Sitting here in my bedroom, I don't dare wake him—he's exhausted. I don't
know where he's been this time, and I know better than to ask. At least
I've got something to do: I can't stop looking at this arm of his.
I watched him at dinner—he bent each finger with his right hand at such an
angle that he could hold his cup in his left, and they stayed in place. It
was utterly fascinating.
Samantha's Barbies had joints just like those that now reside in my lover's
fingers. When I was a boy, I'd kidnap one or another of those hard, pink,
curvy figures just to make her squeal. I guess I should have known then
that I was not your average boy, because where the boys down the street
would pilfer the dolls just to take off their tiny clothes and ogle their
impossibly proportioned forms, my G.I. Joes would rescue Barbie from some
imagined monster, then return her home, safe and sound.
What would I give to have Samantha home, safe and sound? Is she still out
there being the pretend daughter of my smoking nemesis? Does he buy her
pretty things and dress her up as his own living Barbie? Did she ever
believe that G.I. Mulder would come and rescue her, or is she content in her
Dream House, paid for by the Consortium?
Have I betrayed her by making this twisted alliance with the Consortium's
lackey? Maybe it's a good thing that I've never had the opportunity to
bring them together: "Here, Sam," I'd have to say. "You know Alex, don't
you? I mean, he did work for your father. Doing what? I'm not sure.
Driving, I know about. Carrying contraband across international lines.
Getting on his knees and sucking his cock, for all I know. Well, he's had
the chance to practice it somewhere, because he's very good at it now..."
No, that's not fair. Alex loves me. I love him. Whatever he does when
he's away from my bed doesn't concern me. Besides, he swore to me that I
would be his only lover from now on. I shouldn't speculate what he's done
in the past, and I should trust him to be faithful to me now. But am I
blinded by love—is my trust in this known liar and thief another construct
that the Consortium has put into place to manipulate me and control my
actions?
I can't let myself think that. He says he's working for the resistance,
and I daresay he looks a lot healthier now than when he was the pawn of the
old bastard. I don't even know if any of the old guard are left now, or if
that conflagration at El Rico erased them all from the face of the earth.
Do we have to worry now that colonization is imminent, or has the threat
gone up in smoke, too? Should I ask Alex?
Someday, Alex will sit down and tell me everything that he's done in his
life—it will probably take about a gallon of vodka, and maybe bending back
the middle finger of his right hand (yeah, like that) to make sure he
doesn't leave anything out. He may not think I want to know, but I do. I
honestly don't care if he originally set out to destroy me, to get me to
keep my nose out of what his bosses didn't want me to see, whatever. It
wasn't his idea—I'm sure of that. He was just doing his job, probably to
stay alive, if I know him.
Do I know Alex? Do I want to see beyond the mask, to discover the
cold-hearted killer behind the camouflage of the dangerous but misunderstood
romantic? Or is there still a scared kid behind that killer disguise? I
swear that sometimes I can see it—like when he was hurt and needed me to
help—but he almost never lets that side of himself show.
Maybe all of this pretense is summed up in this fake arm. It's a
front—becoming better and better adapted over time to substitute for the
real thing, but always showing its artifice in spite of itself. I wonder:
will my lover ever let me in that far, to see inside all of the covers and
prosthetic personalities to the man at his soul? And will this idea scare
him any less than it does me?
Look at that. I've folded the damned thing into a fist. Well, as close to
a fist as you can bend these joints. It could be just the right size to...
No, I'm not going there! If I want fingers to curl around me just so, I
much prefer Alex's talented digits of flesh and bone. Is that all it comes
down to? As long as he keeps wanting to make me come, do I not care what
else goes on in his head? And as long as that's all I want from him, and to
do for him, should I?
Who am I trying to kid? I know that there's more to it than that. If it
were just about sex, it wouldn't hurt so much every time he had to leave.
Not just me, either—I've watched him dawdling on purpose before he goes out
the door. He may say he's got to hit the road, but he just can't quite
bring himself to go and leave me behind. Somewhere in those eyes is that
same scared kid, afraid that he might lose the one person who gives a shit
whether he lives or dies, not really ready to be the lone wolf on the prowl
anymore.
Does he understand that? Does he know that I know what he can't hide from
me? I know I've tried to show him that, to love him as much as he'll let me
for as long as he'll have me. I just pray that it's enough...
Let me just put this thing down here and go back to bed. This arm is not
him. It's a tool, like my gun... It's not really important. There. This
man is what's important. I can't ever forget that. Good night, Alex. No
matter where you go or what you do, I'll always be here waiting for you.
Barbie Knees
by Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Alex Krycek has Barbie knees. No, I'm not talking about his legs. Since he
was here last, his medical providers (whoever they might be) have upgraded
his prosthetic arm, and now his plastic fingers bend, courtesy of the very
same joints the toy company puts in the legs of their little fashion model
doll.
