Between Bites

by zara hemla :: x-files :: pg :: marita :: "i just want something i can never have."

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, they belong to 10/13 and Chris Carter. I'm just an underdog lover with no cash.

Thanks to Nancy Floyd-Finch, who is one classy lady -- this whipped butter is for you.

I always accept constructive criticism and feedback at

{Waves of regret and waves of joy;
  I reached out for the one I tried to destroy.
  You -- you said you'd wait until the end of the world.

I think I had him there, for just one minute. I think I had him back.

I th . . . I th . . . but it 's so hard to think, to breathe, to invoke deity. You know that D . . . that . . . song, by those people, that band, the one that says God has a sick sense of humor. I guess it only must be funny to Him, because I sure don't get the joke. Correction. I get it. I just wish it hadn't been on me.

Hmm, it's warm in here. They took away all the mirrors, and later, the shiny things. I kept trying to see my face in whatever would reflect it -- the bars of my bed, the bottom of my spoon.

I used to be beautiful, did you know that? So beautiful that Fox Mulder drooled out his questions to me as I stood in high heels on a subway platform. But I didn't want Fox Mulder, with his fey looks and that stubble that never seems to get shaved off. So I left him. Oh heaven and hell, did I leave him flat. I had the arrogance, then. I had the beauty. I had power. And I wanted Alex Krycek.

I think I just wanted him from minute one. One day he called up the New York office and arranged a meeting with me. Course I didn't want to acq . . . say yes, because I thought he was another Fox Mulder, with quests that made me sad and sorry at the same time, and qu . . . queries that took most everything out of me for days. But we met in a little park with a fountain that didn't work and he snared me. I was the asker, then, and he the person who held back the answers till I panted and gasped the questions.

At first it was my connections he saw. You never know when an S . . . an SRSG is going to come in handy. So he said one time afterwards, in a Motel 6 in Oregon. You never know, he said. His hand moved on my hip. He had ten long fingers back then, knuckles swollen from cracking them nervously. His eyes often shifted around the room, as though he saw people hiding behind chair legs and dust motes.

Later, he admitted to me that he thought I was beautiful. He used the adjective f . . . f . . . no, I'm going to say it, I want to say it . . . flaxen. He made me fight him, just so he could grab me too roughly. I bruise easily, see. He liked to see marks on me. He spent a week at my house, once, just seeing how my bruises developed. Oh, how I loved him. I love him still.


He touches himself in the head sometimes and says, "This is where Scully was going to shoot me." He says it reverently. Like she is the Madonna and I am the whore. I hate her.

Oh. Non . . . s . . . sequ . . . itur, I guess that was, except I wanted to talk about Tungus . . . ka and tell how it was after then. He came back screaming. Somehow he'd gotten himself taken to an embassy and called me, and of course I got him out on the next transport plane. I got the Synd . . . ic . . . ate to tend his wounds and I promised them my soul if he should betray them again. I guess they cashed in that bargain huh, even though I stayed faithful, but I was talking about Alex, I will use up all my strength to talk about Alex, and if talking about Alex kills me, I guess he was going to do it some way.

I said he came back screaming and he literally did. When he came to the specialist at the Syn . . . dicate lab, he was cursing at the top of his lungs in Russian. Nightmares, you see. I stayed by him for four days and when he opened his eyes, he looked up at me with brown eyes like hot sugar glaze and he said, "Fox?" So that's how I know. When he realized it was just me, he turned his head away. So I took my sharp fingernail and poked it into the stump of his shoulder. He screamed again, shredding into falsetto, but he didn't look at me again, no matter how many times I did it. I stayed anyway for another hour but then the doctors came to fit him for the prosth . . . the false arm, and I went away. He didn't need my connections after that, and so I was reduced to dreaming about him, sticky in my bed in New York, while he bought a pair of $10,000 binoculars and rented an apartment across the street from Mulder's. Don't ask me what he saw there. I hate Fox Mulder and his black- hearted partner. I don't have the strength to talk about it though.


The next time I saw him, he acted like he didn't know me. We stared at each other over the bodies of forty-one people, charred beyond recog . . . nition, and he told me to kiss his American ass. I would have been charmed. I would have done it right there, kneeling in ashes. But he didn't give me the chance. He walked away, and then he took the boy. Stole him right out from under their noses, like a magician at a kid's party. And of course I got blamed. Secretly, I hoped he'd make it to the end of the earth.

Because of my supposed mistakes, the Syndicate gave me no choice but to get the boy back - at that time, I still wanted to be in full possession of my soul. Now, it doesn't really matter anymore. They gave me instructions and I followed them. I went to the boat and I confronted Alex and then he shoved me up against the bulkhead so hard that I could feel every tooth in the zipper of his jacket.

I think I'm talking better.

I felt like whipped butter when he was done and he told me he was going to rule the world. I took his hand and only once, between bites, did I ask him about Mulder. He didn't answer. And then, for a long time, I didn't care. When I came back to myself, he was sleeping, the one arm dangling off the bed, brown hand limber in the half-light. I looked at his hand and his closed eyes and I broke. I took the boy, I called Mulder, and I betrayed Alex Krycek and the Syndicate for the last time.

Remember how I said that Mulder's quests made me sad and sorry? Well, sometimes it was like there were two of me, and one was always trying to do the right thing. But that one never succeeded. It's like that movie where the woman misses the train: there were two of me, and the good one never won, and she ended up killing the other one, the bad one that survived. The last thing I remember for a long time is the boy, pressed against the glass of the phone booth with black slime oozing from his poor eyes. Then both the good and evil mes are submerged and mixed, and now there is only one me and I am dying. I have seen Alex Krycek's face for the last time and he has one less arm to reach for me and his eyes are shocked and cold, like we're strangers.


I know I am not beautiful anymore. They gave me a mirror today and then they took it away again and shook their heads, because I couldn't stop screaming. I do look like something from "Night of the Living Dead." And now that I am no longer beautiful and connected, he will never come back to me. In the lab, only a week ago, he stopped for a minute and I thought I had him back. I peered at him through my hair, playing coquette, trying to make him want me again. For one tiny second my universe began to right its axis -- but Alex Krycek's gaze shifted to my companion and I knew that he would rather have Spender than me, now, because Spender had the connections that I had lost.

I wish often enough that I had never spoken to Mulder; not that first time in New York, and not that last time in the lab. "Not everything dies," I said, exposing myself like a stupid deer with nothing better to do than get shot. Of course everything dies. It may take a long time; it may take forever. But of course everything eventually faces its mortality. No one's invented a perpetual motion machine. I think I'm close now. My heart will suddenly cease its sprung rhythm, and my redrimmed eyes (I think I can see ultraviolet now) will close graciously. I won't fight it. I will close my eyes, like this, and turn my head toward the wall, and feel nothing but the morphine drip. I will watch the pattern of darkness behind my eyes bend and whip and blur and ripple, and I will hope with all my strength that I meet up with Alex Krycek in hell. At least there, we'll have something in common again.

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