There and Back


by A. Leigh-Anne Childe


Krycek/Skinner slash. Sort of. Sequel (sort of) to 'The Night Visitor'.NC-17, I guess. One thing you *can* pin me down on, besides a wrestlingmat, is that these characters, sad to say, belong to the Cruel powers thatbe. Angst free of charge, batteries not included. Archive wherever you like,MKRA-related pages, yes, please. All commas and whatnot are mine; they areall deeply treasured, each and every one. Feedback, always lovely.




Well, look at me. This isn't a picture I ever saw myself framed in. Andthe frame itself has more of those gilded curlicues than I'm used to, morefrills and frippery. I've never been anyone's fancy man before; I'm notthe fancy type, or wouldn't have said so. Fancy man--fancy boy, more like.I know my place in the food chain.


Gilded cage--that's what you'd call it. I'm just a one-winged bird ina golden cage. Yeah. It's a clean cage, I'll say that. Why shouldn't I makemyself comfortable, I've had enough of mud, thanks. And oil and chill andthe fucking stench of rancid fatback and ancient field latrines. Been there,done. . .too much, thanks. Not what I expected when I signed on the dottedline. Thought I was harder than what I am. Everyone's flesh is soft, andeven a bone gives under steel.

Pity, pity. Hold on a sec, let me find my self-mockery and kick thisweepy puppy shit back in the closet where it can keep my aborted inner childcompany. Yeah, okay. You know, I went to college. I went through the properchannels. I had a life. Jesus, the look on your face--well, I'm just imaginingit. Fox Mulder, mankind's moral compass. Give the man a blindfold and watchthe arrow of certitude spin round and around in the darkness. . .and yetit always ends up pointing true north. How does he do that. How do you dothat, Foxy?

Let me refill my glass.

Oh, you'd have an eyeful if you could see me now, green-eyed, blue-eyed,fair-haired boy. I'm lazy in my lair, in my cage--my nest! Let me not laugh,*god*, my fucking love nest. That is too funny. Mm. Yeah, some days I don'teven put on my feathers, just lounge around in my all together, which isn'tcompletely all *together*, but it'll have to do. I'd like to see your facewhen you got that first good look at the results of my stupid-ass maneuveringsand manipulations. God knows what I thought I was doing, playing spy versusspy with you, but here we arm. . .wow, Freudian slip. Here we are. HereI am. Most days, it feels like you're within spitting distance on a goodwind. The boy next door in sunny downtown Alexandria. Okay, you're not thatclose, but I swear, Mulder, I can feel your Aurora Borealis aura from acrow-flying mile. Try this on for size--I can still hear you saying, aboutsome desktop back-burner shit case you couldn't let go--you're saying tome, "In Christian symbolism the crow is the allegory of solitude".Lo and behold, Mulder, the dutiful tape recorder I kept running all thosedays of our limited partnership--it recorded every word.

Press the playback, presto. Echo of Mulder. Echo.

Oh, yeah, I can see the look on your face. Too well. You can get thatlook off your face, asshole. Don't think I can't deal with this. I'm doinga lot better than you ever would, you, the world's walkingest basket case.Talk about inner fucking child--look at you--you've got your mummified innerkid shrunken up and withered around your neck like some cannibal's dessert.Or is that your sister.

No. . .it's okay, Mulder. I've seen worse.

He said that to me.

Man, oh man--I'd *really* like to see your face--I'd like to be the snakepopping out of the box at your surprise party. Assistant Director, Skinner,*sir*. What a good boy you are. You have no fucking clue. Do you, Mulder?Do you even know you don't have a clue, though, that's the question. Keyto all knowledge, that's what it is, Mulder, knowing what you don't know.As you once said to me.


I know you've had a cock up your ass. . .I know because I put it there.What you didn't know. . .what you don't know was I was fucking the big dog,too. Think he must have smelled it on me, don't you think? The scent ofspunk. Maybe he smelled *you*, on me. That would explain a lot, wouldn'tit? A man like that, he doesn't act without good reason, even his dick standsup on command, and why's he gonna trifle with a piece of punk like me, whenhe could have Fox Mulder roasting on a spit over a slow burn? Hey, but maybehe likes dark meat, so to speak, what do you think, Mulder; meat that'sturned a little, got that high, gamey whiff. Got the taint on it. That'sme, Foxfire. Gamey, high, and certifiably tainted.


He likes it. Let me give you the sly eye and see what you make of that.You don't believe it; you don't want to believe. You'd never say, "Tellme I'm the only one", would you, baby? But, god, what a sucker youare for a few tight squeezes on the windpipe and that bone-deep tickle,the boning knife in your ass carving you to pieces. Good thing I left whenI did, you were all set to go sweet on me. You're a strange man, though,Mulder. Weirdly intuitive, we can all see that. I still go flat-out amazedwhen I think of how you brought me to his apartment, handing me over likea doorprize. If you knew now what you don't know, well, you'd probably getthat hurt bitter sneer and accuse us of fucking like weasels the momentyou were out the door. Yeah, sure. Let me reassure you, Mulder, it was acold night. This was not a man who wanted to be within distance of my wheedling,conniving tongue, let me tell you. God knows what I could have talked himinto, if he'd given me the chance. Let me grin wickedly at you and let youwonder. You should wonder. Look at me now.

Walter Skinner's toyboy. How's that for a kick in the face. Oh, now,don't be jealous, stud. You'd always be my number one draft pick. Maybe.Then again maybe I'm getting a taste for rough dick in my ripening old age.You want to know how good he does it? I'll bet you do.

I'll bet you do. . .let's just say nature compensates; a surly socialdemeanor turns to gold between the sheets--oh, but *you* knew that. Yeah,maybe I am getting a taste for it. I haven't been ridden to a lather likethis in. . .a while. He can make me moan like you never did. I may be abit short on the big insights; it's not every day I turn the savvy Mulder-mirrorof psychoanalysis on myself, okay. But I know the burn. I'd like you tosee the look on *my* face mornings after the blitzkrieg--you know what ablitzkrieg is, Mulder? The war of lightning. Oh--it's *better* than that.Mornings when I can barely sit down, and when I do it hurts so fucking goodall I want to do is call him and force him back and bring him to a ragingfucking storm until he slaps me against the wall and makes me want to scream.Until I do scream, Mulder. Did that a few times, tricked him back, pushedhim to a fury and gave us both what we wanted, me still naked and drippingwith him, him unzipping just enough to ram the missile home. Lock and load.Yeah, but most mornings, I just sit at my kitchen table eating cereal, grittingmy teeth, ignoring my hard-on, feeling it like a fucking tooth-ache, butnot wanting to jack off because it wouldn't be good enough.

You ever had it so good? Mm, well. It has its moments. He brings me Thaifood; told him I liked it. He rubbed my shoulders once. That was good. ..once he. . .once, he brought me a book that he'd bought on his way in.Just on a fucking whim, some mystery. I mean, he gives me money. He doesn'thave to be buying me fucking books. He just did.

Yeah, well. So what. So what, right? Is what you're thinking, I'll bet.Big deal. What the hell am I doing here, that's what you want to know. ..except you'd rather see me behind reinforced steel bars, or swinging froma rope. So you tell me. So you've said. Gotcha, Mulder. Capisce.

Someday soon I need to buy a decent print for these eight white walls.I'm more or less counting just the important walls. White walls, and a pictureof wildflowers over the couch. Magenta and pink. Hey, Mulder, you thinkthese are my colors? No? But buggers can't be choosers, right? Look, Mulder,look at my VCR. Look at my library books, my laptop--"be careful withthat", he said--but he meant be careful what I went looking for. Hedoesn't trust my hacking talents, thinks they'll hunt me down. He worriesabout me. . .I think. . .yeah, I can just see the look on your face, Mulder.Why don't you spare me. When I need you, I'll let you know. Give you a call.You're just a phone call away. Bet you didn't know that. Did you.