Title: Spark
Author: Ann Page
Addy: pagangel@sk.sympatico.ca
Category: slash, K/Sp
Rating: R
Disclaimers: The Boys belong to CC and Ten-Thirteen and Fox. I am just playing and I am not making a Canadian dollar off this so relax. I promise to put them back, clean and unharmed. Story's mine though. Warning: No sex, sorry, but, there is the suggestion of m/m interaction, so if this is not for you then avert your eyes and hit the trash button. If you are below the magic age, 18, 21, ??, then please respect the idea of sustained innocence and go read something else. Thank you.
Feed back: Yes, please, and thank you. Flames will be used to burn the fuzzies off my socks.
Beta: Thank you Jane St Clair for lovely beta and the photo copier hidey-hole sugestion. <s>




By Ann Page



Blood. There was so much blood. It soaked your crisp white shirt and was not hidden by your suit jacket. After ducking behind a copy machine to avoid crossing paths with daddy, I walked into your office, hoping to stir you up and found you there, nearly dead on the floor, eyes already unseeing. What could I do? Nothing but quietly drag you out to a secret doctor, one proficient in gunshot wounds and keeping silent. If you were supposed to be dead then you not being dead would be an invitation to finish the job and my saving you would seal my fate in the bargain.

Even from what little I could see from the OR doors, which I refused to leave, there seemed to be so much blood. Not that I am not used to blood. I've seen lots and I've seen it soaking out of a lover. But you, well, I don't know, you were too young, too innocent. The litres of blood could rise up and drown us. How long had I known you? Days? Weeks? I lost track as I watched all the warm mornings and subtle caresses drain onto the floor of the county hospital. My scream was silent and tore into the flesh of my lungs with its restraining claws. How did I let this happen?

After Mulder, how did I let myself fall for one of the good guys again? Especially one who knew nothing of what was going on. Oh you do now, but you didn't then. Looking up from that body oozing its green toxic secrets onto the rug, amazed that I had taken control, that I had known what to do, the depths of your eyes sucked me in. I was looking at a twelve year old. I found someone who was not slowly dying inside from the Truth in you. Your life spark attracted me like a moth to a flame. You lived because you wanted to, not because you had to. And now all your light was pooling at the feet of a mercenary doctor with enough secrets to be bought.

If you lived I would have to hide you fast. If you were supposed to be dead then it wouldn't take long for daddy to find out this FBI glory boy was still kicking. And if he found out I saved you... well let's just say that it wouldn't take long for me to be staring at the business end of a gun. But you had to live first.

Finally unable to stand anymore I went and sat down on the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room. My bloodshot eyes were staring unseeingly at the wall in a semblance of sleep when the doctor came out of the OR and walked quietly over to me. You were alive, barely. The bullet had grazed your heart. You needed to be in intensive care and watched closely, but I couldn't leave you and you couldn't stay anyway. Did I mention your father is a god damned fucking bastard? No? Well he is. Among other things. I long to sit by him and slowly watch *his* blood pour out of a painful wound. I will dance in the puddle he leaves behind. I will take pictures and send them out in my Christmas cards.

I put the medicine in my leather bag and got some bandages and other supplies from the doctor. He knew the cash would be in his locker at the gym in the morning. A three hour drive in my stolen Rabbit and we were at my current residence. A run down old guest house at the back end of some farmers land. It was backed up into the trees and hills that lined his south boundary, accessible by a winding road. The old man thought I was some writer, but I paid my rent and he asked no questions. I hoped I would be able to stay here long enough for you to heal enough that we could leave. Cancerman knows where this is. He doesn't know about us, though. He would have said something. Or done something. 'Every vice must be explored and exploited.' It's tattooed somewhere on that withered body.

Two days, nothing. And then the fever. I wiped so much rubbing alcohol across your skin I was half drunk off the fumes. I would have lowered you into a cool bath if I hadn't had to keep the hole in your chest dry. On the second day the skin around the wound turn red and raw. I thought for sure you were dying, fading out on me, leaving me like so many had before. I sat by your bed, still swiping the cool cloth over your heated flesh, unwilling to give up, still pushing meds through your IV. I sat there and I talked, to you, I probably said too much. I told you about my childhood, about the cold parents who thought I was dead and even had a grave to visit. I told you the story about posing as a stripper once to hide from the consortium thugs on my tail and the time I played a joke on Luis Cardinal by secretly stealing all his underwear one assignment, even the new stuff he bought to replace it. I left hearts behind. He never found out it was me. He thought the house man had a crush on him. Pretty funny. The one glimmer of light on that boring trip. Never piss someone off enough that you're sent to watch an empty building for six days. Did I mention that we had to keep a log? Every fifteen minutes I had to write: 'Still empty.' Two assassins sent to do lackey work. I must have talked my self asleep because the next thing I knew I woke up curled up to your hot body. And I mean that in a bad way. I rubbed salve into the damaged skin and wiped you down with alcohol again. In the early morning light it looked a little less red. Or I could have been delirious.

Either way I resumed my vigil. That day I told you all about Mulder. Your short, labored breath was the only answer I got and I imagined that you accepted my weakness with grace and understanding. I wanted your friendship, but I didn't need it. I loved you in my own insane, fucked in the head way. I even cried a little. Not much. I'd thought my tear ducts had atrophied at some point in my miserable existence. Apparently I could add that to the long list of things I had been wrong about.

On the fourth day, your fever broke. Still you lay there, silent and unmoving. I imagined I could hear the wind blowing through the small hesitant spaces while your body gathered energy enough to take another breath. I had no more words left. My voice was raw from speaking and breathing and my ass hurt from sitting so much. Your damaged chest was not so red anymore and I relaxed a tiny bit. I needed to go out and get some things, which required you being left alone. The only food in the house was some perogies I'd picked up on a craving, leftover takeout Chinese and something unidentifiable decaying in the fridge. You wouldn't be surprised and I could hear your mocking laughter that some things didn't change. That single guys still didn't eat right. I considered leaving it there just to bring on that laughter when you woke up, but while I could exist on a whim diet, you could not and so I went shopping.

All sorts of ugly thoughts ran through my head while I was perusing the aisles for something close to hospital food. Having spent an extensive amount of time recovering from my own mortal wound, I had a good idea. Not that Russian hospitals serve the same fare as American ones and I couldn't find gruel anyway. Lucky for you. These odd thoughts were pushed into the background by the scenario playing in my head. The one where I came home and found not only you but your father as well. His mocking voice. Not the outraged father, but quietly angry that his son was still alive and living at my place. Mildly surprised that I had apparently corrupted him before he could. He reflected on this while he finished smoking one of his coffin nails (if life sucking zombies ever die) and calmly finished his first job and then finished me off. Lack of sleep, food and any substantial moments of sanity in my life for the last little while must have fucked with my head because for a moment I thought this was a memory. And no, it didn't occur to me as I was running through the check out that why would a dead man be buying groceries. When I ran into the house and into the room where you still lay quietly, no new holes to patch, I sobbed with relief. I crawled over to your bed and acknowledged how truly screwed my life was. All pathetic saps hail me and bow down to your queen.

"Alex?" Yes, it did hurt when my head shot up off the bed at your voice, dead sounding from disuse. You only smiled, I think. It was probably more of a grimace. "What the fuck happened?"

"My, my, such language." My voice was glass scraping cement from overuse and my smile cracked my face.

"Well, my little choir boy, since I feel like a Mack truck hit me and then parked on my chest, I'd guess nothing good."

"You'd be right. In this case, your father was driving the truck."

"Ah. How bad?" Your quietly dejected whisper brushed against me and I leaned down and loosely grasped your hand.

"The bullet grazed your heart."


"Yeah." You looked so beautiful, even laying there, quietly restoring yourself. "Hungry?"

"No, cold. Come here." Temptation., thy name is Jeffery.

"No, J. You need to get better."

"Alex...please. Please, I need you to hold me." My only response to the pleading in your voice was to move farther down your bed. You sobbed when you thought I was moving farther away and I wrapped my arm around your waist, carefully below any recent pain centers. My fingers pulled the blanket carefully aside and danced over your hip. Back and forth and your breathing evened out. I angled my head and nestled it just above your groin, watching you through my lashes.

This was a turning point, I think. This gentle surrender to what ever you needed. This quietly shared moment when the connection was acknowledged, when we both admitted we had nowhere to go. I could feel the pulse that beat along the muscle below your belly button and I unconsciously matched mine to it. I looked into your impossible eyes and turned to kiss the delicate skin around your navel, snaking my tongue out to dip inside and feel first hand the muscle contractions. I fused this scene in my head, silently accepted that this was a moment where all others began.