Shadows Variation: So Are You by Te November/December 1998 Disclaimers: Very much not mine, but the drugs sure are. Spoilers: Vague one for Dreamland. In fact, it's a little inaccurate, too. Don't worry about it. Ratings Note: R. Summary: Alex tries to learn Mulder his philosophy. Author's Note: I begged Dawn Pares to give me a story challenge and she did. How to classify this... Hmm. Not quite a sequel to "Shadows of Better Men I," though it would probably help to read that first. Acknowledgments: To Alicia for fine audiencing, to Spike for many helpful comments, to Sister Blue for showing me that all things can be romantic, to Viridian for the title, and to Ladonna and Alicia for fine, fine beta. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Shadows Variation: So Are You by Te Daddy793@aol.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I want I want I want. Do you know what that means? I bet you think you do. Seems rather simple, doesn't it? You want a nice car, you want your boss to respect you, you want to get laid by someone whose technique doesn't put you to sleep. You want *nothing*. You wouldn't know desire if I walked right in and -- Well, perhaps that's the answer after all. Would you like that, Mulder? I would. And, really, that's all that matters. I can almost feel your sneer at that. I'm so close to you right now. You're sleeping on that bed. Convincing yourself it's yours again, maybe? After all, no other body but yours ever rested on it -- you hope -- and all mammals mark their territory after any perceived intrusion. Really, you're just being a very healthy ape. No matter how much you miss your couch. Would it surprise you that I know you so well? Probably, and I feel as though I should be insulted by that idea, sometimes. Just sometimes, mind you. I know after all these years how hard it must be to assume you're known, and understood. But, Mulder... I've had my years, too. I studied you head to heel and back again. I read your papers. I interviewed all but one of your instructors. And that one... well, it's a shame that his resistance to our methods finally made him have that unfortunate heart attack. Such is life, yes? I want to hear you laugh with me at that. I could make you laugh. I could catch you unawares and then I'd see that crinkle of shock, that utter disbelief that not only am I just as awful as you remembered, but... so are you. You are, beloved, you are. You are my sweet, my bitter chocolate rich with lush liquid sugar and I need do nothing but take a bite and hold on. I can hold on to you. I can make you... I was wrong to leave, I see that now. The project must never be abandoned without completion or eradication. You were never complete, nor is it possible to destroy you without destroying myself. I love you, don't you see? Oh, Mulder.... If I say that when you wake will your head turn to me so sweetly? But to let us both live after my spectacular failure... No, it cannot be done. Every scar, every burn, every casual mutilation... They were not punishments. They were, each and all, badges. Medals. I, Aleksander Ivanovich Petrov am given this award for the survival of human stupidity. And with each pinning, more of the imperfect was sloughed away. Flesh, all flesh, and have you ever watched the decay? The flesh is *nothing* without the fire of the soul. The wet, shapeless mess grabs at the spark and buries it deep. Thus are people made. Those of us who are lucky have clumsier flesh than most, already strained and worn thin as crepe. It grabs too quickly, lacks finesse, the fillips and tendrils of the un-souled skin fumble at their chosen spark, places here and there forever burned. You know them when you see them on the streets, Mulder. I know you do. We know and love the all, the all of them, because we are all *kin*. Born scarred. Born with parts of ourselves scraped clean of the detritus of form and muscle. The fire needs *nothing* of the flesh, and when we see kin... we see in their eyes the paths that searing heat carved. Bone? Bone is lovely, but it remains corrupt. No, Mulder. There is nothing physical that can be claimed a proper avatar for our coming purity. I want so much for you, my love. Will you listen? Will you let me give what I can? I'm whispering in your ear, but you do not wake. I misjudged the strength of the little pill in your takeout. Or perhaps you crunched it down like a sliver of water chestnut... You're not supposed to do that, Mulder. Oh, you make me smile. It feels so good, we are none of us immune to the pull of flesh, the odd rush and flow of chemistry, to brighten the eyes, show the teeth. When you wake up, I will make you explain that last to me, beloved. I will make you tell me just who I'm supposed to warn off with this ridiculous show of merry good cheer you engender. "Beware, lest I love you!" Would you laugh at that, too? Not for long, I don't think. It has a truth, if only artistically. Si tu ne m'aime pas, si tu ne m'aime pas, je t'aime... et si je t'aime, prends gard a toi... Perhaps not so silly for us, Mulder. Though the thought angers me, I must admit. What *right* do you have to fear me? What hurt have I given you that was any more than what you *needed*? Brief stir, a crease in your forehead. Not enough. I want you to wake. I want you to answer me. It is my right, Mulder. I *own* you. I catch myself. I am bracing myself awkwardly above you, breathing hard against your face. I could watch the flutter of your eyelashes, frustrate myself with the stubbornly static spikes of your hair. I could rest my weight on yours... I did not give you enough that you would not wake if breathing began to become difficult. And then you would wake, to my face, to my mouth stealing away those tiny breaths you'd managed to gasp. I take everything you hold dear, isn't that right? One day you'll understand why your precious ones had to die, your so-called partner, your so-called friend. It was your fault, beloved, and I'm sad for you. I am, you make me weak, and if you weren't so potentially powerful for both of us, I'd kill you, too. But they... they had nothing to offer you but more flesh. More lies and weakness. They poisoned you. They poisoned my *work*. I love you too much to let that continue. I will never let anything hurt you again, this I promise. I roll to your side, and content myself by stroking your face, smooth and smooth and then the uneven catch and burr of stubble. I would kiss you, but I feel no need to test my immunity to fairy tales when you did not wake. I could sleep. I could rest here beside you, trusting you not to try to hurt me when you awake. You need me, I know it, I saw it in your eyes before I walked out. You need me and you... you understand want. Not like the rest of them. You want and I am here for the taking, beloved. I would not have you go without. That is pain, and I won't hurt you again. You're listening, if only deep within your fire. It burns always, Mulder. No sleep for that which will never weary. No, no, it's all right. It's all right. I talk of things unsleeping, too far beyond the flesh to need this nightly surrender to the dark. You hate it. I know you do. Through all the dross of your humanity, one thing remained clear and pure as the tone of a bell through an empty land. Never surrender, to anything. Fight on, and on, and on... Now, I would be the first to point out the foolishness of such actions without proper focus, but you have the gist of it, beloved. You will fight this surrender, coming through to the other side tireless and unquenchable. And I will help you. I will be there, always at your side, forever. I will never leave you again. And, oh, there will be so many battles to follow. Never fear, because I was once as unfinished as you, and I made it here. With you. It's beautiful, Mulder, I swear. No flower, no curve of a hip, no shallow victory of the world can compare to this. I have seen them. I have earned my medals. Nothing compares to this. You don't know of what I speak yet, do you, beloved? It's all right, I know it's hard to see such things and believe. 'Especially when you're drugged into unconscious stupidity,' I hear you say, and I chuckle. I was always proud of my mind's ability to speak in your voice, so flat and solid. Other people's voices are like music, flowing, ephemeral. We are no such things, Mulder. Never doubt it. I am yours, beloved. I am your anger, your fear, your pain, your desire. I will be your teacher, I am your lover. You will exist as I do, our own light in the darkness, knives for the living, burnings for the dead. You move in your sleep, a stutter of soft lips, a low moan... You can see it. I know you can. Hot winds, dry with the dust of the lost... Do not mourn for them. Do not struggle so against the bonds. You sleep still, and your motions have all the effect of those of an insect trapped in amber. Do not mourn, beloved. Do not fight me. We are all given the chance to *become*, and if they'll never mount the heavens on grey wings, drifting upward, gently lifting, and cry their joy to the night... well, such was the choice they made. Is it not better this way, Mulder? It is. You'll see. You'll see. ~~~~ End. ~~~~ End Notes: The challenge in question was to write an incubus story. Don't quite think I got there, but what the hell? I think this is something like a 'what if' story. What if Krycek was just as whacko as he seemed in "Shadows of Better Men?"