TITLE: The Traveler
AUTHOR: Raietta
PAIRING: Mulder/Krycek!
RATING: Uhhh, maybe R, maybe NC-17 for language and M/K sex, and a very little
bit of
grotesquery...
SPOILERS: None!
DISCLAIMER: During a recent trip to Hollywood, I acquired the address and
planned itinerary of one Chris Carter, and after a week of stalking him I
finally had him cornered in an alleyway. Making the best of the situation, I
"encouraged" him to peruse this story, see if maybe he'd like to get it
published or perhaps even turn it into a screenplay for a future episode, seeing
as it centered around his two boys, and all. Carter just giggled a lot and asked
me not to hurt him. Wuss.
DISCLAIMER, PART II: Dear God in heaven! There's two guys having *sex* in this
fic! The horror!
The horror!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This puppy is a revised and updated and basically improved
version of my response to the RatB June "Hometown" Challenge. This story started
out as a happy little fic, then promptly spiraled wildly out my control,
eventually morphing into... well, actually, I'm not quite sure *what* this story
is, anymore. Enlighten me please, someone.
SUMMARY: Time travel story!
FEEDBACK: "And what is the use of a fanfic," thought Raietta, "without any
reader feedback?" E-mail me at tellarren@yahoo.com and make my day, s.v.p. I'll
be so pathetically grateful it's not even funny.


****


The Traveler
by Raietta


****


"Although common sense may rule out the possibility of time travel, the laws of
quantum physics
certainly do not."
        	--Synchrony episode



		but you dart through the future
		which is memory
		your boy's voice shouting out
		the remainder of poems
		of which I know
		simply beginnings

	words heard a thousand times
	in the echoing night
	across the sea-foam

		separating us
		for this moment only

				--Carolyn Kizer


****


Manchester, Missouri

June 17, 1989



Ah, the fly-over states. God love 'em. Home of the best hamburger joints in the
U.S. Yes, the Heartland of America might just be little more than a sparsely
populated playground for incest and bestiality (farmers got lonely, after all);
yes, America's Breadbasket might just be little more than one giant soy bean
field; yes, the Bible Belt might just be the backwater embarrassment of the rest
of the U.S.; but by God, it had some damn fine greasy cuisine.

Federal Agent Fox Mulder, Violent Crimes Unit, considered himself to be, by now,
something of a
connoisseur of local Mid-Western diners. He had a very vigorous rating system.
Usually. Tonight, however, slumped into the red vinyl booth of his most recent
New Dining Experience, Mulder felt too drained and enervated to really bother
grading the place. The restaurant, called Steak 'n Shake, had been recommended
to him by local fed Urmila Subram, who was helping him and his partner on their
current case. In fact, she was sitting across the table from him right now,
busily chewing on a handful of thin, salty, shoestring french fries and slurping
on a chocolate shake. Mulder, for his own part, was chowing down something
called a patty melt, which he'd viewed with great suspicion upon first seeing.

"C'mon, try it, Steak 'n Shake patty melts're great," Agent Subram had cajoled
lightly, when he'd first seen the dubious-looking picture of the sandwich in his
menu. "Or so I've heard. Everyone loves 'em, here."

"Are you going to eat one?" Mulder had asked, raising his eyebrows at her.

"I'm a vegetarian," Subram had primly replied, and Mulder had snorted at the
oddity of a vegetarian recommending a meat dish to someone. "I'm Hindu; it's my
religion," she further explained.

"Ah," Mulder said.  Then, looking at his menu, he wrinkled his nose in
suspicion. "I don't like the looks of it. Patty melt. I've never even heard of
such a thing before. Maybe I'll try a Steakburger instead."

"Well, that's what Steak 'n Shake is famous for," Subram said agreeably,
smiling. "See?" She tapped a delicate brown finger against Mulder's menu.
"'Steak 'n Shake; Famous for Steakburgers.' Their fries are also great. And the
shakes are to die for."

"Hmm..." Mulder said consideringly, eyeing the choices.

"You've never heard of patty melts before?" Agent Subram said suddenly, with
wonder, reverting to an earlier comment.

"Nope."

"What, DC doesn't have any burger joints? You must've been raised in a cave."

"Quit heckling me, lady," Mulder mock-whined. "I'm trying to come to a decision,
here."

"Sorry, sorry." Subram held up her hands in surrender, then leaned back in her
seat and returned to her own menu. When the waitress came, a cheery young thing
named Susan, Mulder astonished himself by ordering the patty melt platter. Agent
Subram beamed.

Mulder leaned into the back of his booth, spine nicely slouched over, shoulders
slumped, as he took another bite out of his surprisingly good patty melt
(grilled sourdough bread, two kinds of cheese, two hamburger patties, lots of
onions. Mmm, mmm!) and turned the page of an autopsy report. Their table was
littered with crumpled napkins, condiments, plates, glasses, and papers and
folders, ranging from autopsy reports to field reports to police reports to a
preliminary profile on the latest serial killer that Mulder had been assigned
to. He would've taken out the photos, looked them over, too, but he figured it
might shock the other customers, all of whom were either families (three
families; one single-parent with two kids, one two-parent with one kid, one
two-parent with grandmother-type and three kids) or teeny-boppers (one group of
seven teens, loud and obnoxious, one small group of three teens, slightly less
loud and obnoxious, one teenage couple, on a date which seemed to be going
rather rockily, if the sour look on the girl's face was any indication).

Manchester, Missouri's Steak 'n Shake, a fifties-style diner with lots of black,
white and red tile and cooks with those funny paper hats, originated in Illinois
and slowly spreading across the states, was a family-oriented restaurant. It
made Mulder both nervous and tired. Manchester was a suburb of St. Louis, a half
a mile from its city limits. It scared Mulder, who hated and feared Suburbia. It
set his nerves on edge. All these cheery, conservative people, smiling with
their mouths but not their eyes, with back yards and dogs and flower beds and
expensive public schools and a Wal-Mart at every corner (originated in Arkansas,
also slowly spreading across the states). All the houses looked the same, and so
did the yards and the dogs and the smiles and the people themselves. Varying
degrees of monotony.

Mulder had grown up in Suburbia. The memories were not kind.

Mulder sighed and slurped at his shake. "Damn, this is good," he praised, and
Agent Subram smiled at him. Mulder liked Subram, he thought. Tall, middle-aged,
beginning to thicken out in spots, she was exotic-looking, Indian, with
tea-colored skin and lovely golden-brown eyes, the color of amber. Mulder had
never seen eyes quite that color before. They looked like stained glass. Agent
Subram, with the St. Louis branch, had a sense of humor, and she didn't pester
Mulder too much or act like she thought he was crazy, like most other agents
did. Spooky Mulder. They just loved him for his profiles. Dramatic sigh. Subram
was different. She was an oddity of sorts, an Indian, Hindu woman agent in a
field where women alone were rare, women of minorities even more so.

"What did I say?" Subram asked, giving gentle cheek, and Mulder grinned back.
"Did I not say the shakes are to die for?"

"Indeed, you did," Mulder admitted, poking at the bright red cherry in the shake
with his straw. "How could I have ever doubted you? I need to visit Missouri
more often."

Agent Subram lost her smile, and Mulder let his fade slowly. He watched her
glance down at the files scattered across the table, watched her face turn
serious. Mulder could feel the skin around his eyes tighten with fatigue and
unhappiness. Yes, the case. It was a bitch of a case. Someone was stalking the
suburbs of St. Louis. Someone who liked young families with children and pets,
with happy homes and good jobs. Suburbia. Three families so far, killed in their
own houses. Slaughtered. The wives were all attractive, the husbands
good-looking, the children cute and cuddly. One family had had a dog, and it had
been killed, too. Decapitated, and the head put in the microwave. The wife had
been put in the fridge. One child, a little sister, had been found in the
washing machine, her brother in the dryer. Pieces of the husband had been
distributed into three different clothes hampers.

That was the second family. The first family had been creatively dispatched,
too. Husband, wife, two sons, settled on their expensive living room sofa, their
arms removed and stacked neatly on the coffee table in front of them. They had
had fish, which had been found, after some looking, in the garbage disposal.

The third family, wife, husband, little girl, had all been sodomized after they
were strangled to death. The father had been strangled with his own tie, the
mother with her belt, the child with her jump rope. Rope burns on all their
wrists and ankles. Duct tape had sealed their mouths. Other, more terrible
things had been done to their bodies as well, other than the rapes. Mulder
didn't want to dwell on it. He didn't want to think about it at all. The three
victims, after their murders, had then been sliced apart joint by joint, every
joint, and, like the second family, hidden about the house. The police had found
finger segments in coffee cans, jewelry boxes, the candy dish among the M&Ms.
Drawers had housed limbs. The heads had been placed in a row on the fireplace
mantle. The house, aside from the dispersed body parts, had been extremely
clean. No blood, no miscellaneous tissue, no mess at all. The only thing wrong
with the house itself was that all of the pictures and photographs inside it had
been slashed.

Mulder sighed, remembering the crime scene pictures, the info from the reports
he'd been given. St. Louis had asked specifically for him. Fox Mulder. He had an
extraordinary track record. He was like the freaking Second Coming of Christ to
the Bureau. Their golden boy. They called him "Spooky," to be sure, but they
said it affectionately, except for his supervisor, Reggie Purdue, who didn't
much like him. At all. But Purdue was back in DC, and Jerry Lamana, his partner,
was currently running around the crime scenes, poking and scraping, waiting for
Mulder to join him and start the manhunt in earnest. The Bureau really wanted
this psycho. Bad. People were pissed. The media was getting antsy. Those in
charge were getting anxious. Nobody likes a serial killer. They were starting to
put the pressure on Mulder, but he didn't mind. He wanted the killer caught as
soon as possible too, of course. Those photos, those reports, made his stomach
cramp miserably. His head suddenly hurt. Profiling sickos and psychos always
made him ill. He didn't like getting in their heads. It was dark and brackish
and strange in there, frightening, too close. He didn't want to get too close.

Mulder sighed. It was going to be a long, long day. He looked up at Subram, who
was picking listlessly at her fries. "You ready to go?" he asked. Subram nodded.
"Off to the crime scenes?" Subram nodded again, her amber eyes filled with
muted, repressed upset. A professional, she only let it show in her eyes.
Mulder's own eyes, an irregular hazel, were flat. He wasn't looking forward to
this at all. He could feel the profiler in him begin to whir into action, that
part of his brain rev up.

They piled the papers back into their folders and stood, Mulder grabbing the
check, which the Bureau would pay for, and Subram tossing down a tip.

"Let's go," Mulder said, and they went.

***

The third family's neighborhood had a playground and a public swimming pool. The
playground, a
square plot full of gravelly sand and wood chips, had a jungle gym with two
slides, some monkey bars, a tire swing, two concrete tunnels seated above
ground, and a swing set. Mulder sat in a swing and watched the sun set.

Missouri was very hilly, and filled with forests. Tall trees and shy deer that
skittered and ran. Ivy and vines and soft-colored flowers. And birds, lots of
birds. Every inch of Missouri that was not concrete or building was this
woodland. It was very beautiful, even to Mulder, who couldn't see the green of
it. The Ozarks, right. Did the Ozarks extend this far eastward? Manchester, so
far, was a smallish suburban city. The roads were small, the subdivisions
isolated from one another by trees and streams and a river or two. The
playground Mulder swung in was surrounded by woods, dense dark woods in the
waning light, whispering and sighing. He swung gently, legs pumping only every
so often, tie fluttering, and watched the sun set. It was beautiful, setting
right over a dip between two hills. The sun itself was a runny yellow yolk, wet
and shining, and the sky around it was a livid purplish lavender, fading to deep
royal eggplant and then into dark blue.

Mulder watched the colors of ending flow across the bowl of sky above him. The
color was so intense it hurt to look at it. It was beautiful. The chains of the
swing creaked and cried, rusty and tired, reluctant to move at all, giving in
without grace. The woods whispered and sighed. God, that sunset. Great armies of
clouds, giants, rolled across the lurid sky, stained as brightly violet and
mauve as their airy background. They sailed forward, those clouds, like a wave
of angels cresting and breaking against the dying sun, an army of angels. A
troop of angels? A... a... hell.

Mulder swung harder, thoughtful, the breeze he made combining with the evening
winds to ruffle his short, dark hair. The muscles in his legs began to burn
pleasantly.

What *was* the word for a group of angels, anyway?

For pete's sake.

There was a pride of lions, a murder of crows, a surprise of unicorns, a march
of ants, a gaggle of geese, but what was the name for a group of angels?

A herd?

For pete's sake! One would think that a guy who'd graduated from Oxford would
know the fricking word for a group of angels.

Mulder swung harder, making a mental note to find out the word for a group of
angels as soon as
possible. After the case.

The case.

The case.

God. Mulder shook his head, not wanting to think about it, about those houses,
all that blood. The first two times, the killer hadn't bothered to be clean. All
that blood, and those poor bodies. All that blood, the symbol of utmost rage.
Mulder had stood in the middle of the first family's bedroom, and stared
hopelessly. "Jesus screamed and ran," he'd said, dully, not a single note of
inflection, and Lamana had looked away.

Mulder swung harder, and tried to lose himself in the setting sun. His thighs
sang. The day died like a calm, gracious lady this night, all glorious hues and
gentle colors. The day died with graceful pomp and circumstance, and Mulder
wished that he could just sit and pump his legs and watch the day die forever,
and not think about the things he had to think about.

Profiler. Profiler. His internal wheels were already spinning, cogs and gears
clacking together, forming a ghost from circumstances and hunches, a pale,
translucent man, as yet without color. A gossamer shadow on the blood-covered
wall. Soon, it was only a matter of time, he would have the ghost all filled
out, put flesh on him, a mind, a character, a motive, and a hiding place. And
then it would be over.

And Mulder would be able to go back home, and start over again the painful,
tiring process of putting the old memories back in their cupboards and wells,
fix up his own mind to nearly the way it had been before, only now there would
be one more ghost residing in his head, to whisper advice from time to time and
turn three a.m. into another wakeful hour.

Mulder hated Suburbia.

And so did the killer, he bet.

The sun poised itself on the lip of the forest before him, bleeding gold, and
Mulder felt the hurtful beauty of that setting wash over his face, his brain,
calming it. Great swans of clouds flew over the streaming golden light. The
chains screeched again, protestingly, and Mulder slowed the swing to a halt and
watched the sun sink.

Amazing...

"Agent Mulder," a smoky voice said, quiet and calm, in the still, hushed,
waiting air, and Mulder jerked in surprise and twisted in his seat to find the
voice's owner.

The man was standing by the concrete tunnels, tall and dark, all in black, with
midnight hair and a face cast from shadows. He seemed comprised entirely of
shadows, of absences, and Mulder tried to flick on his customary anxiety, his
usual paranoia, but nothing came. His ever-present edginess at being alone with
a stranger was suddenly no longer ever-present. Weird. He'd had it since he was
twelve. And now, all of a sudden, it was gone. Mulder sat in the swing and
stared at the stranger.

"Yes?" he finally said, breaking the quietude of the ending day. Somewhere
nearby, a bird piped softly.

The man said nothing. Just stood and stared. His face, if Mulder could see
rightly, was quite lovely. The parts that weren't obscured by shadow, that was.
Mulder dangled from the swing and felt slightly ridiculous. He hadn't thought
about it before, but now it suddenly occurred to him that grown men--grown
*federal agents*--didn't swing on the swings of local playgrounds by their
lonesome, while wearing suits and ties, no less. He'd been caught being weird
again. Damn.

"Do I know you?" Mulder finally asked, feeling silly and self-conscious. He
refused to move from his swing, though. So what if he looked like a fruitcake?
The world at large could kiss his ass if they had a problem with it. And so
could this taciturn stranger, whoever the hell he was. Weirdo. It would just be
Mulder's luck if this guy was the serial killer, in some bizarre, ironic twist
of fate. Mulder could imagine it now; after being brutally stabbed to death with
a kitchen knife by the monkey bars, Mulder's body would be sliced apart and then
jovially scattered across the playground and the neighboring trees. Maybe even
bits of him would end up in the nearby pool. Who knew? Lamana and Agent Subram
would find his dispersed parts the next day, after being alerted by a couple of
panicked parents who'd taken their kids to play on the slide. Or, at least,
they'd find the parts not carried off by birds and dogs to be gnawed on. Mulder
could see it all with perfect clarity; Subram holding up a knee cap with
unmasked astonishment, Lamana brushing sand and wood chips off of his severed
spine. Then, after what was left of him was collected and placed in a large
Hefty bag, they would--

"No," the dark man replied in a low, rough voice, surprising Mulder out of his
reverie. "You don't know me." He began to walk toward Mulder (who sat still on
the swing) with a smooth and purposeful stride. Predatorial? Professional gait?
Cogs, just keep on turning. The man's eyes, though shadowed, never seemed to
leave Mulder's face. The gaze was piercing, and made Mulder feel like he was
being pinned to his seat, unable to move or look away.

It was a funny feeling that bloomed in Mulder's stomach as the dusky man came to
stand silently before him. Not anxiety, or fear, or anger, or annoyance. Not any
negative emotion. Mulder scrutinized it closely, turned the odd feeling over in
his mind. Weird. It was the most unusual sensation he'd ever experienced. Like
all of a sudden, this man standing in front of him in a playground in a
neighborhood in a suburb in Missouri was the key to all of Mulder's resonances,
the glowing focus of a million different gates, locks, futures, pasts, emotions,
ideas, like there was an invisible cloud of glittering psychic butterflies
hovering around him... Mulder didn't know what the hell all that he'd just
thought meant. God, what a flake he was turning into. See what the FBI does to a
man? Mulder looked up at the stranger, who was standing silently, regarding him
with a most inexplicable expression. Like he couldn't quite believe there was a
man perched on the swings before him. Like he wasn't sure at all that Mulder was
really there.

There was a long, profound silence.

"You're blocking my sunset," Mulder said finally, opting for his personal brand
of mild humor to break the silence. He pulled his too-long legs in under his
seat, shifting uncomfortably. The sling he was sitting in was beginning to make
his ass ache.

The stranger just stared. Mulder wondered if maybe he'd sprouted antennae or
developed a third eye all of a sudden. It would account for the man's
disbelieving look.

"Mulder," the man finally breathed, and Mulder was again struck by the low
roughness of his voice. "God." Then suddenly the stranger was leaning down and
Mulder was freezing as the man pressed his palms against his cheeks, as if
testing for solidity.

Yes, I'm really here, Mulder was about to say, but then his mouth was covered
with lips and he couldn't get out the words and the man was kissing him kissing
him right here on a playground and the sun was setting bathing the man's face in
gold but Mulder couldn't see he was suddenly blind and this was so bizarre that
Mulder just sat and let himself be gently devoured. *You should be kneeing this
man in the groin,* a voice in his head told him conversationally. He continued
to let the stranger suck face with him. *Do you realize that a man is kissing
you? In public?* Yes, he did. *Well. Just so long as you know.* The voice
wandered away.

Then suddenly the man released Mulder's mouth, which was tingling strangely, and
stepped back, still staring intently. The odd feeling inside of Mulder unfurled
another petal, continued to glow quietly. Beyond, the sun began to slip behind
the dip in the two hills. Clouds flared with color. The forest of the hills was
a black mass against the lurid sky, and shadows were twining around the
playground equipment, sliding over the man before him. The stranger's chest was
heaving, as if instead of kissing Mulder, he'd just finished a marathon. Mulder
himself just dangled motionlessly, too shocked to even breathe properly. His
whole body was humming under that strange feeling, like the psychic butterflies
had now descended over *him*, like his skin was trying to burst into soft flame.
Warm. He was so warm, it was so strange, this feeling. What the hell was going
on, here?

"You're supposed to knee me in the groin," the stranger finally said, his
breathing now under control. His back was to the setting sun, and the light
haloed his black hair, outlined the edges of his features, which were sharp and
soft and strange, all at the same time. He had lovely eyes, and a cute little
nose, and an impossibly perfect mouth. It was, altogether, the face of an
adorable little boy, but just underneath the skin a deadly fire seemed to burn.

"Oh, I am?" Mulder replied, his voice faint and stunned. He felt like he was
floating under water, or perhaps suspended in a more viscous fluid, like glue or
liquor or maple syrup. His calm was astonishing, his astonishment calm. "Sorry."

"I just kissed you, you know," the stranger continued casually, informing him,
it appeared, his eyes never leaving Mulder's face.

"Well, yeah," Mulder agreed, dazedly, "that's the conclusion I came to, as
well."

"Fuck," the man said quietly, and leaned back down and claimed his mouth again.
Fireworks bloomed softly, and in slow motion, behind Mulder's eyelids. The kiss
this time was full of heat, passion, searing and hard. *He's doing it again!*
the voice told him, returning. *You don't even know this guy's name! Need I
remind you that you should be kneeing him in the groin, right now?* Mulder
didn't care. He couldn't. It felt so fucking *right*. As if... as if... well,
hell. Mulder didn't know what "as if" he was searching for, but it felt so
*right*. There wasn't a thing he could do to stop this. It felt impossible, as
if his body and mind were locked in some sort of fugue state, some old code for
bizarre stasis finally punched in. Gentle bliss was pouring into his mouth,
straight from the man's lips. Soft, very, very soft, and firm. Teeth. Nip, tug,
a little sharp, very good. Then a tongue. Then the fireworks slowly peeling
outward behind his closed eyes suddenly burst into atom bombs detonating and his
whole world slid sideways as his mouth was thoroughly plundered. Showers of
sparks. Blue lightning.

And then, just when he was about to collapse from lack of oxygen, just as his
body was about to slide right out of the swing and flop into an untidy heap on
the ground, just as his brain was about to disintegrate from sensory overload,
the stranger released his mouth, and drew back. Mulder gasped raggedly, his
heart thundering in his chest.

"Jesus Christ," he croaked, gripping the chains suspending the swing. What the
hell was going on, here? "Jesus Christ," he said again, gaining back his breath,
and looked up at the stranger standing right at his knees with something akin to
horror. "What the fuck is going on, here?" he asked aloud, his eyes wide with
shock. "I don't even fucking know your name." The voice in his head snorted.
*'Bout time.* Jesus. Yes, it was true that Mulder's success with dates was about
as legendarily pathetic as Jon Arbuckle's. Yes, his right hand had seen more
action in one year than most porn stars did in a decade. Yes, he hadn't had a
real date or a real fuck in years, yes, he wouldn't know a mind-altering kiss if
it smacked him in the ass, if experience had anything to do with it, yes, yes,
yes, he might as well slap a "Doesn't Get Any: Pathetic Loser Alert!" sign on
his forehead and be done with it, yes, he had no qualifications at all for this
sort of thing, but still. Even with his sorry track record, Mulder knew that
earth-shaking kisses like the one he'd just shared with a complete stranger just
didn't happen in real life. This kind of thing just didn't happen in the real
world. One's brain didn't implode from a mere kiss with an unknown man. Not in
the real world.

His whole body was blooming and secure, as if nestled into an invisible,
impregnable shell. A happy little egg. What the fuck was going on?

The stranger suddenly grinned. It made him transform from merely lovely to
breathtaking. His features were caressed with violet and plum. "My name is
Alex," he told him, grinning even wider, as if he'd just said something insane,
something incredible, something unbelievable, and he was grinning at Mulder,
grinning right into his eyes, straight into him, and Mulder knew without
understanding that it was love in the other man's smile, in the other man's
eyes, love and perhaps even adoration. It froze his blood with astonishment.

"Alex," the man said again, his smile blinding, "it's Alex, my name is Alex."
And then he was laughing.

Mulder sat in the swing and stared.

"Dear God, dear God," the man was crooning, laughing like a lunatic, but
joyfully, as if he'd come back from the dead, as if he'd found a missing piece
of himself long thought lost, as if he'd seen something beautiful, worth hurting
for, something amazing. "It's incredible, Jesus, can't be true, amazing,
amazing," the man, Alex, said aloud, laughing, and there was pain there, too,
behind the strange joy, and Mulder sat and wondered what weird plotline had he
stumbled into.

"Dear God," the man sighed, staring at Mulder, "you're here. You're so young.
Your eyes aren't hard. Just look at you, just look at you."

"I..." Mulder began, floundering helplessly. "I gotta get out of here. This is
nuts." And then the stranger stepped right up against Mulder, knees against
knees, hands caressing his face, outlining his jaw, tracing an eyebrow, sliding
along his nose, limning his lips. Hands through his hair, strong, long fingers
scraping along his scalp, flowing down his throat, along his arms, grasping his
own fingers gripping the chains. The man smiled, his eyes clear pools in the
fading light, but what color they were Mulder couldn't tell, so they must be
green, and he stroked Mulder's fingers, played over his skin, smoothed over his
knuckles. Mulder watched the man gaze at their entwining hands for a short
eternity, watched the joy that glowed in those odd, somehow familiar eyes.

Then the man turned those eyes to Mulder's, inscrutable and enigmatic. "Oh, no,
you don't. No, no, no. You're not going anywhere." And his mouth swept down once
more and claimed Mulder's, hot and wet and scouring, demanding, sweet and
intense, lips pressed together, then his bottom lip pulled gently and nipped, a
tongue coming along and soothing the bite. Brushing, then bruising, burning,
demanding, those lips like fiery satin, then he was melting under the stranger's
intense heat, his mouth forced open in submission, and he was being plumbed,
every inch of his mouth, in this blinding, burning kiss--

It was Mulder's turn to laugh, and he guffawed helplessly underneath the other
man's wildly sweet onslaught. "Bodice ripper," he mumbled around the other man's
tongue, his frame shaking with laughter.

"Wha'?" the stranger, Alex, gasped, his own tongue stroking Mulder's.

"The plotline I wandered into," Mulder explained, or tried to, "it's a bodice
ripper. Just listen to those vivid metaphors. Yeesh!"

He could see the stranger take an instant to think about Mulder's statement,
then discard it. Mulder sighed internally. He was used to his comments being
ignored, since they were generally too weird to pay any serious attention to.
Ah, angst. An old frien--

Mulder's collective thoughts took a big flying leap out the window as the kiss
turned even deeper, and hands slid over him, slinking underneath his suit
jacket, worming their way under his shirt and onto his bare flesh, sending
shooting sparks along his nerves. Strong fingers teased his flesh, curving over
his belly, counting his ribs, playing over his nipples, in a maddening dance of
skin over skin. Mulder gasped into his stranger's--Alex's--mouth as his
sensitive nipples hardened under the attentions, pleasure spiraling outward,
rocketing through his body.

Oh God, oh God, those hands--those hands!!--everywhere, teasing, torturing,
turning his mind inside out, shaking loose every thought, every memory, until
there was only one thing running through his head, one word: Alex, Alex, Alex,
Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex--too much, it was too much, his blood was
molten gold, his skin peeling from the painful pleasure of it, of those hands,
that mouth, that mouth trailing acid kisses down his jaw, along his throat,
across his collar bone, sucking against a hard, singing nipple through his
shirt, demon rapture coiling through him, making a smoky trail down to his
groin, his loins, oh God, oh God, it certainly was a bodice ripper, not that
he'd ever *read* any or anything, of course, and he was gasping, and the
hands--the hands--the *hands*--

"Oh sweet Jesus, sweet fucking Christ, fuck, *fuck*, Jesus goddamned Christ, oh
please, *please*, *please*, yes, yes, YES, oh Jesus God Jehova Allah Christ
Christ Christ--" Mulder gasped, cried, sensation swirling over him, starbursts
spiking from the stranger's hands, lips, all over him, and Alex was babbling,
too, not making any sense, Mulder couldn't even make out the words anymore, and
he wasn't trying--

"Love you, love you," Alex moaned into Mulder's chest, biting down, "and you
died, you were dead, didn't even *like* you when you were alive, such a prick,
such an arrogant, egocentric bastard, you and Scully, and Skinner, all of you,
but never liked you, and then the warehouse, and then you were dead, and then
only then did it come to me how important you were, it all fell apart,
everything, and only when you were gone did I realize--realize--"

"Fuck--*fuck*!!--*fuck*!!--God!--God!--God!--" Mulder flying apart under the
ocean rush, his mind in freefall, clutching the man to him, ripping into his
leather jacket, his black t-shirt, grabbing, squeezing, pinching, rubbing,
smooth, silken flesh over hard muscle, supple, grasping, God it felt good--so
good--

"All over, all over, a pool of blood, so red, so red," the stranger was sobbing,
gripping Mulder's shoulder, lips at his ear, biting hard at the lobe, tongue
probing there. "Straight to hell, all of it, and you gone, *gone*, oh God, dear
God--I tried so hard, so hard, I tried fifty-seven times to change that night,
stop it from happening, but never, not once, no matter what I did--living hell,
over and over and over again, but now--but now--but now it's ok--ok--ok--you're
here, alive, so sweet, so young, the X-Files destroyed you, made you so hard and
cynical and hurt--Jesus--Jesus--Jesus--hurts so much--"

Ocean rush over his ears, a loud, distant roar, he and the man pressed together
and grappling on the swing, tongues and teeth and lips and fingers and chests
and thighs and strokes and colors spiraling everywhere, so strange, so
*strange*--

He was wailing, he was screaming, howling obscenities, praise, praying,
babbling, and his stranger, this dark man, Alex, was harmonizing, they were
moaning together, and then the gold from the sunset spilt over Mulder's eyes,
swept over his body, poured along every nerve, and then exploded.

When he awoke, he was still sitting on the swing, fingers frozen on the chains,
which creaked quietly, hanging limply, exhausted and dazed. The man stood,
draped over him, their sweat-covered bodies locked together, his legs between
Mulder's outspread thighs. The stranger was resting his dark head on Mulder's
shoulder, and the feel of his short thick hair scritching against his own
stubbly cheek was amazingly sweet, intense, satisfying.

Mulder looked up. "Damn," he said. The man stirred weakly.

"What?" Alex asked groggily, not lifting his head from the crook of Mulder's
shoulder.

"I missed the end of the sunset," Mulder complained, and then could feel Alex's
body shaking with laughter against his. "I was really looking forward to that
sunset," he sulked, scowling at his nouveau lover. The stranger just laughed.

Feeling suddenly very petulant, Mulder wriggled on the swing, shifting his sore
butt, flexing his legs, trying to shove Alex off of him. "Hey," Alex said, and
stood up, stepping out from between Mulder's legs. Then he reached up, grasped
the chains above Mulder's hands, and casually lifted himself up off the ground
with the chains, swung up his black-jeaned legs, settled them over Mulder's
thighs, and sat down. It was a very impressive show of upper-body strength.
Mulder would have said something clever, but he was too distracted by the fact
that the stranger--Alex--was now sitting on his lap, groin to groin, face to
face, his thighs over Mulder's, his hands holding the chains just above his own.
Alex's eyes shone with gentle satisfaction.

"Hey!" Mulder squeaked out, echoing Alex, and his stranger just grinned
beautifully and twisted his hips against Mulder's, making them sway a little on
the swing. "Kinky," Mulder breathed, letting the sensation of Alex's ass against
his crotch flow over him while Alex gently swung them back and forth, driving
against Mulder's groin, shifting back. It was a most delicious feeling. Mulder
appreciated it, and the fact that Alex was holding a lot of his weight off of
him by pulling on the chains.

"It's called spidering, I think," Mulder continued, and Alex looked at him
mutely, questioning. "When two people swing together on the same swing," Mulder
elucidated. "It's called spidering. You sit facing each other, and pump." Mulder
waited for the snort of laughter or suggestive leer in response to the word
"pump," but none came. "The girls used to do it all the time in elementary
school, during recess." Mulder smiled, remembering. "The boys--we--never did
that. Spider. Too girly."

"Oh, yeah?" Alex asked, swinging a little harder, pumping his legs. The
shoestrings of his black combat boots fluttered with each kick. Mulder started
pumping, too, kicking out his legs, pulling them in, kicking out again, and the
two swung in synch for a while, flowing in and out, working in tandem, Mulder
pulling in his legs as Alex swung his out, Mulder swinging out his legs while
Alex pulled his in. The chains began to squeak and groan again in protest.

"Too girly?" Alex repeated, prompting Mulder, and Mulder blinked.

"Well," Mulder smiled. Their chests bumped, pressing together, then broke apart.
"Girly doesn't bother me."

"Good, good," Alex breathed, leaning back to put more momentum into his swing.
The resulting breeze felt exquisite against Mulder's overheated, sweat-soaked
body. The chains screamed in rusty agony, mingling with his and Alex's panting
breaths, the occasional scuff of a shoe or boot against the ground. The colors
began to slowly leach out of the sky, turning a vast, serene blue. The
playground was very dark and quiet, the scream of the swing's chains echoing
strangely and loudly in the darkening neighborhood. Along the sidewalk, lamp
posts began to come to life, their lights flicking on automatically, sending out
violet pools of illumination. Shadows spun and slid over his lover's face,
obscuring his eyes, then revealing them. It seemed like some sort of game.
Peek-a-boo. Hide-n-seek.

They just swung for a while, falling back, gliding forward, saying nothing.
Mulder didn't feel like talking at all, breaking the wonderful silence of
evening, the feel of this man on his lap, legs and arms straining, his thighs
humming with tension.  He didn't know what he had done to deserve something this
wonderful, this incredible, this blissful, but it must have been damn good. His
whole body was glowing still, singing with that strange feeling, and his mind
was equally sated. He couldn't summon up the energy or urgency to question this,
to wonder just what was happening here, why he was letting this happen. Perhaps
it was simply that he was lonely, and tired. All alone in his head, he needed a
way out every so often, away from his endlessly circling thoughts. A break from
the usual tortuous maze of his head, filled with bright lights and vanishing
sisters, dead men, bloody rooms, cold fathers, silent mothers, and even more
silent men, men with guns and knives and sightless eyes, men whose minds he had
crawled into, and now in return they'd crawled into his, and it was slowly
driving him insane.

"You're thinking bad thoughts," Alex suddenly said, breaking up his
abstractions. Mulder looked up at him. "You should stop."

Mulder was about to reply saucily, but a hand had appeared out of nowhere and
was cupping his crotch, massaging it, and Mulder couldn't even remember his own
first name all of a sudden, let alone any cheeky comebacks.

"Here we go," Alex said with quiet glee, rubbing against Mulder's blossoming
erection. Mulder moaned. The friction was delightful. Alex pressed harder
against the burgeoning bulge, and then lightly scraped his fingers over it.
Mulder moaned louder, harder, sensation swirling over him. Adept fingers tickled
his tummy, stroked his side, pinched a nipple. Mulder was fast approaching
ecstasy. The fingers returned to Mulder's straining erection and began to play
there, expert and generous, until Mulder was issuing soft, pleading cries into
the deepening night. Mulder let go of one chain to reach down and cup Alex, but
his lover grasped his hand and returned it to the chain. "Let me take care of
it," Alex murmured, soft as seduction. "Just sit back and relax."

Mulder snickered, but then the clever, knowing hand was at his fly, pulling down
the zipper, and then reaching into his boxers and freeing his erection--"Oh
Jesus!" Mulder cried, jumping, and Alex unzipped his own jeans and suddenly guns
were going off in Mulder's head, they were rubbing their engorged erections
("manhood," Mulder thought suddenly, and stifled an insane giggle) together,
rocking back and forth, swinging again. The situation was positively surreal.
Two men were basically fucking one another's stomachs together on a swing in a
public playground in the middle of a neighborhood. At least it was at night.
Mulder could just see them getting caught by a housewife taking her dog for
their evening walk.

"This is so illegal," Mulder muttered, pushing his cock into Alex's hand, while
Alex shoved his own against Mulder's belly. Silk and satin and solid heat and
steel. Oh, my.

"Wh-what is?" Alex gasped, gripping Mulder's (member) and sliding his hand down
its length. Skin whispered against skin, cloth against cloth.

"Well," Mulder mused, pumping his hips against Alex's, delighting in the feel of
his lover's ass shifting on top of him. "I can think of several crimes we're
committing, actually." He began to tally them off. "First, we're swinging in a
playground after dark. I'm pretty sure that that sign over there states that
this playground is off limits after dark. If a cop comes by, we're toast."

"Uh-huh," Alex groaned, doing marvelous things to Mulder's straining flesh. They
swung higher.

"Next," Mulder gasped, head spinning crazily, "we're having sex in a public
place, which is definitely not legal."

"No actual penetration," Alex argued, doing still more marvelous things to
Mulder's straining flesh. "Not actually sex."

"Doesn't matter," Mulder replied. He pumped hard into Alex's hand. "Improper
Conduct. Third, we're two *guys*, and we're having sex. I could be wrong, but
I'm pretty sure that homosexual acts are highly illegal in Missouri."

"I think it's just sodomy," Alex said, sweat running in trails down his face,
slicking his hands. "Not just blanket homosexuality."

"Well," Mulder said, "at any rate--"

"You're talking too much," Alex interrupted, grinding against him. "It's ruining
the mood."

"Oh, yeah?" Mulder began, but then flesh was sweetly teasing flesh, nerves were
overloading, satin skin was rubbing satin skin, and more colors were beginning
to wash across Mulder's vision, and soon he wasn't coherent at all. He was
pulsing, spangled, and Alex was talking again, babbling, crying out, and Mulder
was too, strings of words, *I love you, I love you*, and the fire was
everywhere, his bones were melting, it was so good, so good, so sweet, it would
last forever, this moment, at the apex, the pinnacle, the cliff's sheerest
edge--

--and then he was going over, falling, roaring downward into the bliss, so deep
it hurt, so incredible, so beautiful, plowing into it, he was being torn in two,
into pieces, and glued back together again, it was *so sweet*, and
then--then--then--Oh, God, and then.

And then it was done. He shattered, and died, and then after a while he came
back. Reality stitched itself slowly back together again, and when he opened his
eyes he saw that he was lying in a heap on the ground, wood chips digging into
his cheek, his back, and he was entwined with Alex, legs hooked with legs, arms
over waists, heads pillowed on soft flesh. He ran a hand through his lover's
hair, then down his back. The other man shifted sleepily.

"I love you," Mulder whispered, not even thinking; it just popped out of his
mouth. It was, he realized after a moment of satiated shock, the truth.

Alex moved his head, turned and looked up at him, eyes wide. "Do you realize
what you just said?" he asked in a low, throaty voice, like honey on sandpaper.

"Yes." Mulder smiled gently.

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

Alex stared. "You don't even know my last name. You've never met me before
today--before an hour ago. How could you possibly love me? I could be your
serial killer for all you know."

Mulder shrugged. He stroked the curve of Alex's cheek. The warm, odd glow still
hadn't left him; he was enveloped by it. "I don't know how or why it happened,"
he said, running a finger over Alex's bottom lip. "But it's true. I love you."
Or else I'm drugged, he thought. Nah. It's love.

Alex just stared, as if his whole world had just tipped sideways and scattered
itself to the four winds.

"A host!" Mulder cried suddenly, his eyes growing distant and focused for an
instant. His fingers stilled on Alex's lips.

"Excuse me?" the erstwhile stranger inquired, looking decidedly confused.

"The word for a group of angels," Mulder explained, or tried to. "It's 'host'."
He paused, uncertain. "I think."

"Oh, you freak," Alex said. "This is the sort of thing you think about during
post-coital lassitude?"

"Well," Mulder replied, "usually my post-coital lassitude is spent alone on my
couch with a porn flick showing on my TV. My right hand isn't very picky. It
doesn't care what I think about after the deed is done. The last time
post-coital lassitude and I got together, I spent the time ruminating on the sex
lives of Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog; if they were to do it together, what
positions would they take and how would--"

"Stop! Stop!" Alex cried weakly. "I'm getting a mental image, for pete's sake!"

"Well," said Mulder. "At any rate, I don't think this counts as post-coital,
anyway, since I don't think we actually participated in true coitus."

"Sure we did," Alex replied. "On a swing, no less."

"'Coitus,'" Mulder began. "Latin for joining together; stems from 'coir;' 'co'
is 'together,' 'ire' is 'to go,' thus 'coi;' plus 'tus,' which is the suffix of
the verb action--"

"It's too hot for this damn jacket," Alex muttered, effectively interrupting
Mulder's mini-lecture. Seeing as it was the end of June, Mulder had to agree
with that statement. Alex began to shrug out of his jacket. Mulder helped him,
yanking on a sleeve. The leather was soft and supple under his hands. Between
them, the jacket was soon off, and tucked underneath their heads. Alex lay on
his back and gazed up at the night sky. Great masses of clouds paraded toward
the horizon, swallowing and then spitting out the moon, which gleamed barrenly.
Mulder smoothed his hand over his lover's chest, stroking softly, committing the
swells and valleys of muscle to memory. His hand slid under the damp t-shirt and
traced patterns on Alex's satiny skin.

After a moment, during which silence spread in comfortable rings from the
couple, broken only by an occasional dog's distant bark or the call of a bird,
Alex turned over and began his own exploration of Mulder's body.

"My suit is ruined," Mulder murmured, leaning into Alex's touch.

"Thank God it's not Armani," Alex replied.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." The two rolled more closely together, stroking hips and thighs and
arms, spanning ribs, caressing cheekbones. Alex grasped Mulder's left hand and
began to kiss each digit, sucking gently on the tips, then tongued his palm.
Mulder meanwhile ran a finger along a deep, long scar that ran over Alex's
abdomen. Then he fingered an old bullet wound, it felt like, by his collar.
Alex's lips and tongue gravitated down to Mulder's wrist, sucking on the little
delicate knob of bone, then traveled further, nipping and kissing his forearm.

"Who are you?" Mulder asked, wonderingly, coming across another bullet wound,
very old.

Alex just sucked harder on Mulder's inner forearm.

Mulder discovered an impressive ring of ghastly scar tissue circling Alex's left
bicep. "Whoa," he murmured, exploring the raised skin, imagining how much it had
hurt to acquire this scar. "What the hell happened here?"

"Long story," Alex breathed into his skin, finally deigning to answer him. "All
I can say is, you're beholding the marvel of the future of science; it's amazing
what doctors and scientists will learn from starfish and oiliens some day."

"Huh?" Mulder said again, baffled, but Alex just chuckled and continued his
perusal of Mulder's body.

"Never mind," Alex repeated, and then he began to once again pull from Mulder's
body strings of desire and heat, until they were both writhing on the ground,
twisting around one another like snakes, kissing madly. It was incredible,
Mulder was flying through the sky, sailing blissfully, then he was drifting
through the deeps of the ocean, lost in sensation, dipping and wheeling through
the purest blue, whether water or sky, he couldn't tell anymore. The web of
blood that usually held him in disintegrated, and he was free to navigate
through pure rapture, roll in it, sink into it, rise up toward it. He and Alex
soared together, and then they were engulfed by the sun, disappeared into it,
and then Mulder found himself drifting gently back to earth, and finally came to
back in the playground.

He held Alex and kissed him, softly, on the mouth, the cheek, his eyelids, his
temple. "I'm never going to forget this," he whispered, eyes closed, breathing
in his lover's smell. "Never, for as long as I live."

Alex gave a weary, sad chuckle. "Yes you are," he said quietly. "You won't
remember this, any of this, which is why it's safe. Nothing changes that I can
remember. Nothing's changed."

"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked, looking at Alex, frowning. The woods
nearby whispered
in the dark, tree branches bowing and rushing in the evening wind. "Who *are*
you? Why... why me?
Why did you come to me... and... and start this? How did you get all those
scars? Where did you come from? How do you know me? And why don't I know you?
And why am I feeling this... this... this incredible euphoria?"

Alex kissed Mulder, soft and slow. "I'm no-one, Mulder. Just a traveler, passing
through." He grinned suddenly, as if taken by a very subtle joke. Mulder didn't
get it. "There's nothing you need to know about me. Nothing that matters, or
makes any difference. Just enjoy this, while it lasts."

"But," Mulder began, almost feeling panic, but the happy, sleepy, serene feeling
swelling his body, those glittering psychic butterflies, still held him, kept
him from caring too much. It was as if there was some sort of spell on him.

"Please," Alex begged quietly, in a low voice, serious and sad. Mulder looked at
him, and saw the
bewildering, heartbreaking expression in his dark, sweet eyes, in his perfectly
made mouth, in his tense jaw line. A sort of solemn rapture, a sad joy. As if he
saw his greatest achievement and his greatest failure in the same moment.
"Please, no questions. I don't have much time." He laughed, rough and smooth.
"God, that's hilarious. You'd think I'd have nothing but time. All the time in
the world. How ironical. But I don't."

"What do you mean, you don't have much time?" Mulder demanded, frowning again,
in apprehension.
"Where are you going? Why do you have to leave? What's all this 'remembering'
business?"

"Oh, God," Alex cried softly, gripping Mulder tightly, burying his head against
his neck. "Please, please. I can feel it coming. The change. What an imperfect
machine, what a messed up technology. If I could, if I could, I would stay here
with you forever, never leave, but I can't. I'm the traveler. It takes me,
whether I want to go or not. And then you'll be gone again, and I won't have
anything left. Nothing. Please," he said, his voice thick with tears. Mulder
felt his throat go strange, felt his stomach tie itself into a painful knot.
"Please, I can feel it coming. There's no time left. Don't say anything. Don't
ask any questions. Isn't it enough that I love you now? Doesn't that mean that
it's not all wasted? You won't remember this, I know you don't remember any of
this, but please. Please."

"Ok," Mulder said, and felt his lover's entire body clench with some sort of
agony, some wild emotion, and he tightened his own arms around him protectively,
grinding his jaw. "It's ok, it's ok, Alex, I won't ask any questions. Not one.
Shhh, it's ok, lover, I love you, just lie here with me, it'll all be ok."

"I love you," Alex whispered against his throat, and Mulder felt his whole body
lose about a thousand pounds of hurt and pressure, suddenly lighten unbearably
with joy. "Always." Mulder grinned blindingly, his smile so bright it ought to
have lit up the entire neighborhood. He'd never been so happy in his life.
"You're so beautiful," Alex continued, rubbing his cheek against Mulder's jaw,
tracing a loving hand along his side.

Mulder blushed to the roots of his hair. Beautiful. Oh, Lordy. No-one had ever,
ever, ever called him beautiful before. He knew he wasn't, too. He was too
gangly and lanky, and he'd never grown into his nose, which was a constant point
of embarrassment for him, and his lip was bottom heavy, ridiculously full, as if
perpetually beestung. His eyes were a muddy hazel, constantly changing color.
Beautiful. He was about as beautiful as a rock. And not the pretty, spangly
geode-type, or the colorful stones one finds on the beach. No. He was as
beautiful as the rocks people grind up to use for concrete. Jesus. He could feel
himself flushing with embarrassment.

"You are," Alex persisted, as if reading his mind, snuggling against him. "So
lovely. Incredible, how gorgeous you are. I could look at you forever.
Beautiful."

"No, I'm not," Mulder dissented uncomfortably, but then Alex was kissing him
again, wild and sweet, blackberries in July, raspberries, cool stream water,
soft as snowflakes. He was lost in a wilderness, a wonderful unknown landscape,
one he would love to lose himself in forever, locked into that kiss. It
deepened, and Mulder moaned.

"Don't ever be afraid, Mulder, Fox, don't ever be afraid, or sad," Alex was
babbling into his ear, licking the whorls of it, trailing back down to his lips.
"I know it hurts right now, these cases, I know they're using you up, drinking
you down, sucking you dry, Profile Boy, I know it hurts, but soon you'll be
somewhere else, and your whole life will bloom for you, and you'll have Scully,
God how you loved Scully, and Skinner, and you'll be home, so good, all for you,
you change it all, you change everything, and you'll be so happy for a long
time, a long time, with Scully, so happy, despite it all, despite the pain and
the torture and the dead ends and the betrayal, and remember, remember, I love
you, and all of this
will soon be gone, and you'll have the X-Files..."

"Please, don't leave me," Mulder whimpered, clutching him tight, fear spiraling
through his belly. "Don't go away. Why do I feel this way? What is it about you
that makes me feel this way? Why won't I remember any of this? Why do you keep
saying that? Why wouldn't I remember?"

"Remember that I love you," Alex was whispering into his mouth, holding him, not
listening to him. "It's coming, it's here. The change. Remember, I know you
won't, but remember, I love you. Always. What a bitch, I think we're soulmates,
and this is how it turns out. What a fucking bitch."

"Please don't leave," Mulder said again, eyes locked with his lover's, feeling
it, an odd thing, he didn't know what it was, but it was there, the psychic
butterflies scattering away, something coming over them, a strange humming, a
shimmering in the air, of their very molecules. "It's so lonely, here, and dark.
The walls are bloody and the children have no eyes anymore. The killer cut them
out. Blood everywhere, and I don't even know the real color of it."

"It's here," Alex breathed, and gazed at Mulder, the look on his face, in his
eyes so strong, so fathomless with some emotion that Mulder felt himself falling
into it, it was tearing his breath away, seizing his heart, joy and pain and
love and eternity, all right there. "It's here. I love you. Never will I leave
you, not really. I'm there, inside you. Right there. Always and forever. Love
you, so beautiful, not the skin, but the inside, beautiful, love you. Never
forget that, even when my image is gone, I love you."

"Not fair," Mulder said. "We never even got to fuck."

Alex tried to laugh. The air was humming with energy, sending tendrils of
charged lightning down
Mulder's spine. He was tingling all over. What the hell was this? Did he really
believe that this was really happening? That what he suspected was happening was
really happening?

"I love you," Alex whispered tenderly, stroking Mulder's cheek, his eyes
fathomless with love, and then he was gone.

***

Mulder sat up, staring sightlessly into the night for a moment. The moon peeked
out from behind a veil of clouds, then hid again, coyly. The black Missouri
woods rustled and shook, sending shadows flying. The playground was empty and
silent.

What the hell...? Mulder shook his head, as if to rattle some sense into it.
What was he doing here on the ground? He brushed wood chips and sand off of his
sleeves. His legs felt like jelly, for some odd reason. Had he lost time? He
couldn't remember. One moment he was sitting on the swings, trying to forget his
latest case, and the next he was lying on the ground, with a foreign leather
jacket pillowed under his head. *Had* he lost time? Jesus. This had never
happened before. Mulder slowly stood up, brushing more wood chips and sand from
his suit, running a hand through his hair. Had he been abducted by aliens?

Mulder shook his head again, stretched out his neck, unkinking it. Damn. He'd
missed his sunset. Shit. Oh, well. Time to get a move on. He'd finished up his
last victims' house, had gathered as many facts, as many clues as he could. Time
to start the profile. Mulder thought of bloody rooms and slashed pictures
hanging from walls. He thought of severed heads and hands. He thought of a lone,
thin man with blank eyes and a silver knife, who hated suburbia, who crouched in
corners and breathed insanity. There was a serial killer to catch. Mulder could
feel himself slipping into that unknown man's head, could feel himself begin to
walk the killer's corridors, traverse his landscapes. It wouldn't take long, he
could feel it. Lamana would be pleased. Subram would be grateful, would smile
and lower her eyes. It was her town, after all. Yeah, it was going to be a snap.
He could feel it already. It was why he was the FBI's golden boy, after all.
Their little pet genius.

Time to get going.

Mulder bent and picked up the incongruous leather jacket, somehow unable to
leave it there, something about it, the way it felt, the way it smelled, and
walked away.


**THE END**