Shadows of Better Men IV: Mad Drift
by Te
12/98

Disclaimers: Still not mine, and my pain is deep. Very
deep.

Spoilers: Oh, a tiny reference to Dreamland. Just don't 
even pay attention to it. Trust me.

Summary: Mulder... well, he does some thinking. 

Ratings Note: R for implied m/m interaction, some bad 
language.

Author's Note: The boys seem to be in search of 
resolution. In chronological order:

"Shadows of Better Men"
"Shadows II: Unveiling"
"Shadows III: Decisions"
"Shadows IV: Mad Drift"

It would probably help to read the others first. 

Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue, for consistently being 
herself. To Rae for dire threats and fine audiencing, to 
Ladonna for great beta. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows of Better Men IV: Mad Drift
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex is asleep is beneath me. I am resting my head on his 
chest, still damp with our sweat and other things, and I 
can't help but wonder what the hell happened.

Two weeks ago, I hunted him down and held a gun to his head 
until we could break up like adults. Perhaps that seems 
extreme. But there have honestly been times when I've 
wondered if the man sends out some sort of adolescence ray. 

My mother would get lonely sometimes and begin to talk, 
randomly, about her childhood. One of her favorite tales 
was of the inkwells that used to be found in school desks, 
and how the boys, apparently, lived to dip the girls' 
braids in the things.

I think my mother's childhood was a tad more rural than 
most.

In any case, all children go through that in some form. 
Fighting, tormenting, generally making the lives of those 
we are attracted to as hellish as possible. For most 
people, this sort of thing ends, oh, say, right around the 
time intense masturbation begins.

At least, that's the way it was for me. It was always much 
safer to beat off regularly and at length than to roll 
around on some dusty playground with another kid, and 
*then* have to run and beat off. If I never hear the words 
"whatcha got in your pants, Fox?" again from another 
clueless kid I can die happy.

I have to stop and examine that last statement for land 
mines. I think I want to remove the word "clueless" from 
the record, your honor. I really didn't mean to qualify 
that. Really.

In any case, Alex just seemed to drag me right back to 
middle school. From the beginning. I mocked him, I abused 
him, I treated him like some "second" out of an overheated 
British boys' school novel. And then I went home and beat 
off thinking about taking it that one last step.

Ripping him out of that bad suit, or maybe just moving it 
aside enough for me to get to what I wanted. I would go 
home, and I would dream of sucking him off, and using his 
come to slick myself just enough that I didn't rip him 
apart when I fucked his sweet little ass. 

He was thinner then, at least it seemed that way. I could 
only ever get glimpses of his form under those terrible 
suits. I suppose it's entirely possible that if I'd ever 
tried to peel him out of them, I wouldn't have been able to 
stop.

No, it's probable. All that lean muscle may be new, but his 
skin... His skin is smooth, silken and nearly hairless. 
Once I'd seen it, I wouldn't have been able to stop, and I 
would have begun using my mouth far sooner than in the 
fantasies, and he would have had to pull me off by the hair 
if he ever wanted me to stop.

Which he doesn't appear to. I've been dragging my lips over 
his chest for quite some time now, and he's still sleeping 
peacefully. I can tell. When he's not awake, he smells 
different. Quicksilver motion and emotion stilled, 
thickened into sleep-scent. A winter slowing of sensation, 
warm and needful. 

I don't want him to leave.

I don't know why he's here. 

Last night he knocked at my door -- knocked, perhaps the 
first sign of trouble -- and held out a disk to me. He 
didn't say a word, but when I reached to take it from him 
his hand trembled, and his fingers tightened on the disk, 
and he shook his head tightly. It was all very... 
different. 

I began to wonder if this was some new paranoia game that 
Frohike had been remiss in teaching me, and looked around 
for unobtrusive pieces of machinery. The next thing I knew 
Alex was... Alex was *welded* to me, breathing hard against 
my face and so close that I needed to get closer.

There are so many things in this world that we remain 
unaware are necessary until we are given them, for some 
brief moment. 

I wanted to ask him what he was doing here, and I may have 
even done so, but the only answer I received was Alex 
slipping his hand in my pocket and taking far too long to 
leave the disk. And he was searching my face, and whatever 
he saw there made him close his eyes and buck against me.

And whisper my name against my lips until I thought I would 
come from the sound alone, and had to kiss him silent 
solely for my own protection.

Needless to say, whether or not I actually asked the 
question, it was never answered. It seemed as though I 
blinked and found myself naked, blinked again and found 
myself on the bed. The bed. Well, it hadn't taken me long 
to decide to be happy I had one again, however the hell 
that happened, and it took even less time to be happy 
Scully had convinced me to lose the waterbed, if not 
necessarily the mirror. 

I didn't want to look in the mirror, but I didn't have much 
choice. It had been... too much to look at Alex himself. I 
don't think he blinked the entire time he was sucking me, 
just watched my face, watched my eyes. And whatever he saw 
there pleased him.

I had thought we were beyond such insecure tests of each 
other's sexual prowess, but perhaps this was his way of 
apologizing... No, that's not quite right. If anything at 
all, this was the *result* of an apology spoken to no one 
but himself. Some approximation of "you know I'm sorry, but 
I don't know yet if you've accepted it, so I'm just going 
to have to blow you until you make me believe that you *do* 
accept it."

But if that were so, he never would've let me push him off 
and make my own paths along his body, roads for the peaks 
of his nipples and valley of his navel. And then giving up 
all hope of poetic love-making just to shove my tongue deep 
inside him and make him cry out at the assault.

I don't want him to leave. I'm not done, I'm not finished, 
I need to hear that again and again. I need. 

The solution to that problem has ever been a simple one: 
provide that which is needed and be allowed to take 
whatever it is that *you* need in return. You scratch my 
back, I'll lick yours. Or something. 

So what is it that I can give Alex to keep him here? I 
already figured out that it isn't my body, however its use 
may satisfy us both in the small hours. And I've already 
decided, with noble indignation, that I couldn't toss away 
what I think of as my soul. Not even for him.

That hasn't changed.

The question becomes not "why are you here," but "what's 
different about us this time?" I wasn't aware of any vast 
changes in myself beyond wondering if I was a fool more 
often than usual. But the idea that he's changed -- that 
anyone *would* change for me...

Some things go beyond ego to insanity. Far easier to 
believe that his balls ached without my mouth to suck them, 
that this is some Byzantine game over and above the others 
he's played with god knows how many victims, including 
myself. 

But he wanted more than just a quick fuck, always did. Got 
pissed when I implied that's all I'd wanted. Adolescents, 
Christ, we're too old to be this young.

I should be punished, smited with Acne from On High for 
such immaturity. 

The thought makes me laugh, and he stirs, a whisper of 
adrenaline cutting through the warm cloud of his rest. His 
rest in my bed. I nuzzle against him in the hopes of making 
him settle, and he does, murmuring. 

I stop and listen to his heartbeat until it slows and 
regulates nearly enough to put me back to sleep.

I don't want him to leave. 

But this... this isn't right. We haven't solved anything, 
have we?

Why *does* Alex think I left that night? I left because I 
didn't want pity sex, didn't want to make love to anyone 
who didn't love me, but does he know that? Perhaps, to him, 
my leaving was just a response to his... failure.

Not just to make me into the Mulder he wanted, I think he'd 
acknowledged that long before I hunted him down again, but 
also his failure to... have an adult relationship with me.

Whether he knew it or not, I can't help but think that was 
one of his goals. A "well, hell... I never tried *this* 
before" moment. And so he failed, and so I walked out on 
him. After all, to a man like Alex, every failure has most 
probably meant some larger catastrophe. 

It is, quite literally, all about him. At least when he 
fucks up.

We are not so different, perhaps.

So that leaves us, where? He comes here because I no longer 
have to leave him because he's... learned his lesson. He 
was going about this whole relationship thing wrong, and 
now that he's willing to try again, I should just lay back 
and enjoy Alex.

New and improved Alex. 

Jesus. Did I do this?

The way he watched me tonight, hungry for reassurance... 
that *need*.... Is it possible that now that he's 
acknowledged I was correct, he really is doing his best to 
fix the problem? Said that way, it doesn't seem so ominous. 

But this is Alex. Alex's idea of soul-searching and self-
improvement is to find the flaw and remove it, ruthlessly 
and brutally. I want to believe that such things aren't 
possible... but I know, I *know* that I may not be sleeping 
with the same man who shared my bed regularly for a few 
months just a little while ago.

He wanted me to change, I told him I couldn't, he believed 
me. And then... and then he went back and made himself an 
Alex who could live with that. Because... because whether 
or not he could have the Mulder he originally wanted, the 
Mulder I am was too... too important to lose. 

And now he wants to make sure he suits me. 

I feel sick. I don't know if it's better or worse that I 
honestly don't think he's consciously aware of what he's 
done to himself. I don't know how I feel that he's done 
this at all. 

Is this what I wanted? Did I ever make the wish loud enough 
to catch the attention of some passing deity with a sick 
sense of humor? Who is this man in my bed?

I don't want him to leave. But does that mean I'm 
acknowledging my feelings for him like an adult? Or is it 
just the victory of a spoiled child?

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End.
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