From: Daddy793 Date: 27 Nov 1998 19:55:28 GMT Subject: NEW: "EA3: Getting Free" (1/2) by Te Ever After III: Getting Free by Te 11/98 Disclaimers: They belong to a lot of people who simply refuse to be me. Spoilers: If there are any, they're pretty vague. Ratings Note: NC-17 for poor language, disturbing imagery, violence, and m/m interaction. Summary: Lives get smaller, lives expand. Author's Note: Hey, look! It's a series. Shoot me. For this to make sense you should probably read: "Ever After" "Ever After II: Road Songs and Memory" Time is a bit iffy in this one, but, for the sake of clarity, you can assume it takes place about sixteen hours after "Ever After II." Acknowledgments: To my Sister Blue, for being validation, encouragement, and wonder in one lovely package. To Dawn Sharon for the all important pre-stroke, and to Cynthia and Spike for fine beta. All remaining mistakes and ambiguities are, as always, my own fault. Feel free to call me on them at the address below. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ever After III: Getting Free by Te Daddy793@aol.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ****** I'm gonna rescue you, I'm gonna set you free tonight, baby... ****** Mulder lay curled on the rank, dusty pallet and immediately yanked himself out of the grim little fantasy. He was Mulder, and he was curled, but the bed was soft and clean. He was never quite sure when it happened, but the sheets were always clean. There was no smell here less palatable than himself. He opened his eyes to stained grey/blandly beige walls, tried idly to make the hazy bars of the fantasy... //It's a *door*. A fucking *door*.// ... dance to the patterns of his mind. The room was a cell, but it was brightly blandly cheerful. There were no rats, the sheets were clean. The screams of the other prisoners, presuming there were any, were blocked by the thick walls. Not padded. They either trusted him to avoid the amateur theatrics the stone suggested, or longed for him to provide the entertainment. Lord knew he didn't jerk off anymore. In the old days -- he was no longer sure if it had been weeks or months, but his pride refused to allow him to consider the idea that it may have only been days -- They had been more... creative in their attempts to get him to talk. //"Mulder... Mulder, wake up." //"Alex, what--" //"Shh, they don't know I'm here. I had to do a lot of scuttling to get the price off my head." //"But... but you said you wouldn't-- //Rough hand, soft on his face. The bruises from his capture had begun to heal. Faster than he'd expected, and that suggested drugs. //"It's OK, Mulder, it's OK... Fuck, that's a lie, but they took out everyone I was working with months back. Gave me a choice." //"And you chose... this? Alex, why?" //The hand had worked its way into his hair, carding the strands with the sort of carefully gentle restlessness he'd come to dream of. "God, Mulder, I'm so sorry... they told me they had you. Showed me pictures-- I couldn't take the chance, I *couldn't*. By the time I figured out you hadn't been taken at all, they'd set you up too neatly for you to escape--" //Mulder swallowed, tried and failed to force himself to shake free, to stop breathing in the scent of leather and razorwire the man trailed even when nude -- silky-hot and near silent except those few times they could both be sure they were truly alone. "Why... why are you here now?" //Brief bark of laughter in the dimness. "Haven't we done this already? I'm here for you. Christ, Mulder, just tell Them what they want to know. And then we can be together always. I love you--" And then Alex was burying his face in Mulder's neck, whispering soft and harsh. "I need you so much...." //Mulder felt himself heavy and hard in the anonymous sweats, felt tears start to roll even as he wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled him closer. "Oh, God, Alex I can't... I can't do this... I love you so much but I *can't*--" //Alex pulled back angrily. "I taught you to *survive*, Mulder." //Mulder smiled ruefully, reached up to touch the loved face one last time. "You also taught me about the sweetness of a truly beautiful lie." //Alex stared blankly for a moment before pulling off the bed, morphing into black-haired Scully. He would never call *that* Dana. //"You always were a fool, Mulder." And then the shapeshifter was gone with a neatly professional sway and click click click of the most sensible heels ever fashioned.// After that, there had been more blank time, fast and intangible. More drugs, then... but the shapeshifter had been correct about nearly everything. He didn't let himself muse on the fact that the only error was in making "Alex" voice his feelings so clearly... It had been enough to feel it in the roll of his bones, the light vibration of a moaning throat. But, Alex *had* taught him several neat tricks to survival, including the long, long two weeks when they'd done nothing but fill Mulder full of assorted truth drugs until he started developing immunities and learned to babble of useless things instead of dangerous ones. That was still when things were calm -- nothing but the hard-regained X Files and the occasional dress down from Skinner. Dana... //Scully. Scully. Scully, come back.// ... had given him several odd looks over the next months -- the immunization process took time -- and Mulder sincerely hoped he'd told her something useful one of those days. As opposed to just meaninglessly factual. He feared there were too many comments about her need to eat less rabbit food, though, and was grateful the memories were hazy at best. He didn't like to look at his hands anymore, and the throb of poor healing suggested they desired privacy as well. One day he'd come back to himself at sharp pain and harsh voices. That was a mercifully brief phase of awareness -- //Remember, Mulder -- the best defense is a distinct lack of consciousness.// -- and then just the black. The black was beautiful and soft, and could hide anything at all. Of course, that meant monsters, too, but he lived and fed and cried at monsters every day. The only fear was of forever. And sometimes out of the black came the voices he missed most. Throaty and matter of fact, snapping and smiling despite herself. Husky and needful, knowing and gentle and he missed so much... Such a brief time and he often pored over the memories, looking for times he could've been more assiduous in his taking. Greedier. Alex would've appreciated it, though Mulder had hated the urge to hold him tighter still when the bone-fatigue of encroaching dawn threatened to take him away. //"You're not helping us to get past the Tragic Lovers theme, Alex." //"I don't know, I always kinda wanted to be a part of my own theme." //"Think of all the morning hard-ons going unsatisfied." //"Who says -- *oh* -- you mean *yours*." //"Slut." //"Yes?" //"Just checking." //"I'm here, Mulder. Even when... I'm here, all right?" //The smile felt lazy, sweet on his face. "All right. Remind me next time that we're going to work on that communication thing." //Blitzkrieg kiss, whipping and lovely, ending with a slow nibble on his much-abused lower lip. "Mmmm... before or after the knives and poison?" //"After. But before the wild lions show up."// There was just enough time to curse himself for not arching up to brush himself, naked and sticky, against all that leather and denim, for not sucking on Alex's tongue long enough to earn just one more hungry little groan, before another voice broke the stillness. "Mulder? Mulder, wake up." Sweet, gentle and just a little too high. Byers, then, and it hadn't taken him long the first time to realize this one, at least, was no denizen of his black. //"Mulder, shh, it's Byers." //"John?" Choked, but still clear enough to understand. //"Yes, Mulder. Please, I don't understand... why won't you just tell them?"// But Byers had never yelled, or hit him, or tried very hard to seduce him away from what little of himself he'd managed to hold on to. And these times were necessary. Cool water in the desert and he could not, could not care how stereotypically victimized his small acquiescence to these visits made him. "I'm awake, John. What's new in the Fascistest Place on Earth?" ****** Walter never grew tired of the utter stupidity of a complacent enemy. This facility -- Growth Installation 412B was the official designation -- had been built quickly, most probably by locals. Stupid not to use the army, or even the reserve. They would've known to clear the brief stretch of woods away. Though they may have chosen not to share such things. The woods were sparse, bare with winter and whatever else clouded the atmosphere these days, but more than sufficient to cloak his companion and himself. The perimeter guards had been bored and chilly -- easy prey. Alex was jittered and strung. Lean weapon blending with the night, longing for a target with every fiber of his being. "T minus two, Walt." Cool and sleek and Walter's blood was up, high pound even and natural in his ears. "Objectives." "Mayhem and murder, Walt. No prisoners, no mercy. In and out in five. Take nothing that won't fit in a pocket." "Charges?" "Planted at east and south, north isn't registering. The modifications appear to be working." "We'll see when we blow it." A pause, and, as always at these times, Walter counted down himself. Mother, father, dead and gone. Brother vague and distant memory -- meningitis, just as gone. Himself, still alive and damned if these times didn't make it almost worthwhile. "Four, three, two..." And Walter was off, hearing nothing but the absence of pound and breath that was his partner at his best. Others at the gate and Alex took them both with one punch of the prosthesis. It hadn't taken long to find out that the seemingly empty socket was really just a more convenient than usual weapon. //They gave me a choice, Walt. A new arm would've required months of retraining. Regenerate a little muscle, a few nerves... Hell, I'd already spent years trying and failing to use it like an arm any fucking way.// Racing and racing and inside, shades darkening to accept the sudden burst of white. Stark and ugly and no need for any gleaming entryways replete with polished secretaries and potted plants... no one to fool anymore. Row after row of massive plastic tubes. Coffins for the mothers, birthing chambers for the new spawn. Word was there was still no way to control the dangerous little halflings, but that didn't stop the breeding. Alex went right, Walter left, setting charges as they went. The sunset scout had revealed a back entrance, and this was the goal. No alarm yet but -- A clump of stumbling guards. Human this time. Four men, and if any one of them was a day over eighteen then that *was* lemonade staining the third one's neat white jumper. //No prisoners.// And this semiautomatic made no claims to silence, but the boys were down before their shaky little hands could get their own guns free of the neat, new holsters. Walter placed a charge on the messy pile of bodies. No reason to give their parents anything to be ashamed of. Back and back and it was getting darker here, dim and warm for those halflings further along in their gestation. A row of grotesquely pregnant women, a row of things he'd never wanted to see, a row of nascent enemies. Walter set the last charges. When he made it to the door Alex was already there, bleeding from the face and holding his side. "Found something that fit in my pocket." Walter nodded, knocked the door open. If they made it out there'd be time to discuss whatever Alex had found. The alarm went off but they were running and running and when Alex hit the button they were already two miles away and the wind was hot and fierce on their backs. ****** John made an effort to look at Mulder, but it was always difficult to do that with the prisoners at times like these. "You're quiet today, John. I know the inner workings of totalitarian regimes tend to be deadly dull save for the occasional boy flogging and rape, but --" "Christ, Mulder. You couldn't just give a little, could you?" John stood up from his sturdy little chair -- always brought in for him by some namelessly sturdy and large man for these visits -- and raked his hand through his hair. "You know I can't." Mulder's voice was as quiet as ever. He'd never even yelled at him for being here, being this... whatever he was. The first time John had asked if he could speak to the prisoners he was just trying to look useful. Not everyone in the new order had their very own bearded catamite, pliant and unobtrusive. Langly had been angry when he'd heard. Raised his hand. Didn't hit him, but once tends to be enough for some things. //"They need a gentle hand, Langly!" //"They don't need anything but a bullet, Princess. Remember that." //"They wouldn't still be alive and pissing you off if they talked." //Glitter flash in hazel eyes and he remembered when that had meant more than just the anger of a knife finding itself far too clean. "And you think you can get them to talk, Princess?" Cold and dangerous, and even now that it was no longer just fantasy material the effect on him was the same. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Continued in (2/2) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NEW: "EA3: Getting Free" (2/2) by Te ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ever After III: Getting Free (2/2) Please see warnings/disclaimers in part 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ //John sidled up in a way he'd never thought he'd know how to do, tilted back his chin. No challenge, simple offer. "Let me try. I want... I want to be good for you." //And John had wondered when simple truth had become such a wonderful tool, but it didn't matter when Langly pulled him close...// "What is it, John?" John laughed, and the sound was not too dissimilar to the one he'd given upon finding himself here. "You can't seriously be asking me that question, Mulder." He turned to see the other man lounging on the rumpled bed with casual grace. The bruises could have been only shadows in the dimness, though the lines around Mulder's mouth were tight, and far too deep. "Do you know what I'm here for today?" "Another game of twenty questions I won't answer and more babble about my nonexistent love life?" In response John pulled the syringe from the inside pocket of his jacket, still sealed neatly in plastic. "New and interesting truth serum? Hey, that last one gave me some wicked visuals. For a while there you had these cute little antennae --" "It's not a new serum." The smile faded slowly, leaving only curiosity in its wake. "I wasn't aware you were pulling clean-up duty these days." "It's been a long time, Mulder. They've decided any information you might have had is out of date, anyway." Mulder nodded, settled himself into a seated position, and began to roll up his sleeve before he stopped, wincing. "What is it?" Mulder touched his leg and suddenly there was red staining the plain, grey sweats. "Broke open an old wound, I'm guessing." "Oh. Oh. I'm so sorry, Mulder..." And he was, but John still cursed himself for saying it now. "Eh. Not much longer, right?" John swallowed, and wondered if it had been better or worse that it was Langly who'd clapped the syringe in his palm before sending him off. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was sitting beside Mulder on the bed, dabbing ineffectually at the blood. "Blood on my firm, young thighs, no one to kiss it away... Such a tragedy." John looked at the hopelessly stained hankie before tucking it back in his jacket. "I preferred the movie, myself." Mulder grinned, finished rolling up his sleeve, and settled his hands on his lap. Not together, of course. The gnarled things probably couldn't do that anymore. "I never saw the film version, actually." "Never? You probably deserve this, then." Bark of laughter. "Black humor suits you better than I would've suspected, John." John wasn't sure how he should respond to that, so he settled for going back to the prior line of thought. "Please tell me you at least saw the Rivera version." "Vanessa Williams." "Mulder, that's wrong on so *many* levels --" "Hey, she was good. I took... I took Dana to see it after she'd come back from the abduction. In New York for some bullshit case... I made her get all dressed up. I honestly think she thought I'd make her sit through a Knicks game..." John nodded and hmmed at what were probably the right places, but his thoughts were with Garcia. She had been the first prisoner he'd been allowed to see -- long, curly hair and so far gone that John had never been anyone other than "Father Kevin." He'd been ordered not to correct her, especially since Garcia's confession had been lengthy and detailed. John had studied well, and the night before she was due to be executed he'd given her the Last Rites. Yet he had not prayed for himself, and it hadn't been long before he held the needles himself. They all came to trust him, after all. "... and, besides, the Spider Woman was the epitome of liebestod. Not even. Death, yeah, but not love... Sex. No way a sixty year old woman should be Sex." "Now who's being the fascist?" "Hey, if I lived until I was sixty maybe I'd feel different. But I'd probably still drool over pneumatic blondes in tight clothing." John snickered, felt something lift he hadn't been aware had been pressing. He wanted to hold it there, but there was no time or space in this place to gather himself properly. //So roll with it.// "Besides, I think they were saying that the only love *was* in death." "Ah, I love artistic types. Who else can pull beauty out of bullshit?" "Farmers?" "Hmm... Well, who else can look so cool in all black?" "Bikers?" "Damn. I'm floundering here, John." "Ummm... no one else can angst so attractively?" Low chuckle. "No, I'm afraid Alex told me once that I wore guilt beautifully." "One could never fault the man for taste." "Heh. Did you ever meet Marita Covarrubias?" "No, I don't think so." "Then I'll allow you to hold on to your pleasant little fantasy." "You're a gracious man, Mulder." "Yes, well, I try." Long, companionable silence and John thought of other nights. Good beer and the pleasant rest spaces between tales of paranoia and random oddities. He wondered where Frohike was. "John?" "Yeah?" "Could you tell me why? I mean, I'm just curious." No one had ever asked, and the question was strange to him. //Did I ever ask myself?// "I... There were all the landings, and people were losing it all over the place. It was insane. I remember we tried to reach you, but you were already..." "In Walla Walla, yes." "I thought it was Texarkana." "I lied." "I can't tell you how disappointed that makes me." More low laughter and John wondered for the first time how he'd *really* gotten here, Langly or no Langly. "I remember watching some reporter on television laughing and crying and basically doing everything but piss himself -- though I could be wrong, they only showed him from the waist up -- and I remember this soft little thump. Not a sound, just a feeling. And I remember Langly waking me up with a blow job." "How long had the two of you been together?" "A year and a half... I never suspected." "Yeah, well, no one did. So, you loved him enough..." "Yeah." And John remembered his own little room, much darker than this one. He'd been no political prisoner, and there'd been no need to impress him with delicious slices of irony. There was the day he'd spat in Langly's face, and the answering backhand, and the salt in his mouth could have been either tears or blood when he'd cradled Langly's head in his lap, and listened to tales of corruption. "Yeah. I loved him. I love him." Mulder only nodded, and John wondered if this would be happening quite this way if the illusion they'd provided for Mulder had been more accurate. "I'm ready, John." ****** Minivan number six but nothing was moving but an irritatingly tepid cloth over the wound in his side. The cooler somehow managed to be less comfortable to sit on than cold, stony ground and Alex had never wanted this man to kneel between his legs any less than he did now. "It's just a fucking flesh wound, Walter, let's *move*." "Shut up and sit still. The last thing we need is for you to go septic." "Then dump some alcohol, slap on the gauze and *then* let's move." "Easy, dammit, this looks deep." Calloused fingers dancing over his ribs and Alex twitched hard, awake and aware of everything. Yet another reason to work alone -- if he wanted to jerk off at the smell of lingering cordite and just the fact that he remained alive, no one would ever see... That was a thumb pressing hard against his side, smoothing the tape down in what he knew would be a perfect, even line. Alex stared angrily over one shoulder -- comfortably ensconced in a tee shirt now that the raid was done -- and tried to think of anything but his own cock. But the thumb never left his skin, just slid to the center of his chest and stayed there. //Oh Jesus.// "Alex." He could feel the other man's head just beside his own. The cut throbbed, his dick throbbed and Walter was still kneeling between his legs. "Just you and me here, old man." "Takes more than a day --" "Shut the fuck up." Awkward, beautifully painful shift and he'd yanked Walter's hand to his cock and nudged them mouth to mouth with a will and his own face. "Just. Shut. Up." Walter's mouth was an acid burn of adrenaline and dying fear, thick tongue battling his own into welcome submission. The hand at his crotch squeezed and kneaded and Alex bucked into it mindlessly. Quick move and he was on the floor, on his back, damned happy they'd thought to ditch the removable seat and Walter was tearing at his jeans. "C'mon, man, c'mon--" And getting free was good. Fast and dirty and good and he wanted Walter to slide right down and take him in, to slam his body against Alex's own and shift and thrust and slide until the musk was higher than the gun oil for just fucking once but jerking into Walter's fist was good, too. Alex could hear himself grunting and moaning into the dimness but couldn't care about the noise, not with those deep chocolate eyes boring down into his own, watching him for something he sincerely hoped he was giving because this would never be Mulder again. Mulder wouldn't have understood this black need anyway. Or maybe he would've but he damned well wasn't there and the tight hot bulge nudging his hip was rough counterpoint to the other man's jerks and squeezes. "Walter--" No more words because the other man was down and over and around him, hand never leaving his cock, mouth sealed to his own, pulling out the cries with his come and leaving Alex breathless and panting. But the sleepy haze that wanted to descend was too much like other times, and had no place here. Alex shot up, heedless of the sharp, warm pull of the wound and reached for Walter's hand. Caught his eye before lapping the palm and fingers clean. Twined it with his own and brought it to the other man's cock, still trapped in his own jeans. "You want this?" "If this is revenge for rejection couldn't you just kick me in the head, instead?" Alex's smile felt merrily dark, and the way Walter brought their hands tighter against himself made him want to smile like that until his jaw fell off. No more time for teasing, then, and Alex undid their fingers for just long enough to undo Walter's pants, tug him free of the worn boxers. And then he made sure they locked eyes and hands again, and began to stroke. He let Walter choose the rhythm, and it was easy to just go with it, lose himself in dark eyes that never once lost their focus on his own, even as the other man's hips slutted themselves into their palms. Thud of blood, high singing wire of tension and they might as well have been tethered together by it because no one, no one would ever be able to convince Alex that his thoughts weren't a match for Walter's own. //Just us. //Just this. //Just fine. //Until we die.// ****** By the time John had returned to their quarters Langly was asleep. His hair had begun to grow out again from the last buzz, and it crested like a bird's against the pillow. No one else had ever claimed to love him, need him. No one else. He ran his hand over it lightly, settled in to watch the other man sleep. And began to think. ~~~~ End. ~~~~ Song quote taken without permission from "Malibu" by Hole.