Ah, the fly-over states. God love 'em. Home of the best hamburger joints in
the U.S. Yes, the Heartland of America might just be little more than a
sparsely populated playground for incest and bestiality (farmers got lonely,
after all); yes, America's Breadbasket might just be little more than one giant
soy bean field; yes, the Bible Belt might just be the backwater embarrassment
of the rest of the U.S.; but by God, it had some damn fine greasy cuisine.
Federal Agent Fox Mulder, Violent Crimes Unit, considered himself to be, by
now, something of a connoisseur of local Mid-Western diners. He had a very
vigorous rating system. Usually. Tonight, however, slumped into the red vinyl
booth of his most recent New Dining Experience, Mulder felt too drained and
enervated to really bother grading the place. The restaurant, called Steak 'n
Shake, had been recommended to him by local fed Urmila Subram, who was helping
him and his partner on their current case. In fact, she was sitting across the
table from him right now, busily chewing on a handful of thin, salty,
shoestring french fries and slurping on a chocolate shake. Mulder, for his own
part, was chowing down something called a pattie melt, which he'd viewed with
great suspicion upon first seeing.
"C'mon, try it, Steak 'n Shake pattie melts're great," Agent
Subram had cajoled lightly, when he'd first seen the dubious-looking picture of
the sandwich in his menu. "Or so I've heard. Everyone loves 'em,
here."
"Are you going to eat one?" Mulder had asked, raising his
eyebrows at her.
"I'm a vegetarian," Subram had primly replied, and Mulder had
snorted at the oddity of a vegetarian recommending a meat dish to someone.
"I'm Hindu; it's my religion," she further explained.
"Ah," Mulder said. Then, looking at his menu, he wrinkled his
nose in suspicion. "I don't like the looks of it. Pattie melt. I've never
even heard of such a thing before. Maybe I'll try a Steakburger instead."
"Well, that's what Steak 'n Shake is famous for," Subram said
agreeably, smiling. "See?" She tapped a delicate brown finger against
Mulder's menu. "'Steak 'n Shake; Famous for Steakburgers.' Their fries are
also great. And the shakes are to die for."
"Hmm..." Mulder said consideringly, eyeing the choices.
"You've never heard of pattie melts before?" Agent Subram said
suddenly, with wonder, reverting to an earlier comment.
"Nope."
"What, DC doesn't have any burger joints? You must've been raised in a
cave."
"Quit heckling me, lady," Mulder mock-whined. "I'm trying to
come to a decision, here."
"Sorry, sorry." Subram held up her hands in surrender, then leaned
back in her seat and returned to her own menu. When the waitress came, a cheery
young thing named Susan, Mulder astonished himself by ordering the pattie melt
platter. Agent Subram beamed.
Mulder leaned into the back of his booth, spine nicely slouched over,
shoulders slumped, as he took another bite out of his surprisingly good pattie
melt (grilled sourdough bread, two kinds of cheese, two hamburger patties, lots
of onions. Mmm, mmm!) and turned the page of an autopsy report. Their table was
littered with crumpled napkins, condiments, plates, glasses, and papers and
folders, ranging from autopsy reports to field reports to police reports to a
preliminary profile on the latest serial killer that Mulder had been assigned
to. He would've taken out the photos, looked them over, too, but he figured it
might shock the other customers, all of whom were either families (three
families; one single-parent with two kids, one two-parent with one kid, one
two-parent with grandmother-type and three kids) or teeny-boppers (one group of
seven teens, loud and obnoxious, one small group of three teens, slightly less
loud and obnoxious, one teenage couple, on a date which seemed to be going
rather rockily, if the sour look on the girl's face was any indication).
Manchester, Missouri's Steak 'n Shake, a fifties-style diner with lots of
black, white and red tile and cooks with those funny paper hats, originated in
Illinois and slowly spreading across the states, was a family-oriented
restaurant. It made Mulder both nervous and tired. Manchester was a suburb of
St. Louis, a half a mile from its city limits. It scared Mulder, who hated and
feared Suburbia. It set his nerves on edge. All these cheery, conservative
people, smiling with their mouths but not their eyes, with back yards and dogs
and flower beds and expensive public schools and a Wal-Mart at every corner
(originated in Arkansas, also slowly spreading across the states). All the
houses looked the same, and so did the yards and the dogs and the smiles and
the people themselves. Varying degrees of monotony.
Mulder had grown up in Suburbia. The memories were not kind.
Mulder sighed and slurped at his shake. "Damn, this is good," he
praised, and Agent Subram smiled at him. Mulder liked Subram, he thought. Tall,
middle-aged, beginning to thicken out in spots, she was exotic-looking, Indian,
with tea-colored skin and lovely golden-brown eyes, the color of amber. Mulder
had never seen eyes quite that color before. They looked like stained glass.
Agent Subram, with the St. Louis branch, had a sense of humor, and she didn't
pester Mulder too much or act like she thought he was crazy, like most other
agents did. Spooky Mulder. They just loved him for his profiles. Subram was
different. She was an oddity of sorts, an Indian, Hindu woman agent in a field
where women alone were rare, women of minorities even more so.
"What did I say?" Subram asked, giving gentle cheek, and Mulder
grinned back. "Did I not say the shakes are to die for?"
"Indeed, you did," Mulder admitted, poking at the bright red
cherry in the shake with his straw. "How could I have ever doubted you? I
need to visit Missouri more often."
Agent Subram lost her smile, and Mulder let his fade slowly. He watched her
glance down at the files scattered across the table, watched her face turn
serious. Mulder could feel the skin around his eyes tighten with fatigue and
unhappiness. Yes, the case. It was a bitch of a case. Someone was stalking the
suburbs of St. Louis. Someone who liked young families with children and pets,
with happy homes and good jobs. Suburbia. Three families so far, killed in
their own houses. Slaughtered. The wives were all attractive, the husbands
good-looking, the children cute and cuddly. One family had had a dog, and it
had been killed, too. Decapitated, and the head put in the microwave. The wife
had been put in the fridge. One child, a little sister, had been found in the
washing machine, her brother in the dryer. Pieces of the husband had been
distributed into three different clothes hampers.
That was the second family. The first family had been creatively dispatched,
too. Husband, wife, two sons, settled on their expensive living room sofa,
their arms removed and stacked neatly on the coffee table in front of them.
They had had fish, which had been found, after some looking, in the garbage
disposal.
The third family, wife, husband, little girl, had all been sodomized after
they were strangled to death. The father had been strangled with his own tie,
the mother with her belt, the child with her jump rope. Rope burns on all their
wrists and ankles. Duct tape had sealed their mouths. Other, more terrible
things had been done to their bodies as well, other than the rapes. Mulder
didn't want to dwell on it. He didn't want to think about it at all. The three
victims, after their murders, had then been sliced apart joint by joint, every
joint, and, like the second family, hidden about the house. The police had
found finger segments in coffee cans, jewelry boxes, the candy dish among the
M&Ms. Drawers had housed limbs. The heads had been placed in a row on the
fireplace mantle. The house, aside from the dispersed body parts, had been
extremely clean. No blood, no miscellaneous tissue, no mess at all. The only
thing wrong with the house itself was that all of the pictures and photographs
inside it had been slashed.
Mulder sighed, remembering the crime scene pictures, the info from the
reports he'd been given. St. Louis had asked specifically for him. Fox Mulder.
He had an extraordinary track record. He was like the freaking Second Coming of
Christ to the Bureau. Their golden boy. They called him "Spooky," to
be sure, but they said it affectionately, except for his supervisor, Reggie
Purdue, who didn't much like him. At all. But Purdue was back in DC, and Jerry
Lamana, his partner, was currently running around the crime scenes, poking and
scraping, waiting for Mulder to join him and start the manhunt in earnest. The
Bureau really wanted this psycho. Bad. People were pissed. The media was
getting antsy. Those in charge were getting anxious. Nobody likes a serial
killer. They were starting to put the pressure on Mulder, but he didn't mind.
He wanted the killer caught as soon as possible too, of course. Those photos,
those reports, made his stomach cramp miserably. His head suddenly hurt.
Profiling sickos and psychos always made him ill. He didn't like getting in
their heads. It was dark and brackish and strange in there, frightening, too
close. He didn't want to get too close.
Mulder sighed. It was going to be a long, long day. He looked up at Subram,
who was picking listlessly at her fries. "You ready to go?" he asked.
Subram nodded. "Off to the crime scenes?" Subram nodded again, her
amber eyes filled with muted, repressed upset. A professional, she only let it
show in her eyes. Mulder's own eyes, an irregular hazel, were flat. He wasn't
looking forward to this at all. He could feel the profiler in him begin to whir
into action, that part of his brain rev up.
They piled the papers back into their folders and stood, Mulder grabbing the
check, which the Bureau would pay for, and Subram tossing down a tip.
"Let's go," Mulder said, and they went.
The third family's neighborhood had a playground and a public swimming pool.
The playground, a square plot full of gravelly sand and wood chips, had a
jungle gym with two slides, some monkey bars, a tire swing, two concrete
tunnels seated above ground, and a swing set. Mulder sat in a swing and watched
the sun set.
Missouri was very hilly, and filled with forests. Tall trees and shy deer
that skittered and ran. Ivy and vines and soft-colored flowers. And birds, lots
of birds. Every inch of Missouri that was not concrete or building was this
woodland. It was very beautiful, even to Mulder, who couldn't see the green of
it. The Ozarks, right. Did the Ozarks extend this far eastward? Manchester, so
far, was a smallish suburban city. The roads were small, the subdivisions
isolated from one another by trees and streams and a river or two. The
playground Mulder swung in was surrounded by woods, dense dark woods in the
waning light, whispering and sighing. He swung gently, legs pumping only every
so often, tie fluttering, and watched the sun set. It was beautiful, setting
right over a dip between two hills. The sun itself was a runny yellow yolk, wet
and shining, and the sky around it was a livid purplish lavender, fading to
deep royal eggplant and then into dark blue.
Mulder watched the colors of ending flow across the bowl of sky above him.
The color was so intense it hurt to look at it. It was beautiful. The chains of
the swing creaked and cried, rusty and tired, reluctant to move at all, giving
in without grace. The woods whispered and sighed. God, that sunset. Great
armies of clouds, giants, rolled across the lurid sky, stained as brightly
violet and mauve as their airy background. They sailed forward, those clouds,
like a wave of angels cresting and breaking against the dying sun, an army of
angels. A troop of angels? A... hell.
Mulder swung harder, thoughtful, the breeze he made combining with the
evening winds to ruffle his short, dark hair. The muscles in his legs began to
burn pleasantly.
What was the word for a group of angels, anyway?
For pete's sake.
There was a pride of lions, a murder of crows, a surprise of unicorns, a
march of ants, a gaggle of geese, but what was the name for a group of angels?
A herd?
For pete's sake! One would think that a guy who'd graduated from Oxford
would know the fricking word for a group of angels.
Mulder swung harder, making a mental note to find out the word for a group
of angels as soon as possible. After the case.
The case.
The case.
God. Mulder shook his head, not wanting to think about it, about those
houses, all that blood. The first two times, the killer hadn't bothered to be
clean. All that blood, and those poor bodies. All that blood, the symbol of
utmost rage. Mulder had stood in the middle of the first family's bedroom, and
stared hopelessly. "Jesus screamed and ran," he'd said, dully, not a
single note of inflection, and Lamana had looked away.
Mulder swung harder, and tried to lose himself in the setting sun. His
thighs sang. The day died like a calm, gracious lady this night, all glorious
hues and gentle colors. The day died with graceful pomp and circumstance, and
Mulder wished that he could just sit and pump his legs and watch the day die
forever, and not think about the things he had to think about.
Profiler. Profiler. His internal wheels were already spinning, cogs and
gears clacking together, forming a ghost from circumstances and hunches, a
pale, translucent man, as yet without color. A gossamer shadow on the
blood-covered wall. Soon, it was only a matter of time, he would have the ghost
all filled out, put flesh on him, a mind, a character, a motive, and a hiding
place. And then it would be over.
And Mulder would be able to go back home, and start over again the painful,
tiring process of putting the old memories back in their cupboards and wells,
fix up his own mind to nearly the way it had been before, only now there would
be one more ghost residing in his head, to whisper advice from time to time and
turn three a.m. into another wakeful hour.
Mulder hated Suburbia.
And so did the killer, he bet.
The sun poised itself on the lip of the forest before him, bleeding gold,
and Mulder felt the hurtful beauty of that setting wash over his face, his
brain, calming it. Great swans of clouds flew over the streaming golden light.
The chains screeched again, protestingly, and Mulder slowed the swing to a halt
and watched the sun sink.
Amazing...
"Agent Mulder," a smoky voice said, quiet and calm, in the still,
hushed, waiting air, and Mulder jerked in surprise and twisted in his seat to
find the voice's owner.
The man was standing by the concrete tunnels, tall and dark, all in black,
with midnight hair and a face cast from shadows. He seemed comprised entirely
of shadows, of absences, and Mulder tried to flick on his customary anxiety,
his usual paranoia, but nothing came. His ever-present edginess at being alone
with a stranger was suddenly no longer ever-present. Weird. He'd had it since
he was twelve. And now, all of a sudden, it was gone. Mulder sat in the swing
and stared at the stranger.
"Yes?" he finally said, breaking the quietude of the ending day.
Somewhere nearby, a bird piped softly.
The man said nothing. Just stood and stared. His face, if Mulder could see
rightly, was quite lovely. The parts that weren't obscured by shadow, that was.
Mulder dangled from the swing and felt slightly ridiculous. He hadn't thought
about it before, but now it suddenly occurred to him that grown menógrown
federal agentsódidn't swing on the swings of local playgrounds by their
lonesome, while wearing suits and ties, no less. He'd been caught being weird
again. Damn.
"Do I know you?" Mulder finally asked, feeling silly and
self-conscious. He refused to move from his swing, though. So what if he looked
like a fruitcake? The world at large could kiss his ass if they had a problem
with it. And so could this taciturn stranger, whoever the hell he was. Weirdo.
It would just be Mulder's luck if this guy was the serial killer, in some
bizarre, ironic twist of fate. Mulder could imagine it now; after being
brutally stabbed to death with a kitchen knife by the monkey bars, Mulder's
body would be sliced apart and then jovially scattered across the playground
and the neighboring trees. Maybe even bits of him would end up in the nearby
pool. Who knew? Lamana and Agent Subram would find his dispersed parts the next
day, after being alerted by a couple of panicked parents who'd taken their kids
to play on the slide. Or, at least, they'd find the parts not carried off by
birds and dogs to be gnawed on. Mulder could see it all with perfect clarity;
Subram holding up a knee cap with unmasked astonishment, Lamana brushing sand
and wood chips off of his severed spine. Then, after what was left of him was
collected and placed in a large Hefty bag, they wouldó
"No," the dark man replied in a low, rough voice, surprising
Mulder out of his reverie. "You don't know me." He began to walk
toward Mulder (who sat still on the swing) with a smooth and purposeful stride.
Predatorial? Professional gait? Cogs, just keep on turning. The man's eyes,
though shadowed, never seemed to leave Mulder's face. The gaze was piercing,
and made Mulder feel like he was being pinned to his seat, unable to move or
look away.
It was a funny feeling that bloomed in Mulder's stomach as the dusky man
came to stand silently before him. Not anxiety, or fear, or anger, or
annoyance. Not any negative emotion. Mulder scrutinized it closely, turned the
odd feeling over in his mind. Weird. It was the most unusual sensation he'd
ever experienced. Like all of a sudden, this man standing in front of him in a
playground in a neighborhood in a suburb in Missouri was the key to all of
Mulder's resonances, the glowing focus of a million different gates, locks,
futures, pasts, emotions, ideas, like there was an invisible cloud of
glittering psychic butterflies hovering around him... Mulder didn't know what the
hell all that he'd just thought meant. God, what a flake he was turning into.
See what the FBI does to a man? Mulder looked up at the stranger, who was
standing silently, regarding him with a most inexplicable expression. Like he
couldn't quite believe there was a man perched on the swings before him. Like
he wasn't sure at all that Mulder was really there.
There was a long, profound silence.
"You're blocking my sunset," Mulder said finally, opting for his
personal brand of mild humor to break the silence. He pulled his too-long legs
in under his seat, shifting uncomfortably. The sling he was sitting in was
beginning to make his ass ache.
The stranger just stared. Mulder wondered if maybe he'd sprouted antennae or
developed a third eye all of a sudden. It would account for the man's
disbelieving look.
"Mulder," the man finally breathed, and Mulder was again struck by
the low roughness of his voice. "God." Then suddenly the stranger was
leaning down and Mulder was freezing as the man pressed his palms against his
cheeks, as if testing for solidity.
Yes, I'm really here, Mulder was about to say, but then his mouth was
covered with lips and he couldn't get out the words and the man was kissing him
kissing him right here on a playground and the sun was setting bathing the
man's face in gold but Mulder couldn't see he was suddenly blind and this was
so bizarre that Mulder just sat and let himself be gently devoured. You
should be kneeing this man in the groin, a voice in his head told him
conversationally. He continued to let the stranger suck face with him. Do
you realize that a man is kissing you? In public? Yes, he did. Well.
Just so long as you know. The voice wandered away.
Then suddenly the man released Mulder's mouth, which was tingling strangely,
and stepped back, still staring intently. The odd feeling inside of Mulder
unfurled another petal, continued to glow quietly. Beyond, the sun began to
slip behind the dip in the two hills. Clouds flared with color. The forest of
the hills was a black mass against the lurid sky, and shadows were twining
around the playground equipment, sliding over the man before him. The
stranger's chest was heaving, as if instead of kissing Mulder, he'd just
finished a marathon. Mulder himself just dangled motionlessly, too shocked to
even breathe properly. His whole body was humming under that strange feeling,
like the psychic butterflies had now descended over him, like his skin
was trying to burst into soft flame. Warm. He was so warm, it was so strange,
this feeling. What the hell was going on, here?
"You're supposed to knee me in the groin," the stranger finally
said, his breathing now under control. His back was to the setting sun, and the
light haloed his black hair, outlined the edges of his features, which were
sharp and soft and strange, all at the same time. He had lovely eyes, and a
cute little nose, and an impossibly perfect mouth. It was, altogether, the face
of an adorable little boy, but just underneath the skin a deadly fire seemed to
burn.
"Oh, I am?" Mulder replied, his voice faint and stunned. He felt
like he was floating under water, or perhaps suspended in a more viscous fluid,
like glue or liquor or maple syrup. His calm was astonishing, his astonishment
calm. "Sorry."
"I just kissed you, you know," the stranger continued casually,
informing him, it appeared, his eyes never leaving Mulder's face.
"Well, yeah," Mulder agreed, dazedly, "that's the conclusion
I came to, as well."
"Fuck," the man said quietly, and leaned back down and claimed his
mouth again. Fireworks bloomed softly, and in slow motion, behind Mulder's
eyelids. The kiss this time was full of heat, passion, searing and hard.
He's doing it again! the voice told him, returning. You don't even
know this guy's name! Need I remind you that you should be kneeing him in the
groin, right now? Mulder didn't care. He couldn't. It felt so fucking
right. As if... as if... well, hell. Mulder didn't know what "as
if" he was searching for, but it felt so right. There wasn't a
thing he could do to stop this. It felt impossible, as if his body and mind
were locked in some sort of fugue state, some old code for bizarre stasis
finally punched in. Gentle bliss was pouring into his mouth, straight from the
man's lips. Soft, very, very soft, and firm. Teeth. Nip, tug, a little sharp,
very good. Then a tongue. Then the fireworks slowly peeling outward behind his
closed eyes suddenly burst into atom bombs detonating and his whole world slid
sideways as his mouth was thoroughly plundered. Showers of sparks. Blue
lightning.
And then, just when he was about to collapse from lack of oxygen, just as
his body was about to slide right out of the swing and flop into an untidy heap
on the ground, just as his brain was about to disintegrate from sensory
overload, the stranger released his mouth, and drew back. Mulder gasped
raggedly, his heart thundering in his chest.
"Jesus Christ," he croaked, gripping the chains suspending the
swing. What the hell was going on, here? "Jesus Christ," he said
again, gaining back his breath, and looked up at the stranger standing right at
his knees with something akin to horror. "What the fuck is going on,
here?" he asked aloud, his eyes wide with shock. "I don't even
fucking know your name." The voice in his head snorted. 'Bout time.
Jesus. Yes, it was true that Mulder's success with dates was about as
legendarily pathetic as Jon Arbuckle's. Yes, his right hand had seen more
action in one year than most porn stars did in a decade. Yes, he hadn't had a
real date or a real fuck in years, yes, he wouldn't know a mind-altering kiss
if it smacked him in the ass, if experience had anything to do with it, yes,
yes, yes, he might as well slap a "Doesn't Get Any: Pathetic Loser
Alert!" sign on his forehead and be done with it, yes, he had no
qualifications at all for this sort of thing, but still. Even with his sorry
track record, Mulder knew that earth-shaking kisses like the one he'd just
shared with a complete stranger just didn't happen in real life. This kind of
thing just didn't happen in the real world. One's brain didn't implode from a
mere kiss with an unknown man. Not in the real world.
His whole body was blooming and secure, as if nestled into an invisible,
impregnable shell. A happy little egg. What the fuck was going on?
The stranger suddenly grinned. It made him transform from merely lovely to
breathtaking. His features were caressed with violet and plum. "My name is
Alex," he told him, grinning even wider, as if he'd just said something
insane, something incredible, something unbelievable, and he was grinning at
Mulder, grinning right into his eyes, straight into him, and Mulder knew
without understanding that it was love in the other man's smile, in the other
man's eyes, love and perhaps even adoration. It froze his blood with
astonishment.
"Alex," the man said again, his smile blinding, "it's Alex,
my name is Alex." And then he was laughing.
Mulder sat in the swing and stared.
"Dear God, dear God," the man was crooning, laughing like a
lunatic, but joyfully, as if he'd come back from the dead, as if he'd found a
missing piece of himself long thought lost, as if he'd seen something
beautiful, worth hurting for, something amazing. "It's incredible, Jesus,
can't be true, amazing, amazing," the man, Alex, said aloud, laughing, and
there was pain there, too, behind the strange joy, and Mulder sat and wondered
what weird plotline had he stumbled into.
"Dear God," the man sighed, staring at Mulder, "you're here.
You're so young. Your eyes aren't hard. Just look at you, just look at
you."
"I..." Mulder began, floundering helplessly. "I gotta get out
of here. This is nuts." And then the stranger stepped right up against
Mulder, knees against knees, hands caressing his face, outlining his jaw,
tracing an eyebrow, sliding along his nose, limning his lips. Hands through his
hair, strong, long fingers scraping along his scalp, flowing down his throat,
along his arms, grasping his own fingers gripping the chains. The man smiled,
his eyes clear pools in the fading light, but what color they were Mulder
couldn't tell, so they must be green, and he stroked Mulder's fingers, played
over his skin, smoothed over his knuckles. Mulder watched the man gaze at their
entwining hands for a short eternity, watched the joy that glowed in those odd,
somehow familiar eyes.
Then the man turned those eyes to Mulder's, inscrutable and enigmatic.
"Oh, no, you don't. No, no, no. You're not going anywhere." And his
mouth swept down once more and claimed Mulder's, hot and wet and scouring,
demanding, sweet and intense, lips pressed together, then his bottom lip pulled
gently and nipped, a tongue coming along and soothing the bite. Brushing, then
bruising, burning, demanding, those lips like fiery satin, then he was melting
under the stranger's intense heat, his mouth forced open in submission, and he
was being plumbed, every inch of his mouth, in this blinding, burning kissó
It was Mulder's turn to laugh, and he guffawed helplessly underneath the
other man's wildly sweet onslaught. "Bodice ripper," he mumbled
around the other man's tongue, his frame shaking with laughter.
"Wha'?" the stranger, Alex, gasped, his own tongue stroking
Mulder's.
"The plotline I wandered into," Mulder explained, or tried to,
"it's a bodice ripper. Just listen to those vivid metaphors. Yeesh!"
He could see the stranger take an instant to think about Mulder's statement,
then discard it. Mulder sighed internally. He was used to his comments being
ignored, since they were generally too weird to pay any serious attention to.
Ah, angst. An old frienó
Mulder's collective thoughts took a big flying leap out the window as the
kiss turned even deeper, and hands slid over him, slinking underneath his suit
jacket, worming their way under his shirt and onto his bare flesh, sending
shooting sparks along his nerves. Strong fingers teased his flesh, curving over
his belly, counting his ribs, playing over his nipples, in a maddening dance of
skin over skin. Mulder gasped into his stranger's—Alex's—mouth as his
sensitive nipples hardened under the attentions, pleasure spiraling outward,
rocketing through his body.
Oh God, oh God, those handsóthose hands!!óeverywhere, teasing, torturing,
turning his mind inside out, shaking loose every thought, every memory, until
there was only one thing running through his head, one word: Alex, Alex, Alex,
Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex, Alexótoo much, it was too much, his blood was
molten gold, his skin peeling from the painful pleasure of it, of those hands,
that mouth, that mouth trailing acid kisses down his jaw, along his throat,
across his collar bone, sucking against a hard, singing nipple through his
shirt, demon rapture coiling through him, making a smoky trail down to his
groin, his loins, oh God, oh God, it certainly was a bodice ripper, not that
he'd ever read any or anything, of course, and he was gasping, and the
handsóthe handsóthe handsó
"Oh sweet Jesus, sweet fucking Christ, fuck, fuck, Jesus
goddamned Christ, oh please, please, please, yes, yes, YES, oh Jesus God
Jehova Allah Christ Christ Christ—" Mulder gasped, cried, sensation
swirling over him, starbursts spiking from the stranger's hands, lips, all over
him, and Alex was babbling, too, not making any sense, Mulder couldn't even
make out the words anymore, and he wasn't tryingó
"Love you, love you," Alex moaned into Mulder's chest, biting
down, "and you died, you were dead, didn't even like you when you
were alive, such a prick, such an arrogant, egocentric bastard, you and Scully,
and Skinner, all of you, but never liked you, and then the warehouse, and then
you were dead, and then only then did it come to me how important you were, it
all fell apart, everything, and only when you were gone did I
realizeórealize—"
"Fuckófuck!!ófuck!!óGod!óGod!óGod!—" Mulder flying apart
under the ocean rush, his mind in freefall, clutching the man to him, ripping
into his leather jacket, his black t-shirt, grabbing, squeezing, pinching,
rubbing, smooth, silken flesh over hard muscle, supple, grasping, God it felt
goodóso goodó
"All over, all over, a pool of blood, so red, so red," the
stranger was sobbing, gripping Mulder's shoulder, lips at his ear, biting hard
at the lobe, tongue probing there. "Straight to hell, all of it, and you
gone, gone, oh God, dear GodóI tried so hard, so hard, I tried
fifty-seven times to change that night, stop it from happening, but never, not
once, no matter what I didóliving hell, over and over and over again, but
nowóbut nowóbut now it's okóokóokóyou're here, alive, so sweet, so young, the
X-Files destroyed you, made you so hard and cynical and
hurtóJesusóJesusóJesusóhurts so much—"
Ocean rush over his ears, a loud, distant roar, he and the man pressed
together and grappling on the swing, tongues and teeth and lips and fingers and
chests and thighs and strokes and colors spiraling everywhere, so strange, so
strange—
He was wailing, he was screaming, howling obscenities, praise, praying,
babbling, and his stranger, this dark man, Alex, was harmonizing, they were
moaning together, and then the gold from the sunset spilt over Mulder's eyes,
swept over his body, poured along every nerve, and then exploded.
When he awoke, he was still sitting on the swing, fingers frozen on the
chains, which creaked quietly, hanging limply, exhausted and dazed. The man
stood, draped over him, their sweat-covered bodies locked together, his legs
between Mulder's outspread thighs. The stranger was resting his dark head on
Mulder's shoulder, and the feel of his short thick hair scritching against his
own stubbly cheek was amazingly sweet, intense, satisfying.
Mulder looked up. "Damn," he said. The man stirred weakly.
"What?" Alex asked groggily, not lifting his head from the crook
of Mulder's shoulder.
"I missed the end of the sunset," Mulder complained, and then
could feel Alex's body shaking with laughter against his. "I was really
looking forward to that sunset," he sulked, scowling at his nouveau lover.
The stranger just laughed.
Feeling suddenly very sulky, Mulder wriggled on the swing, shifting his sore
butt, flexing his legs, trying to shove Alex off of him. "Hey," Alex
said, and stood up, stepping out from between Mulder's legs. Then he reached
up, grasped the chains above Mulder's hands, and casually lifted himself up off
the ground with the chains, swung up his black-jeaned legs, settled them over
Mulder's thighs, and sat down. It was a very impressive show of upper-body
strength. Mulder would have said something clever, but he was too distracted by
the fact that the strangeróAlexówas now sitting on his lap, groin to groin,
face to face, his thighs over Mulder's, his hands holding the chains just above
his own. Alex's eyes shone with gentle satisfaction.
"Hey!" Mulder squeaked out, echoing Alex, and his stranger just
grinned beautifully and twisted his hips against Mulder's, making them sway a
little on the swing. "Kinky," Mulder breathed, letting the sensation
of Alex's ass against his crotch flow over him while Alex gently swung them
back and forth, driving against Mulder's groin, shifting back. It was a most
delicious feeling. Mulder appreciated it, and the fact that Alex was holding a
lot of his weight off of him by pulling on the chains.
"It's called spidering, I think," Mulder continued, and Alex
looked at him mutely, questioning. "When two people swing together on the
same swing," Mulder elucidated. "It's called spidering. You sit
facing each other, and pump." Mulder waited for the snort of laughter or
suggestive leer in response to the word "pump," but none came.
"The girls used to do it all the time in elementary school, during
recess." Mulder smiled, remembering. "The boysóweónever did that.
Spider. Too girly."
"Oh, yeah?" Alex asked, swinging a little harder, pumping his
legs. The shoestrings of his black combat boots fluttered with each kick.
Mulder started pumping, too, kicking out his legs, pulling them in, kicking out
again, and the two swung in synch for a while, flowing in and out, working in
tandem, Mulder pulling in his legs as Alex swung his out, Mulder swinging out
his legs while Alex pulled his in. The chains began to squeak and groan again
in protest.
"Too girly?" Alex repeated, prompting Mulder, and Mulder blinked.
"Well," Mulder smiled. Their chests bumped, pressing together,
then broke apart. "Girly doesn't bother me."
"Good, good," Alex breathed, leaning back to put more momentum
into his swing. The resulting breeze felt exquisite against Mulder's
overheated, sweat-soaked body. The chains screamed in rusty agony, mingling
with his and Alex's panting breaths, the occasional scuff of a shoe or boot
against the ground. The colors began to slowly leach out of the sky, turning a
vast, serene blue. The playground was very dark and quiet, the scream of the
swing's chains echoing strangely and loudly in the darkening neighborhood.
Along the sidewalk, lamp posts began to come to life, their lights flicking on
automatically, sending out violet pools of illumination. Shadows spun and slid
over his lover's face, obscuring his eyes, then revealing them. It seemed like
some sort of game. Peek-a-boo.
They just swung for a while, falling back, gliding forward, saying nothing.
Mulder didn't feel like talking at all, breaking the wonderful silence of
evening, the feel of this man on his lap, legs and arms straining, his thighs
humming with tension. He didn't know what he had done to deserve something
this wonderful, this incredible, this blissful, but it must have been damn
good. His whole body was glowing still, singing with that strange feeling, and
his mind was equally sated. He couldn't summon up the energy or urgency to
question this, to wonder just what was happening here, why he was letting this
happen. Perhaps it was simply that he was lonely, and tired. All alone in his
head, he needed a way out every so often, away from his endlessly circling
thoughts. A break from the usual tortuous maze of his head, filled with bright
lights and vanishing sisters, dead men, bloody rooms, cold fathers, silent
mothers, and even more silent men, men with guns and knives and sightless eyes,
men whose minds he had crawled into, and now in return they'd crawled into his,
and it was slowly driving him insane.
"You're thinking bad thoughts," Alex suddenly said, breaking up
his abstractions. Mulder looked up at him. "You should stop."
Mulder was about to reply saucily, but a hand had appeared out of nowhere
and was cupping his crotch, massaging it, and Mulder couldn't even remember his
own first name all of a sudden, let alone any cheeky comebacks.
"Here we go," Alex said with quiet glee, rubbing against Mulder's
blossoming erection. Mulder moaned. The friction was delightful. Alex pressed
harder against the burgeoning bulge, and then lightly scraped his fingers over
it. Mulder moaned louder, harder, sensation swirling over him. Adept fingers
tickled his tummy, stroked his side, pinched a nipple. Mulder was fast
approaching ecstasy. The fingers returned to Mulder's straining erection and
began to play there, expert and generous, until Mulder was issuing soft,
pleading cries into the deepening night. Mulder let go of one chain to reach
down and cup Alex, but his lover grasped his hand and returned it to the chain.
"Let me take care of it," Alex murmured, soft as seduction.
"Just sit back and relax."
Mulder snickered, but then the clever, knowing hand was at his fly, pulling
down the zipper, and then reaching into his boxers and freeing his
erectionó"Oh Jesus!" Mulder cried, jumping, and Alex unzipped his own
jeans and suddenly guns were going off in Mudler's head, they were rubbing
their engorged erections ("manhood," Mulder thought suddenly, and
stifled an insane giggle) together, rocking back and forth, swinging again. The
situation was positively surreal. Two men were basically fucking one another's
stomachs together on a swing in a public playground in the middle of a
neighborhood. At least it was at night. Mulder could just see them getting
caught by a housewife taking her dog for their evening walk.
"This is so illegal," Mulder muttered, pushing his cock into
Alex's hand, while Alex shoved his own against Mulder's belly. Silk and satin
and solid heat and steel. Oh, my.
"Wh-what is?" Alex gasped, gripping Mulder's (member) and sliding
his hand down its length. Skin whispered against skin, cloth against cloth.
"Well," Mulder mused, pumping his hips against Alex's, delighting
in the feel of his lover's ass shifting on top of him. "I can think of
several crimes we're committing, actually." He began to tally them off.
"First, we're swinging in a playground after dark. I'm pretty sure that
that sign over there states that this playground is off limits after dark. If a
cop comes by, we're toast."
"Uh-huh," Alex groaned, doing marvelous things to Mulder's
straining flesh. They swung higher.
"Next," Mulder gasped, head spinning crazily, "we're having
sex in a public place, which is definitely not legal."
"No actual penetration," Alex argued, doing still more marvelous
things to Mulder's straining flesh. "Not actually sex."
"Doesn't matter," Mulder replied. He pumped hard into Alex's hand.
"Improper Conduct. Third, we're two guys, and we're having sex. I
could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that homosexual acts are highly illegal in
Missouri."
"I think it's just sodomy," Alex said, sweat running in trails
down his face, slicking his hands. "Not just blanket homosexuality."
"Well," Mulder said, "at any rate—"
"You're talking too much," Alex interrupted, grinding against him.
"It's ruining the mood."
"Oh, yeah?" Mulder began, but then flesh was sweetly teasing
flesh, nerves were overloading, satin skin was rubbing satin skin, and more
colors were beginning to wash across Mulder's vision, and soon he wasn't
coherent at all. He was pulsing, spangled, and Alex was talking again,
babbling, crying out, and Mulder was too, strings of words, I love you, I
love you, and the fire was everywhere, his bones were melting, it was so
good, so good, so sweet, it would last forever, this moment, at the apex, the
pinnacle, the cliff's sheerest edgeó
—and then he was going over, falling, roaring downward into the bliss, so
deep it hurt, so incredible, so beautiful, plowing into it, he was being torn
in two, into pieces, and glued back together again, it was so sweet, and
thenóthenóthenóOh, God, and then.
And then it was done. He shattered, and died, and then after a while he came
back. Reality stitched itself slowly back together again, and when he opened
his eyes he saw that he was lying in a heap on the ground, wood chips digging
into his cheek, his back, and he was entwined with Alex, legs hooked with legs,
arms over waists, heads pillowed on soft flesh. He ran a hand through his
lover's hair, then down his back. The other man shifted sleepily.
"I love you," Mulder whispered, not even thinking; it just popped
out of his mouth. It was, he realized after a moment of satiated shock, the
truth.
Alex moved his head, turned and looked up at him, eyes wide. "Do you
realize what you just said?" he asked in a low, throaty voice, like honey
on sandpaper.
"Yes." Mulder smiled gently.
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes."
Alex stared. "You don't even know my last name. You've never met me
before todayóbefore an hour ago. How could you possibly love me? I could be
your serial killer for all you know."
Mulder shrugged. He stroked the curve of Alex's cheek. The warm, odd glow
still hadn't left him; he was enveloped by it. "I don't know how or why it
happened," he said, running a finger over Alex's bottom lip. "But
it's true. I love you." Or else I'm drugged, he thought. Nah. It's love.
Alex just stared, as if his whole world had just tipped sideways and
scattered itself to the four winds.
"A host!" Mulder cried suddenly, his eyes growing distant and
focused for an instant. His fingers stilled on Alex's lips.
"Excuse me?" the erstwhile stranger inquired, looking decidedly
confused.
"The word for a group of angels," Mulder explained, or tried to.
"It's 'host'." He paused, uncertain. "I think."
"Oh, you freak," Alex said. "This is the sort of thing you
think about during post-coital lassitude?"
"Well," Mulder replied, "usually my post-coital lassitude is
spent alone on my couch with a porn flick showing on my TV. My right hand isn't
very picky; it doesn't care what I think about after the deed is done. The last
time post-coital lassitude and I got together, I spent the time ruminating on
the sex lives of Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog; if they were to do it
together, what positions would they take and how would—"
"Stop! Stop!" Alex cried weakly. "I'm getting a mental image,
for pete's sake!"
"Well," said Mulder. "At any rate, I don't think this counts
as post-coital, anyway, since I don't think we actually participated in true
coitus."
"Sure we did," Alex replied. "On a swing, no less."
"'Coitus,'" Mulder began. "Latin for joining together; stems
from 'coir;' 'co' is 'together,' 'ire' is 'to go,' thus 'coi;' plus 'tus,'
which is the suffix of the verb action—"
"It's too hot for this damn jacket," Alex muttered, effectively
interrupting Mulder's mini-lecture. Seeing as it was the end of June, Mulder
had to agree with that statement. Alex began to shrug out of his jacket. Mulder
helped him, yanking on a sleeve. The leather was soft and supple under his
hands. Between them, the jacket was soon off, and tucked underneath their
heads. Alex lay on his back and gazed up at the night sky. Great masses of
clouds paraded toward the horizon, swallowing and then spitting out the moon,
which gleamed barrenly. Mulder smoothed his hand over his lover's chest,
stroking softly, committing the swells and valleys of muscle to memory. His
hand slid under the damp t-shirt and traced patterns on Alex's satiny skin.
After a moment, during which silence spread in comfortable rings from the
couple, broken only by an occasional dog's distant bark or the call of a bird,
Alex turned over and began his own exploration of Mulder's body.
"My suit is ruined," Mulder murmured, leaning into Alex's touch.
"Thank God it's not Armani," Alex replied.
"Huh?"
"Never mind." The two rolled more closely together, stroking hips
and thighs and arms, spanning ribs, caressing cheekbones. Alex grasped Mulder's
left hand and began to kiss each digit, sucking gently on the tips, then
tongued his palm. Mulder meanwhile ran a finger along a deep, long scar that
ran over Alex's abdomen. Then he fingered an old bullet wound, it felt like, by
his collar. Alex's lips and tongue gravitated down to Mulder's wrist, sucking
on the little delicate knob of bone, then traveled further, nipping and kissing
his forearm.
"Who are you?" Mulder asked, coming across another bullet wound,
very old.
Alex just sucked harder on Mulder's inner forearm.
Mulder discovered an impressive ring of ghastly scar tissue circling Alex's
left bicep. "Whoa," he murmured, exploring the raised skin, imagining
how much it had hurt to acquire this scar. "What the hell happened
here?"
"Long story," Alex breathed into his skin, finally deigning to
answer him. "All I can say is, you're beholding the marvel of the future
of science; it's amazing what doctors and scientists will learn from starfish
and oiliens some day."
"Huh?" Mulder said again, baffled, but Alex just chuckled and
continued his perusal of Mulder's body.
"Never mind," Alex repeated, and then he began to once again pull
from Mulder's body strings of desire and heat, until they were both writhing on
the ground, twisting around one another like snakes, kissing madly. It was
incredible, Mulder was flying through the sky, sailing blissfully, then he was
drifting through the deeps of the ocean, lost in sensation, dipping and
wheeling through the purest blue, whether water or sky, he couldn't tell
anymore. The web of blood that usually held him in disintegrated, and he was
free to navigate through pure rapture, roll in it, sink into it, rise up toward
it. He and Alex soared together, and then they were engulfed by the sun,
disappeared into it, and then Mulder found himself drifting gently back to
earth, and finally came to back in the playground.
He held Alex and kissed him, softly, on the mouth, the cheek, his eyelids,
his temple. "I'm never going to forget this," he whispered, eyes
closed, breathing in his lover's smell. "Never, for as long as I
live."
Alex gave a weary, sad chuckle. "Yes you are," he said quietly.
"You won't remember this, any of this, which is why it's safe. Nothing
changes that I can remember. Nothing's changed."
"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked, looking at Alex,
frowning. The woods nearby whispered in the dark, tree branches bowing and
rushing in the evening wind. "Who are you? Why... why me? Why did you
come... come to me... and... and start this? How did you get all those scars? Where
did you come from? How do you know me? And why don't I know you? And why am I
feeling this... this... this incredible euphoria?"
Alex kissed Mulder, soft and slow. "I'm no-one, Mulder. Just a
traveler, passing through." He grinned suddenly, as if taken by a very
subtle joke. Mulder didn't get it. "There's nothing you need to know about
me. Nothing that matters, or makes any difference. Just enjoy this, while it
lasts."
"But," Mulder began, almost feeling panic, but the happy, sleepy,
serene feeling swelling his body, those glittering psychic butterflies, still
held him, kept him from caring too much. It was as if there was some sort of
spell on him.
"Please," Alex begged quietly, in a low voice, serious and sad.
Mulder looked at him, and saw the bewildering, heartbreaking expression in his
dark, sweet eyes, in his perfectly made mouth, in his tense jaw line. A sort of
solemn rapture, a sad joy. As if he saw his greatest achievement and his
greatest failure in the same moment. "Please, no questions. I don't have
much time." He laughed, rough and smooth. "God, that's hilarious.
You'd think I'd have nothing but time. All the time in the world. How ironical.
But I don't."
"What do you mean, you don't have much time?" Mulder demanded,
frowning again, in apprehension. "Where are you going? Why do you have to
leave? What's all this 'remembering' business?"
"Oh, God," Alex cried softly, gripping Mulder tightly, burying his
head against his neck. "Please, please. I can feel it coming. The change.
What an imperfect machine, what a messed up technology. If I could, if I could,
I would stay here with you forever, never leave, but I can't. I'm the traveler.
It takes me, whether I want to go or not. And then you'll be gone again, and I
won't have anything left. Nothing. Please," he said, his voice thick with
tears. Mulder felt his throat go strange, felt his stomach tie itself into a
painful knot. "Please, I can feel it coming. There's no time left. Don't
say anything. Don't ask any questions. You won't remember this, I know you
don't remember any of this, but please. Please."
"Ok," Mulder said, and felt his lover's entire body clench with
some sort of agony, some wild emotion, and he tightened his own arms around him
protectively, grinding his jaw. "It's ok, it's ok, Alex, I won't ask any
questions. Not one. Shhh, it's ok, lover, I love you, just lie here with me,
it'll all be ok."
"I love you," Alex whispered against his throat, and Mulder felt
his whole body lose about a thousand pounds of hurt and pressure, suddenly
lighten unbearably with joy. "Always." Mulder grinned blindingly, his
smile so bright it ought to have lit up the entire neighborhood. He'd never
been so happy in his life. "You're so beautiful," Alex continued,
rubbing his cheek against Mulder's jaw, tracing a loving hand along his side.
Mulder blushed to the roots of his hair. Beautiful. Oh, Lordy. No-one had
ever, ever, ever called him beautiful before. He knew he wasn't, too. He was
too gangly and lanky, and he'd never grown into his nose, and his lip was
bottom heavy, ridiculously full, as if perpetually beestung. His eyes were a
muddy hazel, constantly changing color. Beautiful. He could feel himself
flushing with embarrassment.
"You are," Alex persisted, as if reading his mind, snuggling
against him. "So lovely. Incredible, how gorgeous you are. I could look at
you forever. Beautiful."
"No, I'm not," Mulder dissented uncomfortably, but then Alex was
kissing him again, wild and sweet, blackberries in July, raspberries, cool
stream water, soft as snowflakes. He was lost in a wilderness, a wonderful
unknown landscape, one he would love to lose himself in forever, locked into
that kiss. It deepened, and Mulder moaned.
"Don't ever be afraid, Mulder, Fox, don't ever be afraid, or sad,"
Alex was babbling into his ear, licking the whorls of it, trailing back down to
his lips. "I know it hurts right now, these cases, I know they're using
you for your profiling, sucking you dry, using you up, I know it hurts, but
soon you'll be somewhere else, and your whole life will bloom for you, and
you'll have Scully, God how you love Scully, and Skinner, and you'll be home,
so good, all for you, you change it all, you change everything, and you'll be
so happy for a long time, with Scully, so happy, despite it all, despite the
pain and the torture and the dead ends and the betrayal, and remember,
remember, I love you, and all of this will soon be gone, and you'll have the
X-Files..."
"Please, don't leave me," Mulder whimpered, clutching him tight,
fear spiraling through his belly. "Don't go away. Why do I feel this way?
What is it about you that makes me feel this way? Why won't I remember any of
this? Why do you keep saying that? Why wouldn't I remember?"
"Remember that I love you," Alex was whispering into his mouth,
holding him, not listening to him. "It's coming, it's here. The change.
Remember, I know you won't, but remember, I love you. Always. What a bitch, I
think we're soulmates, and this is how it turns out. What a fucking
bitch."
"Please don't leave," Mulder said again, eyes locked with his
lover's, feeling it, an odd thing, he didn't know what it was, but it was
there, the psychic butterflies scattering away, something coming over them, a
strange humming, a shimmering in the air, of their very molecules. "It's
so lonely, here, and dark. The walls are bloody and the children have no eyes
anymore. The killer cut them out. Blood everywhere, and I don't even know the
real color of it."
"It's here," Alex breathed, and gazed at Mulder, the look on his
face, in his eyes so strong, so fathomless with some emotion that Mulder felt
himself falling into it, it was tearing his breath away, seizing his heart, joy
and pain and love and eternity, all right there. "It's here. I love you.
Never will I leave you, not really. I'm there, inside you. Right there. Always
and forever. Love you, so beautiful, love you. Never forget that, even when my
image is gone, I love you."
"Not fair," Mulder said. "We never even got to fuck."
Alex tried to laugh. The air was humming with energy, sending tendrils of
charged lightning down Mulder's spine. He was tingling all over. What the hell
was this? Did he really believe that this was really happening? That what he
suspected was happening was really happening?
"I love you," Alex whispered tenderly, stroking Mulder's cheek,
his eyes fathomless with love, and then he was gone.
Mulder sat up, staring sightlessly into the night for a moment. The moon
peeked out from behind a veil of clouds, then hid again, coyly. The black
Missouri woods rustled and shook, sending shadows flying. The playground was
empty and silent.
What the hell...? Mulder shook his head, as if to rattle some sense into it.
What was he doing here on the ground? He brushed woodchips and sand off of his
sleeves. His legs felt like jelly, for some odd reason. Had he lost time? He
couldn't remember. One moment he was sitting on the swings, trying to forget
his latest case, and the next he was lying on the ground, with a foreign
leather jacket pillowed under his head. Had he lost time? Jesus. This
had never happened before. Mulder slowly stood up, brushing more woodchips and
sand from his suit, running a hand through his hair. Had he been abducted by
aliens?
Mulder shook his head again, stretched out his neck, unkinking it. Damn.
He'd missed his sunset. Shit. Oh, well. Time to get a move on. He'd finished up
his last victims' house, had gathered as many facts, as many clues as he could.
Time to start the profile. Mulder thought of bloody rooms and slashed pictures
hanging from walls. He thought of severed heads and hands. He thought of a
lone, thin man with blank eyes and a silver knife, who hated suburbia, who
crouched in corners and breathed insanity. There was a serial killer to catch.
Mulder could feel himself slipping into that unknown man's head, could feel
himself begin to walk the killer's corridors, traverse his landscapes. It
wouldn't take long, he could feel it. Lamana would be pleased. Subram would be
grateful, would smile and lower her eyes. It was her town, after all. Yeah, it
was going to be a snap. He could feel it already. It was why he was the FBI's
golden boy, after all. Their little pet genius.
Time to get going.
Mulder bent and picked up the incongruous leather jacket, somehow unable to
leave it there, something about it, the way it felt, the way it smelled, and
walked away.
The
Traveler
by Raietta
Manchester, Missouri
June 17, 1989
