Departure 2.5

The wind lashes at me, the world flies by terrifyingly fast. I am glad that it's dark; the little I can see is scary enough. I've been on a motorcycle maybe twice in my life before this, and never at this kind of speed...

I cling to him, hold on for dear life, bury my face against the back of his jacket to keep from seeing any of it, inhale the scent of leather and sweat, and feel the tears slide hot and salty down my face to be whipped away by the wind.

I'm leaving it all behind. All of it. My job. My quest. My partner. Irrevocably gone.

And all I have, all there is to cling to, is the man who's been my demon and my savior, my opponent and my lover, who has brought me torment and the most exquisite pleasure...

...and who is he, really? I don't even know.

But I'm riding off into destiny with him, going... I don't even know where...

I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. I'm afraid of what he might tell me. I'm afraid.

It felt so right, when we were leaving the hospital; but now all I feel is fear.

No, I can't do this. I can't. It's too much, it's too frightening, it's too... "Stop," I cry out, and feel my words carried away by the wind. "Stop!" knowing that he can't possibly hear me through the helmet, past the sounds of engine and roaring air.

But he does hear me, somehow: the motorcycle slows, swerves gently onto the shoulder of the highway, comes to a stop in a crunch and spray of gravel.

I tug off the helmet, manage to climb off the bike -- stumbling, all but falling, staggering away to the edge of the clearing, hanging onto the guardrail as if it will lend me the stability that my life lacks. Something to hold on to...

"Mulder?" That voice. Speaking my name. In my mind, I hear echoes: my name, spoken with feigned naivete; my name, tauntingly... "Are you all right?" and all that I hear now is concern, genuine honest worry.

I turn. He's removed his helmet: a creature of the night, black jeans, black leather jacket, black boots, all darkness save for the pale oval of his face, and even that is shadowed... Who is this man? Why am I trusting him? What am I doing?

"I can't do this," the words come out of me in a great frantic rush. "I can't. I can't..."

His face never changes. He advances toward me, reaches out -- I flinch -- but all he does is touch me: one hand sliding along the side of my face, stroking, caressing. "I'll take you back, if you want," he says. "To the hospital. To your apartment. Wherever you want to go."

Will he, really? Is it really my choice?

Do I have any choices anymore? Did I ever, truly?

"I want..." His voice falters for the briefest moment. "I want you to be happy. Whatever I can do, whatever I can give you... just tell me, and it's yours."

That face. That face has gazed at me with bland innocence, has sneered at me, has lied to me...

Those eyes. Such pain in his eyes. Such caring.

"Tell me what you want, Mulder," he murmurs.

"But I don't know what I want!" I hear myself reply, in an anguished cry.

And the pain in his eyes deepens.

"I did this to you," he says softly. "My fault. I should have... I never should have interfered. I didn't know... I thought..." and he turns away, a swift sudden movement. "I'm sorry," drifts back to me on the crisp night air. "Ah, Mulder, I'm so sorry."

He kidnapped me. He held me captive and tortured me, with desire instead of pain; and it was supposed to have been rape, I think, except...

...suddenly it was so much more: passion, tenderness, lovemaking, caring and sharing and giving...

I want him to hold me.

I want to feel his arms around me, strong and warm and tight, holding me...

"Please," I say aloud.

He turns, looks at me questioningly; and in his eyes, I think I see the faintest shimmer of unshed tears.

"Please?" hoping that he will know what I want, what I need, what it is that I am pleading for.

And he comes to me, slides his arms around me, pulls me close...

I hang on to him, hang on for dear life, as the tears begin to flow; I am crying, sobbing helplessly, whimpering like a child, hurting and needing and afraid -- and he holds me, strong and warm and tight, lips pressing against my hair, forming a soft kiss against my ear. "Mulder." Just my name, over and over; a whisper, a mantra, a reminder that I am not alone.

I don't know what I want.

But I need him. I need him.

And I think he needs me, too.

I cry in his arms, tears of pain and fear and shame burning my eyes and my soul. The barriers crumble, and all I can do is cry -- and the pain and the fear and the shame drain away from me along with the tears, until I am empty. Until I can cry no more. Until all I feel is a wonderful, blissful numbness.

Leather against my cheek. His hand, warm and solid against my head. His other arm snugged tight around my waist. His body, my support.

Yes.

I'm leaving it all behind. Everything familiar, everything I ever cared about -- my life, my entire existence. Everything that constituted The World Of Fox Mulder is gone.

But Alex is with me. Not just beside me, not just physically present. With me.

I still don't know what I want. But I hold him, am held by him, and all I can feel is...

...yes.

"Take me home with you," I whisper, hearing my voice hoarse and ragged, the words forced past a throat torn sore from crying.

"You sure?" So gentle, his voice. With just the slightest catch, the faintest quiver -- a silent 'please' of his own.

His neck is the closest patch of exposed skin to my lips. I kiss him there, wishing I could kiss him everywhere. "Take me home, Alex," still not knowing if it's the right choice -- knowing only that it is my choice.

Warm lips on my forehead. Tender. Passionate. "Yes," he says.

Yes.

Slowly, he releases me from his embrace. Slowly, easing the transition into separation. It's colder, without his arms around me. But he is with me, and that makes it all right.

Nothing is 'all right', really.

But now I remember why I am here.

He helps me onto the bike, settles himself into position before me. "Hold on tight," he reminds me, as I wrap my arms around his waist -- covers my hands with his for one sweet moment before donning the heavy leather gloves.

I hold on tight. He's all I have to hold on to, after all; and knowing that he's holding onto me, too -- makes it feel somehow mutual.

Then the roar of the engine, and the feel of acceleration, and the wind, and the road once more.

I knew he was in bad shape. Oh, yes, I knew. The last time we were together, just before his suicide attempt, and his prolonged hospital stay -- I knew that Mulder was not doing well.

But oh God, I didn't know it was this bad.

Who is this man? I hardly know him anymore.

He follows me through the small food-mart adjoining the gas station, dogging my heels as if being more than arm's length from me is more than he can stand. He gazes passively at the displays of junk food, not selecting anything, though I know he must be hungry by now. I decide on a hot dog for him, and when I ask him what he wants on it, he only looks confused, helpless...

Maybe he was better off in that hospital.

Shit, am I really doing the right thing?

We sit together at a deserted picnic bench, outside in the cold. I eat my food and drink my coffee, tasting none of it. He only stares at his. When I urge him to eat, he nibbles briefly at his hot dog and sets it aside again. "Eat, Mulder," I say again, sliding my arm around his waist -- surreptitiously, so that no one else will see -- and the contact seems to reassure him; he manages to eat nearly a quarter of the hot dog before apathy overwhelms him once more.

"Do you want me to take you back?" I ask him again, wondering if that's what's wrong, if he's changed his mind again...

He shakes his head. "I want to go home with you, Alex," he says, his voice and eyes pleading.

But does he even know what that means?

Coming 'home' with me means becoming a part of my life. A life he's steadfastly opposed for so long. Everything he's ever been has represented the very antithesis of the life I lead. Justice versus lawlessness. Order versus chaos. Has he thought it through? Of course not. In his current condition, I'm not sure he can think logically at all.

And when he realizes what he's chosen -- what will he feel for me then?

I should refuse. I should take him back. Return him to his own world, let them deal with him by the same rules he's always followed. In the end, he'd be better off -- wouldn't he?

But in my own way, I am as vulnerable as he is. Because he's looking at me with those helpless, pleading eyes, snuggling close to me and burrowing his face beneath my jacket, nuzzling my chest, as if all he wants in the world is to crawl inside my skin and be with me...

"Alex, take me home," he whispers, and I am powerless to refuse him, unable to resist the lure of his pliant willingness, his so-evident need.

Disaster. This can't end well.

But he's with me, he's with me; for so long, I've dreamed of this, and now the dream is becoming real, and I can't turn away from it, from him. I can't.

Even though I'm beginning to fear that he needs more help than I can give him.

I have no choice but to try.

We ride. We ride and we ride. Night becomes dawn becomes day becomes twilight and still we ride, miles flying past as if in a dream. As darkness settles around us once more, I can feel my eyes closing, my arms loosening their hold, as fatigue overwhelms me -- and I'm not even driving; how can he keep going? Where is he getting the strength?

The bike begins to swerve in the lane, more and more. Our speed slows gradually. I'm all but unconscious when I feel us come to a halt. "C'mon, Mulder," says his voice, soft and weary.

I force my eyes to focus. We're by a building. At least, it used to be a building. A barn, maybe. It isn't much of anything, now. Around us, nothing but fields, and... "Where are we?" I wonder sleepily.

"I dunno." He sounds so tired. "We're here. Wherever here is. Help me with this," and I grab the other handlebar and help him get the bike inside the ramshackle structure.

Inside is spookier than outside. It feels like the building could collapse around us with one sharp gust of wind. "Why are we here?" I ask him.

"We're going to sleep here," he says.

"Here?" Cobwebs. Shadows. Eerie echoes and odd creaks and groans of wood straining against gravity...

"Mulder, I can't keep my eyes open any longer." And he's swaying, all but falling asleep on his feet as he fumbles with the pack strapped to the back of the bike.

He pulls out a cheap acrylic blanket, grubby and faded, and wraps it around his shoulders like a floor-length shawl; settles himself down on the ground, sitting up with his back against one of the structure's last intact walls. "C'mere," he mumbles, patting the floor, and hesitantly I sit down beside him -- his arm curls around my back, wrapping the blanket around me, too. The ground and the air are cold, but he's so warm...

Creaking of the building around us, sound of crickets and night birds, and far distant, the sparse traffic on the highway. The soft, regular rhythm of his breathing. "Sorry," he whispers, in a voice fading fast into sleep. "This is safer than a motel. No paper trail. Sorry it's not more comfortable, though."

Scent of leather, scent of Alex, rough cotton T-shirt against my face as I nestle close. Warmth. His arm around me, his cheek resting against my head. Such warmth.

"Sorry... should take... better care of you..." and he's asleep, arm around me slackening as fatigue sweeps him away.

I want to sleep, I need to sleep, but the weirdness of the sounds around me keep me awake. Or maybe it's the whirlwind of thought inside my head. Where am I? What am I doing here? I feel so lost; almost, the fear seizes me again...

Deep breath. Cold night air, and the scent of him tickling my nostrils, familiar and comforting.

I'm with him. He's with me. It's all the tether I need.

I inhale his scent, lean into his warmth, until there is nothing else but him; and...

...the world is brighter, and louder, and I'm being gently shaken. "Mulder. Wake up, Mulder."

Is it morning? Where did night go? I'm so tired, I ache all over...

"Mulder." Kisses on my nose, my cheeks, my lips. "C'mon, gorgeous. Time to get up."

Alex. Obscenely awake and alert, bright-eyed and smiling. His warmth and his scent and his hands under my armpits, dragging me upright. The world tilts crazily around me as I fight to remain vertical. Gravity hits my bladder like a sledgehammer. "Unhh," is all I can groan, in protest.

"We'll get coffee," he says, "you'll wake up," and kisses me again.

I can barely stand. He has to hold me upright while I urinate. I almost fall asleep mid-piss. Then I snag my underwear, and very nearly my dick, in the zipper of my jeans. I wonder how the hell I'm going to stay awake and balanced on the back of the bike. For one short moment, I catch myself wishing I was back at the hospital, in my comfy bed...

He hugs me, hard and close and tight, and I am caught up in his warmth and his scent all over again. "It'll get better," he murmurs in my ear. "I promise."

"Do you really want me?" As I hear myself say the words, I wonder where they came from. I'm just so tired, and it feels like all that exists is the road and the motorcycle and the discomfort and... and why is he doing this? Why is he bothering? Do I really matter that much?

His eyes. The look in his eyes. He's so beautiful, my Alex. "More than anything in the world," in a voice so filled with emotion that it hurts to hear it; and a deep, passionate kiss that almost makes me not mind being conscious.

Somewhere, back along that endless road, is a career and a partner and a world in which I used to belong, and right here and now is a falling-down barn and a motorcycle and a plethora of muscle aches from sleeping sitting up on the ground and... and Alex, who wants me more than anything in the world, and I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, and I don't care, as long as I'm with him.

As I clamber onto the bike, I realize that I'm saddlesore from too many hours on the damn thing, and the pulsating vibration of the engine that was so arousing for the first few hours merely hurts now, and I just want this to be over...

...I bury my face against leather and inhale. Alex. Yes.

"Think 'coffee'," he suggests, as he coaxes the motorcycle to life, and steers us in a lazy circle and out, into the light of day.

I take him to a roadside restaurant, even though I feel acutely vulnerable sitting still for so long; I order soup and a sandwich for Mulder, and I make him eat it, every last scrap.

So apathetic. So helpless.

What am I going to do with him?

It all seemed so simple. Spring him from the hospital, take him back to my secret hideaway, let him stay there and regain his strength, safe from prying eyes, while I pursue my own interests. But I can't leave him there unsupervised, not like this... Shit. This is all so much more than I bargained for.

He won't even go to the damned restroom by himself. I have to escort him there, as if he was a child.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to D.C.?" I ask him, as we prepare to leave the restaurant and head out on the highway again.

My inquiry provokes a wave of wide-eyed terror; "Stay with me," he pleads. "Don't leave me, Alex."

But maybe I should. Maybe that's what he needs most. For me to leave him alone, as I should have done from the start.

This is my fault.

I made him want me, made him need me; reveled in his desire, matching my own as I had never imagined. I didn't realize -- hell, I didn't care -- that by doing so, I was tearing him away from his own life, his own world. I latched on to him, and I pulled him to me... and caught between me and the rest of his existence, Mulder has been torn in half, ripped apart.

Can he heal? Will he?

And shit, do I have what it takes to put the pieces back together?

He clings to me, as we take to the road again: his arms around me, his body pressed close to mine; damn, it feels like heaven. I could live on this, in lieu of food and water and air. Mulder, oh God, Mulder, mine and mine and mine, belonging to no one and nothing but me. But is he even the same man anymore?

I don't want to care -- I don't want to feel anything but the raw exhilaration of his closeness -- but I do. I care too fucking much, and it hurts.

Maybe he does need professional help.

Maybe he needs me to get the hell out of his life once and for all.

I mull it over for hours, as we ride onward, fighting the lure of his closeness and forcing myself to think rationally. When next we stop, we go through the routine of gas station and bathroom and making him eat something -- and as we're preparing to get back on the bike and head out again, I broach the subject. "Mulder, I'm worried about you," I tell him gently, carefully. "I think it might be better for you to receive proper care..."

An instant's panic -- then his face seals over into icy stillness, the familiar old look of barriers rising. It's the most normal expression I've seen on his face since I took him from the hospital, and it heartens me.

"You've changed your mind," he says. "You don't want me, do you?"

"Mulder, listen to me..."

"I don't care," he says abruptly. "Drop me at the nearest police station, or hospital. They'll call Washington; they'll get me back to where I belong. Do what you want. I don't care." Stone, those walls, cold and hard and severe. Shutting me out.

Yeah, that's the Mulder I know.

"I only want what's best for you," I tell him.

"No you don't. You've figured out that I'm too much goddamn trouble to deal with. You want to be rid of me." Anger, now, along with the coldness.

It hurts. It hurts the way a punch in the stomach hurts: knocking the breath out of me.

"I don't want to lose you," I protest.

And the wall cracks. "Then don't leave me!" in an anguished cry -- he turns his face away, as if the display of distress embarrasses him. Again, pure Mulder, much more so than the uncharacteristic docility.

He draws a deep breath, then another, calming himself. "I made my choice," he says, with deliberate composure. "Now you have to make yours."

After all I've gone through, the danger I've placed myself in on his behalf... does he really think that I would choose anything, anyone, but him? "I made my choice a long time ago," I tell him, measuring my words, trying to keep my voice as calm as his.

"Then don't leave me." More cracks in the wall, agony smoothed and compressed into a flat, emotionless tone.

I reach out, turn his face toward me, and am startled by what I see: his voice is so placid, but there are tears streaming down his face.

There is nothing I can do but pull him close to me and kiss the tears away.

"I want you to be well," I struggle to explain, to make him understand. "I want you to be healthy and happy..."

"Then don't leave me." Barely a whisper now, as if the effort of retaining the appearance of equanimity is draining all of his strength, leaving none for speech.

"But I don't know if I can give you what you need!" My own fear. My own unspoken terror: that I will fail him, that I have failed him, that my feelings for him have brought about his downfall in a way I can't repair...

He reaches out and takes my face in his hands, the same way I am holding him; and his voice when he speaks is strong and forceful and intense, each word enunciated clearly, to leave no doubt of his conviction. "I. Need. You."

No one, no one, has ever said anything remotely like that to me before.

"Let me be with you," he says, with the same intensity. "Let me be yours."

'Let me'. As if that isn't everything I've ever fucking wanted from him.

My body, my soul, my entire being are resonating with those words; I don't know if I can speak. But I need to, I need to tell him what he needs to hear... "Yes." The single word is all I can manage.

But it's enough. The tension drains from him in the space of a single expelled breath.

He sags against me. I pull him close. And I can't let go, can't stop clutching at him, can't stop kissing him... Mine and mine and mine, all mine, no one else's but mine, oh God Mulder, yes. A thousand times, yes.

"Don't ask me again," he whispers into my ear, when eventually the urgency subsides. "Just take me home with you, Alex. Just take me home."

I draw back, look into his eyes -- and it's the same expression he wore when he first asked me to make love to him: utterly in control, yielding willingly to me -- and so affectionate that it takes my breath away.

This is the Mulder I know. This is my Mulder.

"Yes," I say, and his answering smile is so damn gorgeous that I want to cry.

Instead, I pull him to me again and submerge myself in one last lingering kiss before we get back on the bike and hit the road again.

Another abandoned building. This one used to be a gas station. Alex doesn't like it; says it's too close to the road. But we've spent hours looking for a place to stop and rest, and this is the first likely spot we've found...

We conceal the bike, conceal ourselves, settle down on the floor. For the first time, I find myself wondering if we're being tracked, followed. If capture is just a step behind us, waiting for us to make a single mistake... What would they do to me if they caught us? What would they do to him?

No one would understand. They'd think he'd kidnapped me; they'd never believe that I'm with him of my own accord. Wouldn't matter what I told them -- I'm 'not well'. And kidnapping is the least of his crimes... He's taken a terrible risk, helping me escape.

For a moment, I wonder why -- I look at him, he gazes at me, and I see the answer in his eyes. My Alex.

I don't think I'll ever get used to this.

I lean into him -- his left side, leaving his right arm free to reach for his gun, if necessary. It feels so good, after hours and hours on the bike, to just relax and nestle against him... but it's not enough. All those lonely nights in the hospital, thinking of him and aching for him, remembering our lovemaking and longing to be close to him again...

Two days of dirt and sweat layered over our skin, but on Alex it smells good. Or maybe I'm just too desperate to care. I need him, need to touch him, to taste him...

"No," he says firmly, and removes my wandering hand from the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn't understand. I need him.

"Not here, not now. It's too dangerous, Mulder. We can't afford to be... distracted." His hand smooths along my back, massaging my shoulder. "Soon, okay? We'll be home soon."

His voice is soft and warm and caring, but it doesn't ease the sting of rejection. I need him, damn it... he's right, it's not safe, but I need him...

"It'll be worth the wait, I promise." Lips against mine, a swift kiss. "Just a little bit longer."

"How much longer?" My voice comes out sounding whiny and petulant, and I don't care.

"Only another day. We're almost there."

"Where?" I'm tired of being kept in the dark.

He hesitates. "It's better if you don't know," he says gently. "It's home, that's all. A place where we'll be as safe as we can be." Another, deeper kiss. "Where we can make love all day and all night if we want," in a sensual whisper that makes me shiver.

"If?" I inquire mildly.

When he laughs, all traces of coldness and suspicion and worry fall away from his face, and he's just beautiful. "All right, let's stipulate that as a given..."

I press myself against him and kiss him, harsh and hungry the way he likes it, and emanating from his throat I hear a faint strangled moan, echo of the sobbing sound he makes when he's coming; he's as hard as I am, hips arching up into me, wanting, needing me just as badly...

...and he pries me off him, ending the kiss and the contact and placing distance between us. "Mulder, no," he murmurs hoarsely. "It has to be no, if I want to keep you safe."

"Alex," I begin to plead -- begging, dammit, he's making me beg for what he wants just as much as I do...

"Fox." The name stops me cold. He's never used it, and I hate my name -- but his voice is so tender that it feels like a caress. "Do you know what you're doing to me? Do you?"

Yes, I do. I can feel it, not merely the bulge in his jeans but the tautness of his muscles, the light sheen of sweat on his skin, the tremor in his voice -- and he's trying to keep me safe, to stay alert so that he can protect me, protect me.

"Don't make me push you away," he says. "I don't ever want to push you away, and it hurts..."

My Alex. My Alex.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and snuggle close to him again -- carefully, companionably, so as not to make it any worse for either of us.

A light kiss on my forehead. "Tomorrow night," he promises. "By tomorrow night, we'll be home."

And he holds me, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heart pounding and trying to ignore the answering throbbing in my loins.

We're so close to home that I can taste the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee I keep there, can feel the satin sheets against my skin -- so close, so damned close; but still so far away, and my eyelids are sagging shut, and Mulder is on the verge of falling off the bike. There's no other option; we have to rest.

At least this desert and its sandstone mountains are an area I know well.

I pull off the road, bring us to a halt and kill the engine. "Are we home?" comes Mulder's sleepy query.

"No, not yet," I tell him regretfully. "I can't drive any longer; I need to stop for awhile."

"Oh. Okay." That pliant passivity again. It doesn't worry me anymore, though, now that I've seen the fire come to life within him, seen him rally to keep what he cares about...

...me. Just the thought warms me, gives me the energy to drag the bike off the road and into a narrow crevice between rock formations where it'll be safely hidden.

I unstrap the pack from the back of the bike, sling it over my shoulder. "Come on," I tell Mulder, and lead him deeper into the darkness.

Millennia ago, this terrain was shaped by running water: it carved the rock, forming a plethora of tiny holes and larger caves, havens for desert plants and animals -- and weary fugitives seeking shelter for the night. One dark shadow looks large enough to suit my purposes, and a relatively easy climb. I go up first, testing the path; I rummage for my flashlight and shine it into the hole, making sure that no wildlife has claimed this hideaway for themselves. After ascertaining its suitability, I go back down and fetch Mulder, helping him over the rocks lest he stumble and fall.

"This is..." Mulder's voice trails off, as he surveys the small spherical space with something akin to wonder.

"Strange?" I suggest, as I spread the blanket on the rock floor to cushion us from some of the chill.

"Perfect." I don't have to see his smile in the darkness; I can hear it in his voice.

I settle myself into a comfortable position against the tiny cave's wall, and Mulder curls up next to me. His head rests against my shoulder; I hear a contented sigh.

Then the arm wrapped around me begins to drift: his hand caresses my thigh, moves inward...

"Mulder," I protest half-heartedly, as his fingers trail lightly over my crotch. "We should sleep."

"I need you." The night is so still, so silent, that his whisper is as clear as a bell. "I need to be close to you," stroking me, bringing my cock to life.

"It's not safe..."

"You promised, Alex. Yesterday, you said tomorrow, and now it's tonight." Before my tired brain can untangle that, he's unzipping my jeans, curling his fingers around my rising hard-on -- and suddenly I can't think at all. "You promised," he whispers, "and I need you so much..."

We're not home, but we're as safe as we can be without being home, and it's been so damn long, and now he's leaning over and taking me into his mouth -- he's still lousy at it, but he's so anxious to please me, and that knowledge is aphrodisiac enough to make up for his lack of technique -- oh, god, it's been so damn long since we've been together. Too damn long to bear.

His head is resting in my lap as he sucks me, such sweet submission, and I could just sink into the feeling and be lost -- but then I notice that his hand is wedged between his legs, rubbing at his own erection, painfully trapped behind tight jeans, and that won't do. "Wait," I tell him, "wait a minute," and push his head away, because I don't trust him not to become startled and bite me; I shift position with difficulty in the cramped space until I can reach him, open his jeans and draw him out and into my mouth...

He whimpers, crying out my name, his whole body shuddering at the first instant of contact; then he wraps his arms around my legs and begins sucking me again, with renewed intensity.

There isn't enough room for this here. There's a rock jabbing me in the ribs, hard enough to leave a bruise. The position I'm contorted into is nowhere near comfortable. And after three long days on the road, neither of us is exactly sweet-smelling... He's taking lessons from me, absorbing the way I'm going down on him with soft little moans around my cock and applying the same moves in return, awkwardly but with such devotion; clinging to me fiercely, struggling against his own gag reflex to take me deeper, suck me harder, anything at all to please me, and this is heaven. Sheer blissful ecstasy. Mulder, my Mulder, all mine...

I try to hold back, but it's been too long, and it's over too soon, in a series of spasms that relieve the physical tension without doing anything to ease the underlying need. I spurt, I swallow, I catch my breath -- and then I start working on getting his jeans off, a ridiculously difficult task in such a small space.

"Mmm?" Small querying sound from the vicinity of my groin.

"Nnh," I reply, equally eloquent; he gets the picture and begins undressing me.

I must be tired, because it takes me awhile to figure out that the reason I can't get him naked is because jeans won't slide over feet unless sneakers have been removed first. Mulder, the supposedly helpless one, has this revelation long before I do. Then there's the problem of where to put our clothes, when there's barely enough room for us; and how to reposition ourselves in this tiny space, and what to do about the hopelessly wrinkled and tangled blanket that we need to keep us warm... Somewhere in the middle of this impromptu game of three-dimensional twister, Mulder begins to laugh; it's contagious, I can't help joining him, and then neither of us can stop. Every foot shoved in an uncomfortable place provokes a new round of laughter. When he elbows me in the face and damn near knocks my front teeth out, it's the most hysterical thing in the world.

I've never laughed like this with anyone. Never felt such a sense of silliness, of utter reckless happiness, of freedom. Not even, to my best recollection, when I was a child.

After an eternity of exertion, we're finally face to face and in each other's arms, wrapped snugly in the blanket, still chuckling drowsily -- the moonlight just catches the edge of his face, just enough for me to see him smiling at me. So damn gorgeous. In just a little while we'll be back at my hideaway, in safety: no more hiding, no more holding back, just the two of us and all the time we need...

"We're almost home," I remind him, remind myself, to try to curb my impatience.

His smile widens. "I am home," he says, and buries his face against my chest.

In another moment, he's asleep.

And I force myself to stay awake for a few precious moments longer, savoring the crispness of the cool night air, the unbearably sensuous warmth of his naked body wrapped around me: the knowledge that I have somehow managed to claim the one and only thing I've ever wanted so badly that I ached for it -- and that it's sweeter than I ever dreamed.

Hours later, I am roused by the first rays of sunlight streaming into our cave, into my eyes; I awaken into a world of warmth. Mulder, snuggled against me -- as I shift aching limbs into a marginally more comfortable position, he moves even closer and makes a small, contented sound in his sleep.

Dawn is spreading over the mountains, painting them red and orange and gold. I should let him sleep, but instead I nudge him awake, because from our vantage point the landscape is glorious, and for a change I have someone to share it with.

He blinks up at me, sleepy-eyed, and I kiss his forehead in greeting, marveling anew at how easy it is to just reach out and touch him any time I please -- "Roll over," I tell him. "Carefully," holding on to him, in case he moves too far and falls out of the cave.

Wearily, he does as I've bidden him -- catches his first glimpse of the dawn-painted mountains and inhales sharply. "Beautiful," he says softly.

"Yeah," I murmur.

Nestled together spoon-fashion, his ass pressed up against my cock, is giving me some interesting ideas. Yet I don't want to act on them, because while sex is something I'm well familiar with, this -- holding him close, sharing the quiet beauty of the morning, of the desert which has become my home -- is entirely new.

As new as the dawning day, as the future we might just manage to share.

I kiss his shoulder; he wraps his hand around mine, brings it to his lips and kisses my palm, and we lie there together, enjoying the silence and the splendor and the sensation of contact.

It's a shack.

It's a run-down, falling-apart one-room shack in the middle of scrub desert and unremarkable rocks.

This is our destination?

I stand outside and stare in disbelief and dismay, until he calls me inside. The shelter from the harsh sun, the dimness of the light, is a relief; but that's about all that can be said for the place. His motorcycle, propped on its stand near the door, is the most modern thing inside. There's a table, a couple of rickety chairs, a few random pieces of battered furniture, and is that a woodburning stove?

"So, what do you think?" he inquires, with an odd little gleam in his eyes.

We drove three-quarters of the way across the country so that you could bring me here? comes to mind, but I bite back the words. "Uhhhhh," emerges from my mouth, as I search desperately for something, anything positive to say.

And Alex laughs.

He moves toward a heavy old piece of furniture, a chest of drawers set against one wall. He grasps one corner and pulls, and the chest moves aside easily, effortlessly. Then he reaches down, pulls at a section of the splintering wood floor, and that slides sideways as well; beneath it, there is a fathomless dark hole, and the glint of a metal ladder just visible...

Taking hold of the bulky pack, he drops it into the hole. After what seems like a very long time, I hear it hit bottom, with a distant thud. "C'mon," he says, and swings his legs into the hole, grasps the ladder and begins to descend.

With only a moment's hesitation, I follow.

Light fades, disappears above us as we go down, and down, and down. I almost kick him in the head twice before I get the rhythm of the speed of his descent. My hands clench the metal rungs fearfully -- if I slipped, would I survive the fall? would I knock him loose and drag him down with me? And where the hell are we going, anyway...?

"Almost there," he calls up to me; and moments later I feel my feet impact with solid ground, feel his arms around me, guiding me and pulling me close.

I can't see a damn thing, but I can feel his lips brush against my cheek. "We're almost home," he says.

He moves away from me, does something to the wall in the darkness; there is a mechanical sound, and the small circle of light far above us begins to dwindle: a semicircle, a crescent, a sliver, and then nothing but black.

Helplessly, I reach out, searching for him... "I'm right here," and his hand wraps around mine.

The flick of a switch, and his flashlight surges to life, a strong steady beam -- we are at the end of a narrow passage, rough-hewn rock walls for as far as the light can penetrate. He moves forward, down that passage, and I follow him, as close on his heels as I can manage without stepping on his feet.

We walk and we walk and we walk, straight ahead and then following the odd twists and turns of the passage, so that I am no longer sure which direction we are headed in. It seems to me that we are descending, but it's hard to tell without any visual clues. The darkness, the closeness of the rock, is oppressive -- Alex doesn't seem to feel it; he's whistling softly, a cheery little tune as it leaves his lips, eerie and sinister as it reverberates back at us. I want to ask him to stop, but this is very obviously nothing remarkable as far as he's concerned, and I've been so dependent on him, so helpless and needy... I don't want him to think less of me. I don't want him to think me cowardly, or any weaker than I already seem.

But I can't help what I feel -- apprehension, a child's irrational fear of darkness and the unknown -- and find myself thinking that the run-down shack up above us would have been better than this...

The passage branches, forks, intersects with another; and at each junction, Alex chooses a new course without hesitation. I envy him his sense of direction. Or are these tunnels marked, in some way I can't perceive? Whatever. We're in a maze, now, and I would be lost without him... I can't help myself: I reach out and clutch at his arm.

He pauses, turns to face me -- "You okay, Mulder?"

I hesitate, not wanting to admit it. "This is just weird," I allow cautiously.

His hand wraps around mine, holds it securely. "It's all right," he assures me solemnly, and I believe him.

We journey onward, holding hands. The passage narrows, in height and width, until we have to crawl -- claustrophobia presses in on me, and I force it back, focusing on the soles of Alex's shoes just in front of me. Then it abruptly expands again, and he's helping me to my feet. "Just a little further, now," he says.

Before us is a steel door, an impenetrable barrier -- Alex does something to one side of it, throws his weight into pulling down a lever, and it slides, creaking, to one side. A short distance beyond that door, he stops me in my tracks with an outstretched arm, carefully moves what appears to be an outcropping of rock -- there is a swift flash of metal bisecting the passageway horizontally, at about chest level, and then stillness. "All right," he says, and we move forward again, ducking under the blades.

More doors, more booby-traps -- it's like something out of a fantasy novel, or a movie. The Indiana Jones trilogy comes to mind. "What the hell is this place?" I ask him, as we pause before yet another of the featureless doors.

Alex smiles. "Home," he says, and pushes the last door aside.

He gestures me ahead of him. Cautiously, I take a step forward. I hear him flick a switch, and suddenly there is light...

"So," I hear him say, as if from a great distance, "what do you think?"

Caught in the midst of absolute shock, I cannot reply.

It's a cavern: a massive, vaguely oval space. The rough, uneven rock of the walls and ceiling is sheer geological beauty, a million colors in striated layers. The floor, by contrast, is thick, luxurious carpeting. And that's just the beginning.

It's a cross between a wealthy bachelor's condominium, an old-fashioned library, and an eccentric museum. Chrome and glass, rich wood, leather and satin. Fine art side-by-side with pop-culture posters. A delicate antique vase set beside a blue and green lava lamp. An Oriental rug in front of a beanbag chair.

It's more than a living space, it's a tiny self-contained world. Exercise equipment forming a gym in one area, entertainment center in another, kitchen and dining area on the other side of the cavern, bookshelves forming row upon row against one wall, and in the middle of it all, the bed -- fur spread, black satin, heaps of pillows, beckoning invitingly.

It's an astonishing place. It's amazing.

In some way I cannot define, it is thoroughly characteristic of him. At least, it is utterly representative of the facets that I already know -- and makes me want to know the rest of him better.

His arms wrap around my waist from behind, his chin comes to rest on my shoulder, cheek pressing against mine. "Think you might like it here?" he wonders aloud.

I turn, pull him close and kiss him, hard. "Jesus Christ, why do you ever leave?" I hear myself say.

He shrugs. "Things to do," he says casually, "people to meet, business to conduct," tensing very slightly, as if my question has disturbed him somehow.

Yeah. Things to do: sabotage, espionage? People to meet: and assassinate? Business to conduct... do I even want to contemplate that one?

My Alex. Is Alex Krycek. When did I forget that?

Probably way back when I decided I didn't want to remember...

"It doesn't matter," I tell him, and almost manage to convince myself that I believe it.

His lips quirk into a faint grin; then he kisses me, and I stop thinking altogether.

We're here: we're home. We're alone together. We're safe. And there's that huge, glorious bed in the middle of the room, just waiting for us...

It actually takes me a moment to realize that I'm stripping off his clothes; my hands are moving independently of my conscious volition, following an agenda of their own. And Alex is just... standing there, watching me undress him, smiling that gorgeous smile, the one that's pure sweetness with none of the darkness, the one where the emotion shines from his eyes with such intensity that it leaves me breathless.

"Patience," he murmurs, catching my hands before I can finish the task. "A shower would feel good first, wouldn't it?"

Shower. Yeah. Hot water washing away the dirt and the sweat... memories of previous showers together, and Alex so close to me... "Sounds good," I agree.

He grins at me -- and begins undoing his boots. "Take off your shoes," he advises me. "I don't want to get the carpet dirty. Bare feet only."

"What about bare skin?" I wonder, as I kick off my sneakers.

"That, too," he says, and takes my hand, leads me into his home.

He's here with me. Here. Padding barefoot across my carpet, looking around at my eclectic collection of treasures and junk with wide-eyed wonder. Casting longing glances at the bed. Here with me, in this place where no one but me has ever been, sharing a part of my world that no one, no one ever has...

I had thought it would be intrusive, having him here; compromising my privacy, my solitude -- but it feels so perfect, so right, that I should share this with him.

He's here. With me. Finishing the job he started at the front door, undressing me with single-minded intensity, letting my clothes fall haphazardly to the floor. This is like something out of a dream... my favorite dream, the one I never ever believed would come true. Mulder, gazing at me without hatred, without loathing, with eyes that hold only affection and feverish desire -- Mulder, caressing me hungrily, wanting me, needing me, giving himself to me without hesitation, without restraint.

It must be a dream. Reality is rarely this kind to me.

He begins to remove his own clothes, and I shake off my daze and help him, still unable to quite believe any of this is happening. I'm going to wake up alone -- in my own bed, or in a jail cell somewhere -- alone and aching, with the bleak knowledge that all of this was no more than a cruel hallucination, my mind tormenting me with images that can never be.

His hand wraps around my cock, and a shudder races through me -- it feels so goddamn real it's impossible to doubt.

"Alex." His voice. I've had to relearn the sound of his voice. So flat and dry and passionless -- except at times like this, when it's velvet and honey and pure liquid sensuality. "We were going to take a shower?" laced with wry humor, but still so unbearably arousing that I could almost come just from listening to him speak.

Shower. Right. Hot water and soap, washing away the layers of dirt and sweat. But how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on anything besides Mulder, standing before me naked?

I have to physically turn away from him in order to do it: the minimal thought required to set the shower temperature to a comfortable warmth takes an extreme effort.

This is dangerous. This is deadly dangerous, that I should be affected to this degree by anything or anyone. I've trained myself better than this: to be impervious, oblivious, hardened to sentiment and need and pain, so that I can survive and succeed. It was bad enough before, rearranging my life and my schedule for those too-short stolen moments of intimacy -- at least then, I could clear my mind between times, and apply myself to the business at hand. Now... having him with me, all the time... how am I going to deal with it now?

It scares me, right down to the core, to realize what this means.

Then I feel his hands come to rest on my shoulders, stroke trails of fire down to my hips -- I can't help it; I hear myself moan.

Every instinct, every fragment of common sense, is telling me to extricate myself from this situation before I get myself killed. But my instincts have been screaming bloody murder at me since the day I started plotting to kidnap him, and I've learned -- too well -- how to ignore them.

And Mulder is touching me. Resting his cheek against my shoulder from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist, hands sliding over my groin and down to my cock, which is so hard that it hurts... "Mmm," he sighs, such a small sound, and it sends waves of fire through me, body and soul.

For a long time, I've known that my death would be... messy, and unpleasant. That I would die violently, painfully, and alone. An inevitability, in my line of work: no amount of instinct or cunning can keep me alive forever. Dying of old age has never been an option.

And maybe I'll die a little sooner than I otherwise would, because of Mulder and my involvement with him, because of my distraction -- but I suddenly realize that I don't care, because I'll die a hell of a lot happier for having known him this way. For having had some measure of happiness in my life before death claims me. Knowing that he, at least, will mourn me when I'm gone.

It's a sick, sad thing that these thoughts bring me comfort, but they do.

Steam rises from the shower, and we step inside together.

Three separate showerheads provide a cascade of hot water. I spend so much of my time crawling on my belly through the dirt that being clean is a luxury, and one I try to indulge in at every opportunity -- but this time, Mulder's hands are smoothing soap over my skin, massaging away the grime, and that is a luxury beyond measure. This isn't cleansing, this is foreplay.

He pulls me close to wash my back, hot slippery skin against mine, hips moving involuntarily to rub his hard cock against me -- I want him so badly that I ache; but oh, what a reckless extravagance it is to be able to wait. To know that we have the time for this, to let the need build and build without having to rush toward satisfaction.

Eventually, we have to separate, because the sensation is too much, too intense to bear.

When at last the shower water runs clear instead of dirty grey as it flows into the drain, we come out of the shower and towel each other dry. I wrap him up in my bathrobe, leave him in the bathroom and go rummaging through my clothes until I find the old robe that I never did get around to throwing away. Never saw the purpose in owning two, before. Now I'm glad that I do.

It strikes me suddenly that the dirty clothes he's left discarded and forgotten on the floor are the only things he has; we're close enough in size that I can find some things for him to wear, but I'm still going to have to go shopping, and soon.

"I don't have a toothbrush," he says forlornly, and I dig through the cabinets until I come up with a spare.

Finally, we emerge from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and sporting matching hard-ons. "You want anything to eat?" I ask, like a good host, trying not to sound too impatient.

"You mean... food?" he responds, grinning wickedly. "No," with a gaze that tells me exactly what he's hungry for.

Me. He wants me.

I remember lying in bed, very carefully plotting out his capture, and how I might be able to manipulate him physically and emotionally into allowing me one chance to fuck him. One chance: I knew that would be all I could reasonably hope to get. I didn't want it to be rape -- I needed it to be consensual, even though he'd loathe me for it later; I needed him to want me, just for a little while, so that I could fuel my fantasies with the memory of that desire afterwards.

When he came back to me, when he grabbed me and shoved me up against the wall and kissed me, entirely of his own accord, it felt so damn incredible that I thought I'd die of it. But even then, I was so sure that it couldn't last...

And now he's here. Here with me. Choosing to be here with me. Wanting me.

He'll never really know what this means to me. There are no words to describe this feeling.

"I want you to make love to me," I say, though I can barely speak -- the words come out harshly, roughened by the emotion that I can't express, that he wouldn't understand. Then, remembering: "Please," because it seems only fair, to return to him the same submission that I had demanded.

He remembers, too. I can see it in his smile. But there's no triumph in his victory -- only tenderness, only desire.

His hands reach out, tug at the loose knot belting my robe closed, push the fabric off my shoulders until the robe tumbles to the floor. "On the bed," he says, so very softly; and I shove aside the bedspread and stretch out atop satin and wait for him, not even trying to hide the fact that I'm trembling.

For a few moments, he just stands there at the foot of the bed, looking at me. Savoring me. Hands twitching at his sides, as if he wants to touch himself but is holding back. Impossibly fucking beautiful.

"I assume you have lubricant, somewhere in this palace of yours," he says, in a wry voice with just a hint of a quiver marring its smoothness.

Sheer, blinding panic assails me for a moment -- do I? I've never brought anyone here, never had to keep stuff on hand... Then reason, and memory, return. But why should I panic alone? "Uhhh," I say, letting my face go slack.

The expression of lustful smugness on his face dissolves into anxiety. "Alex...!"

And I grin at him. "Cabinet in the bathroom," I tell him, "top row, second from the left, third shelf down, on the right."

What a lovely look of amused annoyance he's wearing. I'll have to remember to tease him more often. "You son of a bitch," he says, grinning back at me, and goes to get the stuff.

I can hear him pawing through the cabinets. Something falls, with a thud. Finally, he's back, tube in hand -- "It'd serve you right if this was toothpaste," he scolds me. "Or muscle ointment."

"You wouldn't do that," I say, with assurance. If for no other reason, because it'd hurt him as much as it would hurt me.

His expression softens. "No," he agrees, "I wouldn't," and something inside me tears and bursts open at the sound of the tenderness in his voice.

Is it possible to die of happiness? Because if it is, I think I just might.

He kneels on the bed between my legs, seems about to prepare me for entry, but gets distracted -- leans over and kisses the head of my cock, draws it into his mouth, sucking, his tongue rubbing... oh, hell, I'm never going to last if he does this. "Mulder...!" I cry out, not sure whether it's a protest or a plea.

"You taste so good," he explains in a husky voice, then dives back in for another taste, takes me deeper this time -- all the while his hands are moving, preparing me, fingers sliding into me, up... it's so good, it's so damn good, it hurts to hold back and I don't know how long I can...

I'm one step from losing it, right on the edge, when he releases me -- if this is what it felt like when I did this to him, oh hell, Mulder, I'm so sorry. Does he blame me for that, I wonder, when it's what brought us together? Does he resent me for the way I took him, tortured him, made him ache with wanting me? Or does he just want me, and think of nothing else?

"You ready?" he asks me, and I find myself laughing shakily, because it is such a stupid question -- and just what I need, to distract me from my thoughts.

My eyes close as he begins, focusing entirely on the sensations. His cockhead against my anus. The heat and pressure as he pushes into me. Being stretched, opened, taken. Sliding into me slowly, so slowly, and the sudden urgency of wanting all of him inside me -- wanting and needing and aching, so much that there is nothing else of me but the yearning, and he's moving so damn slowly that it hurts.

Finally, finally, he's all the way in -- freezes there, absolutely still, tormenting me with his stillness; I need more...

He leans over me, closer, until our bodies are pressed together, entwines his fingers with mine and pushes my hands back, holding me in place -- kisses me, deeply, hungrily, moaning a little -- then his hips begin to move, just his hips and nothing else, maintaining the upper-body contact and still kissing me as he fucks me.

Little thrusts, not deep enough, not hard enough; friction of his belly against my cock, tiny tormenting strokes, when what I need is to be impaled and squeezed and screwed into the mattress -- more, damn it, more, and now; sounds are coming out of my throat, whimpers and cries that plead desperately for more, and still he keeps doing it, holding me immobile in an agonizing limbo of pleasure and desperation. It's killing me... it's killing him: he's shaking, sweating, emitting cries that match mine, and still he keeps doing it...

...then his control shatters: he pulls back and slams into me, still kissing me, moaning into the kiss; another hard thrust, and another, and another, ready to come and holding back, waiting for me; harder, faster, pressing against me to provide friction, pounding into me; finally I feel it beginning, tension building, tightening, a scream building in my throat, and he's with me, with me, feeling it with me, sharing it with me, howling with me as we explode together.

Incredible.

His cock slides out of me, and after awhile I remember to stretch my legs into a less cramped position. He's heavy, sprawled on top of me; I'm sweaty and sticky and I can barely breathe.

It's wonderful.

"Move," I mumble, and he rolls off me, takes me sideways with him; holding me, caressing me languidly. Already, I can feel the beginnings of passion building again, foreshadowing of a second-time-around, and consider whether I want to fuck him this time, or feel that gorgeous cock inside me again.

He makes a small contented sound. Moves his hand to the back of my neck, stroking me possessively. "It's so good to be home," he sighs.

My breath catches in my throat; I have to shut my eyes and clench my teeth to keep from crying.

I could die of happiness after all. I really could.

"I'm glad you're here," I say, when I can speak.

Mulder's eyes shine endless joy at me, and he kisses me.

Yes, it is -- so good -- to be home.

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