Heat Beneath Your Winter
by Satina
Date Written: April 2005?
Date Posted: 1/30/08
In honor of Jennifer's loving feedback for The Power to Save Ourselves.
Pairing: M/K
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This was written for the M/K Lyric Wheel to soothe the incredible pain I felt with the loss of Krycek in Existence, and includes my spiritual beliefs.
He drinks down his fifth shot of tequila, no longer bothering with any lime or salt, and dashes the tears away. He blinks as the aforementioned salt is smeared into already-reddened eyes, and he rubs both hands at them furiously, like an exhausted three-year-old. I open my mouth to tell him it will do him no good to rub his stinging eyes with still-salty hands, but he can't hear me.
Not that he really ever could.
I figured it out pretty quickly. Within a day or so, actually. This is my penance. My hell. All I can do is watch him, day after day. Night after night. Watch him hurt. Watch the vibrant, brilliant, passionate man I knew fade away into a miserable shadow of his former luminessence.
He gets up from the crappy brown and yellow couch and staggers to the sink, unseeing. He splashes water in his eyes until they no longer burn, then rips a paper towel from the rack and wipes his face with it. He dries his hands and heads over to the kitchen table, where his laptop sits open. He sinks down into the chair with a heavy sigh and puts trembling fingers to the keys. The tears well again, but he ignores them and begins to type.
He makes several typos, and stops twice to wipe his nose, but finally the email is complete. I stand behind him, watching over his shoulder as his long, graceful fingers mold it into shape.
...
Dearest Dana,
I've resisted contacting you for reasons I know you continue to appreciate. But, to be honest, some unexpected dimensions of my new life are eating away at any resolve I have left. I'm lonely, Dana, uncertain of my ability to live like this. I want to come home. To you, and to William.
...
I wondered how long it would take him to fold. He held out for a long time, considering. Considering he's living in the middle of the desert, sixty miles from the nearest town, completely removed from society except for dial-up Internet access and a television with video tapes. He doesn't get any reception out here. And he doesn't have a regular phone, although he does maintain a cellular. But no one has the number. So no one ever calls. I don't think it works this far out, anyway.
His only company is Gibson Praise and the guy who delivers his groceries once a month. And Gibson, whose brain is wired to easily tap into dimensions other than his own, prefers living in his head and the astral plane to putting up with his present reality, so he's not exactly scintillating company. Mulder, having had his own brain altered by Spender, doesn't have the easy access to escape that Gibson does, so he lives on the Internet and vicariously, through his videotapes.
I discovered that Gibson can see and hear me the second day I spent with Mulder. I was so excited at having a way to communicate, I begged him to tell Mulder I was there. He just blinked those cold, disinterested eyes at me and asked me, "Why? He hates you." His question put me into a tailspin it took me days to recover from. I didn't talk to him again for weeks, until the first time I watched Mulder drink himself into a near-coma. I went to Gibson to try to get him to stop Mulder, but Gibson paralyzed me again, asking me why it was my business. I was too chickenshit to tell him that even though Mulder hates me, I care about Mulder. I just turned around and left him alone in his dark room, going back to watch Mulder pass out on the couch.
It wouldn't have made any difference anyway. Gibson just doesn't believe in getting involved. He's less invested in the physical world than I am. He keeps a telepathic ear out for any sign of the enemy, but that's as far as his involvement goes. It's like living with another ghost. He never comes out of his room, except to use the bathroom and drink his Ensure. And he forgets to do that half the time if Mulder doesn't remind him. Which would scare me, if I gave a shit about Gibson, since Mulder barely remembers to eat, himself. The one saving grace of this punishment I've earned is that I get to be with Mulder now. Every day of his life. I'm not alone anymore.
Mulder's very much alone.
I have figured out that it's only a matter of time before he puts his gun in his mouth. And my penance is that I will have to watch. With the extreme danger of his situation, emailing Scully could be just as risky. But again, my futile attempts to stop him meet with utter obliviousness to my presence.
All I can do is watch.
This is worse than any inferno I was threatened with in my Orthodox upbringing. But I know I earned it.
He hits send with a sniff and a swallow, then snaps the lid of the computer closed and heads back over to the couch, reaching for the tequila bottle. Three more shots later, he's passed out and snoring on it.
He usually doesn't dream when he's this far gone, so I simply wait for him to wake up again. Finally, the light bleeds brightly enough through the tattered shade that he can no longer ignore it.
He groans and sits up, rubbing his hands over his pale face and through his greasy hair, leaving it sticking up all over his head. His eyes are so red he looks like he's ready to cry blood. He claps a hand over his mouth and I stay in the tiny living room while he stumbles to the bathroom and voids the contents of his stomach. Microwave popcorn and tequila. All he had to eat yesterday. He comes out five minutes later, shaking and sniffing. He goes to the sink and splashes water on his face, then turns off the taps and faces the small refrigerator, pulling the door open with a grimace. He reaches for the orange juice.
"Mulder..."
I want to tell him that the acid won't do his tortured gut any good, but he unscrews the lid and drinks, screwing his eyes shut as the citrus juice hits. I close my mouth and watch him put the nearly empty bottle back in the fridge. He closes the door and heads over to the table. I follow him, taking a position at his back, as usual. I hear the discordant screeches as his laptop dials onto the 'net, then I hear a gasp and lean in to see better.
She replied.
His fingers are shaking as he brings up the email, and my own heart, which is now nonphysical but no less real or prone to breakage, pounds in my chest.
...
Mulder,
I miss you too. Terribly. I worry about you every day and think about you every night. And your letter to me has me even more worried. The tone of it is very disturbing, Mulder. You don't sound like yourself. And you seem to be idealizing our relationship to a degree that can't be healthy for you. We both know that what is between us is far from the great romantic tale that songs are written about. And really, although I know you're a good man, we both know you were never meant to be a father.
William is doing fine, and I don't want you to worry about us. I want you to be able to come back to your life, too, Mulder, but please don't lie to yourself about why you want to do it. That's not healthy for any of us.
Your friend always,
Dana
...
I sigh as he lets out a wet, sick laugh. "I love you, too, Scully," he says with his rusty, disused voice. "God, what the hell was I thinking?" He scrolls down through the email, looking over the message he sent her, which she copied to him at the bottom of her reply, then shakes his head and closes the email. He wipes his hand over his face again and gets up, scooting his chair back through my body, and I quickly step away, still uncomfortable when that happens. He leans over his coffee table and reaches for the warm, still-open, almost-empty bottle of tequila.
"No. Mulder..."
He picks it up, reaching for the shot glass with the other hand, then makes that same, wet, thick-sounding laugh, and puts the shot glass back down. For a minute, I think he has reconsidered. But he just brings the bottle to his lips. I close my eyes against the sight of him finishing off the four or so ounces in the bottom for breakfast. Or is that brunch, since the light is pretty high as it streams in through the dirty lace curtains. Time has no meaning for me anymore. There is only Mulder.
"Oh God..." he sobs, sinking down into the couch, dropping the empty bottle on the table, where it falls over with a dull clunk. He covers his face with his hands and breathes hard, trying to hold it back.
"Let it go, Mulder," I tell him, sitting down beside him and putting a nonphysical hand on his shoulder. "No one's here to see you." His shoulders shake as he lets out a few tight, broken sobs, then he inhales and swallows hard, wiping away the tears angrily.
"I can't do this," he whispers, looking at nothing. "I don't want to live like this."
Oh God. This is it. This is what I'm here to witness. My eyes go to his weapon, lying carelessly in a patch of watery sunlight on his kitchen table.
"Why?" he asks, tilting his head back and staring at his cracked ceiling. "What did I do to deserve this?"
The pain in my chest would scare me if I were alive. But I know I'm not having a heart attack as I watch the tears stream down his cheeks, dripping off his jaw to land on his sweaty T-shirt.
"God, just tell me what I did wrong!" he cries out, clenching his jaw angrily.
"Nothing," I whisper, shaking my head, trying to get him to feel my noncorporeal hand on his back.
He swallows, blinking and looking around. "Gibson?" His voice comes out low and hoarse. He clears it and speaks more loudly. "Gibson, you there?"
I frown and watch him. It's almost as though he heard me. But I've made that mistake before. It's been three months by the calendar, and I've never been able to get him to hear me, no matter how loudly I yelled, how vehemently I cursed him.
Mulder gets up from the couch and sniffs, walking back to the door that leads into Gibson's bedroom. He raises his fist and knocks. "Gibson?" He knocks again, two more times, before he gets a soft, emotionless answer.
"What?"
Mulder opens his mouth to answer, then closes it, frowning. He licks his dry lips, grimacing a little at the taste. "You need to eat something," he finally says, still frowning.
"All right," Gibson answers noncomittally from inside.
My one hope is that when...if...Mulder goes for his gun with plans to eat it, I can convince Gibson to stop him. Or try, anyway. He can't take Mulder's weapon away, and he's not willing to watch him 24/7 so that he doesn't hurt himself.
That's my job. Except that I can't stop him. I can only watch him do it.
Mulder steps back from the door and Gibson opens it, blinking owlishly as he tries to focus his consciousness back into this dimension. He gives me a brief, disinterested glance, then steps past us both and goes into the kitchen. He reaches into the bottom of the fridge, extracts a can of Ensure, pops the tab and downs it, then throws it into the garbage can. He takes a bottle of water with him as he returns to his room. Mulder watches all this silently, sighing and closing his eyes as Gibson seals himself back into his haven.
"Fuck," Mulder whispers, heading into the bathroom to take a piss. I wait outside, heartened a bit when I hear the shower come on. The heat facilitates at least a weekly shower, which is probably more than he'd take if he didn't get covered in sweat every day. It's gotta be over a hundred out there already, and it's barely past noon by the clock.
He exits the bathroom nude, and my lips part. I try to give him his privacy, not following him into activities that I know he would want to be unobserved in. So I don't get to see him naked as often as you might think. He's still so stunningly beautiful, although he's rapidly dropping weight and his skin tone is ashen next to the sunburn on his face and arms. I can't help but let my eyes peruse his body, amazed and confused that even in my nonphysical state, he still has the ability to steal my breath and make my whole body yearn. Even now, when I know he'll never touch me again, my skin sings to him to put his hands on it. I almost don't get out of the way in time as he steps toward me, and his arm brushes through mine as he reaches for the door to his bedroom.
I follow him in as he dresses in a pair of dark gray cotton boxer shorts and a clean gray T-shirt. The color does nothing for his skin tone, making him look almost as transparent as me. A living ghost of his former self. The thought is more than disturbing, and I close my eyes against the sudden ache to see one of his garish ties around that slim throat.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do," he mumbles, and I sigh. He's begun talking to himself the last couple of weeks, usually just a few murmured words when he's upset. Sometimes I talk back, pretending he's actually speaking to me. It keeps my voice from sounding as rusty from disuse as his usually does. Maybe that's why he does it, too.
"How can I keep living this way?" he sighs, turning to look at his reflection in the black-spotted mirror. "God, I look like shit." He rakes his hand through his already-dry hair and looks away. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep, trembling breath. His lip quivers and I swallow back my own sympathetic pain. "Please, help me," he whispers. His voice breaks, full of tears again, as he begs, "God, give me a reason to stay alive."
I've never seen him this bad. I know it's only a matter of time now.
"Mulder," I croak.
His eyes snap open, lips parting on a soft gasp.
It's matched by mine.
His eyes dart around the room, his breathing quick. "Is someone there?" he asks, his voice low and threatening now.
My lips are still parted as I stare at him, frozen. He heard me. Did he hear me? Why did he hear me?
"Mulder?" I ask carefully, hopefully.
His head whips around, his breath coming fast now.
"Who's there?" he calls out. "Gibson?" His voice is incredulous. I understand why. The idea of Gibson playing any kind of trick on anybody is as unlikely as the idea of Scully taking up karaoke. I can do nothing but stare. He heard me. He can hear me. Oh my God. Now that I have a voice, I realize I have no idea what to say. Gibson was right. What good can it do for Mulder to hear me?
Mulder continues to look around the room, going to the window and peering out carefully, fat lower lip held between his teeth. His eyes are sharp and suspicious. I haven't seen him this animated in weeks. Then it dawns on me. Maybe that's why. Maybe the revelation of my voice is enough of a mystery to give him something to focus on. A reason to stay alive. Thank you, God.
"Mulder," I whisper, having no idea what to follow it up with.
He squeezes his eyes shut. "No, stop it," he grinds out. He grabs his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. "Fuck, this is it. I'm finally going crazy!"
"You're not crazy," I try. "Mulder, it's me!"
But there's no response this time. After a minute, he sighs and opens his eyes, then heads out of his bedroom and back into the bathroom. I sigh, feeling my whole body deflate. My window of contact appears to be closed. But he did hear me. Something...someone...let him hear me. Maybe it was enough to keep him from killing himself for a little while longer.
I swallow back my disappointment, focusing on that thought, and follow him into the bathroom. I watch him open the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out four and I frown, watching him scoop up handfuls of water from the tap and down them. Lately that's his diet. Alcohol, popcorn, orange juice, and Tylenol. Oh, and sunflower seeds, although he's run out and the delivery isn't due for another five days.
He plods back out to the living area and sits down at the kitchen table. I stand behind him and watch as he brings up porn sites. I don't get to see him naked often, but I've seen him jerk off over fifty times now. He hasn't done it in days. At first it was every night before bed, plus a time or two during each day. I experienced a very pleasant surprise when I found out that I could come with him. Oh, I don't have a physical response. I don't release 'ghost-semen' or anything weird like that. It's an energy thing. It feels just like the physical, without the mess, and on a smaller scale. And I don't touch myself, I just...tune into his feelings.
I wonder how he can get it up, with all that tequila in his system and not much else. He's got to be dehydrated, at the very least. I sigh and watch his hand as he rests it lightly on his crotch.
He clicks through site after site, some of them so twisted and sick that I almost can't look. I know I've done some bad shit in my time, but I still never got off on anything that freaky. I don't judge him for it. It's not like he hurts anyone else with his weird fantasies. It's not real, just a way for him to think about something else for awhile. I don't pay much attention to what's on the screen, just focusing on his reaction to it.
Today, he can't seem to summon up a reaction to any of it. He works his flaccid cock several times, switching from site to site, then finally puts his hand over his face, defeated, and sobs. And this time he doesn't try to hide it, just letting it take his body and tear his throat, tears pouring.
I feel myself cry with him, although I of course shed no tears. It's like the orgasm, only opposite. The pain takes me over in a wave of horrible energy, and I'm drowning in it with him.
He gets up from the table suddenly, and my breath catches as I expect him to reach for the ever-present gun. But he walks over to the cabinet and shuffles through his videos, carelessly knocking several to the floor before pulling one out. To my surprise, it's not porn, but sci-fi. He puts it in and flops down on the couch, digging around for a minute before finding the remote under the cushion. I sit down next to him and we watch the movie together.
Afterward, I'm again heartened as he rummages in the cupboards and pulls down a can of soup and starts it. He munches saltines as he waits for it to get hot, and he eats the whole can, washing it down with a 7-up. He still needs to drink more water, but at least he's got a little nourishment on his stomach, now. And he's out of tequila. He's still got a half-full bottle of Vodka, but it's warm. Hopefully, he won't get desperate enough to drink something that disgusting. He hasn't put it in the freezer or the fridge to chill, thankfully.
I follow him over as he sits down at the table and gets online again. He brings up Scully's email and I hold my breath as he reads it.
I'm not surprised at her response, of course. I knew she wasn't what he needed. And it seems she knew it, too. And I think Mulder knew it, but he was trying to find a comforting place of denial. Scully's nothing if not straight with him, though. It's a cruel mercy. I wait to see what he's going to do about it.
He clicks on the Reply button and settles his fingers on the keys. Then he just sits there, chewing his lip. Finally, he sighs, closing his eyes, then hits Cancel, closing the email and staring at the rest of his inbox. Hers is the only personal email there. The rest are posts from his various lists, the subjects ranging from UFO's to vampires to government conspiracies. He used to spend hours in front of his computer, reading and even replying. He hasn't read them in over a week now and his inbox is overflowing.
I'm not stupid. I know the signs of clinical depression. But at least he ate something, and he watched a movie. And he tried to get it up, something he hasn't done in days. Maybe he'll try again later, now that he's got some food in his belly and the alcohol's working its way out of his system. Even though his jerk-off sessions have been quiet and unsatisfying for both of us for weeks, now, it's encouraging that he's even still interested.
His hands reach out and slowly close the laptop. Then his gaze falls on an area of the table that stops my heart. The gun. He stares at it, eyes dry.
"Mulder, no," I breathe, reaching out to take the damned thing out of his sight, but my hand just brushes through it, leaving matters completely unaffected.
"Why shouldn't I?" he asks, his voice quiet and soft. He just sounds curious, not upset. And although it sounds like he's responding to me, I know he's not. That doesn't stop me from answering.
"Because I can't watch you do that!" I tell him, angry.
He just stares at the gun, making no move toward it.
"I never believed in God," he says quietly. "What God would let them take my sister like that? Would let the horrible things that happen every day happen?" His next words are a trembling whisper. "What God would let this happen to me?" He closes his mouth and his eyes are full of tears again. He wipes them away, and when he speaks again, he sounds like an angry, hurt child. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Mulder," I whisper, reaching my hand out to wipe away the tears.
He gasps and jerks back from my hand. He dashes the tears from his eyes roughly, frowning and looking around.
"Mulder, can you hear me?" I whisper, breathless.
He gasps again, his eyes wide and frightened. "Huh-who..." He breathes out.
The moment of truth. Tell him who it is? God, I don't want to scare him or piss him off, I just want him to know he's not alone. I can't answer. I just can't. I stare at him, terrified, as he searches the room, breathing hard. I make my voice soft, unrecognizable.
"It's okay," I whisper, as gently as I can. "You're not alone, Mulder."
"Oh God," he breathes. "Who's there?" He looks frightened and confused, but there's a frail hope there, too.
I can't turn that hope to disappointment, anger and disgust. I don't answer him. I reach out and stroke over his face with my hand, and I gasp as he shivers, eyes fluttering closed.
He...felt me.
"Oh God," I breathe, my hands shaking madly as I reach for him again. I've always been able to feel him a little when I touch him. Like encountering a buzzing energy field. My hand goes right through him, of course, if I apply any pressure. And he's never, ever had a reaction to me at all.
Until now. I put my frantically shaking palm against his cheek and he gasps, pulling back from it just slightly.
"Who...who's there?" he breathes again, not moving his head, eyes flickering around.
I sob and reach out with both hands. I have them both again, now. Not that I've ever been able to take advantage of that. I do it now as I take his face in my hands, stroking his tear-tracks with my thumbs. The energy's thicker than ever before. I can almost feel him.
He lets out a little, closed-mouth whimper and closes his eyes, and the tears flow again but he doesn't pull back.
And I realize, like the complete idiot that I am, that I don't just care about him. I'm not just bothered by seeing him suffer. I start to weep silently, holding his face in my hands. The feeling I have for him is so strong it aches deep in my soul. Then I let out a single, wet laugh. I'm nothing but soul anymore.
He gasps again at the sound of my laugh, and I smile, still holding his face. And then it occurs to me. Oh God, could I kiss him? My smile fades and my heart fills with longing and fear, in equal parts. He still doesn't know it's me. He can't see me. Will he know it's a man kissing him, or just assume it's some hot, whispery succubus babe? I decide I have to have this, either way. I lean in, focusing myself as intently as I can, and put my lips to his.
Ohhhh God! I whine and try not to press hard, knowing I'll just move right through him, just letting the surface of my lips brush the surface of his lips. He lets out a soft whimper as they part. Oh this is too much. It's too good and too painful to stand it, but I can't leave! I squeeze my eyes shut and feel the pain and pleasure bloom into a blazing fire as I continue to let my lips touch his. It's already better than the forced orgasms we've been sharing, and I wonder if he feels it, too. His hands come up through me, reaching, and I gasp as I feel him wash through my energy field.
It breaks the kiss and I stumble back, so dizzy I wouldn't be standing if I were physical. I may fall down anyway.
"Wait," he pants, reaching for me, through me, and it's so intense I close my eyes and shudder, experiencing something so close to orgasm that it's better than a lot of physical encounters I've had. "Don't leave," he gasps, his wet eyes coming open and looking around. His hands drift through the air, trying to find me. I step back from it, terrified by the intensity.
What is this? Why can he hear me? Why can he feel me? And why can I suddenly feel him so much more intensely? Is this part of my punishment? To feel it so sharply and not be able to tell him? To touch him and have him touch me and not have him know it's me? Is that heaven or hell?
I stand and stare, breathing hard, as I try to decide.
"Don't leave me," he whispers again, his voice trembling. Then he closes his eyes. "God, I'm pathetic," he says, covering his face in his hands. "I'm really fucking losing it now! I'm hard for a fucking hallucination!"
I gasp softly and can't help but look at his groin. His boxers are tented over a very impressive erection. One I would give anything to do something about.
"But it's all bullshit," he croaks. "I'm such a sad, pathetic mess!"
"No, Mulder!" I croak out, stepping forward, but this time I just step right through him, unnoticed as he cries into his hands. I try to concentrate on making him feel me but he just sobs and ignores me, unresponsive to my pleas.
"Mulder, please, I'm sorry! You're not crazy! Mulder, can't you hear me? Mulder!" I'm yelling now, waving my hands through his body, leaning into his face, but there's no reaction. Finally, he sniffs and uses his T-shirt to wipe his eyes and nose. He walks over to the couch and lays down on it, curling up with his back to the room. I stand there, helpless, for several minutes, watching him. Then I remember. Gibson. I turn and practically run down the hall and through his door.
His body is there, laid out on his bed, but it's empty, his consciousness elsewhere.
"Gibson!" I call. "Come back here!" I look into the energy surrounding his body and see the silver cord extending from the crown of his head, tethering his consciousness to his body so it doesn't get lost. Fortunately, I did have a healthy interest in psychic phenomena when I was alive, so I know a little about out-of-body experiences. Otherwise I'd be much more fucked now.
I close my eyes and tune into his connection, calling him again. "Gibson, I need you! Get back here, you little alien-human half-breed!" Maybe insults will get his attention. I watch his energy come down the cord, his consciousness flowing back into his body.
"What?" he asks, frowning a little as his eyes open. He sits up, leaning against the headboard.
"He heard me," I gasp out. "And maybe even felt me a little."
He just looks at me, brows raised.
"It happened all of a sudden," I explain. "He could hear me, and I swear he could even sort of feel me! And I felt him, more than I ever have before! I mean, since I've been..." I shut my mouth, frustrated. "But something went wrong. He can't hear me anymore. Why can't he hear me anymore?" I'd take his shoulders and shake him, but I know he can't feel me, so I just stand in front of him, imploring and helpless.
"He can't hear you unless he asks for it," he says calmly.
My mouth drops open.
"It's the law of free will," he explains, looking vaguely bored. "If he doesn't ask, you can't interfere."
"But if he asks..." I breathe.
"You can interfere with his life."
"What...do you mean?" I stammer. "Interfere?"
"Give him what he asks for," Gibson answers as if it's common knowledge.
I frown and stare at him. I can give him things? I can...help him? But only if he asks. Did he ask? I think back and realize that both times I was able to get through to him, Mulder was talking out loud. To himself? Not really. He was asking questions. Of nobody. Or...of God. I blink rapidly.
"He..." I breathe out, then have to swallow and start again. "He was...talking to...God," I whisper.
"He was addressing the nonphysical world," Gibson shrugs. "We're all God, you know. But when you're nonphysical, you can't do anything without the physical's permission."
We're all God? What? I stare at him. There's no way I can get my head around that right now. I decide to stick with the basics. "So if he asks me to do something, I can do it?" I ask.
Gibson nods.
"So why can't he hear me now?" I ask, still confused.
"Did he tell you to shut up or to go away?" Gibson asks, arching his brows. "Or did he express disbelief and doubt?"
I think back. The first time, in his bedroom, he said, 'Stop it' and then said he was crazy. This time, he just denied it was real and said he was losing it, that I was a hallucination. "Yes," I breathe, nodding.
He shrugs, looking sleepy.
I stand and stare at him, totally dumbfounded.
"Is that all?" Gibson asks, sounding a little irritated.
"Yeah," I breathe.
He immediately lays back down on the bed and closes his eyes, going back into his altered state of consciousness. I turn and leave the room, moving through his door and into the hall slowly.
I can help him. I can talk to him. I can...touch him.
But only if he asks.
I move to where he's curled up on the couch, hugging himself. He's asleep. Good, he needs the actual rest, rather than the stupors he's drunk himself into the past several days. And I realize something else that makes me smile hugely.
I can reach him in his dreams.
I've done it before, although I can only do it when he's not drunk or heavily medicated. But I don't do it very often. Not very often at all. After the first few times, I stopped going in there, except when I sensed he needed me.
Mulder's dreams are not a place you want to play, especially when you're nonphysical and it's all very real for you. He has nightmares every single night. Sometimes several times a night. It's a rare event when Mulder has anything resembling a good dream.
I do go in and try to help him when I can. I learned how to do that the first time I realized I could talk to him, even touch him, while we were both on the astral plane.
Of course, the minute I show up in his dream, he more often than not tries to beat the shit out of me or kill me in a myriad of creative and stunning ways. And he's one scary motherfucker in the astral, let me tell you. He's torn me apart several times when I went in to save him from his own nightmarish creations. I had to learn very quickly how to manifest myself whole again. And in case you're wondering, yes, we've had sex a few times in his dreams, too. One time it was even tender and somewhat normal. It was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced, except for the fact that his father and a bunch of Native Americans, along with Scully and her sister and the three nerds that call themselves The Lone Gunmen, were all watching and hurling judgements. The other times...well, let's just say I wouldn't have made it out alive if I weren't dead already. I don't let it mean anything to me. Mulder fucks all kinds of people and...things...in his dreams, and more often than not, things get violent and strange.
I stand over his sleeping body, trying to decide how to do this. I can't even be in his dreams unless he lets me stay. Sometimes I try and he just turns me into something or someone else. It was a real headtrip the night he turned me into Scully, then back into myself. All while trying to strangle me, riding on the back of a dolphin.
I've probably done it about a dozen times total. And aside from that one time I mentioned, I've never really gotten anything good from it, though I've helped Mulder deal with some really nasty shit. I really hope this will be different.
I close my eyes and focus my energy, whispering in my mind, trying to get him to hear me in his.
"Let me in, Mulder. Let me in."
I open my eyes and he runs past me, stark naked, in slow motion. Just ten feet behind him is Billy Miles, the supersoldier. And someone else, catching up fast. I get sick to my stomach, even though I no longer actually have one.
It's me.
This happened twice before. Once, I found him strapped to an alien torture chair, with myself standing over him, grinning as his chest was sliced open by some mechanical saw. I immediately stepped in and beat the shit out of myself, smashing the saw to bits. I released a confused and suspicious Mulder from the chair and then did him the favor of quickly disappearing. The other time, Mulder was picking me up and throwing me against a cement wall, over and over until I was a bloody, motionless pulp. As soon as I saw what was going on, I jolted right back out of that dream. That was the last time I went in, actually. I haven't been back into his dreams since.
And now, here I am again, and there I am again. And the way I'm grinning and taking aim at Mulder's head with that oversized Glock, I'm not the good guy.
Fuck.
I take off at a run after myself and quickly catch up. Mulder looks back just in time to see me take the gun out of my alter-ego's hand and knock him in the head with it. He immediately drops to the ground, unconscious, and Mulder's so shocked he stops in his tracks, mouth open.
"Mulder, look out!" I shout, as Billy Miles catches up to him, his hand turning into a two-foot-long blade. I leap forward, crossing the dozen or so feet of distance effortlessly, and grab Billy just as he takes a swipe at Mulder's head.
I'm amazed at how strong Mulder's idea of Billy Miles is. I wonder what he really symbolizes to Mulder. I can't seem to do any damage to him, although I'm keeping his attention on me instead of Mulder. Obviously, my own doppelganger didn't carry as much weight, since he was relatively easy to subdue. Then, as I'm struggling to convince the supersoldier to break apart in my etheric hands, I feel someone come up behind me and bash me over the head.
I fall to the ground, pain lancing down through the top of my skull and arcing through my body. It may be only energy, but I can damn well feel it. I was grateful for that the time Mulder and I made love in a giant bowl of Jell-o pudding, even though he was holding me facedown and smothering me while he did me. I'm not so keen on it now. I blink my eyes open and realize I'm staring up into my own sneering face.
Guess Mulder made him sneaky. What a surprise.
"Mulder," I gasp out, as Billy turns his attention from me back to Mulder. "You can beat him. You just have to believe you can."
"Shut up, you fucking coward!" he snarls at me, suddenly holding a gun. He points it at me, and I duck. Then, as Billy Miles launches himself at Mulder's body, Mulder swings the gun around and empties it into the supersoldier. It twitches, slowed but not stopped. Mulder turns to run again.
"It can't hurt you!" I yell, and my dream-self swings the gun at me again, curiously not trying to shoot, only brain me. I duck.
"Shut up!" my dream-self barks down at me, pulling back his foot to kick me. "He's a stupid, weak, useless, naive fool! He's in the way! He has to die!"
"NO!" I scream, tears filling my eyes. This is how he sees me. This is what Mulder thinks I think of him. "I love him!" I yell at my snarling astral self. "And I won't let you hurt him anymore!" Tears blurring my vision, I grab my alter-ego's legs and yank them out from under him, then jump on him and begin pounding his face in. "You're not Alex Krycek!" I yell, hitting him over and over and over. "I am! I'm Alex Krycek! And I love Mulder! I love him!" My voice disintegrates into sobs and my arms weaken.
Suddenly I'm not hitting anything. I sit up and look over to Mulder, who's staring at me, mouth open. There's nothing around us but white space. No ground. No sky. No other me. No Billy Miles. Just endless, silent white.
"What did you say?" he asks me, gun hanging at his side. He's still naked, and looking as fresh and sweet as he did that day I watched him climb out of the pool. No scars. He even has a slight tan. Well, at least he made himself beautiful for his astral battles. It's all I can do not to just leap on him and take him, hard and fast.
I turn to face him, but stay on my knees. I'm about eight feet away from him now. My heart is squeezing, painful, my throat refusing to open up and answer his question. I swallow past it, knowing it's now or never. This is, after all, what I came here to do.
"I...love you," I breathe out, realizing as I do that I've never said those words to a living soul. Not my mother or father, not my sisters or brothers, and certainly not any of the lovers I had over my lifetime. No one. "I love you," I repeat, my voice getting stronger. "I love you, Mulder." It gets easier and feels truer every time I say it. Something in both my heart and my throat feels like it's opening up.
He starts shaking his head. "No you don't," he says, backing away slowly. "No. You don't. You're a liar."
"I do," I tell him, crawling forward on my knees. "I never knew it, Mulder. I only knew I wanted you. Hell, I didn't even know I could love. Maybe I couldn't, until now." That feels sickeningly true.
"You're a liar," he says again, still backing away from me. Suddenly, he's dressed in his signature Armani suit, complete with billowing trench coat and garish tie. Beautiful justice. He stops and raises the gun.
"Mulder, listen to me," I beg him. "You heard me today. You felt me. And I felt you."
He frowns deeply, and keeps the gun pointed at my forehead.
"I'm already dead, Mulder," I say quietly. "You can't kill me."
"You were going to kill me," he grits out, eyes narrowed.
I swallow as the words slide into me like a blade. "Yes," I say roughly. "I tried to." And suddenly I'm awash with the pain I felt then as if I'm reliving it. I sag forward, closing my eyes. I did try to kill him. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I don't think I would have gone through with it. My aim was way off, even though I was pulling the trigger. I couldn't site through the tears filling my eyes. But none of that matters. What matters is that he's right. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" he says incredulously.
I look up to see him staring at me, open mouthed.
"I never left you, Mulder," I say, my voice breaking. "Three days after Skinner shot me, I found myself in your living room in New Mexico. I've been with you ever since."
His frown deepens. "What?"
I nod. "I thought it was my punishment. To see you go through what you're going through. To watch you suffer, knowing I had something to do with it. I thought it was my hell."
"Are you sure it's not your heaven?" he sneers, eyes flashing almost black.
And I can't help but smile. Because I think he's onto something. "I can help you," I say, voice trembling again. "If you want me to. If you ask me to."
"What?" he asks, brow furrowing again.
"That's the rule. That's how it works. I can only help you if you ask me to. You can only hear me if you ask to." My voice falls into an almost breathless whisper. "You can only feel me if you want to."
"I don't want anything from you," he says, and his voice trembles on the low growl.
"Please, Mulder," I say, closing my eyes. "I want to make up for it. Don't you understand? I won't leave you. I can't! Somehow, it's my job to stay with you, and I can't help but think it's so that I can make up for all the hell I put you through while I was alive!"
"No," he says, shaking his head. He closes his eyes, gunhand shaking. "It's all another lie, like all the rest! I don't believe you!"
"Don't say that!" I tell him, panicking. The rule of belief doesn't work the same in the dreamstate, but if he wills me out, I'm gone. "When you express doubt, I can't reach you anymore! And if you will me out of your dreams..." I stop, unwilling to tell him he has the power to get rid of me.
"I'm the one in hell," Mulder says, opening his eyes. "You haunted me my whole life, showing up every little bit to take another piece of me. And now, here you are, still slicing my soul to bits. You're dead, Krycek," he says, eyes going cold. "Don't you get that? You have to leave me alone now."
"I know I'm dead," I reply, swallowing back the fear that he's about to banish me. "And I know I hurt you. I was a bad person, Mulder. But I'm not that person anymore." I stop and try to calm my breathing and my voice. "I don't want to hurt you anymore, Mulder. I don't want to see you hurt. Please, give me a chance."
"I...gave you a chance," he grinds out, jaw clenched. Tears well up suddenly and then fall down his cheeks in a torrent. "I gave you several chances! I tried to trust you, Krycek! You never let me!" He's shouting now, and gesturing with his gun. "You never fucking let me trust you, you lying, murderous fuck!"
His words impact my body like bullets, and I fall in on myself, sinking to the white non-floor. I fall into wracking sobs, holding myself as the pain threatens to shatter my very spirit. He's right. He's right about everything. Everything except his assertion that I don't love him. I do. And I know, only now, how much I've hurt him. How much damage I've done.
"Get out," he whispers. "You're not here."
I lift my head, eyes wide, and implore him silently not to send me away, but I feel myself fading, pulling out of the dream. Then I'm on the dirty floor of his living room, arms curled around myself as the pain continues to threaten to tear me apart.
He jolts awake, gasping, and slowly turns over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. I watch, frozen, as the tears fill his eyes and he raises his hands to his face, covering it. He breaks down, sobbing into his hands, and I hang my head, unable to shed tears but feeling like the pain will kill me all over again.
"It's not true," he whispers into his hands wetly. "You're not here, you're not here!" And I start to wonder if he can banish me from his presence forever if he says that enough times. And I wonder where I would go.
"Mulder, please," I whisper. "I'm here, please, don't say that!"
"I hate you," he whispers now, hissing into his hands.
"I know," I answer him, although I know he can't hear me. "It's okay. I love you, Mulder."
"I fucking hate you!" he yells, lowering his hands and pounding them into the sofa at his sides, his beautiful face screwed up with rage and torment.
"And I fucking love you!" I yell back, clenching my own hands into fists. I wish my dream-self was here right now. I'd tear him apart with my bare hands, resurrect him, then do it again. I hate myself worse than Mulder does.
"I hate you," he sobs, his strength ebbing out of his voice. He's clenching the couch fabric in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. His tears run down his temples and into his too-long hair. I crawl over to him on my knees and reach out, wanting so badly to wipe them away. "Why did you do that to me?" he says weakly, and my heart stops. Is that question enough to qualify as asking for help?
"Because I was a stupid, fucking, weak coward, just like you said I was," I answer, my voice rusty and thick with tears I can never shed.
"Oh God," he says, putting a hand over his eyes again.
Can he hear me? Or is he still in his own private hell of my making?
"I was never the man you were, Mulder," I go on. I have to say it whether he can hear me or not. "I never tried to be. I just tried to stay alive. I thought that meant being on the opposite side from you."
"We could have worked together," he whispers, hand still over his eyes.
Oh God. He's talking to me. That must mean he can hear me. Right?
"Mulder?" I ask, voice thin with scared hope. "Can you hear me?"
His lips tremble and he wipes his eyes, keeping them closed. "Yes," he whispers.
I gasp. "Mulder, I'm sorry," I blurt out, wanting to use every second he gives me to beg for his forgiveness. "I fucked up. I didn't want to hurt you!" It's true, even though I did so many things to cause him pain. "I just didn't know anything else. I didn't know I had a choice. I was so fucking lost..."
He breathes hard, wiping his nose, eyes still closed. "I'm tired of hating you," he finally says, his voice choked and hoarse.
I can only stare at him, hoping desperately.
He sniffs, then opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Then he surprises me by swinging his legs over the side and sitting up, swallowing. I have to scramble to the side to avoid him walking through me as he stands up, walking across the room. He goes down the hall, stopping in front of Gibson's door. He knocks sharply. I watch from the living room, too weak to get up.
"What?" comes Gibson's voice from within.
"I need to talk to you," Mulder says, and his voice is still coarse and thick. He clears it.
The door opens and Gibson looks up at Mulder. "What is it?"
"Can you see him?" Mulder asks with no preamble.
"Yes," says Gibson.
Mulder exhales. "And hear him?"
"Yes," says Gibson again. He blinks up at Mulder expressionlessly.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Mulder asks, keeping his own voice as expressionless as Gibson's.
"You hated him," Gibson answers with a shrug.
Mulder swallows. "Do you trust him?" His voice is low.
"He can't do anything unless you ask him to," Gibson answers. "So it's nothing to worry about."
"But can he lie?" Mulder asks, his voice cracking. I close my eyes against the pain and mistrust in it.
Gibson lets out an impatient-sounding sigh. "Well," he says, frowning. "If you don't pay attention, I guess he can. But if you use your intuition, you'll be able to tell."
"So I can trust my intuition, where he's concerned?" Mulder asks softly.
"Where everybody's concerned," corrects Gibson. "But you know that. It's only your strong emotional reaction to him that has kept you from being able to use it before. You'd rather just hate him and assume everything he says is a lie. It's easier."
Mulder sighs, rubbing his hand over his face.
"Is that all?" Gibson asks, arching his brows.
Mulder takes his hand from his face. "I guess so," he answers.
Without another word, Gibson retreats back into his room and closes the door. Mulder stands outside of it for several minutes, then walks back into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. I sit on the floor a few feet away and watch him. He glances around the room, looking nervous.
"You still there?" he asks quietly.
"Always," I answer softly.
"Always?" He frowns, looking around.
"I don't follow you into the bathroom," I tell him quietly, a smile hovering in my voice but not quite settling. I'm still too scared.
He licks his lips. I stare at his mouth.
"Everywhere else?" he asks, blinking. "All the time?"
"I'm sorry," I answer. I can tell he's uncomfortable. "I don't have to, if you don't want me to. I mean, " I clarify. "I can't leave you, not completely, but if you tell me not to watch you, I probably have to stop." My voice gets quiet as I realize how much it would hurt to be shut out of his life like that. Could I really just stop watching him, hovering but not looking at him? Have I just made an offer I can't actually fulfill on? "I'm not sure if I can stop or not, Mulder," I tell him in a shamed whisper. "You're all I have now."
He lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes. Then they snap open, frowning.
"You...you're the one...you kissed me," he says, a little breathlessly.
"Yes," I answer softly.
He swallows. "The dream?" he asks, looking around.
I wish he could see me. "I visited you there," I tell him. "After Gibson told me that I could talk to you if you asked me to. I had to tell you. To try to get you to do it again."
"You...said..." he falters.
"I love you, Mulder," I breathe out, realizing I haven't said it to him since the dream. Not when he could hear it, anyway.
He lets his breath out. "How...?"
I sigh. "I was always fascinated with you," I tell him, working it out for myself as I explain it to him. "And God knows, I always wanted you."
He frowns.
"I was so intimidated by you," I go on, my voice a bit dazed as I recollect my misspent life. "You were the most confusing, frustrating, obsessed, hard-headed, obstinantly good person I knew." I find myself smiling faintly. "I couldn't get enough of you."
He's quiet, staring at the floor.
"I never loved anyone before, Mulder," I tell him, needing him to understand how different this is for me. How different I am. "I'm not sure anyone ever loved me." I shrug, though I know he can't see it. Some habits are hard to break.
"What about your family?" he asks, voice quiet.
I breathe out a soft, dark laugh. "My mother and father bred so they'd have merchandise to trade to support their habits. My sisters and brothers and I banded together, but only to stay alive. I left when I was thirteen and never looked back."
He swallows, frowning deeply. He's quiet a long time, and I leave him to it, figuring when he wants more from me, he'll ask for it. That's how it works, after all.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks, staring at the twenty-year-old green carpeting as if it will provide the answers.
"I don't know," I answer him. "But whatever I can do for you, Mulder, it's yours. Anything you want. Anything in the whole world, it's yours."
"Can I see you?" he asks, still looking at the carpet.
"I don't know," I answer him again. "Do you want to?" I try to keep the hope out of my voice.
He swallows again. He licks his lips and lets his breath out slowly. "I think so," he says. "It would make things easier."
I think for a minute, then just as it occurs to me what he should try, he says, with authority in his voice, "Let me see you."
I let out a soft gasp. Then I intend with all my heart to be visible to him. And I watch as he raises his head slowly, mouth falling open, and meets my eyes.
"Krycek," he breathes, then continues breathing hard, mouth open.
"Hi Mulder," I say, blinking and trying to control my own strong emotions.
"It's really you," he says, licking his lips and swallowing. "Isn't it?"
I nod, spellbound by the addictive quality of being back in his eyes again. I hadn't realized how much I missed that. I blink back tears.
"So," he says, clearing his roughened throat. "You don't know why you're here, exactly?"
I take a breath in and let it out. "I think I do, now," I answer him. "I'm here to help you."
"What can you do?" he asks, and some of the old curiosity is there in his voice. It makes me grin to hear it.
"I don't know," I tell him, shrugging. "I can't leave your side. I've tried," I go on, referring to my first couple of weeks with him. "But there seems to be a physical barrier, a zone around you I can't pass out of."
He frowns, but now it looks somewhat amused. "Zone? What kind of zone? What happens when you try?"
"It seems to be about fifty feet in diameter, roughly," I explain, still on my knees, sitting back on my heels. "When I reach the perimeter, I just...stop. Can't go any further. My body won't go there."
"Weird," he says under his breath.
It makes me smile again. "Yeah," I nod. I shrug my eyebrows.
He looks down at the floor between us, just a small, three-foot expanse of crappy carpeting. It's physically painful to be out of his gaze again. I frown.
"I can't help thinking this is some kind of self-induced delusion," he mutters, blinking eyes reddened by crying.
"Mulder," I warn him, breathless, and he looks up and his mouth drops open.
"Wait, don't go," he says, reaching out to me.
I don't feel myself fading, but evidently I was. I see the relief in his eyes as he orders me not to, and his hand falls back down at his side. He nearly touched me.
"Remember," I say, my voice rough. "Doubt breaks the connection."
He stares at me and nods, looking scared. "I...I don't...it's just...too good to be true." He looks to the side, biting his lip.
I frown. It almost sounds like...like he wants me here. "Mulder?"
He looks up at me. "I always wanted you to be on my side," he says quietly. "I always held out the hope that it might end up that way someday. Especially after that night you came to my apartment."
I swallow, remembering that night. I hadn't had such high hopes. My goal was to give him the information and get out intact. At the same time, I knew we were already working together. Just on different teams and in different ways. I guess that's why I kissed him. An unspoken statement of my secret alliance.
"And when you showed up and helped Scully and me escape Billy Miles," he goes on, his voice strong and quiet. "I just...trusted you. God, I even sent you to look after Scully while Skinner and I went after Billy Miles. I just...trusted you."
I close my eyes, the shame making my chest hurt. I did help them get away. And I did keep Scully safe. But then I tried to kill him. At the time, I honestly thought he was both a fool and a genius for putting aside all the shit between us and just doing the work. Now I know he was desperately trying to reach out to me. And I spat on him.
"Mulder," I whisper, eyes still closed. "I'm not that person anymore. I can't explain it. I was damaged goods." I raise my head and look at him. "I didn't have the capacity to be anything but a traitor." I bite my lip, frowning. "I'll be anything you want me to, now."
"Are you...real?" he asks, frowning. "Are you the same Alex Krycek?"
I consider that for a moment before answering. "I have the same memories. I lived that life, yes. But I don't have the same feelings. The same fears." I swallow, realizing that's the core of it. "I'm only afraid of one thing, now. Watching you hurt."
He doesn't look away from my eyes, and the intensity of his stare sends shivers through my body.
"And you're always here."
I narrow my eyes, then nod.
He sighs, closing his eyes, and leans back into the sofa, running his hands over his face and through his hair. He stays like that, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling for several long moments. I just watch him. But it's different now. Because he sees me.
"I'm so lonely," he whispers, almost too quietly for me to hear. His eyes squeeze shut, lips firming.
I gasp and rise up on my knees, moving closer to the couch. I raise one hand and reach toward his bare knee, trembling. As my hand alights on his skin, he gasps, twitching. He swallows.
"I...feel you," he breathes out, his hands clutching at the couch to his sides. He doesn't look at me.
"Mulder," I exhale, bringing my other hand up and placing it on his other knee. He's more solid than ever before. Almost condensing right under my fingertips. His legs fall open further, letting me move in between them slightly. My whole body shudders as it moves against his.
This is the best feeling I've ever known. I feel like it will shatter me, as surely as the pain could have earlier. I have to concentrate very hard in order to not just throw myself at him, taking his mouth and running my hands over his body hungrily. I know I'd just go right through him, and end up with hands full of couch.
"Alex," he whispers, and it's no more than a tortured, thin breath. It undoes me, and my hands slide up his legs, over his torso, my body rising up over his as my fingers brush up through his hair. He gasps, his body arching into mine, and I cry out as I feel his hands come up around me, brushing through me, shaking madly.
"Wanna feel you," I whine, knowing what I want has no power here. It's all about what he wants. "Please, Mulder, let me feel you."
"Oh God," he moans, his hands moving in and out of my energy field, struggling to find the surface. My body is merging with his rather than touching it, my fingers not moving his hair as they stroke through it.
"Please," I beg again, struggling not to fall through him to the couch underneath. "Please, Mulder, let me feel you."
"Feel me," he shudders out. "Oh God I want you to feel me."
Suddenly he's solid and warm and moving under me, and I moan and sob as my whole body experiences the feeling of touching him once again.
"Mulder, Mulder, Oh God, Mulder," I murmur, running my hands over his hair, his face, pressing my body against his, feeling the sexual arousal not just in my groin but my whole being, throbbing, crying with it. "Feel me," I sob out, as I realize he's not reacting as though he can. "Oh God, Mulder, please feel me!" He has to want it, too! He has to ask for it!
"I want to..." he gasps out. "I want to feel you, Alex."
And we both moan as our bodies are finally, totally, incredibly in full contact.
"Oh God," I cry out. I can't help myself any longer and I grab his face in my hands, pressing my lips to his. Ohhhhhh yes, they're solid this time, and warm and full and moving on me, and I feel them hum against me as he moans and clutches at my back. Then I sob as they open up to my kiss and let my tongue slip inside.
His long, hard, delicious body arches up into mine, and it's nearly painful as we press into each other as firmly as possible. I take his mouth, like I always wanted to, thoroughly and unstoppably, but with the edge of knowing I love him. And knowing, like I'd never fantasized, that he wants me.
At first his mouth just receives me, then his tongue begins to move against mine, and we're both grunting and groaning and nails are scratching and hips are grinding. He rips his mouth away from mine on a desperate gasp, then whines and throws his head back, holding me to him so hard it hurts. I feel it surge through him as it takes me along in its sweep, and he's coming, sobbing it out, and I'm crying out with him as my body experiences something more ecstatic than anything I have ever known.
Afterward, feeling the moist warmth of his ejaculate through his shorts, still pressing against me, I can do nothing but collapse on top of him, weeping nonphysical tears. My whole body shakes, still throbbing with the awareness of his own coming-down. His hands twitch on me, clutching and releasing, and I listen to his breathing slow as I press my face into the side of his neck. I'm startled as I'm shaken by a sudden jerk of his body.
He laughed.
I swallow and raise my dizzy head, seeking out his eyes. They're wet and dark and sparkling. So beautiful I almost can't breathe, looking at them. That much has never changed. I blink to cut the intensity. "Mulder?"
"I didn't know a ghost could be so heavy," he says, his reddened, swollen lips quirking up at one corner.
"Oh, sorry," I tell him, lifting myself away from him. Oh, God, what if he wills not to feel me anymore? Not to let me feel him? I can't scramble away fast enough, though my limbs are heavy and lax with satiation.
"No!" he says, grabbing at my retreating form. "I...I didn't mean..." He swallows and clutches his nails into my sides as I hover over him, frowning and waiting. "Stay with me," he murmurs, closing his eyes. His lip trembles just slightly as he says it. I know he didn't want to have to, but that's the way it works, now. I can only give him what he asks for.
"I'm here," I whisper, relaxing back against him. My whole body is wracked with shivers as our bodies press against one another again. His arms slide from clutching my waist to wrapping around my back. I slide a little to the side to allow him to breathe freely, tucking my own hands around his waist, my face against his neck again.
I've never felt so sure of anything. Nothing I've ever done has felt this right. My body shakes with tears I can't shed. I just ride the inhale and exhale of his body, listening to the pounding of his heart. I wonder what he feels from me, since I don't actually experience those bodily functions anymore. I'm drifting in a haze of him when his low murmur reverberates against me.
"What happens now?"
I inhale deeply and hold it, then swallow and let it out slowly. "I don't know," I tell him honestly. "But...whatever it is, Mulder. I'll be here. You'll never be alone again." I smile against his neck. "And neither will I."
I sink into his answering sigh.
END
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