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XII. On the Outside Looking In

What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?
George Eliot

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I could use people who are as persistent and have as much ‘inner bitch’ as you’ve got. Want to quit psychiatry and go to work for us in the UNP? Not as much money, but I guarantee you’d never be bored. You’d make a great interviewer, Garza. I like a person who’s not afraid of a little underhandedness in going for their goals.

So. Here I am, writing as promised. Or threatened. Blackmailed? Yeah, that fits. Is blackmail an acceptable therapeutic approach? I’d like to read the literature on that idea.

Just keep in mind the person we’re busy trying to keep alive is the man who pays the bills, doc. He goes, and you can kiss this part of your income good-bye, because I sure as hell won’t be paying it. So if I miss something important because I’m too busy doing my daily homework instead of doing my job, well…we’ll both be pissed.

Yesterday, you want me to write about yesterday. Want me to start at the beginning? It dawned a pink sky yesterday, at approximately 5:15 a.m.

Not what you’re looking for? Guess not…I can hear the gnashing of teeth even before you’ve read this.

So…you want me to bleed my guts for you once again. You know, Garza, if I didn’t know you so well, I’d swear you really got off on other people’s pain.

Speaking of getting off on other people. Have you ever stood a level 3 surveillance, doc? That’s when they issue all the latest and best of the spy toys: telescoping night vision goggles, electronic mikes so sensitive you can hear a pin drop a mile away, all the fun tools of my trade.

That’s what I’d ordered for Mulder’s residence, two cars, two agents, twenty-four hours a day. Nobody’s going to get onto his property while I can help it.

Thing is, I wrote myself into the roster, because the less people we have to bring into the loop, the safer.

So, I stood watch last night. The spot near the house. The house where Mulder was. And Skinner, who’s standing personal guard for Mulder now, around the clock.

When you were a kid, Garza, did you ever peek in on your parents during sex? Or maybe when you were at college, tried to sleep while your roomie was doing the undercover rumba with whoever they’d brought home with them? In the same room as you. Or even just through a paper-thin wall.

The noises. Wet sounds, slick. The sound of skin on skin, sliding, slapping. Moans and groans, sexy talk. Dirty talk. Explicit instructions. Whispered names, endearments. Sound of the bed springs squeaking, slowly, then faster, an entire orchestra of coordinated sound, playing together and building toward the climax of the symphony, le petit mort—the little death.

Ever thought how much it sounds like a real struggle to the death? Thrashing around, groaning, pleading, the victor ramming his weapon home, deep inside—a scream, a moan, a sigh, breath expelled in a slow exhalation. Silence.

Both struggles are messy, too…one with blood and urine, the other with sticky ejaculate. Seems our bodies need to give something up in the process of dying. Impossible to experience it as clean and neat. It’s messy business, this business of death, petit or not.

Even messier when alone in a car, a hundred yards away from any other human beings. No matter how close they might sound, how loud or clear the connection was—it’s still alone.

That picture clear enough for you, Garza?

You know Mulder, Garza. I know he’s not your patient, but…let me pick your brains, anyway. Do you think he has any kind of a death wish, something that would explain why he’s fighting us about the way we want to protect him? Is it possible that, after all these years of being unable to turn off the voices in his head, he might want to turn them off permanently?

We’re using super-encryption, with retrieval codes to open up the journal files—I made sure of that from the start of this little relationship of ours—so indulge me, it’s safe. Let’s talk about my job. Which, these days, is being consumed by a great deal of work in trying to uncover what’s going on in our government again and who and why they’d target Mulder.

And the bastard isn’t making it any easier for us with his attitude. His completely unexplained attitude. You know, you’d think since he’s getting some—finally, after all, I know I was the last, there hasn’t been anybody else—and from somebody who worships the ground he walks on—okay, that’s a little overdramatic, but not by much—you’d think Mulder would be more content. More disposed to working with the man he’s sleeping with instead of fighting him, not to mention the man he used to sleep with. I mean, c’mon…both his old and his new bed partners, who easily hate each other’s guts, are doing their damnedest to get along. Aren’t we? So why the fuck is Mulder playing these damn games?

Garza, I should have known better. But I didn’t. Even after everything, like everybody else, I needed to think it was over. Needed to think that we’d weathered the storm and there’d be only sunny days coming up. But the storm clouds are gathering on the horizon, and they’re looking pretty messy.

Something big is happening—the tribal elders are having visions once again. Skinner told me, did you hear about it yet? Figure the tom-tom grapevine would’ve leaked it around the rez. That’s why we’re doing this…some old Grandfather cornered Skinner up in a remote arroyo and did his thing. Skinner came back a believer. Funny thing is, I am too. It fits some of the things I’ve been hearing on the sly. Things that were really disturbing me, and fuck, they’re disturbing me even more now.

What things, you ask, right? How about this: a large number of top government officials have suddenly followed some trend to buy vacation homes away from the Corners. Which isn’t all that odd, considering, but the fact that they’re all, down to the last one, building places in the same hic area in Iowa? Who the fuck vacations in Iowa, for God’s sake? There wasn’t anything there before the Expulsion, and there’s not much more there now. And along with our own government people, there’s some foreign limited partnership that’s bought up a huge amount of the land in the area, and they’ve got permits to begin building homes, businesses, you name it. All above board, all squeaky clean.

So why the fuck is my shit-o-meter going sky high on this? Why is every hair on my body standing up like I’m in a static electricity field? And why the fuck are these government boys still hanging around the Corners like nothing’s wrong, and still attending meetings with Mulder like they’ve got nothing to hide?

That’s what’s making me twitch like a cat in a barn full of hound dogs. It’s not making any sense, Garza.

Now, the challenge of it is, Garza, that we have to be aware of all this crap going on, but we can’t alert the people we’re watching that we’re suspicious of them. Or the game’s up. Oh yeah, I love my job, I really do. And I’m the best. But fuck! I thought these stakes were over with three years ago. Seems it was premature jubilation.

And I swear, Garza, if one small syllable of this stuff gets out to your friends or family, just to warn them, just to give your loved ones a head start—on what, I can’t even say yet—I’ll personally come to your house one night and make damn sure your mouth never talks again. And all those you talked to, as well. And we both know I’m capable of it, don’t we, doc?

Anyway, you know the old testosterone drive, Garza—Fuck it or Kill it. I’m revved up pretty good right now. And since I really doubt I’ll be fucking my choix du jour, well—killing’s looking really damn good right about now.

So here we are once again, Stake Out with the Stars. You, me, the laptop, and enough surveillance equipment to fill up the rest of the car. It’s quite cozy, really, Garza.

Wish You Were Here.

There was a nice dinner…I think Skinner—yeah, Skinner—made barbequed chicken for Mulder and himself this evening. Nice, huh? You and me, though, we had a couple of cold tacos left over from a take-out run this afternoon, and a fairly decent orange. One Corona (no, I know I shouldn’t…not while on duty, but hey, it’s either that or do some major damage to something. Figured this was the better choice, and fairly harmless), and a thermos of tepid water. Mulder and Skinner were drinking ice water. Skinner’s not drinking at all since he’s "on duty".

Well, bully for him. Mr. Clean strikes again and beats Mr. Filthy Rotten one more time. Of course, Mr. Clean is getting his knob polished, quite a nice distraction, and Mr. Filthy Rotten has to sit here and listen to it, in excruciating detail—also quite a distraction, but nice isn’t the word I’d use to describe it. Of course, I can polish my knob, too, but it’s just not the same thing when you’re doing it yourself.

By now I’m sure you’re wondering the same things I am, Garza. You’re nobody’s slouch. I keep telling you, you ought to quit the MH center and come work for us. For me.

So anyway, guess you’re wondering, "How come they’re doing it and they know the house is under tight electronic surveillance?" Are they exhibitionists getting off on their kink? Or maybe…it’s more of a personal thing: Skinner rubbing my nose in it while he rubs his cock in Mulder, or maybe Mulder playing us, pushing buttons and watching us hop through the hoops he’s set out. Watching to see which way I jump.

Yesterday, I thought it was because they just didn’t know I was on the rotation and standing watch. I mean, yeah, no matter who’d have been out here, they’d have gotten an earful, but beyond the prurient interest, who’d have cared? It wouldn’t have been personal. Today, though…today I know for certain that Skinner saw the schedule. He demanded to see the schedule. Probably wanted to check out just who had the night shift last night, who got an earful. He didn’t have too much to say after checking it out, that’s for damn sure. Looked me in the eye and didn’t blink, I’ll give him that. Jesus, he’s a cold bastard at times. Professionally, though, I’d rather have a cold bastard like him working with me than someone sloppy, less focused. Personally? Yeah, I know you wanted me to talk more about this, Garza. Nothing to say. It is what it is. Not a damn thing any of us can do to go back and change history. Like everybody else—or, no…more than anybody else—I’ve learned to live with my mistakes.

Ah, finally. We’re settling down for the night. Jesus, you’d think they discovered sex the way they’re going at it, and at their age. Although, knowing both of them as I do, yeah, they probably are discovering something. Even way back when, Skinner could fuck for hours, I’d never seen anything like it before or after. Used to think it was just his age when I was younger, but…now I know better. The original Iron Man. Although, it sounds like Mr. Touchy-Feelly is giving him a run for his money this time. For somebody who lived in his head as much as Mulder always did, when he gets around to sex, he’s the original hedonist. All that focus and concentration narrowed onto the moment.

Got to run electronics check and sweep the area now that the show’s over, dear Garza, so I’ll say hasta la vista, baby. Just like my favorite movie character, "I’ll be back".

to be continued in part thirteen...

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