was scrawled "11:00. Friday Night. Second Floor. Room reserved under Sergei."
Merlin knew he was wearing a shit-eating grin, but he didn't care. Let the guys who watch the surveillance videos wonder about him. His week was looking up.
Merlin finally made it back to his house at 3:45 AM—late even for a confirmed night owl like himself. The endorphin rush had finally worn off, and the prickling stings along his back and ass, he knew from experience, were just hints of the pain that would hit the next day. He unbuttoned his shirt and shed it on the way upstairs, leaving it draped across the banister. The shoes decorated the top step, but his pants made it to the final round and survived all the way to the bedroom, where they were unceremoniously dumped on the floor next to the overflowing laundry basket. He collapsed face-down on the bed, and was asleep before he could pull the covers up.
Whispers in his dreams.
/I want to eat you up, boy, devour you, take part of me with you when I go/
Rough sandpaper-velvet whisper by his ear. Merlin could still feel the man's heat behind him, the hair on Skinner's chest and belly brushing the bruised and battered skin on Merlin's back, the familiar tension in his arms from being restrained above his head, the roughness of denim against the vivid stripes on his ass.
It hurt, it hurt and it felt so good, it had been so very long since anything had felt this good. Skinner, his boss, who poured just the right mixture of pleasure and pain, voice like the devil himself and a swing on a suede cat-o-nine-tails like an angel. Skinner, the consummate professional within the walls of the DOJ building, who knew just which buttons to push, knew just how to make Merlin scream, and cry, and finally come harder than he had in years.
/Make it hurt, sir. Please. I need it/
His own voice echoing, burning inside his head. Skinner and his whip and that gaze that never wavered, that gaze he could feel through the blindfold. Skinner who knew just how to take him apart, piece by piece, and refit him together afterwards, breathing words into his skin, words of caring, words of comfort, words of....
Crickets?
Merlin fought his way up through the layers of dream-gauze, squinting as the late-morning sunlight through the bedroom window burned his eyes. That infernal chirping was still going on, pausing every few seconds to catch its breath before continuing it's irritating song. He tried to open his eyes into the sunlight, realized the error in his judgment, and tried to locate the sound by feel. His hand brushed a small, slim object that seemed to be vibrating in time with the chirp. Resisting the urge to pitch it into the nearest wall, he palmed the cell phone and brought it to his face, eyes still closed.
::That does it—first thing Monday morning, this new cell phone gets returned. It sounds like a demented cricket!::
"Mulder here." Sounding as sleepy as he felt.
"I hope I didn't wake you, Merlin." Man's voice, soft, friendly. Different voice than in his dreams. Alex's voice.
"Alex." Instantly awake. "Is everything all right?" Concern evident in his voice.
"Ya, relatively speaking. As well as can be expected, considering I'm still on the Colombian's 10 most wanted list. But that's not why I called." Voice quieter, deeper. Conspiratorial. "I have questions, Merlin. And you're the only one who has the answers."
Merlin ran a hand through his sleep-spiked hair, rolled over on the bed, and winced audibly as the cool sheets came in contact with his bruised and battered back. The events of the night before came back with a rush, as Merlin felt the first flickerings of arousal.
Please fuck me, sir. Please. I need you inside me
He forcefully brought his mind back to the matter at hand.
"Sure, Alex. Shoot. I'll answer if I can."
"How did you know I was heading to my mother's house? Hell, I didn't even know where I was going until I was halfway there."
"It just made sense, Alex. It's the same place I'd go if I found out that William Mulder wasn't my father."
"You'd go to my mother's house?" Trying to keep a straight face, and failing miserably.
"Alex, I don't know what's wrong with you, but I bet it's hard to pronounce. No, you doofus, I'd go to my mother, and ask some hard questions." Slipping back into Shrink-Mode. "Did she give you the answers you were looking for?"
"Jesus Christ, Merlin, do you charge by the hour?" Laughing voice. "If you send me a bill after this call, I'm going to show up at your house and bitch slap you into next week."
"You go right ahead, Alex. I'll be right here waiting."
For a moment, the only sound on the line was Alex breathing, chewing on his lower lip.
"Merlin, can I ask you a personal question?"
"Umm, sure." Hesitant. Not sure where the conversation was going and not certain he wanted to be along for the ride.
"You're into pain, right?"
::What the fuck? How the fuck?::
"Alex? I'm not saying it's true, but why do you want to know?" His voice came out much squeakier than he intended.
::Alex, you're really weirding me out here. How the hell do you know what I was doing last night?::
"Curious. Trying to figure something out in my head. I've been wondering about it for a while. I mean, I could have asked the terrifying trio, but they would probably taken it as a sign of interest, and that's dangerous."
Merlin took a couple of deep breaths, fortifying his courage. "The answer to your question is yes." Trying really hard not to squeak.
"What does it feel like?"
Impossibly long, impossibly thick, frictionless, agonizingly slow in and out, strong hands holding bruised skin, sharp spike of pain making the pleasure even sweeter....
Merlin realized that he was still lying on the bed, naked, when his dick took an interest in the proceedings. He glared at the offending body part, which had absolutely no effect.
"It hurts....at first. But it's not about the pain, at least for me. It's about letting myself be vulnerable, letting someone else be in control. When I'm in that zone, I don't have to do anything, don't have to be anyone. All I have to do is let it happen. Be in the moment. Surrender to it. With the right partner, it can be really, really amazing." Merlin was grinning like a maniac, didn't care.
"Were you looking for me to be that right partner?" Hesitancy in his voice.
"No. Alex, don't get me wrong. I want to fuck you so hard you forget your own name. But I know you're not into S&M—hell, right now I doubt you're into sex. Have you even had sex since you escaped?"
"Yeah." Bitter laugh. "Complete fucking fiasco."
"Alex, even if you were interested, I wouldn't play. I don't think you're in the right headspace to be domming—or subbing for that matter. It's still too soon, and you're still too raw. I'd be concerned about your self-control, on either end. The last thing a sub wants to be thinking about during a scene is whether the dom is going to flip out and lose control. And the last thing a dom wants during a scene is a sub having flashbacks to previous abuse. That is what this is all about, isn't it? What Luis did to you?"
Alex rested his head on the thick, cast-iron canopy bedpost. His shoulders and back ached from fighting uselessly against the restraints. His hands were almost numb, tied over his head to the cross-pieces of the canopy, spread as far apart as they could go without dislocating anything. The metal bar his head was resting on ran down his sternum, bisected his stomach, and continued to the floor. The canopy was ancient, sturdily built, and incredibly heavy. It neither budged nor creaked when Alex fought like a wildcat to get out of the restraints. That was why Luis had bound him there, standing up, arms spread over his head, crucified, for his punishment to come.
There was no sound in Luis's bedroom, save Alex's ragged breathing, but Alex knew he was still there. Alex could feel his presence. Watching, right out of eyeshot. Waiting.
The noise cut through the still salt-flavored air, a quiet, sharp sound. Leather on flesh. Alex twisted his head around so hard his neck protested, desperate to see his tormentor, see what he was in for, but Luis was standing out of visual range. Intentionally.
Neither man spoke, unwilling to break first. Just the sound, repeated slowly, like a drumbeat, mocking the rapid staccato of Alex's heart.
The carpeting in Luis's bedroom was thick enough to muffle the sound of footsteps. That was why Luis chose this room for the punishment. Alex didn't hear him approach. The next thing Alex felt was leather, slowly, sensuously sliding across his back, from shoulder blade to hip.
Alex flinched, tried to pull away, but the metal bar against his sternum held him in place, and his bound arms anchored him. The necklace was pulled tight enough to bite into the skin on Alex's neck, the implicit threat clearly understood. Another long, slow slide of leather along his back, across his ass, ending at the top of his legs. Alex fought back a shiver, as the rough edges teased his skin. A belt, he was guessing.
Then it was gone, along with the constriction around his throat. Alex closed his eyes and breathed, slowly, deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heart.
Dark, quiet voice whispering into his ear, breath warm on his neck, raising goose bumps. Dangerous voice. Deadly voice.
"I warned you, Kitten."
Alex tried to shake his head, register a protest, but cool fingers gripping his jaw tightly enough to cause pain stopped any further movement.
"I told you not to try to escape. I told you that actions have consequences. Well, these are the consequences I promised you."
Little fear-jolts were detonating under Alex's skin. He held very, very still, trying not to tremble.
The voice was back, sending shivers down Alex's spine. This was different than before, when his father would lash out at Alex with anything handy. This was...more controlled. Luis wasn't in a drunken rage, throwing fists, lamps, or whatever was within arms reach.
Luis was calmly, calculatingly going to hurt him.
"For this infraction, Kitten, you get ten lashes with the belt. And you will count them. If you refuse, or if you stop, it will keep going until you comply."
The hand remained on his jaw for another long minute, warm breath on his neck, just....waiting. The coils in Alex's stomach were turning tighter and tighter, until it was almost impossible to breathe. Alex squirmed, shifted his weight restlessly from one foot to the other. Quiet chuckle in his ear, and then, nothing.
Alex froze; trying desperately to follow Luis's movements, track his sounds. Would he get any warning? Would the belt whistle before it hit? Would Luis say...
A burning streak of fire across his shoulders, forcing the air out of his lungs, pushing him into the metal bar.
"Count, Kitten."
Alex bit the inside of his cheek, clenched his eyes shut, stood very still. Silent. Mute refusal.
Another line of fire, this time along his ass. Alex cried out, involuntarily, then forced his jaw shut tightly. He wouldn't give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing that he was in pain. He had learned that lesson too well many years ago.
"Count, Alex." Voice velvet over sandpaper.
Still, silent. Resolute.
Another lash along his lower back, this one stronger than the last two. Tears were welling up in Alex's eyes, threatening to fall. Coppery tang inside his mouth. The pain radiated through his pelvis, down his legs, merging with the pain in his back.
"Count." Snarling.
Alex let out a small, breathy whimper. There was no way in hell he was going to win this game, and he knew it.
His lungs wouldn't work, wouldn't let him get enough oxygen in.
"One." Barely more than a whisper. Alex rested his head on the metal bar.
His skin was on fire.
"Two."
Streaks across his upper thighs, making him gasp, nearly falling, painfully pulling on his shoulders and arms as he stumbled.
"Three."
The tears were slowly falling, dripping onto the bed.
"Four."
Forcing himself to breathe, forcing his lungs to work, long, slow, shallow breaths.
"Five."
Impossible heat burning him, melting his bones, burning like acid.
"Six"
He couldn't tell where the blows were landing anymore.
"Seven."
The pain was consuming him, eating him alive.
"Eight."
He couldn't fight it anymore.
"Nine."
Lost.
"Ten."
"That is what this is all about, isn't it? What Luis did to you?"
"Not even close, Merlin. I haven't thought about that in months."
Chapter 8 – Favorite Dreams Of You
"My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore
Will someone please remind me why I am traipsing through a cemetery—a cemetery I broke into, mind you—at a quarter to way too fucking late at night? Oh, I forgot. I'm here because Alex asked me to. Grr.
Tomas hated cemeteries. Hated the dark that reached out and grabbed at your pants legs as you walked, hated the noises that came from nowhere, hated the possibilities. Too many possibilities, all of them imminently possible in the place where the dead slept.
And every year, Alex insisted on going to this particular cemetery. And every year, Tomas went with him.
Alex, next time I get to choose the rendezvous point. And you'd better believe it's going to be well lit. And catered...
Following his memory, supplemented by the handwritten directions, scribbled on the napkin that came with the tiny package of peanuts on the flight.
Follow the main path to the second branching road. Keep going past the angel statue. Two rows of tombstones down, take a right. Hit the fence, turn left. Past the little stand of trees. There.
A solitary figure, almost completely obscured by shadow, was sitting on top of one of the older graves. Black and gray clothing, disappearing into the moonlight, looking perfectly at home in a graveyard a few hours before midnight.
Alex.
Tomas stopped a few feet away, still wrapped in the quality of darkness afforded by the tree cover, protected from the feeble moonlight. Alex wasn't aware of his presence; that he knew for a fact. It was obvious in his half-fetal position on top of the grass-covered plot, leaning on the stone for support, for warmth. Eyes closed. Caressing the tombstone, tracing the words with his hands, carving out the shadows with his fingertips.
The darkness lasted for a very long time. So did the silence. The moment looked so...private, so intimate, Tomas felt like a voyeur.
"We really have to stop meeting like this, Alex. People will talk."
Sea-green eyes fluttered open, dazed at first, and then recognizing the voice from the gloom. Tomas was shocked by the changes in his closest friend. The trauma and stress of the past three weeks were etched in the planes of his face.
Sunrise was many hours away. For Alex, the sun hadn't risen in four years.
"Hi, Tomas. Glad you could make it."
Tomas carefully picked his way over to the grave and sat down next the larger man. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Graveyards are the next hip and happenin' hangout, don'tcha know?"
Grinning. "Sorry. I must have missed the latest issue of GQ."
"You are so hopelessly fifteen minutes ago, Alex. Remind me again why I put up with you?"
"Because you love me?" His voice cracked, need bubbling up in the broken places. Alex winced. Tomas pretended he didn't hear it.
"Nyaah." Grinning evilly, Tomas wrapped an arm around his friend's waist. "I'm only in it for your money."
"Eb tvoju mat'!"
Tomas, if you only knew...
One giggle. Then two. Followed shortly by a steady stream, laughter bordering on hysterics, unnatural sound in the place where the dead sleep. It took several minutes before Alex could calm down, before the tears stopped. Sweet tears, not the salty ones recently soaking into the grass.
"Care to let me in on the joke?"
A few years earlier, when Alex had been centuries younger, he and Tomas had shared everything. There had been no thoughts he couldn't express, nothing too complicated or too messy to be explained.
Then Luis had slid into their axis, and everything had changed.
"I'll explain later—after this whole mess is over with." After words have significance again. He looked over at Tomas, who responded silently with an arched eyebrow and a befuddled expression worthy of Mr. Spock. "How's Dio doing, by the way?"
Another grin at the mention of his lover's name. "He's fine. He fired the latest receptionist du jour yesterday, after she called her boyfriend in Cuba from his phone."
"That makes what—three receptionists in four months?"
"I don't even think it's been that long. They're averaging five weeks from hire to fire. Mrs. Pinkston is giving him grief again after her stepson set fire to the family cat."
Alex rolled his eyes heavenward. "Dio has been warning her about that kid since before Christmas. She refused to listen for six months, and now it's his fault?"
"Didn't you get the memo?"
Alex shook his head. "The postal service hasn't been forwarding them to me. I can't tell you how many Jewish Conspiracy meetings I've missed because I never got the notices..."
"It's official. Everything that goes wrong is Dio's fault. I'm having it printed on business cards as we speak. 'Thank you for calling Young and James—it's all Dio's fault. How may I direct your call?' "
Laughing again, this time honest. Not misery pretending to be humor, pain masquerading as pleasure. "Maybe you should go out for the receptionist job. You have a great phone voice."
The smaller man snorted derisively. No one could do derisive like Tomas. He had smug superiority down to an art form. "Kurite moju trubku, Alex. If I wanted a job where I had a phone growing out of my ear eight hours a day, I'd work on one of those 900 number phone sex hotlines. They pay better than he can, and they wouldn't make me wear miniskirts and makeup. Not that I have a problem with wearing miniskirts and makeup, mind you..."
"You can just stop right there. I don't need that mental image polluting my brain. It's already a Superfund site, thank you very much." Short pause. "Have I told you yet that I miss you and Dio like crazy?"
"Nope." Wide smile as Tomas stood up and brushed the grass and leaves off his jeans. "I knew it would happen, tho. We're irresistible."
Tomas knew he was irresistible. He had been told that, in large ways and small, since he was a child. Too many people who should have known better, been stronger, didn't and weren't. He just thought that was the way people were.
"Ya, I missed you. Next time I'll aim better, bratishta. Going somewhere?"
Standing in front of Alex now, extending a hand, Tomas had a flash of Darth Vader with Luke Skywalker. For just a second, he understood. Then it was gone. "Yup. We're blowing this Popsicle stand, you and I. Are you done with what you needed to get done here?"
His green eyes went cloudy, dark as the sea before a storm. "I guess so. I...I'm not sure why I came even. I just needed to see them again, talk to them, let them know what's been going on..." Words disappearing into the darkness. Being absorbed by the night.
"What did they say?" Not flinching at the idea that his best friend was talking to the dead.
"They're worried about me. Ya, I know. Join the club. Dad keeps telling me to think like a soldier. Mom...Mom just asked if I was eating and sleeping on a regular basis."
Suddenly, Tomas had no more use for the anger and helplessness that had polluted his blood for the past several weeks. Here was his chance to finally do something, make some sort of difference, no matter how vanishingly small. He addressed his comment to the gravesite behind Alex. "The answer to both questions, Mom, is a resounding 'NO'. That's why I'm here, Mrs. Cryder. I'm going to make sure he eats, and at least stops moving for a few hours every night."
Alex stared from his friend, to the grave marker, to the hand still extended in front of him, steady and inviting. "What the hell are you talking about, Tomas?" Face a perplexed mask. " You lost me when you started talking to the large pile of dirt over there."
"Don't worry, Alex. I've got a plan."
"Now I'm terrified." He didn't look terrified. He looked...relieved. Like a thirsty man gazing over a stream. Like a long drought had just ended.
"Don't worry, my little petunia blossom. Tomas is here, and he'll take good care of you."
"Yeah, right. I may have been born on a Tuesday, Tomas, but it wasn't last Tuesday. What are you up to?"
"What I am up to, m'dear, is a decent meal. Then a trip to the airport to return my rental car. Then a long drive, followed by a good night's sleep in a hotel room somewhere outside Bumfuck, Texas. You got a problem with that, Alex?"
"Do I get a choice?"
"I'm so generous, I'll even give you a choice. Do you want to stop by Café Patchoulli for dinner, or is Mama's still open?"
That smile was back, the one Tomas hadn't seen since before Alex's mad dash into oblivion. Maybe since before the hospital. Alex's patented "All-is-well-with-the-world" smile. "Mama's, of course. If I have to be in Texas, the least I expect to get out of the trip is some proper soul food. Black-eyed peas, grits, chicken fried steak...I need my cornmeal and grease fix, man!"
That night, in the unaccustomed pleasure of sleeping indoors, lulled to sleep by the sound of another person's breathing, he dreamed.
Cold cotton sheets.
No tether. No weight on his wrists. Just cold cotton on hot skin.
His brain wasn't mired in molasses this time. Instead, it was soaring. Flying. Or maybe he was flying—he wasn't sure.
Nope, skin definitely in contact with the sheets.
But he couldn't shake the sensation that he was floating half a foot off the bed.
The image almost made him giggle. Almost. Sensation on sensation—the slippery silk wrapped around his eyes, smooth unbroken expanse of cotton sheets, fire inside his chest, burning outward.
Another almost-giggle.
Whatever drugs Luis had given him this time, they were da bomb. Really quality shit. He'd have to ask him for another hit later. Or maybe he'd have to remember what he'd done wrong to get sedated, and do it again. Nyaah. That would involve higher brain function, and right now all circuits are busy.
Was he alone? He couldn't tell. It didn't seem to matter much. No, he didn't think so. He could just about sense another person in the room. Just the slightest taste in the back of his mouth, a prickle in his skin as an unseen gaze devoured him. He was being watched. Hungered for.
Sounds somewhere far away. Cloth rustling. Footprints on hardwood. Where was he anyways? His room? Luis's room? There had to be a map around here somewhere...
He could worry about it, think about it, think. Period. Or he could just float, happy and weightless.
Cool fingers across his cheek. He turned his head towards the sensation, feeling the room revolve on it's axis. Another gentle stroke along the line of his jaw, then lips barely pressing against his. Not taking. Just...asking. Luis never asked. He just took. This was almost-sweet, almost-gentle.
Swimming through air, trying to get another of those gentle kisses. Another weight on the bed—this one lower, near his legs. Murmured voices, fragments of words, broken transmissions from another galaxy. Echoes, changing color.
And then another touch, another brush of lips along his, teasing tongue barely stroking. Opening his mouth for more, and a quiet little moan slipped out. Kisses too quick to catch and hold. Or maybe his neurons were too stoned to fire properly. Happy, happy neurons.
Giggling, for real this time. Slow descent of fingers along his side, down his ribs, searching out the ticklish spots with practiced precision. Squirming, writhing away from those torturing fingers, mouth open, more little moans forced out with every breath. Rolling over, uncoordinated flop onto his side, arms trying to cover unprotected flanks, trying to pull his knees up, minimize the amount of area exposed.
Broken transmissions coming in at louder volume now. Palm on the back of his knee, grasping, pulling out and upward. Fingers transmutate to claws, scraping down his back, sweet shock of pain. Arching hard with a gasp and a hiss, too distracted to notice right away the fingers between his legs. Cold fingers. Slippery fingers.
Kisses, harder, fingers tangling in his hair, plundering his mouth. More fingers playing with his ass, a tease then a lube-slick slide. Bucking back and forth between the two sensations, electricity conducted from head to thigh, skin sliding along the cotton sheets. Something in the back of his head screaming, screaming, but he couldn't make out the words.
Firehot body pressed up against his back. Blunt thickness replacing fingers, another thigh wedged between his, keeping his legs apart. Slippery-cold burn inside, splitting him, twisting him up a little more, pushing him onto more kisses, more helpless whimpering sounds.
Warm hands sliding across his chest, finding a piercing, and a twist, and another gasp into a kiss. Quiet chuckle behind him, voice whispering in his ear, whispering directly into his brain.
"...you feel so good, Alex.....so tight...."
And the screaming inside his head suddenly hit a new and urgent pitch.
Wrong voice.
Wrong cock.
Wrong body.
Tomas.
no no no no NO NO NO NO
Trying to make his arms work, push away from the kisses, make it stop. Mouthing the words over and over again, shaking his head back and forth.
stop it stop it stop it stop it
Hands finding cool skin, shoving, trying to break the current. Sounds tumbling out of his mouth, scared animal noises. Cold fingers grabbing his wrists in a vice-like grip, pinned above his head. More words sliding wormlike into his brain.
"...wanted this for so long..."
Crying in earnest, trying to fight the electricity arcing through him. Cool hand brushing against his balls, sliding up to grab his cock in an almost-too-tight fist. Another circuit completed, more current tearing into him. Bucking, twisting, trying so hard, and all he's doing is forcing himself forward onto that fist and then backwards onto that cock.
"...if I'd known you would be this good....would have done this a long time ago...."
Too hot. Too cold. Fear and rage not enough to dampen the pleasure sizzling along his nerve endings. Hand on his cock, fingers pinching his nipples, and that cock pistoning in and out of his ass. Wailing around the tears, around the teeth nipping at his bottom lip. Taste of copper in his mouth.
no please no don't do this to me tomas no no
Whole body shaking, burning on contact with the live wire behind him, inside him. Grounding through him, sparking and arcing in a crazy rhythm of mouth and cock and hands, hot and cold, turning his bones to liquid, still not enough to put out the fire.
Jackhammer behind him, twisting, making him cry out with every thrust, every push onto that hand. Pouring more poisonous words into his ear.
"....belong to us now.....will you scream for me, Kitten?...will you come for me?..."
Fingers playing with the rings embedded in his chest suddenly gone, replaced by a cool tongue. Deep breath, then microscopically relaxing just before sharp teeth come in contact with his skin, just in front of the piercing.
Screaming. All the nerve endings in his body exploding at the same time. Jerking around like a puppet, like a man tossed onto high voltage wires, burning. Burning.
Until the cool darkness takes hold, and he surrendered to it.
"Alex, shhh. Alex, wake up. It's just a dream. Just a dream. C'mon, man, you're scaring me..."
Alex slowly pulled himself out of the gauzey dream-place, back to the present tense. Cheap polyester bedspread, bad art on the walls, bible on the nightstand—yup, bargain basement hotel. Alex looked down at his ratty cut-off denim shorts and T-shirt definitely past its prime, the same clothes he had been wearing for the past several days. Everything exactly the way he had left it so many times before. Here and now. Luis thousands of miles away. Safe. No one here to hurt him...
Until he looked up into Tomas's deep blue eyes.
Tomas. In his bed. Touching him.
And the voice in the back of his head started screaming again.
::No no please no no Tomas don't do this to me no no::
Tomas raised his hand to Alex's face, started brushing Alex's too-long bangs out of his eyes, trying to comfort his oldest friend. Alex flinched, jerked away at the contact, pulled back to the edge of the bed.
"Don't touch me." Growled.
Tomas just looked at him for a moment, not quite comprehending.
"Alex, it's OK. It's just me. You're safe—no one's gonna hurt you. Just calm down..." His best friend was obviously stuck in the middle of this nightmare that he was having trouble waking up from. Alex had helped him come back from the horrible dream place more than enough times in his life. Now it was Tomas' turn to be the strong one. He reached over and grabbed Alex's hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't fucking touch me!" Practically screaming. Eyes wild, frantic. Looking for an escape, a way out.
Before Tomas could move, could even react, Alex was off the bed and halfway across the floor. A second later, he yanked the door open and ran out, into the warm starry night. All Tomas could do was sit there, staring, listening to the door slam closed, wondering what just happened.
Alex curled up in the bed of his pickup truck on the air mattress, sleeping bag wrapped around him like a cloak, teeth chattering, fighting the full-body shakes, trying desperately to calm down.
::Shh, shh. It's OK. You're alone now. He's not going to touch you any more. You're safe here. You're safe...::
Chapter 9 – Sleep
"Everywhere I look, you're all I see.
pound pound pound
The door vibrated under his fist, echoing off the mailboxes and the eaves of the small house next door, violating the early morning silence of a sleeping neighborhood.
Sleep is useless. Worthless
Wait to a count of thirty. No lights emerging from the quiet shuttered house, no sound but dogs frantically barking in the backyard. Try it again.
pound pound pound
Tomas stood next to him, insane banshee grin splitting his face, bouncing in place. High on being naughty.
The rest of the neighborhood was slowly de-cocooning, even if the occupants of this particular house weren't. Porch lights flicked on, doors opening, disturbing the crickets reverie. Older men and women, dressed in their dancing-with-sandman finery, emerging from the darkness.
I don't need to sleep. I don't want to sleep
pound pound pound
"This is the BATF." Tomas, hand cupped around his mouth like a megaphone, using his best official voice. "We know you're in there, Mr. Sioux. We have a warrant to search the premises."
No noise, no light emerged from inside the house, but Alex could feel movement in the soles of his feet. Doors opening and closing, breaking and recreating the seal.
When I don't sleep, I don't dream
Motion off to one side, near the sidewalk, being tracked by both men on the porch. When they turned back around, they were face-to-face with the business end of a shotgun, held by a very not-amused Bobby Sioux.
"You boys got more nerve than a bum tooth. Woke up the whole damn neighborhood." Sleep-thickened Louisiana drawl flowing like molasses. "By rights, I should throw you out on your asses."
"Nyaah." Tomas pushed the gun aside, stepped in front of Alex, banshee grin even more frightening in the shadowed yellow bug light. Immensely pleased with himself. "You wouldn't do that. You love us too much."
Hard look from the older man. "Don't be so sure about that, boy." Long moment, contemplating, deciding, then an amused chuckle. "Get your asses inside the house, before someone calls the police on the two of you." Swatting at Alex with the butt of the gun, shooing them inside, before closing and double-locking the door.
When I don't dream, I don't feel the pain
Long pause inside the front door, after the ritual of locking and dead-bolting. Tomas still bouncing, Alex trying very hard not to fidget under Bobby's intense gaze. Being looked over, like a new recruit under the microscope of the Drill Sergeant, always made Alex's skin itch. Especially considering the spotlight was on Alex and Alex alone. There was something lurking under that look, something...else. Something that Alex didn't want to examine too closely. It was too similar to something he had searched for too long in another pair of eyes.
"You look like hell, boy." From Bobby, not a criticism, just a statement of fact. No insult intended, kid, I just thought you'd like to know you look like death warmed over.
"Gee, thanks for the compliment, Daddy." Sneering. A little too much venom in the voice. A little too much old pain seeping through from a place he thought was long numb.
Hand on Alex's arm, spotlight gaze pinning him in place. "I'm not your daddy, Alex." Quiet voice, gravel and concrete. "I think you have enough of those in your life right now."
Alex bit back a laugh. An excess of fathers. Right. How many was he up to now? Three? One who abandoned him, one who beat the shit out of him, and one who died.
::Speaks volumes about you when you can't even keep a parental figure around without him hating your guts and wanting you dead::
Alex looked away, down, out, anywhere but at Bobby, at that concerned look in his eyes, fighting the urge to jerk out of his grip and dart back out into the night. He couldn't handle any one else's pity, couldn't handle one more person's well-meaning worry. Not now. Not ever.
"Second bedroom upstairs is yours, Alex." Stepping back, giving the younger man space. Friendly voice. Impersonal. Hotel-clerk voice. "There's a new dog running around upstairs, but he won't bother you."
Another stray. Just another homeless creature that nobody wanted, lurking in one of the spare rooms of the big ramshackle house. Alex bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the rising stream of bile-soaked words that threatened to drown him.
::And I'm supposed to care. And you're supposed to be able to hurt me with your words. And I am so far beyond being hurt-able right now::
So far into the pain that lived inside his head that he couldn't even feel the pain directed at him from the outside.
"How is he doing?"
Tomas wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee, heat-seeking, as if it weren't nearly eighty degrees outside at nearly four in the morning. The June Louisiana heat was a living thing, with weight and breath and teeth.
"About as well as can be expected, considering..."
"Don't give me the party-line crap, Tommy. I've got eyes. I can see that he's still ambulatory and breathing." Leaning over the scarred butcher-block table. "How is he doing in the places where I can't see it?"
Tomas took a deep breath, shook his head.
"That good, eh?" Cajun drawl mellowing Bobby's words.
"Yeah. About that good." He shrugged; expressing more with a droop of his shoulders then his words could ever aspire to. "He's not sleeping. He eats when I remind him to. Nightmares are getting worse. His 'bad thoughts' are starting to interfere with his ability to function. I'm afraid if he stays out much longer, he'll end up back in the hospital."
"Bad thoughts?" Forehead wrinked. Not understanding.
"Alex's term, not mine. Flashbacks. Intrusive memories. He's here, he's now, and then he's gone mid-sentence and it's hard as hell to drag him back. Between that and the nightmares..."
Long pause. Then again, quietly, so quietly that Bobby had to strain to make out the words.
"I thought my being here would make it better. Charged out here like Don Quixote on his fucking horse, stupid, conceited, fucking idiot. And all I'm doing is making it worse."
Now it was Bobby's turn to shake his head. "You're not making it worse, Tommy. He needs...someone. He needs you. You're family."
Blue eyes locked on brown, and Bobby was shocked by the pain and self- hatred radiating out from behind them.
"All I am is a reminder of...of every bad thing that happened to him on that island. Of everything that Luis forced him to do. Of what ..." Eyes closed, he buried his face in his hands.
::What did he do? He drowned me in him. He forced me to breathe underwater, and then dragged me back to the surface. I can't survive the air anymore::
One deep breath. Then another, gathering courage, the courage to look his latest father figure straight in the eye and tell him the truth.
"There were a lot of things that Alex didn't tell you about what happened on the island."
"I'd gathered that." Murmur in the background. Affirmative noise.
"Luis..." False start. Another deep breath.
"Luis had different reasons for choosing us. I mean, he had different reasons for choosing Alex than he had for me." Searching the older man's face, looking for a response, for anything.
"I figured as much. You two are very different people."
"He wanted...he chose Alex because he wanted a protégé. Someone he could shape, and mold, and turn into a little version of himself. He was grooming Alex to take over where he left off. Y'see, he had plans for Alex."
Bobby was priming to say something. Tomas waved him off with one hand.
"I was a tasty morsel, but not the main course. The reason I was along for this particular bumpy ride was because I looked like I would be fun in bed. That and..." Looking out the kitchen window, studying the darkness.
"I was also there to help him control Alex, keep him in line. A bribe, an implied threat—call it what you will.
"I was the evening's entertainment. Alex was...the main course. The prodigal-to-be. But, as you know, Alex is one of the most hard-headed, stubborn son-of-a-bitches you'll ever meet." Tomas warmed under Bobby's smile, even though it wasn't for him. Tomas wasn't too good to steal affection intended for other people. It was the story of his life.
"Luis...I don't know exactly what Luis expected when he grabbed Alex, but it wasn't what he ended up with. Alex has this—I don't know what you call it, but it sure as hell isn't a gift—an ability to disappear inside his own head. If things get heavy enough outside, he just goes away. His body is there, but when you look in his eyes, there's no one home.
"I must be a quicker study than Sleeping Beauty upstairs, because I figured out the game plan really early. The only way to stay alive was to give Luis what he wants, and save as much of yourself as you can in the process. As far as that goes, Luis wasn't the worst I've ever lived through."
::And exactly how much experience have you had with soul-murder, boy?::
"Give him control, offer him what he asks for with a smile, and he'll pretty much leave you alone. Sometimes, he could be almost...gentle." A wistful, nearly sad look flashed across Tomas' handsome face, and then it was gone.
"Alex couldn't do that. He couldn't play the game. He fought, every single step of the way, even when giving in wouldn't have killed him, or even hurt that much. He challenged Luis' power, tried to escape, even physically attacked him on one occasion that I had the distinct displeasure to witness." Tomas looked away, closed his eyes, still trying to block out the images dancing in front of his retinas.
"I tried, Bobby. I really, really tried. I kept Luis distracted, so he wouldn't come down so hard on Alex. I talked to Alex, tried to make him understand that he was just making it worse on himself. Alex didn't take very kindly to it, but I just couldn't stand back and watch Luis break him.
"First, Luis tried beating some sense into Alex's thick head. That got nowhere fast. Then Luis played the starvation card. Alex didn't seem to notice. Finally, he started using drugs on Alex.
"Alex hated that with a passion. He told me once he would rather be beaten than drugged up. That's probably why Luis did it with such relish. But it still wasn't enough for Luis."
Hard swallow.
"Luis made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He would take it easy on Alex, stop beating him bloody, in exchange for my help. He wanted me to help him control Alex. If I did, things would go more smoothly for both of us.
"Looking back on it, I think Alex would have preferred the beatings." Sharp pain inside his chest, where his heart would have been if it hadn't been torn out months earlier.
"The other night, I finally persuaded Alex to crash at a little dive of a motel, instead of driving all night or sleeping in the cab of his pickup truck. Nasty, dingy little place, but it was cheap, and it didn't ask for any ID when we checked in.
"Alex was having a nightmare, just the latest in the continuing series. I have had a through-the-wall front-row ticket to more of his nightmares than I ever want to count.
"But this one was different.
"This time, instead of Luis, instead of his name on his lips, begging him to stop, not to hurt him any more..." Eyes too shiny, clenching his jaw tightly, biting back the words, the tears.
"This time, in the middle of the night, it was my name he was screaming. Begging me to stop, begging me not to hurt him anymore."
Tomas looked across the table at Bobby's weather-hardened face, and didn't bother fighting the tears as they fell.
"I raped him, Bobby. I raped my best friend."
Chapter 10 – Piggy
"Hey pig–
Midnight.
Bobby and Alex sat on the back porch of Bobby Sioux's house, nursing a beer, reclining on plastic beach chairs, watching the moon.
"Kid, you don't turn into anything funny during the full moon, do ya?"
"Yes, Bobby. It's on my Medic-Alert bracelet : Allergic to Penicillin and Lycanthropy. What the fuck kind of question is that?"
"Just had to be sure." Another swig of beer. "Let's talk."
::Let's not and say we did, OK?::
Sigh. "Bobby, I am sick and tired of talking about last summer and how I'm doing. Can we just enjoy the quiet?"
"Kid, you're going to hurt yourself jumping to conclusions like that. You don't want to talk about them, fine. That's your business." Heavy Louisiana drawl pulling the words down.
"Then what exactly do you want to talk about, Bobby?"
"Let's talk about Walter Skinner."
Alex nearly spewed a mouthful of beer across the lawn. "Walt? You know Walter Skinner?"
Bobby laughed. "Know him? Hell, kid, I've dragged him out of every sleazy bar and strip club in Hoh Chih Minh city. I've held his head when he puked. Taught him how to shoot an AK-47." Another long mouthful of beer. "You could say I know him, yeah."
"The war?" Understanding look.
"The war. And afterwards. Walt is one of my boys. He's the godfather of my middle son, Tim. He's spent the Thanksgiving with us right after he and his wife split up. He's family. That's what gives me the right to ask you this—what are your intentions towards him?"
"Intentions?" Alex sounded incredulous. "You want to know what my intentions are towards him? Are we going to discuss his curfew next? What alternative universe did I just get dropped into here?"
Shrugging. "I want to know if you're really interested, or if you're just dicking him around because of his position. He's been a friend for a long time, and I don't want to see him hurt if there's anything I can do to prevent it."
"You're making a pretty big assumption there, boss. You're assuming he's interested in anything more than dicking around with me."
"Oh, that's not an assumption. That's a fact."
Blink. Blink. "How the hell can you know that?"
"He's told me." Smile playing around the edges of Bobby's tanned, weathered face.
"He told you WHAT?"
"Relax, kid. He didn't come out and profess his undying love for you, if that's what's got your knickers in a twist. He didn't say anything at all. He didn't need to. As I said, I've known him for a long time—a damn long time. I know what he sounds like when he's in heat, and I know what he sounds like when he's really interested. When he talks about you, it's definitely in the second category. And the question still stands..."
"And how about the other people he's sleeping with? What category do they fall under?"
Another patented Bobby Smile. "You sound jealous."
"Maybe I am. No—that's not true. I don't have any room to be."
Arched eyebrow, questioning look. "You trying to tell me you've got someone else on the side? When did this happen? You've been busy?"
"It's not....it's not like that, Bobby. He's just a friend."
"But you want more." No question, just a statement.
Alex clenched his hands into fists. "I want a lot of things, all right? I want him. I want Walt. I want the last twelve months to have never happened. I want my adoptive parents back. Do I need to continue the list?"
"So you want both of them?"
"Yes. No. Maybe." Alex rubbed his eyes tiredly with one hand.
"Well, that covers all the possible options, kid." Gentle voice.
"They're just really really different, Bobby. My friend—he's a hell of a lot like me. We both come from the same dark place. We understand that part of each other. We're both broken. I can be strong for him. I can do that."
"And Walter?"
Alex licked his lips unconsciously. "Walt....it's different. Completely different. He hypnotizes me. When I'm talking to him, I feel like a deer in the sights of a mountain lion. It's like I'm frozen and waiting for him to get close enough to make his move. I've never felt like that with anyone else."
"So he's...intense." Bobby offered helpfully. "Anything else?"
"Try everything else." Alex snapped. "He's fifteen years older than me, he's a professional, he's wealthy, he has a fucking harem, and I can't figure out what the hell someone like that wants with someone like me...except one thing. Rough trade."
Bobby's voice was cold, almost a growl. "If you really think that's what Walt's looking for..."
"I don't," Alex interrupted. "I could handle that. Hell, I'm used to people wanting that from me. He doesn't. I don't know what he wants. And I don't know how to feel about the fact that he wants me—and someone else."
Bobby relaxed back against the plastic webbing. "Let me tell you a few things about Walter Skinner. Number one, he will never, ever lie to you. If he's sleeping with someone else, he'll tell you. He won't volunteer much more information than that, but if you ask, he'll answer the question completely, and honestly.
"Number two, he will never, ever try to push you into anything you're not ready for or can't handle. The man's a fucking psychic when it comes to figuring out what makes other people tick."
"Yeah, he needs his own 900 number and infomercial," Alex muttered under his breath.
Bobby ignored him. "If he wants something from you, he'll come right out and say it. If you say no, that's fine. He won't pressure you.
"And number three, he might understand where you're coming from a little better than you give him credit for. He's seen—and done—some pretty ugly things during the war when he was even younger than you are now. He pulled himself out of his own personal hell. Give him half a chance, and he might be able to help pull you out of yours as well."
Looking away, anywhere but at the older man by his side. "I'm doing all right, Bobby. I don't need anybody's help."
"Bullshit, Alex." Frustration evident in his tone. "You are not all right. Not by a long shot." Taking one deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself. "Last night, after you crashed, Tommy and I had a long talk. He told me what happened between the two of you on that island."
::shit shit shit shit::
"I don't know what ..."
"Shut up and listen, Alex." Command voice. "I know what Tommy did to you. I have a damn good idea of what it's doing to your head. You need to find someone—a professional—to help you with this. This is not something you get over on your own. This is something that will fuck up the rest of your life if you don't take some steps to make it stop." Reaching over, one surprisingly strong hand on Alex's forearm. "Do you want to end up back at that hospital? Do you want to be in this kind of pain forever? If not, then do something to make it better. It's not going to do it for you—you have to want to get well. You do want to get well, don't you?"
::Do I want to get better? Or do I just want it over?::
Chapter 11 – One More Casualty
"Years go by and I choke on my tears
Dribble. Fake left. Fake right. Charge.
Sweat dripping in Merlin's hazel eyes, staining the back of his gray FBI T-shirt, matting his hair flat under his Washington Wizard's baseball cap. The late June sun stubbornly refuses to concede possession of the sky to the cooler moon. The heat stays on, pouring out of the cracked concrete, out of the buildings, out of the never-ending rainbow-colored progression of cars.
Slide. Bank. Arch shot. Missed. Damn. H-O-R...
One of JJ's friends sidled up next to Merlin. Or maybe he was a cousin, Merlin couldn't tell. JJ had so many, a steady stream of relatives, former roommates, brothers of ex-girlfriends... JJ was almost always surrounded by people. Merlin was almost always alone.
"You play pretty well, for a white boy. Where'd you learn?" Heavy street drawl. Fake.
Merlin smiled. If this man wanted to play head games, he was outclassed. Out of his league. "Oxford."
"Hot damn. I got some relatives from Ole Miss. When you there?"
"Not Oxford, Mississippi. Oxford, England."
He stepped back, blinked, stared. "Mother-fuck." Turning, hollering at JJ across the court. "Hey, JJ! This FBI-boy say he learned to play hoops across the fucking pond. He shitting me or what?"
JJ's response was lost in the sound of Merlin's cell phone ringing. Wiping the sweat off his hands, he jogged over to his duffel bag and extracted the irritating cricket.
::One of these days, cricket of mine, you're going to find yourself at the bottom of the Potomac...:
"Mulder." ::Alex, you're early. You don't normally call before midnight::
"Agent Mulder, it's Deputy Chief Skinner. How quickly can you get back to my office?"
Glancing at his watch—$95 Casio special. Nothing special. Just a replacement for the one his foster mother had bought him—the one he killed sticking hand into a sewage pipe. 8:15. Fifteen minutes back to his apartment, ten minute shower, five minute change back into corporate suit second skin, then half an hour back to DOJ. Or he could head there now, be at his boss's doorstep in twelve minutes, fourteen max. Sweaty and disheveled and half dressed...
lions and tigers and bears, oh my
Grinning again. "Depends, boss. I'm on the basketball court now. How important is it to you that I'm dressed in regulation blue?"
Merlin could hear the older man's smile as his voice dropped an octave, into a register he only used when he had a riding crop in his hand. "Come as you are, Agent."
Oh, yeah. This was going to be good....
Ninety minutes later, the phone on Skinner's desk rang. Merlin jumped, exchanged a quick look with his boss, and picked up the phone.
"Agent Mulder."
"All right, let's try this one more time. What the hell is so important that you needed to speak to me right away?" Alex, his pissed-off mood evident from the first words.
"Hello, Alex. I'm going to put you on speaker phone."
"Fine. Whatever. I don't care."
Merlin hit a few buttons on the base, and hung up the receiver. "I see you got my message."
"It was a little hard to miss. Let's see—you called my voice mail. You called my house. You called Tomas. You called Dio. Can you say Overkill, boys and girls? I knew you could." Dripping sarcasm.
"I apologize, Alex, but I needed to get hold of you quickly."
"Next time, just put up a fucking billboard! Fine. You got me. Now what the hell do you want?"
Short pause, and another complicated look between Skinner and Merlin.
"Alex, do you remember the first time we met?"
"Yes, Merlin, I remember the first time we met." The 'You idiot' heavily implied, but not spoken.
"When and where was it?"
Alex snarled in response. "I don't know what the fuck game you're playing, Merlin, but I'm not in the mood for this shit. Why the hell do you want to know?"
Merlin's voice was cold. Cutting. "Just. Answer. The. Question."
"Fine." Just as cold. "The first time we met was outside a gun shop in Apalachicola, Florida. You prevented two of the fine, upstanding citizens of the town from beating me to a pulp and then shooting me for good measure. At the time I thought you were a contract killer. I'm still not entirely sure my first impression of you wasn't accurate."
Merlin looked at Skinner, nodded.
"The second time we met was in Chicago, at a gun show. You wanted someone to translate documents from Russian to English for you, ASAP. The problem was that the documents weren't written in Russian. They were written in Ukranian, then transliterated into Cyrillic. I couldn't make heads or tails of them."
Another nod.
"The third time we met, I propositioned you. You just looked at me like I had eaten a whole bag of the pink sparkly crack for breakfast."
Skinner arched an eyebrow at Merlin. Merlin covered his eyes with one hand, sighed, nodded. "Thank you, Alex."
"Now will SOMEONE please tell me what this lovely little trip down memory lane was all about?" Alex, sounding slightly less pissed, though not much.
"Sorry about that, Alex. I needed to be absolutely, positively sure it was you."
"Who the fuck else would it be? I'm beginning to think you've been smoking the pink, sparkly crack for breakfast."
"I'm at work, Alex. And there's someone else in the office with me."
"No shit, Sherlock. I clued into that little fact when you left the phone number with a Justice Dept. exchange. And as far as the audience, if you don't care that I knew you when you were young and stupid, I don't care who else knows."
"Alex, it's my boss."
Skinner.
"Lovely. Thanks ever so much for the warning, chum. Remind me to beat you senseless the next time I see you—not that it would take much. Would it be asking for too much to get an explanation of what the fuck's going on?"
"Alex, this is Deputy Chief Skinner." Using his Deputy Chief voice, very different from his Seduction voice he had used with Alex the night before.
"I'm listening."
"Two nights ago, a high ranking member of the Colombian mob took receipt of a package from Luis Christien. We had the room wired and heard the entire thing."
"And?"
"The package was a body. Their internal report came back today, identifying it as the body of Peter Cryder."
Silence on the other end of the line. Then a snicker. Guffaws, and finally laughter, bubbling over the phone, bordering on hysteria. It took Alex a moment to calm down enough to talk.
"Reports..." Voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I've always wanted to say that."
"Yes, Mr. Twain." Skinner cracked a smile for the first time all evening. "The question still stands, how did they get a body that matches your DNA?"
"DNA can't be changed, but DNA tests can be faked." Merlin, focusing hard. "Samples can be mislabeled, contaminated. There's always the fallback method—bribing the lab tech."
"The only person in a position to do that was Christien, Agent Mulder. Why would he go to so much trouble? The only rational reason for that course of action would be to protect Alex."
"Oh, there's another reason." Alex's voice as dark as the night sky. "He wants to fuck with my head. He loves doing that—being kind out of the blue, after weeks or months of being cruel and sadistic. It's just another one of his head games."
Alex gave up. Sleep just was not going to be happening that night.
His arms hurt. His wrists and elbows were being rubbed raw by fighting against the restraints. His lower back was one massive muscle spasm. His hips and thighs were screaming at him after being held immobile around a spreader bar for so many hours. His feet were practically numb.
If he could just roll over on his side, pull his knees up to his chest, he would be all right. Then he'd be able to massage some circulation back into his feet, work out the kinks in his hips and back, and stand a snowball's chance in hell of relaxing enough to sleep.
That wasn't going to happen. Luis had made damn sure of it.
The darkness in the room was an absolute thing, unbroken. It had substance, weight. It breathed, whispering bloody nothings in his ear. On more than one occasion, he had heard the darkness laugh.
::Focus, Alex. There's nothing there. There's nothing there::
::Breathe in...breathe out. Breathe in...breathe out::
Until the disembodied hand started a slow, lazy slide up his thigh.
When the fingers brushed up against his thigh, Alex didn't think. He just reacted, arching his back and thrashing, trying to get away, fight or flight in full swing.
Bad move.
The pain hit him like a freight train, cutting across his back, sending white-hot flares down both legs. His lungs were being crushed. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see anything but red spots dancing in front of his eyes, couldn't hear anything but his own blood pounding in his ears.
He thought he was going to vomit. He thought he was going to pass out. He thought he was going to die. This pain was worse than the whippings he had received at Luis' hands. This pain was worse than his father's beatings. This was going to kill him.
Alex didn't know how long he was lying there, barely breathing, in a pain haze. Finally, the sound of his own name being spoken in increasingly urgent tones pulled him back up to consciousness.
"Alex—- Alex—- ALEX!"
He opened his eyes, realizing for the first time that they had been clenched tightly shut. Luis was kneeling over him on the bed, flashlight in his hand, beam dancing randomly around the small room. Luis's eyes were fixed on his, showing traces of worry, and fear."
"Back, or stomach?" Clipped, angry tones.
::Wha...::
Alex tried to shake his head, but the slight motion sent another flare of pain down his back. He swallowed hard, trying valiantly not to vomit all over himself.
Another mystery hand entangled in his hair, grabbing him roughly. "Is the pain in your back, or in your stomach?" Fingers tightening, clenching into a fist, nearly pulling his hair out by the roots.
Another hard swallow. "My...my back.."
"Don't. Move." Hand yanking one more time against his scalp, for emphasis, then it was gone. Fingers quickly found the buckles holding the spreader bar in place and released them, pulling the bar up and out of the way. When his legs fell into a more natural position, Alex nearly screamed.
"Alex. Listen to me very carefully." No request in that voice. Just an order, and a promise of more darkness if it wasn't obeyed. "Can you move your legs?"
Alex clenched his jaw tightly, expecting another surge of pain, and slowly rotated his ankles. The pain was so intense it brought tears to his eyes.
"Good."
::Good for you, maybe, asshole::
"I'm going to roll you over onto your side now. This will hurt, but I have to get a look at your back, to see what kind of damage you just inflicted on yourself."
Strong hands behind his knees, fingers like bands of iron. "Three, two, one."
This time, Alex did scream. It felt like someone was ripping his body in half, leaving his intestines dangling out of a bloody, gaping hole. The gentle stroking of fingertips next to his spine was excruciating, and it seemed to go on for an eternity. Finally, after a moment or an hour Alex wasn't sure, the fingers were gone, and a weight settled next to him on the bed.
"Congratulations, Kitten. You not only managed to throw your back out, but you successfully managed to tear several muscles in the process. I'm impressed—I had previously underestimated your ability to injure yourself while lying flat on your back." Rolling away, fiddling with something next to the bed, then a brief flare of light, settling into a steady flame. One candle. Two.
"I'm going to get you a muscle relaxant, and something for the pain, as well as a heating pad. Tomorrow morning, we'll try moving you into my room. It will be easier for me to keep an eye on you there, since you're going to need help walking for the next few days."
"No." Quietly, since it hurt to breathe.
Puzzled look. "No what?"
"No shots." Still quiet, but more force behind the words.
Arched eyebrows, disbelieving. "Fine, Kitten. You want to sit up so you can swallow the pills—you go right ahead. Don't let me stop you."
Alex closed his eyes again, took in several slow, shallow breaths.
Luis was right.
::Stupid, motherfucking, cocksucking....he got me. Again. Right where he wants me::
"Why did you ask me about my stomach?" Another breathy question.
Luis took a deep breath, sighed. "When I came in here earlier, you cried out and doubled over in pain. My first thought was that you ruptured your appendix. It's a good thing that it was just your back. Those injuries I can take care of myself. If it was your appendix, I would have had to get a surgeon out here, and they're a bitch to get a hold of in the middle of the night."
"Why?" Breathy-voiced, eyes half closed.
Luis just looked at Alex. "Why is it so difficult to get a surgeon to a remote island at two A.M.?"
Alex's eyes fluttered open. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
"You prefer that I leave you here for a few hours, alone, in the dark, in agony?"
The pain was making Alex's brain slow. He fumbled for the words. "That's not...no..." Mouth closed, breathing slowly, deliberately through his nose. "For the last two and a half weeks, you've been cruel and fucking sadistic towards me. Now, all of a sudden, you're Florence Nightingale. I don't get it."
Luis' smile was gentle. Almost warm. His fingers carefully carded through Alex's sweat-soaked bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. "Your hair is getting long, Kitten. It's almost time to get it trimmed." Long pause, as his hand wandered down lower, stroking Alex's cheek. "Contrary to popular opinion, I don't get off on your pain. I don't take the belt to you because I enjoy it. I do it because it's the only way I know to get through that thick head of yours. I do it because you need to learn that actions have consequences, and that when you break the rules, you will be punished. I don't like doing it, Kitten, but I will do it as many times as I have to until you understand that." Hand cupping Alex's chin, brown eyes looking deeply into green. "I know this is hard for you. It wasn't easy for me, either, when I was in your place. But your old life is over now. This is your new life. The sooner you accept that, the easier the transition will be on everyone involved." Leaning over, a soft kiss on the forehead, and then off the bed and halfway to the door before Alex could think of a response.
Chapter 12
"I wanted to be with you alone,
Kim wasn't quite sure what to make of her boss's behavior that morning.
Deputy Chief Skinner was usually very...predictable. To be blunt, the man was boring. She could set her watch by what time he arrived for work (seven AM on the dot) and left for lunch (12:30, unless his weekly conference call on Tuesday ran long), and predict with amazing accuracy what he would eat for said lunch (California roll, extra wasabe, large iced tea with lemon, no sugar). Kim had worked at several other departments before coming to Justice, and she could say a lot for boring. Boring is good. Predictability had its definite pluses. She always knew what to expect from her boss.
That was why she was still his secretary after eight years, when none of her predecessors had lasted eight months.
That, and he bribed extremely well.
Bribery was a little-known job skill utilized by only the smartest bosses. Deputy Chief Skinner could bribe with the best of them.
Coffee. Chocolate. Flowers. Hardcover Harry Potter books the day they hit bookstores. Once he even got her sold-out tickets to the hottest show in town -The Producers when it came to the Kennedy Center. The man had connections, and he wasn't afraid to use them for her benefit.
That was one of the reasons why she was so loyal to him, even though other departments had tried several times to lure her away. That was one of the reasons why she had turned down higher-paying jobs in the private sector. That was why she put up with his sometimes weird behavior.
His behavior that morning was odd even by her admittedly liberal standards.
He cleared his schedule for the early afternoon. Not in and of itself unusual.
His reason floored her and nearly made her drop her frappucino.
Mr. Skinner had a date.
A lunch date.
This was so far out of character for him that she carefully checked the corners of the office for his pod. Walter S. Skinner didn't have a social life. In the eight years she had worked with Skinner, he had never once had anything approaching a date. His marriage had disintegrated years earlier, expired from inattention and unuse, according to the rumor mill. He had hardly seemed to notice. As far as she could tell, his entire waking life was totally wrapped up with work. Not a fulfilled life, according to her definition, but he never looked unhappy.
And now he had a date. Unfortunately, that was all the information that he had seen fit to pass along to his most loyal secretary. She was left with nothing to pass along to the rumor mill. Not a name, not a comment on how long they had been dating, not any background information. Just the fact that he would be incommunicado from noon until around three and to reschedule his meeting with Accounting.
Kim's morning was busy trying to theorize who this mystery date would be, with the help of frequent phone calls from Mary, the Chief's secretary and one of her closest friends. By the time noon slowly rolled around, Kim had hypothesized virtually every possible person or permutation that his lunch date could possibly be. When the knock on the door finally came at ten minutes until twelve, Kim thought she was ready for any eventuality.
She was wrong.
First of all, the woman was African-American. Cornrows flowing halfway down her back, ending in a spray of rainbow colored beads. She was tall and thin, wearing a multi-colored wrap dress that simultaneously covered everything and left little to the imagination. She resembled a Nubian goddess. Drop-dead gorgeous, in many books.
Then there was the wedding and engagement ring sitting prominently on her left hand. Well over a carat, according to Kim's trained eye, a beautiful pear shaped stone in platinum. Walter's lunch date was not only a knockout, but very married.
Blinding smile. "Would you please let Walter know that his lunch date is here?"
"May I tell him who is here?" Very polite. Her mother raised her better than to be rude to a guest, even though her jaw was skinned from where it hit the floor.
Another supermodel smile. "Mikaela Fisher."
Walter and Mikaela talked of nothings on the drive over to the restaurant, of inconsequentialities. They talked of her husband Joe, one of Skinner's oldest friends and another of Bobby Sioux's boys. They talked of her twin fifteen-year-old daughters, of her husband's medical clinic in the impoverished S.W. quadrant of the city, of the weather. They were both holding their tongues, biding their time.
It was only after they had placed their order at her favorite Vietnamese restaurant that she turned her intense brown eyes on him, looking through him. Searching for questions.
"You said when you called that you needed to talk to me—on a professional level. For you, I cancelled three appointments and a group session. Here I am, Walter. Talk to me."
Skinner sighed. For a moment, he wished he still smoked, so he could find something for his hands to do besides fidget in his lap. He had been rehearsing for this all morning, organizing words in linear patterns, trying to figure out just exactly what he wanted to say, how he wanted to say it. This wasn't supposed to be so difficult, talking to the wife of one of his closest friends. The fact that she was also a social worker who offered counseling sessions at her husband's medical clinic made her the perfect person to seek answers from.
Unfortunately, it didn't make it any easier for him to open his mouth and talk about it. If it were about him, about his life, his past, it would be easy. He would have no trouble saying the words, no trouble at all. But this was about someone else, something else, something newborn and fragile. He didn't want to break the soap bubble, expose it to light quite yet. He didn't want to run the risk of damaging something before it really had a chance to start.
She looked at him, shaking her head, smiling indulgently. "You men are all alike. Do I have to make it an order? 'Unburden yourself NOW, Soldier!'" Amazing imitation of a Marine drill sergeant.
"You're way too good at that." Grinning.
She shrugged. "What can I say? I'm the child of a drill instructor married to an ex-army guy. Purely a self-defense mechanism, I assure you. Now what did you want to talk about?"
Self-depreciating smile, small shake of the head. "I need your help."
"I'd kinda figured that out already, Walter. What do you need my help with?"
"I've met someone."
::And it's about fucking time, too. I've only been throwing all my single female—and most of my single male—friends at you for the past half decade or so!::
She arched her eyebrows at him, did her best 'Go on' expression, accompanied by appropriate hand gestures.
"I've only known him for a few weeks. So far, all of our interactions have been on the phone, but he's due to get back to our fair city in the near future."
"I'm waiting to hear a problem in this."
He sighed again, closed his eyes. Wished one more time for a cigarette. "Confidentially?"
"Of course." She looked positively insulted. Professional, but insulted.
"This man that I'm interested in....he's had a very rough time of it lately. Less than a year ago, he was kidnapped, beaten and raped. I'm not 100% certain, but I believe he hasn't been intimate with anyone since then."
"And you plan on changing that fact."
Lupine grin. "I plan on fucking him through the mattress at the first possible opportunity." He looked away, suddenly serious. "Therein lies the problem, Mikaela. This is new to me. How do I do that without terrifying him? I don't want to step on any buried land mines here."
Now it was her turn to sigh. "Walter, you couldn't have possibly picked an easy person to become interested in, could you? Some nice, normal, emotionally healthy type? Nyaah. Didn't think it would be possible. You've never done anything the easy way in the entire twenty years I've known you. Why should you start now?" Another sigh. "Can I ask you a couple of questions?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"Don't tempt me- I am armed. And dangerous." Smiling. "Does your friend have a name?"
"His name's Alex."
"Has Alex received any counseling or therapy since his attack?"
Walt shook his head. "I think so. He's not exactly forthcoming on the entire topic. The first time, his shrink was apparently a few fries short of a happy meal. The second time, he ended up in a group therapy session for rape survivors. He was the only man in the room. After those two debacles, he gave up on counseling. Can't say as I blame him." Another shake of his head. "When we talked about it, I got the distinct impression that there was something else, something he wasn't willing to discuss yet. I'm not going to push it, but I think it's important."
Nodding. Full shrink mode. "Does he know about your, ahem, proclivities?"
"You mean the one involving duct tape and farm animals, or the one where I dress up like Nathan Lane doing Carmen Miranda? " Mischievous grin. "Yes, he does. I made a point of explaining it to him the other night. Full disclosure up front and all that other good stuff."
"How did he take it?" Leaning forward, almost conspiratorially over their spring rolls and soup.
"I'm not sure. At the time, I thought he handled it fine. Then he called me back four hours later..."
The phone rang while he was de-mummifying his dry cleaning, hanging out the white starched shirt and crisp pleated dress pants he would be wearing the next day. Nightly ritual. Ablutions to the gods of power dressing and cleaning chemicals.
"Skinner."
"I need to talk to you." No introduction given, and none needed. The voice was the same as a few hours earlier. The tone was as different as night and day.
"I'm here. Talk to me."
"It's about what we discussed earlier." Vague.
::Are there people listening in on your conversation, Alex? Or are you just that uncomfortable saying the words?::
"I presumed as much. What do you need to tell me?"
Long pause. Long enough that Skinner thought Alex might have fallen asleep, or hung up.
"Alex? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm still here." Shorter pause. "There's something you need to know—about what we talked about earlier. About me."
"I'm listening."
Deep breath. "I don't...you shouldn't....it's...." Frustrated snort. "I don't want you to think that I'm..."
"You don't want me to think you're what, Alex?" Gentle tone. Not interrogating, just asking.
Snapping now. "I don't want you to think I'm into pain, all right? I'm not into pain. I needed you to know that."
Patiently, slowly, like he was talking to a frightened child or a spooked animal. "Alex, it's all right. I already know that. I know you're not into pain. I didn't think you were. Why was it so important that you tell me that?"
Even more frustrated. "I needed you to know. I didn't want you to think...hell, I don't know. It was just important, all right? I'm sorry I called and wasted your time, all right? Is that good enough for you?"
"No, it's not. I think it's more than that. Do you want me to tell you what I think it is?"
"Sure. Go for it. Don't let me stop you—as if I ever do."
Skinner closed his eyes, willing himself to see nothing but green, do nothing but breathe. "Here's what I think, Alex. If this isn't right, please tell me so, OK?" Getting no answer, he continued. "You wanted—no, you needed—me to know that you weren't into pain because you didn't want me to think that you wanted pain. You didn't want me to think that in the past, when people hurt you, that you wanted it. Is that somewhere close?"
Upset breathing, like he was trying not to cry. "Yes. No. I don't know."
"Well, that certainly covers all the available options." Light tone, smiling. "Alex, I know you aren't into pain. I know you didn't invite what Luis did to you. You didn't want it, and you definitely didn't deserve it. It wasn't your fault."
"You don't....you don't know that."
"I think I do. I think I understand it better than you think."
"You don't know shit!" Frantic now. "You don't know! You don't understand. I knew I shouldn't have called. I knew this was a bad idea..."
Skinner recognized that Alex was not up to handling logic right then, and decided that a course correction was definitely in order, before the young man got even more upset and said—or did—something they would both regret later.
"Alex, can I ask you a question?"
"Depends."
::Gotta love those definitive answers::
"Earlier today, you sent me a picture..."
"Is that your question?" Mildly shocked, somewhat pissed off.
"No, but I was about to get to my question when you interrupted me." Mock-stern. "My question to you is, what was up with the dog in that photograph?"
Alex snorted, smiled for the first time. "That dog is my new traveling companion. His name is Jacob, Jacob T. Dog. Once I get back home, I'm filling out an application for him to get a Platinum Card."
"Good name. Where'd he come from?"
"He was another of Bobby's strays. He had been living at Bobby's house for a couple of days when we...when I showed up. He snarled and snapped at everyone else in the house, wouldn't let them within arm's reach, but insisted on following me around and sleeping in my bed with me. So, when I left, the dog was sitting in the passenger seat. He's obviously a mix, but none of us can figure out exactly what combination of breeds would make a dog like Jacob. I'm voting for Heinz-57 myself."
"Let me tell you something about my old friend Bobby—he can't tell a purebred from a pimple on his ass. Jacob isn't a mix. He's a purebred, but his breed is one I wouldn't expect any of you to have run into before."
"Oh, do enlighten us, Mr. Secret-Westminster-Watcher-Rare-Breed-Guru." Flippant and silly, previous disagreement forgotten.
"Jake is a beautiful example of a Rhodesian Ridgeback. He has a ruff on his back that stands up when he growls, or gets upset, doesn't he? That's his ridge. They're great dogs—smart, tough as nails, great watchdogs. They were originally bred in Rhodesia—now Zimbabwe—to hunt lions and other prey many times their size. Absolutely fearless dogs. They can sense when someone needs them—like you."
"Ya hear that, Jacob?" Talking to someone away from the phone. "You're a lion hunter. Shame there are no lions around here to let you loose at. Maybe we'll stop by the zoo on our way out of town..."
"...and then we just talked about dogs for a while, until he got tired and we got off the phone. He hasn't brought up the subject since, and neither have I."
Mikaela was picking at her rice noodles, pulling them out of the clay pot and letting them slither back in off the edge of her chopsticks. "Good call, Walter. From what you've told me about him, I think your hunch was right. One very common mind-fuck that rapists use is telling their victims that they really want it, that they get off on the pain and humiliation. Even if it's not true, it can still strike a nerve and make the survivor wonder if maybe he did want it, deep down."
Skinner cursed in Vietnamese and English. Mikaela laughed and patted his arm.
"You've got good instincts, Walt. If you ever decide to give up wearing a suit and working for the government, give me a call. I could use a top-notch lay counselor in my practice. And, speaking of lays..."
He smirked. "Speaking of lays, how can I do this without making things worse?"
Gentle smile. "There's no formula for this, Walter. It just depends on the person. Every rape survivor is different, because every person is different and every rape is different. I'll give you a couple of generalities, but you'll really have to play it by ear. Trust your instincts. You've got good ones."
"I'm all ears, doc."
Mikaela reached up and tweaked one of those ears, with the affection of old friends. "And very nice ears they are too. Here are some things that I've seen come up again and again when I counsel rape survivors and their partners."
"Should I be taking notes?"
She huffed at him in mock exasperation. " I took half a day off work for this? You don't need to take notes, smartass—there's only two or three. Number one, don't touch him when he's asleep. It's very hard to differentiate between past and present in a dream. You might end up with a black eye—or worse, if he thinks he's fighting off his attacker.
"Number two, keep it light and fun. Make him laugh. Sex doesn't have to be deadly serious. It can just be two people hanging out, making each other feel good.
"Number three, let him show you how fast or slow he needs to go. He should set the pace and the boundaries. Let him initiate—hell, let him top. Take your hands off the wheel and give him the controls for a while. Who knows? It might expand your horizons a bit. You might even enjoy it.
"As I said a minute ago, trust your instincts. Follow his lead. Sex is supposed to be fun..."
Skinner's cell phone rang, and he apologized profusely to his lunch date and impromptu therapist as he fumbled to retrieve the phone from an inside jacket pocket and walk away from the table to a more secluded corner. The call was from Merlin, buzzing in on his private line as instructed to pass along the breaking news.
The trial was over. Fifteen minutes earlier, the jury foreman handed down guilty verdicts on each of the charges for the three defendants. Alex's usefulness as a bargaining tool against the presiding judge had just evaporated.
The threat was gone. Alex was safe from the Colombian mob for the first time in weeks, and on his way back to DC. Back to Walter and Merlin.
Chapter 13. My Burden
"And I lay
The knock on the door Walter had been waiting for didn't arrive until almost 11:30 Saturday night.
Walter knew who it was. Alex had called half an hour earlier, letting the older man know he was on his way, and asking permission to bring Jacob into the condo. Walter was grinning, remembering how hesitant Alex sounded, how unsure of the reception he would be receiving.
::Not for long, kid. Soon you'll understand just exactly how much you're wanted::
Just to be on the safe side, Walter had his left hand on the Sig in the back holster as he checked the peephole. Considering what he did for a living, he didn't think it was possible to be too careful.
One tired-looking black haired green-eyed male. Check.
One large light brown dog on a leash. Check.
Walter forced himself to stop grinning triumphantly. That was a look that scared people, and the entire purpose of this evening was not to scare Alex. Fuck him into the mattress, yes. Scare him, no.
He quickly unlocked the deadbolt, flipped the lock on the doorknob, opened the door and smiled. The object of his desire was finally here, after almost four weeks.
Alex wouldn't look him in the eye, wouldn't look at him at all as Walter ushered him in the apartment. Alex kept looking at the dog, the floor, anywhere but in the direction of the older man who he'd become so obsessed with during the last month. He looked...almost shy. Sweet.
Walter let his eyes wander over the younger man. In the better light, Alex looked worse than Walter had expected. He knew the boy would be ragged around the edges, but this was more than that. If Walt didn't know better, he would almost think that the exhaustion well predated the run-in with Luis at the bar. Deep purple rings surrounded his emerald green eyes, contrasting with the almost unnaturally pale skin. His clothes weren't in much better shape—black T-shirt with the name of a band Walter had never heard of and a pair of cut-off camo shorts definitely the worse for wear—hanging loosely off him, like he had recently lost weight.
That would change. That would all change. A couple of days of sleeping in, eating decent food, soaking in the Jacuzzi.
And sex.
Lots and lots of sex.
Walt smiled, gently. He could do this. They could do this.
"I'm glad you're here, Alex. I was hoping you could help me with a little problem I'm having." ::Besides the raging priapism::
Alex just looked up at Walter, arched an eyebrow. Said nothing verbally, volumes with his eyes.
Jacob was noisily sniffing around the entranceway, whining, tethered by the leash. His talented nose was telling him that there had been cats here recently, and was itching to be allowed to track them to their lair and flush them out.
Cups of coffee were offered and accepted. Cream and sugar proffered. Jacob was let off leash to go sniff, and realize to his disappointment that the cats were no longer living there and hadn't been for several weeks. Alex still wouldn't look Walter in the eye. Walter wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, rested his elbows on the breakfast bar, and looked across the bar at his guest/lover to be.
"So, I've got this little problem..."
Alex wasn't sure exactly what Walter was up to, but he recognized the mischievous twinkle in the older man's chocolate brown eyes. Bobby Sioux got an identical gleam in his eyes when he was about to get himself, and by extension Alex and Tomas, into trouble. Fun trouble.
This was good. This Alex could handle.
"Oh, really?" Grinning.
"You see, I have this...friend. His name is.."
"Fred," Alex supplied helpfully.
"Fred. Thank you. Well, there's this guy that Fred is very interested in."
"What do you mean, interested in? As a friend, or as something more?" Leaning across the mini-bar, elbows on the table, in unconscious imitation of Walter.
"In purely scientific terms, I believe Fred wants to fuck him into the mattress."
"How very scientific."
"But Fred is worried because this guy is a little ... skittish."
"Skittish?" Trying for a proper Dio clinical look, and failing miserably.
"Yeah, and Fred really, really doesn't want to scare this guy off. Y'see, Fred really, really likes this guy."
"So what can I do to help your friend Fred?"
"Well, here's my plan. I was hoping I could tell you what Fred wants to do to this guy, and you could tell me if you thought it would scare him off."
"I see. So you were just going to tell me what Fred's plans were, in great detail?"
"Well, no. I was also planning on demonstrating. I thought it might help you give better...feedback."
"Let me see if I have this straight." Fighting back the laughter that was bubbling up. "You would like me to give, ahem, feedback to you, to pass along to your friend Fred, as to whether Fred's plans at seduction would be well-received, or would frighten this poor chap into joining a monastery."
"You have an amazing, intuitive grasp of the obvious, Alex. Have you ever considered a career in the U.S. Government?"
Laughing, low and easy. "So were you planning on staging this....demonstration here in the kitchen?"
"Actually, I had planned to adjourn this to the couch in the living room. We can conduct more rigorous scientific controls there."
"Scientific is good. I can do scientific." Glancing around skeptically. "I don't have to wear those godforsakenly ugly safety goggles, do I?"
Walter glared at him momentarily over the top of his glasses, as Alex did his best innocent expression during the silent moment while they reconvened on the brown leather loveseat, both men waiting for the other to back out, or flee.
"So," Alex turned halfway on the loveseat to face the older man, legs crossed. Casual. Relaxed. Absolutely edible. "What was Fred planning on doing first?"
Walter licked his lips. "I believe that Fred was planning on starting slow, just touching this guy's hair, running his fingers through it. Apparently Fred has been fantasizing about how silky it would feel."
"Fred's been spending valuable CPU time fantasizing about this guy's hair?"
"Smart-ass." Warmth, no bite. "Yes, he's been fantasizing about his hair, amongst other things."
"Oh, good. I'm so relieved. I was beginning to worry that Fred was a little...weird."
"Back to the topic at hand. Do you think that it would scare this guy off?"
Alex looked up at the ceiling, pondered for a moment. "I don't think so."
Walter slowly raised his right hand up to Alex's cheek, and slowly ran his fingers through Alex's thick black hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. Alex took a deep breath, closed his eyes as Walter carded his hand through the younger man's hair, tried to stop himself from purring, melting into the seat. He always liked people playing with his hair, starting with his adoptive mother, moving on to every girlfriend he ever had. Some days he preferred it to sex.
"Will that scare him off?"
Alex opened his eyes, grinned satedly. "I think he's safe with that move. What else was Fred planning?"
Walter moved his hand back down to rest on Alex's denim-covered thigh, surprised at the thrill he got from the limited contact. "If that went well, Fred was planning on kissing this guy."
::Has anyone ever told you, boy, that you have the most beautiful green eyes?::
"Tongue?"
"Not at first. Just a little gentle brush of lips, nothing heavy. If it was well-received..."
"If it was well-received, major tonsil hockey."
"So, survey audience says?"
"Not scary, provided Fred has brushed his teeth since the Clinton administration left office."
"Good." Walter leaned over and gently brushed his lips against Alex's mouth. Just the gentlest of kisses, tentative and cautious, until Alex ran his tongue along the other man's mouth. Walter groaned, soft heat tracing the inside of his lips, over his tongue. Walter had to fight to keep his hands by his sides, not wrap them around Alex, not try to devour Alex whole.
::You like that, Alex? I'll do a lot more than that before I'm done. You'll beg me to do more::
They broke apart a moment later, Alex out of breath, panting. Flushed.
"Scary?"
"Oh, I don't think so. What was next on Fred's agenda?"
"Fred mentioned something about a necklace that he was just dying to kiss his way under, biting his collarbone, that sort of thing. What's the verdict on that one?"
"Mmmm, probably not too scary, but I'll need a demonstration to be absolutely certain. Certainty is important in the scientific process."
"I'm sure I could oblige you, in the name of accuracy." A second later, warm fingers were pulling the collar of his T-shirt aside, as lips and tongue gently traced the line of scars under the thick silver chain, sliding down to gently nibble on the collarbone, lick the sweat pooling there. Alex gasped, shivers running down the whole length of his body.
It took a moment for Alex's brain to come back on line, waiting for those wild, unfocused green eyes to come out of their hormonal fog. When he finally blinked back to the here and now, Walter was looking expectantly at him, eyebrows arched. Just waiting.
Alex opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a breathy moan. Hard swallow, then another try. "Wh...what was the question again?"
Walter's grin was triumphant. "I said, do you think that would scare him into joining a monastery?"
Alex took a deep breath. "My expert opinion is negative. What's next for Fred and his guy?"
::Walt, if you don't fuck me, and soon, I'm going to make a mess all over your nice leather couch::
"Fred was quite...descriptive about the next part. Apparently this guy has several tattoos that Fred was wanting to examine, in close detail, with his fingers and mouth."
"Tattoos? Where?"
"Oh, on his arms..."
"Like this one?" Pointing to the black and white tribal swirls on the inside of his right wrist.
"Uh-huh. And on his back..."
Mock-exasperated sigh. "I suppose this will necessitate me taking my shirt off, won't it?"
"You catch on quick, Sherlock. We wouldn't want to be disseminating faulty information, now would we?"
"No, no. We couldn't have that. Not after we've worked so hard..." In one smooth move, Alex pulled the t-shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor in front of him. Jacob looked up at him from under the coffee table, where he had curled up on top of a long-forgotten cat bed, and returned to sniffing at it intently.
Walter just stared for a moment, mentally drooling at the tight body exposed in front of him. Long, lean muscle, brilliant colored ink, one golden hoop in each tight, dark nipple. His hands itched to pull the rest of Alex's clothes off, run his hands across Alex's warm skin, taste the younger man's sweat, make him shudder, make him scream. But that...that would definitely frighten him. Better to wait for him to make the first move.
"Turn around." Walter was trying to hide his shaky voice, but he knew Alex could hear it. "Fred definitely said something about his back."
::I want to fuck you so hard that you forget your own name, and you beg me to tell it to you::
"Back...hmm. I can do that." Alex turned himself around, crossed his legs, leaned over the arm of the couch. Alex's tattoos were even more striking in the partial light from the halogen lamp in the corner. A line of brightly hued iguanas, tail to nose, were running from Alex's right shoulder disappearing into his shorts right above his left hip. Walter's breath caught in his throat. All that golden skin, painted vivid colors, warm and waiting for him, for his touch...
::Control, Marine::
"Will those tattoos be suitable for the scientific process? Or do you need to see the others as well, before you make your selection?" Alex was looking back over his shoulder, green eyes alight, playing the game with a vengeance.
"I think they'll do just fine."
::This is not one night, boy. Don't imagine this will be over when we're both sated. You're mine now. Mine::
Alex fought the urge to arch his back and squirm as gentle fingers stroked along his shoulder blades, teasing the bumps of his spine, then following the tattoo path down to his pelvis. When he felt the older man's teeth and lips nipping at the crook of his neck, he gave up the fight. Fingers digging into the leather arm of the couch, he thrashed his head back and forth and moaned.
The sound went straight to Walter's already rock-hard cock. Kissing and licking in earnest now, not even trying to follow the tattoo, just tasting him, feeling Alex shudder under him, back taut as a bow, muscles trembling. Slowly nibbling down his spine, teeth nipping lightly—so lightly—at each vertebrae, hands clenched into fists, willing himself to slow down, be gentle, not give in to the atavistic urge to mark, to claim. Walter ran his hands down Alex's back, trying to calm the shaking, dial everything down for a moment until Alex was breathing regularly once again. Then, do it all over.
Walter was so far gone it took him a moment to realize that Alex was moaning actual words.
"Please....oh, god.....please, Skinner....please...."
Another kiss, another lick of sweat-slick skin, another gentle stroke of Walter's fingers along his side. "Please what, Alex?"
Trembling. "Please...want you so bad it hurts...please, Skinner..."
Walter pulled away, gently grasped Alex's shoulder, turning him around to face the older man. Wild, feral green eyes met Walter's focused, intense brown eyes and Walter could see the desire, the need inside.
::I want all of you, Alex. No more games, no more hiding. Everything you have to give, mine. Understand?::
Alex put every bit of focus he had left into forming words. "You. Me. Bed. Now." His muscles wouldn't work, or Alex would have grabbed Walter by the wrist and dragged him towards the nearest bedroom. Alex was so far gone that Walt had to help him up off the couch and steer him towards the master bedroom, stopping every few steps to help Alex remove another article of his clothing.
Later, all Alex could remember was a blur of images and sensations—chest hair rubbing up against his nipples, making him squirm and arch. Hot pulses of electricity arcing from his hips to his toes, as the back of his knees were thoroughly explored with tongue and lips. Teeth nipping along his inner thigh, making him spread his legs even wider apart. Skinner's laughing voice calling him Cat as those devil-inspired fingers found the most sensitive spots on his body, as he keened and moaned. Fingers on him, cock inside him as he grabbed onto the headboard for dear life and screamed and came for what felt like an eternity.
Interlude
::Remind me again why I put myself through this::
The soft sonar chime of an incoming email was enough to distract Skinner from the latest scintillating reading out of the Accounting department. He looked up, glanced at the computer, checked the clock, sighed. 6:45 PM on a Saturday. Another weekend spent working from home. Another missive from higher-ups, another asinine policy he would be put in the position of explaining, another mistake he would end up shouldering the blame for. He thought about not checking it, not answering, not responding to the Pavlovian whistle. Thought against it. Sighed, and maneuvered the mouse across the screen.
::You've got—what the fuck?::
An email message popped up, from his own almost-never-used Hotmail account.
:: This is too bizarre. Is my evil twin sending me incriminating photos? Have I been sleep-computing, sending myself missives from the land of nod? Or is Alex hacking into my account, again?::
::Survey says ....got it in one::
Nothing in the email but a header and a jpeg. Skinner clicked on it, and waited for a long moment while the virus scan software tried to detect anything out of the ordinary, failed, and gave its official stamp of approval.
It was a photograph. Nature scene, straight off a postcard or a Chamber of Commerce brochure. Dogwoods in full bloom in the background, a riot of flowering trees, weeds, green upon green. Except for the dog. And the man.
The picnic table was your standard brown weathered variety. The man was Alex. And the dog Skinner had never seen before. Large, brown, looked like your run-of-the-mill mutt, if you didn't look carefully. It took careful examination to realize that the dog was no random breed, but the perfect example of his type, his lineage. Happy dog. Right where he wanted to be, next to his human. If a dog could smile, this dog was smiling.
The man also bore scrutiny. Alex looked tired. Shoulders slumped, deep rings under his eyes, skin pale, beneath the broad smile. Like the dog, only less tongue hanging out.
Skinner glanced at the flowering trees in the background. Glanced again, stared, ran a few calculations as his fingers gripped harder and harder around the defenseless plastic mouse.
::Alex, you little shit. You lied to me::
The plastic mouse was screaming in death throes when Skinner tossed it aside and reached for his cell phone. The phone rang before Skinner had a chance to dial.
"He followed me home, Daddy. Can I keep him?" Alex, laughing tones.
Low voice. Quiet. Dangerous. "Alex, be very careful when you call me Daddy, or you may end up with a lot more than you can handle." He heard Alex gulp audibly in the background. "Why did you lie to me and say you were in Arizona when you were actually at Bobby Sioux's house?"
"How the....how the hell did you know?" Confused, and a little flustered.
"How did I know that you were in Louisiana? Very simple. You sent me a picture. Correction—you hacked into my private email, and sent me a picture." Voice dropping to a growl. "Stay out of my private email, Alex." Another gulp. "In the picture is a flowering dogwood tree and a picnic table. That picture was taken at the elementary school down the street from Bobby's house. I've been at his house enough to remember what the playground looks like back there."
"shit. Damn. You're too good at that. Maybe I should start calling you Sherlock Holmes."
"If you like. Walt will do just fine—for now."
"But not Daddy." Teasing lilt.
::Boy, you like playing with fire, don't you?::
"Alex, I think it's time we had a little talk..."
Short pause.
"So, talk." Very serious. Quiet.
"We started this conversation once before—right after you left California. Do you remember that?"
Quiet clicking noises coming through the receiver, as Alex accessed the file in his brain. "Something about your ex-wife and your, ahem, intense tastes. Am I on the right path?"
"Give the boy a gold star." Smiling. "I told you we would discuss this at a later time—preferably when you weren't completely freaked out after seeing your mother for the first time in more than a decade. I think you're probably in a more receptive frame of mind right now to hear what I have to say. Am I correct in that assessment of the situation?"
"Probably." Still quiet, but a little less certain that he had done something wrong.
"You told me once about your three maniacal blonde friends from DC. I believed you used the term 'determined to try every perversion listed in the Purity Test.'"
"Yup, that I did."
"You also mentioned that they like to play little dominance and submission games, along with other, ahem, recreational activities."
"You make it sound so...not sordid. I'm impressed. Stunned, even."
"Fifteen years on the bureaucratic ladder will do that to you. Alex, when your friends do it, it's a game. Today, it's BDSM. Tomorrow, it's downloading pictures of women having sex with emus."
Laughing quietly. "Oh, G_d, sir, don't say that out loud. You'll give them ideas..."
"Listen to me very carefully, Alex." The quiet, dangerous voice was back. "With me, it's no game. It's who I am. It's what I do."
"What is who you are? I'm not sure I understand." Tone making it clear he wasn't sure where the conversation was going, nor did he like where it appeared it would end up.
"The term slung around the media is Dom. I prefer the term Top. I'm the one in control—of the scene, and preferably of my sub's life. I don't do this recreationally. For me, it's a lifestyle, preferably one I engage in 24-7."
Skinner could hear the boy breathing. Processing. "Is that what you and the other man in your life did?"
"Yes. He was my Boy, and I was his Daddy."
Another deep breath. Another long pause. "Is that what you want from me?" Worry and curiosity warring in his voice.
::Give the boy another gold star -he catches on quick::
"Honestly, Alex? I don't know. I've been thinking about it—about you—a lot, and I haven't come to a decision yet. On the one hand, the fact that you're a recent rape and abuse survivor, who hasn't even started dealing with all the accompanying issues, leaves me more than a little concerned. If—and this is a big if—you wanted this, then I would need to know that you were in therapy and making progress before I would consent to anything beyond play. On the other hand..." Slow, dark laughter bubbled up. "I could have some wonderful, delicious things in store for you."
"Like what?" Hesitant voice.
Skinner smiled. "You want to know what I would have in store for you? You're curious?"
"I don't....maybe....it depends....I think so..."
This wasn't what Skinner had in mind. He wanted to tantalize the boy, tease him a little bit, whet his appetite. Right now, he was more terrified than tantalized. Not for the first time, he silently berated himself for becoming so smitten with a young man who had so many issues.
"Shh, Alex. You don't have to decide anything right now. You can just listen, and see if it sounds like something you want to try. OK?"
"OK." Still flustered, but not nearly as upset. "I'm game."
"Christien was a sociopath and a sick fuck, Alex, but he was right about one thing. You are very feline. It's those beautiful green eyes of yours, and that smirk. All you need is a long, black furry tail. He did get the name wrong, though. You're no kitten. You're a cat—a tomcat in particular. If you were mine, Cat, you would be a beautiful, pampered plaything. Would you like that?" Voice pouring like dark honey. "Would you like to be my beautiful, pampered pet? Would you like to be mine?"
Tiny gasp on the other end of the phone line. "I think so."
Victorious smile. "I have a special place where I like to go, just get away from everything and everyone. It's out in the middle of the woods, it's secluded, and it's very private. I would love to take you there, just for an afternoon, and spend some time with my new pet. Would you like that, Cat?"
"If I'm your Cat, what would I call you?"
Another dangerous laugh. "Thank you for reminding me, Cat. Three things you should know. Number one—I'm very protective of my new pet. My cabin in the woods has a state-of-the-art alarm system, and I am always armed. Anyone trying to come near my pet will have to come through me first. Number two—my pampered plaything doesn't wear any clothes. Cats very rarely wear clothing, and I want to be able to look at your luscious body any time I like. Number three—my pampered plaything doesn't talk. He makes the sweetest little whimpering noises when I play with him, but he doesn't talk."
"No...talking?" Squeaked.
"You won't need to talk, Cat." Dangerous voice, dark and low. "You won't need to say anything, or do anything. I love pampering my beautiful plaything. When it's time to eat, you'll be kneeling next to my chair, and I'll feed you, one bite at a time, by hand. You'd like that, licking the sticky juices off my fingers, as I feed you, wouldn't you, Cat?"
No response but ragged breathing on the other end of the line.
"Curled up on the couch, in front of a fire, your head resting in my lap, me reading a book, letting my hands wander across your skin. Petting you, playing with you, making you squirm, making you moan..." Quiet little broken whimpers. "Just like that, Cat. I would make you feel so good." Voice dropped to a whisper. "And if you were very well behaved, I might even let you come..."
"Sir?" Out of breath, barely holding on to control. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Should I gather from your reaction that you liked the scenario I was describing?" Skinner was inordinately pleased with himself, and trying to keep it out of his voice.
""I ...I think so. Ask me again when we are in the same zip code. Damn. That voice of yours needs to be registered as a lethal weapon."
"Alex, if I can get you that hot and bothered with just my words, just imagine what I can do with my hands and my mouth..."
"What do you think I imagine every night when I'm trying to sleep?" Exasperated, laughing. "You are rapidly becoming an obsession of mine. It's a good thing that I spend most of my days alone, or this raging priaprism problem I've been having lately would be a bit obvious."
Skinner laughed as well. "You have no idea how much I like being able to do this to you. It's an enormous power trip for me, telling you where to touch yourself, what to imagine, making you wait until I say you can before you bring yourself off. I could very easily get addicted to these games we're playing."
Sighing. "I am so pathetic. I am twenty four years old, at my sexual peak, and I have had more sex with you than I have with anyone else in years, and we aren't even in the same friggin' state!"
"Soon, Cat. Soon. Unofficially, the trial will probably be over in a matter of days. The case is most likely going to the jury tomorrow. Can you keep yourself well hidden for another seventy two hours or so?"
Exasperated sigh. "Do I have a choice? Yes, I will be very careful. If I don't, Tomas, Dio, Bobby and several other people have promised to bring me back to life, and kill me themselves."
::You had better be careful, boy. I have plans for that delectable body of yours...:
Chapter 14—Crimes Between Us
"And the crimes
295 North to Harbor Tunnel Thruway.
::You don't have to do this::
::Yes I do::
Harbor Tunnel Thruway becomes I-95 North. Follow until you get to the New Jersey Turnpike.
::You don't have to do this::
::I need to know. It's been too long. Much too long::
Merge onto I-95 North.
::You don't have to do this::
::I can't live like this anymore. It's killing me::
Exit #16—Cedar Street, New Rochelle.
Monday morning safety, or at least the illusion thereof. Safety as much of an illusion as everything else in Alex's life. Some days he wondered if anything in his life, in his memories was actually real, or if he'd wake up one morning to the smell of salt-tanged air and the aftertaste of sedatives in his mouth.
Bad 80's station on the truck radio. Dog asleep, head on his leg, snoring quietly. Driving towards infinity. .
Or maybe driving towards the cliff, a green-eyed lemming in a beat up pickup truck, bent on self destruction. No, not a lemming. A moth, throwing itself at the flame. Waiting for the burn. Waiting for blessed oblivion.
He shook that thought off, mentally berated himself. He wasn't suicidal. Far from it. At the moment, at least. How many moths went up against the flame armed? His Sig resting in the waistband of his jeans. Backup 22 strapped to his calf. Knife in his boot.
::We're here, we're terrified, and we're armed to the fucking teeth::
::Go team::
His cell phone vibrated against his hip. He thought about answering it, about dislodging the dog asleep with his head on Alex's thigh, and reconsidered. If it was important enough, whoever was calling would call back.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone vibrated again. Slowly, carefully, Alex slid his hand into the pocket of his shorts, trying not to jostle Jacob the dog as he extracted the palm-sized piece of black plastic. He checked the Caller ID display, then smiled at the familiar 812 area code before he flipped the phone open.
"Hey, Merlin."
"Hey yourself, Alex. I got your message. You still in D.C.?"
"At the moment, no. I'm on my way to New York. Got something I have to do in Long Island, then I'll be heading back."
"Business or pleasure?"
Alex fought down a cold shiver and a sudden wave of nausea. "Neither. Just something that needs to be done. If all goes according to plan, I'll only be in the city for about an hour, then I'm turning around. I'm planning on being back in DC by nightfall." Jacob twitched and whined on Alex's lap, chasing lions in his dreams. "How does dinner sound, Merlin?"
"Sounds entirely too far off. You're starting to worry me, Alex. Sudden changes of plans, mysterious meetings—I don't like the sound of it. Are you sure you're all right?" Concern evident in his voice, and something else.
It had only been three weeks since Alex returned from his cross-country run from the Colombian mob—his pilgrimage, as he called it. Since his return, Merlin had been very careful, very solicitous of the younger man's moods and feelings, careful to take things at Alex's speed, not pushing Alex to go farther or faster than he was ready for. Alex thought it was sweet. Tomas and Dio thought Merlin was in love.
"I'm fine. Really. I'm sorry I had to cancel our plans for this morning. I'll make it up to you tonight—I promise."
"You'd better. I'll hold you to that, Alex—or maybe I'll just hold it against you."
Alex laughed, trying to shake off the feeling of foreboding. "You can hold any body part against me you like, big boy..."
"Alex Krycek, I'm hurt! Shocked! Offended even! I am not that type of boy. I do NOT put out on the first date!" Trying for wounded dignity, but the laughter detracted from the overall effect.
"Second date then? Nudge nudge wink wink? Say no more, say no more?"
More laughter. "I'm playing that one by ear, Alex. Whenever I feel I've been wined and dined sufficiently, then MAYBE I'll let you take me to bed. Maybe. Depends on how fickle I'm feeling on any particular evening. It's a girl's prerogative, you know. "
"Hmm. I see. And would gifts help sway the fickle-meter in my favor, Merlin?"
"Oh, most definitely. Gifts are always appreciated—especially jewelry. The way to a girl's heart is through precious metals and large stones."
"Silly me. I always thought the best way to a man's heart was between the third and fourth rib."
"Alex, you are twisted, perverted, and sick—I like that in a person. All right—I'll forgive you for standing me up for breakfast, this once. Do it again, and it will be a long, cold summer of blue balls for you, young man. I don't lift my skirt for just anyone, you know. You have to know how to treat me right. "
"You keep talking about lifting skirts and precious stones, and I'll think you're channeling Denise. By the way, how is she doing?"
"Good. She's had an eventful month—not quite as eventful as yours, but close. I'll save that bit of gossip for this evening. Consider it a lure not to stand me up a second time, Alex, since the lure of my luscious body wasn't sufficient to keep you in the city this morning."
Grinning. "I'll call you the minute I get back in the city tonight, and we'll get together—I promise. Oh, and Merlin?"
"Yes?"
Low voice. Deep. Serious. "I can't wait to see you. I've missed you."
"I can't wait to see you too, Alex." Click.
Alex leaned his head back on the headrest, savoring the warmth in his gut and the fluttering feeling near his heart that he always got when he talked to Merlin, letting the thoughts of Merlin distract him from the dread, the fear, the inevitability of what he was driving towards.
As he drove through the light traffic of late Monday morning Long Island, Alex calmed himself down. Centered himself. Found the quiet, still spot inside, like Bobby had taught him. It worked, to a certain degree, at least as well as anything did. While he was meditating, he pondered the moth. Wondered if it felt fear when it flew into the flame, diving towards oblivion.
I'm not leaving, Walt, I'm just...
You're leaving
I have to do this. I have to. I can't keep living like this. It has to end, Walter
I'm coming with you
No way in hell
Then at least tell me where you're going
I can't
Why the hell not?
Because you'd try to stop me
Exit 16, Cedar Street, New Rochelle.
Not what he had pictured.
The address was only a few miles from the Clinton's new house. Older neighborhood, quiet, tree-lined street, less fashionable end of town. Huge oak and maple trees in every yard, minivans in every driveway, well-manicured lawns. Suburbia. The mundaneness of it made Alex's thoughts feel even more sinister.
The house itself was a huge Victorian, draped in the similar gaudy pink and yellow hues as it's neighbors, painted lady style. Gingerbread cutouts, cupolas, turrets. And a small sign by the front door, a copper plaque.
LC Enterprises.
::You don't have to do this::
::Yes I do. I can't live like this anymore::
One foot in front of the other.
The interior was quiet, professional, expensive. Light colored wood furniture matching the paneling on the walls, tasteful original art, subtle hints of a very pricey security system. Pretty young thing, wearing a suit so short it would make Ally McBeal blush, sitting behind the desk, obviously hired because she matched the decor. Another woman, older, less decorative, more professional, leaning next to her, showing her something on the Blueberry Imac.
They both noticed him at the same moment.
"Can I help you?" Cute perky thing. Cute perky voice. He resisted the urge to punch her cute perky nose, just to see how perky her blood looked. Or maybe she wouldn't bleed at all...
"I'm here to see Luis Christien." Low voice, steel-shot. No expression. No room for argument.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No." Just a hint of a smile. No warmth, just a bad parody of friendliness.
"I'm afraid Mr. Christien won't be able to see you without an appointment. He's much too..."
Four steps across the room, then Alex was leaning over the desk. Letting them both look at him up close, see the dead places behind his eyes. See just how far he had slipped, just how far he was from normal, from human right then. "Oh,trust me. He'll see me. Just let him know Alex Krycek is here."
The older woman blinked, blinked again, recognition flashing across her face. She had obviously heard his name before. Alex fought down another cold smile. "Just have a seat, Mr. Krycek. I'll see if Mr. Christien is available to see you." Patting the younger girl on the arm, ignoring her squeaking protests, she turned and disappeared behind another polished wood door behind the desk.
"Luis, as we've discussed before, you're overinvested in certain portfolios. If we can divest you of some of these stocks, it will free up a great deal of liquid capital..."
Knock. Knock. Silence.
Knock. Knock.
Luis looked at his financial advisor, then at the clock, irritation evident on his face. 11:37 AM Tuesday. He knew for a fact that he had no other appointments before noon. This interruption was completely uncalled for, and totally unacceptable. One of the strictest rules was that he was never to be interrupted for anything short of the building burning down. Not like the meeting was particularly important—Greenwald was his financial advisor, and completely at Luis's beck and call. He would show up whenever Luis asked him to. It was the principle of the thing, the concept. Rules are rules.
"Come in."
Lianne, his secretary, slid quietly into the room, taking up as little space as possible with her body. Wringing her hands. Agitated. It was painfully obvious to Luis that she had been seriously torn between interrupting her boss and passing along the information that had to be very important.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Christien. I didn't mean to interrupt, but I didn't know what else to do. He just showed up and demanded to see you, even though he didn't have an appointment. He insisted that you would see him, even after I explained that you don't make exceptions to the rules. Christine tried to tell him..."
Luis interrupted her oxygen-starved rambling with the ease of long practice. " Breathe, Lianne. Did you happen to get his name?"
Inhale. Exhale. A few seconds of silence. "Yes, sir. That's why I'm in here, why I didn't just ask him to leave or call security. He said his name was Alex Krycek." Inhale. Exhale. "I remembered you mentioning that he was someone you had met during your vacation last summer..."
Luis froze, for just an instant, then relaxed, a grin playing across his face, scary light behind coffee colored eyes. "It's OK, Lianne. You did the right thing, letting me know he was here. Please escort Alex back into the greenhouse, and let him know that I'll be out in a few minutes. See if he wants anything to eat or drink."
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer me to take him to the conference room?" Lianne looked confused. Standard operating procedure was that all guests waited in the elegant conference room, instead of the much more casual greenhouse/breakroom/aviary. In that office, standard operating procedure was always adhered to, come hell or high water.
He shook his head. "Greenhouse. If you took him back to the conference room, he'd have to pass by the metal detectors. Trust me on this one—Alex is most definitely carrying a gun on him right now." Luis ignored the shocked look on his secretary's face. "Oh, and Lianne—be extra polite with Alex. He's definitely on edge right now, and I'd hate to have to replace you if he shoots you." Turning back to his financial advisor, silently dismissing Lianne. "Can we reschedule this meeting for tomorrow? I have some time at 8:30..."
Room filled with plants—some hanging from planters attached to the ceiling, others in pots on tables, still more sitting on the floor in clusters. Tall plants. Short plants. One wall entirely of glass, letting in a maximum of light. Sunshine everywhere through the glass wall and the skylight, falling on the casual groupings of tables and chairs, on the microwave and refrigerator tucked away in a corner, on the enormous fishtank taking up the place of honor in the middle of the room, filled with a multicolored plethora of tropical fish.
Alex sat on the table nearest the tank, watching the fish, watching the only door into or out of the room through the reflection on the tank, and let his thoughts empty.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Let it go.
Find the empty place, the hollow place.
Find the calm.
Find the center.
Breathe in the center.
Let it fill you, fingertips to toes.
Let the center fill you.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Luis stood right outside the door, out of Alex's line of sight, and waited. Invisible. Voyeuristic. Breathing in the scent of his Kitten. It had been months since Luis had been close enough to what was his to do this, to savor Alex's scent—the unique combination of leather and cordite, sweat and fear and need and desire...
And another man.
Not Tomas. He knew Tomas's scent almost as intimately as he knew Alex's. This was a stranger, touching his Kitten.
Luis arched his eyebrows, smiled coldly. So his Kitten had finally found another playmate, besides Tomas. Luis never understood why Alex and Tomas had never been lovers before they arrived at the island, before Luis claimed them, made Alex and Tomas his. They were so beautiful together, so obviously right for each other. It was obvious. He expected that afterwards, they would find consolation in each other, find solace like he had taught them.
He shrugged the thought away, dismissing it. Tomas and Dio were a long-standing couple, and now Alex had someone new. He knew that this would happen eventually. He never expected his beautiful green-eyed Kitten to be celibate forever. Luis was fine with the reality that Alex had a new lover. He would simply have to meet this man, introduce him to the fundamental truths of the situation, make sure that he knew that, at the end of the day, Alex belonged to Luis. He had had that conversation months ago with Dio.
With that thought, Luis smiled, pushed open the door and stepped into the sun-drenched room.
"Hello, Alex. It's been a while."
Luis could smell Alex's fear, feel Alex's heart rate spike from across the room, but Alex didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge the other man's presence.
"I'm surprised to see you here. Very surprised."
Alex slowly turned away from the fishtank, faced the other man.
His captor.
His rapist.
His nemesis.
Alex had to fight hard to keep the calm, keep in the center, when looking at the man who had plagued his nightmares.
The panic was threatening to drown him again.
Dressed in an obviously expensive Italian pinstriped suit, Luis was even larger than Alex remembered—easily six foot four, with broader shoulders and more muscular than Walter. Luis was larger, stronger and faster than Alex, a fact he enjoyed proving to the younger man again and again during his captivity.
::Fight me as hard as you want, Kitten. We both know I'll win::
Let the center fill you.
Breathe.
Luis just watched his Kitten, studying him. This was very different than their previous encounters—on the island, at the hospital, in the bar a few weeks earlier. No hysterics. No violent rages. Alex's face was an unreadable mask, and his eyes—normally showing every emotion, every thought—were silent. Almost calm.
"Why did you come here, Kitten?"
Alex breathed through his body's instinctive reaction to that name, through the fight-or-flight instinct that was propelling him to run.
Breathe
Just breathe.
"I want some answers." Flat. Emotionless. Cold.
Luis arched an eyebrow, trying to figure out the very unfamiliar situation. This was not what he expected. This was not the Alex he knew so well. He wasn't expecting Alex to come to him at all, much less like this. Tomas—that was another story. Luis knew Tomas would come to him voluntarily, just as Luis knew the sun would rise the next morning. He already had a few contingencies in place for the first time that Tomas's curiosity and need drew him to this house, drew him back to Luis's side. If Luis's experience held true, Tomas would make his first visit before winter hit. Alex, as always, was another story. It would take several years and Tomas's direct involvement to bring Alex back into the fold. Alex would need to be run to ground, dragged exhausted and most likely injured back to where he belonged, with them. He would not accept the reality of his situation any other way.
But this visit—this was something else. Something else entirely. Luis wasn't entirely sure what the something was.
Luis didn't like not knowing.
"All right." Luis walked over to the table closest to Alex, pulled out a chair, and nonchalantly sat down, well inside Alex's personal space, almost close enough to touch. Alex didn't flinch, didn't respond to his closeness. "Ask your questions."
"What deal did you cut with the Colombians?" Voice as unreadable as his face, as his eyes. Mechanical voice. No inflection. No emotion.
Luis looked at the fishtank, back at the younger man, surprise flickering in his eyes. He had gone to some length to make certain that Alex didn't and wouldn't find out about the Colombians, about Luis's involvement in the threat to his life.
"What do you know about the Colombians?"
"Enough." Biting off the word.
"You weren't supposed to know anything about them. How did you find out? Who told you?"
"I'm asking the questions here." Voice razor blades and steel, hands tightly gripping the edge of the table, just a few inches from his gun. No room for argument.
Luis chuckled quietly. One point for Kitten. "All right, Alex. I'll play your game. I gave the Colombians exactly what they wanted—a body that matched the blood samples they had previously obtained. Granted, the blood samples weren't yours, but then again neither was the body. It's amazing what a few large denomination bills in the proper hands can accomplish."
"Why?" No curiosity in that voice. Just more metal.
Coffee-brown eyes locked onto emerald green. Luis let his voice drop a register, grow cold. "You already know the answer to that one, Kitten. They wanted you dead, and I couldn't allow that. I'm the only one who's allowed to kill you."
Alex's heart stopped beating for just a moment, as all the blood in his veins froze. Luis was absolutely, completely serious.
He was eventually planning on killing Alex.
He wondered, for just a second, if that had been Luis's plan all along.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Luis just kept looking at him, smiling a cold, cruel smile, well aware of the effect his words were having on Alex's heart rate. "Was that all your questions?"
"Not even close." Alex was impressed at how steady and calm his voice sounded. Unlike his hands, which were persisting in shaking, even though he was gripping the table hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. "What was behind that little...outburst at the bar a couple of months ago?"
It took Luis a moment to backtrack, understand what bar, when. " I see that got your attention, Kitten. It was a bit more spur of the moment than I usually am, yes, but it had the desired effect."
"And what desired effect would that be?" Just a hint of contempt in that voice.
Luis smiled, something almost warm showing behind his eyes. " It made you run like a scared jackrabbit. It got you out of the bar, and away from the man I was going to meet there less than fifteen minutes later. It would have been a bit awkward, explaining your presence to the brother-in-law of a Colombian drug lord when I was in the process of negotiating the delivery of your corpse. It had taken me several weeks to convince them that you had died several years earlier. Your presence in the bar, alive and well, would have been hard to explain."
One slow breath, then another. "So that wasn't another kidnapping attempt?"
A slow chuckle. As smart as Alex was, he still didn't understand who he was dealing with. "Kitten, if I wanted you in my possession, you would have been long before that night. I've been keeping tabs on you since you returned to Chicago. If you or Tomas had tried to disappear, you wouldn't have gotten far without my knowledge. The GPS trackers on your bike and his auto would have placed you within two city blocks, no matter where you were hiding. At least, until you took a cross-country jaunt in your old truck, instead of Tomas's Range Rover, like I expected. That did make it a tad more difficult for me to track your movements, but nothing that I couldn't overcome."
Alex recoiled like he had been slapped. "You...you put a GPS tag... on my motorcycle?"
"Guilty as charged."
The fury, the rage was building up inside Alex, pressure behind his eyes so great he felt like his head was about to explode. The voices inside him were screaming, adding to the deafening din.
He wanted to grab Luis, hit him, pummel him to a bloody pulp. He wanted to find an outward target for all that rage, all that fear, all those nameless faceless emotions that were threatening to drown him.
"What else? What else did you do to keep tabs on us?"
A casual wave of Luis's hand. "Nothing major. It wasn't like I had you two under constant surveillance or anything. There were a few people keeping an eye on you here and there, discretely. Mainly tracking your movements, and also making certain that neither you or Tomas did anything particularly stupid. And before you ask, no, I didn't plant listening devices in your house, no matter what you think you saw or heard. That delusion was purely the product of your illness, Kitten." Slow smile, remembering something sweet. "Though, once you were in the hospital, I did come by to visit you."
Alex shook his head. It was hard to hear over the din inside his skull. "You're lying. There is no way in hell Tomas or Dio would have let you within ten feet of me while I was there. They were watching for you, and you never showed up."
Small smile playing across the corners of Luis' mouth. "You don't remember it, do you, Kitten? That's all right. It was only a day or two after you arrived, and you were quite thoroughly sedated at the time. I made certain of that. It was almost like the old times. And as for Dio standing guard...well, your friend really needs to keep a closer eye on his coffee cup. He made it entirely too easy to slip a few drops of something in there, and then Dio took a little nap. And you—you look like an angel when you're asleep, Alex. Makes it hard for me to resist touching you."
Alex was holding onto his tenuous calm by a thread, barely resisting the urge to hit, to hurt. "You son-of-a-bitch." Snarling, teeth bared.
Luis' eyes were gleaming with malicious mirth, thoroughly enjoying Alex's discomfort. "Once again, guilty as charged. You know me too well, Alex. One might even say biblically. Were there any other questions, Kitten?"
"Only one." Fingernails digging bloody crescents into his palms, that spike of pain helping him stay in the present, keeping him from being lost in flashbacks. "You let Tomas and I walk off that island. You could have stopped us. You didn't. Why?"
Luis arched an eyebrow and looked at the younger man sitting across from him, surprised once again. Then he started to laugh.
"One of these years I need to learn to stop underestimating you, Kitten. You seem to have a gift for realizing things that I would rather you not know about. I figure it will take me about seventy—five years or so to remember that. You're absolutely right—I did let you leave."
"Why?"
Luis took a deep breath, sighed, ran his fingers through his long brown hair. For a moment he looked almost...human. "Fundamental law of nature you'd be wise not to forget, Kitten—bad things always happen at the absolutely worst possible time. Consider it Murphy's Law with teeth and talons. Someone that I once trusted, and cared about very deeply, was attempting a hostile takeover of my company when he knew that I was otherwise occupied and out of the state.
"I was well and truly stuck.
"If I stayed on the island, I would lose a company that I had built from scratch over more years than I care to count.
"If I left...
"I spent several sleepless nights considering my options. Bringing you back here to New York City so I could take care of the problem was absolutely out of the question. You were unpredictable, violent, and just barely starting to accept your situation and deal with it. I could handle that in a very controlled environment, like the island, where there were serious constraints on your options and the damage you could do. That was the reason I chose the island for your new home, for the first step in getting you used to your new life. Granted, even I hadn't considered that you would try to burn the place to the ground, but I had underestimated your... creativity. It would have been at least a year, more likely eighteen months, before I would have been willing to take you back to civilization for more than a few hours at a time. You had—and still have—a hell of a lot of growing up and retraining to do.
"Tomas, on the other hand, was much farther along the process than you were. If things had been different, if it had just been Tomas and I instead of the three of us, I would have taken him back to Manhattan with me in a heartbeat. A few pharmaceutical controls, some tempting rewards, and he would have been just fine. Better than fine. You see, I had a handle on Tomas—on his needs, on his buttons, on what makes him tick. You, Kitten, are a completely different story."
Alex felt the blood draining out of his body, as Luis's words started to sink in. "You would have taken Tomas with you and left me there?"
"That, Kitten, is exactly why I didn't do it. I may not have known you inside and out, like Tomas, but even I could see that one coming. I knew if I took Tomas away, you would have stopped at nothing to get him back. You would have moved heaven and earth to save him from my evil clutches. It would have been messy, and bloody, and attracted the attention of the local constabulary.
"Not that that would necessarily be such a bad thing to have you following us, trying to get Tomas back. Under different circumstances, it would be very useful to have Tomas as bait, to lure you back where you belong, get you back where you need to be. But these were not those circumstances. I couldn't focus on doing what I needed to do to save my company while trying to keep you and Tomas apart. I needed to spend 100% of my time and energy on undoing the damage my...friend...had done to my company. You and Tomas had to be second priority for a while.
"So, I took the path of least resistance, and let you both go, knowing that eventually you would come back on your own."
"You're wrong." Voice shaky. " I will never come back t o you voluntarily. Never."
"You haven't figured it out yet, have you, Kitten?" No warmth behind the gleam in his coffee-colored eyes. "Eventually, you'll come back to where you belong. Not this week, not this month, maybe not this year. But you will. And when you do, I'll be here. I have what you need, Alex. You probably haven't even figured out what it is, or how badly you need it. That will happen with time, and I have all the time in the world. So do you."
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Alex had to get out of that room, out of that house. The walls were too tight, the ceiling too low. Luis was too close. Not enough oxygen. He couldn't breathe.
Amused laughter behind him, as he valiantly tried not to throw up, tried not to show just how out of control he was at that moment.
Heart jackhammering in his chest, black dots swimming in front of his eyes, he pushed past Luis, through the door, past the room with the light colored wood, and out on the street. It took an amazing amount of energy for Alex just to keep moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Escape.
His truck was just a few yards up, parked by the side of the quiet residential street. It looked terribly out of place, a beat-up ten year old pickup truck with a dog making happy baying noises in the front street, in the land of Lexuses and expensive minivans. Alex leaned against the trunk of a large tree someone had conveniently planted in the front yard, tried to force his heartbeat to slow down to something less than imminent stroke rate, force his breathing to even out, force the dots swimming in front of his eyes to go away. Fainting here, being unconscious and vulnerable in front of Luis, would not be good.
Words still echoing loudly in his ears.
::You look like an angel when you're asleep, Alex. Makes it hard for me to resist touching you::
::I'm the only one who's allowed to kill you::
This trip had been a bad idea, a very bad idea.
He wasn't strong enough to face Luis and come out unscathed. He never would be strong enough. He needed to get away, to go back to the safety of his truck, the safety of the endless anonymous highways, running. Running for his life. Because he knew right then, in the clarity of a lightning bolt, that he would never truly be safe, never be free from Luis and the island and his pain. The pain would never stop, until it killed him.
Unless he killed himself first.
Just for a second, he seriously considered it.
Then he put the thought away in the little metal box in the back of his head, along with the rest of the things he refused to think about. Closed it. Locked it. Shut the door.
One foot in front of the other.
Let the minutiae pull him along, sweep him forward in the undertow. Walk to the truck. Open the door. Grab Jacob's collar with one hand, quickly grope around on the passenger seat for the leash with the other hand. Attach the leash to the collar. Get licked in the face a couple of times. Let Jacob out of the truck to do his business against a nearby tree, or fence, or some solid vertical object. Watch Jacob as he intently sniffs every blade of grass, every signpost for possible threats.
Done it a million times. Done it in a pouring rainstorm, and in his sleep, literally. One more won't hurt. Even if his teeth were rattling and his hands were shaking so hard he could barely fasten the leash.
Just like every other time.
Until Jacob started to growl.
It was an unnatural sound, a snarl torn from a hell-beast. It made all the hair on Alex's arms stand on end, made his heart rate—already too rapid—accelerate again. It went deep into some primitive portion of his lizard brain, and started the creature that lived there howling and gibbering about strangers and gathering the tribe.
Alex looked up from the tree where he was leaning heavily.
This wasn't his dog.
His dog didn't let loose with snarls and growls that would frighten the dead.
His dog didn't bare its fangs ferociously, threatening to tear the object of its attention limb from limb.
His dog wasn't reverting back to its original lion-killer alter ego.
There were no lions in New Rochelle, New York.
This fact wasn't slowing Jacob down one bit. He was throwing his body at the end of the leash as hard as he could, snarling and barking, frothing at the mouth, powerful jaws snapping with enough force to shatter bone. Alex was bracing his entire body against the onslaught, hoping his 190 pounds was enough to block the attack of 75 pounds of furious canine.
Alex followed the line of the leash, pulled taut, past the ferocious his- not his—dog at the end, until he saw the target of Jacob's fury.
Luis.
Luis was standing stock-still, just outside the range of those flashing jaws, just outside the limit of the leash. There was an expression on his face that Alex had never seen before, not during the entire two months of his captivity.
Fear.
The fear-scent was coming off Luis in waves, as he stared at the snarling dog, straining at the end of the leash, desperate to attack Luis. Bite him. Kill him.
The picture almost made Alex smile.
Alex was yelling over the frenzied barking of the hell-beast. "Luis, stay away from me and mine. Or the next time I see you, Jacob won't be on a leash." Pause for a moment, watching the expression on Luis's face change to terror for just a split second. "Jacob, come. Now."
The dog growled again, low in his chest, looking back and forth from Alex to Luis, from his master to the threat. He pulled again at the end of the lead, made one last lunge with snapping jaws, before Alex yanked him backwards hard enough to knock the sturdy dog off balance.
"Jacob. Come. Now." Voice a matching snarl, eyes never leaving Luis. Slowly, reluctantly, Jacob turned and moved toward his master, towards the open passenger side door of the truck.
Back in the truck, burning rubber and breaking several local ordinances, pulling out of that quiet residential street as fast as humanly possible.
Driving back to the highway, to Washington D.C.
To the arms of people who would protect him, like Jacob was protecting him.
Towards the people who loved him.
Towards the sunlight.
Missing and Presumed II
by Ganymede
Chapter 1 – Paranoia Roams
when streetlights throw crosses through window frames
paranoia roams where the shadows reign
Marillion "That Time of the Night"
::That can be arranged::
::Are you serious?::
::As serious as you want me to be::
Right away I made my choice
I was tired of my own voice
***Ring*** ***Ring***
And I just rode that power on
Staring out at the great divide.
I could go East, I could go West
It was all up to me to decide
Bob Seger " Roll Me Away"
I'm looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors"
—Staind, "Outside"
soon to be divorced.
I helped her out of a jam, I guess,
But I used a little too much force..."
—Bob Dylan "Tangled Up In Blue"
I don't need an excuse.
I've got some time on my hands –
You are the one to abuse."
Days of the New
"Touch, Peel and Stand"
FROM: MKANTWEAPONS2@hotmail.com
RE: the state of the state
FROM: MKANTWEAPONS1@hotmail.com
RE: the state of the state
upon my liar's chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair...
And you could have it all
my empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt"
—Nine Inch Nails "Hurt"
to bring me to my knees"
—Staind "Outside"
scraping through my head 'til I don't want to sleep anymore."
—Nine Inch Nails "Something I Can Never Have"
Just a fading, fucking reminder of who I used to be."
Nine Inch Nails
Nothing's turning out the way I planned.
Hey pig–
There's a lot of things I hoped you could help me understand.
What am I supposed to do?
I lost my shit because of you."
—Nine Inch Nails, "Piggy"
until finally there is nothing left
one more casualty"
—Tori Amos "Silent All These Years"
and talk about the weather."
—Tears for Fears "Head over Heels"
my burden
at your door."
—Stained "Outside"
between us
grow deeper..."
—Dave Matthews Band "Ants Marching"
