The following effort is the result of a brief rumination on the effects of sacred places caused by intense boredom and some bad weather. Take it for what you will. This effort garners an R rating - nothing here for the kids, but it won't affend most sensibilities. This story has been officially rated "Safe to Consume" by all levels of spoiled & unspoiled people. Hop right in.

We all know CC owns them. I just do this 'cause it keeps me off the streets at night. -BG- Thank you's go out to the indefatigable Shael and mab. I'm keeping you guys busy of late, aren't I? By all means, send your comments hither. trismegistus@drakmail.net is the place to send 'em.

NOTE: I see this story taking place after SR-819, but as it was pointed out to me, it could happen anywhere in the XF timeline. Pull a Radio Free Europe and decide yourself.

As Spring Approaches
By Firefly

If I tell you this story the way it exists in my head now, I don't think you'd be happy with the beginning - people generally don't like to be bored. But every story has to start somewhere, and if you're still willing to listen, here's mine. Suffice to say that it begins early one evening as I walk down the street, eager to get away from my apartment, my car, and every other place that smells like him. Of course, it's been weeks since he was anywhere near me, but when has my imagination not been more than happy to fill in the blanks? The air outside is damp, but I can smell spring on the water droplets that hang suspended, not quite visible, on the evening breeze. Still, it's chilly outside, and my breath mists in tiny bursts before me as I walk. A slight sheen of water coats my wool trench coat; I wonder when it formed. It feels good to be out here, alone and anonymous, free from the responsibilities of cell phone, informants, and case files.

A church bell tolls somewhere close by, and the sudden intrusion reminds me how late it's gotten since I first set foot outside. I really, really should be getting back home soon, but it's been so long since I've dared to leave the safety of my apartment.... This self-imposed imprisonment is unlike me, I know, but it seemed so much safer to stay inside, where his ghost could haunt me in relative peace, instead of risking Skinner or, heaven forbid, Scully catching sight of it in my eyes.

The sky darkens, glowering at me, and I wonder if I should head home. You can't postpone your life forever I think as I stop abruptly on the sidewalk. I need to decide what to do now, and my legs need the rest. The reverberations of the bell hang in the air around me, almost physically palpable. For a moment I'm lost deep in thought, and I don't see any of the cars that go speeding down the street in front of me, nor do I notice any people who pass me on the sidewalk. I need to decide what to do now, I'd thought, and it occurs to me, of a sudden, that that particular question could refer to several things right now, only one of which I have an answer for. I cross the street, clear at least as to my destination.

The church rises suddenly from level ground, towering over the nearby hospital and cheap slum housing. Its grounds are surrounded by a wrought iron fence, open on either side to admit foot traffic through the paths that writhe and twist their way around the enclosure. The building is made of huge granite blocks; its perfectly smooth surface gleams faintly pink, luminous in the falling light of early evening. Shattered spires pierce the sky, which bleeds pastel oranges and purples wherever the broken points shove into its cloudless expanse. Cars blast along the road, not five feet away from me, tires squealing along damp pavement, but once I'm through the gate, reality shifts subtly away from the bustle of the city nearby, the very air settling around me like a heavy, dark cloak.

I'm by no means a religious person, but I can't deny the power sacred places hold, as if the reverence of so many human beings adds to them a gravity all of their own. Were he here beside me right now, I doubt I could speak to him, even though so many words burn unspoken in my mouth. But no, you just can't raise your voice in a place like this. My feet find a crumbling asphalt footpath, and I move down it without conscious thought. A siren wails in the distance.

Sunlight falls in glimmering shafts through the empty branches of the trees. As it strikes grass and bare earth, I'm reminded of his hair, of how the strands of red were mixed in with darker shades of brown and sable. I've never seen that combination on anyone else, and I should know; I spend a lot of time looking. It's how I measure intimacy; if you can get close enough to someone to see the exact colors that compose their hair, you mean something to each other, you're close. With Krycek, I knew each individual shade. I also knew the rosy color his nipples turned when he was aroused, I knew the noises he made, I knew what it felt like to have his skin, warm and smooth with perspiration, slide across my own. And I knew what it felt like to be stretched open by him until I was completely vulnerable beneath him.

And worst of all, I knew what it was like to be the recipient of Alex Krycek's love, and his gentleness. And that is quite possibly worst betrayal, on my part, of everyone I care about.

I'm drawn further down the path as a complete feeling of unreality takes over. It's funny; I've worked on the X-Files for so long that when someone tells me their alien psychic advisor speaks through their pet cat, I'll believe it implicitly. Yet I'm always surprised that places like this can create an entire world of their own, separate, floating free from the larger macrocosm that surrounds them.

I was worried that the beginning of this story might be boring, that a mere narration of my thoughts wouldn't be enough to interest anyone without high speed car chases, or showers of gunfire. And yet how can I create action when so much of my life is lived completely within the bounds of my own fevered mind? It's been three days since the night he...but I catch myself in time. I will not use his actions to mark and date the passage of time in my life. I owe it to too many people to do otherwise. I pull my jacket closer to my neck, and imagine that the sky has gotten darker. Meanwhile, the path has taken me to a small garden, sunken into the church lawn, enclosed by a wall of irregular stone blocks, all its flowers dead and withered from the cold of this past winter. There's a bench and I sit, feeling strangely exposed, though I'm sure I'm the only person on the grounds.

It's getting colder as night draws slowly closer, and I should head home, but I'm worried that he'll be there, as he's been so many other times, waiting for me in my too-dark apartment with more justifications and half-truths. And if he isn't standing there behind the door, I'm sure my memory is more than capable of conjuring up a remarkable likeness thereof, and that's something I don't want to cope with right now either. I try to remember when the other things, Samantha, Scully, Skinner, the smoking man, the web of lies and deceit, were important to me. I can't. God damn you, Krycek.

It really is cold out here; I no longer need to summon the illusion of a chill to feed my melodramatic mood. Instead of heading back toward the gate, the outside world, my apartment, I move toward the church. Any way in which I can postpone the inevitable is welcome at the moment. The evening is one of the most beautiful I can remember, and I wonder what it would be like to spend it in his arms, or anyone's arms for that matter. I'm so tired of being perpetually alone.

For a while, I walk alongside the church, trailing my hand over the pitted stone surface of its outer walls. The building hunkers over itself in the dusk, its shadows looming over the expanse of lawn which surrounds it. A few outbuildings crouch nearby, half hidden from view by a copse of wind-twisted trees. I take one long, careful glance at the grounds before I'm certain that I'm alone. The church door opens easily under my fingers; I'd thought it would be locked. I slip inside, wraith-like, dwarfed already by the soaring gothic ceilings and naked stone of the sanctuary. The stone arches of the walls move upward in smooth, fluid lines toward the apex of the cathedral roof. I think now of the last sunlight hitting the copper shingles outside, wondering if they still hold any residual warmth from the sunset.

My eyes close as I hope in vain for some long-overdue spiritual experience, but it's his naked skin that flashes across my vision like a prayer.

Apparently, I've entered the church through a side door, and I move through a twisting maze of pews until I can catch a clear glimpse of the front of the sanctuary. The place is huge, cavernous, empty. It's just as I'd expected; an overly ornate baptismal font, a carved wooden lectern, hundreds of tiny votive candles that flicker and dance as a stray breeze plays through them. I wonder how anyone feels comforted by this place, soothed by its overdone grandeur. It makes me feel unimportant, small, isolated.

I'm turning, I'm walking back toward the door, I'm honing in, as if by radar, on the only other occupant of the room. A brief moment of confusion follows, and I think, Out of every person on earth, what's the likelihood that he'd be here? But here he is, silent, unmoving, head bowed, the very picture of churchgoing goodness. I stop, rest my hand on a nearby pew, waiting for the old, familiar wave of anger to overtake me, but it never comes. Out of every fucking person on earth, I think.

For a brief moment I contemplate retreat, but it's too late, he's noticed me too. So strange, this connection we share. There's nothing for me to do except turn and walk toward the front of the church, toward the place where he sits. He doesn't look at me as I slide into the pew next to him. We're both silent. His body tenses beside me.

"Mulder," he whispers, his voice velvety in the flickering candlelight. Candle smoke swirls around me, spiraling toward the domed roof on a sudden updraft of warm air. "What would you do if I said I could explain the things I've done?" His tone is chocolatey, enticing, and so very much at odds with the childish choice of his words.

"I didn't think you'd be the type to look here for redemption," I retort, not wanting to let on. Oh, I hope he doesn't realize how quickly I could give in if he continues, and how badly I want to believe him when he speaks.

"You think I came here for redemption?" he asks, genuinely surprised. I don't respond to that. I know why he's here, why I'm here. Oh, there is no God; no one is more aware of that than the two of us. But still, we can't deny that this place offers something safe, removed from the everyday playing field of our lives where we bicker, screw, and reconcile, only to go at one another all over again. A single lock of his hair droops forlornly over his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush it aside, and following that, the urge to laugh. Those thousand candles glimmer and wink at me from the corners of my eyes.

I stand abruptly. "It's late," I tell him.

I'm halfway down the aisle before his voice chases me down, holding me hostage as it echoes up through the ceiling. There's nothing to do but stop and turn around. "Mulder," he says, holding his hand out to me, such a strange, lost expression in his eyes. "It's late to be walking back by yourself."

Firefly Made This!
trismegistus@drakmail.net

February 24, 1999