Cravings
by Jessica Harris
12/99

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Christ I hate this. I'm acting like some love-struck teen. Like some 
love-struck teen with a grievance, Daddy's shotgun, and a direct bead 
on the prom-queen's window. I'm losing my fucking mind here. He's 
fucking stolen it from me.

I mean, look at me - it's a million goddam degrees below zero out 
here, my hands are so numb I can't even feel the binoculars any more, 
and I can't remember the last time I ate. There are other places I 
should be, other jobs I should be doing. But I can't. I just can't 
tear myself away.

Sometimes I think he knows I'm here. He rubs at the back of his neck 
as though he can feel me watching, or stands at the window for long 
minutes, staring out with an expression that is ... not frightened, 
exactly, but... searching.

And the crazy thing is, I think if I came down from this roof, and 
broke in there, he might just let me take him. I'm not blind. I've 
seen the way he looks at me, underneath the anger, I've felt the way 
his body responds. I could do it.

But -

I keep thinking about this time that I nearly died, as a child, 
breaking into my grandmother's bee-hives. I was stung so badly I was 
in hospital for ages. And no one understood. "But Alex," my grandmother 
said "I would have given you honey if you had asked," and there was no 
way I could tell them that it wasn't just the honey I wanted, I wanted 
whatever the bees had that they could *make* the honey, that sweetness 
I craved. I wanted that thing for myself. And I've never been very 
good at asking.

And with Mulder, the things I want frighten even me. I want to fuck 
him bareback, raw, want him to share in all my poisons. I want to know 
what he tastes like, not just his cock, and his asshole, but his blood, 
the surface of his eyeballs. I want to climb right inside of him and 
scratch my initials on his bones. And I have this dream sometimes, that 
I'm segmenting his head like an orange, just to get at what's inside. 
And he just lets me, just sits there smiling until there's not enough 
left of him to smile. And that's when I realise that I can't put him 
together again, that all I'm holding in my hands now is blood and pulp.

And I'm afraid that's how it would end, me on my knees in some cheap 
motel, his blood all over me, as panic rises sour in my belly at what 
I've done. And him just lying there, whatever it was I was searching 
for gone forever.

So for now I stay out here, watching. And I try not to think about it, 
about coming down from here. About going over there....

***