Tue, 10 Feb 1998
Summary: A Skinner/Mulder slash fanfic.
Category/Rating: Slash/NC-17
Spoilers: Fourth Season US (all to be safe)
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. CC does. Please distribute freely.
Warning: M/M sexual content ahead. If this bothers you and/or you are under 18,
please hit *delete*. This my first attempt at slash. Be gentle. ;-)


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Thirst I
By D.B. Kate
dbkate@yahoo.com

He smells like rain.

Not a particularly masculine smell, thought Walter Skinner, but one exactly suited
to the man in front of me.

Rain smells strong, sweet, clean and perfectly wet. It is an undefinable smell, one
that should be impossible to capture, but somehow he does it.

And I don't think it's Fox Mulder's aftershave.

I smell it every time he enters my office, even after the smoking bastard has filled
it with his lingering stench. He clears the smoke like a thunderstorm clears away a
hot and heavy summer day leaving behind nothing but fresh, sweet air.

Rain is the promise of water. Water is the promise of life.

That promise is here now. Sitting with rings underneath eyes that are a vibrant
green versus their usual dull hazel, eyes that are bright with tears. His face is
white, except for the raw dot between his eyes, the place where he keeps rubbing
as if in thought, but I know it this is a reflex of distress.

His partner is dying.

He wants to make a deal with the smoker. 

I'm not going to let him.

And that is the beginning and end of our relationship.

But now, when he lowers his head into his hands, showing the soft skin of his
neck, the part where his collar ends and the fine, shaved lines of his hair begin, he
is so tempting, it takes every ounce of Marine control that I have left, not to kiss
him right there and then.

To turn those eyes up toward mine, so incredibly sad and frightened and replace
the water in them with fire. The same fire that burns inside of me each time he
enters my office and creates a drought inside of me that he could, perhaps,
relieve.

But I am forced to thirst.

For he is restless and angry, as well as fearful. He is angry at me. He believes that
I work *with* his enemies, not for them. This is a mistake and there are no
circumstances I can point to that might relieve him of this delusion. But he needs
me. He cannot avoid me nor replace me.

That's why he is here today.

"I need your help, Sir."

His tone is always distant and respectful. If only he could train his features as well
as his voice, he might become as good an actor as I. I can sit and look at him as
though he held no other interest to me than that of an unruly subordinate, whom I
must keep in line, no matter what.

When what I want to do is nothing less than take him right where he sits, to lay
him down and feel him underneath me and to *know* it is him. Sometimes, I can
almost see him there.

He is trembling.

And he is beautiful.

I picture this so often, in my mind and involuntarily, in my sleep, it takes on the
shades of reality. With scents and whispers and colors that you shouldn't see or
hear in dreams.

It always begins the same way.

I'm already on top of him. I haven't forced him, but he struggles nonetheless, if
only for his own pride or perhaps to cut any future losses he might incur if his
beliefs about my loyalties turn out to be correct. He cannot help himself, but he
will fight the good fight.

"Why...why are you doing this?" he is asking, but he knows why.

I take his lips in answer. Surprisingly, he surrenders them immediately, but then I
realize that he is trying to kiss his way out from underneath me, thinking that I will
weaken my grip on his wrists or slide down with passion. I do neither, but instead
push down harder. He is left to squirm helplessly underneath me and this excites
me beyond all imagining. Because he knows that all he has to do is ask for release
and I will immediately acquiesce.

But he continues to play this game of helplessness.

Even though it is he who is in complete control.

He allows me to undo his tie, pretending to be distracted with kisses. It comes off
easily, sliding through his collar, down to the floor. His jacket and shirt are next
to be shed, and they fall away, disappearing completely, like all things in dreams
that are inconvenient. Everything he is wearing is inconvenient, but I like to savor
the removal of each item, for each piece is a little bit of the fear and mistrust he
views me with. But soon, almost too soon, all of that is gone and we are left with
nothing but each other.

Even in my dreams this frightens me.

But now, thankfully, the balance has shifted. His hands reach to my face, pull me
towards him and he kisses me without pretense. I am insane with passion, but he
takes his time, still controlling our coupling, still controlling me. I can't help but
reach for his cock and it is hot, wonderful velvet in my hand.

Such soft steel.

I can feel his groans against my lips and he reaches for my cock. We are holding
each other captive perfectly, and his hand nearly brings me over the edge, but I
slow him down. I want this to last, to last throughout the night, spill over unto the
morning, perhaps into an afternoon...or two.

I don't want this to end.

But I can't resist him or my own need. I brush a thumb over his nipple and his gasp
makes me shiver. I bend to take it in my mouth and I no longer have any other
desires than to caress this single part of him that responds with such a hard
warmth against my tongue and teeth. I am completely distracted and maybe he can
sense that.

He tries once more to push me away.

"Sir." he begins, his lips and eyes wet...hazy. "Sir, I think...."

I immediately slide down and take his cock into my mouth.

And now there is no *sir*, no struggles, no pretense. I can concentrate on the heat
and thickness that fills my mouth without any thought at all. There is a small
heartbeat inside my cheek, and a delicious flavor of salt and sea on my tongue. I
take him in completely, my lips wrapped around the base of his cock, but his hips
are bucking, still trying to go further inside, as though I could perhaps take him
whole.

Body and soul.

I suck greedily on him, pulling up towards the head and plunging down again,
barely hearing his cries to stop, not to stop, to go on, to finish, to please...to
please...

He cries when he comes.

*Oh no, oh no, oh no...*

His hips give one final push as he shoots into my mouth. I swallow hungrily; it is
all hot salt and sugar, bitterness and smooth fire sliding down my throat. I want
more, but he has given me all he has and my cock is pulsing with its own orgasm;
shivers that are crawling through my thighs and down my legs, trembling against
the leather couch, leaving me perfectly content in this dream of mine, without
hunger.

Without thirst. 

But not now. For he is here. 

Sitting with rings under his eyes and his head in his hands. He has been weeping,
without food or sleep, possibly...probably for days. He is unshaven and his tie is
careless, his voice raw and hoarse.

For his partner is dying.

He wants to make a deal.

And I will not let him.


**************
Fini.

Comments are very welcome.
dbkate@yahoo.com

 


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Tue, 10 Feb 1998
Summary: A Mulder/Skinner slash story. Walter Skinner's deal with the darkness,
his unrequited desire for Agent Mulder and Agent Scully's illness collide.
Category/Rating: Slash, UST, Angst/R
Spoilers: US Season Four. Takes place after "Zero Sum" 
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Chris Carter does.
Warning: M/M sexual content ahead. If this offends you, and/or you are under 18
please hit *delete*.


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Thirst II: Restraint
by D.B. Kate
dbkate@yahoo.com

I don't like hospitals.

It might be the smell of the disinfectant, nauseatingly sharp and sweet, barely
covering the stench of disease that it's supposed to mask. Perhaps it's the noise.
The clatter of sharp things against metal or the scrape of glass bottles onto carts
that makes my skin crawl every time I step into one.

Maybe it's the name on the door in front of me.

Room 1411. Scully, D.

I can feel the air forced out of my lungs as though I've been kicked. It's not a new
feeling. I felt it each time I saw her sick on the job, sitting in my office, pale
behind thin glasses and hearing the same words every time I questioned her
presence there.

"I'm fine, sir."

She's not fine now.

I take a deep breath and enter without knocking, but I doubt if either occupant of
the room would have heard me if I had.

"Agent Mulder?"

I can see him in the room, shadowed in the fading spring light, gently rocking back
and forth. His eyes are closed and Dana Scully's unresponsive palm is held tightly
against his lips, his fingers curled over her thin wrist. The tubes emerge from
everywhere, from her hands, her mouth, her chest. There is an IV in her forehead.
A bag on the side inflates and deflates relentlessly, at a steady rate, merciless in
its repetitiveness.

She is no longer breathing on her own.

She is near the end.

And I am going to kill that smoking bastard.

"Agent Mulder?" I repeat, walking up to him.

He doesn't look up at the sound of my voice. I can see that he is alone in this
room and even if a hundred people entered, no one else would exist besides
himself and the silent being lying in front of him. I can feel his grief, great and
terrible, a tangible, living creature in this room of sadness and lost souls.

Without thinking, I run a hand through his hair.

As soon as I feel its silk between my fingers, I know I've made a mistake. I pull it
back as though I had plunged it into a furnace, and that is a bigger mistake. His
eyes are wide when he looks up at me.

"I'm sorry...I just..." I stumble, inwardly cursing myself.

Idiot.

"Her blood pressure is slightly higher today, sir," he replies, turning away and
giving me an unexpected reprieve. He rises and moves a tube slightly to the left,
then to the right, trying to create an illusion of order in the chaos of plastic that
covers her.

"Is that good?" I ask, knowing that it really makes no difference.

"I don't know. But it's a change," he replies. "Change is good."

Change is good. But the change that he truly wants isn't about to take place. He
wants her back, his partner and best friend. Working next to him, for his crusades,
large and small. I want her back, not only because she is my agent, a valuable agent
and human being, but to make him happy. For lately, his happiness means more to
me than I ever thought it would.

But her future is rapidly becoming a fantasy.

Unless I keep my appointment with the smoker.

Again.

He bends over and kisses her forehead so tenderly that I almost expect her eyes to
open and her lips to smile at the care and love that's hovering over her. I look
away, ashamed of my helplessness. Ashamed of the injustice.

Ashamed of the jealousy that creeps up my spine.

"I just came for a quick visit," I say gruffly, suddenly feeling awkward. Out of
place.

He doesn't seem to notice.

"Is she going to die, sir?" he blurts out abruptly, startling me.

He faces me with huge eyes and a salt-white face. Her small hand is still entwined
in his trembling one, shaking with it, unknowingly. His other hand reaches out and
grabs mine compulsively and suddenly all three of us are linked together.

As we always seem to be.

"I don't know, Agent Mulder," I reply, returning the tight grasp of his hand with a
squeeze. His hand is strong and warm and I don't want to let go, even though I am
hating the thoughts that are running through my head at his touch.

Such inappropriate thoughts.

"I don't know," I repeat hoarsely, as his head bows and comes to rest against my
shoulder. I daren't turn toward him, for no power on earth would stop me from
kissing the soft hair that is brushing against my cheek. His hand is still in mine.
My head and heart are pounding so fiercely, I'm amazed that I can still stay
upright.

I wonder if Mulder knows what I'm thinking.

I wonder if the smoker will call me today.

%%%%%%%%%%

"Mr. Skinner."

I hate him the way some people hate snakes.

Mindlessly. Passionately. I hate his face. I hate the way he holds his cigarette
between his thumb and forefinger, with yellow nails and stained fingertips. I hate
his suit, ill-fitting and expensive, his thoughtless shirt and hideous tie. I hate his
mouth, cruel and unchanging. These may not be good reasons to hate him and you
could give me a thousand sane reasons not to hate him, but not one of them will
change my mind.

Ever.

"Do you remember our deal, Mr. Skinner?"

"Yes. I remember it clearly. It's you who seem to have forgotten it," I say, my jaw
working its way painfully into my cheek.

"I've forgotten it?" he asks, smiling horribly.

"You were supposed to find a cure for Agent Scully," I reply, my fingers itching
just to touch the handle of my gun.

I shove them further into my pockets.

"Who says that I won't?"

His voice is such a toxic mixture of venom and honey, I can almost feel the
poison of it enter me, paralyzing everything it touches.

Even my soul.

"The time to put up or shut up is over," I continue, remembering, for some odd
reason, saying the same words so long ago, to a Vietnamese terrorist that I had
captured.

And killed.

"If I were you, Mr. Skinner..."

"You are *not* me. Don't even go there. I no longer believe you have the power to
cure her. Therefore, our deal is off."

Images of an enemy's retreat, his cowardly flight back through the Vietnamese
jungles, back into his dark and secret daytime holes, are filling me and bringing
back the old feelings of hope...and triumph.

"And if I should convince you that I have the power to cure Agent Scully, would
we still have a deal?" the snake asks, grinning.

Suddenly the enemy has emerged from his hiding place.

His rifle, pointed at my head.

"Then we'll talk," I say, the feeling of possible freedom slipping right past me, like
some coward retreats into a jungle.

"Then we'll be talking, Mr. Skinner."

%%%%%%%%%%

"Sir?"

Mulder's voice sounds so different on the phone.

Younger. Stronger. Incredibly alive.

"She's awake, sir."

"Agent Scully?" I ask stupidly. I try to shake the sleep from my head and eyes.

"Yes, sir," he answers brightly, not noticing my sluggishness. "She came out of the
coma two hours ago. I'm here at the hospital now. The doctors are amazed."

I'll bet they are.

"That's good, Agent Mulder," I answer, suddenly very alert. "Stay there and keep
me informed of her progress."

My heart is pounding and fear is making my mouth perfectly dry. That bastard.
That filthy, smoking son-of-a-bitch. He did it.

He actually did it.

"Sir?"

Mulder's voice brings me back.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." The voice on the other end of the phone is soft and kind. "Thank you
for yesterday. Thank you for being there."

Suddenly I am no longer afraid.

"Keep your eye on her, Agent Mulder. I'll contact you later today."

"Yes, sir. I..."

I hang up before he can finish. The phone rings again almost immediately. I look
at it as though it could attack me. I know who it is and I have no choice but to
answer it.

"Skinner," I say, hoping beyond hope that it is Mulder, anyone...or anything else.

"Well, Mr. Skinner..."

No such luck.

"Yes?" I answer. Everything hurts. My eyes, my chest, my head...everything.

"Are you ready to talk?"

%%%%%%%%%%%

"Am I here at a bad time?"

Mulder has dropped the *sir*.

I stand in the doorway, looking at him for a long moment. I like to think that I
deserve this moment, just to enjoy him. Enjoy the outlines of his shoulders
underneath a wrinkled suit jacket, the tiny bit of throat exposed by an unkempt tie.
Don't I deserve to enjoy his eyes? They are brown and green and gold with the
smallest circle of blue. I'll take in his lips, whether I deserve to or not, only
because they are there; they are flawless, and I cannot resist them.

I motion him in.

"What can I do for you, Agent Mulder?"

"I thought I would speak to you regarding Agent Scully's condition," he replies,
looking around my apartment with his usual expression. A mixture of curiosity
and suspicion.

But this time I've done a better job at hiding the crimes I've committed for the
smoker.

I hope.

"What about Agent Scully's condition?" I ask, following his glances and praying
that I've been thorough.

"As happy as I am about Agent Scully's recovery, I can't help but wonder what
extraordin
says, very carefully.

He's good. But that's just one of the things I've always loved about him.

Isn't it?

"Why are you asking me about this, Agent Mulder?"

"I thought you could shed some light on the subject, that's all, sir."

"Well, I can't, Agent Mulder. Does that answer your question?"

"No, sir."

It seems as though we are dancing in some odd way. Dancing with words and
hidden thoughts on each side, not yet in sync. I don't want to lie to him, I don't
know how the smoker has done what he's done, so I am technically clear on that
account.

Aren't I?

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder," I reply with sincerity. "But I have no answers for you."

He sighs and sits without asking permission. He is so pale, sad and perfect that he
breaks my heart without making a sound. Suddenly, I want a hundred things all at
once, not only him, his body or his heart, I want the things that will procure his
happiness for him. Honesty, integrity in all things and...the truth.

But I can't tell him the whole truth. Not yet.

"Agent Mulder, you look exhausted. Would you..would you like to stay?" I ask,
perhaps regrettably, but the words have already left my mouth and I can't take
them back.

He looks at me again with veiled eyes, unreadable and cautious. He runs his thumb
over his lips, slowly and thoughtfully, with the slight dampness outlining his
mouth.

At that moment, I am almost lost.

"You don't have to," I say quickly, too quickly for any deception. "I only thought..."

"Do you have a TV?" he asks, leaning back against the couch, his body relaxing
slowly, his eyes not leaving mine.

"Certainly."

"Then I'll stay," he said, as if that made it the perfectly logical choice.

"Good. I'll get you a blanket," I muttered as I ran up the stairs, trying not to be too
obvious as I crash down hard on each step in anger.

Idiot.

What the hell do think you are going to do, Skinner? Tuck him in? Tell him a
bedtime story? If you want to fuck him, you should make yourself clear and get it
over with.

But I'm not sure if fucking him is precisely what I want to do.

When I come back, he is already laying down, sprawled carelessly over the length
of the couch, the remote in his hand. One leg is pulled up, the other dangling off
and his shoes are neatly placed under the table.

He is already at home. As only a true gypsy can be.

I look for a moment and then purposely let my gaze linger on the outline between
his legs. To hell with it.

Might as well get some enjoyment from this stupidity.

"I might not be here when you wake up," he says, not even glancing at me, but
already focused completely, like a dazed child, on the flickering, rapidly changing
images in front of him.

I toss the blanket on him, not even unfolding it. 

"Fine," I reply and leave without a good night.

When I undress and slide under the covers, sleep refuses to come. I can hear the
television downstairs, the disjointed voices and canned laughter, loud enough to
distract, but not loud enough to understand. I finally close my eyes and allow
myself to see him lying on my couch, but he's no longer alone. I reach for myself
and again, in a waking dream I take him, this time harshly and fully, entering him
roughly, hearing his moans over the TV's thoughtless voices.

I come hard, my hips jerking and shaking under the sheets, the trembling spasms
taking my breath away, but I am still not satisfied.

I know I am not going to sleep tonight. Not when he's down there.

Oblivious.

I turn again angrily, trying to shut the TV, the couch and the man laying on it out of
my mind. But they are all refusing to leave me be and I start to touch myself again.

Christ almighty, Walter Skinner.

What the hell are you thinking?

%%%%%%%%%%%%

"You know, I couldn't figure out why you were so involved in Agent Scully's
recovery, sir."

He's still there when I awake.

"Good morning to you, Agent Mulder," I reply, as I walk past him to the kitchen.
He is relentless, almost like a child. I wonder if this thought has been playing
through his mind all night. Not that I would blame him.

There were thoughts going through my mind all night too.

"However, I think I know why. But I'd rather you tell me," he yells out.

His voice floating in from the living area is careless and casual. The orange juice
carton in my hand collapses underneath my anger and I am torn between ravishing
him and throwing him right out the door. I'm glad I have swinging doors in the
kitchen.

They make such a nice noise when you slam them open.

"Excuse me?" I snarl. I enjoy Mulder's jump when the door cracks into the wall.

"I know why you are helping me, sir," he says, composing himself quickly.

"I am *helping* you, Agent Mulder, because I am responsible for the agents in my
area," I say, calling up every tone of command that I can still summon.

However, before I can even begin my tirade, he is in front of me. And to my
complete and utter shock, both his hands are upon my cheeks, his face within
inches of mine.

"I am responsible for the agents under my command," I repeat, almost surprised at
the sound of my own voice.

He does not blink.

"That's not it. Do you want to try again?" he whispers, and I begin to tremble and
fight it.

Instantly, his lips are against my forehead, moving only with words and sounds.
They are faint and utterly sweet.

"Agent Scully is a valuable agent. I have a duty to try and help her."

I want to run, but the slight pressure of his hands against my cheeks holds me
there more securely than any chain.

"No. I don't think so, Sir."

Damn it. I am falling. Tumbling down past all sane things. And I don't know if he is
falling with me or simply pushing me over the edge.

"What do you think, Agent Mulder?" I ask breathlessly, surprised that I can make a
sound.

"I think that you are trying to hide the truth from me. But I'm going to let you in on
a little secret. The truth never frightens or disgusts me. I believe that the truth is
perfect and beautiful, whatever it reveals. I can deal with the truth in all its forms.
But I can't deal with lies. So don't lie to me, sir. Tell me the truth."

His lips are against mine now, still talking, but they are half words, half kisses. I
want to speak, I want to correct him. There are a hundred explanations and a
thousand excuses I haven't even begun to try and use. I think I have a chance to lie
my way out of this, to push him back, to call him insane.

Or I could tell him the truth.

"I want you. I need you. I love you," I say, and there is no longer time for regret.

"And the truth will set you free," said Mulder as his lips open under mine and I
find myself completely breathless as the warmth and wetness engulfs my mouth. I
am fighting for air.

For I have forgotten how to breathe.

I gasp slightly and open my lips to take him inside. He is warm, strong and sweet
and I know for certain that there is a heaven.

For I am standing on its threshold.

I am kissing him and it is nothing like I thought it would be. I have forgotten about
the small rough spots on that are on tongues, the awkward struggle of noses and
chins, the silent fight to be the one in control and the tiny surrenders that come
with every second.

No, it nothing like I've ever imagined.

Because it is better than anything I could possibly have dreamed of.

I can't say how long we stood there, perhaps it was minutes or maybe it was hours.
It felt like seconds. But when he pulled away, time came to a shuddering halt,
along with my heart. It was morning, he had places to go, work to do. Oh, I
understood, but I can't remember hating the dull routine of life, the mindless rote
of everyday things, more than I did at that moment.

When I finally opened my eyes and saw his face, he was smiling.

"May I come back tonight?" he asks, flicking perfect fingers through his hair,
straightening his tie.

I nod mutely for my lips refuse to move.

They are still burning.

"Good," he says and smiles. It is a truly open and lovely smile, the likes of which I
haven't seen in months.

He leans in and I can feel his warm breath against my cheek.

"You could make me very happy, you know that, sir?" he whispers in my ear and
my heart hammers at the sound of the words.

His lips brush against mine once more and as I watch him leave, it takes every
ounce of remaining strength I have, not to force him to stay and take him, right
there on the floor and throw away all this pain and needless waste of time.

When the door shuts behind him, I hear phone ring.

And I begin to wish I'd never been born.

"Mr. Skinner. We have a job for you this evening."

No.

"I'm busy tonight." You son-of-a-bitch.

"Leisure time was not part of the deal, Mr. Skinner. There are many luxuries you
cannot afford and time is one of them. Of course, we can forget our deal, but then
there is no hope for Agent Scully."

And there is no hope for me.

"And I would hate to see how Agent Mulder would be affected by such a tragic
event. Such a terrible loss," he says, the butter and poison almost dripping from
the receiver.

My god, does he know?

These men can find out anything. He can't...but he might. And if he does, that's
only one more thing to hold against me. Against Mulder.

Against us.

"Don't you think so, Mr. Skinner?" he continues.

I can almost see his awful grin.

"Yes," I reply, not even hearing myself.

"Good. Be at headquarters at 10:15 tonight. Oh, and Mr. Skinner..."

"Yes," I say, everything around me starting to fade.

"Bring your gun."

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"Sir?"

I hate myself so much at this moment that it should be punishment enough.

But it isn't.

"I was just wondering what time I should come by tonight."

He sounds more than hopeful. He sounds happy. Excited and confident. A young
man once again, not the old and tired creature I see almost daily. So many bad
things have been erased in a single day. With what might have been a single kiss.

But nothing good can last.

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, but I have...I have...some work this evening."

The silence on the other end is deafening.

"I see."

Even over the phone, with my eyes closed...I can see his pain.

"Tomorrow, then..." he begins hopefully, not willing to give up the day's new-
found promise quite that easily.

"I'm afraid not."

"I see."

It is 9:30. If I leave now, I will just make it in time for my meeting with the
smoker.

"Perhaps we can talk, then?" he says, hiding his desperation rigidly under the guise
of control. "Can I come by now?"

It is 9:35. And now, I might be late.

"No. I have to leave now. I have things I have to do," I reply.

"But..."

I hang up before he can finish. The phone rings again almost immediately.

I know who it is and I have no choice but to answer it.

"Skinner," I say, having no hope that it could possibly be anyone else.

"Well, Mr. Skinner..."

"Yes?" I answer. Everything hurts. My eyes, my chest, my head...everything.

"Are you ready to meet?"

%%%%%%%%%%%%
Fini.

All comments welcome
dbkate@yahoo.com

 


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Tue, 10 Feb 1998
Summary: A Mulder/Skinner slash fanfic. Mulder takes an ill-fated trip to St.
Petersburg with Skinner in pursuit.
Category/Rating: Slash, UST, Angst/NC-17
Spoilers: US Season Four (ALL EPISODES - to be safe)
Disclaimer: Good Lord, I don't own them! CC does!
Warning: This piece contains M/M sexual content. If this offends, disgusts and/or
you are under eighteen years of age, please hit *delete*.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thirst III: White
By DB Kate
dbkate@yahoo.com

This will last out a night in Russia
When nights are longest there.
- Shakespeare

%%%%%%%%%

It's been seven hours and twenty-six days since I've last seen him.

I wouldn't normally be counting, but I have the misfortune of memory. I
remember that three weeks ago, after an interminable time of desire and longing,
Fox Mulder took my lips beneath his and along with them, took my heart. Three
hours later, my deal with the smoker clearly outlined, I effectively told Mulder
that I was no longer interested in him or the truth and that living with lies and
suffering alone is the right choice.

I couldn't tell him that it was my only choice.

The intercom buzzes rudely. "Agent Scully to see you, sir."

"Send her in."

I put down my pencil and my thoughts as the door opens.

"Sir."

She is so pale.

Such a thin shadow of the woman who normally rules this office when she is
present, with a brilliant mind and the sharpest set of blue eyes on earth. I hate to
say it, but I've always loved her visits. She is frustrating and beautiful, stubborn
and sad. I wish I had a daughter like her, one that I could shake my head at to
reprimand, all the while bursting with pride.

"How are you, Agent Scully?"

"It's Agent Mulder, sir."

Getting right to the point. Agent Mulder. But is it ever anything else?

"What about Agent Mulder?"

"Sir, last week we investigated another delivery of a diplomatic pouch with
contents unknown, its final destination marked as New York City. Agent Mulder
called to tell me that he had intercepted the package, and said he would contact
me later that day. That was three days ago, sir, and my efforts to locate either
Agent Mulder or the pouch have been fruitless."

"You have no idea where he is?"

"Well, sir, if I had to hazard a guess..." she begins, but stops. Her voice is
crumbling and while she doesn't want to give away his secrets, she knows she no
longer has a choice.

"Yes?" I ask, but not harshly. Not yet.

"I would say that he's in St. Petersburg, sir," she stammers.

"St. Petersburg, Agent Scully? Russia?"

"Yes, sir. My guess is that he's looking for Alex Krycek, sir," she continues, in a
much stronger voice, no doubt in response to what must be a maleficent
expression on my face. "We discovered that Krycek was the originator of the
package. It was coming from him, in St. Petersburg, to New York and we believed
that it could somehow be connected to the contaminated rock that we examined
after our last encounter with him."

"I see. And when were you going to tell me this, Agent Scully? Or am I always to
be the proverbial last one to know?"

"I would have gone myself to look for him, sir, but..."

"No need to go into why, Agent Scully. "

She looks relieved at this answer. Her body has betrayed her, with its own cells
turning against one another and that's enough pain and grief for one human being.
I'll forgive her this infraction and probably many others, but there is much more at
stake here than simple pride.

"I don't know what to do, sir."

She has desperation in her eyes and I don't like it one damn bit. Either she is
sicker than she is letting on, or Mulder is in serious trouble this time. And neither
one of those explanations is a particularly attractive one.

"I'll go to St. Petersburg, Agent Scully."

"You will?" she asks, her eyes widening.

"Yes, Agent Scully and I'll go off the record. I have some vacation coming up."

"Thank you, sir," she says simply, gratefully and means it.

"Now, what I am ordering you to do, Agent Scully, is to return home this
afternoon and rest. You will take a short leave of absence for the next five days
and I don't want to hear that you've been in the office, on a plane, in a boat, or any
and all of the above. Is that clear, Agent Scully?"

"Sir, I..."

"Is that clear, Agent Scully?" I repeat, and she knows what her answer better be.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Agent Thornley will drive you home."

"Thank you, sir."

I stop short of saying *dismissed*. I stop short of reaching out and helping her
from the chair that she is slowly rising from. I watch her leave my office and it is
a painful sight. She is taking the small, careful steps of a woman twice her age and
turning the doorknob slowly to exit. I close my eyes as I give the intercom
instructions to Kimberly, not wanting to look anymore.

"That's right, Kimberly. And I'd like you to get me a number from the UN," I say
into the tinny box.

"That's right. Marita Covarrubias."

%%%%%%%%%

The plane ride to Russia is a hell on earth.

It's not the plane itself, with its tiny seats that constrict and bind me at every turn.
Nor is it the broken trays, ripped carpets or the other cracked and damaged spots I
see everywhere, that do so little to give me confidence in this craft that must take
me over the sea, past the European continent, to St. Petersburg.

It's not the endless hours of flight or the waves of air that rock and jolt the damn
thing that frightens me, but it's what might be waiting for me when I land, that
makes me clutch the armrests and refuse all offers of food or drink.

There might be nothing waiting for me in St. Petersburg.

Mulder might not be there. This might be a ruse or distraction to send me
careening off thousands of miles away while the real trouble begins elsewhere.
Perhaps Agent Scully made a mistake, or Mulder, not wanting his sick partner to
follow him to his true destination, guided her in this outlandish direction.

Or Mulder might be there.

He might be hurt. Sick. Lost.

Dead.

"Coffee, sir?" asks the stewardess when she passes.

"No," I reply and try to stop my knee from compulsively shaking.

He can't be dead. I refuse to accept to that. Even if they laid him out in front of
me, held my hand against a frozen and still pulse, I will not accept it. Just as I will
not accept Agent Scully's illness. But there is a voice inside me, saying again and
again, that I can deny such things only because I haven't been faced with them.

Yet. But when the time comes...

"Do you have any whiskey?" I ask the stewardess, suddenly feeling the need for a
drink.

She nods and heads to the plane's rear. My knee shakes harder than ever.

So, where the hell is Mulder? Is he all right?

And what the hell was he thinking? Does he *ever* think of me?

Even after I said goodbye?

%%%%%%%%%%

St. Petersburg is filled with fog.

The mist from Neva River meeting with the colder sea air of the Baltic makes for
an earthbound cloud that shrouds all my surroundings. It's not cold, it's much
warmer than one might think, if all you know of Russia is borscht and Dr. Zhivago.

Especially when there is sunlight twenty-four hours a day.

At this time of year, the sun doesn't set in St. Petersburg. There is nothing but day
and its light in this place, at the top of the world, for the thirty days of June.

It is the month of the *white nights*

I'm walking past the south bank of the Neva, in the Admiralty, with its huge
avenues converging and the Winter Palace looming ahead. It's a city of bridges,
churches, and palaces each connecting to and revolving around the hundreds of
small rivers that flow into the Neva. I can see the outlines of Vasilyevski Island
across the channel, and hear the Baltic foghorns in the distance.

I wonder which one of these sights impressed Mulder the most.

Or if, in his haste..his hunt...he even noticed them.

Past the Admiralty, to the outer workings of the city, I see the smaller buildings,
the dirtier streets of the great city's outskirts. This is the place I want. Or at least
the place I've been sent to.

*Brutis Gogol Rue 12* says the note from Covarubbias. I don't trust her, but any
clue is better than none. My pace quickens down Gogal Rue.

The red door of a whorehouse soon stares me in the face.

Every city on earth has them, some of them quite opulent, with tasteful decoration
and fine art. But somehow I don't think this one is one of those. The door is
answered by the madam, a heavyset, frowsy woman with a look of greed and
lifetime of vice permanently hardened onto her face. She looks me over quickly
and ushers me in, with furtive glances up and down the narrow street.

"Excuse me," I begin, but she interrupts.

"Yes, I know you. You iz good customer. Very good," she says, in thick and broken
English, trundling heavily up the stairs and motioning me to follow. "I have just
what you want. I know what you like."

I put a hand on my gun and follow.

She motions for quiet and points to the door at the top of the upstairs hall. I reach
for the doorknob, but her hand opens up in front of me, blocking me.

"Show me the money," she says, humorlessly. "Money iz always up front."

I hand her an envelope containing a thousand dollars with my left hand, with my
right locked onto my gun. She takes it and begins to count, with excruciatingly
slow movements, but I wait patiently. When she is satisfied, she pulls out the key
and opens the door.

"That iz him," she says, pointing to the figure on the tiny bed. "And I know
nothing."

She quickly leaves.

It is Mulder.

At least I believe it's him. He is filthy, in jeans and a tattered windbreaker over a
surprisingly white T-shirt. Someone has changed it and I wonder why. I can see the
bruises on his face and neck and he is clutching his left arm as though it would fall
off. He is awake, but not awake, and for a terrified moment I wonder if I can move
him. But as I touch his face, his eyes spring open and there is a light in them, a
light of recognition and a look of quiet angels. He lifts his hand and runs a shaking
finger across my cheek.

"I knew it would be you," he hoarsely whispers.

And I press my mouth to his, for I am unable to speak.

%%%%%%%%%

Hauling Mulder downstairs is no easy task, but he's lighter than I thought.

The madam is waiting by the exit and hurries us along with short, irritable waves
of her hand. A battered cab is already waiting for us. We must be bad for business.
Mulder is in a state of semi-consciousness, loose and folding, but still making the
occasional noise, sometimes saying words. I pull him into the back seat with me
and instruct the driver, in my splintered Russian, to drive to the airport.

We are barely a kilometer into the trip when a black car appears.

"Cheka," I hear the cabby mutter.

He speeds up.

"Pardon me?" I ask, looking behind us and seeing the sedan follow.

I try to keep a grip on Mulder. His head is on my lap, but the rest of him keeps
sliding to floor, like a disjointed and careless doll.

"Cheka," he repeats, looking in the rear view mirror and arching as he pushes the
gas pedal to the floor. We leap forward with a terrible jolt and the scenery begins
to fly past.

Cheka. I know this word, but as Mulder crashes into the back of the front seat, I
am no mood for Russian vocabulary games.

"Slow the hell down and tell me what's going on!" I yell at the driver, as we careen
past buildings and trees.

"Komitet....Gosudarstvennoy....Bezopasnosti," he yells out over the horns and
screeching tires that we leave in our wake.

These words I understand. And they make my blood run cold.

The KGB. The Russian secret police. Who aren't known for their gentle
consideration and polite ways.

"Can you go faster?" I ask, wrapping a tighter arm around Mulder's shoulders.

"Da," the cabby replies. The cab turns sharply right and hurtles down what appears
to be an allyway. One with a dead end.

I hunch my body over Mulder's and forget about saying anything else.

To my complete surprise, there is no loud crash, no breaking glass or bone
crushing metal tearing through the cab. Instead we are suddenly on a little-used
back ally road, roaring through streets that are giving way to greener things up in
the distance.

The sedan is no longer behind us.

I sit up and cannot believe that we are still alive.

"You come with me. No Cheka. Come," the cabbie shouts at me, waving his hand
foward, as the cab speeds down a gravel road, throwing small rocks against the
glass. "I am czarist. No communist. They are crazy. All the time I do this. I help. I
know house. Come."

I don't know about this. But Mulder is in no condition to run.

"Here. You stay. Look. I give you vodka. This way we have deal," he says and
tosses a clear bottle over his shoulder. The woods around us are deep and green
over a dirt road. "But you must make mind quick. They are crazy."

I catch the bottle and examine the colors of the evening light through its contents.
It's past 10 pm and the sun is gloriously bright. Mulder is finally quiet in my arms
and the cab has slowed down to a pleasant rocking pace through the countryside.

"You say you have a safe house?" I ask the cabbie. I open the bottle and take a
sniff. And then a drink. It's the cheap stuff, but wonderfully hot and warming as it
sears its way down my throat.

"Safe, safe. Come. I have friends. Long live the Czar!" he bellows and motions for
the return of the bottle. I hand it back to him and watch half of its contents
disappear in a single gulp.

For the first time since the war, I make a hasty decision.

"All right. We're in," I say shortly, and he laughs noisily. The bottle comes flying
back to me.

"Long live the Czar!" he howls, as the car speeds further into the woods.

I shake my head and wonder if I'm making a terrible mistake. I feel a tug on my
arm. It's Mulder...he is looking up at me and grinning.

"Long live the Czar," he whispers with a smile.

I almost laugh out loud and open the bottle to take another swallow.

Long live the Czar, indeed.

%%%%%%%%

"Have you ever seen the Northern Lights?"

Mulder and I have been in this house for three days.

When we arrived, I wondered at the foolishness that made me choose this course
of action, but after a day of rest, food and vodka, it became as though we had never
existed outside of the three rooms that made up this tiny house. Mulder recovered
from his battering quickly and I didn't ask him about the bruises or the terrible
mark on his arm that grew fainter, but remained painful and tender. 

I didn't ask him what he was doing here.

I might have insisted that he tell me everything, every detail of his trip and his
pursuit of the truth here, but I wanted something else. Something that appeared far
less complicated, but in reality was more confusing and baffling than any strange
pursuit of his. 

I wanted him.

I wanted him without pain. Without a past. And was willing to sacrifice some
reality to get it. 

And he, silently, agreed.

We've now been in this house for three days, each spent in a haze of sunlight,
vodka and short embraces. We talk, but of simple, nonsensical things, enjoying
just the sound of each other's voices, maybe commenting on the weather or the
food, or say nothing at all, but lay side by side in the narrow bed and wonder at the
depth of each other's eyes. 

The bedroom is incredibly warm, it is warmed by the nighttime light that shines in
through the window of this small room and Mulder's body, which fits perfectly
and absolutely next to mine.

It's midnight and the sun is shining brightly.

"Walter?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever seen them?"

"Seen what?"

"The Northern Lights."

I want to laugh at his insistence that I answer. Here we are, so far away from any
place we could even begin to call home, with no way to return and he's asking
about lights.

I turn my face toward his and feel his eyelashes brush against mine.

"No. I've never seen them," I answer and take his lips, but only in passing. He wants
to speak and I know better than to stop him.

"Some people say they are beacons to the stars from an alien base," he says, quite
gravely, and before I can think of an appropriate answer, I see him smile slyly.

"But I think that's a crock of shit," he says and returns my kiss fully.

"However, it sounds like a theory that you might subscribe to, Agent Mulder," I
reply, but he has taken my mouth once again with his and I no longer have the
desire to discuss the lights.

No...not at all.

Soon my cock is so hard it truly hurts, but it's a wonderful ache that actually sets
me free in some strange way. I can no longer control my hips which are bumping
against his, in an irresistible rhythm. I can't control my hands which are reaching,
smoothing and tearing at his body and whatever clothing is left.

And I can't control my heart which is everywhere at once. It roars in my throat, my
ears, even my fingertips.

He is on top of me now, we have rolled into this position and I roll him back
underneath me, just for the joy of it. We are completely tangled in the blankets
and linens and even this restriction of movement adds to the pleasure. I pull back
for a single moment to see his face, flushed and beautiful, with full lips wet and
bruised with kisses. He pulls me down again and we are struggling once more
against the sheets, against each other, against time.

I rip the suffocating blankets back and take a moment just to look.

He is completely undressed and exposed, his chest rising and falling in gasps,
every part shivering in some way. From the hard gooseflesh of his nipples, to his
cock which is trembling apart from him, with its own small heartbeat and delicate
sensations.

His hands are shaking.

And suddenly I want him more than life itself.

I pull him up into a kiss, one asking forgiveness, because I know I am going to
take him without thought or polite questions. I slide down and press the ache in
my lips to the throb in his neck and marvel at how they match. Small hairs scratch
my tongue and my cock is nearly bursting as he strains the length of his body
against mine. I slide over to the side and ignore his indignant groan.

I flick my thumb over a nipple. It is hot and firm and fascinating to the exclusion
of all other things. For the moment. He gasps when I lower my head to his chest
and suck hard on both of them. His trembling hands are trying to touch me,
perhaps to sooth or stop me, but I really don't notice them.

I want him. I want his pleasure, not my own. He moans when I slide my tongue
down his chest to the cleft between his abdomen and leg, tasting the salt of clean
sweat rolling down his body. I suck and play with his navel and below, purposely
ignoring his cock which is shuddering and rigid against my cheek.

His hips buck and toss me up with them.

"Bad boy," I whisper with a smile and slide back up to take his mouth.

"Walter...please," he murmurs, his body squirming under mine, while a wonderful
feeling snakes through my body and my cock responds accordingly.

*Please, please, please.*

I amuse myself with tracing his ear, savoring the soft flesh of the lobe.

"You are teasing," he cries out accusingly. He reaches for himself, almost
petulantly, and in one quick movement I grasp his wrists and pin them over his
head. 

I'm on top of him now, grinding my hips coarsely against his, one cock stroking
the other, and my tongue is in his mouth, sucking on its warm insides, the wet silk
of the inner cheeks and teeth. He is whimpering against my lips and his legs are
sliding and struggling under mine with his buttocks rising and falling against the
bed; his cock laboring for relief. My own is ready to explode, with the throb
deepening in my groin and abdomen. My thighs are beginning to tremble and my
eyes are squeezing shut.

But I force myself to look at him.

I pull up from his mouth and see eyes that are wild with every feeling imaginable.
Desire, fear, even a touch of anger lie in them, but I can see one overwhelming
emotion, one that drowns out the rest and makes my breath catch in my throat.

I see love.

It is hidden there, underneath pain and sorrow and undefinable wishes, but it is
there. He can't hide it.

And I can no longer hold back.

I let go of his wrists, plunge down his body and engulf his cock in my mouth. I
hear him cry out, a short open-mouthed sound, that comes from deep within. I am
not thinking of technique as I pulled up and suck back down its length, taking him
in as far as he'll go, forcing him to the back of my mouth and down my throat. He
is crying out with words as I suck harder and faster. He is crying out to me, to
God, all wonderful, meaningless utterances of encouragement and need. He gives
one last sob, one last push into me and he comes, thundering and pulsing down my
throat.

And I follow him over the edge.

I always dreamed that he would cry when he came, but the tears are rolling down
my cheeks as I pull away. He lays there for a moment, with his eyes still closed,
breathing harshly in short gasps. Blindly, he reaches for me, his hand searching
for mine and finding it, his fingers entwine with mine so tightly, I nearly wince
with pain.

"Thank you," he says, without opening his eyes.

"You're welcome," is all I can think of replying before laying back down beside
him.

And six hours later the sun was still shining.

But it had never gone down.

%%%%%%%%%%%

"The flood, my friend!"

My eyes open unwillingly as the sound of knocking and some voice echoes
through the bedroom door. Mulder shifts slightly, but doesn't awake. I pull a shirt
over my head, step into my pants and open the door.

It's the cabbie.

"What's happening?" I ask him, discreetly pulling the door shut behind me.

"The flood. This year...all time there is flood. You must leave now or stay," he
says, nodding his head toward the river.

Stay.

I could stay here forever. Without even thinking of returning. But we have to
leave, this is not our home, and we aren't even welcome visitors here. The secret
police will find us eventually, and that's a situation I'd rather avoid.

"I have help for you. Here. In airport. Cousin. He will get you onto flight. No
customs. No Cheka. You leave," says the cabbie, his hands waving in a brisk
pantomime. "But must be soon. The river is coming."

"We'll get ready now," I answer and head back into the bedroom.

Mulder is still sleeping deeply and I would give my soul to the Devil not to have
to wake him. Everything about him is perfect and peaceful, the gentle rise and fall
of his shoulders underneath his steady breathing, the lock of hair that falls into his
closed eyes. I kiss his eyes, his cheeks and then his lips. He sighs and awakens.

"What time is it?" he asks, squinting against the everlasting sunlight that pours in
through the windows.

"3:00 am," I answer softly and kiss him again. "We have to leave."

"I see."

"I don't want to," I say, running my lips down his neck.

But his eyes have snapped into focus.

"How will we get back?" he asks, now staring directly and coldly at the ceiling.

I'm taken aback at his abruptness, but answer. 

"He has connections at the airport," I say, quickly rising. "We'll be smuggled
through customs and be booked on a flight to Berlin. From there it should be no
problem." 

"Can we trust him?" he asks, not looking at me.

"Damn it, Mulder, we've trusted him this long," I reply, just beginning to lose my
temper. 

We are falling back to reality, I see it and I hate it.

"I see," he says, still focused somewhere far away.

"So get dressed. We have an hour," I snap at him and jerk my jacket on.

When I leave the room, I slam the door behind me.

%%%%%%%%%

The flight back to the States is hell on earth.

It's not the endless hours of flight or the turbulence that rocks and shakes the
plane out of Russian airspace, past Eastern Europe into Berlin. Nor is it the
airplane food, surprisingly dry and miserable in a mouth that has survived on
nothing but vodka and sunlight for the past five days. 

Mulder will not look at me.

I cannot beg to ask what is wrong, I cannot yell or shake him and I'm not sure if it
would make a difference if I could. He is sitting stiffly in his seat next to me,
staring out the window as the faint sunlight of St. Petersburg fades in the distance.
He has sat this way for over an hour and our plane has turned south, to the place
where night exists, and darkness is a way of life.

"Agent Mulder," I say, my own voice thick and suffocating in my throat. "Is
everything all right?" 

Talk to me.

"Everything is fine, sir," he replies and continues to strain to keep St. Petersburg
in his sights. 

It disappears under the cover of night.

"I'll be expecting a full recounting of your activities here when we return, Agent
Mulder," I say, barely hearing my own words, but relying on rote to save me. 

"Yes, sir," he replies, and for the briefest second I hear the sound of regret
underneath the ice. "Perhaps we should talk outside of your office, sir. I am
concerned about security. You never know who might be listening, sir. I have to
be cautious. I don't know who I can trust. The smoker has his hand in many things,
he owns many lives, sir."

He finally turns to face me, but with eyes so cold, they would rival a Russian
winter.

"I understand, Agent Mulder," I reply and I turn away, for I cannot bear to look at
him.

So I focus my vision straight ahead, blurred and unfocused. It is difficult to see in
this false light, especially when you've become used to a place where the sun is
shining on you every moment. We are silent now, and the land where there is no
smoker, no unhappiness and no lies, is just a dream. I close my eyes and try to
return to this dream. To this place. 

The place where night doesn't exist.

%%%%%%%%%%%%

Fini.

All comments are welcome.
Send to dbkate@yahoo.com

 


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Tue, 10 Feb 1998
Summary: An accident, a remembrance and a possibility.
Category/Rating: Mulder/Skinner Slash, Angst/R
Spoilers: US Season Four/ALL episodes up to finale.
Warning: This contains M/M sexual content. If this offends you, please hit
*delete*.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thirst IV: Red
By D.B. Kate
dbkate@yahoo.com

He did not wear his scarlet coat
For blood and wine are red
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead
-The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Oscar Wilde

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"You aren't driving, are you, pal?"

I hate bartenders.

He's poured the vodka into my glass and placed the glass into my hand. If he had
opened my mouth and poured it down my throat to put me at the next round, I
wouldn't have been very surprised. So why the hell is he so concerned?

It's just 4:00 in the afternoon.

And I've only been here for six hours.

But here he is. Looking at me out of one eye, the other on the clock. His right
hand is swirling the rag across the old and stale wood in front of me and his left is
tapping out the minutes until he leaves. I wish that the agents under me were half
as alert or efficient, but I assume that this sort of intuition takes a lifetime of
drunks to learn.

He taps his hand again and nervously licks his lips.

"You ain't driving, right?"

"Hell, no," I answer. "How about another for the road?"

He shakes his head, but he's not about to argue with me. No one does. Might have
been the Marines, maybe Quantico, or it might be the hundred dollars on the bar. I
don't care, I need the drink, he needs the money. We are quite the pair.

"Ever been in love?" I ask, vaguely aware that my body is folding into itself. I am
almost unable to support my own head and my tongue is beginning to rebel against
my brain. I think I am slurring, but hell, who cares?

"Sure, pal," he answers, now bored completely out of his mind. Maybe that office
job *is* looking better by the minute. Won't have to listen to this crap every day
and night.

Won't have to hear some other fool's pain.

"I was. Last week in fact," I say, the room tilting sadly to the left. I'm wishing for
the peace of only two drinks ago, but that's the trick of booze. More doesn't do
what you want, but less does nothing at all. "Until the plane ride home."

"What happened?" he asks, expecting nothing more than a story about a
stewardess, an old man and a broken date. I almost smile. Maybe I should tell him.
I'll tell him a story about two men and one woman; one man young, but old before
his time and so beautiful he could be forgiven almost anything; a woman, for
whom innocence was not enough and myself, who was neither innocent nor
young, but was still helpless to avoid the entanglements of them both.

Should I tell him about Russia?

Where an Assistant Director of the FBI lost himself in vodka and the careless
caresses of his subordinate. An ostracized agent, a rogue and curious sort, who
believed that just because he was paranoid, that didn't mean that the entire world
wasn't out to get him.

Including myself.

And when they both returned home, there were no words or actions that could
possibly reassure one or comfort the other, so there was merely a simple return
to their previous state of cold suspension. It was in this place, a place where
desire, love or solace did not exist, where an uncomplicated misery was allowed
to breed and prevail, that they ended their affair.

It was fitting that he did it in my office.

"Sir," it began, so calm and numbing. "Can we speak safely here?"

"Of course, Agent Mulder."

I aimlessly wondered what the wiretappers were thinking.

"I see," was his reply, and a cold one at that. "Excuse me, but I am a distrustful
man, sir. Perhaps that's a fault, but I believe that it might be my salvation. Even
though I find it hard to believe that the office of the Assistant Director might be
exposed to such corruption, I have to be cautious, sir. You understand my
position, I assume?"

"You trust your partner, Agent Mulder," I reply, praying for a reprieve of any type.

But his eyes glinted over; the irises dark against the whites and I was lost.

"She is the only one I trust, sir," he replies, and our past has vanished with one
sentence. "Perhaps we should discuss the Lindsay case instead."

My rage and grief are one now. There are no words that I dare articulate that might
correct his beliefs, because his primary one is correct. We are being listened to.
Examined, observed, spied upon, and I cannot refuse this fact.

The smoker is here and I cannot deny him.

"No, Agent Mulder, please speak," I answer calmly, not betraying the tempest that
is threatening to tear me apart.

"What can I say, sir?" he begins, his eyes turning bitter and bright.. "We have one
enemy, you and I, but yet we fight each other instead of him. I don't understand
this. You refuse to tell me the truth. Even now, after all we've been through, you
deny me the simple refuge of trust in you. I cannot trust you, sir. You know things
that I don't. Even things that directly relate to myself and my partner, you hide
from me. Even after..."

Here he stops, unwilling or unable to continue.

"But here is where it ends, sir," he starts, his voice turning to steel. "This is a
beginning for us. You are my superior, sir, but no longer my confidant or friend. I
cannot trust you. Someone else has a hold over you and you've allowed him that
privilege. So consider this our final conversation on this matter."

I see him, but I can't look at him. I only hear his words that are knives flying
through the room. I love him, but he doesn't...cannot love me. And that is simply
all there is.

"You are killing me," I whisper and it is all I have the strength to say.

When he hears this, his eyes widened, but he remains silent. He will not comfort
me, even now.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he says and rises to leave.

"I am very sorry." And he left my office without another word.

But he was sorry.

Well, I'm sorry too. Maybe that's why I'm here in this dingy downtown bar
drinking my brains out. And that's not a bad reason is it? I must be sorry as hell.

I throw a fifty on the bar and rise to leave.

"You ain't driving, are you pal?" the bartender yells after me.

"No," I reply, as I stumble out the door and stagger toward my car.

***************

Part Two

"Charlie at three, sir."

Wait a minute. Why am I here?

I was leaving the bar a minute ago. I was on the street, not in this place. This place.
Hell, I left this damned place a long time ago. This jungle, hot and filthy, even in
its natural state, with the stench of smoke and blood surrounding me. I know it
well, and I wish I had never seen it. A keeper of death, this living place...a devourer
of life.

Why am I back here?

"Sir, Charlie at three!" yells the little grunt to my left once more.

The battle is hot and we have to take that hill or die in the attempt. Around me is
the deafening fury of gunfire, along with the smells of smoke, acid, green things
and death. I've been here before, but I can't remember when.

Perhaps I never left.

I can see the men in my unit. Marines, like I am, under my command. Every one of
them is keeping one eye on the trees, the dirt, the grass where Charlie's hiding and
the other eye on me.

Because I'm supposed to get their asses out of this place. Alive.

Tierney, the big guy, his huge, red face covered with rolling sweat, half crouching
with Dempsey behind him. Dempsey's completely shadowed by the huge soldier,
a hand-rolled cigarette glued to his lower lip and his mouth continuously moving,
sometimes making sense, other times just making smacking noises...*chek, chek,
chek.* MacAvoy and Welsh are next and they don't look good. Both had the Tsong
Liu fever this week, but they got over it quick.

They didn't have a choice.

Buchanan is cracking jokes; no one is laughing. He doesn't care. Stone is
humming in that maddening way he always does before a charge, and I think going
to shoot him myself if he doesn't stop. Between him, Dempsey and the war, I don't
know which will drive me insane first.

*Chek, chek, chek*

Keenan's the greenhorn. It's his third week and the shell shock just wore off. He's
at the KTM stage now, his eyes laughing and psychotic. His smile, like the
Joker's, is carved into his face. We all go through the KTM stage in the first
month, but unfortunately, it wears off.

KTM stands for *Kill The Motherfuckers* and it's the best part of war.

*Chek, chek, chek*

My sergeant is directly to my left, with his intelligent brown face and eyes. It's his
third tour. I once asked him why, for the love of God, he kept coming back to this
hellhole and he in reply, asked me if I was ever chased by a lynch mob or watched
my church burn to the ground with my family inside. I stopped asking questions.

On my right is Miller.

There isn't much to say about Miller. Except that he has hazel eyes and a perfect
face. It's an angel's face, one that even this goddamn place can't ravage or destroy.
And like an angel, he's my protection, my salvation in hell.

I spent last night in Miller's arms, the place where I've spent every night for the
last three months. These nights have been the only happiness I've known here, with
hours of long kisses and strong embraces. Some nights I simply hold him, his
head tucked under my chin, his hair damp and cool against m y cheek and my arms
refusing to let him go. He talks sleepily into my chest on those nights, talking of
family, of friends, of home... anything but here.

"Hey, Walt. When we go back, do you want to come to Montgomery for a spell?
You can see Sherman's old ranch. The wild horses still run there, Walt. And the
stars, why, when you look at them at night, they're as big as your hand. Nothing
standin' between you and them. Nothin' at all. We could be together there, Walt.
Nobody got to know. It'll just be you and me and those stars."

Some nights we walk into the undergrowth and make love fiercely, for hours,
losing ourselves in each other's heat on the cold, hard ground. Lately, I've been
entertaining wild fantasies of taking him home, making love to him in a bed.
Maybe California. I'd heard things were changing there. Who would have to know?
I don't even have to tell him. I'll surprise him.

Just as soon as someone tells me what the hell I'm doing back here.

"Charlie at noon, sir. Moving fast!" screams Keenan, his eyes glittering with rage
and hysterical fear.

Before I can respond, the jungle explodes.

Battles are over in the space of a moment. They aren't the long, drawn out scenes
from movies, they're an appallingly quick flash of light, gunfire and blood. If
you're lucky, you find yourself a hundred yards past your starting point, breathing
hard. If you're not, well it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?

When this one's all over, I realize that I've reached that point past the enemy's
guns. I'm safe, as are most of my men. I turn for a quick head count, when I notice
something strange.

Miller's not next to me.

He's always next to me. Waking or sleeping, in battle or rest. He's never left my
side, no...not once.

"Where's Miller?" I ask my sergeant.

"Behind us, sir," he answers, refusing to look into my eyes.

"What is he doing back there, sergeant?" I ask, my breath catching in my throat.

"He's dead, sir," says the sergeant, blinking and breathing hard, keeping the tears
back.

No. That can't be.

Suddenly I'm running back, the screams of my sergeant ignored. Charlie is
ecstatic and shows it with a display of bullets. My men, every damn, idiot one of
them, follows me back through the hail of death. Soon I'm over Miller's body and
his face is serene, still like a sleeping angel's, peaceful amid the chaos of war.

//Why am I here, God? I left this place so long ago.//

But once again, I'm kissing Miller, his blood pouring down my chin. I am choking,
but I refuse to let go. I can't help sobbing against his shoulder, willing him to
awake, but secretly hoping that when he does, it will be place far from here.

My sergeant discreetly turns away.

"What ya'll lookin' at?" I vaguely hear him yell. "Get back to your positions. Ain't
nothing to see here."

But they know; they've always known. And I can almost see their eyes. Filled with
pity...and terror.

"Sir. Are you wounded?" the sergeant finally asks, motioning to the blood around
my mouth. He knows that it's not mine, but he has to ask. For we have a hill to
capture or die in the attempt and they cannot move until I give the word. I give the
order to advance once more and the men silently obey.

The next time the brush erupts, I don't even pretend to be ready.

I lose Tierney, MacAvoy and Welsh in the first thirty seconds. Five minutes later
it's Keenan, Buchanan, Stone and Dempsey.

My sergeant falls at 0530.

"Shame about Miller, sir," he says, when I finally crawl to where he lay, both his
legs cut out from under him by machine gun fire. "A cryin' shame."

"The medics are coming," is all I can say. But the medics are nowhere to be seen
and thirty-seven minutes later he dies in my arms.

Again.

This can't be happening again. It can't. I left this place a long time ago. Send me to
hell, God, but don't send me back here. I lost every one of them, don't You
remember? I didn't want to live through it. I wanted to die with my men, but You
wouldn't let me. So why are You sending me back? Am I to have another chance at
death?

As if in answer, I see a white light surround me.

But it's not a peaceful light. It's the harsh light of lamps reflecting off of white
cloth and metal. There is a pain in my side so bad I want to scream, but there is
something stopping me. Another world is coming into focus, leaving the jungles
of Vietnam far behind. A strange world of brightness, plastic and steel. I blink a
few times and the only thing coming into focus is the man standing over me.

One with hazel eyes and an angel's face.

"It's all right, Walter," I hear Mulder say, his lips against my forehead, his hand in
mine.

"It's all right......"

%%%%%%%%%%

Part Three

"Good morning."

I still jump at the sound of his voice.

Mulder's been here for six days and I should be used to it by now, even if I'm still
in a haze of painkillers and drugs. Sometimes I can't believe that he is really here,
moving noiselessly through the room, handing me medicine, doing the necessary
household chores quietly and efficiently. They offered me a nurse, but he'd
refused on my behalf, saying that he'd be enough.

They let me out of the hospital a mere week after I'd drunkenly plowed my car
into a tree, two letter boxes and a lamppost, saying all the while how wonderfully
I've recovered. Too bad I can barely move. I assume that it's a good thing I'm on
three weeks suspension pending the investigation into my mishap. I don't like
being under the gun, but I'm not really worried about my job.

The smoker doesn't want to lose his ace that easily.

"Good morning," Mulder repeats and raises an eyebrow at me.

"I'm sorry. Good morning, Agent Mulder," I say, hoping that the first painkiller of
the day is on its way.

As if on cue, he hands me the medication with a glass of ice water.

"Thank you. I...I appreciate it," I stumble, wondering, perhaps for the first time,
why he is doing this. I must be getting better.

I'm becoming suspicious again.

For the past week, he's usually left the room after doing small tasks as this,
coming back in with lunch and later with dinner. But this morning is different. He
pulls a chair up next to my bed and leans back against it thoughtfully.

"How are you feeling, sir?" he asks softly, taking the glass back from my hand.

"Walter," I say, hoping these damn pills take effect soon.

"How are you feeling, Walter?"

"Lousy."

"I see," he says, without taking his eyes from my face. "Can I get you anything?"

"You've done enough, thank you. In fact I wanted to talk to you about that..." I
begin, but he interrupts.

"Can I ask you a question, Walter?"

"Yes," I reply, taking a deep breath. He *is* up to something and I'm not prepared
to face it. But I can't deny him either.

"Who is Miller?" he asks carefully, his face unable to hide an overwhelming
curiosity.

I can feel my mouth drop. Miller? How does he....

"I'm sorry, Walter. It's just that you kept calling out that name in the hospital while
you were semiconscious, that's all," he says in a consolatory manner. "I was just
wondering..."

"Miller is dead," I interrupt sharply, ignoring the pain that sears through my side.
"He was one of my soldiers in Vietnam, that's all. Do you have any other
questions, *Fox*?"

"Mulder," he replies, standing slowly.

"What?" I ask, the fury rising in me for some unknown reason.

"Mulder," he repeats, as he picks up a tray and goes to leave the room. "I even
made my parents call me Mulder."

I watch as the door shuts behind him and shake my head. Damn him. What the hell
is he on about now? Hasn't he had enough of this? I want to be angry, but the
numbness of the painkiller is taking its drowsy hold.

Suddenly the room shifts into a soft focus and the daylight becomes wonderfully
hushed.

I think I might be dreaming, but even that thought might be a dream.

%%%%%%%%%%

Part Four

Three days later, I can walk to the living room on my own.

Mulder's still here, his gym bag in the corner of the living room, the couch dented
from his sleep. I'm feeling more grateful to him by the second and I know this is a
dangerous way to think. I've tried to gently let him off the hook, to say I really
didn't need the assistance any longer, but he's still here.

"I owe you one," he says, referring to St. Petersburg. "Besides, Scully has
threatened to come here and take of you herself, if I leave. She'll intubate you for
practice and force Irish soda bread on you three times a day. I don't think you want
that, Walter."

"I think you're right," I reply, laughing for the first time in weeks. It hurts, but it's
worth it.

And before I know it or can even acknowledge it, he's once again lying against me
while I sit on the couch, his head on my chest as the TV blares at us. We have so
much to say, so many things between us, but how that all disappears when it is he
and I alone together. I curl an arm around him and he breathes a small sigh out,
relaxing completely, fitting perfectly and contentedly against me.

This is what I want from life. This is happiness.

"Walter?" he asks after a short time.

"Yes?" I answer, my lips against his hair.

"This soldier, Miller...he was important to you, wasn't he?"

I can feel my body stiffen. Miller's been my secret for thirty-one years. He is
buried with the village women, the orphans and all the atrocities of war that I
refuse to remember.

"Yes. He....he...was my soldier," I say, knowing that answer won't appease him. "I
felt bad about losing him. It was a difficult battle. I lost many men that day."

"But he's the only one you called out for while you were in the hospital," says
Mulder. "Was he a good friend?"

Something inside of me is shattering and I don't want it to.

"Yes," I rasp. "He was a good friend."

//My dearest friend.//

"It must have been hard to fight the war with him there," says Mulder, his eyes
focused far away.

"No, no it wasn't," I reply quickly, barely hearing what I say. "It was easier with him
there. We were together, we slept at the same time, ate the same food, rose at the
same time, we had the same enemy...."

"The same enemy?" Mulder whispers and I can hear one heartbeat between us.

"Yes," I reply and the sadness of Miller's memory faded into a spark of
knowledge. "It made a terrible life easier. I wasn't alone in my fight. I had
someone...it made us stronger."

I am breathing heavily now and I don't know why.

"Then perhaps you and I aren't in that different a situation," says Mulder, turning to
look up at me, his eyes beautiful and bright. "We have the same enemy, don't we?
Why should we fight each other? Maybe that's what they want, Walter. You and I
to fight, but to fight apart, separately. Maybe they know that together, we can't
lose."

//Together...we can't lose.//

Before I can reply, his lips are impulsively against mine, as wonderful as they've
ever felt, perhaps even more so, because I finally realize that we are together,
truly together at last, without anger or fear. He is completely relaxed in my arms,
his kisses everywhere at once against my face and neck. Our hands are pulling at
one another now, and I take off his shirt, gasping at the sight of him without it. He
is more beautiful than I've ever dreamed and I swear, to any god that is listening,
that nothing will come between us again.

He straddles me, his kisses deep, his body forcing mine against the back of the
couch. I feel him pull away as I struggle with the top button of his jeans, trying
desperately to remove them, not wanting anything else to separate us.

"Walter," he murmurs against my lips. "We should wait. You aren't completely
healed yet."

"No, now," I say, only feeling a slight throb in my side. A throb that was a gut-
wrenching pain a few hours before.

"I think we should," he says, backing away slightly, his eyes filled with concern
and love.

I close mine, barely able to take the sight.

"You are a tease and a half, Fox Mulder," I say, leaning back and gasping for air,
the dull throb of my injuries becoming a sharp ache again. Maybe he's right.
We've got time.

We've got the rest of our lives.

"This is us, Walter. We fight together. With no more secrets between us. No
matter how hard that may be," I hear him saying, his lips against mine trembling
with words and kisses. "I'm not going to leave your side. I am always next to you.
Waking or sleeping, in battle or rest. I'm not leaving."

I can feel the truth in his words.

And maybe this was the only truth worth searching for.

***************

Part Five

"Mr. Skinner?"

The smoking bastard has a unique phone voice. A nasty rasp, yet high pitched with
the slightest tinge of cowardice.

I should have shot him while I had the chance.

"Yes?" I ask, running a hand over Mulder's shoulder. He is laying in the bed next to
me, but not yet awake, even as I shake him.

"I think you might want to take a look at your morning mail." he says, and the call
finishes with a *click*.

I close the phone and gingerly pull up from the bed.

When I reach the living room, I can see the manila envelope in the middle of the
floor. I pick it up and shake its contents loose.

It's photos. That's all.

Photos of me & Mulder.

In my house on the day he kissed me for the first time to my vast surprise. Photos
of us in St. Petersburg, where I stole three short and illicit nights in his arms.
Photos of last night, here, in my very apartment, where we made our vow to fight
together. Photos of us in various stages of talking, kissing, even lovemaking.

The world starts swimming in front of me.

//Together we can't lose...//

But alone he might be safe.

//I am always by your side.//

But perhaps that's not a good place to be.

So alone I sit, with these photos in my hand. Waiting for the sunrise. Waiting to
decide what I am going to tell Mulder when he awakes.

And wondering if he will understand.

***************
Fini

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