Shadows of Better Men III: Decisions
by Te
12/98

Disclaimers: If they were mine, they'd never actually stop 
having sex for more than a few minutes at a time. This is 
how you know they're not mine.

Spoilers: Not a one.

Summary: Alex does a little more thinking.

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

Author's Note: After that beating I gave him, Alex 
acknowledged that I may have had a point. In chrono-
logical order:

"Shadows of Better Men"
"Shadows of Better Men II: Unveiling"
"Shadows of Better Men III: Decisions"

The first two are pretty necessary to understanding this,
I think. 

Acknowledgments: To Dawn Sharon for letting me pin her 
down so I could tell this story to her. Oh, how necessary 
she be. To Sister Blue for needing me every once in a 
while, and to Ladonna for fine beta. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows of Better Men III: Decisions
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't need him. I don't, not really. When I don't see 
him, he doesn't exist.

Unfortunately, he's become easier to see since last we 
spoke. 

A lot of what I do consists of waiting. Motel rooms, 
alleyways, well-appointed drawing rooms... it doesn't 
matter, really, because in the end it's just me and a 
clock. 

And at least the alleyways keep you sharp. Wind and rain, 
the sort of smells that demand further analysis... yes, 
alleyways are always best for the waiting. Not least 
because he's harder to see there. 

No mirrors, no televisions... at the most, all I need worry 
about is a chanced reflection in some oily puddle, when 
something in my own image reminds me far too much of the 
way he looked at me that night.

"I wanted *you*..." but that isn't what he meant. He 
*needed* me. It was in his eyes, in the way his shoulders 
twitched under the suit jacket. Come here so I can hold you 
close, taste you in every breath. And... and I told him the 
truth, I thought. That was always the plan, anyway. Never 
lie to Mulder about anything *important*, make him separate 
the two of us from everything else in his life. Something 
if not pure, then at least good.

I told him I didn't know if I felt the same way, and he 
understood, and he walked away. But that wasn't how it was 
supposed to go. He was never supposed to be the stupid one, 
not in this. 

Then again, according to him, *I* wasn't supposed to be the 
stupid one either. So we were both playing our little 
games, his, as usual, far more subtle than my own. So... so 
what if *his* "understanding" was really just the 
confirmation of a lifetime's worth of bad relationships? Of 
course I don't love him, no one ever has and no one ever 
will. 

I've spent my life believing that anyone can believe 
anything, so long as my goals are met. And if my goal was 
to cut him out of my life, then his little trip down memory 
lane should have suited me just fine, right? 

Right.

But I wouldn't hurt like this if I wasn't telling myself 
yet another lie in there somewhere. 

He *needs* me. I can see him now, watching and waiting for 
someone who's never gonna show up again... at least, not 
for anything other than business. I still have business 
with Mulder. I could tape this disk to his morning paper, 
and walk away. Or, I could go there right now and put this 
disk in his hand, and walk away. Or I could slip it in his 
pocket and see just how badly he needs me. 

It's a drug. I know I must be fooling myself to some extent 
here, but that need... that need in his eyes was powerful.

Unforgettable. 

Drugs are *nothing* but little bits of tweaked chemistry. 
Any addict will tell you that, when you get right down to 
it, it's the *need* that drives them on. Chemistry can be 
defeated with chemistry. Need... need can be beaten by 
nothing but will. And even then... it never goes away. Not 
really.

Mulder needs me. Wants me there to taste and touch and 
fuck. Wants to hear my voice, I know it. And the power... 
the power is meaningless.

Because somewhere along the way, I got myself a monkey on 
my back. A big, mean baboon with claws and fangs, and 
sometimes I think that if I turn around fast enough, I'll 
be able to see my spine in its paws. 

But I don't try. 

I know what *I* want. I know what I need. And that's to be 
looked at that way for the rest of my life. I'm needed for 
something I can damned well provide. Not just a service, 
but the idea that I'd do this thing for him. Because I...

Well, that's the problem.

What if I go to him, and offer myself, and he asks me why? 
Do I tell him it's because I want his body, miss the way 
his cock felt when it tried to ignite itself along the roof 
off my mouth? Or do I tell him something closer to the 
whole truth?

"Gee, Mulder, a funny thing happened when you looked at me 
like I was a steak and a beer in the desert..."

He's got that shrink training. How long before he figures 
out that he's the *only* one who has ever looked at me that 
way? 

That, in the end, my reaction to it could just be... just 
be that of a bird shown something shiny? That he's an... 
experiment.

I... I want to just go there anyway. I'm good at lying, and 
this... this is more important than any mere emotional 
concern. I have to *study* this reaction and find a way to 
cut it out of me. It's a liability, it could get me killed. 

And I've got a lot of shit to take care of, first. 

So I go, and I knock on his door, and if he opens his mouth 
to question I'll slip my tongue inside. Beg him with my 
body to show me just how much he needs me. And, presumably, 
I'd eventually figure out what it is he does to me with his 
need so no one will ever be able to do that again.

I want that. I can feel that. Like some shameless spirit 
has possessed my clothing, turning every casual brush of 
cotton into a caress. I could go there right now, and offer 
myself for his use, my edification, and our mutual 
enjoyment. 

And yet, I remain here. In this chair, in this room, in 
this nameless little motel. Waiting for... nothing. I have 
no orders, and I've already made sure that no one will miss 
the information I plan to give Mulder until he actually 
decides to use it. It will be too late, and my tracks will 
be covered.

But I'm still here. And there's no way I can convince 
myself that it's for any reason beyond not wanting to... 
not wanting to *do* that to Mulder. After all, I've already 
subjected his body to more experiments than he'll ever 
remember; there's no real reason to do that to his... mind.

I argue with myself about my needs, and my wants, and, in 
the end, it's meaningless in the face of hurting him again. 
There's no way to know I'd learn anything useful, even if I 
did. Because... 

Because, if this is love, then I'm already screwed. 

A million poets, mundane and sublime, can't be wrong. Just 
because I've spent the majority of my life laughing at them 
doesn't mean I'm God, after all. 

So, what if I love him? Is that reason enough to go to 
Mulder and make him touch me until he believes? Well, what 
do I usually do when I find myself hopelessly screwed?

First, find out how bad it is: I'm risking my health 
because I can't bring myself to hurt Mulder again. It's 
bad.

Second, damage control: Too late. The damage has already 
been done to me, I know it, I've been jerking off thinking 
about *one goddamned look* for far too long. But it's just 
possible that no one else knows about the weak spot.

I make a note to take a shot at him in public sometime. 
Just because.

Third, solutions: I've ruled out experimentation, so I can 
either just go and... do *something* to convince the man 
that I care about him deeply, or I can sit here. And wait. 

My shirt is just a shirt again, and it's too cold here. I'm 
moving to the door before I have any clue what I'm doing 
and stop.

Is this all it takes for me to go running after the man? 
No, I can hear myself say, I *also* "need" to give Mulder 
this information. I remind myself that he can get it just 
as well with his morning paper and there are a few moments 
of blessed silence, and there are a few moments where I'm 
not actively holding myself *back* from the door.

But the silence is brief. Love or no, I screwed myself the 
minute I acknowledged I wanted *his*... love. Uncomfortable 
to even think, but I doubt he'll ever make me say it out 
loud unless I'm blowing him at the time.

And there it is, right there. The assumption of a future. 
Easy as water, insinuating as any nasty rumor. I want him, 
and, in the end, that's reason enough for me to open this 
door, walk out into this parking lot, and drive this 
anonymous bag of bolts and stale fast food to Alexandria.

Where I'm needed. 

~~~~
End.
~~~~