Missing and Presumed by Ganymede Yesterday it was my birthday I hung one more year on the line. I should be depressed My life's a mess But I'm havin' a good time —"Have A Good Time" by Paul Simon Chapter One—Have a good time lex sighed. Deeply. Dramatically. A truly impressive sigh. "Will someone please refresh my memory—why on G_d's green earth did I agree to come out with you tonight?" "Because we're bloody irresistible." The first blonde girl's head was bopping in rhythm of the Bob Marley song wailing out of the car speakers, head full of slim braids flying everywhere. "Because you know we always show you a good time." This blonde was driving the car and occasionally tickling the braided one sitting next to her. "Anyways," the young man sitting in the back seat next to Alex, "We're not forcing you. We're just...encouraging! Yeah, that's it! Encouraging!" His lecherous grin targeted at the black haired young man made it abundantly obvious that the general consensus was that he needed to be encouraged to have fun on a much more regular basis. The first sigh was so impressive that Alex decided to try it again, this time with the optional head-shake accessory. "As the sole representative of the non-blonde segment of the population, might I remind all the bottle blondes in the car that I am not interested in those particular recreational activities?" "Re-lax, boyfriend," Blonde #1. "Just because you walk in the front door doesn't mean that everyone will think you're kinky. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you. " "Nope, they won't think you're kinky," continued Blonde #2. "They'll just think you're sleeping with us." "And they KNOW we're kinky!" Blond young man , entirely too enthusiastic for someone trying so hard to be goth, wearing kohl eyeliner and green-tipped hair. "Don't worry, Alex. Your secret is safe with us." Blonde #2. "And exactly what secret would that be?" His heart started to pound at the mention of the word secret. ::Voice calm...they don't know, they can't know, there's no way they could possibly know:: "You, my dear, are not homosexual. You're not bisexual. You're not heterosexual. You're just plain not sexual. Period." The driver turned around in the seat; enough that Alex sitting behind her in the car could see the purple lipstick grin. "Missy, you're just peeved because I wouldn't hop in the sack with you." Hoping his voice didn't betray how relieved he felt. ::It's all right. They don't know. They still like you. Relax. They don't know. Breathe:: "You wouldn't hop in the sack with any of us!" A deeply hurt protest from Mara, pouting, chin quivering in mute outrage at the affront to her irresistibility. "Missy, eyes on the road, not on the delectable morsel in the back seat." "Yeah, right, bitch," Missy mumbled under her breath. "What did you just say?" Mara responded, in her best spinster librarian voice. "Yes, Mistress." "I thought I got to be Mistress tonight!" Oz chimed in from the back seat. "I never get to be Mistress!" "That's because you're a BOY, doofus! Boys get to be master, not mistress. Check the handbook." Mara. "I distinctly remember for your birthday last year, you got to play Mistress with the new whips we got you. So don't you go whining that we never let you top us, Oz. Anyways, you're such an adorable little bottom." Missy sounded positively maternal, an impressive feat for someone wearing purple lipstick and chili pepper earrings that flashed purple and green. "Though you are absolutely painfully cute when you try to top..." "I am NOT asexual! I'm just picky." Alex tried to look offended and failed miserably. " I have very high standards, you know." Missy looked over her shoulder at Alex in the back seat and rolled her eyes at him. "Alex, are you implying that going to bed with two lipstick lesbians and a man who sleeps with anything that moves isn't every young man's idea of a good time?" Mara, the epitome of offended dignity. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but you can't believe everything you read in the porno mags..." "Alex, are you trying to tell me that those letters I read in the Penthouse Forum aren't real?" Missy wailed from the drivers seat. "My faith in the institution of journalism has been shaken to its very core!" "Can it, wench," Mara ordered. "Make me," Missy responded. Mara looked back at Alex and shrugged, an expressive 'what-can-a-girl- do-when-faced-with-such-temptation-but-give-in' shrug. In one fluid motion, Mara shed her seatbelt and lunged at the driver, capturing Missy's purple-lipsticked mouth with her own and pulling her into a long kiss. "Cut it out, children! You know the rules—no foreplay when you're behind the wheel! Don't make me climb over this seat and separate you two!" Oz threatened. Mara gave Oz the finger without moving her head away from Missy, but broke off the kiss. Alex looked at the two young women in the front seat and shook his head. "How on earth did I manage to get talked into going to a leather bar with the likes of you three? I must have been very naughty in a past life." "What—did you use up all your naughtiness in your past incarnation and you have none left to use in this one?" Missy didn't even need to turn around—Alex could see the smirk on her face. "Keep up the pseudo-virginal act, handsome, and you might just convince some extraordinarily gullible soul that you are as pure as the driven slush." Oz turned and faced the young man across the back seat. "Is the kink factor really the problem here? Or is it something else?" His tone was gentle, concerned. ::Gods, these people care. They really care. I don't want to be this distant, but I can't seem to bridge the gap. I'm sorry:: Alex turned and rested his forehead against the window. "I don't...I don't deal well with crowds anymore. I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. I feel too—too—" "Exposed?" Oz offered with a smile. Alex nodded, not looking at Oz. He always felt too exposed under Oz's gaze, as if somehow the spiky-haired blonde could see through his protective coloration, right into the last of his hiding places, carved out of the rocks that he built up inside his heart. Oz reached over and ran his fingers through Alex's close-cropped black hair, carding the long bangs. "It's not tattooed on your forehead, Alex. No one will be able to look at you and tell what happened to you." ::But they can, Oz. They can smell it on me. That's why he targeted us:: "Alex, sweetie, no one will force you into anything you don't want. You can play pool all night, hang out at the bar, watch the transvestites get shit-faced—which can be quite entertaining, I've been told. You don't have to go upstairs to the other areas at all if you don't want to." Missy's gentle voice drifted into the serious stillness of the back seat. I'm not going to force you to do anything you're not ready for. I'm not into rape, Kitten. I like my partners willing Alex grit his teeth and dug his fingernails into his palms, relishing the little spike of pain, distracting his brain from throwing more of Luis's words at him. For a moment, he could still feel the restraints on his wrists, see the white walls, white sheets, white ceiling. stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it "Are you all right?" Oz was still running his fingers through Alex's hair, looking at him with concern written all over his too-pretty-to- be-called-handsome black-lipsticked face. Alex nodded, eyes down. "Sometimes it just comes back all of a sudden. It's really hard to push it aside." "Ladies and gentlemen, and I use the terms loosely, we have arrived." Missy pulled the car into a crowded parking lot. The bar was unobtrusive, tucked between two strip malls. There was nothing on the outside to indicate what the establishment was. Not even the word "BAR". Just the numbers 511 on the marquis. Missy found a parking spot within shouting distance of the bar, and everyone piled out of the car. As everyone disembarked out of the car, Alex hung back and watched his traveling companions. Mara and Missy—Marissa and Melissa—looked enough alike to be sisters. Long blonde hair, tall, willowy, they always attracted attention wherever they went. Both had broken quite a few hearts, men and women, when they had became a couple. Tonight they were both dressed casually in blue jeans and matching tight red "All This and Brains Too" t-shirts under puffy ski jackets. Oz was blonde, like his two partners. Which was where the similarity ended. He was tall, thin to the point of gangly, all angles and sharp points. Tonight, he was in his babygoth best—black mesh t-shirt, black jeans, black boots. Black leather trench coat. Four or five necklaces tangled around the collar of his shirt, and multiple licorice bracelets decorated his wrists. Black kohl around his eyes and black lipstick completed the ensemble. Those black-rimmed eyes were focused on Alex right now, the unspoken question hanging between them. Alex smiled, pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself to ward off the cold March air, and followed his friends into the brightly lit bar. Whatever he had expected when they had informed him that their evening's destination was a leather bar, this place was not it. The building was obviously a converted warehouse. The room was divided into five sections. Each of the corners of the huge room had a theme—pool tables in one, dance floor in another, TV screens in a third, and bookshelves and comfortable tables lined the walls of the fourth. In the center was a huge circular bar. Along each wall were fire-engine-red doors with a stark white UPSTAIRS spray-painted across them. The place was a comfortably crowded mix of men and women, kink and normal. There were a few people wearing dog collars and leather, a few others in rubber and spandex, but most wore street clothes. He saw a few grinning people disappear behind red doors, and one or two sweaty, disheveled, happy individuals emerge from behind the door to return to places at the bar. The music was loud, the big-screen TVs were showing a basketball game, and conversation buzzed everywhere. The joint was jumping. Alex let his friends herd him over to the pool corner. Miraculously, a table freed up shortly after they arrived, and he arranged himself in one of his favorite positions—fondling a cue stick, waiting his turn to shoot. He loved pool, loved the memories of long afternoons with his adopted father in the basement over a rickety pool table, the green felt dinged and faded into near invisibility. George Cryder had taken an immense amount of paternal pride in his adopted son's developing pool ability. He had bragged to his friends about "my son, the Pool Shark." Never before in his short life could he remember one of his birth parents bragging about anything he did. Never before had a parent been proud of him. The memory made him glow, and he ignored the prickling of tears behind his eyes. He was bent over the table, focusing on lining up a truly spectacular shot, when he smelled a familiar cologne, heard familiar footsteps approaching. He was concentrating on the beautiful geometry of the arrangement of the balls when he felt an arm drape itself comfortably across his waist. Once he completed the shot, to the scattered oohs and aahs of the assembled bar-goers, he looked up and saw the arm was attached to a grinning Mara. Her eyes were a little too bright, her grin a little too wide, and when she spoke, Alex could clearly smell the whisky on her breath. "Having fun?" Alex's grin matched hers. "Give me a pool table, and I'm a happy man." "You're also a popular man. The bartenders have already fielded a couple of inquiries about you." He was in too good a mood to let paranoia ruin it. "What kind of inquiries?" "The usual." She waved her hand vaguely. "Who are you, are you involved with the three of us, what do you like. That type of stuff." "And what, pray tell, did you respond to that last query?" "What do you like? Don't worry, Alex. We didn't tell anyone about your affinity for young, well-hung, bisexual farm animals." He snorted. "I simply told them that this was your first time here and you just wanted to hang and play pool without being hit upon." "I'm curious—what did most of the interested parties think my kink was?" "Oh, the bartenders had you pegged as a baby Dom the minute you walked in the door. You are also the recipient of your official nickname, courtesy of the bartending staff of this august establishment." "And that would be?" She leaned in closer, her lips just a few inches from his. He was getting a contact buzz from the alcohol fumes "What's up... Doc?" Alex looked down at his well-worn Doc Martens—an integral part of his daily uniform— and started to laugh. Mara joined in. The evening was turning out better than he could have hoped. Chapter Two—Death Bell It seems that I thrive in the dark side of things I always feel alive when the death bell rings Now you've come and you bring out the tears in me —"Wishing it Was" by Santana Alex knew something was up the moment he arrived at the house shared by the gruesome threesome. Everyone was smiling. Not their normal "It's good to see you again" smile. Not their almost as normal "Let's shock Alex" grin. It was also not their unusual-but-not-entirely-surprising "Let's try to get Alex in bed" evil leer. This was a secret smile, an "I know something you don't know" smile. Which is how, a few minutes later, he found himself being led into the kitchen. Missy's hands were over his eyes, and Oz's fingers entwined with Alex's own, walking him blindly but carefully down the hallway. "I won't like this, will I?' Trying to keep the note of concern out of his voice and failing miserably. "You will like it. We will insist that you like it. We had entirely too much fun picking it out for you not to like it," informed the voice attached to the hands covering her eyes. "It's time for something different. A change will do you good," came the bass male voice in front of Alex. "Are you ready for your surprise?" A third voice. Mara. Missy released his head, and Alex found himself looking at the kitchen table covered in clothing. Clothing they had bought for him. There were black jeans, black slacks, black T-shirts and black button shirts. There were jewel tones, deep purples, forest greens, reds and chocolate browns. There were silks, linens, cottons, and shiny polyester. There were belts, there were vests, and there were sexy boxers and other unmentionables. There were even two new pair of black boots—one plain leather and another suede boots no cowboy would be caught dead wearing. He stared at the clothing, then back at the three of them, a shocked expression in his eyes. "He looks like the cat did when we hit him on the head with the hammer." "You stunned him—just as he was waking up!" "Hello, Earth to Alex. Are you in there?" "You didn't have to do this." His voice was huskier than usual. He looked away suddenly, not wanting them to see the tears in his eyes. Too vulnerable, this was too exposed. He had an almost irresistible urge to run from the room. He looked at the pile of clothing on the table, the smear of primary and secondary colors. He looked back at the two blonde women, happily chattering between themselves about markdowns, and sales, and how hard it is to find a decent leather handbag. He looked at the blonde man who was watching him right back, his face calm, waiting. He idly wondered if he was as transparent as he felt, if he was leaking half as badly as he thought he was. You're naked behind those green eyes, you are. Nothing shows in your face, but everything shows in the green. You can't hide your thoughts from me, Kitten. I don't even know why you try He forced himself to look away, close his eyes. He stood in the kitchen for a long moment, feeling the wetness slide down his cheeks, hands clenched into fists, waiting. Waiting to wake up back in that hated bed, in that hated house, on that hated island. Luis would never let him escape. He would die there. "Just breathe." It took Alex a moment to realize that the voice wasn't inside his own head. Warm fingers wiped the tear tracks off his cheeks. He opened his green eyes, and stared into Oz's calm hazel ones. Then he was surrounded by the smell of patchouli and Oz's arms. He returned the hug fiercely, feeling protected in the circle of his grasp. He noticed the others stopped talking, and were most likely staring—he didn't care. He wiped his damp cheeks on the taller man's shoulder, smelling incense and mousse. This was good. This was safe. He could deal with this kind of physical contact. This didn't bring back bad memories "Hey, Mar—it's two of the seven dwarfs—Mopey and Dopey!" Oz didn't move, didn't release Alex from the safe haven of his arms. "That must make you Sleazy and Easy Dwarfs." Oz retorted with the loving insults of a long friendship. "I don't remember those two from my Snow White tape," Alex responded, still resting his head on the other man's shoulder. "Director's cut. X-rated." Alex started to laugh, then kissed Oz on the cheek. "You are completely insane." "And it took you three months to figure this out? We always thought you were quicker on the uptake than that." Missy chimed in. "C'mon, you two," Mara said, slowly pulling the blonde off the black-haired man. "My payment for buying all these clothes is that I want to play dress-up. You," swatting Alex on the ass, "grab some clothes and hit the bathroom. We're not leaving until you try every article on." "So," Oz said, grinning. "How does it feel to be a life-size Ken doll? An anatomically correct Ken doll, I might add..." "Can I ask you a question, Alex?" "Sure. But first, does this make me look too much like Spike?" Mara looked at Alex. In this incarnation, he was wearing a pair of tight black jeans, black T-shirt and red silk shirt. His ever-present Doc Martens. Mara had to admit that he looked good in her new clothes. Delectable, yes. Good enough to eat, yes. Vampiric? Not really. Too alive. "Too much like Spike? Nyaah. Too much spark in your eyes, not pale enough. Anyway, you don't have that stupid bleached blonde thing going." "That's strangely reassuring. Off I go for wardrobe change #6. Back in a moment to continue the fashion show." "Alex?" "Yes, Ma'am?" "What's with the necklace?" Alex froze in midstep down the hallway. He stayed there for a long moment, then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and turned around to face Mara. His face was a blank slate. Mara knew—from harsh experience—that the shuttered look meant the question had bothered Alex a lot. "I... I'm sorry. You don't have to answer. I shouldn't have said anything." She took a step closer to Alex, trying to offer comfort to the beautiful, hurting man-child standing in front of her. Alex stopped her with a shake of his head. "I'm all right." Every muscle stiff, posture screaming 'Don't TOUCH Me!' "You never... you never take it off. I wondered if it had some sentimental value to you." He grimaced. "Sentimental value—no." He leaned hard against the wall, resting his head on the doorjamb, his eyes drilling holes in the carpet. Refusing to look at Mara. "I can't take it off." His voice low, barely audible. "What do you mean, can't?" "It doesn't come off. They're made of white gold over some sort of high-tech alloy. It's fucking impermeable to everything we've used. Tomas and I—we've tried everything short of industrial lasers and acid to break them. Nothing works." His eyes were so green they looked black in the dim hall light. Mara didn't say anything—she just stood back and watched the younger man for a while. He looked... smaller, somehow. Vulnerable. Surrounded by a palpable aura of pain and rage. Mara wanted to take him in her arms and soothe away the terrified look in his eyes, and protect him from whatever or whomever had done this to him. Alex swallowed hard and continued talking. "That's why I don't...can't wear some of those shirts you bought for me. It would be too obvious. I don't want anyone to see it and...and..." "Jump to the wrong conclusion?" He smiled, a death's head grin that didn't make it to his eyes. "You're in the scene. You know what this is. It's a fucking choke chain!" Get this bloody thing off me, Luis! Eventually you'll realize that you're not in any position to be making demands, Kitten. The necklace stays on stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it "Can I touch it?" Alex swallowed hard, nodded. Mara took two steps towards him and slowly brought her hand up to trace the necklace with her index finger. The links of the chain were thick and solid, and as big around as the first joint of her thumb. The free end stopped in a ring about an inch below his collarbone. The ring appeared to be at least a centimeter larger than the ring on the other end of the necklace. She kept tracing the necklace with her fingers, running them over the rough red scars on the younger man's neck, hidden by the necklace. "Is that how you got those scars?" He nodded, his face half in shadow, expressionless. "I nearly broke my neck trying to get the damn thing off. Having it on me—a fancy dog collar—made me crazy. Well, crazier than being in captivity did. It got really ugly when I told Luis that the necklace would make it even more convenient for me to kill myself." Another mirthless smile. "After all, I already had the noose." ::Why am I still alive?:: Long pause. "He didn't react to that well." "What did he do?" Trying to control a cold shiver. He looked at the woman standing in front of him, eyes searching hers for some trace of pity, a sign of disgust. "He chained me to the bed and kept me sedated for three days." The blonde's fingers tightened on the necklace unconsciously. Alex's hand came up and gently removed the woman's hand from so close to his neck. "Alex?" "Yes?" "Are you all right?" Low chuckle. "I wasn't all right to start with, but I'll survive. It takes something nastier than him to keep me down for long." Mara let out a long breath she wasn't aware she had been holding, and patted him on the ass. "Don't you have more clothing to try on, Spike?" Trying a little too hard to be light and joking. Hoping she hadn't ruined Alex's evening. Alex drove into the parking lot of 511 right behind his friends' Jeep. He had decided to take his motorcycle instead of riding with the three blondes out of sheer cussedness. That and the weather was beautiful. It was late May, and the air was crisp and just a bit cool. The sun had just started to set at 7:30, and the air smelled like spring, like blossoms and like life starting anew. Alex was wearing one of his new outfits—black jeans, black velvet T- shirt, black leather cowboy boots. Definitely tighter and flashier than his usual uniform of jeans faded nearly to threads, t-shirt from a long-defunct band and the ever-present Docs. He wasn't sure how comfortable he was in his new threads—the wolf whistles he had gotten from the gruesome threesome when he emerged from the bathroom in his current outfit had both flattered and frightened him. He hopped off the Kawasaki Vulcan, patting it with his free hand. The bike was a beauty, black, sleek, compact, with the red-stenciled KITTEN painted over. Alex could still see the word every time he looked at the bike. It was a touring bike, not a racing one—as much as he loved the looks of the Japanese rice rockets, driving one from Chicago to Washington D.C. even once would have made him a chiropractor's favorite patient for years. He now made the trip twice a month. There were two new clients in the D.C./Virginia/Maryland area that had very demanding tastes, and deep pockets. He couldn't ignore where the bike came from, but he tried not to think about its dubious origins too often. It had appeared Valentine's Day morning, along with a black Range Rover, in the driveway of the house he shared with Tomas and Dio. The Range Rover had PET stenciled on the driver's side door, matching the KITTEN on the bike. All three of them knew where the new vehicles had come from. This was Luis' idea of a Valentine's Day gift to his favorite captives—$60,000 worth of polished steel and engine. Riding the bike felt like heaven. It was freedom. Wind buffeting past him, nothing between him and the road and the sky. Riding, especially long distances, always sent him into a Zen trance, a calm state he couldn't mimic anywhere else. It was meditative, watching the road go by, hypnotized by the wind and the leather, insulated by the helmet and exposed to the world. He had never told Luis that he had wanted a motorcycle for as long as he could remember. Maybe Luis was smarter than he had given him credit for. Or maybe it was another of his secrets that had slipped out of his mouth in a drugged haze. He looked up at the marquis, at the 511 in six foot neon, and smiled. Who would have guessed that he would become a regular here? This was his—fifth? sixth?—visit in the two months since his first time here with his overly-enthusiastic blonde friends. No one had approached him, making unwelcome advances. No one had invited him upstairs to the playrooms, with the exception of the three blonde lunatics he hung out with. The bartenders knew him as Doc and deflected any inquiries about him, telling any interested parties that he was just there for the pool and pinball. The biggest danger he had faced was from the other pool sharks swimming in the chum-infested waters of the bar. "Will you please just go upstairs already?" Alex's best exasperated-but-loving-it voice. "Not until I'm sure you're going to be all right. Anyways, it's my bloody party and they won't start until I get there." "Missy, are you ABSOLUTELY sure they won't start partying without you?" the raven-haired young man teased. "Positive. I made sure to restrain them both before I came back down. They're not going anywhere without me." "You're evil, dear. Now GO." Alex punctuated the last remark with a swat to the blonde's backside. "Unh-uh. Not until you reassure me that you will be fine. You were really upset earlier tonight." "I will be fine, Mom. Promise. Anyways, I have Denise to keep me company." "Denise?" "That would be me," a male voice responded from behind her. The voice was attached to a smiling young man wearing a blonde wig, cream-colored angora sweater and black leather miniskirt. Fishnet stockings and high heels completed the bizarre ensemble. He was holding a pool cue and was obviously waiting for Alex to complete his shot. Missy turned back to Alex. "Only you, dear, would be playing pool with Ed Wood." He shrugged. "He's whooped my ass at pool the last three times I've been here. Tonight, his ass is mine." Missy took one long glance in the direction of the leather covered backside in question. "And a very nice ass it is, too." "I resemble that remark!" came from over her shoulder. "Well, have a good time. We'll be back down by 1 AM, 2 at the absolute latest. Don't do anything we wouldn't do." She turned back to Denise. "Make sure he has a good time. Don't let him brood too much. You have my permission to get him drunk, if you want to. Drag him off in a dark corner and screw his brains out if you have to. On second thought, before you get to that stage, send for us. We'll sell tickets." Denise grinned. Alex rolled his eyes, took his friend by the shoulders and gently pushed her towards the nearest upstairs door. For the next few minutes, neither player spoke, concentrating instead on finishing the game. Alex put up quite a valiant struggle, but Denise beat him easily. "Denise, can I ask you a personal question?" Denise arched an eyebrow at him, silently admiring the tight cut of his black jeans. "Sure, Doc, under one condition. I'll answer one of yours, if you answer three of mine." "Jesus, man—that's a worse exchange rate than the ruble! What kind of loan shark are you?" Denise smiled and polished his nails on his fuzzy off-white sweater. "So, do we have a deal or what?" "I know I'm going to regret this, but all right. You drive a hard bargain, Sir...uh, I mean ma'am..." Alex smirked. Denise tried to glare at the younger man and failed miserably. "Your question, young man?" Somehow, Denise managed to remind Alex of a school librarian. "You're pretty big, for a girl." "Your point being?" "I'm several inches shorter than you are, and I can hardly find shoes in my size. Where the hell do you shop that they sell lovely candy-apple-red spiked heels in your size?" Denise laughed. "Online. There are quite a variety of websites dedicated to men who like to dress up as women. Shoes are the least of my difficulties. Have you ever considered the challenge finding a bra that fits properly when you're a 42-A?" Alex looked at the vision in candy apple red spiked heels in front of him, openmouthed. Then he started to titter. His giggles turned to full-fledged laughter, and a moment later he was holding on to the edge of the pool table for support, tears streaming down his face. He tried to stop laughing, but every time he managed to stop, he would look up at Denise and lose his composure again. After about five minutes, he sat on the floor, spent. Denise sat down on the floor next to him, sitting carefully, mindful of not flashing his underwear to the room. "Woo!" Alex wiped the last of the tears off his face. "My sides hurt. Damn, I need a drink." "Well, at least you're not brooding." "True. This is definitely not a brood. You would know if I were brooding." ::Does this mean I don't get to screw your brains out?:: "Alex, what was she talking about? What happened earlier that got you so upset?" As he watched, Alex's face went completely, practiced, blank. No expression whatsoever. A flash of something—pain? hurt?—behind his eyes, and then it was gone. "It's not important." ::Obviously it is, or you wouldn't have shut down like that when I mentioned it:: Instead of responding, Denise stood up in front of Alex, and offered him a hand. Alex looked up at the tall young man in the funny get-up standing in front of him. Underneath the skirt and stockings was a man still shedding his baby fat, but with definite muscles under the fat. Beneath the lipstick and eyeliner was a face saved from the curse of being beautiful by a thick sprinkling of freckles. Big blue eyes, full lips, a beguiling smile, high cheekbones. Under the blonde wig were wisps of copper-colored hair peeking out. Alex idly wondered what he looked like dressed as a man. ::Here's a gorgeous guy, just a few inches away from you. Why don't you feel anything?:: ::Could it be because he's wearing an effing DRESS?:: Alex waggled his eyebrows at Denise. "Hubba-hubba." "Quit looking up my skirt, you pervert," Denise said, smiling, and helped Alex to his feet. "Now about that drink you were needing just a moment ago..." They sat at one of the tables in the book-lined quiet corner of the bar—Alex nursing a Long Island Iced Tea, Denise finishing a beer. "Ready to play twenty questions, Doc?" Denise's tone was light. "As long as you don't mind if I refuse to answer questions four through twenty." "Fair enough." Denise swilled the rest of his beer, and put the mug down on the table. Alex was amused to see the lipstick stains on the glass. "Question number one—why aren't you upstairs playing with your friends?" "Is the question that you really want answered 'Do I play with guys or just girls?'" Denise smiled. "You can answer that question as well, if you like. My original question still stands." Alex took a deep breath. "In answer to my question, yes, I swing both ways, though I don't have as much experience with either as most people think. My reputation has had a much more active sex life than I ever have. In answer to your question..." Long pause and another deep breath. "I haven't been interested in much of anything, or anyone, for a while." Denise waited to see if Alex would explain that last comment. When he didn't, Denise continued. "Question number two —do you have any room on your dance card right now?" "Ah—the question that the entire wait staff wants the answer to. How much did they bribe you to get you to ask? And what did they bribe you with?" Denise hand reached out to rest on the hand of the skittish young man sitting across the table. Blue eyes looked deeply into green. Seriousness. Sincerity. "Nothing you say will leave this table, Alex. I hope you will trust me on that." Alex didn't break his gaze. "I trust you about as far as I trust anyone—which is about as far as I can comfortably spit a dead rat." "I'm not sure if I should be flattered, insulted or disgusted. Back to the question." "I don't know. I'm not sure." A self-depreciating smile, and a shake of the head. "I don't think I'd be a wise choice for a play partner right now. My self-control isn't what it used to be." Alex looked up, and found Denise watching, his expression a mixture of seriousness, concern, and intensity. They both sat silently for a long moment, Denise's hand still resting on Alex's. A moment later, Alex looked up at the young man wearing garish red lipstick and smiled. "Does this mean you don't want question number three?" "Au contraire, little boy. I was just waiting for you to decide if you wanted to shoot me in the gut for my last round of questions before I continued." Alex laughed. "I'll keep my hands in plain sight, Sheriff. I left my gun in the saddlebag of my bike. Now what was your last question?" "This one will be a lot simpler, and less painful than the last two." Alex arched an eyebrow at him, said nothing. "What is with all the tattoos, Boy?" Alex leaned over the table and started ticking the reasons off on his fingers. "A) They look really cool. B) They attract the right kind of person and scare off the wrong kind. And last but not least C) They cover scars very well." "How many do you have?" "This week? Nine, or sixteen depending on your idea of what one tattoo consists of. I am currently contemplating numbers ten and eleven as we speak." Denise's eyes wandered over the skin exposed by Alex's clothing. He saw the tribal swirl on his wrist, the tribal band on his upper arm peeking out from below the sleeve of his shirt, and the kanji on his opposite forearm. That was all. Alex answered the unasked question written across Denise's carefully made up face. "I have a row of tropical-colored iguanas running from left shoulder to right hip on my back, a black and red tribal scorpion on my left thigh, a red-and-green lizard on my ankle, another kanji over my heart, a sunburst on my stomach, and a line dragon under my left arm." "You really have all those tattoos?" "Yes, I really do. Why? Do you want me to take my clothes off so you can see them?" There was no mocking in Alex's voice, no come-on, just a hint of confusion, and more curiosity. "What would you do if I said yes?" "I would ask if you needed someone else's permission before you start asking strange men to undress. Do you?" Denise nodded in the direction of the TV corner, where three large screen televisions were showing auto racing, basketball and boxing simultaneously, though thankfully at low volume. "Do you see the redhead?" Alex scanned the crowd, finally spotting the redhead in question. His back was to Alex, so he couldn't get a good look. He was short, with shoulder-length slicked-back red hair, suspenders, and a collared shirt. Then he turned around.... And Alex realized that the he was actually a she in drag. She was actually quite strikingly pretty. Flame-red hair. Petite. Nice curves, hidden behind a man's suit. She would never be able to pull off being a transvestite—her face was much too classically heart shaped. "I see her. What about her?" Denise grinned. "She's my mistress, as well as being my life partner." "Whose idea was it to cross-dress?" "Hers, actually. Started out as punishment for some stupid-ass stunt I pulled, but we both liked it so much we do it pretty regularly, now that we have somewhere to go dressed like this." "Would she kick your ass if she found out that you were propositioning strange men?" Denise's grin turned feral, almost frightening. "Oh, that wasn't a proposition, pretty boy. That was a straightforward suggestion. Eventually, I'll show you the subtle difference between the two." That wasn't rape, Kitten. That was seduction. Eventually, I'll teach you the difference stop it stop it stop it stop it "You just shut down, Alex. What happened? Was it something I said?" Alex shook his head; trying to shake out the thoughts, shove the voice back into its little locked box in the back of his mind where he tried to keep it contained. Its container was less and less sturdy as the months wore on. Alex realized that he was gritting his teeth again, his fists clenched. "Look, Doc. I'm going to give you a little space here, and go check on my lovely red-haired mistress. I'll be back in a few minutes. If you want to talk about it, we can. You might find that I'm a very good listener. If you don't want to, well, there's always pool and innuendo. Innuendo and out the other, chickadee." Alex looked up at Denise, oddly grateful for his tactical retreat. Alex watched the other man walk gracefully to the other side of the bar in stiletto heels, trying to turn his brain from drive to idle, rubbing his wrists. The scars from the restraints burned, itching more fiercely than they had in months. He looked down at his wrists, trying on different tattoo designs in his head for camouflaging those scars, when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. "That was quick, Oz." Alex didn't look up from his contemplation of future dye jobs on his wrists. "Hello, Alex. It's been quite a while." That was definitely not Oz. Heavily accented male voice. Not even a trace of warmth. He recognized that voice. It had a starring role in his nightmares the past nine months. He looked up, his gut hoping against hope that he was wrong, that it wasn't... it wasn't... ::Oh, fuck:: ::Luis:: ::I'm going to die tonight:: Chapter Three—Better Run With your nerves in tatters As the cockleshell shatters And the hammers batter Down your door You better run. —"Run Like Hell" by Pink Floyd Time stretched and elongated like taffy, like rubber until it thinned and started to rip. The hands of the clock were swimming through molasses, as the end of the world got closer and closer. His own personal Armageddon was at hand, and he wasn't even afraid. That's how he knew he was going to die tonight. He knew that voice, knew every inflection, every nuance. He knew those hands, those footsteps, that breathing. He had studied them in depth during his two months in hell. Studying them—finding out what made the larger man tick—had kept him alive, with all his parts still attached. He had not seen the other man since the night he had escaped from his well-decorated plush prison cell. He heard the voice every night in his dreams, flashbacks to a time soaked in violence and sex and fear and rage. Alex could feel the pulse pounding behind his eyes, a distant drumbeat, whispering to him of jungles and assassins. Stay calm stay calm, it murmured in his ear. He looked up at the man standing directly in front of him, almost close enough to touch. Luis had positioned himself carefully between Alex and the only door leading out of the closed area to the rest of the bar, to freedom, to safety. The only thing standing between Alex and a short bike ride to anywhere but there was six feet three and two hundred and fifty pounds of angry Castillian. Luis had changed very little in the intervening ten months since his captives had escaped. His dark brown hair was longer, pulled back in a ponytail held by a leather strap. His handsome faced was unlined and unmarked by the passage of time. His coffee brown eyes were cold, colder than Alex had ever seen on another human before, glittering like sun-struck ice. Even the Hugo Boss casual clothing he wore that evening was tailored and reeked of money. His jaw was set, and Alex knew exactly what that expression meant. Luis was angry. Very angry. When Luis got angry, Alex bled. "You're coming with me, Kitten. Now." "No." An eyebrow arched, a silent commentary. Defiance? Unheard of. The unspoken condescension infuriated Alex, sending heat-spikes through his blood, melting off the icicles left there by the fear. Tonight wouldn't be a fair fight—it never was when Luis was in the equation—but, by all that was unholy, it would be a glorious one. "What part of NO don't you understand, Luis?" Small smile, matching derision for derision. "Let's try this again, using small words. I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere. With. You." Luis was struggling to keep his temper under control, to keep from lashing out at the smaller man in front of an audience. And an audience they had. Every eye from the surrounding tables was peering at them, waiting to see if the evening's entertainment would include a bar brawl. Apparently Lovers' Spat was on the menu today. ::Will they just watch as he kills me? Or will they set upon us like starving dogs and pick my bones clean?:: "I own you, Kitten." Not so much words as a subdermal snarl, felt rather than heard. "I created you. You will do as I tell you." His declaration was met by a snort of derisive laughter. "Ownership? Creation? The police and the District Attorney's office had other words for it. Words like Kidnapping. And Rape." Alex watched the rage spike behind those cold brown eyes. Those were forbidden words, not even to be thought, definitely never mentioned aloud. Those words had the power to destroy the fragile equilibrium between the three men, between the two terrified men and their captor. Now Alex had shaken up the genie bottle and out they spilled. "You. Are. Coming. With. Me. Right. Now." Hissed out from between gritted teeth. The air was shimmering with rage and fear and pheromones. "Over my dead body." "That can be arranged, Kitten." With one long stride, Luis was just inches away, well within his personal space, hand snake-quick grabbing the loop end of the necklace and yanking—hard. All the air in the room evaporated as Alex's desperate lungs tried to breathe through a windpipe constricted by metal. His brain was screaming, his lungs kept desperately sucking for nonexistent oxygen, and the lights in the room started to dim and flicker. His hands were clawing at his neck, leaving deep grooves in his skin. Luis dragged him up off his shaking legs, suspending him by the neck, his feet a few centimeters off the floor. The roaring in his ears kept getting louder and louder... Until he hit the ground with a thud, shoulder first, face second. Suddenly there was air, delightful syrupy air, flooding his lungs, and the lights in the room were too bright. He was distracted from the pain in his jaw and cheek by the familiar thwack of skin hitting flesh. He looked up to find a pair of candy apple red pumps standing toe-to-toe with Bruno Magli loafers, as Denise threw a punch and hit Luis across the face. Alex took full advantage of the distraction. He rolled himself back onto unsteady feet and moved as quietly as possible towards the door separating that area from the rest of the bar. The commotion had drawn the attention of the wait staff, and several members of the bar security team were rushing toward and past him and into the formerly quiet corner bar-within-a-bar. Alex kept going, walking as fast as he could without breaking into a run, until he heard the bar's outer door slam shut behind him. Then he did run. For his bike. for freedom. After his panicked dash out of the parking lot, it took him more than an hour for his hands to stop trembling on the handlebars, for his heart rate to slow to something slower than imminent coronary speed. He got on the Outer Belt, and kept going the long way around the Capital, stopping only when he got near Falls Church, nearly an hour and a half later. It had been a long drive, with nothing but his fear and tangled thoughts for company, tangible presences riding on his Kawasaki. He could feel his pager vibrating periodically while he drove, but he didn't slow down, didn't check the messages, didn't want to know. He pulled into the empty parking lot of a strip mall, the stores all having closed hours before. For a long moment, he just sat, watching the traffic lights direct nonexistent cars, listening to the hum and crackle of the parking lot lights. The air was thick with the ghosts of the living, the transparent shadows of shoppers and cars and lives come and gone. ::Am I a ghost to them? Is my world as unreal and unreachable to them as theirs is to me?:: He pulled the gun out of the waistband of his pants and laid it on his lap, waiting to see if he had been followed. After fifteen minutes, he finally walked over to the telephone. "Hi, you have reached Alex's voice mail. You know the drill. If you don't leave a message, I will hunt you down and kill you like the dog you are. If you don't leave a message because you don't like talking to machines, get over yourself. Have a very something day." "Sweetheart, it's Missy." Her voice sounded out of breath and slightly panicky. "We got pulled out of the playroom by someone saying you had been attacked at the bar. By the time we made it downstairs, you had raced off on your bike and he had vanished. What happened? Did he hurt you? Where are you? Please call me right away and let me know that you aren't dead. Please." "Doc, it's Denise. Call me whenever you get this message—no matter what hour of the night. I don't want to get the police involved, but that looked an awful lot like an attempted kidnapping from where I was sitting. If I don't hear from you by tomorrow morning, I won't have any choice but to make it a police matter. Please call me right away." "Alex, it's Merlin. I saw what happened at the bar. I urgently need the answers to some questions. Call me right away—it's a matter of life and death." **Ring** **Ring** [[Hello? [[Missy, it's Alex. [[Omigod, Alex! Are you all right? What happened? Did he hurt you? Where are.... [[I'm fine. He didn't hurt me—well, other than a bruised face and shoulder, but that's no big deal. I've just been riding around 495, making sure I hadn't picked up a tail along the way. I'm up near Falls Church now. [[Do you want us to come get you? [[Absolutely not. I'll be moving on as soon as I get off the phone. I won't be heading back to your place tonight. [[Why not? Where will you go? Alex took a deep breath and massaged the bridge of his nose. His head was threatening an imminent migraine implosion. [[Missy, I can't come back to your house because it would put all of you in danger. If he followed me back there, you would all be dead. I know him. I know what he's capable of. [[Was...was that him? Was that the man who... [[Yes. Missy, please don't worry. As long as I keep moving, he can't find me. I will call you at home tomorrow to let you know what happened and arrange to get my stuff. [[Are you sure? [[Dead sure, girl. I'm sorry this had to happen on your birthday. I'll make it up to you the next time I'm in town, OK? [[Alex, please be careful. I'm really worried about you. Mara is a nervous wreck, and Oz is not much better. Alex smiled. People worrying about him—this was a new experience in his life. [[I will be fine. Just slip a Valium into Mara's scotch and take both of them home. I'll call you tomorrow, I promise. [[If you don't, I'll find you and kick your cute little ass." [[Ooh—threat or promise?" [[We love you, kid. We'll be waiting for your call. [[Love you too. **Click** **Ring** **Ring** "You have reached XXX-XXXX. Please leave a message." "Denise, it's Alex. I certainly hope no one else listens to your messages, or you're going to have some 'splainin' to do about why this strange man is calling you Denise." He took a deep breath and continued. "I am fine. There is no need for you to bother the local constabulary on this one, nor do you need to saddle up the horses and play cavalry. Unless, of course, you two have positively darling matching Roy Rogers/Dale Evans outfits you are just dying to try on. So, stop worrying. And thank you for putting your ass on the line for me back there. It meant more to me than you can possibly know." **Ring** **Ring** "What?" His tone was cold, brittle. "Merlin, it's Alex." Just as cold. "I need to see you right away, Alex. Where are you?" "Obviously in the Twilight Zone, from the events of this evening. What do you need that's so god-awfully important?" "I saw what happened in the bar tonight." "Great. Fucking delightful. Did any other friends and acquaintances get a front-row ticket to my public humiliation?" Merlin ignored him. "Alex, this is very important." Voice even colder, if that were possible. "Who is that man, and what is your relationship to him?" "That man, and I use the term loosely, is Luis Christien, and he's a real piece of work. My relationship to him is..." ::Fuck, I don't know. I'm his favorite involuntary whore? His beloved test subject? How the hell am I supposed to answer that one?:: "...victim to attacker." "Where are you, Alex?" "Not nearly far enough away from that bar, or from him, for my comfort level. Bora Bora is sounding more promising by the hour." "Location, Alex, not emotional state." Merlin's tone of voice spoke volumes about his patience level. "Planet Earth. Virginia. A strip mall outside Falls Church. Is that specific enough for you, sir, or do you need longitude and latitude as well?" "How long would it take you to get to Gaithersburg?" Alex ran some numbers in his head, muttered to herself for a moment. "Thirty, maybe forty minutes." "225 Abartino. It's right off the highway. And make it closer to thirty. We don't have a lot of time." **click** Forty-seven minutes later, Alex knocked on the door of 225 Abartino—half a duplex in a lower-middle class section of the decidedly upper-middle class town. No answer. He knocked again, and looked around carefully. No neighbors in evidence, so he checked the doorknob. Surprisingly, it wasn't locked. With one last look around, he let himself in. ::You're slipping, Merlin:: "You're late." "Your instructions suck." Merlin was standing, draped in shadows in the doorway to another dark room, holding a glass of something unidentified but highly alcoholic. The glass was sweating. Alex was sweating, not sure if he was hot or cold, wrapped up in skin that felt way too tight to contain his tired muscles and exhausted thoughts. He looked at Merlin for a long moment, not saying anything. Merlin looked the same way he did the last time he had seen him—menacing. Hazel eyes cold and hard and dangerously devoid of expression, handsome face bisected by a white scar running from cheekbone to jawbone, medium brown hair cut short, expression colder than the glass he was holding. He looked like a killer. Alex suspected he was one. Merlin leaned against the doorframe, studied casual. "What kind of game are you playing with him, boy?" His voice was gravel and razor blades that could kill a man just by listening to it. "It's not a game." ::It's dead serious. Blood serious.:: "What is your relationship with Mr. Christien?" That distant, unconcerned, interrogating voice. That 'Lie-All-You-Want-I-Know-The-Truth' voice. Alex's back was tight and his voice was clipped. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I already answered that question. There. Is. No. Relationship. Got it this time? Or do I need to needlepoint it onto a pillow for you?" "So you're just fucking him?" "I am not fucking him. I am not doing anything with him, except trying to remove myself from any room he is in as quickly as possible." "Funny, that's not what it looked like from this vantage point." "What the hell is your problem today, Merlin? On second thought, don't answer that. I don't give a damn what your problem is. I have spent the last two hours running from someone who wants to carve me up into tiny little Alex-slivers, preferably while I am still breathing. And instead of finding a nice hole to hide out in far away from Luis, such as on the moon, I had to come over here and deal with your insinuations and snide comments. Is that all you wanted to know, Merlin, or did you have more verbal abuse and vitrol to shovel my way?" Merlin ignored Alex's comments. "So are you playing with him for fun or for money?" Something inside of Alex snapped. The red haze swum in front of his eyes, and he took a menacing step towards him. He wanted to hit, wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face with his fists. "Is that what the police told you? Is that what the Assistant District Attorney said? Is that why they refused to press charges? Because we were just playing kinky S&M games on that island?" His tone had gone past angry, and was getting close to hysterical. "Did they call us both whores, or just me? How much money did they say we got for spending two months in hell?" Merlin squinted at the other man, running scenarios through his head. Something wasn't adding up. Two plus two kept returning as five, and occasionally six or seven. There was something else going on here that no one had told him about. "Back up a second, Alex. What is this about the police and you pressing charges? I don't think we're on the same page here." "I know exactly what page I'm on. What chapter are you in?" Trying to get his breathing back under control, get his panic and terror locked back in their box. "All I know is what I saw at the bar—you getting in some sort of altercation with Mr. Christien and then you running out of there. It was obvious from the way you two interacted that you weren't strangers, and the fact that you were in a leather bar at all—well, I put two and two together." The anger was ebbing away, slowly being replaced by exhaustion. Alex rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe away the grit left by long hours of riding and fear. His headache was threatening to detonate into a migraine at any moment, an indulgence he could ill afford right then. "That's not what it is at all." More quietly. "Not at all." "Then tell me what it IS. From the beginning." More orders, but these couched gently. Merlin's voice was soft, and if Alex listened carefully he could hear an apology hiding underneath. "It's a very long story." "I have all night." Chapter Four—Story So Far Trapped in the indecion of another fine menu and you sit there and ask me to tell you the story so far This is the story so far —"Slainte M'hath" by Marillion "Luis Christien wandered into our lives over a year ago—it was April. He was a client, referred by a friend of the original business owner. In my business, with the weirdo and freak level as high as it is, I don't work for anyone who doesn't come referred." "Your business? What the hell do you do for a living, Alex?" "Tomas and I, we're antique weapons dealers. We buy and sell old and rare guns, swords, knives, and assorted other oddments. Tomas inherited the rudiments of the business from his father, and we built it into a successful little cash cow." Alex smiled at the puzzled expression on Merlin's face. "What the hell did you think I did for a living? Turned tricks?" Merlin opened his mouth to respond, to retort, but he caught a glimpse of the angry glitter in Alex's eyes and thought better of the idea. "Back to Luis...." "Luis was definitely a Tomas client, needing a lot of handholding. Tomas is good at that shit, all the talking and softcoating. I'm not. Luis made it abundantly clear the first time we talked to him that he had a taste for the exotic, and was willing to pay whatever it took to get what he wanted. And he always got what he wanted. Direct quote. Thinking back on those words now makes my stomach churn. But I digress..." Alex took a swig of cold water from the glass Merlin had procured for him. Nothing harder than water, on Merlin's orders, even though he was drinking whiskey. No matter how badly Alex needed something at least 150 proof at that moment. No matter how much he deserved a good stiff drink after the evening he had survived. Alex sat on the couch, legs propped on the coffee table, expression unreadable, his face a carefully blank mask. "Luis's passion was for Spanish weapons, any and all we could find, the more obscure and exotic the better. His family was from Seville, and his great-grandfather had fought in the Spanish-American war. The man had an enormous bankroll, and was willing to spend a good bit of it on this particular kink of his. As long as we were able to fill his orders, I didn't much care why he wanted it. Just keep handing us the big checks, and I'll keep searching for your drug of choice. In June, things started getting....weird. Creepy. He wanted to be more involved, make it more hands-on. He wanted to come with us to get the merchandise, see it before we bought it. He wanted to travel with us to gun shows and dark, smoky gun shops in faraway cities. That's not the way I normally do business, but I let Tomas talk me into it. I should have known right then that something was very not right. Fucking hell, I'm supposed to be the brains of this operation! I should have known!" Jaw clenched. Eyes tight. "But no, I went along with the program, like a lamb to slaughter, lured by the big bucks he kept throwing in our direction, distracted by Tomas' promise that when we were done with Mr. Big Spender, I'd be able to afford the bike I had been coveting. He came with us on cross-country junkets three times. The third time, I knew something was wrong. I should have listened to my instincts. I should have refused to play his little game. Maybe if I had...." Alex took another long drink of water and looked out the picture window into the inky blackness. "He was too solicitous, too concerned with our comfort. Normally I go out to gun shows and shopping trips solo. Tomas doesn't like the lack of creature comforts I subscribe to. When I'm on the road, my lifestyle is positively Spartan. I stay at cheap-ass hotels and eat fast food. The money I take with me is for purchases, not my comfort. Anyways, a hotel room is a hotel room. Not this trip. Not for Luis Christien. Nothing is too good for Luis and his favorite playthings." Contempt and self-hatred dripped from his mouth like honey mixed with ipecac. "He gets us a fucking suite at the most expensive hotel in town. Jacuzzi, bar, satellite dish, the whole nine yards. Nice restaurants, first class seats, everything. Lavishing lots of attention, time and money on both Tomas and me. Tomas was eating it up—the boy has an expensive tooth the way some people have a sweet tooth. But it was more than that. Tomas always wanted a wealthy daddy to lavish him with gifts and take him on trips. This must have been a wet dream of his come true. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was infatuated. Who wouldn't be? The man was trying his damnedest to pitch a woo. And he knew just how to pitch one, too. Should have tried out for the majors, that man should. This would have all made perfect sense, except for one thing. Why was I there? Why had Luis invited an audience for his well-choreographed seduction scene? What was he hoping for—pointers? Someone to hold the cue cards? If they wanted to do the nasty, I wouldn't care. Other people's pecadillos hold very little interest for me, even Tomas'. If the purpose of this little shopping trip was to seduce my business partner, why had Luis made such a big deal about me being there? The next night, on the way back from a gun shop in a nasty end of town, we get jumped. Three disreputable looking characters straight out of central casting—that or a cloning vat. Cheap-ass knives, too. No finesse in their attack. I would have given them a 4.2, but Tomas threatened to call me the East German judge. It took the two of us maybe five minutes to injure one and scare the other two into running back into the shadows. It was only several hours later, after the adrenaline high wore off, that something about it started to bother my subconscious. The entire time the so-called mugging was happening, our erstwhile attackers completely ignored Luis. He just stood there, safely out of range, and watched the entire thing like it was happening on television. Didn't lift a finger to help, didn't say a damn thing, just stood there like he was afraid he would break a nail. Afterwards, he checked us both out to make sure we weren't injured, and took us back to the hotel. It was too smooth, too clean, too well-choreographed. The next morning, we flew back to Chicago." Alex ran his fingers through his hair, trying to disguise his trembling hands. His other hand he buried under his leg, wedging it between his thigh and the couch cushion. "I was strangely relieved and grateful to be home. I started having bizarre dreams about Tomas and Luis. Nasty dreams that kept me from sleeping for the rest of the night. Dreams that leave an imprint on your skin and make you want to shower the taste of it off you when you wake up. Thinking about the dreams—hell, thinking about Luis—made my skin crawl. My subconscious was trying to tell me something, and I was refusing to listen. A week later, Luis took Tomas out to dinner. He said it was the standard client dinner. I knew better. Tomas was bouncy and hyper before he left. He had that manic light in his eyes—the 'I'm gonna be bad' look. Dio, Tomas' partner, was out of town at a conference, and Tomas was going to get laid. I wished him good luck storming the castle, and got busy on paperwork. A few minutes before midnight, my phone rang. It was Luis. Tomas had come down mysteriously sick at the restaurant. He had passed out cold at the table. Could I come over immediately and check on him? Of course, I left right away. It wasn't until I was in my car on the way to the restaurant that I realized that Luis had called me on my private cell phone. Only Tomas and Dio had that phone number. How had Luis gotten it? If Tomas was as unconscious as Luis said he was, he wouldn't be in any condition to be reciting telephone numbers. Major alarms were going off in my head, but I couldn't turn back until I knew that Tomas was all right. I did make sure to take the gun out of the glove compartment and strap it on before I got within eyeshot of Luis and Tomas, just in case. When I got to the restaurant, Tomas was lying down in the back seat of Luis' Lexus. Before I got out of my car, I unsnapped the holster and took the safety off my gun. I wanted it to be ready if anything happened. When I got to the Lexus and started checking out Tomas, I kept half an eye on Luis. Tomas was out cold. Breathing fine, no sign of distress, just unconscious. I had my hand on my cell phone, ready to call an ambulance, when I saw a flash of silver out of the corner of my eye. I lunged out of the way, but not quickly enough to block something sharp digging into my thigh. It was a hypodermic needle, held by Luis. I managed to kick him before he got the whole thing into me, and I took off running down the parking lot, towards the alley in back. Whatever it was he shot me up with, it worked fast. Maybe ten seconds later, my vision got foggy and my feet started dragging. I don't think I made it thirty seconds before I dropped, with him right behind me. The last thing I remember was him carrying me back to the car. The next thing I remember is waking up in an all white room, tied hand and foot to a bed." Merlin sat still, statue-still, a huge block of ice slowly melting in his stomach. He had heard versions of this story before. Getting information from victims of atrocities and brutalities was part of his job description. He never let the horror stories affect him, wrapping his professional detachment around him like Superman's cloak. This was different. He knew where this story was leading, and he desperately did not want to go there. Alex gritted his teeth, the jagged edges of a memory ripping at the inside of his head. He could feel the blood start to flow, pooling behind his eyes, leaking out with every blink transformed to clear. Everything he had been holding inside was threatening to come spilling out of the open wound. He put his hands on the side of his head right next to his temples, and pushed, holding the screams back with his hands. The pain from his own hands combined with the tearing pain inside his head. "Pain....physical pain isn't a bad thing. It's clean. It's sharp. Emotional pain, it's muddy, like quicksand. It will suck you down, smother you, suffocate you. It wants to drown you. Physical pain is like white light. It burns off the mud, it makes you breathe. You can breathe through the pain." Alex's internal monitor was screaming at him in three different languages, but he was rambling too far afield to hear the alarms going off. Blue-green eyes were watching him from across the room, the shocked expression on Merlin's face hard to miss even in the dim light, the rest of him still, too still, waiting. Waiting to see what Alex would do or say next, or waiting for him to sprout that second head and start singing the duet from Mikado. Alex felt the giggles fighting their way up his diaphragm, didn't resist. ::I stunned him, just as he was waking up:: "Please continue, Alex." Voice calm. Calmer than he felt. Alex shrugged. "Whatever you want." "The room was maybe eight by eight. There was barely room for a full-sized bed and still have space to walk. The bed was white metal and wood. The walls were white. There were no windows, no decorations, no nothing. Just two doors and a light fixture hanging well out of reach from the ceiling, just a little bit off center. I thought a lot about that light fixture. I wondered if the people who built the house, the workman who installed it knew that it was crooked. I wonder if he cared, or if he thought it added a certain...je ne sais quoi to the room. Luis told me the first time I woke up that I would be staying in there until I could learn to behave myself and follow the rules. I was in that room for nine days. Nine fucking days. No television. No books. Just white walls and that damn off-center light fixture. I lived for over a week in a white haze, not sure where the white from the walls stopped and the white from the sheets started. I began to hate that color. Except when he turned the lights off. Then the room was darker than anything I had ever seen before that time. Darkness has a texture, a weight all its own. This darkness was breathing. The darkness had hands and a body. His hands. His body." Merlin was biting the inside of his lip, trying to project a calm he definitely did not feel. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run from the room. He didn't want to know the answer, but he had to ask the question. He had to know. "Did he rape you?" The quiet voice made Alex jump nearly out of his skin. He was lost, wandering around inside his own monologue, and he had almost forgotten that he had an audience. Alex looked away, towards the picture window, reflecting back the Currier and Ives print from hell against the inky backdrop of the moonless night outside. The darkness wasn't absolute—it was interrupted here and there by fireflies, little flecks of daylight flying through the night sky. He walked over to the window and rested his head against it, the cool glass comforting against his throbbing forehead. He shrugged. "Yes. No. I don't know." Another giggle was valiantly battling its way up his chest. "I'm not up on the current definitions of sex crimes. Is it rape if you're tied hand and foot to a bed, in the dark, hundreds of miles away from home? Is it rape if you scream and cry bloody murder every time he touches you, and he stops?" He balled his hands into fists. The temptation to pull a Catcher-in-the-Rye was almost overwhelming. He wanted to feel the blood dripping off his hands, the pain from crushed knuckles and torn skin, anything but the brown-grey sludge that covered him, filling his lungs and slowly smothering. He could still feel Luis' hands on his skin, his mouth, his....he forced the thought away, and jumped on it a few times for good measure, before kicking it back into its box. "It seemed to be critically important to Luis that his partner be consenting, or that he be able to convince himself that he was consenting. It absolutely had to be a seduction. Even if his partner was chained to the bed, and kept there by force and drugs and locked doors. My screaming and hysterics really ruined the mood for him. The male erection is such a fragile thing..." The giggles were coming fast and furious now, being chased by the tears. Alex rested his head on the glass, giggling and hiccupping, scrubbing the wet tracks on his face with his hands with more force than ergonomically necessary. ::You've finally flipped your fucking lid, Alex. And in front of an audience, too:: Chapter Five—Empty Rage ...Gave you everything you need To live inside a twisted cage Sleep beside an empty rage —"I Wish I Were Your Lover" by Sophie B. Hawkins Alex took one deep breath. Then another. His fingers went on autopilot to the tribal tattoo on his left forearm, tracing the swirls and arcs, the curls and the sharp angles. He could still feel the three ridges of scars underneath, ridges that the tattoo was designed to hide. A tattoo on the inside of your wrist is one thing—observers just think the owner is cutting-edge alternative. Scars running in a diagonal slash down the length of the wrist makes it a little too obvious about the individual's emotional state. Touching the tattoo was always soothing, comforting, the adult version of sucking his thumb. It helped him get the tears and the giggles under control enough to continue talking. His thoughts kept breaking apart like cracking ice, leaving jagged edges rubbing together, cutting at his skin. "The first....god, I don't know how many times he tried to touch me, I screamed and threw a bloody fit, and he backed off. He would just sit on the bed and stroke my hair while I thrashed around and threw expletives at him until I was exhausted. I think he thought he was comforting me. Then I just got too tired to fight him off anymore." one hand frictionless slide along his cock, well-lubed fingers sliding between his legs, seeking a point of entry don't move don't make a sound don't breathe all my fault fingers twisting practiced motion channeling electricity through his body can't keep still can't stay quiet sorry please god no please don't do this to me don't make me... oh... god... Alex snuck a glance back at Merlin, searching for disgust, horror, seeping into his carefully neutral expression. He had seen the look on Dio, Tomas's lover, when he was wearing his Dr. Ronald James, Psychiatrist skin. Dio didn't want to be horrified by what was spilling out of Alex's mouth on the infrequent times after his hospitalization when he couldn't keep it boxed up any more, but he was. Alex could see it in Dio's eyes, in the places he couldn't hide or mask under the therapist veneer. Merlin's masks were better constructed than Dio's. In the dim light, his face was as studied blank as a geisha's. That or he had more experience with the casual horrors that existed in the darkness, the horrible things the darkness could make you do. "He wanted to break me. He almost succeeded. First he tried physical pain, the old favorite of kidnappers and psychopaths the world over. I could have told him that wouldn't work. Hell, I could have given him the names and phone numbers of a reference who would vouch for the fact that whippings very rarely have the desired effect on me. Been there, done that, got the tattoos to show for it." His lips bared in a smile of self-mocking evil that didn't go unnoticed across the room. "What did he use on you?" "His belt." "Did he hurt you?" Gentleness hidden underneath the brusque delivery, softening the edges. Alex shrugged, embarrassed at Merlin's concern. "I survived. Hey, who do I have to shoot to get a drink in this joint?" "No alcohol. I need you coherent." Alex could hear the smile in Merlin's voice, coloring his words, softening the edges. "Fuck you, Merlin." But he too was smiling into the darkness, the words drained of malice. "That can be arranged. The alcohol can't." The stillness in the room rushed in to fill the vacuum left after his words. Alex could hear the night get thicker, the silence more dense, as they both carefully contemplated what had just fallen out of his mouth. "Are...are you serious?" "As serious as you want me to be." Merlin caught Alex's gaze, green to hazel, trying to say with his eyes what he couldn't say with his words. ::It's not a pity fuck I'm offering you, Alex. Nothing—no one—has felt as right to me as you do in a very long time:: Alex shook his head in the dim light, his confusion evident to the other occupant of the dark room. The conversation had passed surreal several minutes earlier and entered into uncharted territories of bizarre. There were no maps this far off the highway. ::How can you stand to think about touching me? How can you want to put your hands on my body, knowing who else has been there?:: The silence ran long and thick. "Alex, I know you're tired, but I need to hear the whole story, from beginning to end. It's very important." Merlin was well aware that he had never elucidated why it was so important, and had no intention of starting now. He had no intention of derailing the train before it got to its destination. Alex nodded. The adrenaline was gone, and with it, much of his energy. There was road grit behind his eyelids, and his muscles ached from the hours he had spent on the bike. He didn't want to think about the long ride back to civilization, to a hotel, to a far away place where safety might be stolen for a few hours. "Pain didn't have enough teeth to scare me—someone else had already defanged that old beast years earlier. The next bullet in his arsenal was food. Starvation. Survey says Wrong Answer! After the first time he withheld food, I stopped eating. Two can play at that game, and I have a better hand. That's not to say he didn't give it the old college try. Have you ever been force-fed, Merlin? It is not a pretty sight. It was only by accident, and my own stupidity, that he tripped over the one thing on the planet that actually had enough teeth and growl and snarl to function as a leash." "What finally worked?" Merlin really didn't want to know, didn't want to step into that house of horrors, with the bleeding walls. "Drugs. Having no control over your own body, a head filled with helium floating on a string three feet off your shoulders and muscles that mutinied and jumped ship. Xanax. Muscle relaxants. Tranquilizers. Oh, I was tranquil. I was so tranquil I damn near bled to death. He called it 'chemical restraints'. He made a special drug cocktail just for me. I was so fucking touched...." Alex's eyes were feral, wild, remembering his time trapped in the cage of misbehaving out-of-control flesh. "Being sedated is the worst thing you can do to me. It's worse than rape. At least that is outside your body, being imposed in. This...this is turning your body into a co-conspirator in your own destruction. My brain was screaming, and my body was just lying there, listening to the siren song of the pharmaceuticals. It felt like being dead. No, I've been dead before. This was worse. He knew I hated it more than anything else he could have done to me. I asked him once if he got joy out of finding my weakest point and exploiting it for his advantage. He said no, he got no jollies out of seeing me miserable, but if I was that unhappy with the punishment, why didn't I try harder to avoid the actions that merited them?" Alex stopped, took a deep breath, stringing words together in his head, trying to find the right combination. "I keep feeling like if I could finally explain it to someone, if I could make them understand, then I'll understand. Because there is still so much that just doesn't make sense that still ties me in knots. I need to understand what happened to me back there. I need to gain mastery of it, so I can move past it. But no matter how much I think about it, how much I relive it in my head, I can't find the key to unlock it. I've tried to talk about it with Dio, but...there are too many things that happened there that I can't explain to Tomas's lover, even if he is also a psychiatrist. I've tried to talk about it with Tomas, but he just gets this terrified whipped-puppy look in his eyes and I can't do it to him. I can't cause him any more pain. I think Tomas wants to pretend that the entire thing never happened, that it was nothing but a bad dream. Maybe he's right. Maybe it was all just a bad dream. The island was like some bizarre alternative universe, a cruel parody of normal life where none of the rules applied. It was a bizarre intertwined double helix of cruelty and kindness. The one time Luis used his belt on me, after he was done he cleaned me up and asked what I wanted for breakfast. If he had just been your garden-variety sick fucking sociopath, I could have dealt with it just fine. I have lots of experience dealing with sadistic fucks." Alex's grin was cold, leaching all the warmth out of the May sky, the smile saying more than he would ever say out loud. "But he wasn't. In a really twisted way, he was trying to make it easier on us. The rules were always the same, every day, every hour. There were only four of them, and they never changed. I broke them not because I didn't know what they were or how to live within them, but because I couldn't live within them. I got punished because I knew exactly what he wanted, and refused to do it. Tomas didn't have nearly as much trouble with it as I did. Then again, he has more experience than I do with a stern, loving parent during the day who fucks you at night. He seemed to be adjusting to his new situation just fine. He was even...affectionate. Trying to help me. Trying to make it easier on me, this transition from my previous life to this strange new world we inhabited. He didn't...he didn't have any trouble shedding his old life like snake-skin." Alex closed his eyes, the current of reflected memories threatening to pull him under. "I couldn't do it. Too much rage, too much pain. I just wanted to make someone else hurt as much as I hurt. I needed to lash out, scream, fight, howl out my anger in blood at the moon. I didn't know why I was hurting so bad, or even if the pain was current or from a now long ago. I just knew I hurt." "Stockholm syndrome." Alex turned and stared at Merlin, his brow furled in confusion. "What?" "Stockholm syndrome. Identifying with the aggressor. It's how Tomas found it so easy to get along with Luis. It's a survival mechanism, hardwired in most people. It comes into play in hostage situations, when an individual is threatened with death and can't escape, but is offered token kindness by the hostage taker. It's an extreme form of trying to get on the good side of someone on whom you are totally dependant for survival, who has already threatened you with death. It's also known as 'Patty Hearst Syndrome.'" "Then why didn't it happen to me as well?" Merlin looked at Alex, weighing, evaluating. "I don't know. It doesn't happen to everyone. My pet theory is that it has to do with the relationship with your parents—in effect, the captivity is a reversion to childhood. If the victim had a close relationship with his or her parents, it is much easier to slip into Stockholm. If on the other hand, the relationship was strained, or violent...then the conditioning isn't there. If reverting to a childlike state leaves you paranoid and aggressive, you won't fall into Stockholm nearly as much. Does that make any sense?" Alex nodded, lost in thought. Not really following his thread, just wandering down back alleys and side roads. "He could be really nice when he wanted to be. Sometimes, out of the clear blue, he would do something decent, and kind, and positively human. Those were the worst. I would second-guess myself, and him, and his motives, and my motives, and go spinning around in crazy circles and knots, until I was desperate to get out of my own skull. I couldn't trust him, but I couldn't not trust him. I was so envious of Tomas and the bond he had with him, and the easy time he seemed to be having. I know that sounds sick, but I was. I was jealous of Tomas because he and Luis seemed to have this...connection. I wanted to be connected, too. He could be devastatingly nice. Soul-crushingly nice. So nice that, for a moment, you could be fooled into asking him to continue the trend and let you go free, go home. So nice you could almost fool yourself into believing you could trust him." One deep breath, then another, a silent entreaty for courage. "One night, pretty close to the end, I was having a rough time. With everything, with nothing, with the random movement of air molecules. I was biting the head off anyone within easy striking range, Tomas or Luis. I don't know why—I just had all this rage boiling up inside me and I couldn't control it any more. After a couple of hours of this, Luis finally pinned me against a wall—actually, sat on me—and asked what it would take to get me to calm down and act like a rational human being, instead of an annoyed tomcat. I said the first thing that came into my head—I wanted to go to Temple and light the candles and say the Kaddish for my parents. It had been almost two months since the last time I had been able to honor them properly, and the memories were getting harder and harder to deal with. So, he took Tomas and me to synagogue so I could light the candles and say the prayers for my parents. Granted, it was 2 AM when we got there. Granted, we broke into the temple." Cheshire cat grin—with his elven features, he looked more feline than human. "But I got to light the candles, and I got to say the prayers, and when I finally got to sleep there were no more nightmares. At least not that night. How was I supposed to deal with his kindness? How could I reconcile it with the kidnapper, rapist, and all around bastard who did this to me, to us? Felons aren't supposed to be capable of moments of decency, kindness. Kind, decent people don't kidnap and rape. I was stuck in absolutes, and drowning in my own black and white quicksand. Luis wanted a family, children. What he got was the sickest parody of a family I've ever seen. He called us siblings and fucked us both, or made us fuck each other. Some days it took drugs, some days threats, some days...some days I just wanted the pain to go away for a couple of hours. In the lack of anything else, sex became my drug of choice. My favorite self-administered narcotic." Your kisses taste of pain, kitten. They taste of blood, and pain, and rage. They taste wonderful Alex turned to look at Merlin, green eyes pinning him to the couch, words pinning him in place. "Do I horrify you? Do my words disgust you? Do I disgust you?" Poisonous words, venomous voice. "I'm tainted. Dirty. Treyf in every sense of the word—unclean, touched by unclean hands. Like Lady Macbeth, no matter how hard I scrub, I can't get the stains off my skin, stains of his touch. I'm contaminated, and if you touch me, I'll contaminate you too." Copperhead hiss, rattle before the bite. "Do you still want to have sex with me, boy?" "Yes, but not like this." Merlin rose from the couch, forcing his movements gentle, non-threatening. Easy, like flowing water, he drifted towards Alex, sitting on the loveseat next to the window. He sat next to him, almost close enough to touch. "You're not dirty. The stain isn't on your skin, it's on your mind. You are the only one who can see it." Petting with his words, his tone, a gentle comforting contact. Alex stared intently out the window, resolutely ignoring Merlin, searching for things in the darkness only he could see. Merlin moved one hand towards Alex, brushing between his shoulder blades. Alex bristled, didn't move away. The hand started traversing slow, comforting circles, transmitting calm through his touch. "You're not contaminated, Alex. You're wounded, but you can heal." Merlin slid a little closer, letting his other hand stroke Alex's arm, the velvet of his shirt, slide around the front. Carefully, precisely, his hand slid through black velvet and across his stomach until Merlin's arm was wrapped around his waist, pulling Alex against him, Alex's back against his front. Alex froze, waiting for the blow, then relaxed into his hold. Alex laughed, a brittle broken sound. "I don't know why I'm telling you all these things. Some of them I haven't even told Dio." Merlin leaned over, rested his lips on the back of Alex's head, smelling leather and night air. "Yes, you do. You told me because you know that it wouldn't shock me. We both come from the same dark place. I just hide it better than you do." "You're talking about more than just Luis, aren't you?" Gentle words hiding steel, muscles tensing under his hands. Merlin ran his fingers through Alex's short black hair, played with his bangs. "Neither of us had an idyllic childhood, Alex. I can tell that by looking at you. People like us; we can spot each other in a crowd. The marks are there—you just need to know where to look." Alex closed his eyes, soaking up Merlin's warmth, his casual strength like a sponge for the long drought ahead. ::Gods, boy—how long has it been since someone, anyone touched you without intending to cause you pain?:: Alex tried to remember the last time he had been held, the last time he had felt safe in another person's arms. He stopped adding when he got to four years. "So how did you finally escape?" Another laugh, this one more closely approximating human, and mirth. "I tried to give the bastard a proper Viking funeral." "You invited him to his own funeral pyre? Did you at least bring marshmallows and have a weenie roast?" "You are one sick fuck. I knew I liked you. No, I tried to burn the house down while he was sleeping. It didn't work, but it burned real pretty for a while, and attracted the attention of the local constabulary and fire departments." Alex chuckled again. "How did we get off the island? Bobby Sioux rescued us. And he's still in the process of rescuing us now. Bobby was a Vietnam vet, an EMT and a volunteer firefighter. He was also piloting the fire copter that came over to check out my attempt to turn Luis into a charcoal briquette. He was the first person other than Luis and Tomas I had seen in two months. Please help us. We're being held here against our will. If he finds us, we're dead. We must have looked pretty bad, because he didn't question, didn't even ask. He hustled us back to his copter, off the island, and back to his house on the mainland. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to take us into his house and risk Luis' wrath. He could have just dropped us at the nearest emergency room, or the nearest street corner. But that's not Bobby. The man has six kids, eighteen grandkids, and a serious problem with picking up strays. We were just the latest two lost souls—animal and human—to temporarily call his house home. We stayed for a week, waiting for our tracks to cool enough to make the safe trek back to Chicago, and the life we had left behind. He saved us. He protected us. He stood watch over his two new charges and listened and asked questions until we had explained and examined and excised the worst of the memory scars. He called it debriefing. And when the darkness got too heavy and the silence too still, he would sit up with me all night, waiting for the safety of dawn. Even after we returned, he was still our safety net. He took his responsibility as our savior very seriously. Every Wednesday night he would call, no matter where he was, no matter where we were, just to touch base. When he found out that I wouldn't be spending Thanksgiving with Tomas at Dio's family farm, he strong-armed, wheedled and bribed me into flying back to Louisiana to spend it with them. That was probably the most bizarre holiday I've ever spent—not every family invites the Thanksgiving turkey to have dinner with the rest of the family. The silly bird got to sit in the guest of honor seat. I got the distinct dishonor of sharing a bench seat with the bloody thing and its cage. Turkeys, in addition to being stupid animals, are really messy eaters." Merlin stifled a giggle, visualizing Alex and the turkey exchanging dirty looks and snarls in a formal dining room. "And when I was in the hospital...He flew out on the red-eye, and spent a week charming the nurses, intimidating the doctors, and generally spreading the legend of Bobby Sioux to a new generation." "Hospital?" ::Oh, shit:: ::Why did I open my big mouth?:: "Why were you in the hospital after Thanksgiving, Alex?" Calm voice, but insistent. Alex tried to pull away, but Merlin's arm tightened around his waist, silently refusing to let him leave. His other hand started stroking Alex's hair, long slow strokes, like he was soothing an edgy cat. "Were you in the hospital to have surgery, Alex?" The words caught in Alex's throat. He shook his head, grateful for the darkness covering up his humiliation. "Why were you in the hospital, Alex?" Alex swallowed hard, grit his teeth, trying to force the words out. "Did you try to kill yourself?" One arm still wrapped around Alex's waist, the other still stroking his soft black hair. "No. I... I had a relapse." "Relapse of what?" There was no confusion in his voice. Merlin knew, Alex was certain of it. "I have a chronic illness. It was in remission, before. Before Luis." "This isn't a physical illness you have, is it, Alex?" Gently insistent. Alex shook his head again. ::How the hell do you know?:: "What diagnosis did the doctors give you, Alex?" Sudden surge of anger through his veins. "You already bloody well know the answer, why do you even bother asking me?" "I want to hear you say the words, Alex. Can you say them?" "The diagnosis was bipolar disorder." Forced through gritted teeth. "Do you need the DSM IV code as well?" "That won't be necessary. I know what it is." Long pause, as both parties regrouped. "Merlin?" "Hmm?" Resting his chin on Alex's shoulder, reassuring and alpha-ing at the same time. "How did you know?" "I didn't know for sure. A hunch. Something in your eyes. I've had some training in the field, and you seemed to fit most of the characteristics." "Can... is it that obvious?" Quiet laughter, and a kiss on Alex's hair. "No, Alex. You can't tell by looking at you. I have a degree in psych and I was looking for it, and I still wasn't sure." "You positive?" Voice quiet, needy. Another kiss, and fingers gently stroking his cheek. "Positive." Chapter Six—Son, She Said Son, she said Have I got a story for you... —"Alive" by Pearl Jam Alex yawned. The warmth of Merlin's body behind him dissipated the last of the adrenaline, and all he wanted to do was find a comfortable corner and curl up with his new teddy bear. Maybe another heartbeat would chase off the nightmares, the despair, the 3 a.m. panic attacks. Maybe a human teddy bear was what the doctor should have ordered, he thought as he relaxed into Merlin's arms. He made a wonderful teddy bear, and Alex idly wondered if he were fuzzy like a proper bear should be. "Nope, not fuzzy. Yes, I do make a delightful stuffed animal. And yes, you did say that out loud." Merlin caught Alex's mortified wide-eyed stare and laughed, the sound reverberating off the walls. "Relax, Alex. I won't hold it against you." Pause just long enough for the laugh track to catch up, and then he started in his best 'Undress Me' voice, "Unless you want me to hold it against you..." Alex elbowed Merlin in the gut, not hard, but warning enough. "There's only one thing I want from you right now, you arrogant little worm." Dead-on imitation of Dr. Evil from Austin Powers, right down to the pinky at the corner of the mouth Merlin wrapped his arm tighter around Alex's midsection, the other arm snugly fitting over his biceps, holding them to his chest. No more sneak attacks to Merlin's unguarded flanks. "And what would that be?" "Answers." "In order for me to provide answers, you must first provide the questions, grasshopper." "Only one question, sensei. What the hell was so important that you had to pull me off of a perfectly pleasant dash into oblivion to come over here and spill my guts about the worst eight weeks of my life? Why did you need to know all this crap? Prurient pedophilic interest? Or are you working for the National Enquirer?" Merlin froze. The silence grew thick and grainy, like an old forties film score. Alex could hear the gears turning inside Merlin's head, considering and then discarding various options, excuses, reasons. Finally Merlin took a deep breath and released Alex from the comfortable prison of his arms. Before Alex could untangle himself and turn to look at Merlin, he heard clothing rustling and something small, black and light dropped in his lap. It was a leather wallet. Alex opened it, and found himself looking at a badge. An ID card issued by the federal government sat next to it, Merlin's face staring out at him in 2-D glory. The letters "FBI" were stamped on the gold-plate metal of the badge, and the name "Fox Mulder" imprinted next to his picture. Alex tried the name on for size, let it wander clumsily across his tongue like a water buffalo in a tutu. Nyaah. Didn't work. This wasn't Merlin. "Nice forgery, dude. Must have cost you a pretty penny. But who the fuck is Fox Mulder, and does he mind that you took his name out for a test drive?" "I'm Fox Mulder, jerk, and I am an FBI agent." "Bullshit. Good picture though." Alex tried to turn around, but Merlin's hand had insinuated itself back across his stomach, as if his ribs were lonely for the company. ::Considering a secondary career as a seat belt?:: "You expect me to believe that you are an FBI agent? I may have been born at night, but it wasn't last night. I'm much more likely to take your word for it that you hit Agent Mulder over the head and stole his wallet. That's a felony, you know—assaulting a federal officer. Serious jail time." "You little...all right, I'll play your game, since you answered my questions so nicely. What would it take to prove to your satisfaction that I am Fox Mulder, and that I do work for the FBI?" "Oh, I don't know. Surprise me. Be creative." "I'll surprise you all right, brat. You stay right here. I need to go rummage through some boxes upstairs to come up with your proof, oh doubting Thomas of mine." Harsh words from a laughing mouth. Alex stuck his tongue out at Merlin as he passed and was rewarded with a teasing cuff to the side of the head. "Don't point that thing at me unless you plan on using it." "Not 'til I see some proof. Chop-chop. I'm waiting." Merlin disappeared up the dark stairway, moving more silently than a man over six feet tall had any right to. Once Alex heard the door open upstairs and furniture start to move, he began his own investigation of the downstairs. Vaserely prints on the walls, overstuffed furniture clustered around the fireplace, leather couch in front of the big-screen TV—the townhouse screamed 'single middle class male.' The kitchen whispered 'I can cook'—from the copper pots and pans to the row of cookbooks next to the microwave. The bathroom had obviously been decorated by Merlin's mother, from the guest towels to the little rose-shaped soaps in the rose-shaped soap dish to the dainty wallpaper. Alex heard Merlin's footsteps on the stairs and quickly slid back into his seat on the couch near the fireplace. Alex was rewarded for his stealth with a look and a packet of photographs tossed into his lap. "Incriminating photographs? Or is this the latest rendition of 'come up and see my etchings'?" "Open it up, brat, and be amazed." The photographs, spread across Alex's denim-clad lap, spun a homely tale of graduations and sunny May afternoons. Families coming together to celebrate one of their own passing a milestone, wearing a rented polyester cape and bad hat. In this case, the sunny May afternoon was spent in rural Virginia. Quantico, Virginia, to be precise. The smiling middle-aged couple dressed in their going to church finery with their arms around a younger, unscarred, smiling Merlin. Another photograph of a diploma, bearing the name Fox William Mulder, held aloft by a young man looking insufferably pleased with himself. That same self-satisfied smirk was on Merlin's face as he watched Alex peruse through the photos. "Do you believe me now?" Merlin scooted forward on the couch, his front tucked against Alex's back, nesting his arms under Alex's, handling the photos like rare jewels, putting them carefully back in their envelope. Alex sighed, with quite the air of put-upon royalty. "All right, I concede that there might be some preponderance of evidence that you truly are the individual in question." Alex turned to face Merlin, knocking the last few photos off his lap onto the floor. "That does not answer the original question, grasshopper. What was so important that you forced me to drop my headlong dash into the witness protection program and tell you my sob story?" "The case I'm working on currently involves the shadowy Mr. Christien. I'm an FBI agent assigned to the joint FBI/Justice Department Organized Crime task force. I followed him to the bar tonight." Alex froze. His voice was studied casual, as blank as his expression, revealing nothing. "Go on." "Have you been following the big trial out of New York?" Alex shook his head, voice tight, not trusting his throat not to betray him at a crucial moment. Alex's involuntary tightness was registered by the man sitting behind him on the couch. One hand came up and slowly stroked the back of Alex's neck from the swell of his skull down to the hated necklace. Calming strokes, like petting an edgy feline. "Second circuit court of New York. The DEA finally got the Columbian mob by the nuts. Or, in this case, by the coca buds. Two year operation, thousands of man-hours of surveillance, wiretaps, agents on the inside, you name it. They finally have a case strong enough to take to trial. The trial judge is one Hal Peterman. Absolutely impeccable credentials, clean as the driven snow. The man has a reputation for not suffering fools gladly, and tolerating absolutely nothing in his courtroom. If he were in Los Angeles, OJ would be wearing stripes right now. He was chosen for this trial because the man has a completely clean background, with no exploitable skeletons in his closet. Somehow, the Columbians managed to find an exploitable skeletons, and exploit it they are trying. It seems that twenty-some-odd years ago, our Judge Peterman, right out of law school, had a relationship with a graduate student at the university they both attended. This relationship produced a child. A boy. This child was raised by his mother and his mother's husband, and he presumably did not know that the man married to dear old mom was not his dad. He was taken away from his birth mother because of abuse when he was a young teen and adopted by another family. Now, if the Columbians can get their hands on this boy—well, man—they will have some potent leverage with the judge. And this is where your Mr. Christien comes into the picture. Three weeks ago, he contacted the local arm of the Columbian mob with a proposition—for the right amount of green, he would produce the mysterious child, who is now in his mid-twenties. Much intense negotiation followed, and now the Columbians are waiting on the delivery of their ace in the hole. The real mystery in this story is the child himself. No one knows where he is now, or even if he is still alive. He disappeared off the face of the earth almost four years ago. He has over two hundred thousand dollars in a bank account, untouched. No one has seen or heard a peep from him since the death of his adoptive parents, Marjorie and George Cryder, almost exactly..." ::Oh, god:: ::no:: Alex felt the room start to spin, his dinner clawing its way back out of his stomach. The walls were getting tighter and tighter, the air dangerously thin. He lurched out of Merlin's arms, off the couch, and ran for the bathroom, one hand over his mouth, trying desperately not to be sick all over himself. Alex hit the door, didn't bother to turn on the light, slammed the door shut behind him. Merlin sat in the living room for a long moment, trying on scenarios, trying to figure out what just happened. There was only one hypothesis that fit the evidence. Merlin could hear the sound of vomiting, and low-pitched pain whimpers as he got off the couch and followed Alex to the darkened bathroom. Merlin knocked on the door, heard more whimpers sliding under the wood paneling. He flicked the light on, the reflected yellow bouncing off the porcelain and cabbage flower wallpaper, sunburst blinding them both. Alex was slumped on the floor next to the toilet, his upper body propped up by the garishly papered wall. Merlin could see the tremors shaking Alex's frame, hear his teeth chattering, his eyes tightly closed. Alex looked like he was praying to some obscure Sumerian god for mercy in his time of need. Alex didn't open his eyes, didn't register Merlin's presence until he felt a warm wet cloth slide over his face, fingers carding through his sweat-slick hair, an arm guiding him over to lay his head in Merlin's lap. Not a word was spoken, but Merlin's touch said everything with nothing. Finally Alex stilled, his breathing eased, and he opened his green eyes and locked onto Merlin's hazel eyes. "You're Peter Cryder." Confirmation, not a question. Alex nodded. His skin was green, nearly the same hue as his eyes. Merlin had seen corpses look more alive than Alex did at that moment. Alex reached into his back pocket, extracted his wallet and pulled out a sheet of ancient paper, folded and re-folded many times, soft from long exposure to leather and skin temperature. He handed it to Merlin reverently, green eyes tracking his every move. Merlin opened the fragile pages carefully. He knew what it was—proof that his hypothesis was correct. An adoption certificate, officially announcing to anyone who cared and the world at large that Peter Alexander Romanek was now the son of George and Marjorie Cryder. Merlin felt the tremors start again, felt the spasms racking through Alex, held him as he lost what little was left into the toilet. In his arms, Merlin noticed how fragile Alex was, how breakable. It was the aggressive bulldog personality he projected, not the reality of his flesh and blood, that people saw. There was nothing fierce, nothing scary about him now, coated with the smell of vomit and fear. Merlin pulled Alex farther up in his lap, cradling him in his arms and legs, murmuring quiet nothings as he stroked Alex's back. They sat like that for quite a while, wrapped in a cocoon of silence, until Alex's trembling subsided. Alex's head was resting on Merlin's shoulder, his breath warm on Merlin's neck, arms wrapped around his own knees. "You...you mean Matthew Romanek isn't my father?" Tiny voice. Little boy voice. Merlin heard something inside Alex shattering into a million tiny pieces as he spoke. Merlin pulled him closer, his arms encircling Alex protectively. "Alex, I'm sorry. This isn't the way you're supposed to hear news like this. No, Matthew Romanek isn't your father. Hal Peterman is." Merlin pressed a kiss to Alex's forehead. He tasted of desperation and sorrow, of heartbreak decades old. Alex finally lifted his head, cautiously, as if the struggle to hold it upright was more than his shredded nerves could stand. Their eyes met, for just a brief moment, and the pain on Alex's face was impossible for Merlin to watch. His cheeks were dry, and the corners of his mouth were tight with the effort of not crying. His eyes were wide and haunted, and much older than they had a right to be. The shutters to his soul were broken, and his misery was showing through, dredged up from deep places inside him, the place where old pain lies in wait. ::Please cry, Alex. Let it out. Let it go:: Merlin didn't know how long he sat there on the floor with this broken man-child cradled in his lap. Neither of them spoke, or moved, or did anything to break the spell that had been blown loosely around them. The air was gauzy and thick with swallowed words and thoughts pushed away and emotions barred from expression. "I dreamed a lot, when I was lying in that white bed, in that white room. The drugs played a part in it, I think—I never got him to confess exactly what were in those injections. But some of it was my brain trying to escape from a prison of white sheets and white walls. The dreams there were so much more vivid than I had ever had before, or since. One night, I dreamed of a man, dressed all in black, with eyes like rubies, who sat at the foot of my bed and told me fantastic things. He told me of dream sand, and tucked some under my pillow for safekeeping. The sand spilled while he was tucking it, and in the falling sand I saw all the patterns of the universe. But mostly I had childhood dreams, children's dreams. Extensions of my own helplessness, perhaps. Reversions back to another time when I was trapped and alone. One dream I had frequently was every child's fantasy that my hated parents weren't really my parents, that my real parents would appear one day and take me home, where I would be loved and no one would ever hurt me again. That dream kept me going through some of the worst times in my life. I just never thought that having that particular dream come true would hurt so badly..." Alex rested his head on Merlin's shoulder again, comforting himself with the sound of the older man's heartbeat. "I need to see him. My father." Alex's words were thick on his tongue, awkward, clumsy with the unfamiliar concept. "I can arrange that, though not tonight." A hint of a smile crossed Merlin's face, and he thought he saw an echo pass Alex's as well. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. "Do you have a picture of him?" Merlin slowly released his arms, let Alex climb off him, waited for a long moment for blood circulation to return. The pins and needles were agonizing, as Merlin tried to shake the fluid down to his fingers and toes. Alex stayed on the floor, watching Merlin shake and twitch on numb legs, silent, his eyes unshuttered. Merlin offered Alex a hand up, and he accepted. Merlin didn't comment when his hand stayed entwined with Alex's as they left the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. Merlin grabbed at some files sitting on the kitchen table, selected one, thumbed through it, and handed Alex a piece of paper—no, heavier than paper, slicker. It was a color photograph, obviously professional, head and shoulders shot. An older man, in his late forties, black hair going silver at the temples, fine boned, high cheekbones. Piercing green eyes. Alex's face. His father's face. ::Oh, god:: Alex felt like he was going to be sick again. "What is it?" Merlin moved back to Alex's side, an arm around his waist, holding him up. Supporting him. Alex pointed at the photograph. "This is what my birth father...what Matthew Romanek sees every time he looks at me. He knew. He's known all these years." Alex didn't have to say anything else. They both knew what he was referring to. ::That's why my father hates me so much. Living proof. I'm living proof his wife was unfaithful:: "Peter..." "Don't. Call. Me. That." There was venom in Alex's voice, and a touch of fear. "Peter is dead. He died in the car accident that killed my parents. I'm Alex Krycek. Not Peter Romanek. Not Peter Cryder. Alex Krycek." ::Do you have any idea how psychotic that makes you sound, little boy? Is there more than one of you wrapped up inside that package?:: "I'm not crazy, Merlin. I'm just...I'm not him anymore. I emerged from his ashes. I'm what survived the firestorm after my parents death. Peter wasn't strong enough. I am." ::That doesn't make you sound any healthier, boy:: "Alex," he corrected. "Can I ask you a question?" He shrugged. "After your mother's funeral, you disappeared off the face of the earth. Completely. Without a trace. Professionally disappeared. Where the hell did you go?" Alex closed his eyes and smiled, remembering something delicious and comforting, wrapping himself in the memory like a security blanket. "Provincale, Iowa. Population 418. Marjorie Rennis Cryder's hometown." "That was supposed to be our summer, just mom and me. Dad was working, but mom managed to finagle the summer off. I was going to graduate from college on June 9th, and then we were off to Provincale, to the farm where Mom was born. Our plan was to rehab the old farmhouse, clean it up, bring it into the 21st century. After three years of classes twelve months a year, I was avidly looking forward to stripping wallpaper and sanding floors. This was also designed to be time for me to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life, now that I had a college degree and absolutely no future plans. Well, you know what happened to those summer plans." Merlin nodded. The car accident that killed Alex's adoptive father and fatally injured his adoptive mother occurred on June fourth. "I spent three weeks at the hospital, watching my mother die. I was sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, when she finally passed on June 23rd. Three days later, we buried her by his side at the family plot outside of Austin, Texas. The next day, I tossed a couple pieces of clothing in a suitcase, threw it into the truck, and started driving for Iowa. At the time, my only plan was to drink myself to death in the privacy of a rural farmhouse. I couldn't do it. I was such a fucking coward I couldn't even kill myself properly." The snarl was back again, self-loathing and pain and fear all wrapped up in one beautiful package. "It was my mother's last request of me, before the accident, that we restore the farmhouse where she was born. I could never refuse her anything. So, after about a week of attempted alcohol poisoning and od'ing on self pity, I started to do the work, myself. It was the first time in my life that I had ever spent any significant length of time alone. It was just me, on a 150-acre farm in the middle of rural Iowa. The Harrises who lived on the next farm over knew who I was, knew why I was there, and pretty much left me alone. Mrs. Harris would stop by about once a week to make sure I was still breathing, but other than that, it was just me, my laptop, my cell phone, and a bunch of plywood and hand tools. That house healed me. The work healed me. The sheer mindlessness of stripping wallpaper and sanding banisters helped me to recover. I went to bed every night too exhausted to dream, and woke up every morning with some small progress to show for my hard work and blisters. I arrived the last week of June. I stayed until Labor Day the next year. The house is absolutely beautiful now." Beatific smile, pure pride. "You miss it." "Damn straight I do, Merlin. It's one of the few things in my life I haven't managed to screw up beyond recognition. It's my hideaway. It's where I go when I want to run away. It's all mine." "What finally lured you back to civilization, Alex?" Deep breath, pondering. "I missed my friends—Tomas in particular. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse." Arched eyebrow. "And what would that be?" A wealth of undertones hidden just below the surface of that question. Alex reached over to smack Merlin across the back of the head, a move that Merlin dodged easily. "Get your mind out of the gutter, you letch. No, not that. Tomas offered me something that I have always wanted, and something that is almost never a possibility. He gave me the chance to come back as someone else, to start from scratch." "From Peter Cryder to Alex Krycek." Once again, Merlin making the intuitive leaps that earned him his nickname. "Exactly. He and a few of our more creative friends conjured Alex Krycek from scratch. We have the same birthdate, went to the same schools, were born in the same hospital, but he's not Peter Cryder. He doesn't have the awful past dogging his every step that Peter had. I'm free in a way that Peter never was." Another jaw-breaking yawn. Then another. Merlin contemplated for about three seconds, took a look at Alex's red-rimmed eyes, then made a decision. "Alex, spend the night here." At Alex's shocked expression, he laughed. "And you accuse me of having a dirty mind. In the guest room, brat. You have some major decisions you need to make, and..." checking his watch, "two thirty in the morning is not the best time to be doing that. Tomorrow, we'll figure a way to get you out of this mess, OK?" Alex yawned again and nodded. "Thanks, Merlin. I am so far beyond tired I don't think I'd be safe on the bike at this point." Merlin started walking towards the stairs. "Give me ten minutes to make the bed and a phone call. I'll come down and get you in a bit." Once Merlin got up the stairs, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number he had only needed to call once or twice before in his entire career. After two rings, a sleepy male voice answered. "Skinner." "Pardon me for calling so late, Deputy Chief Skinner. It's Agent Mulder. I have some news that wouldn't wait until the morning." "This had better be good, Agent Mulder." Instantly awake, alert, and growling. "It is, sir." "Well, are you planning on telling me sometime before work on Monday, or do I need to guess?" "Sir, I found Peter Cryder." Short pause. "I'm impressed, Agent Mulder." His boss's voice sounded....funny to Merlin. There was a tone that he wasn't accustomed to hearing. ::Is that what he sounds like when he's actually—god forbid—pleased with an agent's performance? Better not try to smile, sir. You might break something:: "He's sitting in my living room right now, Sir." "You mean he's still alive? I had him for long dead in a potter's grave or an overgrown ditch." "Nope. Alive, well and an acquaintance of mine from several years back. He doesn't go by Cryder anymore—that's why it took me so long to put two and two together." "Good work, Agent. I'll call the safe house and make arrangements for tonight." "Don't bother, Sir. He's going to spend tonight here with me." Warning growl. "I'm not sure that is such a good idea, Agent Mulder." Subtext crystal clear—don't push this. Merlin pushed anyways. "Sir, tonight I had to tell him that the man he thought of as his biological father for the past twenty-four years is no relation to him. The last thing he needs right now is to be kept under lock and key, no matter how benevolent the reasoning behind it." Deputy Chief Skinner took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose. "How is he holding up?" "About as well as can be expected, which is to say not very good. He's having a lot of difficulty with that on top of some other things I can't go into right now. He'll be safe here for one night, and we'll figure out the logistics after everyone's had a couple of hours sleep. Oh, and there is one more thing, sir." "And what would that be, Agent Mulder?" Voice indicating he knew already he wouldn't like the answer. "He wants to see his father. I told him it could probably be arranged. Please don't make a liar out of me, sir." "I think that can probably be arranged." Almost gentle in tone. "I will contact you tomorrow to make arrangements. I expect to see a full report by tomorrow afternoon." Back to full D.C. mode, and the tone that was renown for giving agents heart palpitations at fifty yards. "Yes, sir. I'll speak to you in the morning, Sir." "Good night, Agent Mulder." Missing and Presumed (continued) Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com

Missing and Presumed By Ganymede Fandom : X-Files Pairing: Krycek/Mulder, Krycek/Skinner and eventually K/M/Sk, but not a Krycek or a Mulder you have ever seen before. Rating: NC-17, with a graphic and brutal rape survival story in chapter five. If that type of thing upsets or bothers you, you might not want to read this piece of fiction. Spoilers: Nothing. Everything. Archive: Sure! Just let me know where it's going. Midwifed by: Josan Thanks to : Josan, without whom none of this would exist. Jim, for helping me fall in love with the characters, and see the potential in Alex, Fox and Walter. Te, Leigh-Anne Childe, Spike and Viridian for inspiration and the occasional prepositional phrase. Last but not least, the beautiful fey black-haired, green-eyed young man I saw at the 1500 Gun and Knife Show back in December, who took up residence inside my head and wanted me to write him a story. Authors Notes : This is SERIOUS AU, people. If you are looking for canon, go play in someone else's sandbox. I started out with the question, "If there was no such thing as the Consortium, how would Alex Krycek, Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner's lives be different? Who would they be?" The story took a sharp left at Albuquerque, and here we are. MAJOR TIMELINE SHIFT! This story takes place in 2001, but all the main characters are ten years younger than canon. AK is 24, FM is 29 and WS is 39. Why? Because it works. Disclaimer: I do not own AK, FM or WS. Chris Carter does, and lets them waste away. I just take them for walks and make sure they have food and clean water when he goes on vacation. All the other characters belong to me. Additional lyrics in Chapter Eight are from "Outside" by Staind. Feedback: Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com. All flames will be fed to the dogs and later regurgitated on the rug. back to top

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