From: Valeanna1@aol.com Date: Thu, 17 Sep 1998 16:30:07 EDT Subject: 'Asylum' (1/1) by J. C. Sun Title: Places: Asylum Author: J. C. Sun Category: VAO Rating: PG-13 Summary: Mild m/m warning. . Chair, table, barred window, ceiling flaking softly down on me. It comes down in these long slivers, drifting in these solemnly lonely bits, whiriling from side to side before resting on my pillow. They're palpably heavy, almost feathery, though, and when I scrape a hand across the ceiling proper, a shower of chips fall into my palm. I wonder how long it's been since they painted this ceiling. A knuckle raps upon the slip of shatterproof glass set in the door, edge of orderly blue beyond. A disembodied voice sasy through the thick slab of metal, "You've got a visitor." Visitor. Visitor. Alex came once, and back then the window wasn't barred and there was a mirror. And when he got reflected into it, I was. . .surprised. . .by how human he looked, how small and simple and *ordinary*, but then I looked back at the real thing and there was the sun caught up in his hair, a streak of brown, almost gold at the top but the dark, proper sable close to the scalp. Sitting on the bed, I could almost feel the prickling of it underneath my chin, him still standing in the doorway. Then there was that mouth, always caught up in a twist of half-smile, half-sad. And the small fine alert way his head was cocked at me, the color of his body against the hallway lights, this long, beautiful stroke against the doorframe. I could feel the gun--blunt, ugly Glock, carried at the hip, jauntily angling out underneath his jacket, smell the leather and sweat and Alex. He was lounging there, up at the door, easy and casual and he was so alive I closed my eyes for a moment to taste the bitter edge of it. Then he'd tilted his head, smiled a little, that smile, all soft and un-Alex pull of the lips, so gentle and careful, and he said, "How're you, Mulder?" Quiet, low, careful. Careful. That was the word for it, the way he turned his head, this way and that, the deliberate pace of his words, even the way the skin shifted across his neck, slid across his throat and curled around his jaw and especially in the way he wouldn't look at me, just the floor and the honey-colored walls. Turned into the room with the quiet flow of dark leather, moved about with shoulders drawn in, hands deep in pockets, and yes, that was a gun, all polished and tucked deep under his jacket. My fingers ached. "I'm sorry," he said, swinging into to me. I blinked. Why, he was crying. Not wailing or sobbing, just these little damp speckles in the curve of his eye, on the edge of his cheek, and he was blinking hard against them. The shock traveled down my spine as I ran my thumb across his cheekbone. The first tear drop smeared, but I caught the second on the pad of my thumb, and then Alex swung his face up at me. I kissed him. Kisses. Little feather kisses on his jaw, down the line of his neck, his arms, on the pads of his fingers, faintly salty to the tongue. Down his back, in the hollows, in the small of his neck, the curve of his hip. And later, afterwards, he was tucked around me, the sun came in slatted bands and danced on his bare hip. I blinked, slowly, enjoying the warmth, the false safety of his arms tucked around mine. I gently lipped the turn of his shoulder, soft, then stretched back, head on the ground as he tilted his head up to the bands of light, let the dust motes touch his lips. I swiped a hand through the fall of golden dust, watching the bits part like the wake of a boat and remembering a bit about fluid dynamics, pressure within a closed system. Outside, there came the sound of bare feet flying against linoleum. Rush of shouts, shod feet going after, then the clatter, crash. Shouts, and a long, thin wail slicing down the hall. Alex moved for his gun. I put a hand on his arm, then, listened to the timbre of the crying. "Anderson. From down the hallway." Pause, I traced the inside of his elbow. "Some newbie forgot to drug him up." Pause, as there was the clatter of a gurney wheeling by; soft, whimpering noise from the straps. A clipped voice made a prescription of Valium to the sound of crying. Alex blinked. I turned my face away and my words were too loud in the blankness. "It's the second time this week for him. They're taking him to the Level Two wing." Alex's hand tightened convulsively about my hip. "It's not bad as all that," I said. "You get your own bathroom and they take you out on the grounds at a different time. Plus you get room service." Reassuring smile that was flaking away at the edges, hand on his bare arm. I closed my eyes. Opened them, looked at the alarm clock with bright crimson letters on field of black. "You've got to go soon." I remember saying. "Visiting hours are almost over." Ignoring me, he said lazily, calmly, "I'm going to fucking kill her for this, you know." Did his voice shiver? There was this little burr, and he whipped his head around the other side and looked out across the vista of bed legs and linoleum and the afternoon sun fading away into light steel. And then I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around him, said nothing, but smiled and simply kissed him again, just for the sheer comfort of his mouth under mine. "Visitor." The deadbolt slides back, and the door creaks open on heavy iron hinges, and I hear feet shuffling. The guard saying that he'll be right outside and if y'want to get out sooner, just knock on the door and he'll get you out right away. She's wearing a business suit, one of her business suits that half-disguise the sharp angles of the Smith&Wesson at her hip, the small bulge of her FBI badge. The visitor's badge is hanging from the lapel of her business suit, and her face very smooth, perfect, smooth. As usual. She paces around, the heels loudly clacking on the cement underneath the linoleum. She walks over to the little table desk, looks down at the menu for this week, the newspaper clippings, the safety scissors. When I open my eyes, the florescent lights make her skin sallow, even when she steps up to the window and looks past the bars. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice quiet. She's staring out of the window: she must be looking at the azelas, the Manderley azealas aflame in crimson. They line the gravel paths in long, flowing runs. "You've told them not to let him in, haven't you?" "What?" Turning of the head; the gloss moves across the surface, and her hands plant themselves wide against the ledge of the window. Her hands are death pale against the whitewash, and her silver watch winks the light. "Who?" I shift position on the bed, tuck my feet underneath me. The paint chips are cradled in my left palm, and I don't say anything. She blinks at me, a smooth flick of white over detached china-blue. "If you're talking about Alex, Mulder, your doctors and I both agree that contact between the two of you would further destablize you. After all, he's the reason you're here. He emotionally and physically abused you, raped you on multiple occaisions, kidnapped you accross state lines." I smile at her, and I finger the paint chips with a stroke of the forefinger. .