This work, as well as all other rights available under the law, is owned by the author, and may not be reprinted without the author’s express written permission. MacGyver is owned by Paramount Pictures, and Rich/Winkler Productions. The X-Files is owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, 20th Century Fox, and Fox Television. "As Long As You Love Me" is owned by the Backstreet Boys and can be found on their self-titled album; the lyrics are used here without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright June1999.
As Long As
Although loneliness has always been a friend of mine
***
I'm leaving my life in your hands
People say I'm crazy and that I am blind
Risking it all in a glance
The job just wasn't fun anymore. Mulder lay awake in bed, his lover of six months nestled close to him, and racked his brain, trying to figure out when everything had changed. He knew that his very prestigious, very la-di-da cushy position in VICAP and BSU made him the resident hot shit, but right now the whole garbonza could be best sold off for a Coney Island hot-dog with the works.
He wouldn't have missed it.
But, at first, ferreting out the dregs of the murdering rebel scum had been a challenge, had been enjoyable purely in the intellectual exercise of whodunit tradition. Now, though, all his cases seemed the same...and all the suspects could be described as 'dregs' and 'scum'. And all of them -- most of them -- were murderers as well.
Most of them.
Painfully, Mulder closed his eyes, shoving away the grisly images that filled his mind. Emitting a sharp gasp, he raised a hand to his throat as if to physically strangle himself into silence, desperate in his efforts not to awaken his partner from the rest he so badly needed. He caught a brief glimpse of his own upraised hand to his own throat and recoiled from the memories, the images forever stored in his brain, mental snapshots of a mind not his own.
Louis Charles Hendrick, the beast who walked like a man. Intelligent, articulate, and possessed of silvery-gray eyes. Tall and slender, with long fingers and palms, the hands of a born artist. The mind of a New Orleans sewer during Fat Tuesday. The mind of a man who strangled and raped preteens -- old enough to know the act and feel the shame but young enough to be helpless in the teeth of evil -- and finally mutilated their genitals, leaving them in pools of their own flesh and blood.
If the man was a sewer, then the chasing of the man became Boston Harbor, all slick with oil and crud and God-knows-what. Seven weeks of sheer hell, decided Mulder. Seven weeks of misery and hallucinations and feeling like I'm acid-tripping without any of the fun. Somewhere during those weeks, he had concluded that his job lacked purpose -- it wasn't as if capturing one did any good, after all. There seemed a veritable everflowing font of serial maniacs...and if the papers were to be believed, all of them trailed through Cascade, Washington, at some point in their careers.
But none of it mattered any longer.
Mulder was going to quit, or transfer, or something. Anything.
Working in the cafeteria would be more enjoyable. Even working in a private mental hospital, like Amesbury Heights, where he had done his residency in England, would be better than this neverending pain. Overwhelming stress was taking a toll on the profiler, and he knew his very sanity depended on escaping the division.
And Reggie hadn't exactly helped, either. Mulder could vividly remember his supervisor's reply to the desperate plea for transfer he'd made earlier in the day. "You can't leave, Agent Mulder." A disappointed sigh and a shake of his head. "Too many people in too many places need you here, doing what you do so very well. Too many people are depending on you to do your job. Thinking like the scum of the earth is your job."
None of that answered Mulder's deepest problem. There just didn't seem to be enough of him left to go around.
And how you got me blind is still a mystery
***
I can't get you out of my head
Don't care what is written in your history
As long as you're here with me
It hadn't been too long since he and Mac had met, even though it seemed like a lifetime. Two years didn't mean a hell of a lot in the grand scheme of things, but it had made all the difference. At least their meeting had been relatively normal, if a little awkward.
Their paths had first crossed during a law enforcement convention in Denver. Even though he'd fought tooth and nail to avoid the whole proceeding, Mulder had found himself representing VICAP-BSU. All to no avail, as he was the agency's darling heir apparent, he'd had no alternative and had been dragged kicking and screaming. Most of the seminar was just as boring as he'd feared, and right when he'd been on the verge of using his weapon on himself, a tall blond man had been pushed out on stage by a shorter stockier man.
See, even their speakers don't want to be here, he’d thought at the time.
Smiling sheepishly at the crowd, the blond man introduced himself as MacGvyer -- formerly of DXS -- and continued to present a discussion on the importance of flexibility during an operation. Whispers delivered the man's reputation as the best in his field, and Mulder had wanted to know more. MacGyver's talk was the most interesting hour out of the whole day, including lunch, and he stayed on Mulder's mind. The endearing smile, in particular, was hard to forget.
Luckily, Mulder found himself on MacGyver's panel -- as a fellow speaker -- the following morning, debating the subject of following one's instincts and intuition. One of the remaining panelists never showed, and the fourth looked hung-over in massive proportions. So, the two of them -- both known to the audience as the best -- dominated the panel, throwing opinions and arguments right and left, making examples of various unclassified details, and generally entertaining the audience and each other.
They'd become fast friends over the course of that hour, and after lunch, he felt as if they'd known each other all their lives. During lunch, small talk had been disregarded in favor of personal discussions. They had much in common, their similarities far outweighing their differing backgrounds. Childhoods filled with loss, forced into early adulthood and grown up too fast, leaving them adults with a sense of everywhere and nowhere in the eyes of the world. Mac had showed him why he had left the DXS, which had been a fantastic coup for the Phoenix Foundation. Not because of a better offer in a bidding war or because his new boss was also one of his closest friends, but because he had begun to doubt his own motivations for staying. "When you're no longer staying because of you," he had said with a shrug, "then you're staying because of them. I got tired of doing a job that made me wonder why I was doing it." Then he'd smiled and said, "Now I do the same thing, only now I understand and believe my motivations. And I'm happy."
That was what Mulder wanted now.
To believe.
To be happy.
I don’t care who you are
***
Where you're from
What you did
As long as you love me
The seminar had ended all too soon, a first for Mulder, and he believed they would probably never see one another again. He'd held on to their lunch date jealously, with both hands, guarding it from everyone, protecting it with his heart, a poor organ broken too many times to be worth stealing.
No one had been more shocked than Mulder when MacGyver left a phone message on his machine one afternoon. The profiler had just returned from a harrowing serial murder in North Dakota, of all places, in winter, no less. The timing couldn't have sucked more, and he felt like one of the victims himself, but Mulder had not wanted to miss the opportunity.
They met at Reynaldo's, a small out-of-the-way Italian place, and lingered over dinner and coffee. After dessert and more coffee, they went to Mulder's apartment. They talked late into the evening, skipping topics like a stone over water in a conversation no one else could have followed until Mulder fell into an exhausted sleep in the living room.
He awoke in bed, still fully clothed, with a warm body - also clothed -- next to his own. It was at that moment, turning over to meet warm brown eyes, that they took the next step, progressing from close friends to lovers. Both of them had some same-sex experience, but neither considered themselves 'experienced.' He'd attended school at Oxford, after all. Mac had experimented in his college days, but had never felt comfortable enough with his bedmates to allow any of them that degree of intimacy.
From their first kiss, the moment those soft lips touched his own, those hands slid along his heated skin, flushed with excitement, the world seemed new to Mulder. Gentle words caressed him, moving his own mouth and body in a rhythm he knew not and yet recalled, an ancient dance of lust and belonging.
A firmness entered him, arching toward the heat above his body, pressing his lover close, urging his banked fires toward completion. Faster and faster the sparks flew, burning his spirit from the inside out, until he wailed his need in harmony, creating a crescendo of desire that flooded their bodies with lassitude.
His mind floating high above the clouds, singing a symphony of joy, his eyes weeping with the rightness of it all, Mulder finally realized the truth.
Soul mates.
Destiny.
Who you are
***
Where you're from
Don’t care what you did
As long as you love me
Over the next two years, the couple met as often as possible. At times, it was difficult both because of the great distance separating them and because of their respective schedules. Mac worked out of the country quite frequently and traveled within the U.S. extensively, flying somewhere new at a moment's notice, while Mulder found himself juggled from state to state to home office without regard to his body's circadian rhythms. Sometimes neither knew in the slightest where their lover might be on any particular day. Sometimes neither knew in the slightest where they themselves were on any particular day.
They shared experiences, good and bad, best and worst, everything right down to the ugliest times of their lives. Nothing -- no matter how terrible -- was left out. Memories lost some of their power in the sharing, Mac would say, even though he could be as close-mouthed as Mulder himself. Even when they woke each other with nightmares and screams and pleading for the gods to intervene, one would rock and comfort so both could sleep. Stories told and songs sung helped to chase away the monsters.
Some monsters -- whom both men were paid to hunt - could not be dealt with as easily, and these proved the greatest threat to their relationship. Long distances never tended to make the heart grow fonder, in Mulder's experience, but the waiting sure made him horny. The fear he felt, and the fear he knew his lover felt, had more than once caused him great pain in the midst of such great joy. After all, both of them had highly dangerous jobs, even if their job description didn't seem to indicate that fact.
Still, they spent every available moment together, enjoying each other's company as friends and as lovers. Often one would arrange to meet the other wherever the other happened to be that night, changing flights with reckless abandon, hoping to spend stolen moments in each other's arms. Sometimes only a few hours could be found, meeting in airports on the way to or from an assignment.
Amazing how infrequently airport restrooms are used at three in the morning on a weekday. Mac and Mulder usually found themselves too occupied to notice.
Last year, Mac had surprised him with a ticket to Hawaii for a hard-earned holiday break as a combined Hanukkah-Christmas-New Year's gift. They spent two paradisiacal weeks on the North Shore at the Sunset Sands Hotel, a luxury resort renowned for its serene beauty. He had simply explained that an old friend of his -- the owner -- had 'awarded' him a suite for the holidays so that he could relax and recuperate. It had been an experience Mulder knew he would never forget, the sum total of a life he had always hoped to reach.
Fox William Mulder, FBI profiler and charter member for life of the Lonely Hearts Club, had finally won the lottery of love.
Every little thing that you have said and done
***
Feels like it's deep within me
Doesn't really matter if you're on the run
It seems like we're meant to be
Mulder watched a ray of light reflecting off the outdoor window crawl slowly across the room. The brightness trailed across the floor and over the bedcovers, illuminating the strands of golden brown hair on the pillow next to his own. Could I spend the rest of my life with this man? Do I want to? Hell, yes. A most emphatic yes. But can I? What would I do with my life? Would I even care, knowing I could spend my lifetime being held by those arms? His eyes followed the path of the brightness as it continued its journey across their haven, tracing that nose, those lips quirked in sleep. Thinking what a little boy he appeared while sleeping, Mulder impulsively settled one hand lightly on his beloved's head, gently trailing his fingers through the sandy hair.
Would I be able to stand the trials of life -- a failure at the FBI, private practice, or the DXS? He knew government business would be out once he left the FBI, unless they came to him as a consultant. Private practice was a possibility, although it opened far too many doors Mulder would rather have left closed, a veritable Pandora's Box.
Too bad hope had mostly flown long ago.
He supposed joining the Phoenix Foundation was a possibility, although he'd heard the organization demanded the best of its people. Not many met its qualification requirements, either. Mulder didn't know why that should worry him; the FBI was much the same. There had always been a high turnover rate at VICAP Behavioral Science Unit, so his leaving would hardly be unexpected. Still...working at the same place as his lover .... that could be awkward.
But where does that leave me?
Nowhere.
It was so tempting, though. The last thing he wanted was to drag Mac down. His schedule had always been as irregular as Mulder’s own: out of the country at a moment's notice, flying this way and that for various reasons, but always helping someone everywhere he went. How could he bear to tie down such a free spirit, chaining a red-tailed hawk to a plow horse?
Just then, Mac stirred under his hand and awoke, blinking wearily and wiping away the sleepsand from his eyes. His hair was all mussed, sticking up in all directions; Fox thought he looked adorable. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
Mulder grimaced. Busted.
"Hey, now...." Apparently, Mac had seen the facial expression, for he sat up, propping himself against the pillows and turning to face his lover. Neither wanted to turn on the lights. Some things were best talked about in the safety of darkness. "What's this about?"
Mulder sighed again. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. "I just keep thinking, that's all ...."
"About what?"
"It's this job of mine. I love it, I hate it, and I don't know what to do ...." His voice trailed off, uncertain what to say further or whether he'd said too much.
I don’t care who you are
***
Where you're from
What you did
As long as you love me
Eyes still sparkling with sleep's magic, edged with dreams he couldn't quite recall, Mac seemed to be carefully considering the question. Of course he is, Mulder suddenly concluded. You woke the man out of a sound sleep, maybe the first sound sleep he's had in days, and you ask him something like that. He kept his recriminations to himself, not wanting to break the blissful silence surrounding them anymore than he had already. Thoughts whirling wild, a disorganized tornado, tossing half-formed ideas and snippets of plans straight from the cradle into the storm that buffeted his mind, and through it all, his body dared not move.
Just when he thought his older lover had drifted back to sleep, a soft voice proved him wrong. "How much is your soul worth to your sanity?" The drawl Mulder loved so much blended high-North patterns with the laid-back habits of California, a specific type made for a boy of cold waters and rough seas. A voice that could bring demons to heel.
God alone knew -- if there was a God, which Mulder seriously doubted - that he had more than enough demons for both of them, and his tended to carry you off to the pits of Hell. Although exactly where in Dis he would end up was a mystery: Circle Eight with the panderers, or Circle Seven as one of those 'violent against nature.' After all, he might not be a panderer in the strict sense of the word, but didn't he just use those he catches for his own violent purposes? Using their vile acts against the innocent to further his own career by their capture? Isn't it just the same?
Burnout and bitterness. Looking into an abyss that glared back with eyes so cold and so fierce, filled with such hatred and loathing, that his very soul froze, small pieces flaking off and stress fractures spidering along the edges, only to shatter into unreclaimable fragments on the icy snow-covered ground of his youth.
The eyes that stared back at him had always been his own.
All the rest was silence, said Hamlet the Dane, so it mattered little what he wanted. Silence had always equaled death in the profiler's equation, and death required thought in its conclusion. All there had ever been was death -- dead men, dead women, dead adults of all ages, dead children, dead victims, dead murderers. A virtual Necropolis built within the confines of Mulder's own mind, a prison of the dead, a condo built on the suburbs of Dis in the outskirts of Hell.
He acted both as warden and as prisoner, first among equals, alive yet just as dead in spirit as the other residents were in body. They hated him as he hated himself, loved him as he loved himself, cried for him as he could not. Except that one time.
Samantha.
The one victim who took no part in his tears, she who continually reminded him of his loss, his deception, his need. A victim in the prison who walked through every wall in his defense, chipping away at the concrete around his heart.
Mulder knew he needed to find her; no officer of the law ever forgets their first case, especially when that first case involves a missing or a dead child. He might not have been on the payroll, but Samantha's disappearance had been his first case, and he'd lived with the ache his whole life. Your siblings are your link to the past, a living piece of your history, and as much a part of you as your internal organs. Separation hurt just as much, the loss just as keen, and the scars just as ugly.
Especially in this case. There had been no physical evidence in a locked house. No fibers, no hairs, and there had been no ransom demands. No body. And one witness, a thirteen-year-old boy, the older brother of the victim, had lain nearly catatonic for three days, before awakening to recall nothing of the entire evening.
Prime suspect in a sleepy New England community that hadn't seen a murder or a kidnapping in years. There was no proof, nothing to state conclusively whether he'd done anything wrong or whether he'd seen anything valuable. Lingering suspicion followed him everywhere, whispering behind his back of his guilt. Even if he hadn't killed her, she had still been taken - and it had always been his duty to protect her.
He had failed.
So it was his fault.
No trace of her remained in the house, her room left nearly as a shrine. His mother wept in private, his father started to drink, and both of them blamed him in some fashion. Nothing was left, as if Samantha had never been, but her ghost remained, blowing through the remnants of his life until Mulder escaped to Oxford, where no one knew of his past. There, his ghosts stayed his own, rattling their chains where only he could hear.
Maybe an exorcism was in order.
He had joined the FBI in hopes of appeasing this hungry ghost, finding other small children like he couldn't find his own sister. Other big brothers' little sisters. The dam was breaking, though, and Samantha would not be denied. Perhaps it was time to start searching the ghost's origins, trailing through filthy attics, dredged basements, old forests, and cold nights in search of what had really happened. He needed to go in search of the walls that chained the ghost to his psyche.
It was time to find the truth.
Who you are
***
Where you're from
Don’t care what you did
As long as you love me
Yeheh,
As long as you love me
As long as you love me
Truth comes at a high cost.
Mulder had always known that, and had always been prepared to pay the price for knowing what had really happened. Anything would be worth it to get Samantha home safely, so that the stain he carried could finally be erased from his skin, washing his hands and his sodden memory of the blood while lamenting its cause. Lady MacBeth had never known such a degree of pain, her heart steeled in the pursuit of ambition, not realizing the temptation of absolute power. Her fate resembled that of so many others through time and history, lacking the energy to quench the cries of her conscience and thus undone by her own conscience. Mulder knew himself to be no different; he was willing to pay a blood price, if necessary, if it would help ease his guilt. Blood for blood, after a fashion.
But Mulder had never dreamed the price demanded would be of his own happiness, his own sanity, his own everything. What kind of choice is that, between death and living death? To be dead and seeking Heaven, or to be a zombie, walking the earth and yet not truly existing? To choose between possibly finding his long-lost sister whom he adored and definitely having his lover -- whom he cherished beyond mere words -- with him for the rest of their lives.
How can I even think of making such a choice? Mulder shuddered.
Leaving the FBI is something that could be justified, and the profiler knew that first-hand. Working in the Behavioral Sciences Unit had always been very high-stress and high-pressure, so the turnover rate from burnout was very high. Since joining the unit, Mulder had handled some horrific cases all one after the other with hardly a break. All the members of the unit were in high demand and very busy, working some on the scene, others from case notes and photographs, and still others over the phone as best as possible. He had worked everything from child murder to kidnapping to serial killers; there was always some new atrocity requiring his special touch at getting inside the head of a maniac, forcing him to jump from place to place without regard to time zones.
So tired.
So sick and tired.
Mulder was not certain he could bear leaving Mac. Although he knew full well that family is supposed to come first, but it had been over ten years and the scene of the crime had long gone into the past. Does that make me a fool for even having hope? The past is a place where even the faithful followers cannot go, lost behind the gates of Forever, guarded by Ignorance and Arrogance. Where am I supposed to find this new evidence, supposing that it even exists? No. It must be out there, somewhere. No one disappears without a trace. Mulder knew that imperative too, and it yet failed to ease his mind.
He only wanted any way to keep Mac and continue searching for Samantha. Why couldn't Mulder just lose the painful parts of his life? He wanted to stay forever within the golden rays of a Pacific sunrise, floating within the safe arms of Tethys on her foamy waves. Salt air in his nose, warm sun on his face, away from the cold and ice of a power-laden D.C. workday. Maybe California really was the land of gold, where dreams come true....
"You know," a soft voice, muzzy with half-sleep, interrupted Mulder's musings. "You’re standing at a fork in the road, and you need to decide which of the paths - one, worn and well-used, and the other, less traveled -- is right for you.”
A road less traveled? The words reverberated through his memory, courtesy of Robert Frost's poems, and took on a new meaning considering the choices before him tonight. What road could be less traveled than the one I've already chosen? What other road is left for me to take?
"I love you more than anyone," Mac repeated softly in the dark, "and I don't want to lose you, not for this, not for anything." Mulder couldn't make himself meet his lover's eyes, so he wouldn't see the tears he thought he heard edging his lover's voice. "But you need to think of you -- sometimes you never get a voice in what Fate has planned for you."
"Fate?" Mulder couldn't believe what he'd heard. "I thought you believed in free will."
"I do. Free will can go only so far, even I -- the biggest skeptic in the world -- can see that." He waved one hand lazily in the air above their bodies, as if preparing to deliver a benediction. "Do you think that if only free will had been involved either of us would have met at that convention?" He snorted. "Honestly, neither of us wanted to be there."
"True."
"So maybe Fate, or whatever you want to call it, was at work to set us up. Something got us there."
"Our bosses."
"Well," Mac drawled, an undercurrent of glee glittering his voice. "They say God works in mysterious ways."
Mulder's reply came in the sound of a pillow smacking his laughing lover in the back of the head. His opponent pulled at the pillow, but he snatched it back only to deliver another pummeling. The impromptu fight lasted only a few minutes, blows being doled out on both sides, but it did little to ease the profiler's heart.
"Look," Mac sighed, settling back into his niche carved into the bed. "All I'm saying is that you shouldn't throw away a chance to choose your own future. You may never get another chance like this again."
I've tried to hide it so that no one knows
***
But I guess it shows
When you look into my eyes
What you did and where you're comin' from
I don’t care,
As long as you love me, baby.
Most of his childhood memories prior to Samantha's disappearance were happy ones. Vacations to Rhode Island or the Connecticut seashore, summer camp in New Hampshire, occasional weekend trips to Boston, but Martha's Vineyard remained home. Even though the paper trail listed Connecticut as home, Chilmark carried his mental memories of time through summers and weekends. Fox had let his little sister tag along most of the time, not just because his mom made him, but because he believed -- had always believed -- that it was his duty to look after her. So most of the time, they got along as fairly well-behaved children.
This was not to say that they didn't fight. They did. Brothers and sisters do.
Even though she could be the biggest pest sometimes, Mulder had never ever once wished her dead. One time he had wanted her to just go away, and he had never forgot that. After all, the ten-year-old boy had made a wish on a falling star and, lo and behold, the wish had come true three years later. Never had that memory crossed his lips until about three months ago.
Mulder had not been certain what to expect, but Mac had not judged him. Mulder had fully expected to be tossed into the garbage as an unfeeling cold-hearted bastard. His lover's reaction was not at all what was expected.
Certainly understanding and kind words had not been one of the options Mulder had considered in his mind. He had been dumbstruck, asking his lover if he had heard what had been said, making certain that Mac had interpreted correctly. He had told Mac everything, the whole undiluted tale from innocent wish to done deed and how it was all a blank to him. He had said, amongst his tears, that his greatest wish was to find his sister, dead or alive, so that he could heal some wounds. He wanted to walk into his childhood home and say, ‘Mom, Dad, I found Samantha.’
Mulder wanted to ease his own wounds, wanted to erase years of self-doubt and self-torment, wanted to find that happiness again. After the vanishing, happiness had not existed in the Mulder household. Now, he had it again from a different source, but Samantha still would not stay silent. He couldn't help feeling as if he was betraying her somehow, leaving her to rot in some distant ditch, while he ran off to Hawaii with his boyfriend. Her accusing eyes stared at him from a veil he could not penetrate, desperate, hopeful, and angry.
Samantha always seemed so angry in his dreams.
Worse, Mulder knew, that if he made this decision to leave VICAP, he would be forced to end his relationship with Mac, one that had made his life worth living over the past six months. The FBI remained, like many law enforcement agencies in the United States, very definitely an old boys’ club; their relationship was not a secret he wanted to keep, but Mac insisted, for the sake of his lover’s career. Only his immediate superior knew, and tolerated it only because 'geniuses are supposed to be eccentric'. Eccentricity hardly described how they felt about each other; Mulder honestly believed that Mac was the fabled 'One' for whom he had waited his whole life, his other half of Aristophanes' legendary theory about love. Together they made a whole person, and stayed that way for the rest of their lives in bliss.
Bliss sounded really good to Mulder.
However, an obstacle stood in the way of that blissful reward. If he gained his release from the desolate wasteland of Dis by first escaping the prison called VICAP, Mulder would become a pariah in the Bureau. He would be unable to wield any protection for their love, and he would likely lose his job one way or another. While he disliked VICAP and the FBI and the power games that accompanied this level of federal law enforcement, Mulder had to admit that here was the most likely place to assist him in finding Samantha. Here, he had access to national databases regarding missing children, as well as the accompanying crime information, contacts all over the country that could be questioned, and experts whose brains could be picked. While the Phoenix Foundation could also gain this information, the FBI did not have to jump through the sort or the number of hoops in order to do so. The FBI merely had to ask -- well, demand, actually -- and the information came as requested. Anyone else might ask and be ignored. Could he really give up that perk in order to keep his love?
Was finding Samantha worth his mind, his career, and probably his soul?
I don’t care who you are
***
Where you're from
What you did
As long as you love me
Mulder knew what decision he had to make, the only one he could make, the only one that might allow him to keep some small bit of serenity with him, that might allow him to find that serenity again later in time. His peace of mind demanded a change, even though his heart cried even as it saw that every word was true. Mulder allowed his heart to weep; his eyes could weep later in private.
Getting a transfer to another department would not be a problem; the bigwigs in the Bureau owed him something after all this time. They'd whine and bitch about it, but there wasn't really anything they could do to stop him. But where to go, where to use his talents to achieve his hopes as quickly as possible?
"I love you, Mac." Mulder knew that their love was for real, so that meant it would last over whatever obstacles Fate placed in their way. At least, he hoped that's what it meant. He pulled Mac to him for a small kiss, lingering briefly on those lovely lips and that long throat that just demanded caressing. "I have to take another job in some other department."
Mac sighed. "I know you do."
"It's going to be hard."
"I know."
"Will you remember me?"
"Always. You?"
"Forever."
In rushing temptation, Mulder changed his position to curl his body against his lover's frame, giving kisses with frantic need. Mac turned into his beloved's embrace instantly, wrapping his arms around his lover, placing delicate touches with equal fervor. Skin rubbed against skin, creating a delicious friction flavored with love. Mouths touched, tongues mated, fingers traced maps to be remembered for all time.
Every landmark on those maps was savored in joy, touch followed by scent followed by taste. Mulder marked his lover's scent and taste in his memory, vowing to capture it in his soul, remembering it for all time, to be renewed as soon as he was able. Their bodies knew each other intimately, and longed to join themselves in life again. He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted from Mac, but his own body surely revealed his uncertainty.
Mac was prepared, though, and withdrew slightly from his lover. "Maybe we should save our lovemaking for our new beginning...." He kissed Mulder deeply, thrusting his tongue to brush lightly within the mouth he adored, before holding his lover closely, pressed within his arms.
Mulder knew he was right, and nodded against that chest from within the embrace, a place of such safety that he wondered how he would survive bereft. He crept from the bed with sadness, and dressed quickly leaving only the warmth where he had been and a gentle caress to Mac's arm. "I'll come back someday, I swear it," he vowed to the sea and the stars and his beloved lying on the bed before him. "I can survive until I find you again, as long as...."
Unable to continue, choking on words he had never wanted to say, Mulder gripped his coat, twisting it in his pain, and hurried from the room. There was an unmanned department he had heard of, possibly the place with the information he needed; what exactly did an X-File signify, anyway? Frost's poem came back to him in mocking silence, haunting him with its prophetic texts, sighing in a pentameter of the fates: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.
A single tear rolling down his cheek, staining the pillow with his sorrow, Mac whispered to the remnants of his lover's shadow. "Always remember I love you, and I will always know that you love me...."
Who you are
FINIS
Where you're from
Don’t care what you did
As long as you love me
Don't forget to feed the Muses!
© 1997 evermore4@verizon.net
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