For years, I had blamed myself for her abduction, and when I took the guilt for
that it was easy to believe that her disappearance and my inadequacy had
resulted in my parent's separation and later divorce. It wasn't until I left to
find myself that I remembered. My mother and I had driven to spend the weekend
with my aunt. Halfway there, my mother called to let her sister know that we
were going to be late. One of my cousins had come down with the chicken pox. I
had never had them and my mother didn't think this was the time for me to change
that. It was the last weekend of summer before school started.
When we arrived home, I remember running in front of mother to use the bathroom.
I ran in the door and stopped dead in my tracks. I heard sobbing, a hopeless
sound, and then a sharp crack of flesh against flesh from my parent's room. For
some reason, I believed Samantha had been found and flung open the door. Inside
I saw my father shaking a disheveled little boy. As he looked up at me, the boy
jetted out of his grip and thudded into me; his grimy self, hitting my middle
with such force that my bladder nearly exploded right there. The kid clung to
me, babbling in a language I didn't understand.
Mother followed behind and she screamed, "Bill, I told you never to bring your
work home. How could you?"
The boy was forgotten as my mother slammed the door behind her. I was left with
a little kid with big tears streaming down his face. I had to go to the bathroom
so I dislodged him and firmly shut the door in his face. When I came out, he was
curled in a ball under the dining room table. When I tried to coax him out, I
realized he smelled as badly as he did because he had wet his pants. My parents
were still yelling at each other so I did what I'd always done with Samantha. I
took care of him.
Funny to think of me as a good, older brother, but I was. I teased her. I played
jokes on her, but I loved her. I loved her more than I loved anyone at that
point in my life. It never seemed as if either mom or dad had the time for
either of us. Mom had her social life and dad had his work, important government
work. Samantha and I mostly had each other.
The boy didn't speak English, but I pointed at myself and said, "Fox."
A spout of the gibberish greeted me in return. I patiently tried it again,
"Fox", I repeated.
Finally, he understood and pointed at himself. "Sasha," he said.
The kid was cute, little snub nose, big green eyes, long eyelashes, clumped
together by tears, and a mouth like that of a china doll. He was a little
younger than Samantha had been, but not young enough to excuse his accident. I
supposed he was scared. I saw that one side of his face wore dark bruises and I
knew that they were too old to be from the slap I had heard. I had never met an
abused child. Ignoring the memory of the sound and sight of my father shaking
this boy, I tried to believe that my father had rescued the kid.
Grabbing his hand, I led him into the bathroom and undressed him. He surprised
me by cooperating. I turned on the shower for him and went to find something for
him to wear. Mom gave all my outgrown clothes to charity, but I knew that she
hadn't done anything with Samantha's. Tears stung my eyes as I found a sweat
suit that didn't look too girly. It was blue and plain. I think she used it for
a warm-up for the ballet class mom made her take, although she hated ballet. She
never liked all the frilly clothes Mom bought her either.
Sasha was out of the shower when I came back with the clothing. He was shaking
as I handed him a big towel. All the time I was wondering who he was. I had the
idea that he was someone else's Samantha and I didn't at all like thinking that
my dad might do something like that.
I could hear from the yelling that I was right. My Dad shouted, "Do you want
them to take Fox too? Well, do you?"
A sick feeling made my stomach feel like lead, but I tried to hide it for the
kid's sake. I quickly made him a sandwich while I decided what to do. I handed
it to him and then I knew what to do. I was going to take him to the police
station.
We were half a mile down the road when my parents caught up with us. My mother's
face looked grey. Her eyes were as wild as they had been when she came home the
night Samantha disappeared.
"This never happened, Fox," she said in a thin and high voice. "You didn't see
the boy. You didn't see anything. We didn't see a thing."
"No, Mom, it isn't right," I said, my arm protectively around Sasha.
Dad looked dead. His face was so expressionless that he scared me as badly as he
frightened the poor boy I was trying to help. He said, "Get in the car, Fox,
I'll explain everything."
Dad didn't though. He locked me in my room with Sasha, who was terrified and
kept trying to tell me something. I couldn't understand him, but I tried to let
him know that I wanted to help him. Maybe somewhere, someone else was taking
care of Samantha for me.
I thought about breaking my windows, but I knew the trouble I would be in if I
did that and I was still kid enough to believe that it would be all right. I
hugged Sasha and rocked him to sleep...
"Hush, little squirrel, hush," I said. It was my pet name for Samantha. She
pretended to hate it, but I know she really didn't. When she had nightmares, I'd
hug her like that and call her my little squirrel and she would call me moose.
Sasha fell sleep in my arms and slept cuddled up to me like a puppy.
In the morning, there were strange men in the living room. They wore gray suits,
black sunglasses, and wooden expressions. Mr. Spender was there too. He was a
close friend of my parents, but I never liked him. I hated the way he acted
toward my father, the mocking way he would put him down with a tone of voice or
a casual order to do something. Worse yet, I hated with a passion the
proprietary way he had toward my mother. I didn't want to believe she returned
his affections, but it worried me that she said nothing, didn't reprove him.
The men took Sasha out of the house. I tried to help him fight them, but Dad
held onto me as I screamed and kicked. I swore at him too. For that moment, I
hated him as completely as a child can hate. It wasn't just Sasha, whom I hardly
knew. It was the knowledge that it was dad's fault that my sister had been
taken. It was suspecting there were monsters in the world that resided within us
instead of under the bed.
I believe what happened next was that I was hypnotized, made to forget
everything. All I recalled for years afterwards was my father loading his
belongings in the car and the look on his face as he saw me watching from the
window. I remember him turning beet red with rage and he slammed the gate on his
way out. It rattled as if it might break. The tires squealed as he spun going
around the corner. I thought he was furious with me because of Samantha, but
now, I suppose it was fury at being found out.
Here I am.
Damn clever of me.
Clever to remember. Clever to wonder.
I can see the expression on your face as I stand here laughing with the man who
redefined your body. Redefined your soul. The man who took you from your family
as a hostage or a pawn. I wonder if they experimented on you too. I'll have to
ask you later.
What were you thinking to walk away without being sure? You should have driven a
stake right through that black hole of a heart and incinerated the ashes.
It took me a while to figure it out...to sort through the layers of scars I
called memories. It all came back to me. Everything they took from me except
you.
You must have thought me callous when I didn't recall your name, but I remember
it now. Smiling, I turned to Spender and said, "Even trade, Mr. Spender. Even
trade. I'll walk away and leave Scully and her child in exchange for what's left
of Krycek."
I laughed again at his expression and said, "Revenge is like a powerful drug,
sir. You gave a taste to Skinner, but I didn't get my shot. He lost an arm the
last time he went on a trip with me. Let's see what I can do about the other
important body parts this time."
"Mulder, you expect me to believe that of you? Mulder, the shining white
knight?" Spender asked. He looked better than he had the last time I saw
him...not bad at all for a dead man or a man that Krycek told Skinner he had
killed.
"That was before he sold me to the aliens," I said. "Do you have any idea what
that was like?"
Perhaps he did, but I'm sure it was second hand. He shakily lit a cigarette,
nodded, and said, "If that's all you want, take him. Just don't leave the body
where it would cause problems for me."
Nodding, I walked over and looked down at the thin, wretched creature lying on
that cement floor. His one hand was chained to the wall. I saw his eyes meet
mine and he said, "Mulder..."
"Shut up," I said. Then low, too low for Spender to hear, I whispered,
"Sasha..."
I was close enough to notice that Alex smelled fouler than he did the first time
I met him. He was going to need a bath and some medical attention, but I could
see to that later.
"I'll disappear, Mr. Spender. No one will be looking for me this time. I've said
my good-byes. My career is washed up. I won't be missed," I said. I'm sure my
eyes looked dead enough to persuade him, but it was not for the reason he
thought. When I remembered why Alex always seemed familiar, I realized that my
father had not died the day he was shot. Spender had been killing him by inches
since before I was born. Maybe the last day he was really alive was the day
Samantha had been abducted.
It took me weeks to process my feelings. I went from rage to regret to
acceptance. I remembered the visions I had when I nearly died after Scully shot
me. I want to believe that he really appeared to me. That the words of comfort
meant that he had found peace, but I also realized I had to forgive Alex. If I
was to continue to hold my grudge against him then how could I accept what my
father had done to Alex?
Once Spender had given me the key, I unlocked Alex's hand, wincing at the gouges
that I saw on the wrist. Roughly, I jerked him to his feet. As we passed
Spender, he grabbed Alex's hair and said, "You were never worth the trouble I
took to train you. You always had a weakness despite the efforts I spent on
trying to beat it out of you. Oh, you showed promise when you finally had the
balls to try to kill me, but you couldn't even do that correctly. You're a
fuck-up, Alex. A fool. "
Spender spat in Alex's face; despite his weakness, Alex lunged at him.
"None of that," I reproved. I smiled at Spender again and said, "You win,
Spender. That was what you always wanted to hear. I just have to settle one old
score and I'm ready to move on."
Pulling Alex behind me, like a battered doll, by the empty link of my FBI
handcuffs, I walked down the steps of the cottage. Settling my prize in his
seat, I turned back to look at Spender's lair. Alex coughed and held up his
wrist, "Reminds me of old times," he said. His voice was raspy, worn thin with
screams. He slumped back in the seat and asked, "You gonna kill me now?"
"No," I said. "I'm just finishing something I started to do many years ago. I
promised to help you and now I have."
"You can't really leave Scully to him," Krycek whispered.
Which of us had suffered worse from Spender's actions? Damned if I knew. I held
up the remote when we were the exact distance to be safe yet for the signal to
carry.
"We'll do this together," I said, holding up the remote. His eyes grew wider.
"Mulder? Can I feel your neck?" Alex asked.
"Sure, but I'm the real thing," I replied.
His hand massaged my neck, confirming that the lump was not there. I grinned and
said, "What did you say? Send the devil back to hell? Squirrel, you need
remedial supervision from a former FBI special agent so you learn how to finish
a job once you start it. Let's do it," I said.
There was a moment of cold-blooded clarity. It was murder. I suppose it was my
cherry. Even righteous Dana had lost hers when she killed Donnie Pfaster. I
hovered on the cusp until Alex's hand covered mine. Our eyes locked as we
pressed the button.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a whoosh as the walls blew
inward. I remembered all those lessons on explosives exactly. I believe I
surpassed my usual poor mechanical skills.
Alex stared at me with wide eyes. I smiled at him and said, "Good enough for
you?"
"I can die happy," he said.
"Or live?" I asked.
"What about your father?" Alex asked.
"What happened to your family, Alex? How was my father involved in kidnapping
you?" I asked.
The big, green eyes grew wider and his lips pressed together in that odd prim
way he had when he was holding something back.
Softly, I said, "We'll leave it behind, Sasha. It's all in the past...those
cold-blooded old times."
The dawn was a faint sliver of red on the horizon when I pulled up to a motel.
Alex waited in the car as I checked into the room. He was half-asleep when I
opened the car door. Despite his condition, I kissed his forehead then
delicately tilted up his chin to kiss his tender lips. "I saved you, Sasha."
"In some cultures that means I belong to you," he replied.
Taking his hand, I helped him out of the seat. I said, "Why don't we start a new
custom? Save a life and you belong to each other."
Alex's smile was brighter than dawn.
No more cold.
The Lyrics By Smog
Cold-blooded old times
the type of memories
and though you were
and in this way
Cold-blooded old times
though how can I stand
How can i stand
Those cold-blooded old times
Cold Blooded Old Times
by Ursula
It wasn't Samantha.
that turn your bones
turn your bones to glass
just a little squirrel
you understood every word
they gave you clarity
a cold-blooded clarity
Cold-blooded old times
Cold-blooded old times
and laugh with the man
who redefined your body?
and laugh with the man
who redefined your body?
cold-blooded old times
cold-blooded old times
