The doorknob struck him in the ass as he slammed the door.  His eyes shot open, he dropped the bags he was carrying; he leaned over to brace himself on his thighs and he laughed.  The song of his laughter filled his apartment but even this couldn't mitigate the loneliness he felt at his very core.
    He shook his head, "How many times have I told someone to make sure 'the door doesn't hit you in the ass on your way out'?" He asked himself and smiled at the sheer irony of it.
    New Year's day.  Another one—a big one: the turn of the century.  The apartment seemed even emptier because of it.  He checked his machine, not even a message from the Gunmen.  He picked up his bag and headed to the kitchen, popped the top from a beer and sat on the couch.
    This time, he thought, he'd just escaped—barely.  Only for Scully and Frank he'd be toast right about now.  God, Frank looked like shit.  Old, haggard, and all used up—a mere husk of a man.  Mental institutions always gave him the creeps, go figure, he'd been a 'guest' of them so often thanks to Scully and Skinner. First it was the bugs from outer space and then this mind reading shit.  He shivered involuntarily.  It shook him to even have to visit them on official business; his guts always felt like he'd just eaten a pound of cement.
    He took a long haul on is beer and laid his head back on the couch.
    Emotional blackmail, he thought, that's what it was.  Frank and he were the same man.  Both dedicated to their work above all else—driven, compulsive, hell, obsessive even. They'd murdered Frank's wife, were holding his daughter as an emotional hostage.  What hadn't that man lost?  No wonder he didn't want to help.  But in the end he came through and saved my ass—he and Scully that is.
    Mulder would never forget the look of joy on Frank's face when his daughter arrived.  Damn them, he thought, for doing that to the man.
    The taste of Scully was still on him.  Her soft lips meeting his—so chaste, so sisterly—ringing in the new millenium.   What would he and Scully have to face as the calendar added a few zeros to the year?  He didn't know, he didn't care right about now.
    He was alone, always would be if he wanted to continue his work.  His work is all that he is, it defines him; it gives his miserable life its meaning.  If he ever thought otherwise, Frank has proven him wrong.  Fox knew that he could never let himself become that vulnerable, never let himself show the soft belly of his emotions. They had taken Scully once, but that was their mistake.  They soon figured out that that wouldn't stop him, wouldn't deter him on his quest to destroy them and all they stood for.
    He and Krycek—Alex—were locked in a ballet of hate and recrimination.  That was their story and they were sticking to it.  They had decided this, among other things.  Keep their relationship a secret, keep their love unspoken.  Scully didn't even know, didn't suspect a thing.  As far as she knew, his lover was still that 'scum sucking rat bastard' and would always be so.
    "Love," he laughed aloud.  Was it love?  Hell, what did he know of love?  He did know how he felt; he knew how his stomach fluttered every time he heard his lover's voice.  He felt the flush on his face every time he saw those beautiful, green eyes.  He knew how his heart raced every time Alex touched him.  They'd never spoken of love, but both recognized it for what it was.  When all of this was over, when all those bastards were dead or rotting in jail, he'd swoop Alex into his arms—out in the open for everyone to see—and make a nest for him there.  But for now, he was alone—might always be, it was much safer for all that way.
    Although it's been months since they'd seen each other, at this moment, Fox could feel Alex all over him—the humid breath on his neck, his manly kisses, his warm and knowing touch.
    Mulder decided that this was one of those nights for bed.  He put his beer back on the table and quickly removed his tie.  He walked to the bedroom and opened the door.  Fox dropped his tie on the chair and slipped off the jacket, swiftly removing his shirt and undershirt they joined the quickly growing pile of clothes on the chair.
    He stood bare-chested and looked at his new bed.  At Alex's suggestion, he had gotten rid of that gauche and tawdry waterbed.  But he'd kept the mirrored ceiling.  Alex had said how it turned him on to watch Mulder's face in it as he brought him off.  Fox blushed slightly at the thought and he licked his lips.
    He quickly toed off his shoes, dropped his pants and shorts and stepped out of them.  Completely naked, he took off the plastic sheet covering the bed.  It was just as they had left it the last time: sheets all rumpled, pillows askew.  The smell of their sex, the smell of his Alex assailed his senses.  He refused to consider that he was keeping his bedroom as a shrine, but that's what it now was.  Everywhere he looked, every nook and cranny, contained Alex.  Alex's laughter rang in his ears; Alex's voice spoke to him of dark desires, of carnal rapture, of comfort taken and comfort given.
    He lay on the bed, straightened the pillows under his head, and drew the sheets up over himself.  He sighed softly as he cocooned himself in their place—a place where he felt warm and safe, a place where he now felt love.  He wondered where Alex was now, what he was doing, and he wondered, too, if Alex was thinking of him.
    Muldler's eyes flew open and he got out of bed quickly.  He walked to his chest of drawers and drew out a plastic bag from the top drawer.  He reached in and pulled out one leather glove and brought it to his nose.  He rubbed his face with it, breathing in Alex's smell.  Alex had left this behind on his last visit—funny, Mulder thought, how his favorite boxer shorts went missing at the same time.
    He put the glove on his hand and touched his chest with it, closing his eyes in pleasure at the soft, sensuous feel of the well-worn leather on his skin. He remembered what Alex's touch felt like—not that he could ever, ever really forget.  He felt his naked flesh cool and pucker; he kept the glove on his hand as he jumped back into bed and covered himself up again.
    He spread his legs wide and with the gloved hand he felt himself.  In an arc from the inside of one thigh to the other, slowly, deliberately touching himself as Alex would have done if he were here.  His hand reached the engorged shaft between his legs, but refused to touch it, instead, the leather caressed and held his heavy balls.  Fox smiled in pleasure. His naked hand caressed is chest, bringing his nipples to a state of hard and sensitive arousal.
    He turned on his side, drew Alex's pillow to his chest and held it close. Alex surrounded him now he felt.  He gently laid his head on the pillow, rubbing his cheek against it, as his gloved hand grasped his turgid cock he began to buck into his hand.  He laid feather kisses on the pillow, pressing it even more tightly to his chest as he continued to buck furiously into his hand.  His eyes were hazed with lust and longing as he finally spilled his seed and it joined with the dried and crusted evidence of their last coupling.  And there it would stay, stay until he held Alex in his arms in this bed once again.  When Alex came again, they would change the sheets and the cycle would begin anew.
    "Happy New Year, Alex!" Fox said.
    He felt weary, bone tired.  Fox removed the leather glove and brought it up and rubbed it against his cheek. He curled himself up into a ball, placed the glove between his thighs and squeezed it tightly.  Mulder closed his eyes and rested his head on Alex's pillow—even the dampness in the pillow from his own tears couldn't deter sleep for long.

The end.

Continued in Cantable

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