Skinner POV

I never know when he's coming. Sometimes weeks go by at a time. But he always comes at Christmas. Or tries to.

Last year he was in prison and he didn't make it. I took down the tree December 26. I couldn't bear to look at it.

The months until he surfaced felt like years.

I have loved him since the first time I met him. He was Agent Alex Krycek then. So young and beautiful and eager that I lost my heart immediately. And nothing he has done in the intervening years can change the way I feel. I love him still.

Maybe it's fairer to say I was smitten back then, flattered by the attentions of such a handsome young man, thrilled by my resurgent vitality when I was with him. When I held him in my arms, he looked at me like I was his whole world. I was devastated when he disappeared and I realized I was just a very small part of it.

He showed up on my doorstep a week later and told me everything. How he was a plant by the cigarette smoking man, how he'd been meant to break up Mulder and Scully, how all this was part of a larger conspiracy of which he knew few details. Sometimes I think I should have killed him then and there. I might have saved myself a lot of grief. Instead I put his confession aside, took him into the shower to wash off what he'd done and we spent the weekend in bed. Eighteen continuous hours of that time Alex was in a dead sleep. A stray cat sleep.

It's true that most cats sleep a lot. But their instinct is to sleep lightly, so that they can be awake and alert immediately if they sense danger nearby. In most house cats this instinct is not vital. They are safe enough when they sleep. But to a stray cat sleeping lightly can mean the difference between life and death. Their environment is fraught with peril.

This is how Alex lives when he's not with me.

I think.

To tell you the truth, I don't really know for sure. You *can't* be sure with a stray. Although I suppose the proper term for a cat without a home is feral, but stray sounds more like my Alex. Feral implies wild and unapproachable, and that's not what my Alex is like. At least not with me. He is happy to come home, to be safe for awhile. He likes me to hold him.

Still, the majority of the time he is a stray and his ways out there are unknown to me. I don't know where he goes or how he survives.

But I do know this from growing up in a rural area where animals come and go all the time.

If a stray cat trusts you enough to come into your house it will eat like a pig, wash itself and then, when it feels truly safe, it will sleep for two days from sheer exhaustion. My mother, on the infrequent occassions that she let an animal like that into the house, called that phenomenon stray cat sleep.

Alex isn't quite that bad. He is relieved to peel off his filthy clothes to shower, to enjoy the luxury of being naked instead of dressing again quickly in case he needs to run. He revels in cooked foods-meat and potatoes and gravy- that lay heavy in the stomach and need hours to digest instead of the nutrition bars and sports drinks he favors when he's on the run.And,unlike most strays I've known, who barely tolerate human touch, Alex enjoys being petted, at least by me. A tummy rub can set him arching and purring in a such a graceful way that he makes a real feline look clumsy.

And he loves the idea of being able to sleep deeply and dreamlessly, instead of on the edge of consciousness.

You see, a cat that can awaken quickly can more easily escape from predators or fight with possible intruders.

This is how Alex sleeps-out there.

Here, with me watching over him, he is in stray cat sleep.

I fuss with the decorations every year. I don't know why. To make it seem like a normal visit from family, maybe, instead of a desperate veering from a life on the edge. To give myself something to do besides worry that he may not come. Knowing that can only mean he's incapable of coming, because he promised me he would. Alex is a traitor, a thief and a murderer. But he doesn't lie to me.

I hope he doesn't lie to me.

Anyway, the decorations are important to us both. Alex, to my knowledge, practices no religion and that first Christmas I asked him if the creche I put up offended him. It was a long standing tradition in my family and the creche had been my mother's, but I was afraid he would think the message of peace and good will was a mockery, given how he had to live. He shook his head.

"No, leave it up," he said. "I never said I don't believe in God. In fact, I have God all figured out. God's job is to throw shit at us and our job is to dodge the shit. And then thank him when he misses us."

He smirked when he said it and it hurt me that he felt that way. I always thought of my God as a loving God, a bestower of all good things. But Alex sees Him as no better than a cruel child tormenting innocent kittens with a stick.

Another feline reference. I don't know what's wrong with me today. Mulder would innocently say I have pussy on the brain and then grin as though he'd made a great joke, overgrown adolescent that he is.

Mulder.

There's another thing I know about stray cats. They are very, very smart. They live by their wits. And they do whatever they have to do to survive and justify it later.

When I was a boy, we fed one stray cat regularly that looked in better shape than the rest. Turned out the Petersons down the road were feeding it, too. Damn thing would rub against my hand when I put down a saucer of milk and I would start thinking he was my cat. Only trouble was he was going up the road and rubbing Willie Peterson's hand for some leftover sausage. And Willie thought it was his cat.

Meanwhile that cat grew plump and sleek.

Sometimes I wonder who else might be feeding Alex.

My eyes drifted to the balcony. It's not a little token balcony, but a spacious outdoor patio surrounded, of course, with an attractive wrought iron railing. It's a real selling point for Viva Towers.

I seldom go out there anymore.

I'm ashamed of myself every time I do.

I was actually going to move at one point so I would never have to look at the scene of my crime again but I wanted to tell him first so he wouldn't think it was an attempt to sever contact with him. He was fully capable of finding me if I moved while he was gone, but what if he thought I didn't want to be found?

And then of course when he returned from Russia there were other things to think about.

By the time I told him my intentions Alex told me to stop being so dramatic. He'd forgiven me for that night. He said I should forgive myself.

I can't.

I handcuffed him to that balcony railing that night. Handcuffed him there in the cold until my desire for him became so great that I couldn't deny myself any longer. I went and got him, made love to him and held him in my arms til morning and then, when I left for work, I made him dress and handcuffed him back to the same spot.

And why? Because I'm a jealous bastard. Because when Mulder brought him to my door after almost six months and he looked at me sheepishly from under that stupid cap, I was sure they'd been at it in the car. Mulder just looked so smug.

In fact, I decided they'd been carrying on together the whole time I hadn't heard from him. And then when Mulder had had enough of using what was mine he hauled Alex's filthy carcass back to me like a tarnished trophy.

I was so enraged by this thought that I punched Alex in the stomach when he came inside, innocently looking around. He'd never been to the Crystal City apartment, so maybe he didn't even know where Mulder was bringing him until I opened the door. He certainly looked surprised enough when I told him we weren't even yet and then dragged him out to the balcony. I guess he didn't know what to make of my greeting. Or the lamentable way I treated him. And I never confronted him with my suspicions so he probably still doesn't know...

I was afraid he would go back to Mulder if I told him.

So I abused him until my anger was slaked and kept my reasons why to myself.

My revenge backfired on me though. Circumstances forced me to send Mulder back to the apartment that morning to fetch Alex, and Mulder dragged him off to Russia on another of his mad quests. And Alex paid a terrible price.

I still had to decorate the balcony but I was putting it off because my heart wasn't in it. Alex had asked on his last visit that I put dark blue twinkly lights on the railing for Christmas. "You know, Walter," he said impatiently when I seemed confused. "Some people call them fairy lights. I want midnight blue ones."

I looked at him as though he was crazy and he explained that dark blue lights were visible from very far away. And most people didn't use them. They preferred the brighter Christmas colors of red and green and gold. If there were dark blue lights illuminating my balcony, he said wistfully, he would know from the time my building became visible to him exactly where I was and that I was waiting for him.

He would look at them and know I was there.

Alex was not usually given to bouts of sentimentality. I didn't know what to make of his request. Maybe he was trying to take the taint off the balcony for himself. Whatever the reason, I didn't have the heart to turn him down. I'd bought several packages of the dark blue lights to be sure I had enough. And I'd go out there and put them up.

For him.

Finally it was the last thing to be done. I wound the twinklies all around the railing and plugged them in. They did look pretty. Then in the window that overlooked the balcony I put my classy plastic candelabra with the three orange bulbs for flames. It was an old ornament, but Alex smiled the first time he saw it and said it reminded him of winters when he was a kid. The electric candles in the window were quite the style then. Everybody had them. Now they are considered cheesy, and most people display much more elaborate artsy-craftsy type decorations. But I make sure the candelabra casts its eerie orange glow for Alex. I have a four pack of extra orange bulbs just in case one goes out.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

December 24

I'm not a gourmet cook, but I can do a mean roast beef, and I threw the red skinned potatoes and carrots in to cook with the meat. Simpler that way. I didn't want to have to do more than baste the stuff while I waited for him.

Dark comes early in December in Virginia and I'd had the Christmas lights on since 4 o'clock. At 6:30 I heard the key in the lock. I don't know where he keeps it, but he never loses it. Except that one time when he was in prison. I imagine they took everything from him then.

And then he was there in front of me and all this comparing him to cats made me think of that cliche 'something the cat dragged in' and I smiled.

He smiled back and despite the rumpled dirty clothes and the unwashed hair he was beautiful. I took him in my arms and squeezed him gently. He was far too blase about injuries and once I'd compressed a broken rib with my hug before he finally told me about it.

"The lights look great," he told me right off. "And you remembered the candles."

"Of course I did," I said and kissed him. My relief at seeing him again almost took my breath away.

"I need a shower," he said apologetically. He is really a fastidious man and hates to be unkempt. Yes, again like a cat. There's no escaping that metaphor. He even said once he'd thought about renting a room for a couple of hours to clean up before he came to me. I put an end to that idea immediately.

What was I, I growled at him, Cinderella who needed his Prince to appear perfectly groomed on a white horse?

"Just get your ass home," I'd said, and he laughed at me.

"Jesus, Walter, you're a bigger slut than I am."

"This is probably true. But I have the hot young lover so you'll forgive me if I'm anxious to get my hands on you whether you're well scrubbed or not."

"My lover's pretty hot, too," he'd said and he never mentioned any stopovers again.

I had the bathroom set up for him with towels and shampoo and a fresh cake of unscented soap. I liked to smell my Alex, not perfume.

"Go ahead and shower," I told him. "Don't be too long." He leered at me and headed for the bathroom.

I was freshly showered already. There had been no reason to wait because he will no longer shower with me since the incident in Russia. Something else that has been taken from me. He says it's because he doesn't want to be seen as a fumbling cripple trying to wash himself but that is absurd, since when we showered together I always washed him, head to toe. It was one of my favorite forms of foreplay.

And it's not because it conjures up memories of being made to shower in a communal stall in the jail in Tunisia, or under the watchful eye of Marita Covarrubias when she paid for his release. My lover has never been modest.

But he is vain. The bright light in the bathroom is too unforgiving to the stump which is all that remains of his left arm. And he doesn't want me to see it that way.

I'm certain that's the reason for his reticence.

The Christmas he came home butchered like that I almost lost it. An attack in the woods in Russia he said shortly when I asked. What doctor performs surgery like that? I demanded. The amputation had to have been more traumatic than the injury that necessitated removal of the arm.

He didn't want to talk about it. When I persisted he threatened to leave so I reluctantly dropped it. It had snowed that year and I didn't want him going back out in the cold and wet.

I didn't want him to leave at all. I never did, but I accepted that he had to. That he had a job to be done. But I didn't want him to leave before it was necessary, in anger.

Who knows where he would go.

Mulder was still in town.

So I kept quiet.

Since that time no other details have been forthcoming. He will not see an American doctor even though he often has pain from the mangled site. A shot of vodka quiets it he tells me. My Alex can be very stubborn.

I always have a bottle of Stoli in the house.

Someday perhaps he will believe that I still find him beautiful.

I didn't hear him come out of the bathroom because I was setting the table for dinner. He put his arm around my waist and kissed the back of my neck. "Dinner smells good," he said. "Will it keep?"

"I have it on warm," I told him.

"Let's go in the bedroom," he said.

Although weeks had passed there was no unfamiliarity. We kissed each other stupid and made love, our reconnection effortless. I know he's ticklish behind his ears and that gently scratching my nails over the tiny pooch of his belly will make him rock hard.

He knows that I love him running his hand over the top of my head and that he's the only one I will allow to do it.

I know he likes to bottom but doesn't like to ask for it. He just wants me to take him, to claim him without hesitation and I do this only because I have his implied consent. He is a wild lovely thing lying on his back, legs parted, eyes focused on me so intently when I enter him that I feel I am not just taking his body, but also his soul. For a little while Alex is completely mine.

But you never really own a stray cat. Sometimes you can get one to sit in your lap for awhile but that's only if they curl up there on their own. If you pick one up and put it in your lap it will more than likely jump off and you'll end up scratched in the bargain. Taking what they give is really the only way to get anything. I know that now.

We rested a few minutes afterward but then I heard Alex's stomach growl and I remembered the food. "Let's eat," I said and swatted his beautiful ass. He smiled sweetly at me and veiled his brilliant green eyes behind his lush lashes as he rubbed the spanked spot.

It's times like this I know he must be innocent of wrongdoing. That there is a clear and valid explanation for everything he's been involved in. Nobody can look so good and be so bad. There is no hidden malice in that smile.

I don't know all the things he does when he's away. He assures me they are necessary to the survival of the planet but I don't know for certain.

Does he know that I'm so in love with him that I'll believe anything he says?

Or is he afraid to tell me the truth?

He doesn't have to be afraid. At this point he could tell me all sorts of horrible things and I would just tell him to shush and lie down with me. And I would never ask for details. I don't want to waste the time we have together trying to find out something I don't want to know. Life is too short and unpredictable. This Christmas, any Christmas, could be our last together. Since Tunisia I'm terribly aware of that.

We ate dinner in silence, Alex shoveling in the food as fast as he could without actually being boorish. I like to see him eat heartily. It satisfies me on a primal level. It's old fashioned I know, but I like to feel that I'm providing what he needs. I feel strong and protective and cave-mannish.

I told him that once and he laughed and told me Fred Flintstone had more hair.

I told you he wasn't usually sentimental. And he certainly never plays the maiden. But there was a pleased flush to his cheeks at the time, too, and I know he appreciated my feelings in his own way.

Afterward we sat on the couch to look at the tree. It's a spruce this year. Real, of course and the biggest one that would fit through the door. The wonderful scent of it filled the room. I lost track of how many strings of lights it took to make it glow like that but it was worth it for the way my Alex's eyes shine with their reflection.

Soon he is lying with his head in my lap. Replete with food and sexual satisfaction, he's winding down.

Sleep is coming, but he's fighting it.

"Don't let me doze, Walter," he said dreamily, gazing at the tree. "I'll miss Christmas."

"I won't let you miss Christmas," I assured him, and covered him with the afghan that I kept on the back of the couch. Privately I thought it would be a fine holiday as long as I could watch my Alex have his stray cat sleep in my arms.

I brushed some tinsel out of his hair and kissed him. His eyes were heavy and finally they drifted shut.

We sat like that in silence for awhile, then,"You know what Walter?" he said without opening his eyes."You know what I told you about God that time?" He put his hand over mine and laced our fingers together, kissing my palm. "I was wrong. God doesn't always throw shit."

Well it wasn't a Hallmark card, but coming from Alex it touched me.

"Merry Christmas, Alex," I whispered.

No answer. He was already asleep.

I sat, watching him, indulging my favorite fantasy. That one day he will not have to leave.

And then he will always sleep this way.

THE END

Please click here to send Feedback to the Artist