Bedlam Sidebar 2: 
   I.   Ghosts
   II.  Listening
   III. Heads in the Freezer

By Jessica Harris

Disclaimer: I'm playing with Chris Carter's toys.

Notes: These are a couple more scenes from my Bulletins From Bedlam 
universe. They fit in between the scenes in the tunnels and the 
scenes on the actual battlefield. 


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I. Ghosts

Mulder remembers dying. At least, he thinks he does; there had been 
gunshots, and he had fallen, and then -

- and then he had been in hell, and Krycek, his personal monster, 
had been there with him.

Still, if he's dead, he can't quite figure out what he's doing here, 
in this large and drafty apartment, where Krycek sleeps beside him 
in the creaking metal bed.

After some reflection, he decides he must be a ghost.

Certainly the serious men who come and go with their plans don't 
seem to see him, even with the clanking chain he's come to sport 
in classic ghostly fashion. And his body seems insubstantial and 
distant, he can't quite feel his own touch, the hand that he still 
can't keep from creeping nervously up and down his ribs.

But it's less disturbing than he would have expected, this ghostly 
state. Nothing touches him anymore - not the frightening discussions 
of the serious men, not even his own memories, the slow unravelling 
he witnesses as he flits through this strange new territory, the 
twisting passages of his own mind. He watches himself from a 
distance, and wonders vaguely if it's somehow *himself* that he's 
been sent to haunt.

More likely, he decides, it's Krycek. Krycek seems to be the only 
one who sees him, Krycek stays close, and looks at him with dark and 
watchful eyes. But Krycek's eyes have always held their own ghosts, 
and as days go by and the eyes won't leave him he begins to grow 
restless, and to wonder just who is haunting who.

Krycek's eyes distract him from his own internal wanderings, they 
remind him that like any ghost he's been sent back for a reason, 
that there are wrongs to be put right. And the words of the serious 
men begin to creep into his mind, and his own memories come a little 
closer, and at night his dreams are strange and restless. And Krycek 
is still there when he wakes, a strangely loving monster now, 
holding him tight while the dark eyes keep watching him.

He resists. He likes it like this, no pain, no urgency, no nothing, 
really. And he doesn't want to go back to hell, not to the tunnels 
or the life he's left behind. But gradually as he listens it comes 
clear to him - there's a message from his old life that has to be 
delivered.

So he lets his old life through for a moment, and this time they 
listen. The serious men, and Krycek too. Then his chain falls away, 
and he finds himself with a cell-phone in his hand, coming 
dangerously close to some memories he's tried to avoid, sensing in 
them pain that might refuse to be kept distanced. But he'd done it, 
he'd dialed Skinner's private number and requested a meeting. "For 
old times' sake, Walter," he'd said, careful to keep his voice calm 
and firm. He'd never invoked this before, his living self had been 
too proud, but that was unimportant now.

And Walter had reluctantly agreed, and Mulder had set out, leaving 
Krycek's eyes behind him.  And Walter hadn't even *seen* him.

Had fixed his eyes on a spot about three feet behind Mulder's head 
and kept shaking his head 'no', refusing to hear what Mulder had to 
tell him.

And Mulder had felt an old desperation rise in him, faced with this 
refusal to see or hear or understand or *believe*... and his careful 
arguments twisted and shriveled into pleading nonsense, and then 
somehow he'd been on the other side of the door...

And he doesn't remember coming back here, but here he is, face 
pressed into the back of the couch, and he doesn't know how Krycek 
got here, but he can feel his restless presence in the room and he 
knows, he really does, just how pathetic this is, but he can't do it, 
can't summon the spirit to move his fading ectoplasmic limbs.

And now Alex is standing very close indeed, and a voice (whose 
calmness he recognises even now as a very bad sign indeed) says, 
"So, I guess Skinner didn't welcome you with open arms, huh?" and 
jesusfuckingchrist that's just too much and he's up and his hands 
are around Alex's throat and they're falling...

And Skinner's set and angry face grows small in his mind's eye as he 
falls away from it, falls forward into Krycek's dark regard, hurtling 
towards the reflection of himself that he sees there.

They fall for what seems like a long time and then they hit the 
ground hard. The breath is knocked from Krycek's lungs, hot against 
Mulder's face, and it feels like he's fallen back into his body from 
a great height and christ it *hurts*, everything *hurts*, he feels 
it all now, the pain of his life falling to pieces, all the things 
he's lost, the realisation that there's nothing here for him now, 
nothing but this, the embrace of his own loving monster, arms around 
him as his body jerks and writhes across the floor.

Over and over and over they roll across the paper-strewn floor, not 
fighting, exactly, (though Mulder notices that his hands are still 
around Krycek's throat) but as if they've been knocked flying by the 
blast of heat between them. And Mulder knows he's no ghost now, for 
rising through the pain is heat wherever Krycek touches him and his 
cock is hard, so hard.

Krycek's mouth strains open as he struggles to breath and his body 
arches desperately against Mulder's, and then somehow their wet open 
mouths find each other messily and Mulder grasps him even closer and 
feels that Krycek's cock is hard as well. Then they're jarred apart, 
Mulder's back slamming against the couch, and he fumbles with 
Krycek's fly until he can reach one shaking hand inside to stroke 
hard hot flesh. Krycek bucks once with a whimper, and Mulder's hand 
is suddenly hot and wet.

He pulls it out and looks at it, licks a stray pearl drop off the 
ball of his thumb, but Krycek catches his wrist and forces his hand 
down, and under Krycek's guidance they're somehow both undressed 
and he's slicking his own cock with Krycek's semen, Krycek's hand 
wrapped around his own.

Up against the couch, now, papers crumpling beneath their knees. 
Mulder works an exploratory finger into Krycek, and his head spins 
dizzily at the breathy sound the other man makes.

The sounds don't stop. Breathy broken choked-off noises spill from 
Krycek's mouth as Mulder eases into him. Krycek gasps out broken 
sentences, scraps of words, his jaw working as though he's trying to 
bite them back. Mulder doesn't understand them, but he hears in them 
a pain as great as his own, a monster's lament, and he tugs Krycek's 
head around for a kiss, swallowing the laboured breath and 
inarticulate sound while Krycek's body flails beneath him. After a 
moment Krycek pulls away, breathless again, body spasming tight 
around Mulder's cock, and before he can stop himself Mulder is 
coming, coming hard, and the last thing he hears before his 
exhausted body slides to the ground is Krycek breathing his name.

*		*		*

II. Listening

I guess I didn't think he was listening. Hell, none of us did - it 
didn't even seem like he was really *there*. He'd spend hours curled 
on the bed, lips moving silently to himself as he ran his hand up 
and down his side, or he'd drift aimlessly around the apartment with 
no sound but the clank of the chain through his ankle-cuff. "I hope 
you're happy now, Alex," Carl had snarled at me the day he left. 
"You've got yourself a *pet*."

I broke his nose for saying that, but he wasn't completely wrong. My 
team wasn't *happy* to have Mulder there, but after a while they 
mostly ignored him. And we ended up talking around him as carelessly 
as if he *were* a dog.

And then one day, as we were going over our plans, a rusty voice 
suddenly croaked from the bed, "That won't work, you know."

We all turned to stare, and there on the bed sat 'Agent' Mulder - 
upright posture, smartass deadpan expression, flat mocking eyes. If 
it wasn't for the way that his hands clutched and worked at each 
other I might almost have believed it. He brushed his shaggy hair 
out of his eyes and proceeded to tell us exactly what he thought the 
aliens were planning and why our current scheme was flawed. I guess 
he'd been listening after all. And besides, he knows how the aliens 
think, knows them better than anyone - he's been studying them since 
the days before they officially existed.

Then his professional mask disappeared abruptly and he lay back down 
on the bed, one arm tucked against his side and his hand running up 
and down again along his ribs.

To be honest it gave me chills, the way he could summon that facade 
of a self I knew he hadn't been in ages. It made me wonder how long 
he'd been crumbling away beneath it before anyone noticed. I watched 
him drift away again, and I wanted to go to him and stop that 
compulsive hand with my own, take hold of his face and pull it close 
and keep him there until he'd let me see what was going on behind 
his eyes, hear what it was that he kept silently repeating to 
himself. I knew he wasn't really Agent Mulder anymore. But I knew 
there was still *someone* in there. I could - I could *feel* it, 
like a distant hum of electricity, a vibration in the bones behind 
my ears. I just didn't know how to *get* to him. Sometimes I would 
wake up with my ear pressed tight against his chest, as if it were 
simply a matter of listening closely enough to that distant hum...

And I know what you're thinking, that it's perverse at best, 
sleeping with him when he was like that. No better than rape. I 
could see the same thoughts in the eyes of the other men when they 
saw bitemarks on his neck or scratches on my shoulders.

I'll admit I felt a little weird about it myself. I mean, I may play 
a little rough sometimes, and to me "no" has always meant "try 
harder", but I've never had to rely on actual *derangement* to get 
someone into bed before.

But ... at night, see, he'd dream. Dreams that made him twitch and 
toss and moan in his sleep, made him flinch and fight with the 
blankets until he'd wake with a cry and clutch at me, roll his whole 
body against me, hardening cock against my own. And I couldn't - 
well, I couldn't just push him away, could I? Not only because I 
wanted him, but because I ... I knew what that was like, waking in 
the night so full of need, when all you want is for someone  - 
anyone - to take it all away. So we'd end up rolling and sliding 
against each other, cock against cock, against thigh and belly, 
until finally he'd cry out again, and carry me over with him. And 
then he'd sleep quietly. I don't even know if he knew what was 
happening - his eyes were open, but he looked right through me, and 
he never said a word.

Then, that night in bed, he finally spoke to me. He reached out, 
laid his hand flat over my suddenly racing heart, and said, "We have 
to tell Skinner what's going to happen. You know we have to."

Not exactly the words I'd been waiting to hear.

Would I have let him go if I'd thought there was even the remotest 
chance that Skinner would listen to him? The things he told us about 
the aliens spooked even me... But I guess we'll never know for sure.

And neither one of us said anything as I climbed out of bed and 
unlocked the ankle cuff.

*		*		*

III. Heads in the Freezer

You know, If I'd seen this in a case file, I'dve told them to check 
the freezer for human heads. I'm in Mulder's apartment, and every 
inch of it screams obsession.

He must have every abduction report ever collected. Pages from them 
are taped to the walls, annotated, highlighted, and scrawled with 
arrows and diagrams. Government reports, both public and classified, 
are stacked around the room, so handled that their edges look fuzzy 
and organic. More reports spill from boxes piled in what might once 
have been the bedroom, and a loose drift of clipped articles and 
hand-written pages cover the remaining areas of floor. The kitchen 
holds nothing but an old bad smell and a table covered in 
correspondence.

The only clear surface is one corner of the couch, a space a few 
feet square, just big enough to hold a grown man if he pulled his 
knees up tight to his chest and lay absolutely still

Which is just what Mulder is doing. I thought I might find him here.

This isn't where either one of us should be. My team had a mission 
planned for tonight, an important one. And whatever their various 
loyalties once were, the men who work with me are professionals. 
Which means there are certain rules, even here. This was my show 
only because I had gotten the ball rolling, and I knew that any one 
of the others might step in if they thought I was slipping. And 
they've been watching me very carefully, since I brought Mulder 
home. I can see it in those sidelong looks they give me - a little 
derision, a lot of calculation, and a certain strange wariness.

It makes them nervous, his craziness and how close I get to it. I 
think they're afraid that somehow it's *catching*. And that's a fear 
that's deep and old and primal and can lead to some very ugly things. 
Like I said, even rebels and outlaws have rules. You know what sort 
of things you're going to face. But once someone crosses the line 
that Mulder has, there are no more rules. And that frightens even 
the outlaws.

So, as the time for the rendezvous came closer and closer and 
Mulder still hadn't come back, I thought of trying to explain why 
I'd let a madman who knew all our secrets go to Skinner. Then I 
thought of Mulder out there in the ruined city.

Then I went after him.

Now I stand behind him, listening to his rough distressed breathing. 
I wonder what Skinner did to him, and I bite back a flare of anger 
that I can't afford right now. There will be time later, I promise 
myself, to settle scores.

"So," I finally say, "I guess Skinner didn't exactly welcome you 
with open arms," and in the blink of an eye he's off the couch and 
leaping right at me.

Over we go with a tremendous crash and he lands on top of me, 
knocking the air out of me with a Whuff! like flames igniting. For 
a moment I'm blinded, flopping and writhing like a gaffed fish, 
struggling for breath as we roll together through the debris of his 
apartment, his hands still at my throat and his body driving against 
mine. When my vision clears his face is only inches away, he's 
looking right at me and I can't help but meet his eyes, and the 
blankness of the past weeks is gone, and so is the 'Agent' Mulder 
deadpan, and all I can see in them now is just, christ, just so much 
*pain*, pain and loss and fear and confusion, and the grip he has on 
me doesn't feel like anger anymore, more like he's hanging on for 
dear life.

Breathless still I'm holding onto him, and then for the first time 
his mouth is on mine, and it feels more important than air, this 
strange sudden wetness, and for a moment I forget my screaming lungs 
as heat rushes through me and I arch up against him. Then we land up 
hard against the couch, our mouths are jarred apart, he's yanking at 
my fly, and before I can warn him I'm coming in his hand like some 
desperate teenager.

He looks at his hand like he doesn't understand what's happened. 
Then he raises it to his mouth, but I grab him and we tussle a 
moment longer, and then with his hand in mine we're slicking his 
cock and I'm up against the couch with his fingers and then his cock 
stretching me open...

And it was ...

Well, in a lot of ways it wasn't very good at all. It hurt without 
lube, and my arm was still painful, and god knows he didn't last 
long, we were so wound up.

But I ...

Look, I've never been exactly what you could call a shrinking violet. 
And over the years I've been here hundreds of times, here in this 
moment when someone - anyone - splits me open and fills me up, when 
I lose myself in that slick hard slide inside of me. I've sought it 
out, again and again, more times than I can count. And this time was 
- different.

When he slid into me it was like he got up inside me somewhere no 
one else had ever been. And it knocked something loose in me, drove 
everything else out of me the way he had knocked my breath from my 
lungs when we fell. I could hear myself start to tell him all the 
things I had never meant him to know, the things I had seen and done 
since this all started, the crazy things I had thought with him 
there in the bed with me at night... it all came spilling out of me 
in broken nonsense gasps. I couldn't stop myself, couldn't breathe, 
felt dizzy and panicked and suddenly sick and I could have fucking 
*cried*, or something equally humiliating. But then I felt his hand 
on my jaw, and he turned my head and looked at me again, really 
looked. And then he kissed me. And it was like he knew, knew it all 
already and accepted it, took it into himself with this rough and 
awkward kiss.

Then we both slid to the ground. I think he actually passed out for 
a whileheavy on my back while I lay panting with my cheek against 
the dusty floor and wondered what the hell had just happened to me. 
I could see a piece of paper under the couch, and idly I reached in 
to pull it out. It was a photo, much-handled, and it showed Mulder 
and Walter Skinner, standing outside in the country somewhere. 
Skinner's arm was around Mulder's shoulders.

I looked at that picture for a long time. I snuck it out with me 
when we left. Later that night I burnt it.

And as we lay there I suddenly heard my own voice say "I think I've 
got a plan for you, Mulder. I think we can stop them."

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