Title: Gray Author: drovar
Email address: drovar@mediaone.net
Rating: NC-17 Archive: The Ferret Cage
Summary: Spender visits a location that may hold the answers to deep questions about his life.
Category: Vignette, Angst, Slash Sp/K
Disclaimers: Don't own `em, wish I did, don't sue, I'm just a poor XF fanboy.
Notes: To Shael for being a willing and appreciative audience.


The sky is ironclad with gray clouds that drop to the horizon merging with the river to complete a shroud of dismal damp and cold. A lone figure walks along the bridge, stopping for long moments to watch the sky, the water or perhaps nothing. Somber, dressed with the weather, his trench coat flows behind him in the wind. He stops finally at the center of the bridge staring out into the water . . . oblivious to the rain, the cold and the total miasma of sorrow that has descended over Ruskin Dam.

* * *

I tell myself that I don't know why I'm here, that I don't know why I'm drawn to this desolate speck of nowhere in Pennsylvania. It's not the first lie I've told myself, not the first time I've deceived myself to guard the shards of my sanity, not the first at all, and certainly not the last.

She was here, perhaps on this spot. I try to imagine her here where I stand. Waiting in the darkness for things I can't, that I won't, believe in. Waiting for some -- thing -- to carry her off to some other place. Some better place I suppose, all the more as it is a place where I am not.

I am not, the thought echoes in me, resonates deeply . . . I look out onto that murky water . . . and think of not thinking, of nothingness, no striving, no betrayal, no futile struggle with things I can't understand, let alone fight. I couldn't protect my mother, not from Mulder, not from them. Hell I can't even protect myself.

The ground is wet and cold, I sit anyway. Unmindful of the suit, a month's pay, ruined. My ass is cold and wet in an instant, I don't care. She was here . . . they were here . . . and they all died . . . almost. She's still out there somewhere, sick or injured, captive, I'm not sure. I hang my head and allow my mood to match the weather. It's been five years since I've cried.

I don't hear his car, if he has one. I don't hear him approach . . . no soft padding steps, no cat-like facile moves in the gray mists. He is simply not there . . then there, standing, cloaked in rain and wind. I still don't see him . . I just know.

I know as well as I know my own mind . . . green eyes locked on me, divining, judging . . . no doubt he finds me wanting. Smooth skin, where skin remains, hard bitter plastic where it does not. Looking up I don't see him at first. I suspect then that I'm insane . . . at last. But the mists part and he is there, rain clinging to him like his first skin. Somehow he remains above it, not that he isn't as wet and cold as I am . . . it just doesn't matter.

The mists move again, enveloping him like magic . . ferreting him away from me. It seems right somehow, like he's a creature not completely of this earth. But then he's kneeling next to me solid and real. I imagine I can feel the heat of his body even from here, even swaddled in blankets of cold rain, I can feel his heat. It scares me in a way.

He has what I lack most. Control over things outside himself. His hand, the skin clad one, rests on my shoulder now. I fancy that there is blood coursing between us, leaping across the distance and barriers; blood to mingle and bind us. When his hand moves to brush my cheek I'm sure of it. His touch steadies me, lends me his calmness, his control, an illusion perhaps, but I grasp it tightly.

"Jeff?" he asks as he tilts my head up by my chin. He brings me eye to eye, and I am lost. I can see my own eyes reflected in his, deep and brown, while his are sharp and green. His hand caresses my chin, it's a lover's touch in all ways that matter. I'm not his chosen one, I'll never be . . . it doesn't matter. We're here, he came here for me, that's all that matters in the deep steel grayness that has become our entire world.

His thumb brushes my lips, pushing slightly, dragging across the lower, caressing the upper. For a moment my lips part and form over and around his digit, suckling gently. He doesn't pull back, doesn't stop me, allowing me to take his fingers one by one between my lips, licking and caressing them. His fingers are long and tapered, perfect.

He pulls me up then, leaning me against the bridge. I'm pliant in his hands, willing for whatever he deems. I'm surprised at his gentleness, his kindness. His hand slides behind my head and he pulls me into a kiss. For a moment I'm afraid I'm going to land on the ground again. My knees weaken . . it's been so long. But he folds himself around me, supporting me as the kiss deepens.

His hands are on me, both of them. He pulls at the cloth that separates us, until his flesh-hand reaches skin. His hand is cold and for a moment I squirm under his touch. I feel the laugh in his kiss, it surprises me, it's a chuckle, devoid on deceit, not mocking, not clever, just a laugh, nothing more.

His strength is amazing. He lifts me easily, even with his disadvantage. He sets me on the cross-beam of the bridge. It's wet, but so am I. His hands travel to the thin cloth of my suit pants, caressing and teasing me into readiness. I hiss through clenched teeth when he finally opens my trousers and frees me. His laugh is a real one again, when I groan out loud at the first brush of his lips on my hot skin.

"Alex?" I whisper. He doesn't respond, but instead takes me in his mouth and into his throat, hot and deep and fast. I don't know where he learned this art, or who he practiced on but I'm inordinately grateful to someone in his past. He has skills that defy the Kama Sutra.

His hand slides deeper inside my trousers and I lift my ass and kick them into a soggy mess at his feet. I've disregarded the danger, there isn't any. I understand as his hand slides between my thighs and back further, that this has been ordained by powers beyond my control, beyond anyone's control, at least anyone human. There won't be any cars coming by, no police cruiser making a surprise bust. *They* have decided on this and they simply won't allow their game to be interrupted. When his questing hand touches the tight pucker at the base of my body and probes roughly I decide I'll thank them, I'll send them a card or something.

Dear Grays. Thanks for the head. Glad you aren't here.

He seems to sense my lifting mood and attacks my body more vigorously, roughly probing and swallowing, forcing me higher and higher, towards a peak I've only dreamed of. Rushing toward those obscene heights I can only wonder what I'll have to do for him, what his price will be. Whatever it is I think I'm going to like it.

He's pushing me harder, practically riding me. It's more than I can stand, more than anyone can stand I think. My mind hollows out, all thoughts, all obscenities I'm imagining, all saints and angels I'm thanking, disappear from my thoughts as the sheer animal rut envelops me. My hips are bucking before I know I'm coming. I'm pumping hard, and he's chasing my body right on through, swallowing and pressing in places I hadn't imagined could feel so good.

I scream his name at the end . . . I think that pleases him. My muscles fail me . . . and I'm falling. The world spins in grayness, water, sky earth and me, all gray. Then I feel his hand, his real one, on my necktie, pulling hard. With a choking gasp I come back to myself teetering on the edge. I can feel his panic, but all I see is gray.

Sometime later I find myself on the bridge, dressed and in his arms. His hands are holding me, stroking my hair. He is whispering to me, nonsense, soft words, sounds that make me think of love and innocence, though I don't see how he can know anything of either. He kisses me then, a real kiss. A car drives by, slowing to watch I suppose, and the kiss goes on . . . on into the vast grayness. We are one in the gray .. and we are not them.