There and Back

by A. Leigh-Anne Childe

Krycek/Skinner slash. Sort of. Sequel (sort of) to 'The Night Visitor'.
NC-17, I guess. One thing you *can* pin me down on, besides a wrestling mat,
is that these characters, sad to say, belong to the Cruel powers that be.
Angst free of charge, batteries not included. Archive wherever you like,
MKRA-related pages, yes, please. All commas and whatnot are mine; they are
all deeply treasured, each and every one. Feedback, always lovely.
eliade@drizzle.com
 

*****
 

          Well, look at me. This isn't a picture I ever saw myself framed in. And
the frame itself has more of those gilded curlicues than I'm used to, more
frills and frippery. I've never been anyone's fancy man before; I'm not the
fancy type, or wouldn't have said so. Fancy man--fancy boy, more like. I
know my place in the food chain.

     Gilded cage--that's what you'd call it. I'm just a one-winged bird in a
golden cage. Yeah. It's a clean cage, I'll say that. Why shouldn't I make
myself comfortable, I've had enough of mud, thanks. And oil and chill and
the fucking stench of rancid fatback and ancient field latrines. Been there,
done. . .too much, thanks. Not what I expected when I signed on the dotted
line. Thought I was harder than what I am. Everyone's flesh is soft, and
even a bone gives under steel.

     Pity, pity. Hold on a sec, let me find my self-mockery and kick this weepy
puppy shit back in the closet where it can keep my aborted inner child
company. Yeah, okay. You know, I went to college. I went through the proper
channels. I had a life. Jesus, the look on your face--well, I'm just
imagining it. Fox Mulder, mankind's moral compass. Give the man a blindfold
and watch the arrow of certitude spin round and around in the darkness. .
.and yet it always ends up pointing true north. How does he do that. How do
you do that, Foxy?

     Let me refill my glass.

     Oh, you'd have an eyeful if you could see me now, green-eyed, blue-eyed,
fair-haired boy. I'm lazy in my lair, in my cage--my nest! Let me not laugh,
*god*, my fucking love nest. That is too funny. Mm. Yeah, some days I don't
even put on my feathers, just lounge around in my all together, which isn't
completely all *together*, but it'll have to do. I'd like to see your face
when you got that first good look at the results of my stupid-ass
maneuverings and manipulations. God knows what I thought I was doing,
playing spy versus spy with you, but here we arm. . .wow, Freudian slip.
Here we are. Here I am. Most days, it feels like you're within spitting
distance on a good wind. The boy next door in sunny downtown Alexandria.
Okay, you're not that close, but I swear, Mulder, I can feel your Aurora
Borealis aura from a crow-flying mile. Try this on for size--I can still
hear you saying, about some desktop back-burner shit case you couldn't let
go--you're saying to me, "In Christian symbolism the crow is the allegory of
solitude". Lo and behold, Mulder, the dutiful tape recorder I kept running
all those days of our limited partnership--it recorded every word.

     Press the playback, presto. Echo of Mulder. Echo.

     Oh, yeah, I can see the look on your face. Too well. You can get that look
off your face, asshole. Don't think I can't deal with this. I'm doing a lot
better than you ever would, you, the world's walkingest basket case. Talk
about inner fucking child--look at you--you've got your mummified inner kid
shrunken up and withered around your neck like some cannibal's dessert. Or
is that your sister.

     No. . .it's okay, Mulder. I've seen worse.

     He said that to me.

     Man, oh man--I'd *really* like to see your face--I'd like to be the snake
popping out of the box at your surprise party. Assistant Director, Skinner,
*sir*. What a good boy you are. You have no fucking clue. Do you, Mulder? Do
you even know you don't have a clue, though, that's the question. Key to all
knowledge, that's what it is, Mulder, knowing what you don't know. As you
once said to me.

     I know you've had a cock up your ass. . .I know because I put it there.
What you didn't know. . .what you don't know was I was fucking the big dog,
too. Think he must have smelled it on me, don't you think? The scent of
spunk. Maybe he smelled *you*, on me. That would explain a lot, wouldn't it?
A man like that, he doesn't act without good reason, even his dick stands up
on command, and why's he gonna trifle with a piece of punk like me, when he
could have Fox Mulder roasting on a spit over a slow burn? Hey, but maybe he
likes dark meat, so to speak, what do you think, Mulder; meat that's turned
a little, got that high, gamey whiff. Got the taint on it. That's me,
Foxfire. Gamey, high, and certifiably tainted.

     He likes it. Let me give you the sly eye and see what you make of that.
You don't believe it; you don't want to believe. You'd never say, "Tell me I'm
the only one", would you, baby? But, god, what a sucker you are for a few
tight squeezes on the windpipe and that bone-deep tickle, the boning knife
in your ass carving you to pieces. Good thing I left when I did, you were
all set to go sweet on me. You're a strange man, though, Mulder. Weirdly
intuitive, we can all see that. I still go flat-out amazed when I think of
how you brought me to his apartment, handing me over like a doorprize. If
you knew now what you don't know, well, you'd probably get that hurt bitter
sneer and accuse us of fucking like weasels the moment you were out the
door. Yeah, sure. Let me reassure you, Mulder, it was a cold night. This was
not a man who wanted to be within distance of my wheedling, conniving
tongue, let me tell you. God knows what I could have talked him into, if
he'd given me the chance. Let me grin wickedly at you and let you wonder.
You should wonder. Look at me now.

     Walter Skinner's toyboy. How's that for a kick in the face. Oh, now, don't
be jealous, stud. You'd always be my number one draft pick. Maybe. Then
again maybe I'm getting a taste for rough dick in my ripening old age. You
want to know how good he does it? I'll bet you do.

     I'll bet you do. . .let's just say nature compensates; a surly social
demeanor turns to gold between the sheets--oh, but *you* knew that. Yeah,
maybe I am getting a taste for it. I haven't been ridden to a lather like
this in. . .a while. He can make me moan like you never did. I may be a bit
short on the big insights; it's not every day I turn the savvy Mulder-mirror
of psychoanalysis on myself, okay. But I know the burn. I'd like you to see
the look on *my* face mornings after the blitzkrieg--you know what a
blitzkrieg is, Mulder? The war of lightning. Oh--it's *better* than that.
Mornings when I can barely sit down, and when I do it hurts so fucking good
all I want to do is call him and force him back and bring him to a raging
fucking storm until he slaps me against the wall and makes me want to
scream. Until I do scream, Mulder. Did that a few times, tricked him back,
pushed him to a fury and gave us both what we wanted, me still naked and
dripping with him, him unzipping just enough to ram the missile home. Lock
and load. Yeah, but most mornings, I just sit at my kitchen table eating
cereal, gritting my teeth, ignoring my hard-on, feeling it like a fucking
tooth-ache, but not wanting to jack off because it wouldn't be good enough.

     You ever had it so good? Mm, well. It has its moments. He brings me Thai
food; told him I liked it. He rubbed my shoulders once. That was good. .
.once he. . .once, he brought me a book that he'd bought on his way in. Just
on a fucking whim, some mystery. I mean, he gives me money. He doesn't have
to be buying me fucking books. He just did.

     Yeah, well. So what. So what, right? Is what you're thinking, I'll bet. Big
deal. What the hell am I doing here, that's what you want to know. . .except
you'd rather see me behind reinforced steel bars, or swinging from a rope.
So you tell me. So you've said. Gotcha, Mulder. Capisce.

     Someday soon I need to buy a decent print for these eight white walls. I'm
more or less counting just the important walls. White walls, and a picture
of wildflowers over the couch. Magenta and pink. Hey, Mulder, you think
these are my colors? No? But buggers can't be choosers, right? Look, Mulder,
look at my VCR. Look at my library books, my laptop--"be careful with that",
he said--but he meant be careful what I went looking for. He doesn't trust
my hacking talents, thinks they'll hunt me down. He worries about me. . .I
think. . .yeah, I can just see the look on your face, Mulder. Why don't you
spare me. When I need you, I'll let you know. Give you a call. You're just a
phone call away. Bet you didn't know that. Did you.
 

End.