Chapter Three

The dream returned that night, the clouds, the lake, the danger, the
hand that slid down his belly. Only this time, when he looked over to
see who lay next to him, the moon shone clearly on his features and
Mulder remembered at last. It was Matthew.

Once, in the course of some childhood game, Mulder had found himself a
hiding spot in the park, a hollowed-out spot beneath a clump of bushes.
He had crouched there, waiting for the all-free call, gleeful at his own
ingenuity and enjoying the dappled sunshine through the leaves. Then a
darker and more solid shadow had moved into his den, blocked out the
sun. He had peered cautiously out of the bushes and seen his father.

He couldn't believe his eyes, hadn't known how to react. His father was
a distant and rather intimidating man. He gave his son appropriate gifts
at appropriate times, said the expected fatherly things, but in spite of
the correctly paternal smile he would aim at his son Mulder always felt
like he was waiting for something from him, something Mulder didn't know
how to give. It made him feel like a disappointment, no matter what he
did. He had sometimes wished his father would do things like other
fathers in the neighbourhood, but his mother had explained that his
father was a very busy, very important man, with no time for games. Fox
had listened to this with disappointment but also with a secret relief.
His father's presence oppressed him, made him nervous.

But there his father now stood, hidden by the bushes, a long-lensed
camera and binoculars slung around his neck. His expression was grimly
watchful and he surveyed the neighbourhood systematically, a frown now
creasing his forehead as he swept his binoculars over the park. Mulder
somehow knew he was looking for him. A sudden sense of panic filled him,
a certainty that he had seen something he wasn't meant to see and that
he would suffer for it. He dreaded his father finding him here. He
decided to try and creep out, rejoin the game as one of the seekers, not
one of the hiders.

He couldn't. He felt awkward, watched, judged. When he tried to run, he
tripped over his own feet and was promptly captured. He could still feel
his father's eyes on him and he flushed, angry and embarrassed.
Eventually he left the game and went home, taking shelter in his own
room, though even that didn't seem like the sanctuary it once had. That
night he had a dream that woke him, screaming, a nightmare of a giant
shadow that descended upon him, pointing him out to everyone in all his
failings, his vulnerabilities.

He gradually forgot that day, but the shadow, the consciousness of
scrutiny, remained with him. He became aware of the way his father
observed him at home, catching flashes of that grim and watchful look.
In the midst of the most innocent activity he would suddenly feel that
gaze, feel naked, vulnerable, judged. Sometimes he still dreamed of the
shadow, something marking him out, separating him from the people around
him. Worried that others could sense it, he began holding himself apart,
aloof. He was not disliked, exactly, but others sensed his
inaccessibility and left him alone.

Matthew, however, had been different. He had been a friend. They only
saw each other during the summers, when both their families went to a
cluster of agency-owned cottages on a small lake near the edge of the
county. Things seemed different there. The sense of silent scrutiny
lifted slightly and Mulder felt himself free to behave like any other
boy. Matthew's family, the Degans, had the cottage closest to the
Mulders, and he and Matthew had played together from the time they were
toddlers.

Matthew was a lithe brown-eyed boy like a baby otter, small, quick,
sleek and curious. He was always in the middle of something, taking
things apart to figure them out, asking questions that no one could
answer, dragging Mulder off on wandering explorations of the woods
around the lake. His liquid eyes would widen and his mouth drop open in
a near-comic look of wonder when he made a new discovery, and Mulder was
drawn in by his friend's blithe enthusiasm, dragged willy-nilly from his
detached solitude by Matthew's relentless fascination with the world.
The summers at the cottage were the happiest times he could remember.

Things began to change the summer they were 15. Matthew seemed
different, his usual ebullience dulled, his sunny nature grown nervous
and moody, even sullen. The atmosphere in his family's small cottage was
strained, and Mulder walked in on more than one conversation that halted
abruptly with his entrance. He tried to get Matthew to talk about it,
but his friend would only shrug, change the subject, or just fall
silent.

Sometimes it was the way it had always been. They would go out on the
raft in the lake, or to their favourite overgrown spot along the shore,
where a grassy hollow with one steep side made a perfect spot to sit and
survey the water. When they were little they had used it as a fort. Now
they would sit there, smoking cigarettes stolen from Matthew's mother's
purse, holding long and rambling conversations that circled idly back
upon themselves for hours. Then suddenly Mathew would fall silent again,
his shoulders tensing until his skinny shoulder-blades jutted out like
wings.

One evening the shouting from the Degan's cottage was loud enough to be
heard at the Mulder's. His parents had exchanged glances and sent Mulder
on an errand into town. When he returned the Degan's cottage was dark
and silent. His parents had shooed him off to bed and he had been asleep
for a couple of hours when pebbles rattled against his window and he
heard his name being called from below.

Matthew was on the grass beneath his window, waving his backpack and
gesturing him down. The moon was full and bright and they had snuck out
of their cottages before for midnight swims, so it was a matter of
moments for Mulder to pull on his trunks and a sweatshirt and grab the
rolled-up sleeping bag they used in their hideaway. He climbed out the
window and down the trellis on the side of the cottage.

Matthew was trying to be cheerful, treating this as just another
nighttime swim, but his voice had a ragged edge and he was clearly
anxious, his shoulders visibly tensed even inside his sweatshirt. Mulder
felt a surge of worried protectiveness for him, wished he could do
something to soothe the tension in those jutting shoulder-blades,
something to arm his friend against whatever was troubling him. He
gently touched the back of Matthew's neck and the other boy jumped
nervously. If only Matthew would tell him what was wrong . . . but it
was clearly not the moment to start asking questions. Mulder did his
best to play along with Matthew's carefree act.

They settled their gear in the hollow and ran to the lake, still warm
from the day's sunshine. Mulder loved to swim by night, the ripples of
his passage edged in silver by the moonlight, the velvet warmth of the
water against the crisp night air. They stayed close to shore, splashing
each other with glittering silver drops of water, shushing each other
when their laughter grew too loud then laughing even harder at their own
cautions. When they began to feel cold they left the lake and ran back
to the hollow, huddling under the sleeping bag for warmth.

>From his small knap-sack, Matthew produced not only the usual cigarettes
but also a juice bottle sloshing with an amber liquid. "Whiskey!" he
declared proudly "I stole it from my Dad!"

They shared it, passing the bottle back and forth, taking tiny sips,
spluttering as the liquor burnt their mouths and throats. Dizzy now,
warmth spreading from his stomach through his body, Mulder slumped back
against the wall of the hollow, staring out over the lake. He felt
Matthew lean back next to him, and slung an arm companionably across his
shoulders. He waved his other arm at the lake and, doing his best
imitation of his father's lecturing tones, declared "All this some day
will be ours, our world to lead and shape and guide. It is a thankless
task, my son, and you must prove yourself worthy". Matthew started to
laugh and then couldn't stop, his giggles growing hysterical as he tried
to muffle them first with his hand and then against Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder didn't feel drunk, precisely, but he felt braver, more daring,
finally at home with his newly long arms and legs, the increased height
that had made him clumsy all summer. He looked at Matthew, still shaking
with muffled laughter, and said:

"Tell me what's wrong, Matty, please. I can tell there's something and
we're best friends, right? You can tell me anything."

He felt Matthew's body stiffen and try to draw away but he used the arm
around his shoulders to hold him there. "Don't you trust me?" He asked.

Mathew turned to him a face twisted with doubt and anxiety, his body
still shaking though not, now, with laughter. He stared at Mulder for a
moment, his mouth working silently, then the words came spilling out.

There was something going on at the agency, something both their fathers
were involved in, something that his mother was not supposed to know
about but did. She knew something and she was deeply unhappy. All summer
long there had been fights and silences between his parents, his mother
behaving more and more erratically, his father blustering and pleading
by turn, afraid of what was happening with his wife but afraid too of
the agency discovering his indiscretion. It was something to do with
Mulder's father but also, said Matthew awkwardly,

"- something to do with me, and with you too, Fox. They told me - they
told me tonight that -" his voice was tight and quavering "that I'm not
supposed to spend so much time with you, they said we shouldn't be
friends anymore but they can't do that - "

Matthew was crying now, voice breaking helplessly, tears leaking from
his eyes even as he tried to wipe them away, embarrassed. Mulder patted
his back, telling him uselessly that it was going to be OK, they would
always be friends, though he knew in the back of his mind how little
power they had against the decisions made by their parents. Matthew had
his face buried in Mulder's chest now, his words muffled  -

" - I can't let them do that because you're my best friend and I love
you, Fox, I really love you and now you'll hate me, I've ruined
everything!"

Matthew raised his face to Mulder and looked at him, eyes still wet with
tears. His last words were still whirling through Mulder's head and he
didn't understand, couldn't see why Matthew was so upset. Then Matthew
kissed him, full on the mouth.

It was a wet, sloppy and adolescent kiss, but it held undeniable
passion. For a moment Mulder just lay there, feeling his friend's body
tremble slightly against him, then he opened his mouth to Matthew and
their tongues met, eagerly, shockingly, the contact sending new and
unaccustomed feelings through his body. They began to move against each
other, Mulder pulling Matthew closer, feeling the softness of his skin,
the unexpected solidity of his chest where his body had begun to fill
out over the summer. He pulled away for a moment to breathe in a great
gasp of air, and Matthew started to kiss his neck, his hand running over
Mulder's chest, hesitantly touching his nipples.

Mulder could feel his friend's young cock swell against his leg and his
own answered it, pushing painfully at his swim trunks, making him
squirm. Matthew's hand brushed across his belly and hovered for a moment
at the elastic of his trunks, fingers playing lightly on his flesh.
Mulder felt him take a shuddering breath and then he slid his hand in,
fingers stroking Mulder's cock then taking hold of it, freeing it from
the constriction of his trunks.

Mulder gasped and thought he might pass out. No one else had ever
touched him there. He had hardly even touched himself, had felt as
though his parents would somehow know. This was so different, though,
out here under the stars.

"Matty" he gasped "You don't have to  - what are you - "

"But I want to, Fox" Matthew cried "I've wanted to all summer"

Fox didn't protest again, giving in to the sensations that raged through
him, this delight he had never before experienced. He pulled Matthew's
face close to him and began to kiss him again, tongue deep in his mouth,
tasting tears and the whiskey they had stolen. His friend's hand was
pulling on him and his body was making little jerking motions of its own
accord now, pleasure making him pant.  "Oh Matty" he breathed "that
feels good - feels so good - don't stop"  Matthew made a noise like a
groan himself, and Mulder could feel his friend's prick slide slickly
against his leg and stomach.

Urgency filled him and he pressed closer to Matthew, closing his eyes,
urging him faster, feeling heat surge higher and higher in his body.
Blindly he reached out and touched his friend's cock, felt its
stiffness, its pulse and throb. It thickened even more and Matthew let
out a choking sound and shot, the warm liquid exploding over their
chests and stomachs. His mouth found Mulder's nipple again and that was
all it took. Mulder's body arced off the ground, a cry pouring out of
him, Matthew's hand still moving on his cock as he came. But before the
last jet had even left him a deeper darkness fell across them, Matty let
out a cry that wasn't pleasure, and Mulder had opened his eyes to find
his father standing over them.

With a growl Dr. Mulder yanked Matthew up by one arm and threw him to
the ground away from Mulder, who was struggling with his trunks under
the sleeping bag. "Cover yourself and get out of here" he ordered "stay
away from my boy, you're as much trouble as your father." Matthew
scrambled for his trunks and sweatshirt, face frozen in an expression of
absolute despair, shoulders hunched so tightly Fox thought they might
never straighten again. Without looking back, he ran.

Then Mulder's father turned his gaze on his son. Mulder had pulled on
his clothes hurriedly, trunks still damp and shirt on inside out. "Stand
up" his father barked "and pick that  - thing - up" he nudged the edge
of the now stained sleeping bag disgustedly with his foot. "We'll have
to clean that before your mother finds it." He didn't say another word
the whole way home, walking three strides ahead of Mulder, grim
determination in every line of his body.

He led the way to the washhouse rigged up in a separate shed at the back
of the cottage, and then shoved both Fox and the sleeping bag into the
shower, turning on the cold tap. "Clean it" he barked. Fox scrubbed at
the thick damp patches on the sleeping bag, already starting to shiver.
The water was profoundly cold, straight from the depths of the lake,
unwarmed by the sun, and it fell on him full force. By the time his
father was satisfied with the sleeping bag, his hands and feet were numb
and the rest of his body burned paradoxically with chills. His father
hung the bag over the line and tossed Fox a bar of carbolic soap, saying
"Now wash yourself. I'll be back." Then he headed back to the house.

Too miserable to even think about rebelling, Mulder soaped himself as
best he could beneath the icy spray, the soap sliding from his numb
hands as he tried to wash his chest. He wished that he could just drift
away from where he stood beneath the stinging spray, wished the cold
would numb the pain that burnt in his stomach as he saw Matthew's bowed
back disappear into the night.

Then his father stood before him again, holding in his hand a small
rubber sac with a tube attached, which he filled with cold water from
the tap. He wore rubber gloves. "Turn around and bend over" he said.
Mulder stared at him in horror and a flicker of what could almost have
been compassion crossed his father's face. "This isn't a punishment,
boy" he said "or not only punishment. I can't trust you to tell me what
you got up to out there. I have to do this. We've got to get rid of
anything he might have left inside of you"

Mulder turned around and tried to will his mind and his heart as numb as
his feet were, tried to absent himself as far as he could from the
intrusion into his body, the icy stream inside of him. It hurt, and he
bit his lip, holding back the further shame of tears. As if at a
distance he heard his father, in a tone of cold finality more
frightening than anger, say  "That's not for you, Fox. Don't do it
again".

When it was over, he handed Fox some pills and a cup of cold water. Fox
swallowed them dully and felt himself being led into the house, the pain
and humiliation fading beneath the wave of numbing cold that still
seemed to move over and through him.

By the time he awoke, late the next afternoon, Matthew and his family
were gone. By the end of the summer, their cottage had been sold to
another agency family. Fox's parents acted as though nothing unusual had
happened. They never mentioned Matthew again.

Fox too did his best to put Matthew out of his mind, wanting only to
forget what had happened that night. His father had been so different
the next day, the hardness and anger in his eyes replaced by his usual
distant correctness, that Fox was tempted to believe that none of it had
really happened. Only the empty cottage next door remained to remind him
otherwise; the cottage and the small lump of ice that had taken up
permanent residence in the pit of his stomach. He behaved cautiously
around his father now, seeking approval, watching carefully for anger.

The shadow began to appear in his dreams again, a darkness that blurred
the faces and muffled the voices of the people around him. This time he
welcomed it, pulled it around himself like a blanket, embraced his
loneliness as a sign that he was meant for other things. He treated its
presence in his life as an assurance that there was more to the world
than what appeared on the surface, that there were other truths, truths
that must be watched for carefully, truths it was up to him to discover.

He made it his business to seek these things out, reading up on
mysticism, parapsychology, strange phenomena. He was a good observer,
with a natural eye for what others thought, how they would react. By the
time he was eighteen the agency made its first offer: they would pay for
his education if he would work with them for two years. At the end of
the two years, it had come to seem inconceivable that he go anywhere
else, even if his place at the agency was strange and marginal, his work
an object of derision to many.

He dated from time to time, women he met through work or at bars, but
none of them seemed that interesting. His work was far more absorbing.
And if, from time to time, he awoke from that instantly forgotten dream
with tears on his face and semen on his stomach, he didn't give it much
thought. He had long ago ceased to think of Matthew. Only now did he
remember.

He was aware that he was dreaming, this time, even as he relived that
first experience. As Matthew touched him in his dream, as his body
tingled and tightened and rushed towards climax, he reached out to touch
dream-Matthew's face, helplessly murmuring wordless apology. Then the
shadow of his father descended on them again.

This time his familiar damp awakening was overlaid with shock and anger.
That his father should have done such a thing.  . . . that he should
have so easily forgotten it . . . .  he felt sick at heart, wondering
what had become of Matthew and his family. There must have been more at
stake, he thought to himself, than some simple adolescent exploration.
He remembered Matthew's tale of his parent's conflict that summer.

Cleaning himself off with his towel, he rearranged the bedding so that
he could look out the cabin window and watch the countryside fly by. It
lulled him without making him sleepy, and he let his thoughts tumble
over each other in no particular pattern, touching on all the events of
the last while. It occurred to him suddenly, with the force of a
revelation, that he could leave the agency if he wanted to. There wasn't
anything stopping him, really - except his own imperative curiosity, the
new and bizarre possibilities raised by Krycek and his aliens.

He had quite forgotten his moment of suspicion about the man in the
shower-room, the man with the short-bitten nails.

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