Author:  Janet F. Caires-Lesgold

e-mail:  jfc@freeshell.org

Feedback:  Please, to the above address!

Archive:  By permission only!

Rating:  Strong R for language and implications of same sex interaction

Category:  VAR

Spoilers:  "Terma" but not "Closure"

Timeframe:  During the winter of 2001 in my "Arrows" universe (diverges from canon somewhat after mid-season 7)

Keywords:  M/K slash!

Summary:  Mulder contemplates a unique feature of his lover


DISCLAIMER:  These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the whole X-Files gang, not to me.  Barbie (TM) is a product of the Mattel Toy Company, and I mean no harm to the company nor the product by mentioning it herein.  This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.


AUTHOR'S NOTE:  The medical innovation at work in this story was developed at the Duke University Medical Center, and is entirely real.  It makes perfect sense, besides!


COPYRIGHT:  (C) Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, January 2, 2001, jfc@freeshell.org

Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author.  Thank you very much.




Alex Krycek has Barbie knees.  No, I'm not talking about his legs.  Since he was here last, his medical providers (whoever they might be) have upgraded his prosthetic arm, and now his plastic fingers bend, courtesy of the very same joints the toy company puts in the legs of their little fashion model doll.


Sitting here in my bedroom, I don't dare wake him--he's exhausted.  I don't know where he's been this time, and I know better than to ask.  At least I've got something to do:  I can't stop looking at this arm of his.


I watched him at dinner--he bent each finger with his right hand at such an angle that he could hold his cup in his left, and they stayed in place.  It was utterly fascinating.


Samantha's Barbies had joints just like those that now reside in my lover's fingers.  When I was a boy, I'd kidnap one or another of those hard, pink, curvy figures just to make her squeal.  I guess I should have known then that I was not your average boy, because where the boys down the street would pilfer the dolls just to take off their tiny clothes and ogle their impossibly proportioned forms, my G.I. Joes would rescue Barbie from some imagined monster, then return her home, safe and sound.


What would I give to have Samantha home, safe and sound?  Is she still out there being the pretend daughter of my smoking nemesis?  Does he buy her pretty things and dress her up as his own living Barbie?  Did she ever believe that G.I. Mulder would come and rescue her, or is she content in her Dream House, paid for by the Consortium?


Have I betrayed her by making this twisted alliance with the Consortium's lackey?  Maybe it's a good thing that I've never had the opportunity to bring them together:  "Here, Sam," I'd have to say.  "You know Alex, don't you?  I mean, he *did* work for your father.  Doing what?  I'm not sure.  Driving, I know about.  Carrying contraband across international lines.  Getting on his knees and sucking his cock, for all I know.  Well, he's had the chance to practice it somewhere, because he's very good at it now..."


No, that's not fair.  Alex loves me.  I love him.  Whatever he does when he's away from my bed doesn't concern me.  Besides, he swore to me that I would be his only lover from now on.  I shouldn't speculate what he's done in the past, and I should trust him to be faithful to me now.  But am I blinded by love--is my trust in this known liar and thief another construct that the Consortium has put into place to manipulate me and control my actions?


I can't let myself think that.  He *says* he's working for the resistance, and I daresay he looks a lot healthier now than when he was the pawn of the old bastard.  I don't even know if any of the old guard are left now, or if that conflagration at El Rico erased them all from the face of the earth.  Do we have to worry now that colonization is imminent, or has the threat gone up in smoke, too?  Should I ask Alex?


Someday, Alex will sit down and tell me everything that he's done in his life--it will probably take about a gallon of vodka, and maybe bending back the middle finger of his right hand (yeah, like that) to make sure he doesn't leave anything out.  He may not think I want to know, but I do.  I honestly don't care if he originally set out to destroy me, to get me to keep my nose out of what his bosses didn't want me to see, whatever.  It wasn't his idea--I'm sure of that.  He was just doing his job, probably to stay alive, if I know him.


*Do* I know Alex?  Do I want to see beyond the mask, to discover the cold-hearted killer behind the camouflage of the dangerous but misunderstood romantic?  Or is there still a scared kid behind that killer disguise?  I swear that sometimes I can see it--like when he was hurt and needed me to help--but he almost never lets that side of himself show.


Maybe all of this pretense is summed up in this fake arm.  It's a front--becoming better and better adapted over time to substitute for the real thing, but always showing its artifice in spite of itself.  I wonder: will my lover ever let me in that far, to see inside all of the covers and prosthetic personalities to the man at his soul?  And will this idea scare him any less than it does me?


Look at that.  I've folded the damned thing into a fist.  Well, as close to a fist as you can bend these joints.  It could be just the right size to...  No, I'm not going there!  If I want fingers to curl around me just so, I much prefer Alex's talented digits of flesh and bone.  Is that all it comes down to?  As long as he keeps wanting to make me come, do I not care what else goes on in his head?  And as long as that's all I want from him, and to do for him, should I?


Who am I trying to kid?  I know that there's more to it than that.  If it were just about sex, it wouldn't hurt so much every time he had to leave.  Not just me, either--I've watched him dawdling on purpose before he goes out the door.  He may say he's got to hit the road, but he just can't quite bring himself to go and leave me behind.  Somewhere in those eyes is that same scared kid, afraid that he might lose the one person who gives a shit whether he lives or dies, not really ready to be the lone wolf on the prowl anymore.


Does he understand that?  Does he know that *I* know what he can't hide from me?  I know I've tried to show him that, to love him as much as he'll let me for as long as he'll have me.  I just pray that it's enough...


Let me just put this thing down here and go back to bed.  This arm is not him.  It's a tool, like my gun...  It's not really important.  There.  This man is what's important.  I can't ever forget that.  Good night, Alex.  No matter where you go or what you do, I'll always be here waiting for you.




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