21 September 1998
Title: Old
Author: J. C. Sun
Category: VAO
Rating: R for profanity
Summary: Alex gets old.
Domestic M/K warning. Schmoop dead ahead.
Inspired by Te's latest. 'Favorite rentboy' indeed.

---

Smell of night, car exhaust, grey sky that verges on the shade of white around the edges and the city a smooth rippled skein of black punctured by the passing cars. Smell of night, the water in the gutters, shine of the dumpster far below, gleam of oily puddles reflected infinitely. Put one foot on the ledge, wedge your other foot up a little higher, then push, hard. Stop yourself from flailing just in time to grab the ledge of the roof, just in time to lose your toehold so you've got to grip with your naked fingers and pull. Haul yourself up, feel creak of the stone underneath your weight--the ground is far away and covered with slick after-rain. A cat pads along the shadows, a newspaper rattles, wind tugging at your hair as you take a deep breath and then strain your biceps again. And then pull, feel the muscles in your arm straining, see the alley down below then a little grunt to swing your leg up and over the edge. Then pull your other leg up, your back makes little crack, and you're on the roof proper.

//you're getting old. you used to be able to do that in one motion.//There's a memory of vaulting up here, easy and smooth as a cat, a liquid flash of motion, but that was when he had two arms and when he was seven years younger. Out of breath now. Damn.

A sigh, annoyance for the aging of bone and tendon, and then gravel, crackling, hard leather sliding against stone picking his way to the concrete slab. Then, a snick of lighter, flare of light, dart of yellow-red slicing across the roof, shiver in the perennial wind, watch the flame tremble and then bring it up close to the lipped cigarette. Suck deep, the richly brittle edge of nicotine and carcinogens, comfortingly hot and singing, then watch the end of the cig glowing bright yellow-cherry.

//you come up here far too often, old boy.//

//that's why you're out of breath.//

Sighs, lets his shoulders fall a little, eyes droop in the old comfort of a good cigarette. The smoke smells good--too good. He admonishes himself that he's getting soft and decrepit and dependent, wanting everything to be his way. Wanting his comforts. Next thing you know, he'll be wanting *little* marshmallows in his cocoa. Bath water to be precisely 98.9 degrees.

Alex yawns, stretches his legs out, enjoys the comfort of the gesture. The confidence, the dark night, the achy tired sweetness of his tendons, the smell of good tobacco.

He's found a tobacconist in the area: a shriveled old man who's bent over double from age yet still knows his nicotine and rolls a beautiful blended Georgian and Virginian with a touch of English, just to add bite. Long, slim dainty tubes, powerfully rich and dark and comforting the slightest bit sweet. Alex keeps them in a silver case and lights them with a vintage Zippo, recently liberated from the clutches of a hoity-toity jewelry store that was keeping it as a collectable. He's thinking of having it monogrammed with his initials, just for the hell of it.

//i'm not a starving little rentboy anymore.//

That part of his life seems far away now. The grit, the squalid wondering, the desperate need for money, the greasy bars, big city Manhattan, the sharp keening want and the misery of knowing that he'd left his father's house for this, the beatings and the food too. And then the tired ache of going home and seeing it all empty, hollowed out and the for-sale sign in the yard because he died and never bothered to notify him and little Katrina blinking with cornflower eyes and his mother watching him with a pale face and a ramrod straight back, and knowing beyond all certainty that *she*, was the one who pu--

It's far, far, far away, down there with the traffic and the street lights and the empty cellophane cartons rattling.

Then there's the creak of a door--the stairs, Krycek realizes, someone's coming up after him. Drop the cigarette. Heady rush, hand dropping to pocket, weigh of a gun, the beginning of a harsh bark in his throat an--

It's Mulder.

Mulder, stepping out into the moonlight.

"It's *you*. Jesus."

Mulder makes an exasperated noise. "No, it's the Easter bunny, you motherfucking dickhead. Who *else* would be up our roof at three AM in the morning?"

Alex grins. "I *was* meeting my secret lover but now you've blown it all to hell."

"Alex, you bastard. Cheating on me." Mulder yawns, sleepy. He doesn't see the gun and keeps on stumbling across the concrete, something for which Alex is forever glad. He tucks the gun back into the pocket of his jacket with a sigh, cursing his nerves.

"I wasn't ditching you. I came up here to smoke. Besides, you were asleep."

"I wasn't asleep." Mulder makes a disgruntled, disgusted noise, drops down next to Alex. "The sex is good, but it's not that good, you self-absorbed little prick."

"Bull*shit*." Crinkle of laughter in Alex's eyes. "Who was the one screaming 'Fuck me, Aloysha. . .' Who was 'suck it, bitch' loud enough for them to hear you three blocks down? Who was going 'fuuuuuck me, ohhhh godd, please just fuck me fuck me fuck me fu--'"

The dead-on imitation ends in a grunt as Mulder smacks him in the stomach. "The Easter bunny, dumbass." Bright shiny Mulder-grin that gleams.

"Mulder if you keep on being that damn noisy during sex, I'm going to have to gag you." Alex yawns.

Pout, teeth on lower lip, big eyes. "I thought you liked it noisy."

"I do." Pause as Alex considers lighting up again, then decides against it; Mulder hates the smell cigarette smoke. "It's just that I'd like a gag even better. Bright red ball gag, with leather straps, silver buckles, here and here." He touch Mulder's cheek for emphasis, to show the placing of the buckles.

Mulder yawns again. "You wouldn't dare. Besides, red isn't my color, and Aloysha would never be tasteless as to clash. Heavens, no."

"Ah, thy knowst my heart too well." Alex watches the ribbon of the Beltway pulsing, pulling, a string of lights whizzing along on the far horizon. The moon is fading, pale and washed out from the glow of the city, the line of the street down below, the sodium lamp throwing orange light the windshields of parked cars, store fronts, the trees. An early fall wind rattles the trees, and Alex shivers, then turns to Mulder. "I'm wearing jacket, pants, shirt, and I'm cold. You must be freezing in your boxers."

Sharp miserable little grin, Mulder crossing his arms over his chest, running cold fingers over his thin dress shirt. "Freezing my balls off, as a matter of fact."

"We can't have that." Pause, as Alex shrugs his jacket off jacket, opens it up. "C'mere."

Mulder happily snuggles down, laying his head on Alex's left shoulder, body sagging down. Alex grins--once in a while there *are* advantages to having only one arm; the annoying placement of arms and hands wasn't a problem, and slowly, slowly, he feels the flares of cool air against his neck slow, weaken, steady, slow. He rocks into the limp mass of Mulder's body and--

Suddenly, Alex's head whips up:

"Grow old with me. . .Who's that by?"

"Browning I think." Little sigh as Mulder burrowed into Alex's shoulder. "Simple, stupid little little man." The words are cut off into a tremendous yawn. "Bastard thought he was so clever." Mulder's eyes are half closed and he's dozing, breathing slowing. "Never liked him much."

Grow old with me.

Grow old.

Old.

Alex considers this for a moment, then yawns himself. He leans on Mulder shoulder, wraps the jacket around them both, then drifts off to sleep too.

Old.

.end

Feedback to valeanna1@aol.com

	Home  ·  Quick Search  ·  Advanced Search  ·  Submissions  ·  F A Q  ·  Contact