A big thank you to Bertina, for all the beta reading. Disclaimer: Alex and Mulder belong to someone else. Spoilers: None
Archive: Please ask!

Closing the Distance

From Galway Bay or the Moher cliff top, Where the land ends with a sheer drop,
There are three stepping-stones out of Europe, Anchored like hulks on the dim horizon, Against the wind and the waves explosion. The Aran Islands are all awash,
Each coastline's furled in the foam's white sash.

---

Although the day was fine, a strong Westerly was blowing and once beyond the protection of the mainland, each dip of the boat into the choppy sea sent a stinging spray of water sweeping across its deck. Mulder zipped his jacket and pulled the collar up as high as it would go. He was alone. Immediately on boarding, the other passengers had headed for the shelter of the small cabin. He could hear their voices and laughter through the open window behind him. Contrary as ever, he moved further forward towards the prow, stepping up on a gear locker just as the boat made a spectacular lurch downward. It took all his strength, but he kept his feet, and when it rose again to crest the wave, he saw the island for the first time.

It floated on the horizon, a thin strip of green and purple hills edged in yellow sand, caught between the white-capped blue of the ocean and the cloudless blue of the sky. An unlikely hiding place for the man he'd come to find, but the triple checked trail of evidence had proven solid. Alex was there all right, on that tiny dot of land, ignoring all attempts to contact him, forcing Mulder to make the journey to him.

The queasy feeling in Mulder's stomach had nothing to do with the rolling of the boat. It had everything to do with the uneasy past he and Alex shared, and with his turning up, uninvited, on the man's doorstep.

They'd parted two years before, on bad terms, when the downfall of the Syndicate set their feet on different paths. Mulder's need to find his sister and to know the truth of what was out there was undiminished, but Alex wanted no part of either. He'd had a bellyful of intrigue and living on the edge. All he craved was peace of mind and obscurity, and if giving up Mulder was the price of that, he'd shown himself ready to pay it.

It had taken two years but Mulder had eventually found his answers, and, after a fashion, his own peace of mind. All that remained was to make peace with Alex, if it wasn't too late.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain's voice poured reed-like from the tinny loudspeaker, "unfortunately we're not going to be able to dock at the harbour at Innisclar due to the swell, but one of the lads is going to bring a boat out to meet us and he'll bring you ashore. Thank you for travelling with us aboard the 'Clardubh'"

Mulder knew that the announcement had been for his benefit. Everyone else onboard the boat was local, all native Gaelic speakers from Ireland's most westerly island. The captain spoke again, this time in his own, familiar tongue, while Mulder watched a smaller craft battle its way towards them.

"Is that going to be able to take all of us?" he asked the hand who'd come to lower the rope ladder over the side.

The man glanced out at the bobbing powerboat.

"You could fit a ceili band in Thady's boat, sir, and have room left over. The five of ye will be rattling around in it."

Mulder nodded his thanks and shouldered his duffel as he took his place by the ladder.

Ten minutes later, Mulder and three of the other passengers were seated below watching up as the fifth member of the party, an ancient gnome of a man, was roped up and lifted over the side of the heaving boat. He dangled in mid-air for a few moments before taking hold of the ladder and beginning the climb down. When he reached the bottom the skipper took a firm hold of him, untied the ropes, guided him to a seat and Mulder breathed an unconscious sigh of relief.

"Go raibh maith agat, Thady," the captain of the 'Clardubh' called down. "Slan agus beannacht."

"Slan go foil!" Thady waved up at him and seated himself at the tiller. Under his hand the fragile craft swung away from the bigger boat and headed for the island.

"Cad e mar ata tu, Daidi?" he asked, looking over at the old man.

"Go maith, Thady," he answered, "but remember, we have a guest among us." He turned his attention to Mulder. "You're from America?" he asked.

"Yes," Mulder lifted his voice about the sound of the engine and the wind, "from Massachusetts."

"Massachusetts is it? I have a sister myself, in Boston," the old man became even more animated. "Do you know the Mahers?"

Nonplussed, Mulder wasn't sure how to respond.

"Well ... I've lived in Washington for a long time ... "

"Now Da," the skipper scolded, "stop teasing the man."

He smiled over at Mulder.

"What brings you to the island, Mr ...?" he asked, holding out his hand.

"The name's Mulder." He reached out to shake the offered hand.

"I'm Thady O'Sharcaigh, and this is my father Hugh."

The old man grinned at him, revealing in all its glory his one remaining tooth. They shook hands.

Mulder nodded up at the island. "I'd seen this place on the internet and I needed a break from the city ..."

"That I can understand," the old man interrupted, "aren't I just back from Dublin myself. My grand-daughter Aine is at Trinity College and she had me over to see all the sights."

Mulder watched the small man expand with pride.

"So, how did you like Dublin, Da?" Thady asked.

"Well, Trinity was very grand. I could feel the learning pouring off the walls of the place. And as for 'The Book of Kells'," he raised his hand to the sky and said reverently, "that's the hand of God among us."

"I've seen it," Mulder agreed. "It's very beautiful."

"As for the rest of it," Hugh O'Sharcaigh continued in a dismissive tone, "well, I never in all my days saw gathered together in one place so many things I could do without." Everyone but Thady hid their laughter.

"Never mind your guffawing, Thady, I'm anxious for my own hearth. Take me home."

The skipper opened the throttle and boat covered the remaining distance in a few minutes. The island that had seemed so tiny now filled the horizon. Directly ahead was the harbour with its stone quay and five fishing boats.

Around it lay a cluster of pastel painted houses, known collectively as 'An Baile Mor', the big town. Beyond the town the land was carved up into a patchwork of fields, their edges bounded by a tracery of grey stone ditches. Barley, gleaming gold in the sun, filled some of the fields but most were dotted white with sheep and here and there between them an isolated farmhouse could be seen.

Thady gently guided the boat into its mooring alongside the quay and helped the passengers to disembark up the rusting metal ladder bolted to the stonework. Mulder eased his way through the gaggle of excited people at the edge of the quay, all exchanging greetings and welcomes and found himself a quiet place where he set down his duffel. Now that he was out of the roar of the Atlantic and standing on the sheltered leeside of the island he could feel the heat still present in the late September sun. He peeled off his jacket and tucked it between the handles of the bag. From the back pocket of his jeans he took out the map of the island he'd printed off the 'net and oriented it correctly.

He was going to have to walk to the hostel. There were no cars on the island; there was no need of them. It was possible to walk the looping road that circumnavigated it in a morning. He ran his finger along the road that would take him to the hostel, then shouldered his duffel and set out. He'd been on his way about five minutes when he heard the sound of an engine behind him. Glancing over his shoulder he watched as Thady pulled the quad up alongside him and matched his pace. Hugh O'Sharcaigh sat happily humming in the trailer behind.

"Where are you for?" he asked.

"I'm going to 'Teach Jimmy's.'

"'Teach Jimmy's is it?" Thady said, correcting Mulder's mispronunciation, and sounding a little surprised.

"Yeah, I'm on the right road, aren't I?" Mulder checked.

"You are, and I can give you a lift. It's not far out of my way."

"I'd appreciate that," Mulder told him, hopping into the trailer to join Hugh. "I've been travelling for two days."

"It's no trouble."

The vehicle laboured its way up the steep hill and teetered for a moment on the top. Looking down, Mulder drew in a surprised breath as he gazed along the expanse of the windward side of the island. It was totally deserted and for good reason. At first he saw only the lunar like slabs of grey limestone pavement that ran from one end of the island to the other but then he noticed the scattering of huge white and grey boulders left behind by a retreating glacier in the last Ice Age. They rose up from the bare rock like the tombstones of giants and around them the wind swirled and whistled. Far below, the pounding of the waves had sculpted the limestone into a dozen sandy bays, each separated from the next by an outcropping rock, and against them the relentless ocean whipped itself to a foaming frenzy.

"That's 'Teach Jimmy's'," Thady said, pointing down to the single clump of trees that marred the bare symmetry of the land.

Mulder could see a flash of white paint through their wind blown, stunted branches.

They trundled slowly down the slope and Thady brought the quad to a halt at the end of the lane leading to the hostel.

"Well, thanks for everything, Mr. O'Sharcaigh," Mulder said, climbing out of the trailer.

"Ta failte romhat," the man replied.

Mulder nodded and grabbed his bag, shaking the old man's hand again. He walked up the path to the hostel. It looked just like the picture on the website, but as he got closer Mulder became uneasy. There was no sign of life about it and the front door was locked. He walked to the rear. The back door was also locked and a glance in at the dusty window revealed an interior closed up for the winter.

A wave of exhaustion swept over Mulder, but he straightened up and made his way back down the path to the narrow road. Thady stood there, leaning back against the quad, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting, while his father tried to light his pipe in the face of the Atlantic gale. Mulder's exhaustion was overtaken by his irritation.

"It's closed," he said flatly, pointing back towards the hostel.

"It is," Thady agreed. "The 'foot and mouth' has the tourism destroyed. But Jimmy's going to try again next year."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mulder asked, exasperated.

"It isn't for me to tell a man his business," he said calmly. "You'll come home with us so."

He reached out and took the duffel from Mulder's hand, and Mulder meekly climbed into the trailer again and took his place beside Hugh O'Sharcaigh.

There were two houses on the O'Sharcaigh smallholding. The larger was a recently built, single storied main house, with picture windows and a fresh coat of lemon paint. It had a lawn and flowerbeds that looked like they'd been lifted out of an issue of 'Home and Garden' by some magical hand and placed unhappily among the natural disorder of the island's landscape. The other was the original family cottage, tiny and whitewashed, its only decoration a twist of thorny climbing rose that snaked up from behind the rain barrel to fall in profusion over the tops of the windows and door. Between them, a walled in patch of potato plants swayed gently under the weight of their white flower heads and behind it, what was left of the previous summer's harvest of turf was piled high in a little brown hill.

"Granda, Granda!" A pair of children came tumbling out from behind the house and scrambled into the trailer before either Mulder or Hugh could climb down.

"Easy, the pair of ye," Thady called out. "Help Granda climb down."

A smallish woman with bright blue eyes and dark, silver streaked hair had followed the children down the path. She drew the old man into an embrace.

"Failte abhaile, Daidi," she told him.

"It's good to be home, Brid."

"This is Mr. Mulder, Brid," Thady said. "He came over to the island thinking he could stay at the hostel, so he'll be wanting a place with us."

"You're welcome, Mr. Mulder." She offered her hand.

"Thank you, it's very good of you to put me up," he answered.

Within half an hour Mulder was settled into a bedroom in the main house, where he stretched out on the bed intending to take a five-minute catnap. Four hours later he stirred to find the room filled with the red glow of sunset. A comforter had been placed over him and his boots rested neatly on the floor by the bed. He was annoyed with himself and pushed out off the bed just as a tap came to the door.

"Mr. Mulder?" It was Brid's voice.

He opened the door.

"I'll be putting the dinner on the table in ten minutes," she told him.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I fell asleep ... " he began.

"You needed it. Now, the bathroom is next door. I'll see you in a little while."

He got his wash bag and some fresh clothes and went to shower and shave. Feeling refreshed he took his place at the table, where he ate his first family dinner in ... longer than he could remember. Afterward he helped with the dishes and returned with Brid from the kitchen to find all the chairs in the room gathered around the fireplace in a semi-circle. Some new faces had joined the company.

"This is Enda and Cait MacSuibhne," Thady said. "And beyond is Tomas O Domhnaill."

They exchanged greetings and Mulder took a seat in the only place remaining, the chair closest to the fire. He looked round the circle of expectant faces. It was unnerving. Around the good meal he'd just eaten his stomach fluttered. But then from the pages of a long ago sociology textbook a memory surfaced.

'In isolated, rural communities the stranger is made welcome, fed and housed and in return he is expected to provide the evening's entertainment, bringing news of the outside world and tales carried from other places. This is especially true of cultures that have the 'oral tradition' of professional story-tellers, for example, Ireland ...'

Mulder smiled. In another time this may well have been his calling. He began to weave a tale of magic and monsters.

It was long into the night before his appreciative audience was satisfied. Once the children had gone to bed the stories took on a darker tone, and he could tell from the intense expressions on the faces of those around him that they believed every word. He was reminded of the Native Americans he'd met and worked with. Like them, these people had sucked in a love and respect for the fantastical with their mother's milk. The canon of Celtic folklore was filled with mythical beasts and strange happenings. It had travelled westward with the Celts when they swarmed out of the European heartland, leaving the steppes of Russia and ...

Alex.

Mulder's heart tripped. Alex was here, somewhere close by.

Why am I not with him? he asked himself.

Because you're afraid it's too late, came the answer. And if it is how will you to face -

"You'll have dinner with us of an evening, Mr. Mulder, before you leave?" Cait MacSuibhne asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"I'd like that," he answered, and smiled to see the woman bless herself three times from the holy water font before taking a tight hold of her husband's hand at the door.

"Good night," he called after them as they switched on their torches for the walk home.

"You've a gift with the words, Mr. Mulder," Thady told him, putting the furniture back in place. "I just wish I could have your stories 'as Gaelige'."

"We've tired you out," Brid said. "Breakfast will be ready when you are."

"Thank you," he said, his voice sounding raspy. "Good night."

To his great relief, sleep was waiting for him the moment he laid his head on the pillow.

He felt hung over the next morning, a combination of the couple of glasses of good 'usice beatha' he'd drunk the night before and jetlag catching up with him. He struggled out of bed about nine o'clock and trailed into the bathroom. When he emerged from its steamy interior, he followed the smell of percolating coffee to the kitchen. Brid lifted the pot from the Stanley range and filled a cup for him.

"Thanks," he murmured, watching her return to her baking.

She scooped a lump of dough out of the bowl and made it into a thick circle shape on the floured baking board. She quartered it and found a space for each piece among those already cooking on a griddle.

"You've come to see Alex," she said, not turning round.

He barely avoided choking on his coffee.

"How do you know ... ?"

"We've had no more than a handful of tourists this summer. And they never come in September any year."

She lifted two pieces of cooked bread off the griddle with a spatula and placed them on the plate in front of Mulder. Sitting down she pushed the butter dish towards him.

"You're no tourist. Besides Alex let the name Mulder slip one day." She smiled widely at him. "You know, he had the same look on his face that you do now."

She stood up and returned to the baking bowl.

"Eat your breakfast. It's soda bread. It's good. Alex loves it. I'm going to make you a couple of farls to take with you when you go to see him. You wouldn't want to go empty handed now would you?"

Mulder shook his head and bit into the slice of hot, buttery bread as he was bid.

---

He couldn't find Alex's house. Retracing his steps a good part of the way he tried again, thinking he must have missed the turning. The crumbly asphalt road led him back to the same grassy hillock where it ended abruptly, as before. This time he continued walking, following the contour of the mound. In front of it the land fell away gently towards a sandy cove and the sea. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the warm sun, breathing the salty air deeply into his lungs. A gull's harsh cry sounded and he opened his eyes to follow its circling glide path.

Still looking upward, he was lucky not to fall when he stumbled across the paving stones. They were rough-hewn slabs of grey native limestone, set directly into the wiry grass and running from the beach to the mound. He followed them up the slope. At the top the path broadened out and he could see an opening. Three steps up brought him through the gap into a courtyard at the heart of the mound, around which Alex's house curved, womb-like in structure and dug into the earth itself.

Mulder smiled, so no traditional cottage for Alex. The profiler in him wasn't surprised with the discovery. There was a well-established Krycek predilection for underground structures. He could understand the attraction of a bunker like this: safe, secure, organic, invisible even from the sea. Just the kind of environment a fear based personality type would create for ...

He halted the thought process. He had never profiled Alex. He never would.

He turned his attention back to the house. Even if the concept did not appeal to him he had to admire the simple, clean design of the building. It wasn't at all dark or dank as he might have expected. The south-facing courtyard gathered in the light and the heat like a lens. He could feel the warmth radiating up of the grey stone paving, while through the narrow entrance a breeze circulated, bringing with it the fresh, ozone perfume of the sea.

In the centre of the courtyard was a huge grey slab of hollowed-out limestone. Filled with peaty soil, it was planted with heathers and alpines. On its edge rested an empty coffee mug, and beside it was a jacket, that had been left discarded when the sun had cleared away the early morning mist.

Mulder put the basket of bread down and lifted the woollen jacket. He recognised it. It was his. It was one of two things that had gone missing the day Alex packed up and left the apartment. He brought it to his face and breathed in the scent it carried. Every nerve ending in his body reacted to it and he could feel and taste, as well as smell his lover.

He carried it with him towards the front door of the house. It was open, but he didn't go in. Looking through it and the large windows that flanked it either side he got a good look at the interior. One long room filled the space but it was subtly divided up into smaller areas according to use. The kitchen was in the centre. Its stripped oak cabinets surrounded a big Stanley range and were topped with the same dark grey slate that covered the floor of the entire room. To the left was a dining area containing an oaken table and chairs and a large matching dresser. To the right was the living area, where two black leather couches faced each other before a big open fireplace. Behind them in a recessed corner was a fitted study, complete with state of the art sound and computer systems.

The only thing that jarred with the sparse order of the place were the numerous piles of books that lay stacked up, here and there, as though awaiting their final disposition. Mulder returned the jacket to its place and climbed up onto the roof of the building. He walked along its curved length, avoiding the translucent glass skylights that allowed light into other, unseen rooms of the house. In the very middle he sat down to enjoy the spectacular view. To the east across the island sound was the mainland with its cliff edge, to the west was the open Atlantic, restless as always. The crash of the waves and the cries of the gulls were the only sounds to be heard and he began to understand the attraction the place held for Alex.

It was well past noon when Alex returned. He walked into the courtyard carrying a shotgun and a brace of rabbits. He saw Mulder immediately and froze in position for several seconds. Then he leaned back against the outer wall of the mound looking winded, his eyes closing.

"Hello Alex," Mulder said.

Krycek opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. He didn't reply to the greeting. Instead he pushed away from the wall and walked across the courtyard towards Mulder. He was dressed in an open necked shirt, slim fitting jeans and brown suede mountain boots. His skin was tan and glowing against the white of the shirt. He moved with familiar grace, but the tension of a man permanently looking over his shoulder was gone. It was replaced with an ease that was reflected in his face. The quiet life had even given him back something of the boyish looks and physique of the eager Agent Krycek, though his hair lacked any particular style and curled loosely almost to his shirt collar.

The haggard look he'd worn during the final days of the Consortium was completely gone.

He stopped in front of Mulder and fixed him with an intense stare, before relenting enough to allow the corners of his mouth to quirk up into a half smile.

"Still can't take no for an answer, huh Mulder?"

"You didn't say no."

"I thought the fact that I ignored all five hundred of your emails implied that the answer was no."

"Actually, in law, the maxim is 'qui tacet consentire' - 'silence gives consent'."

Krycek became serious and there was an angry edge to his answer.

"Since when have you needed justification for anything you want to do Mulder?"

He turned away sharply and strode into the house, but the door he left wide open. Mulder looked over at it and, though the words hurt, it felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled. It was going to be all right. Why had he ever doubted? What they shared was nothing less than a force of nature. Ingrained behaviour patterns and sheer bloody-mindedness might demand they make each other jump through a few hoops, but some time soon their beautifully dysfunctional relationship would resume its inevitable course.

He followed Krycek in and watched the man hang the rabbits from a hook set in the gable end of the kitchen cabinets. He opened the refrigerator and took out two bottles of Stella Artois. Placing them on the counter he twisted off the caps and slid one towards Mulder.

Mulder took his beer and sat on one of the high stools beside the butcher's block. They both drank deeply, then the bottles clinked down on the slate worktop and there was silence.

Mulder was never as good with silences as Krycek.

"Alex, I need you to understand why I couldn't let it go ... I - "

"Jesus Mulder, give me some credit. Do you really think I didn't understand?"

Mulder could have kicked himself. He tried to put the right words together but Krycek was continuing.

"I didn't expect you to choose me. I know you didn't have that luxury any more than I had the luxury to choose you. I had to get out ... or go under."

Mulder nodded. "I know ... I understood too." He looked up at his beautiful lover. "It's good to find you so well ... so whole."

The hurt left Alex's face and was replaced with the soft expression that had haunted Mulder's dreams for two years. The close reality of it drove the breath out of his lungs. Heart hammering, he reached out to touch, his hand cupping Alex's cheek and jaw. Krycek's eyes closed blissfully and he turned into the embrace, his lips nuzzling Mulder's palm.

"Alex ... " he murmured when breathing returned, " ... God ... I've missed you ... "

Alex's eyes opened and his mouth stilled. Mulder could feel the mental as well as physical withdrawal. It was too soon; there were fences to be mended.

He pulled his hand away slowly and picked up his beer. Alex cleared his throat noisily.

"I don't need to ask how it's been with you. You look like hell."

"Well, thanks for that Alex." Mulder snorted. "I see island life hasn't improved your people skills any."

"Don't get much chance to practise them."

He retrieved the rabbits and placed them on the counter. With a lethally sharp hunter's knife he began to skin them.

"Though I can see you've kept other skills pretty sharp."

Alex's hand froze mid movement and Mulder wondered to himself what the chances would be that if he opened his big mouth really wide he could fit both feet in at the same time.

"Is that dinner?" he asked before his words could sour the mood.

Alex let it go and resumed his task.

"It's my dinner, yeah," he answered coolly.

"I'd say there's enough for two there."

"Partial to rabbit are you, Mulder?" Alex asked sceptically as he removed the heads.

"I wouldn't have thought it'd be all that popular on tables at The Cape."

Mulder ignored the gibe and made himself watch. Autopsies were one thing, seeing your dinner beheaded was quite another.

"Actually I am," he said as nonchalantly as he could manage. "It was quite chic there for a while in the mid nineties. But it would have been served en croute with a mustard sauce."

Alex chuckled and any unease vanished.

"Stewed, with carrots, onions and spuds, is dish of the day here."

"Sounds good," Mulder told him enthusiastically, but when Alex began cleaning out the carcases he lifted his beer and moved away.

"Okay if I look around?"

"Sure, go ahead."

He wandered around, finally settling before the PC on the study desk where he found the second thing that had gone missing from his apartment the day Alex left. The framed photo of them laughing together over something so trivial he couldn't remember it. Scully had snapped it using the evidence camera. Seeing it again made him realise why Alex had taken it with him.

"I'd like to check my email," he called back towards the kitchen.

"Whatever ... "

He sat down and logged onto his account. The speed of the system surprised him and he wondered what technologies Alex was using to maintain broadband contact out of this remote location. The only email of value was from Scully and he spent some time replying to it. The rest he deleted. Alex was still busy in the kitchen and Mulder shamelessly took the opportunity to check his host's Internet bookmarks. In a folder named 'Dating Games' he found a list of porn sites running through the alphabet from 'Boy Crazy' to 'Ready to Rock and Roll'. He was intimately acquainted with a number of them. It was comforting to know that Alex's appetite was undiminished. His own libido had given him, and his bank balance, a lot of grief since the two of them had parted.

The oven door of the range slammed closed firmly and Mulder guiltily closed down the browser and went back to the kitchen. He sat down and watched Alex wipe up the mess from the counter top.

"You need any help?"

"Well, it seems your timing's still perfect."

Mulder grinned up at him.

"Did you come in on the Clardubh yesterday?"

"Yeah. It was quite a ride."

"Where are you staying?"

"The O'Sharcaigh's ..." Mulder got up. "... which reminds me."

He went out to get the forgotten basket of bread Brid had given him.

"Brid sent these. Says they're sodas."

Alex's face lit up and he took the basket eagerly. He lifted out the floury bread and placed two of the farls on the breadboard.

"You hungry?" he asked, putting the kettle on the range to boil.

"Sure."

He watched Alex slice the sodas in half, butter them and place a thick slice of ham on each one, before putting the tops back on to make two chunky sandwiches. Sliding them onto plates, he lifted the whistling kettle off the hob and made a pot of tea, which he placed back on the heat where it spat and hissed as it drew.

"They don't taste right with coffee," he explained to a doubting Mulder. "Just try it."

Reluctantly Mulder did. And he had to agree that the strong, sweet tea, quite unlike any he'd tasted before, did compliment the bread better than the coffee he'd drank that morning.

"Did you build the house?" he asked, between satisfying mouthfuls.

"Yeah, like it?"

"It's very impressive."

"State of the art, environmentally. It would win awards if I'd let them publicise it."

"Who designed it?"

"Thady's eldest son, Fiontan, is an architect. This was the kind of project he's been itching to do for a couple of years. Waived his fee, and put up with my interference, he wanted it so much."

He smiled broadly. Mulder looked at him quizzically.

"Thady is embarrassed by it. Doesn't like me telling anyone who designed it. Says, 'Sure it isn't a house at all, it's a badgers' sett'.

Mulder smiled too.

"You've settled well here, Alex," he said, keeping the jealousy he felt for the place out of his voice. "What made you choose it?"

Alex shrugged. "Just chance. I took the first flight I could get a booking on out of the States. It had a stop over at Shannon. Somehow the connecting options didn't appeal, so I left the airport and hitched a ride with some tourists. They were coming here and I tagged along. It's not like I had any other plans." He looked over at Mulder. "It's home, Fox."

There didn't seem to be anything more to say and together they gathered up the dishes and washed them.

Putting the last of them away, Alex said, "There's a few things I need to check on. I won't be long."

Mulder watched him leave before getting comfortable in one of the leather couches. He picked up the book on the top of the pile beside it. It was entitled 'Twenty Years A-Growing." He opened it and began to read.

'I am a boy who was born and bred in the Great Blasket, a small truly Gaelic island which lies north-west of the coast of Kerry, where the storms of the sky and the wild sea beat without ceasing from end to end of the year and from generation to generation against the wrinkled rocks which stand above the waves that wash in and out of the coves where the seals make their home ... '

The lamps were on when he woke up, stretched out on the soft leather of the couch with Alex sitting on the couch opposite, watching him.

"Just like home, huh, Fox?" he asked as Mulder struggled upright through the fog of sleep.

"What is with this place?" he mumbled. "It's like I've developed sleeping sickness."

"The locals say it's 'the strong air' whatever that means. But I think that it's more to do with the fact that you're bone tired."

He brought Mulder a glass of water and watched him drink it all.

"I was too when I arrived. I rented the O'Sharcaigh cottage and spent the first three weeks in it sleeping. Why don't you go wash up? Dinner's been waiting."

Mulder checked his watch. It confirmed what his stomach was telling him, it was well after eight o'clock. When he returned from the bathroom Alex called him to the table and began ladling out the piping hot stew. The smell made his mouth water and it tasted delicious. They ate in silence, but it was a comfortable, non-threatening silence and afterwards they carried mugs of coffee back to the couches.

Mulder settled himself on the other end of the one Alex chose and began to sip his coffee.

"So what do you do with yourself?" he asked. "Apart from building cutting edge houses and keeping the rabbit population under control."

"I run the e-business side of the local fishing co-operative," Alex answered, matter-of-factly.

"Is there any money in that?"

"Do you have any idea how much a kilo of wild Atlantic salmon is fetching in Paris restaurants these days, Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head.

"A lot," Alex said smugly. He sorted through the papers on the end table and found a copy of the company brochure. He held it out towards Mulder who slid along the smooth leather of the couch to take it.

"Looks like a very professional operation," Mulder commented with feigned interest as he flicked through the glossy pages. He tucked one leg up under him and the movement brought him into contact with Alex's body from knee to shoulder. Alex rolled his eyes disbelievingly but made no move to disengage him.

"So how much does a kilo of wild Atlantic salmon fetch in a Paris restaurant these days?" Mulder asked undeterred. Sensing that the time had come, he drained his coffee mug and leaned across Alex to place it on the end table, pinning him against the arm of the couch in the process. He didn't pull back; instead he went for the sexiest pout in his repertoire and turned his heavy lidded gaze on Alex's parted lips.

His judgement was completely vindicated when Alex answered croakily, "Who the fuck cares," and surged forward to take back control.

They struggled against each other until Mulder went for a strategic submission that brought Alex down heavily on top of him, in exactly the right position, with mouths, nipples and groins all perfectly aligned. But, to his disbelief, Alex didn't react as he usually did when on top. Sure there was some grinding and moaning and enough necking to get Mulder thoroughly turned on, but it didn't go any further. When he tried to slip his hand up inside the shirt he'd pulled free of Alex's pants, the younger man reacted in the way guaranteed to make the mother of any well brought up co-ed proud, he sat up, straightened his clothes and told Mulder it was time to go.

"What?" Mulder panted, exactly like a recently landed and very expensive wild Atlantic salmon.

"You heard me," Alex told him gathering up the coffee mugs. "Thady will be locking up the house soon and you have to walk all the way back in the dark. I'll get you a torch."

"You bastard," Mulder muttered at Alex's retreating back.

The smug, over the shoulder look the words drew, told Mulder that Alex hadn't yet exacted the full measure of his contrition. His only solace was the knowledge that he wouldn't be the only one facing a night of lonely frustration, and a few minutes later, with nothing more than a chaste 'good night' kiss and a heavy duty torch, he was sent on his way.

The evening was mild but moonless and despite the nearness of the ocean its presence could be sensed only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves in the sandy bay to his left.

A dozen or so yards beyond the entrance to Alex's house he stopped and turned off the torch. At first the darkness was total, then slowly he became aware of the diffuse glow of the Milky Way lying stretched out in all its glory above his head.

He planted his feet firmly in the soft turf and looked up, his gaze sweeping across the full expanse of starry skyscape. Unpolluted by artificial light, the wonder of the night sky held him transfixed, just as it had when he was a boy. Nothing, not even first hand knowledge of the dark secrets it contained could take that away from him. As ever, the optimistic part of his psyche, the part that kept him sane through the worst days, over-ruled the part of him that wanted to find some safe bolt hole and pretend everything was fine.

That was not an option - if there was to be a future, it would have to be fought for.

A slight movement of black on black in his peripheral vision drew his attention. He snapped on the torch and swept its broad beam through one hundred and eighty degrees of arc from right to left and back again. There was nothing to be seen but the dew coated grass and one startled hare that scampered away in dazzled terror.

He switched the torch off and opened his senses. There was nothing tangible, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his sixth sense told him that another presence was close. Again he flicked on the torch and played the light back and forward.

Still nothing.

If someone was there, he had no intention of betraying his presence further. He shook himself and began searching for the path back to the road. Even allowing for the strangeness of the place and the darkness of the night he felt a little foolish. It had probably just been one of the many sheep that roamed the island in search of grazing.

But then, as he stepped onto the asphalt road, there was a faint flare of light from the direction he'd come and he heard a snatch of conversation, cut off by the sound of a closing door.

He turned back and again stood very still for a long time. Except for the sea and the stars, all was silent and dark.

So, Alex was not, after all, fated to a night of lonely frustration.

He warred with himself about what to do.

Go back? Act the betrayed and outraged lover?

Hardly, he'd given up the right to that role two years ago.

There was nothing else to do but follow the road back to his the O'Sharcaigh house and to trust in what he knew to be the supreme truth; that Alex Krycek belonged to him ... and to him only.

---

Undeterred, and hiding the jealousy and hurt that had kept him awake most of the night, he was back at Alex's door for seven thirty the following morning. His host, dressed in a pair of faded plaid boxers and towelling robe and suffering from a nasty case of 'bed head', trailed reluctantly across the living room to open up.

"Morning ..." Mulder began, but the scowl reminded him that Alex never was and never would be a morning person.

"You have breakfast?" was all he needed to know.

"Didn't wait for it ... came right over."

"Huh ..." he commented, going to the kitchen.

Mulder followed him there and pitched in with the preparation. They worked together silently, he making toast while Alex brewed a large pot of tea and heated two iron pans. Into one went thick slices of bacon and sausages, into the other went whole mushrooms and halved tomatoes. When the meat was cooked he found a space in the first pan and cracked in four eggs, watching them carefully to make sure they stayed 'easy over' the way Mulder liked them. Taking out two warmed plates from the proofing oven, he filled them from the pans and placed them on the worktop.

Mulder carried over the mugs of tea and plate of toast. They sat down opposite each other and began eating.

"This is good," Mulder said, nodding to his plate.

"Mmm."

"You used to start the day with a cup of black coffee, if that."

"Still do, mostly, but today I'm going out on the trawler. The crew's a man short."

"How long will you be gone?" Mulder asked, irritated.

"Hard to say. Could be ten hours, could be three days."

"What?"

"Even with the latest equipment," Alex shrugged, philosophically, "fishing is still mostly about luck. And the weather."

Mulder bristled with annoyance. There was no way he'd come all this distance to sit around twiddling his thumbs, at the mercy of the fickle Atlantic Ocean and its fishy inhabitants.

"I thought you were the eManager of this outfit?"

"I am," Alex agreed. "I'm also the back up engineer ... and I gut the fish on the assembly line at the packing plant ... and I go out on trawler on a two-weekly rotation ... or whenever they're a crew member down."

Mulder kicked the information around for a minute or two.

"I'm coming with you," he announced.

Alex's sudden laugh caused him to choke, and Mulder reached across to thump him soundly on the back.

When he could speak again, Alex said with finality, "No way, Mulder."

"Why not?"

"There's no room for passengers. Space is tight and every man has to pull his weight, but more importantly it's too fucking dangerous out there. Seasoned fishermen are lost all the time. One stupid mistake and it could be us all."

"I'm no novice. I know boats," Mulder told him.

"Summer jaunts over to the Vineyard don't count, Mulder. This is real life."

"Jesus, Krycek, get over it, will you?" he told him, angrily. "There was nothing about the early life of Fox William Mulder worth resenting, and you probably know that better than anybody."

The truth of the words wiped the sullen expression off Krycek's face, and left him feeling mean-spirited and ashamed. He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, reluctant to engage Mulder in eye contact.

"Why are we fighting?" Mulder asked, his voice sounding weary and sad. He reached over and placed his hand on top on Krycek's. "I'm here because I need to be with you, Alex. I can't change what happened in the past, but I won't make the mistake again of pretending I can live without this."

He grasped the hand tighter, until it almost hurt. "If it's changed for you, I need to know now. Just put me out of my fucking misery and send me on my way."

Alex looked up at him, making no effort to hide his feelings.

"How could it ever change?" he asked. "Fox Mulder is where I begin and where I end."

Mulder's capacity for words failed him, so he brought Alex's hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then he stood and quickly moved to the other side of the countertop. Alex allowed himself to be pulled into the embrace. They clung to each other for a moment before Mulder aggressively sought the younger man's mouth. He groaned aloud as it opened under the assault and allowed him the intimate contact he craved. He could feel himself losing control as he pressed their bodies tight together against the resistance of the kitchen cupboards, and he could feel Alex's uninhibited response.

The phone rang ...

Mulder's jean clad hip rubbed against Alex's crotch ...

The phone rang again ...

Alex's hips thrust forward to intensify the pleasure, and his hand found its way under Mulder's shirt ...

Remarkably, on the third trilling purr Alex became aware of the sound. Somewhere at the edge of what remained of his reasoning brain, a memory stirred. The crew of the Niaomh Blaithin were waiting for him down on the quay. He was already late.

"Ugghh, Mulder," he groaned, pushing the other man away. "I've got to go ... "

Mulder looked at him disbelievingly. "No way, Alex ..." he stated, pulling his lover back into the clinch.

"Fuck sake, Mulder, do you think I want to go?" he asked, trying to get his body and his breathing under control. "I have to go ... on the island you don't let people down."

Mulder released him and stepped back. On his face was carved a look that said he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I'm going," he stated.

Alex shook his head in defeat. "Okay, okay, but I don't want to hear one complaint -"

"Aye, aye, captain!" Mulder snapped to attention and saluted.

"Oh shit," Alex groaned. "I'm going to get dressed. You'll find the gear we'll need in the utility room through there." He pointed to a door at the far end of the living room.

"And you'd better clean up in here." Muttering to himself, he disappeared into the bathroom.

---

Alex jumped down onto the deck of the Niaomh Blaithin and called out a greeting. A man appeared out of the wheelhouse.

"Maidin mhaith, Alex," he answered. "Ce seo?"

"This is Mulder," Alex introduced, "he wants to go out with us today."

The man nodded to Mulder, who threw down the bag of gear on the deck and jumped down after it.

"This is Denis Joseph O'Cathain, master of the Niaomh Blithn, known to all as DinJoe," Alex told Mulder. "It's up to him."

Mulder and the captain shook hands.

"Have you been out before, Mr Mulder?"

"Once or twice. Never to catch fish though." He smiled. "And, it's just Mulder."

"Well, Mulder, you'll need to know when to stay out of the way," Dinjoe warned.

"The forecast is for a swell, maybe worse."

"You won't know I'm here," he promised.

"Fine so." He pointed to a narrow doorway. "You can stow your gear below."

Mulder hefted the duffel and made his way down to a cramped cabin, that contained little more than four bunks and the same number of lockers. Checking through them, he found an empty one and pushed the bulky bag into it before returning to the deck. Alex and the captain were looking down into an open hatch.

" - so, the compressor wasn't the problem?" Alex was asking.

"No, it was just the fuel input valve that needed adjusting, thank God. Listen, she's ticking over like a mouse's heart."

Alex stood motionless, listening for a minute of two, then he smiled and clasped the other man's shoulder in agreement. Together the two of them lowered and fixed the heavy hatch cover in place.

Alex looked over at Mulder.

"Want to make yourself useful?"

"Sure."

Mulder followed him down a vertical ladder into the belly of the trawler, where the darkness and the smell overwhelmed him for a minute or two. When his eyes and nose adjusted to the conditions, he saw that two men already worked there. They stopped and looked up. Mulder's attention was instantly drawn to the intense way the younger of the two gazed at Alex. The hunger in his hazel eyes left no room for ambiguity and a shockwave of jealousy rolled through Mulder as he sized up his unseen competition from the night before.

The lad was boyishly handsome, tall and lean with a thick crop of auburn hair and a pouty mouth - in some things the man he loved was all too predictable. The thought caused Mulder to smile and glance back at Alex, searching his face for any expression of guilt or regret. He could find none. Instead, completely unfazed by the sudden outing of his two lovers, one to the other, Alex continued to exchange friendly banter as he introduced Mulder.

While shaking hands with the 'blow-in', Mulder's rival, who answered to the name of Sean Og, looked anxiously to Alex for some kind of reassurance. None was offered. Reacting to the young man's body language, Mulder felt hostility and sympathy in equal measure. The betrayal of first love was always bitter - and this was love, of that there was no doubt. But it was unrequited love, and even though the hurt and longing were evident on Sean's face, Alex's neutral expression never wavered. No one did 'cruel to be kind' better than Alex Krycek.

Only Niall, the last member of the crew to be introduced, seemed unaware of the tension being generated in the confined space, and he went on chatting in good-natured fashion - to no one in particular.

Alex turned to Mulder, a coy smile on his face as he tossed a shovel in his direction.

"The lads will show you what to do," he said and left.

Doggedly, Mulder focused his attention on the task of shifting several tons of ice into the compartments located around the hold, and tried to stay out of the way of Sean's swinging shovel.

Twenty-four hours later, cold and damp and bored out of his mind, Mulder looked out across the rolling grey hills of the Atlantic and sighed. Alex had been right in advising him to stay onshore. He'd spent a miserable night without sleep, and without a book to pass the time. He had no idea what was going on, other than they seemed to be sailing around in ever decreasing, fishless circles. What little conversation there was between the crew, was conducted in Gaelic and didn't make much more sense when it was translated. And to cap it all, Alex was as distant as he could be given the fact they were cooped up together on a seventy-foot fishing trawler.

He was sure of one thing, however, he was where he needed to be, and, he reasoned, it had to get better.

That was the moment when the tedium turned to terror. From out of the northeast, a gale blew up that transformed each rolling grey Atlantic hill into the North Face of the Eiger.

A double-handed grip on the rail, tight enough to leave ten grooves in the metal, was all that kept Mulder onboard when the first wave hit. He realised how lucky he had been when Alex came tearing out of the wheelhouse like a man demented, screaming his name. He felt a rough hand grasp the collar of his oilskin jacket and jerk him away from the edge before the next wave could strike. In a barely upright sprawl, Alex trailed him backwards, towards the cabin. Once inside, he was flung down onto the nearest bunk.

"You stupid fucker," Alex roared at him. "Where the fuck is your life jacket?"

"I left it somewhere ... it was uncomfortable - "

"Don't say another word, you asshole," Alex cut across him, beginning to search around for the life preserver.

Finding where it had been carelessly forgotten, he flung it full force at Mulder.

"Don't fucking take it off again," he warned in a low, menacing voice, "and don't even think about leaving this cabin."

With a slam of the door he was gone.

Mulder reached over and pulled out the duffel bag he had stowed away the previous day. Hunting through it he took out a fresh set of clothes. Dragging himself upright, he tried to undress but the motion of the boat made it impossible. He flopped back down onto the bunk and stripped off the bulky oilskin and wet, clingy sweater and jeans. His boxers and t-shirt joined them in a pile on the floor then he struggled his way into the dry clothes. Tying up his bootlaces tightly, he pulled on the life jacket and snapped its fastenings shut.

He didn't attempt to stand up again. The erratic, lurching movement of the little boat was unlike anything he had experienced before. Instead he stretched out on the bunk and concentrated on the feel of Alex's clothes against his skin, willing himself not to be seasick. He had never been motion sick on anything in his entire life. He was not about to start. Having already made a fool of himself by almost being swept overboard - that would be one humiliation too far.

The storm tested his determination to the limit, however, and it was a full nine hours before it blew itself out. Even then the ocean swell continued to run high enough to keep his stomach jittery. He lay unmoving, until, from up on deck, he heard the captain shouting instructions to the rest of the crew, followed by the sound of heavy machinery grinding into life. When the fabric of the vessel began to vibrate in sympathy and Mulder reasoned that they must be playing out the trawl net. His spirits rose. Maybe now they'd catch enough fish to end this waking nightmare.

He sat up cautiously in the bunk. After holding still for a full minute, he pushed himself up out of it and tested his sea legs. Only a dull queasiness remained. He opened the door and breathed in deeply as fresh, cold air rushed in through the opening and swirled around him. It felt good and he made his way up onto the deck to see if there was something useful he could do.

It was soon apparent that there was no shortage of useful things to do on a trawler bringing in a catch. In fact there were lots of cold, wet, backbreaking, dangerous things to do, but since he was determined not to make another stupid mistake, he kept well away from the rails and the vicious looking jaws of the lifting gear. That left him the option of climbing down into the hold where they were sorting through the catch before packing it in ice.

Pretty soon, even inside the thick protective gloves Alex had tossed in his direction, his fingers began to burn with the cold, so it was with relief that he heard the skipper call out the order to secure the lifting gear, ready for the journey home.

Slowly the boat turned into the prevailing wind, its pitch and yaw increasing tenfold on its new heading. Mulder swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the coldness of the ice rather than the movement of the floor beneath his feet or the smell of the still flapping mounds of fish. It took a while, but eventually they cleared the working area of all the cod and haddock, leaving only the specialized catch to be dealt with.

"We gotta get this ready for the seven o'clock flight," Alex told Mulder, as he checked his watch. "We'll be cutting it fine but we should make it."

Niall had already set up a long table and was making a start on gutting and filleting the salmon and monkfish. Alex nodded towards him as he handed Mulder a knife.

"Just copy what Niall's doing and you can't go wrong," he instructed, before turning away to begin filling the polystyrene aircraft crates with ice.

Mulder swallowed even harder and stripped off his gloves. He picked up a salmon and laid it on the table. Its cold, dead, fishy eye gazed up at him accusingly. He tried to make the first cut, but the fish slithered away out of his numbed hand in the direction of the boat's starboard roll. He made a grab for it and glanced up at Niall. The man wore an amused expression.

"Slippery little devils, aren't they?" He asked, staking the salmon to the wooden tabletop with a spare knife. A little blood oozed out of the wound. "Here, let me get that fella started for you," he continued and leaned over to slice expertly into the fish's belly and scoop out its innards. "Use the bucket," he finished, kicking a battered, old engine oil container from under the table in Mulder's direction.

A figure appeared in the hatchway above and Sean Og called down, "Bricfeasta," as he lowered a crate into the hold.

Alex caught hold of it and unhooked the rope. Placing the crate on the floor, he wiped his hands on a sheet of newspaper before taking out a sandwich and a steaming mug of tea and handing them to Niall.

"Go raibh maith agat," Niall said appreciatively, biting into the thickly cut 'doorsteps' of bread and the two fried eggs sandwiched between them.

"Is maith an t-anlann an t-ocras," he commented, his mouth full.

"Here," Alex said, holding out a sandwich towards Mulder.

Mulder stared at it; uncomfortably aware of how its greasy smell was mingling with that of the gutted fish and the vessel's heavy diesel oil to create an aroma worthy of an X File. Sweat began pouring down his back and the relentless pounding of the engine in the next compartment suddenly moved to a new location - somewhere inside his head.

Without warning, the boat rolled heavily to port, then to starboard, then back to port ... causing the confined space of the hold to collapse in on him for a second ... before telescoping out into a long dark tunnel ... at the far end of which stood Alex, framed inside a small circle of light ... asking him a question he couldn't understand ... That was when he used the bucket, kneeling over it, holding onto it the way a drowning man holds onto a lifebelt.

He'd often heard that seasickness made you want to die. In that moment, as he puked up his intestines, he knew it to be true.

"For Christ's sake, Mulder, why didn't you say something?" Alex was asking, leaning over him, rubbing his back in a way meant to be comforting.

"Uuughh," Mulder groaned, before retching violently.

"Get me a damp towel," Alex called out to someone on deck. "Can you stand up?"

Not ready to let go of his bucket, Mulder shook his head and retched again. A towel was dropped into the hold and Alex wiped it across Mulder's face, then folded it up and held it against his forehead.

"Help me get him up on deck," Alex instructed, as he tried to prise Mulder's fingers loose from the rim of the bucket.

Between the two of them, he and Niall somehow managed to haul Mulder up the vertical ladder out of the hold into the blessed, sweet, fresh air. Once on deck, they draped him over the nearest rail and lashed him to the side with a length of rope.

There they left him, strung out like an ineffectual scarecrow, being ignored by the hundreds of squawking seagulls and gannets that wheeled and soared behind the trawler in search of a free lunch.

All of which was okay with Mulder, who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to die in peace.

It was nearly an hour before he was ready to be helped into a sitting position. After Alex had eased him down onto the deck, he wiped his face gently with a fresh towel and held a mug of water to his lips. Even though he felt desperately thirsty, Mulder only sipped at it.

"We're just a mile or two off the island, Mulder. I've radioed Thady to come out in his boat to get you. We've got to get to the mainland before lunch -"

Mulder moaned and tried to push him away.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Alex whispered, his hand caressing Mulder's cheek.

Mulder opened his eyes reluctantly and squinted up at him - the endearment making the effort worthwhile.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Alex promised.

He was too sick to argue and when the powerboat nuzzled up beside the Niaomh Blaithin he climbed over the side and down into the smaller craft, offering no resistance. He didn't even get the chance to wave goodbye to Alex, because the minute that Thady opened the throttle and swerved away from the trawler in a wide arc, Mulder's stomach demanded that he renew his acquaintance with the steely grey depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

Of course, as soon as he set foot on dry land the sickness left him. By the time he had walked up the hill to the O'Sharcaigh homestead he had lost the grey alien tinge to his skin. When he knocked on the kitchen door, he felt the first pangs of hunger.

Brid smiled when she saw him and diplomatically mentioned that the bathroom was free when he got a little closer. When he returned from a lengthy shower, she sat him down in Granda Hugh's armchair beside the Stanley range with a big dish of 'champ', saying 'it would be easy on his stomach'. He didn't get to finish it. Half way through, sleep caught up with him. Brid was just in time to grab the dish as it slipped from his hand and, after she'd removed the fork from his other hand, she covered him with a quilt and left him to sleep.

About eleven, Thady woke Mulder to let him know that the Niaomh Blithn had been diverted on its way back to the island to assist a yacht in difficulties and that the trawler would not be returning until the morning. Unable to do anything about the situation, Mulder made up for several lost meals out of Brid's home baking cupboard and sat swapping stories with Thady and the grandfather into the wee, small hours.

---

The next day dawned bright and clear. Mulder was surprised to find Alex in the O'Sharcaigh kitchen eating breakfast when he walked into it a little after eight.

" ... the yacht's GPS was wrongly configured so they didn't even know where they were ... not that it would have made any difference, they weren't fit to be given charge of a rowing boat never mind - " Alex was saying.

"You're looking more human, this morning," he broke off to comment, a sarcastic smirk on his face.

"Hmmm," Mulder replied, not amused, as he filled his plate with eggs and toast. "Can I have the butter?"

Alex handed over the butter dish, allowing his hand to rest teasingly on Mulder's as he did so for a second or two longer than necessary. Mulder glanced around guiltily but neither Brid nor Thady seemed to have noticed. He gave Alex a warning glance and began eating. The chatter about the rescued yacht and its hapless crew resumed.

"Anyhow," Alex said, bringing his account to an end, "they were so grateful to have us turn up and tow them in, they insisted on putting us up for the night at Breffney Castle."

"The Castle was it?" Thady asked, impressed. "What's it like?"

Alex began a detailed description of the five star hotel. The only detail of interest to Mulder was what the sleeping arrangements had been, but unfortunately that information was not forthcoming and Mulder couldn't think of a way of working it into the conversation.

"... then we had dinner in the Clontarf Room ... classic French cuisine. It was good," Alex favoured Brid with a flirtatious look from under his eyelashes. "but it doesn't compare with O'Sharcaigh home cooking."

Brid returned his look with a sceptical glance.

"A trout in the pan is better than a salmon in the sea, Alex?" she asked, pretending not to be flattered.

He laughed his warm, resonating laugh. A tide of regret swept over Mulder as he realized he had heard that laugh no more than a dozen times in all the years the two of them had known each other. But then they had missed out on so much that should have been theirs for the taking - a chance to live a normal life - a shot at building a future together -

At that moment, the music playing on the kitchen radio changed from a jig to a dirge and a solemn voice began intoning a list of obituaries. As each name was read out, Brid and Thady mulled it over, citing the deceased's antecedents, marital connections and who was likely to be left what in the will.

Mulder found it difficult to keep a straight face - until Alex chipped in with a little nugget of gossip about one, Danny Minny O'Se, late of Portlaoire, that came as news to the native islanders. Mulder stared at Alex, realizing in that moment the degree to which his lover had immersed himself in the life of the island and its people. A minute later, as the final obituary ended, the lament was faded out and the jig resumed.

Mulder chewed on a piece of toast, trying to reconcile the reality of the Alex sitting beside him with the mental image he had brought to the island. The two did not match. This was not a man pining away in self-imposed banishment. When Alex had told him the island was his home, he had spoken the truth - for here he was, living a life he clearly enjoyed and building a future he very much wanted.

The conversation continued, eddying and swirling around Mulder's brooding silence, until Alex stood up and scraped the remains of his breakfast into a large bucket by the back door of the kitchen. "Are you finished?" He asked, pointing to Mulder's plate. Getting a nod in the affirmative, he did the same with it, then picked up the bucket and opened the door.

"Wanna come feed the pigs?" he asked, looking over at Mulder.

The question had to echo through Mulder's head several times before it made sense.

"Sure," he replied, following Alex out the back door and across the yard to a narrow laneway, at the end of which they came to a muddy square of land enclosed by a stone ditch.

"Come and get it boys and girls," Alex called, rattling the bucket by its handle.

Hearing the noise, two of the three porcine inhabitants immediately left off basking in the sun and trotted over to begin rooting through the kitchen scraps that Alex had emptied into the trough. The third pig remained where it lay, occupying the prime sunbathing site, showing no more interest than a brief snuffle of its snout and a flap of its large ears.

Alex reached into his jacket pocket and took out a big, red apple.

"Come on boy," he called, "come see what Uncle Alex has for you."

The pig contemplated the words for a minute or two, then heaved up its great bulk and ambled over to Alex, snorting and 'talking' as it moved. Alex leaned on the stone ditch and held out the apple. Like a connoisseur of fine wine, the pig scented the apple's bouquet for several moments before removing it with great delicacy from Alex's hand.

A look that Mulder could only describe as bliss passed across the animal's countenance as it chewed on Alex's offering.

"Good boy, Walter," Alex praised, reaching down with a bit of a broken branch to scratch along the length of the pig's back.

"Walter?" Mulder asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, can't you see the likeness?" Alex asked. "The world weary - born to be disappointed expression?"

He stopped scratching and the pig went from bliss to 'pissed off' in one angry snort.

Mulder unconsciously copied the pig's response, snorting as he recognised the same look on its face as the one his long-suffering boss habitually wore during X File debriefings.

"How you doin', Walter?" he asked, taking the branch from Alex's hand and resuming the scratching.

The pig snuffled contentedly.

"Walter's doing fine," Alex commented before dropping his voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. "We can make the appointment with Mr. Maguire, the b-u-t-c-h-e-r," he spelled out, "any day now."

To reinforce the point, he drew a thumb across his throat and made a breathy, ripping sound with his tongue.

Mulder scowled at him.

"Oh yeah, Mulder, like you've never chowed down on a BLT," Alex jeered. "As a matter of fact, this is Walter II. Walter I you ate for lunch, day before yesterday." Mulder dropped the branch in disgust.

"I always said you were one sick bastard, Krycek," he stated.

"Maybe that explains why we fit so well together, Mulder," Alex murmured huskily, turning the insult into a sweet nothing.

He reached over and placed his hands on either side of Mulder's face, then slowly drew him closer until their mouths met in a way that was as familiar as it was arousing.

The kiss was long and intense. In it, they opened up to each other emotionally as well as physically, holding nothing back, making it clear that all the posturing and play-acting was done.

It was Walter II's annoyed squealing that finally ended it.

"Jeez, Alex," said Mulder, pulling back breathlessly to gaze down at the pig stomping around angrily around the muddy sty, "you are such a romantic."

"I'm a natural - what can I say?"

"You could say, 'Come home with me so we can fuck each other senseless'," Mulder growled, turning his back on the irate animal.

"And that's your idea of romantic?" Alex scoffed, grinning for a second, before his expression turned regretful. "Mighty tempting, but no can do, Mulder," he said, matter-of-factly. "I have somewhere else to be."

"You have got to be kidding!"

"Wish I was, sweetheart ... the thought of your fine ass in my bed ... " He closed his eyes longingly, his hands moving of their own accord to act out a well remembered caress, "Well, let's just say ... such stuff as dreams are made on ... "

"Cut the literary crap, Alex, what do you mean you have somewhere else to be?"

Alex regarded him disdainfully.

"We're going over to fetch the turf in from the mainland. It rained most of August, so it's taken all of September to dry out. We can't risk leaving it out any longer; the forecast is good until Friday. This could be our last chance."

"Can't you get someone to -"

"That's not how it works, Mulder," Alex interrupted. "Thady lets me cut turf from his bog and in return I help him bring in enough fuel to keep the three houses warm over the winter. When you're back in D.C. bumping up the thermostat, I have no intention of freezing my ass off here."

It was much more than an explanation; it was a declaration of intent and, outmanoeuvred, Mulder watched Alex pick up the bucket and head back towards the house.

---

An hour later, accompanied by every man on the island between the ages of sixteen and seventy, Mulder climbed onboard the Niaomh Blithn to make the short crossing to the mainland. With Alex beside him, he found a storage locker to sit on in the open air of the deck. Despite the flat calm of the sea and the shortness of the journey, the smells and the sensations were enough to drain the colour from his face and make him want to hold on with both hands. Not surprisingly, when the boat edged its way into the harbour at Fionn Tra, he was one of the first to jump off onto the quayside.

There were several tractors pulling large trailers waiting for them by the harbour wall and they all piled up into them to make the journey to the turf bog, high above the town on the slopes of an tSleibhe Mhor. The day had turned sunny, with unspoiled blue skies and not a breath of wind. The men laughed and joked as the tractors crawled their way up to where the tarmac road ended and the brown and furrowed landscape of the bog began. There they exchanged greetings, then fathers and brothers and uncles and cousins headed off in little groups to the peat beds their families had harvested for generations.

Mulder tagged along after Alex, Thady, Fiontan and Granda Hugh. The four younger men each carried a big bundle of old fertilizer bags. The Granda carried the bag of food. As soon as they reached the O'Sharcaigh bog, Alex, Thady and Fiontan began filling sacks with the evenly cut sods of turf that stood on end, seven or eight together, in little tepee formations.

Granda Hugh picked up one of the sods and sniffed it appreciatively before crumbling off one corner in his weathered hand.

"September has made up for the ill temper of August," he told Mulder. "It will be a comfortable winter, buiochas le Dia."

A folded up fertilizer bag thumped solidly into the back of Mulder's head. He glanced back in the direction it had come. Alex was looking at him impatiently.

"You here to work or to sightsee?" he asked.

Mulder bent down and picked up the bag, shook it out and began filling it with turf.

When it was full, he hefted its bulky weight and carried it to the edge of the bog where five or six filled bags already stood. Looking out across the mountainside he could see the other groups of men, all similarly occupied, placing brightly coloured plastic bags in neat rows along the tracks crisscrossing the bog, ready to be ferried by tractor down to the quayside and the hold of the Niaomh Blaithin.

Not wanting to give Alex another chance to complain, he returned quickly to the task and worked in silence until the sun reached its zenith, when Granda Hugh called a halt to the work so they could eat the meal Brid had packed for them. Mulder, like the others, fell on the food with the kind of hunger only hard, physical work can create. It didn't take long for the generous portions to be devoured and afterwards they sat down in the sun, each with a second bottle or beer, to gather their strength for the hours of sweaty, backbreaking work that lay ahead.

"I'm grateful to you, Mulder," Thady said. "An extra pair of hands is always welcome for the turf harvest or the potato lifting.

Knowing nothing about potatoes, Mulder silently hoped that they wouldn't need 'lifting' anytime in the near future.

"No sweat - " Mulder began, then he laughed and looked down at his sweat streaked shirt. "Well, there may be sweat, but it's no problem," he finished.

"Fox, look!" Alex called suddenly, pointing out across the bog.

Mulder looked up in the direction indicated. Flying in tight circles, its wings barely moving, was a bird of prey. Without warning it swooped down towards the bog, almost too fast to track, before soaring upward again with some kind of small animal held wriggling in its talons.

"Wow," Mulder said, following the flight of the peregrine until it disappeared into its hidden lair, higher up the mountain.

He turned back towards Alex, an excited comment on his lips. The broad grins on the faces of the men around him meant it was never spoken.

"Fox, is it?" Fiontan asked.

Mulder nodded reluctantly.

"That's your given name, I mean?" Fiontan clarified.

"Yes," Mulder told him, through gritted teeth.

"Fox," Granda Hugh said, thoughtfully. "And a grand name it is too ... for a terrier!"

Even the placid Thady laughed at that. Mulder scowled at Alex, who was wavering between the desire to join in the laughter and annoyance at his own stupidity.

"Okay, so now you know," he told them, "but let me make this clear, I do not want to be called 'Fox'. Ever. I'm Mulder," he finished, giving Alex an 'I'll deal with you later' look.

The thought of which brought a beaming smile to Alex's face and a twinkle to his eye.

They started in again. Mulder's back began protesting when he lifted the first bag, but he ignored it and got on with the work. About five o'clock the pain in his back was eclipsed by a different much more annoying discomfort. Swarms of tiny, carnivorous insects began to lift from the wet bog. They hovered in clouds around each man, attacking any area of exposed skin.

Mulder held it together for several minutes before throwing down his half full bag of turf and pulling his shirt up over his head.

"What the fuck - ?" he shouted, realizing that the little beasts had moved to feast on the skin of his chest and back.

"Here," Thady said, tossing a ragged old towel to Mulder. "That will help."

Mulder caught it and smell of paraffin overwhelmed him. Gratefully, he began rubbing the cloth over his face and neck and straight away the intensity of the attack decreased, though he could still feel their presence all over his body. He had to fight the urge to tear at his own skin and hair.

"Mulder," Alex said, pointing to the paraffin rag.

Mulder threw it to him and Alex used it before passing it to Fiontan and Thady. Only Granda Hugh refused it.

"The years and the weather have made me immune to the little buggers," he explained, watching the way Mulder was trying not to squirm.

"Here comes Oisin, Mulder. You go back to the Niaomh Blithn," the old man suggested kindly. "We can finish here."

Until that moment, Mulder never knew how good the sight of an approaching tractor could be. Squeezing into the space in the cab behind the driver's seat he gratefully waved to the others as he was driven down the hillside towards the sea.

It was damned hard work loading the turf into the hold of the ship, but it was easier than dealing with the midges and Mulder threw himself into the work with enthusiasm, figuring the sooner they got the turf to the island the sooner he could take Alex to bed. And sure enough, within the hour, all the men had returned from the bog and were helping to stow away the last of the bags, so the tarpaulin could be secured over the hold.

"What about those two?" Mulder asked Alex, pointing to a couple of turf filled bags, left resting on the quayside.

"Those are for the race." Alex explained.

"Race?"

"Yeah, every year the men from the north of the island race the men from the south of the island back from Fionn Tra to the island. It's the tradition."

"Oh," Mulder said, too exhausted to be really interested.

Just then, down the harbour road approached two big black beetle shaped objects, below which only the legs of the four men carrying them were visible.

"Here are the currachs," Alex said, peeling off his sweatshirt and handing it to Mulder.

"Alex?"

"What?"

"You're in the race?" It came out as a kind of whine.

"Hell, yes," Alex confirmed. "I've been practising all summer for this - and we are going to kick their asses."

Mulder recognised the tone and knew that there was nothing he could say to dissuade Alex. Trailing behind his lover, he walked with the islanders as they followed the currachs down onto the little scoop of beach beside the harbour. Carefully, the fragile canvas and tar boats were flipped over and placed 'right way up' on the sand. Two teams began to form up beside them.

As Mulder watched the preparations, he began to get caught up in the excitement.

When the captain of each team lifted the turf into the boat and ordered his crew into position, cheering and clapping broke out.

With the words, "B i do thost!" Granda Hugh silenced the crowd, then he held aloft an old starting pistol.

"Tr!"

"Do!"

"Aon!"

The crack of the pistol shot rang out causing another chorus of cheering and the twelve men put their weight and strength into the task of launching the currachs.

Smoothly the two craft glided across the glistening sand towards the lapping waves - until there was a sudden cry of pain and Fiontan fell down on the beach.

Mulder moved forward with the crowd to see what had happened. They all gathered round the young man.

"What happened?" Granda Hugh asked.

"He's sliced his foot on something," Alex answered. "It's going to need stitched."

Thady stripped off his shirt and wrapped it tightly round his son's injured foot.

"Help me get him up to the road," Thady said, nodding to two strong lads. As they moved into position on either side of Fiontan, the young man wrapped an arm around each of them and rested his weight on his good foot.

"I'm sorry lads," he called to his crew, looking back over his shoulder. "Good luck!"

Then he was helped away.

"Niall could take Fiontan's place," the captain was saying, "but there's no one to stand in for Thady."

Mulder watched Alex watch his friend and teammate make slow, limping progress across the beach towards the harbour road - a deeply disappointed look clouding his face.

When he heard himself say the words, "I can stand in for Thady," he was the most surprised person in the crowd. Not surprised to discover he couldn't bear to see Alex so disappointed, but rather surprised to discover he wanted to be part of this life and this community - if only for a little while.

Alex was staring at him.

"Have you rowed a currach before?" the captain was asking.

"Um ... well ... " he fumbled. "I've ... um ... rowed - "

"Mulder was at Oxford," Alex interrupted, a proud smile on his face.

"Then we have a team," the captain said, giving his new crewman a confidence-building slap on the shoulder. "You take the place beside Alex, Mulder. He'll keep you right. Now let's get going before we lose the tide."

They took up position a second time and after Mulder had received a two-minute instruction on how the craft would be launched, Granda Hugh fired the starting gun again and they were off.

The first hundred metres were pretty wild. The ultra light craft reacted unpredictably to any sudden movement and Mulder was almost afraid to breathe in case he accidentally sent it askew. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize that it was also incredibly stable - and fast. Once the crew settled into a regular stroking pattern, every ounce of the energy they expended went into driving the boat forward, sending it skimming over the calm ocean with little resistance from water or wind.

"Easy, Mulder," Alex warned between strokes. "Pace yourself."

Mulder did as he was told, falling into sync with each dip and pull on the oar made by Alex, copying his economical movements, regulating his breathing to the flow and ebb of the act of rowing. The rhythmic movements became mesmeric - the speed intoxicating. Just as he did when he ran, he became one with the task, filtering out all distractions - the flash of sunlight on the wet oars of the competing currach - the chug, chug of the Niaomh Blaithin's engine - the cheers of the supporters lining the rails of the trawler.

The crack of the pistol rang out again.

"Half way," Alex gasped.

"Shit," Mulder responded.

That was when it began to hurt, a familiar enough sensation to Mulder, though usually not so concentrated in his upper body. He dug deep into his reserves, grateful for the kind of stamina gained from working out his frustrations on a daily ten-mile circuit of Rock Creek Park.

"We're ahead, lads," the captain wheezed. "We have the beating of them now."

Good words, at the right time, words that made it possible to trade off the pain against the promise of victory. Like every other member of the south side crew, Mulder's spirits rose and he found the extra little punch at the end of each stroke needed to send them accelerating away from the other craft. By the time they reached the place where the island's underwater presence began to turn the gentle ocean swell into white-capped breakers, three generous currach lengths had opened up between the two boats.

Still they maintained the pressure, not breaking rhythm even when the tumbling surf sent them hurtling towards land. It was the sudden, jarring sensation of sand connecting with the hull of the currach that halted the rowing, the forward momentum carrying it high enough to leave it beached half in and half out of the swirling, foamy waves.

Mulder drew a shuddering breath and let go of the oar. Reaching down he held on with both hands to the wooden seat he shared with Alex and let the crushing pain overwhelm him. Vaguely, he was aware of the other crewmembers doing the same. When he could, he looked across at Alex, only to find him too hunched over, sucking in great ragged breaths, a tight grimace on his face.

Eventually, becoming aware of Mulder's scrutiny, he looked up, his eyes showing the pride and exhilaration he felt. He reached out and grasped hold of Mulder's shoulder, squeezing it to articulate the feelings he couldn't put into words. Mulder nodded in response and reached out to grasp Alex's shoulder in the same fashion. They sat like that, among the rest of the crew, until the agony began to recede and the islanders came streaming down the beach in jubilant mood.

Mulder felt himself being lifted out of the currach and hoisted shoulder high. He glanced around and saw Alex and the other four crewmen being similarly honoured. In procession they were carried up the beach to An Baile Mor, and straight into O'Casey's public house.

"What's your pleasure?" Cormac O'Casey himself asked looking at Mulder.

Mulder was fit only to point to the Harp beer tap.

O'Casey laughed and began pouring the pint. The other men chose the same and soon they were all drinking deeply to quench their desperate, salty thirsts. Around the pub the talk was of the race and Mulder's heroic gesture. At the epicentre of the hubbub, he and Alex sat close together, still feeling the affects the physical exertion of the race.

"Now what?" Mulder asked quietly, finally coming to terms with the fact that this was Alex's life, not his.

Alex smiled his heart-stopping smile and answered just as quietly, "Now we have a party."

---

Leaving the bathroom wearing only a towel, Mulder headed back to his room to dress for the night's festivities. On the way there Alex, who'd been invited back to the O'Sharcaigh's to shower and change, accosted him.

"Okay if I borrow some of your clothes?" he asked, the items he needed already in his hand.

"Sure," Mulder told him.

"Thanks," Alex said, breathing in the wonderful scent of freshly showered Mulder, and remained where he stood blocking the corridor.

"Do you mind?" Mulder asked, trying to sidestep him.

"Not at all," Alex said silkily, crowding into Mulder's space until the older man found himself pressed up against the closed bathroom door.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mulder asked.

"Just making a little down payment on account," Alex purred before running his free hand up under Mulder's towel and cupping it round a still damp ass cheek. "I don't think -"

Alex's talented mouth silenced Mulder and his hand continued to map out the familiar territory hidden beneath the virginal white, terry towelling.

"Uungh," Mulder moaned as his shaving kit fell to the floor.

An overly loud cough resounded down the corridor and from around the corner Brid's voice called out, "Will you be long in the bathroom, Alex? I can see Thady coming up the road."

Alex reluctantly pulled back and answered, "About ten minutes, Brid."

"Okay so," she said, "I'm going over to the community centre. Don't forget to bring the stout."

"I won't."

"Good, see you shortly."

As the front door closed, Alex gave Mulder a final fleeting kiss. "Can I use your kit?"

"Help yourself."

Alex smiled his evil smile and picked up the shaving kit. "Oh, I intend to," he promised, before disappearing into the bathroom.

When he was dressed, Mulder gathered up his belongings and packed his bag. Brid had made arrangements to have it brought over to Alex's place that evening, so he zipped it closed and brought it with him to the kitchen. Thady was there sitting by the fire and when he entered the room the big man stood up.

"I just wish I could have been there to see it," he beamed at Mulder, his hand outstretched.

"Oh, the race," Mulder said, catching on and shaking the proffered hand.

Thady noticed the look of pain his firm handshake brought to Mulder's face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"My hands got blistered."

"Let me see."

Mulder held out his hands, palms up.

"Mmmm, they look clean, though I'd say they're sore enough."

Mulder nodded.

"I've got something that will help ease them."

He opened a cupboard and took out a jar and a first aid kit. Opening them both up on the kitchen table, he motioned Mulder over.

"This one needs to be kept covered," he said, rubbing some ointment from the jar onto Mulder's blistered palms.

He took a dressing and a roll of tape out of the first aid kit and began applying them.

"Thady," Alex called out coming into the room, "how's Fiontan -"

The question died on his lips when he saw what Thady was doing. With a worried look he came to stand beside Mulder and took hold of his hand to see for himself.

"Shit, Mulder, this is a mess. You should have told me."

"It's not that bad ... looks worse than it is," Mulder said, trying to defuse Alex's intense reaction. "Thady is fixing them up for me."

Mulder looked at the man in question and read a new awareness on his face.

"So how is Fiontan?" Mulder asked quickly.

"He's grand. A couple of stitches and a week off his foot is what the doctor said. He'll be over to the celebrations tonight."

"That's good."

"Let me get that," Alex offered, taking the bandage from Thady and beginning to wrap it tightly round Mulder's hand.

"I'll leave you to it," Thady said.

"Thanks," Mulder told him as he left the room.

He looked back at Alex. "You realize you've just blown our cover with Thady, don't you?"

"Huh?" Alex asked, still too fixated on Mulder's injury to think about anything else.

"I think Thady knows ... about us."

That brought Alex's head up. He looked at Mulder. Mulder recognised the classic Krycek 'this is who I am' look of defiance. It touched him as it always did, making him feel powerful, unique, the chosen one whom Alex valued above all others. It did not make him comfortable, however, to think that he might be the cause of ruining Alex's relationship with the island community.

Alex returned to his task and finished it quickly.

"There," he said, closing up the jar and box, "I'll need to check the dressing later and

I'll carry the barrel to the centre myself, in case you do any more damage."

Discussion begun and ended.

---

The hall of the community centre was buzzing when they arrived. The smell of something good cooking made Mulder's mouth water and realize how hungry he was. Two rows of tables, covered in white linen tablecloths stretched down either side of the big room. Children chased each other around them and in between the adults putting the final touches to the place settings. Brid came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of glasses and called a greeting out to them.

"I'll go set this up," Alex told Mulder, indicating the barrel of stout he carried on his shoulder.

Mulder watched him find a place for it on the bar table. His view was suddenly obscured by a figure that seemed startlingly familiar - an abundance of glossy, red hair framing a heart shaped face - a porcelain complexion sprinkled lightly with freckles - vivid blue eyes that regarded him boldly.

"Is mise Maire O'Domhnaill," she said, holding out her hand.

Mulder, at a loss, took hold of it. The familiarity ebbed away. Only the colouring was right, the stature was too tall and the face, though beautiful, was completely different.

"This is Mulder, Maire" Alex said, coming to stand beside them. "He doesn't have the Irish."

"Well, no matter," Maire said, graciously. "So you'll be from America?"

"Yes ... I'm visiting for a few weeks."

"No doubt, I'll be seeing you then," she said.

He looked at her, confused.

"It's a very small island, Mr. Mulder," she explained, leaving him with a smile.

The two of them watched her walk away.

"You know, in these parts, if a man driving his cattle to market was to meet a red-headed woman on the road he'd turn them back for home," Alex remarked. Mulder dragged himself away from the alluring sight of the Marie O'Domhnaill's long, shapely legs.

"Your point is?" he asked, staring at Alex, who was still indulging himself.

Alex shrugged. "I wasn't making a point, just an observation."

"Well, thank you for that," Mulder said. "The next time I find myself in that situation, I'll bear it in mind."

A wicked smile and Alex returned to the bar to finish setting up the barrel.

Mulder found himself a seat and pondered the nature of the Scully/Krycek relationship. Clearly the two-year hiatus had not diminished the friendly hostility Alex felt for his partner. He knew the feeling was mutual. Scully might have accepted that she and Mulder would never be together, but that didn't stop her feeling possessive about him. It was just as well that, since both of them would be permanent fixtures in his life, they liked each other. Scully also owed Alex a huge debt of gratitude because he'd been in the right place at the right time to save her sister's life - a choice that had put his own life in danger and risked the viability of the decade long undercover operation to undermine the Consortium.

Fortunately for them all, Alex had been talented and devious enough to keep all the plates spinning, and had continued to play his part in the project until the time was right to pull the rug out from under the entire rotten edifice. When it came crashing down there had been a lot of backslapping and rewards for work well done. For some of the participants, however, there had also a price to pay and it was Alex who had paid the highest price. He'd come away from it damaged in heart and mind. How could it be otherwise? How could a human being witness the things he had witnessed, do the things he'd been asked to do, and not be damaged?

Even the fact, that it was he and not 'golden boy' Fox Mulder who had been chosen to play the 'rat bastard' still rankled. To add insult to injury, the very people in the highest ranks of government and law enforcement who had made that choice and who had issued his orders, had treated him with suspicion and barely concealed distaste until the day he packed up his meagre belongings and flew out of Dulles. Little wonder the man had wanted to start over fresh ...

Thady's entrance into the hall drew Mulder's attention. He watched the man locate his wife, take her by the arm and lead her outside. Through the open side door, Mulder could only see Brid. He watched her listening attentively to whatever it was Thady was telling her - he had a pretty good idea what that might be - then he watched her say a few words and look at her husband inquisitively. Whatever his answer was, it satisfied her, because she smiled at him and hurried back in to finish what she had been doing. A minute or two later, Thady ambled back in avoiding eye contact with Mulder.

"Ready to eat?" Alex asked.

"Oh yeah."

He tagged along after Alex to the front of the hall where Brid and Thady were just taking their places.

"Alex," Brid called out, "come sit with us."

Alex stood where he was and looked at Thady. So, Mulder thought, I'm not the only one who noticed the husband and wife interaction.

"Before you sit down, Alex, would you ever bring me over a glass of that stout? I've had nothing but it on my mind all day," Thady said.

Alex laughed. "I'll bring four glasses," he said.

Mulder let go the breath he was holding and took his place beside Brid.

"There's nothing fancy on the menu," she warned Mulder, "but it will be the best of food and well cooked."

Before he could get a chance to reply a bowl of thick vegetable broth was set down in front of him. He buttered the slab of wheaten bread on his side plate and dipped it into the soup. The salty flavour of the broth, with its generous swirl of full cream, complimented the sweetness of the bread and Mulder began to eat with enthusiasm.

Alex returned with four glasses of stout and handed them out.

"Is it good?" he asked Mulder.

"Mmmm."

"Try the stout."

The beer was bitter but it sharpened the appetite and when the main course of slow stewed ribs, boiled potatoes and dark green cabbage arrived, the three men heaped their plates with food.

"Ah," Thady said as he watched the butter melt into his potatoes, "now, that's what I call a 'pratie'. Sure aren't they balls of flour?"

That made Mulder and Alex roar with laughter. Thady joined in with them, not quite sure why he was laughing. Despite second helpings of ribs, they each ate a large slice of apple tart smothered in sweet whipped cream, washed down with a second glass of stout. The dishes had not been completely cleared away before the music began. Niall playing the fiddle, showed that his fingers were as nimble on the strings as when he was gutting a fish. Fiontan, with his foot supported on a chair played the bodhrn and a man who Mulder didn't recognise played a set of pipes, unlike any Mulder had seen before.

"They're called uilleann pipes," Alex explained. "Uilleann is the Irish word for 'elbow'."

It made sense; the man drew air into the instrument by way of a bellows attached to his elbow. Before long, couples were standing up to form larger groups for set dancing. Not wanting to be left out, Mulder invited Brid to join him on the floor. As he tried vainly to keep up with the fast moving and changing steps, he could hear Alex's laughter ringing out. It was amazing that several hours later, despite there being no shortage of stout and whiskey and with plenty of encouragement from a willing Maire O'Domhnaill, he was beginning to get the hang of the rhythms and the intricate hand movements.

When the musicians stopped for a break, Mulder flopped down into his seat and drank deeply from the pint of beer someone had kindly left him. He almost choked on it when he noticed a man dressed as a priest and a woman dressed as a chicken make their way to the centre of the room and wait for silence to descend.

As the 'priest' began to speak, Alex returned to his seat and whispered to Mulder,

"Too bad you don't speak the lingo."

Nonetheless, Mulder listened very carefully to what the characters were saying. There seemed to be a structure to it, as though the two protagonists where quoting verses of poetry at each other. At least that's what Mulder thought at first, but he quickly realized that the two were scoring points off each other. Pretty soon the crowd began to laugh when the punch line was delivered at the end of each 'verse'. The laughter became rowdy and sometimes the pair had to wait for the applause to end before picking up their verbal battle of wits.

Mulder couldn't help himself. He began to laugh too. Not understanding a word of what was being said, it was the chicken noises and actions that did it for him. Tears began to pour down his face. He looked over at Alex only to find him in a similar state. As the chicken delivered the final pronouncement, the hall went wild with cheering and applause.

When the music began again, it had a slower, waltz time signature. Couples got up to dance. Mulder sensed Alex's gaze on him. He looked over and saw the invitation in his lover's eyes. In response, need and desire surged through him so intensely that he had to look away ... where he found himself looking into the beady eyes of Granda Hugh O'Sharcaigh.

"Now, me lad, you'll be wanting a glass of the real stuff," the old man whispered conspiratorially.

"Um, thanks, Mr. O'Sharcaigh, but Alex and I were planning on calling it a night."

"Ah, not the bit of ye, aren't I after selecting a couple of bottles from one of the finest batches I ever made to celebrate the victory and to ease the pain of the losers. Now why would ye lads want to miss out on that?"

"But, but ... " Mulder spluttered, as he watched Thady turn bright red.

Alex, knowing the cause to be hopeless, didn't put up a fight. The frail, little man was a force to be reckoned with and soon both the winning and the losing boat crews were trooping out of the hall, making their way a tad unsteadily down the road towards the local pub.

There Cormac O'Casey was waiting by the door to usher them into his closed and darkened establishment.

"Hurry boys, the new Garda's about and the little beggar would love to get something on me."

They all found seats at the bar and Granda Hugh went behind it to lift out two bottles of clear liquid. Carefully, he uncorked the first one and poured out large measures of the potent spirit into the waiting glasses. Each man was handed a glass.

"Slinte!" Granda Hugh toasted.

"Slinte!" the other men responded and downed the drink.

Mulder had never tasted gasoline, but the stuff he'd just drunk was about as close to the taste of gasoline as his imagination would take him. He stopped breathing for a long time and it took a good hard thump between his shoulder blades to get him started again.

"Jesus - " he gasped.

"Good stuff, isn't it?" Granda Hugh was asking.

Mulder could only nod. His lips seemed to have gone numb. They all had a second glass, then Cormac O'Casey called for a song. The songs were in Gaelige and had a minimum of forty verses each. Inability to carry a tune was not a barrier to performing, in fact, it seemed that the worst singers knew the longest songs. After his third glass of poitin Alex volunteered to sing. It was something mournful in Russian and it went down a storm among the listeners.

By the time the fourth toast had been made and drunk everyone had sung a song except Mulder. All eyes turned on him.

"I can't sing," he stated.

The rest of the company stared at him, unsure of the point he was making.

"Everyone can sing, Mulder," Alex assured him. "Go ahead, don't be shy."

"I don't know any songs."

"Sure you do," Alex insisted, unhelpfully. "Everybody knows a song."

Mulder conceded in his own head that Alex was probably right on that one, but the plain fact of the matter was that Mulder couldn't remember a single song. If he could have remembered one, he'd have happily butchered it just to get this ordeal over and done with. He looked at Alex and tried to gather his addled wits.

Only one thing came into his head - and it wasn't a song.

He held up his hand for silence. The company complied.

He began,

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."

The others nodded and clapped appreciatively.

"Yeats, one of the greatest," Granda Hugh remarked.

Everyone else agreed.

Alex and Mulder just looked at each other.

Thady noticed their preoccupation. Quietly, he left his seat and went to make a phone call. Less than five minutes after he had returned to the bar there was a loud banging on the door of the pub.

"Garda O'Driscoll here, I have reason to believe an illegal beverage is being consumed on these premises. Open the door immediately," a voice ordered through the thick wood.

"Fuck!" the Garda Sergeant from the north of the island shouted, spilling his drink. "If that little Dublin gobshite is so keen on finding poitin, I'll see to it that he spends the next month searching every hedge on the island."

"Out the back, lads," Granda Hugh suggested. "You can leave this to me, sure aren't the magistrate and I old friends?"

Cormac O'Casey led the way out through the kitchen and unlocked the back door.

They all piled out into the darkness of the back garden.

"Catch hold of my hand," Thady whispered. "I know the lay of the land."

Mulder reached out and took hold of someone's hand. Recklessly they all headed across the bumpy grass. The garden ended at a stone ditch.

"Right lads, over the ditch ... then follow the lane to the left ... that will take you onto 'Ardan Eoin'."

Feeling his way, Mulder found the top of the stone wall and jumped over it ... then he fell ... and fell ... and fell ... a good eight feet before he landed on what thankfully turned out to be a springy bed of peat. Still, the drop knocked the breath completely out of him, and would probably have killed him, had he not been so drunk.

"Mulder ... Mulder ... where the fuck are you?" Alex called out in a stage whisper.

"Aaarrgh."

"Mulder ... ?"

"Here ..." he croaked.

A torchlight switched on and dazzled his eyes.

"How the fuck did you get down there?" Alex asked, sounding suddenly very sober.

No, I haven't broken every bone in my body, thank you very much, Alex, Mulder replied in his head, since the power of speech had not yet returned to him.

"Help me get him out of there."

For the second time in a very short number of days, Mulder was manhandled out of an uncomfortable space, feeling close to death.

"Can you walk?"

He straightened up and tried a few steps.

"Yes."

"Good. Let's get going."

"Where ... ?"

"Home."

The word was the most wonderful he'd ever heard. Suddenly renewed, he caught hold of Alex's shirt and followed in his footsteps along the narrow road through the dark of the night. It was the sound of the waves and the saltiness in the air that told him they were getting close. Then, there it was - Alex's place of sanctuary, its porch light shining out in greeting, its kitchen range making the welcome warm.

"Let's get you checked out," Alex said as he steered Mulder to the bathroom.

No slow seduction, no teasing touches, no gradual laying bare of desired flesh. His filthy clothes were unceremoniously stripped from his body. Alex turned him round, assessing him for damage like a claims adjuster.

"Okay, a quick shower and then I'll try to do something about the bruising."

Mulder was placed under the stream of water. It felt good. It felt even better when Alex, naked, slipped in behind him and began washing his body. He leaned back against his wet lover.

"Stand up, Mulder, I can't hold you up and wash you at the same time," Alex scolded.

Reluctantly, Mulder straightened up and rested his hands on the shower wall in front of him, remembering too late about the blisters.

"Ouch!"

"What? What's wrong?" Alex asked.

"What's right?" Mulder replied, wearily.

"Okay, that'll do. Let's get you dried and into bed."

Bed, Mulder thought. Now you're talking.

The water was turned off and he was guided out of the shower stall. A towel was applied briskly over his body and then he was on the move again, this time to Alex's bedroom. The light snapped on and there it was - Alex's bed - big and wide and soft and welcoming. He began climbing onto it.

"Hold up there a minute," Alex ordered.

No, no, no, his mind screamed, bed now!

Alex was spreading a bath sheet out across the sky blue comforter.

"Okay, lie down."

Mulder crawled onto the towel and stretched out. The bed was every bit as soft and wonderful as it looked. He moaned in gratitude.

"This might be a bit cold," Alex warned as he followed Mulder onto the bed.

Mulder had no idea what Alex was talking about - he cared less - until the icy liquid contacted his skin, making him go rigid.

"It'll warm up in a minute," Alex promised. "It's an arnica rub. It'll help ease the bruises and the muscle strain."

Alex straddled his waist and began massaging his back. It felt incredible. Mulder started to melt into the fabric of the bed. He almost purred as Alex worked on the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders, his lover's hands bringing ease and comfort ... and arousal. Mulder began moving, undulating gently between the soft pressure the bed exerted on his hardening dick and the naked warmth of Alex's thighs and ass resting lightly on top of him. He moaned his pleasure. Alex laughed and bent down to kiss a path along his neck and up through his hair to an enticing ear lobe.

The moaning intensified. Alex reached out and ran his hands firmly along Mulder's outstretched arms.

"Mmmm," Mulder said.

"These are going to hurt tomorrow," Alex warned, rubbing the balm into the bunched muscles of Mulder's upper arms.

"Don't care."

Alex chuckled and changed his position to face towards Mulder's feet. His hands began kneading the firm flesh of his lover's ass.

"Aaaghh!"

"Don't tense up, Fox. Relax ... let it go."

"Are you kidding?"

Alex laughed out loud. "We'll get to that ... you have my word ... be patient," he promised. "But it will feel a whole lot better if you let me get rid of this tightness first."

"Okay," Mulder agreed reluctantly, knowing it made sense and hoping the massage would also help reduce the agony his abused muscles would undoubtedly experience the following day.

He settled down and tried to release the tension. Alex spent a long time working on his ass before he leaned forward and began massaging Mulder's upper thighs.

Gradually the tenseness eased and euphoria took its place. It felt incredible. Mulder felt incredible - warm and comfortable and loved - and relaxed and sleepy - very sleepy - incredibly sleepy -

---

The patch of sunlight, pouring in through the skylight, migrated its way slowly across the bedroom. When it reached the sprawled figure in the bed, its heat and brightness coaxed the dreamer reluctantly from sleep. Mulder opened his eyes and winced before quickly rolling away, out of the light. It was a mistake. Every part of his body screamed in protest. It was impossible to pick out which part hurt most, though the pounding hangover headache was making a good bid for pride of place.

"Fuck!" he said, loudly, holding very still.

Alex appeared at the door.

"Back in the land of the living, I see ..."

"Uungh ... "

" ... and not happy about it. Here drink this."

He held out a glass. Mulder took it and sipped cautiously. It tasted disgusting. He screwed up his face. Seeing his expression, Alex tipped up the bottom of the glass, leaving Mulder with the choice of either swallowing or drowning. He spluttered and swallowed.

"What the fuck was that?" he demanded - very quietly.

"Oh, you know, orange juice, hair of the dog, a little cod liver oil ... "

Mulder lay back down, a sudden queasiness added to his symptoms.

"There's a glass of water and aspirin on the night stand. I'm going to make coffee."

Mulder cracked open an eye to watch him leave, then tried to psyche himself up for the non-negotiable task of paying a visit to the bathroom. Journey into agony though it proved to be, the reflection that looked back at him from the mirror made him feel even worse and he finished quickly and made his way back to bed. He was thirstily draining the last of the water from the glass when Alex returned to the bedroom carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. He put them down on the nightstand and rounded up a few pillows to prop behind Mulder. Together, in silence, they drank the strong brew.

"Feel better? "Alex asked, taking the empty mug from Mulder.

"Yeah."

"Good, now let's complete the treatment."

He set the two mugs down and stood up beside the bed. Never taking his eyes off Mulder's face, he began to strip off his clothes. Mulder watched, captivated. For the first time since he had wakened that morning, he felt a sensation travel through his body that didn't fall into the category of torture. Quite the opposite, it was a good sensation. It made him tingle all over with the promise of pleasure - pleasure that stood less than an arm's length away. He sighed and reached out.

"Uh-huh," Alex told him, a smile on his face. "You are not to move a muscle ... well only the relevant muscles ... you know ... the couple you didn't get a chance to strain yesterday."

Mulder nodded happily in agreement, pleased to discover that the hormones zinging through his blood stream were dealing with his headache more effectively than an entire bottle of aspirin.

Naked, Alex climbed carefully onto the bed and once again straddled his lover. He reached out and caught Mulder's face between his hands, then leaned forward to initiate a slow, wet, intimate kiss that re-established his ownership of Mulder, in body, mind and soul. Satisfied that Mulder had been reacquainted with his proper place in the scheme of things, Alex released his mouth and kissed his way down Mulder's jaw and throat to his chest. Once there, kissing gave way to licking and each peaked nipple was lavished with the kind of attention only a zealous lover can provide.

Mulder tried to remain motionless, but the sight of Alex's slightly wild, dark, shiny hair so close to hand proved irresistible. He reached up and stroked across it, then ran his fingers through it, loving the feel of the silken waves. Alex took a second to glance up and smile before returning to a nipple, this time to gently suck on it. Mulder breathed in a short, gasping breath and arched his back in response. Alex moved to the other nipple and repeated the action and that time, Mulder moaned.

Slowly and gradually, enjoying the feel and taste of his lover's body, Alex worked his way down to Mulder's erect cock. He looked at it for a little while, aware of Mulder's intense gaze, before taking it into his mouth in one, smooth movement. An action that drew a loud cry of pleasure from his lover and caused him to tighten his grip on Alex's hair to the point of pain.

Alex ignored the discomfort and began moving his mouth up and down on Mulder's cock, his tongue creating delicious friction along the underside as he did so. With the hand he held cupped around Mulder's balls, he could gauge that his lover was moving rapidly towards orgasm and so he stopped as abruptly as he had begun. Then with a final, teasing suck on the head, he allowed the wet, darkly engorged cock slip from between his lips.

Mulder groaned, but made no other complaint. He knew Alex's intent and he wanted it very much. Eagerly, Alex straightened up, forcing his lover to release the tight hold on his hair, and Mulder was treated to the intoxicating sight of his lover, flushed red with excitement and need, and harder than he could ever remember seeing him before. Alex pulled open the drawer of the night table and took out a condom and a bottle of lube. Pouring some of the liquid onto his right index and middle fingers, Alex raised up slightly and reached back to open himself up.

Mulder gasped aloud and, afraid that the sight of Alex's hand working with such blatant eroticism between his open thighs might send him over the edge, he looked away. Not that the sight of Alex's hooded eyes gazing down at him, or the sound of his ragged, panting breaths were any less arousing. So, it was with great relief that Mulder watched Alex grab the condom to tear open its foil wrapping.

As he reached down to cover Mulder with the latex, Alex unconsciously mimicked his lover's action of biting down on his lower lip in an instinctive and vain attempt to distract himself for the intensity of the pleasure he was feeling. They both knew it was going to be over quickly, but that was not important. For this act of renewal, nothing less than the intimacy of penetration would do - only the feeling of being joined together as one flesh could wipe away the lonely, hurt that had separated them for far too long.

Moving like a peregrine that had targeted its prey, Alex rose up high and sank down again, taking Mulder into his body in a single, swooping movement. They both shuddered, then steadied. Alex's right hand meshed with Mulder's left. Mulder's free hand wrapped itself around Alex's cock and was, in turn, covered by Alex's.

Together, in synch, they began to move - thighs tensing - hips bucking - hands stroking. They were proved right, it didn't last long, a dozen or so thrusting movements was all it took and then they were both coming, their shouted curses mingling with words of love for the entire universe to hear.

Alex collapsed forward onto Mulder's chest. He could feel his warm, wet come between them. He was acutely aware of how it, combined with Mulder's scent, created a smell that was uniquely 'them'. He breathed it in deeply, imprinting it on his senses. Mulder's chest vibrated with laughter.

"You should have been the one called Fox, Alex," he said in a voice that was croaky with fulfilment and exhaustion.

Alex didn't attempt to disagree; instead he lived up to the assertion by rubbing himself against Mulder, marking as much of his skin as he could with their common scent. To his annoyance the movement caused Mulder's cock to slip free. Regretfully, he rolled off his lover and left the bed. When he returned from the bathroom with a washcloth and towel, he found Mulder drowsing. Gently, he removed the condom and cleaned Mulder up, then sitting back, he watched his lover slip into much needed sleep. When it was content and deep, he pulled the comforter up high around Mulder's shoulders and left him to it.

When Mulder woke the second time the room was bathed in the light of late afternoon. Cautiously, he sat up and was pleased to find that due to Alex's 'treatment' his pains and aches had become mere shadows of their former selves. He stood up and grabbed Alex's robe from the back of the bedroom door.

He called Alex's name as he walked to the kitchen, though he knew instinctively the house was empty. There was a pot of coffee bubbling on the coffee maker. He poured himself a mug and hunted through the cabinets until he found something munchable, then he carried both back to the bedroom and helped himself to a pair of Alex's boxers and some of his sweats.

With coffee mug still in hand, he followed the limestone pathway to the beach. As he suspected, Alex was out on the bay, sitting in a smaller version of the currachs used in the race. It was anchored about five hundred metres offshore. He was just about to call out to Alex when his lover stood up and neatly executed a dive that left the fragile craft rocking gently on the calm surface of the sea. It was only after Alex had disappeared beneath the water that Mulder realized he was wearing a wetsuit.

With a splash and a shake of his head that sent water droplets spraying out in all directions, Alex reappeared. Suddenly there was the underwater signature of another figure moving at speed through the sea towards Alex. Mulder held his breath, then let it out in a gasp when a dolphin erupted from the water and traced the arc of a perfect semi-circle over Alex's head.

"Oh my God!" Mulder heard himself say.

Transfixed, he watched Alex and the dolphin swim and play together for nearly an hour. The forgotten coffee was long since cold when Alex climbed back into the boat and picked up the oars. It took him only a matter of minutes to row back to the shore. As he hopped out of the currach, he noticed Mulder and a huge smile appeared on his face.

"Ah, sweetheart, I was hoping you'd wake up in time to meet Deilf," he said, grabbing hold of the prow of the currach to pull it up onto the sand.

Barefooted, Mulder joined him in the water and helped in the task.

"Deilf?"

"Yeah, it's the Irish word for dolphin."

"Well, that's original," Mulder smirked. "Though it's definitely better than 'Walter'." Alex settled the currach and turned back towards the sea, scanning it in a one hundred and eighty degree sweep.

"Looks like he's gone. You can meet him tomorrow."

"Can I swim with him?"

"Sure, I'll introduce you."

"Great."

They had begun to walk up the beach when Alex suddenly caught hold of Mulder's arm. Mulder turned to face him and saw a worried expression on his lover's face.

"What?" he asked.

"Be careful, Mulder ... if you're talking to Thady or anyone local ... don't mention Deilf."

"Why not?"

"The islanders don't like dolphins," he explained. "They feed on the catch. In the old days, the men would sometimes use currachs to force a whole pod up onto the beach ... then they'd kill them for their meat and their oil."

"The secret is safe with me," Mulder vowed, pulling Alex into his arms. "So, how did you two meet?"

"I found him trapped in the shallows over a year ago. Shifting him nearly killed me but I was able to tow him back out to sea. He never left though ... comes into the bay to swim with me every few days. I bring him some of the left over catch, so I suppose that makes it cupboard love."

"Speaking of which - "

"You're hungry," Alex interrupted.

"Oh, yeah, babe," Mulder told him, leaning into a kiss, "and not just for food."

"Let's get dinner over with then," Alex said when they drew apart.

Hand in hand they returned to the house. Inside, Alex began stripping off his wet suit. Beneath it he wore a faded red speedo. Mulder whistled long and low, before asking," Is that - ?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alex, have you always helped yourself so freely to my stuff?"

"Sure. Why not?" Alex asked tugging on the sleeve of the sweats Mulder wore.

The question shut Mulder up.

"What do you want to eat?" Alex asked, heading for the kitchen.

"Mmm," Mulder said, "now, if I was back home, I'd call California Pizza Kitchen and order in a bacon, spinach and gorgonzola crispy crust."

"Pizza?"

"Oh yeah, with double cheese and a side order of deep fried garlic mushrooms."

"No problem," Alex said, picking up the phone.

"What?"

"Cormac has a pizza oven in the pub and Brid's youngest does delivery."

"You're kid-"

Alex held up his hand and began speaking in Gaelige. When the call ended, he put down the phone and leered over at Mulder.

"It'll be about fifty minutes. Wanna come mess around in the shower?"

They messed around until the hot water ran out then they dressed again in fresh sweats and settled down on the couch to wait for dinner. Right on time, less than a quarter of an hour later, the buzz of a quad's engine sounded in the distance - just as the phone began to ring.

"You get the pizza, I'll get the phone," Alex said.

Having fetched his wallet from the bedroom, Mulder opened the door and watched the quad pull up at the entrance to the courtyard. A lad of about fifteen jumped off it and took a bulky package out of the storage compartment at the rear of the bike. He carried it up to front door.

"How much?" Mulder asked opening his wallet.

"Mr. O'Casey told me to tell you these are on the house - to make up for last night."

"Well, tell him thanks," Mulder said, making to take the pizzas from his grasp.

The lad held on, tightly.

"Mam says I'm not to leave the plate this time."

"Oh ... you'd better come in then ... " Mulder told him, letting go.

They went into the kitchen and Mulder looked through the cabinets again until he located a stack of large plates. He lifted the top two down. They were decorated a blue and white willow pattern design. He put them down on the counter. The lad looked at them.

"They're Mam's plates too," he said, accusingly.

"Oo-kay."

Mulder lifted out the entire stack of plates and they went through them together. They found another three of the willow pattern plates belonging to Brid. With the pizzas transferred to two plain, white plates and keeping warm in the proofing oven, the boy left, happily clutching his mother's delph and a crisp new ten-euro note. Mulder took a six-pack of beer out of the fridge and called to Alex.

"Be right there," Alex said, covering the mouthpiece.

A few more sentences were exchanged before he hung up. Mulder took the pizzas out of the oven and carried them to the coffee table. They flopped down onto the couch together and reached for their first slice. Mulder bit into the pizza and chewed, his tastebuds as alert as those of a Washington Post food critic.

"Mmm," he said, "not bad. Pretty good, in fact."

Alex could only nod - his mouth was full and long strings of cheese were dangling precariously between it and his half eaten slice of pizza.

"Who was on the phone?" Mulder asked before they attacked the next slice.

"Thady. He was checking that I'd be able to help build the turf stacks tomorrow. I told him I'd be there. He says the weather forecast is good."

"Can I tag along?"

"Sure," Alex told him, clearly pleased.

They ate the rest of the pizza while watching an episode of 'Friends' dubbed into Gaelige on TnaG.

When it ended, Mulder said, "Since there's going to be turf stacking tomorrow, I think we should have an early night."

Alex wholeheartedly agreed. Together they tidied the kitchen and closed up the house, then with the sun still staining the sky a blood red they went to bed.

---

The days that followed were good, and as they passed Mulder found himself slipping easily into Alex's life. He helped build the turf stack at Thady's house then he helped transport enough turf to fill the store at Alex's place. He went out on the trawler again and, thanks to some fair weather, enjoyed the experience. Nearly every day they went swimming off Alex's beach with Deilf, and Mulder, who felt as much at home in water as on land, made friends with the dolphin instantly.

A couple of evenings they spent with Alex's friends putting the world to rights over a pint in O'Casey's, but most of them they spent lying in front of the fire, talking trivialities and making slow love. Every morning they woke together in Alex's bed, where they lay listening to the sound of the sea and the cry of the gulls.

A week to the day after the race from Fionn Tra, Mulder sat with his feet up on the coffee table drinking from a mug of tea and browsing through the copy of the 'Limerick Leader'. Across from him, at the study desk, Alex sat checking through email orders and delivery invoices. For the third time since he had started work his 'inbox' pinged and he opened the new message. After reading it through quickly, he punched the air and shouted, "All right!"

"What?" Mulder asked.

"We got planning permission for the wave turbine," Alex told him. "Fiontan heard back from the planning board this morning."

"Wave turbine?"

"Yeah, we put in the application about eight months ago. It'll mean we can produce our own electricity, maybe even sell some back to the national grid. Here, let me show you the specs."

He pulled out a drawer and took out a set of folded blueprints. Spreading them out on the coffee table in front of Mulder he began explaining the island co-operative's ambitious plan.

" ... that way the installation will be almost invisible from the island," he finished.

"So how will the power come in?" Mulder asked, catching Alex's excited enthusiasm for the project.

"Underwater cable, coming ashore about half a kilometre north of here."

"Same thing to the mainland?"

"Yeah, running alongside the inter-connector that provides our power now. We'll maintain it of course - that way if the current from our turbine fails or we have a long spell of calm weather, we'll have back-up power from the grid."

"Sweet little project," Mulder told him. "When will work start?"

"Planning the logistics will take about six months, then there'll be a small scale prototype running for about a year. It the stats on it are what the engineers are predicting, the real thing could be up and running two years from ... "

Alex's voice fell silent as he noticed the animated, interested expression disappear off Mulder's face to be replaced by a look of deep hurt and loss. Alex reached out for him. Mulder pulled away and stood up.

"You knew I was here for the long haul, Mulder. I told you that this is my -"

"It's not that," Mulder interrupted. "Jesus, Alex, if only it was that."

Alex's face grew pale and he swallowed hard.

"Colonization?" he asked very quietly.

Mulder nodded, hating himself for bringing such news.

Alex sank back into the couch and stared straight in front of him. No longer able to look at his lover, Mulder walked out into the courtyard and climbed the curving grass roof to its highest point. Looking out towards the mainland he realized that sometime, when he hadn't been paying attention, the greens and purples of summer had given way to the russet browns of autumn. The seasonal proof of time slipping away intensified the grief he felt and he turned back to the ocean, grateful for the salty wind that buffeted his face and the bright sunshine that made him feel alive.

For a long time he sat there watching the clouds come tumbling towards him, driven by the relentless westerly. The sun was well down in the west when Alex emerged from the house and climbed the roof towards him. He stood silently for a few minutes looking out to sea then he sat down close to Mulder.

"How bad?" he asked.

"Realistically? We have a snowball in hell's chance," Mulder told him, "but it's coming soon and it's the only game in town."

"When are you leaving?"

"I have a ticket on a flight, day after tomorrow."

"Let's not talk about it until then. Deal?"

"Deal."

So that was the bargain - another thirty-six hours - only a very little time to say the things that needed to be said - to make room for everything that rightly belonged in the span of two entwined