Hi! This one was *supposed* to be for Nicci's enclosed 
space contest, but the Powers That Be (Boadicea has been 
trying to tell me the Consortium had *nothing* to do with it 
but I know what *I* think!) saw fit to send the worst 
lightning storm to hit the west coast of Sweden the night I 
had finished it. (You really missed some spectacular colour 
effects, torch!) You can all guess what happened. I woke up 
by spectacular firework effects just at the beginning of the 
storm, rushed to the computer and pulled every plug I could 
see. Damage already done, however - modem fried to death 
and Strange Phenomena with Additional Stray Magnetism 
(and if some meteorologically knowledgeable person could 
explain this for me I would be grateful) had wiped out half 
my hard drive and quite a lot of floppies. I *still* haven't 
gotten my modem back from the shop - no matter that I still 
have the warranty for the d-mn thing! - so I only have Net 
access sporadically. So if anybody wants to tell me how 
much you loved/hated/loathed/adored this story, I'll reply as 
soon as I can.

Archive: MKRA - of course, Gossamer - no, A.T.X.C - 
nope, we're not letting *this* one off so easily.

To my lovely beta readers Katy and Maria. And to 
Boadicea.

Disclaimer: Characters not mine, just lovingly borrowed and 
played with from CC, 1013 and Fox, settings mine and not 
publicly approved of from Up Above, you can't sue me - I 
live on loans anyway.

Other Things To Take Up A Page: NC-17 slash, 
Mulder/Krycek, obviously post-Silo and I'm writing this just 
because I like taking up residence in Krycek's head, okay? 
And yes, there'll be sex in this story. Somewhere. And a 
warning - there's no plot in here either so don't bother 
looking. And I haven't seen Terma (except dubbed to 
German) so I cheerfully ignore it.

Summary: Krycek is stuck with Mulder in an elevator. 
Yeah, I know it's cliche-ish but I had to put them 
*somewhere*, hadn't I?

CLAUSTROPHOBIA 

by Silk 

v6jensil@ulmo.stud.slu.se

I've never liked enclosed spaces. But I've never let it 
affect me before. It wouldn't do for a FBI agent to be afraid, 
would it? I've never called it claustrophobia, always fought 
down the tense feeling in my stomach, not letting it build 
into panic, forcing it down with iron control and slamming 
the door shut. Trying to hide it from myself.  

When I was down there, down in the...silo, I 
couldn't contain it anymore. I screamed and fought and 
cried at first, beating my hands bloody against the door, 
shouting my throat raw. I wasn't rational, I know. It's hard 
to be rational locked up like that, hard to be of sound 
judgement when black oily residue clots your eyelashes 
together, when your mouth tastes of the sweet iron of your 
own blood mixed with the bitter slick taste of oil. The 
strange taste of something that doesn't belong on this planet. 
Is it any wonder that I went off the deep end eventually?  

To this day, I don't remember how I got out of 
there. If anyone asks, I tell them about some militia men. 
The truth is - I don't know. It could've been anyone. All *I* 
know is that I woke up in a narrow bed in a cheap hotel 
room feeling sore and *still* able to taste oil in my mouth.  

But this isn't the closet where my father locked me 
up, this isn't the smoking man's foggy office or a dark 
underground silo. This is an elevator in the back of the FBI 
building on a Saturday evening and I can't afford a panic 
attack.  

My chin hurts where he slammed me into the wall. 
I'll have a bruise the size of an  FBI ID come morning. I try 
to concentrate on that, to shut out the sound of the doors 
closing shut, leaving me and Fox Mulder in a small elevator.  

It's the worst kind of elevator too, with totally 
closed doors. In fact, it reminds me of the elevators in the 
small hotels in London. The ones that are made from rebuilt 
Victorian or Georgian houses, with their endless narrow 
corridors that lead one around in circles. Those hotels 
always have tiny elevators, about four foot square, with 
plush carpets stained and worn by hundreds of feet coming 
in from the lobby trailing muddy suitcases after them, with 
walls covered in the same ruddy soft carpet and the light a 
dim lamp in the tiny roof. Often these places have one wall 
mirrored. I've always wondered why. Do they do it to try to 
make the place seem bigger? If so, they never succeed. 

This place doesn't have mirrors. It has a small tip-up 
chair, but Mulder's leaning towards that wall so I can't get at 
it. I lean against the opposite wall, my face averted from 
Mulder's. It's not that I don't want him to see me like this - 
he's already seen me looking far worse  - but I have to keep 
my eyes on the doors. As long as I keep my eyes on the 
doors and clench my hands so tight behind my back that I 
can feel the tiny trickles of blood collecting in my palms, as 
long as I do that I can keep from crying. It's too small, too 
small in here and I can't breathe!  

No! Calm down, Alex, you can breathe. This will 
soon be over, we'll be down in just a few seconds.  

And this is the proof that the universe is out to get 
me, that every man's hand is turned against me. I hear the 
soft creaking noise and the elevator suddenly comes to a 
standstill.  

At first I can't believe it. This simply cannot be 
happening. But as much as I'm straining my ears to hear any 
sound of the elevator moving, it's in vain. This elevator is 
dead, as dead as my early childhood belief in an honest 
government. I'm stuck in a minute elevator in the back of 
the FBI building on a Saturday evening. And it's not as if 
somebody will miss me...  It takes a couple of seconds for 
the fact to sink in but when it does, it hits me hard. I close 
my eyes tightly, bite my lips bloody and I can feel my nails 
digging even deeper into callused flesh. I can't breathe, I 
can't breathe in here! Please, please, *please*, GET THIS 
DAMN ELEVATOR RUNNING!!!  

I don't realize that I'm shouting until Mulder looks at 
me strangely and I hear my own voice reverberate in the 
tiny space. He just leans back against the wall, wearing that 
arrogant, lovely smile, and tells me to shut up. Shut up! He's 
a psychologist, he should know about this. Or maybe he's 
just getting a kick out of it...

I try not to scream. The truth is, I'd do a lot of 
things for Fox Mulder. At least he doesn't shoot me on 
sight, the least I can do is refrain from shouting. So I lean 
back against the wall and try to unclench my fists, try to 
look casual, try not to reveal the panic I feel rising in my 
gut. It's not easy, and I carefully avoid looking at him, 
carefully avoid looking anywhere but at the door. I can't feel 
the sweat beads rising on my forehead but I know they're 
there. I don't feel the nails of my right hand digging into my 
left wrist, I don't feel the nails on my left hand breaking 
against the wooden paneling of the elevator. I know I'm 
doing it, because I can feel blood trickling down my wrist. 
Blood collects in my mouth too, from the lip I keep biting 
into, and I try to focus on the taste, trying to pick out all the 
individual flavours of my own blood. The sweet tang of 
iron, the salt...

I don't know that I'm screaming again until I feel 
Mulder's arm around me, Mulder's palm over my mouth. I 
try to get away and end up throwing myself into the wall, 
reminding myself again that I'm trapped here. Trapped 
here...

I must have stopped yelling because his hand is 
gone. His hand is gone from my mouth but the other one 
still rests calmly at my shoulder. I wish it didn't. The weight 
of it sends shudders through my body, the warmth it 
radiates speeds down and hits me hard. He's always been 
able to do that to me, make me totally incoherent with a 
touch. Oh, who am I kidding, he can make my breath catch 
in my throat with a look. And now his look, that face so 
close to mine, it's enough to make me stop breathing, to 
make me repress the terrible feeling of walls closing in on 
me, of air going bad.

I don't realize I've been holding my breath until I feel 
it bursting out, like thunder in my ears. And then Fox 
Mulder is holding me, his arms around me. I wonder, 
briefly, if that's what they told him in Oxford that one 
should do with hysterical criminals stuck in elevators. And 
it's now that I realize I'm screaming again. That my yell 
echoes off the walls, is absorbed by the orange-and-brown 
carpeting. And that Mulder's arms around me are warm and 
safe and erotic. That his hair smell slightly of crisp apples. 
That there's a slight trace of some spice coming from his 
skin, his cheek so close to mine. And I'm screaming my 
lungs out and he's just holding me close and I don't care, I 
don't care what he thinks about me any more, all I care 
about is that his hair smells so good and his cheek is so soft 
and to my own surprise I turn my head slightly and stop 
screaming, kissing that lower lip.

Some remote corner of my mind probably keeps 
itself detached, registering everything that happens, filing it 
away for future   reference. I know it does, that's how my 
mind works. I always remember those moments of panic, 
afterwards. But now I'm *not* screaming, I'm kissing 
special agent Fox Mulder as if my life and sanity depended 
on it. And it might well be so. As long as I'm kissing him I 
can unfocus and forget. Forget about my...claustrophobia, 
forget about always running for cover. Forget about 
everything.

His lips are soft under mine and I can feel that lower lip 
tremble as I assault it with my own, taking it in my mouth, 
pulling on it with my teeth. I slip my tongue into his mouth, 
tasting him, and I feel his arms tighten around me and my 
cock harden, more than I thought was possible. Leaning 
into him like this, pressed against each other in the small 
space, I can feel an erection matching my own bumping into 
my thigh. Hell, he wants this just as bad as I do! I wish my 
hands were loose so I could roam them all over him, bury 
my fingers in that gorgeous hair and press his head close to 
my own. Now the only way I can show him my desire is by 
kissing him. And kiss him I do, long and thoroughly, my 
mouth wandering from that enchanting lower lip to the hard 
edge of his mandibular bone, tonguing the ridge out to his 
ear and playfully biting the lobe. I hear him gasp and his 
arms tighten around me and I can feel one of his hands 
wandering downwards. I rip my mouth for a second from 
his throat to shake my head - he'll get blood on that soft 
expensive Armani suit - but he doesn't care. I can feel his 
fingers over the cuffs, wandering, sending small tendrils of 
icy fire all along my nerve paths, and suddenly I realize he's 
unlocking them. Gingerly I put one hand forward and 
carefully, lest I smear him with blood, I touch that cheek, 
the faint stubble raspy under my fingertips. He looks at me 
all the time, looking me straight in  the eyes with those hazel 
irises. My eyes are hazel too, but much more green, his are 
generously flecked with brown. Warm eyes, not cold green 
like my own. I can feel the blush creeping up my cheek 
bones under that stare. He smiles then, a lopsided smile, and 
kisses me.  

That undoes me. I melt perfectly into his embrace 
and answer the kiss as if my life depends on it. I do not 
speak, and neither does he. We're trapped in this elevator 
together and somehow that's all that matters, not what's 
been before and not what's going to happen. The only thing 
that matters is now, this moment, and trying to speak would 
disrupt it beyond repair. For we hate each other, don't we? 
He trusted me and I betrayed him. He uses me as a punch 
bag whenever we see each other. He thinks I killed his 
father and nothing I say will ever convince him otherwise. I 
didn't, but right now it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, 
nothing at all. Just the feeling of his mouth against mine. 
The almost unsure dance of his tongue over my teeth, 
tracing the roof of my mouth as if he's trying to learn it by 
heart. And I kiss him back, clinging to him, holding on for 
dear life, shutting away all shadows and all thoughts of 
suffocating to concentrate on these feelings. The fingers of 
my left hand tangle in his hair, pushing him towards me, 
while the other traces abstract figures on his neck. His 
fingers aren't exactly idle either, I feel them deftly 
unbuttoning my shirt and pushing it and my leather jacket 
down, trapping my arms at my sides. I quickly shrug the 
clothes off, wanting my hands free to pull at *his* clothes. 
As I try to unbutton the shirt he slaps my hands away 
playfully and, while continuing to kiss me, he unbuttons my 
jeans, slowly, pausing between each button.  

I feel like I'm going insane. Like I'm drowning in 
dark honey, because that's how his kisses feel, sweet and 
overpowering, and all I can do is grab his shoulders and 
cling to this man, the single constant in my universe right 
now. Almost automatically I lift my hips off the ruddy 
carpet-clad wall, lifting one leg after the other, enabling him 
to pull jeans, socks and shoes off all at once. The movement 
makes me lose  my grip on his shoulders and for a second I 
can feel the panic set in again. For a second I almost scream 
and my breath catches in my throat, but then his arms are 
there again, and I can breathe, sobbing at his shoulder, 
scared and hot and horny, all mixed up. The wool of his suit 
is both soft and prickly against my naked skin and I can 
hardly believe it. His hands wander on my back, slowly, 
erotically, and I hear myself moan, feel myself grow even 
harder, and his cock hard under the suit, hard against my 
thigh. I tear my bloody hands away from his shoulders and 
fumble with his tie, waiting for him to slap them away again. 
But he doesn't, he looks at me and smiles, and kisses me, 
and those long, skillful fingers - shouldn't he be a doctor, 
instead of Scully? - trace soft intricate patterns on my 
thighs, featherlight touches, getting closer and closer to my 
cock, yet never touching it.  

My fingers fumble but I get rid of that hideous tie 
and with shaking hands I throw it in a corner. With fingers 
made slippery from nervousness I start on the buttons that 
holds that white-on- white linen shirt together. The man's
got taste, exclusive taste, for everything but ties. I laugh a 
little at that thought - his ties *are* exclusive, in a way - and 
he looks at me and now he touches me again and I gasp. No 
one can know how erotic his touches are, soft silky fingers 
tracing my perineum and cupping my balls and I think I cry 
out, or maybe I don't, maybe Mulder just put two of his 
fingers over my mouth as a precaution. 

I'm hardly aware of what I'm doing anymore. I rip 
the shirt apart, not caring that it probably cost more than I 
paid for a suit when I was with the FBI. All I know is that I 
have to touch that skin and I burrow my nose in the soft 
curls on his chest. Like the hair on his head it smells faintly 
of apples and I begin to wonder if someone's given him an 
entire bathroom set with green apple scent or if he just uses 
one of those cheap brand hair-and-body-shampoos. But 
underneath that crispy scent lies the salt and spice of Mulder 
and with a sound that reaches my ears as a sob I catch one 
of the brown nubs between my lips and nibble on it, reveling 
in the soft-yet-firm texture and the salty taste. I'm kissing 
Fox Mulder's chest, like in countless daydreams, and it's 
better than I could even imagine. His fingers, now infinitely 
tender, now slightly rougher, caresses my buttocks and - 
finally! - touch my cock and, it's embarrassing as hell, but 
his hand, moving up and down, makes me even hotter, and I 
rub myself against those scratchy pants the man is *still* 
wearing. Oh, God, I could get off on this alone.  The 
scratchiness isn't exactly unpleasant - rather the reverse 
actually - and I can hear myself moaning  soft breaths 
against Mulder's salty skin. It feels so good and yet I want 
more. He drives me out of my mind and I grab Mulder's 
head in my hands and kiss him, as hard as I can, pressing my 
tongue deep into his mouth, capturing the taste that is the 
very essence of Mulder. If one could bottle that taste...  

And he responds exactly the way I want him to, 
kissing me back aggressively, dominantly, roaming his 
hands over my back, pinching my ass slightly. I grind myself 
even more enthusiastically against him, probably leaving 
slimy traces of precum all over those lovely pants.  My 
hands are shaking from excitement and I start to fumble 
with the zipper and my hands aren't slapped away. Actually 
he's encouraging me by skimming his hands deftly along my 
back, cupping my butt cheeks and pinching them slightly 
again. I moan against his mouth and start to ease the pants 
down over his slim hips. He's co-operating beautifully, 
spreading his legs slightly as I tug on the wool and making it 
easier for me to slide the dark textile down over those long 
legs. Without letting go of my mouth he tears them off and 
he's now dressed only in dark green jockeys with tiny little 
red parakeets on. It's just so - Mulderish - that I rip my 
mouth away from his and *stare* at him. Mulder in hideous 
ties I expect - like that red one with the orange-and-yellow 
zig-zag pattern - but *underwear*?!  

Mulder looks down at me and I feel myself smiling. 
Okay, the briefs aren't exactly *tasteful* but somehow they 
fit him perfectly. More than perfectly, actually, the soft 
material stretched over an impressive hard-on. I smile into 
his neck and start kissing him again, slowly working my way 
downwards. He doesn't moan or anything, in fact there's no 
sign but his heavy breathing and his encouraging hands that 
he even *likes* what I'm doing, but right now I really don't 
care. I've been dreaming about this countless nights, laying 
sleepless in strange hotel rooms, hearing the cockroaches 
making their rounds on the shabby floor. Those times I've 
closed my eyes and imagined Mulder lying beside me in the 
rickety bed, imagined *his* hand instead of my own 
stroking my penis, tried to imagine how he would taste. And 
now I can do all that, a fantasy come true. I nibble slightly 
on his nipples before I fall to my knees in front of him and 
rest my cheek against the bulge in his jockeys.  

I feel his hands against my head now and for a second  
look up. He's standing over me, looking for all the 
world like some ancient conquering hero, and suddenly I 
can't wait any more. I pull the undergarment off with 
lightning speed and start to fondle his balls with my tongue.  

I could never have imagined something like this, not 
even in my wildest fever dreams. The spicy taste is tenfold 
stronger here and I bury my nose in the wiry pubic hair, 
drawing one of the silky testicles into my mouth, caressing 
it over and over with my tongue, careful not to scrape against 
it with my teeth. I could do this forever and not tire of it.  
Mulder's erection bumps into my cheek and I take a quick lick 
at it as it goes by. Finally, a reaction - Mulder gasps and his 
breathing becomes slightly irregular. Both his hands are at 
my head now, those long graceful fingers wound tightly in 
my hair, pulling at the roots almost, but not quite, painfully. 
Directing me, and I take the hint gratefully, because it's 
what I've been wanting to do all the time. I tilt my head 
slightly to the side and, in one fluid motion, swallow his 
cock almost to the root.  

There's a trick to deep-throating and I can't do it on 
command. But with this man it all goes perfectly, I relax my 
throat and suck him in deeply and I can feel the blood 
pulsating along the large vein on the under side, the one 
winding its way to the flaring cock head. I trace it with my 
tongue and constrict my throat slightly and I hear a soft, 
almost inaudible, sound, coming from Mulder. His hands 
tighten in my hair, pulling a strand or two loose with a 
sharp, almost stinging, pain.  I don' t mind. I'm sucking 
special agent Fox Mulder's cock and I *really* like it. I feel 
I could come from sucking him off and at that thought I 
grind myself sharply against his knees.  

I can hear Mulder's sharp intake of breath and the 
next second he's pulling me up, hands on my shoulders, and 
pressing me against the elevator wall he kisses me deeply, 
holding my head with one hand and trailing the other down 
my spine, touching my butt cleft, rubbing a knuckle across 
the tight opening. I gasp - or maybe I moan, I'm not too 
sure of my own reactions right now, but evidently Mulder's 
encouraged by it because his hand wanders upwards. I can 
feel his fingers collecting the slick sweat that's been running 
all over my back, and then I *know* I gasp against his 
mouth because one of his fingers glides slowly into me. At 
first there's a quick, almost imagined, stab of pain, and then 
I relax and just lean into his arms. I mean, hell, this is Fox 
*Mulder* for christ's sake, and he's shoving his *finger* up 
my *ass* and it's so fantastic! He inserts another one and I 
can feel my knees turn to jelly. This is *so* good, so much 
better than my dreams, and I can't help but closing my eyes, 
just for a second.  

Suddenly he's not there anymore, no arms close 
around me, and I open my eyes in panic, just to see him 
rummaging around in his suit pocket. He looks at me, and I 
can swear I see him blushing a tiny bit when he pulls a 
condom of the pre-lubricated brand out of the inner pocket 
of his jacket.  

I get all hot and bothered at the mere sight. The 
thought of the agent's throbbing erection all covered in this 
thin rubber sheath, ready to run up my back entrance, it's 
one of the greatest turn-on's of my life. With slightly shaky 
hands I take the packet from Mulder and, ripping the plastic 
open with my teeth, I apply the rubber with hands that are 
suddenly very steady. I caress those lovely testicles in their 
silky, slightly furry sack once more and, catching sight of 
the foldable chair, I think of a way to put that one to good 
use.  I fold out the chair and lean forwards, resting my 
hands on it. I can feel the edges of the not-enough 
sandpapered piece of wood, splinters rough under my 
hands, as I lean forwards, wiggling my rear end invitingly at 
Mulder.  

You don't have to tell the man twice - he surely 
knows how to take a subtle hint. Or maybe I'm not being 
very subtle at the moment, but, hell, do I really care? I 
mean, I'd gladly screw subtle for the feel of Mulder's cock 
up my ass.  Or was that a double entendre? I can feel his 
fingers on my buttocks, spreading them, and then the head 
of his erection presses against my anus. There is a short stab 
of pain, but it passes more quickly than the lingering 
hurtfulness of a bruise or the gut-wrenching nausea of a 
head blow and leaves a wonderful feeling of not-quite pain 
and not-quite pleasure, quickly turning into all-pleasure.  

I lean my head against the wall, almost wishing there 
was a mirror  so I could see Mulder's face when he starts 
moving, pushing his member in and out in an almost 
torturously slow pace. I can feel the head hitting my 
prostate gland, over and over again, and I hear my own 
breathing speed up, and Mulder's slow and regular breaths 
becoming heavier, hot against my neck as he leans forward 
with a particularly long stroke, nipping my neck.  

I don't know what I'm doing anymore, or where I 
am, all I care about is special agent Fox Mulder fucking me 
into sweet oblivion, so I raise my hips even further and, as if 
he reads my mind, he starts going faster, and slightly 
rougher.  

He isn't *too* rough, he's not hurting me or anything, just enough 
to make me feel really wonderful. I close my eyes, just for a 
second, feeling the carpet under my forehead. My head moves 
slightly against the wall as he thrusts and I have this sinking feeling
I'll have a carpet burn there. A strange thing to explain to the prison 
officer. I can feel the heat but I don't really care. Mulder's hand is 
all wrapped around my cock and *is* this man an expert in this, or 
what? He's sure had practice - all those long hours in front of the 
television set, forgotten files on his lap. This is just so *good*, *too* 
good. My balls shrink and pull themselves upwards, as if in fear, but 
what I'm feeling is most definitely *not* fear, because as Mulder 
once again lets his fingers run slowly over the glans, he buries his rod 
to the hilt in me and I can hear myself screaming as I come.  

The moment is stretched out into eternity. I hear the 
sound of my own voice, Mulder's hot, heavy breathing as he 
pumps back and forth, the soft creaking of the tip- up chair, 
not used to such pressure. The soft slap of Mulder's balls 
against my own, and my internal muscles contracting against 
his erection, squeezing it, hugging it, making him come.  

He grabs my shoulders as he comes, hard enough to 
leave bruises, but it's not as if I *really* mind. I feel the 
heaviness of him leaning some of his weight against me, and 
I slowly loose my grip on the chair, sliding down into a heap 
on the floor. Gracelessly, bonelessly, still caught up in his 
orgasm, Mulder follows, his cock almost reluctantly sliding 
out of me.  

The air is heady with the aroma of sex, the sweet 
smell of semen and sweat. Mulder's breathing has calmed 
down now, is hot and regular against my shoulder, his arms 
around me, cradling me, protecting me from the world and 
everything that's in it, against everything but himself. 
Everything but the seedy intoxicating fragrance that is Fox 
Mulder. Against everything but the hopeless desire I feel 
towards this man, the desire I've always felt and managed to 
clamp down. And I know I'm hooked on this man, hooked 
for life. With the way he looked at me, the way he kissed 
me, those hazel eyes blazing, I dare say he feels something 
too.  Neither of us will ever say it, though. Mulder has too 
high morals and I, what could I do? I'd draw trouble to him, 
that's what I'd do. And besides, when he's thinking clearly 
again he'll be back to slapping me around. Taking me down 
to that superior of his, having me properly arrested. No one 
can say Mulder is bound by the book but he *has* a strong 
sense of justice. For the moment I'm safe though, safe and 
sound in the circle of his arms. And I touch his face, run my 
fingers over that luscious lower lip, try to commit every part 
of him to memory. I can see the blood which has dried on 
my hands but it's as if that happened in another universe. I 
know I'm stuck in a tiny elevator and I feel the air is running 
out, but if I'm going to die let me do it cradled in Fox 
Mulder's arms. Without wanting to - I don't want to miss a 
second of this - I feel my head fall down onto his shoulder 
and my eyelids close.  

Seconds later - or is it hours? - I awake with a 
shock. The floor is moving under me, the elevator is no 
longer stuck. The jeans cut into my legs and my shirt is only 
half-buttoned. I look at Fox Mulder, but he refuses to meet 
my eyes, re-arranging his clothing, re-tying that hideous tie. 
I can understand that. How is he going to explain this one 
away? Having sex with a known criminal in a stuck elevator 
in the back of the FBI building.  

And the elevator whirs to a stop at the bottom floor 
and I expect Mulder to clip the cuffs around my wrists again 
but he just stands there, not looking at me, as the door 
opens. For a second I feel like I'm frozen, in space and time. 
All I can see are the doors opening slowly, as if in slow-
motion, and the back of Mulder's head. It would be so easy 
just bolting out the door, but I turn around and look at 
Mulder.  And he looks at me. Just for a second he looks at 
me, those hazel eyes clouded by something which I won't 
call tears. He mouths something - Go! - and then he turns 
and faces the wall.

I look at him again, one last time, seeing him in stark 
profile against the hideous carpet-like covering of the sides 
of the elevator, memorizing the way he looks. Then I turn 
around and walk away, out of the elevator, out of the FBI 
building's back door. Out of Fox Mulder's life.

End