I knew he’d be here, and I knew he’d be alone. No redheaded watchdog for this excursion.

I took a seat in the first row of the balcony, content that I was too far away for him to see me, pleased that the small binoculars I’d brought in with me could bring him into close sharp focus if I wanted.

I wanted….

I alternated my attention between Mulder and the Alberta scenery at first, enjoying the long shots of Lake Louise, and amazed that Mulder wasn’t actually vibrating, the way he was so tightly focused on the screen.  He had on a leather coat and was hunched into it like he was cold. If I had chosen a seat directly behind him instead of several seats to the left, I probably wouldn’t have been able to see his face at all.

The first go-round in the gay romp on screen held me spellbound, and I was shocked to find myself panting and half-hard over two minutes of screen sex…very *familiar* screen sex, a small voice inside me taunted, and I frowned at it—at myself, and lifted the binoculars to my face to see how Mulder was handling the scene.

He was deeper into the jacket, the collar tickling his earlobes. He sat slouched in his seat, eyes at half-mast, looking almost bored. But through the magnifying lenses I could see that his body was even tenser than before, and the hand on the side nearest to me was balled into a fist that he was thumping almost rhythmically against his thigh.

I slouched a little myself when he suddenly turned in his seat and stared back so intensely I swear his eyes were glowing. I palmed the mini-spyglasses and glued my eyes back onto the screen.

I admit, I watched too much of that damned movie, and I saw far too much of us in it; I tried to appreciate the scenery. Mountains, hills, rivers, lakes. Instead I remembered a punch in the face and a muttered ‘Stupid ass haircut.’ I remembered a phone and a chokehold and guts full of alien oil. I remembered whispered Russian endearments, kisses in the dark, and the way that he always felt lighter when we fucked than when we fought.

On the screen, the crying gay cowboys had reached their ‘quit you’ watershed moment, and I had decided it was safe enough to have another look at Mulder.

I was wrong.

He’d turned his head to the side so I could see more of his face. The fist he’d been using so relentlessly on his leg earlier was gone. Instead that same hand trembled a little and passed over his face. And again. His shoulders were slumped and shaking. 

He looked broken.

Abruptly he rose from his seat and fumbled past the few other patrons seated between him and the aisle. He stumbled once on the steps and then fled out the exit door that would take him back to the lobby.

Jack Twist died on screen and I decided I’d seen enough. There were less people in my row, but I took the extra time to exit out the door nearer to the screens. Some part of me that didn’t bear examining too closely was sitting on the surface now instead of decently buried, and I didn’t think I could face a lobby full of people just then.

The door opened on the alley behind the theater and I blew through it like there were Russian gulag guards behind me. I wasn’t sure when ‘leaving the building in a calm and orderly fashion’ had turned into ‘blind panic’, but Mulder didn’t stand a chance. I just had time to register that there was another person in the alley with me and then my momentum carried me right into him, bowled him over and we both went sprawling onto the pavement. Pain sizzled through my knees and one palm as I tried to catch myself, and I heard a breathless pained grunt as the chunk of plastic I call my left arm caught Mulder in the belly. 

I jumped to my feet immediately, and Mulder started scrabbling away in the opposite direction. The asphalt had other ideas, though. Gungy, oily and slick, I felt it stealing my balance and my feet went flying out from under me. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to prevent another spill, and I only hoped this one hurt a little less.

Mulder crawled in place for a moment, and then discovered that he had no traction. He turned, maybe trying to get purchase, maybe trying to say something, and then I was falling on top of him, getting the breath knocked out of me as we crashed chest to chest.

“Wha-fuck?” Distant streetlamps were enough to illuminate his face, and he appeared more startled than angry, at least until he discovered who it was that had tripped him up. But by the time his eyes had grown wide, and then narrowed suspiciously, and his mouth was twisting into a disgusted frown, I was making a discovery of my own.

I reached out with my good hand and touched the still wet tear tracks on his cheek. 

Immediately I felt a heated flush rise under my fingers and he turned his face away.

“Mulder?”

He twisted under me but I clamped my thighs around him and stroked his face again. Still wet.

When he realized I wouldn’t be thrown, he settled. Keeping his head turned away, he closed his eyes. The tears continued to roll down his face and I brushed each one off the cheek presented to me.

“Mulder,” I said again. But I wondered: What Mulder was this? Was this the Mulder who was angry, bitter, cynical? Who thought the world was ending in six years or so and he had no way to stop it? Or was this the Mulder who was stubborn, brilliant and optimistic? Who was going to prove that the truth was out there, and no aliens, assassins or assholes were going to stand in his way?

He was lying still beneath me, not fighting, but his chest was heaving as he panted shallowly. I tore my fingers from his face and pressed them to his breast. Then I leaned forward and traced another tear, this time with my tongue. I could taste salt; the bitter tang of tears and sweat and dirt and fear, all wrapped up in the unique flavor of Mulder. It made me a little sad to know that I’d never tasted Mulder without that salt.

My mouth moved over his skin almost of its own volition while my mind wandered. I kissed his warm stubbled cheek, bit his earlobe, licked delicately at his eyelashes, pressed another soft kiss to his temple. 

He shivered under me and his heartbeat thundered under my hand.

What Mulder was this?

This was *my* Mulder. The Mulder who would cry alone over gay cowboys, all the while missing me so much he could hardly stand it. The Mulder who would love me and hate me, beg me and leave me begging. The Mulder who gave me life, and the Mulder who was going to kill me.

I took his chin in my hand and forced him to face me. He refused to open his eyes but his lips easily parted at the gentle insistence of my tongue. He squirmed beneath me, tried to throw me off and brought his arms up around my back to hold me tight. My Mulder, I thought again, the Mulder who would never contradict his partner, his boss, or the words that came out of his own mouth, but whose every action with me was followed by a completely contradictory one.

I had one last thought as he finally found the strength to throw me off; as he staggered to his feet; as he cursed softly in broken Russian and helped me to stand; as he continued to cry and pepper my hand and wrist with light kisses.

I felt my mouth twist in a bitter smile as I thought it again, and he pushed me away so hard I fell back in the muck of the alley. He turned and I stood with a groan. He paused to look back at me with an expression comprised of disgust, hope, self-loathing, longing, despair, lust and grudging respect. He walked away and I followed and I knew he had to be thinking the same thing I was.

We would never be able to quit each other.