A Fine White Haze
Classification: VRA, slash, MSR, Scully/Other UST
Spoilers: DeadAlive, details changed at the author’s pleasure.
Summary: there’s only room for one.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter owns Mulder and Scully. No infringement
intended, don’t sue.
You and me were punk-rock babies, glitter gods dancing on a razor so
fine and sharp it could have been used to cut the cocaine I watched
disappear up your nose in a haze of perfect white candy powder and the
siren call of our patron saint, the Thin White Duke, when he was all
right and out of sight because who says glam rock is dead, baby?
Who says? And why the fuck would we listen?
I found you because I knew you needed me, you with your swagger and
your lips, glossed although you would never admit that you, my tough
delicious boy with an aftertaste of stomach acid and cold steel, you
wouldn’t wear lip gloss, would you? You’re a ladies man, not a man’s
woman. And yet.
I remember when you prowled those runways in those balls, twisting and
mincing with a fierce dark love of being beautiful–even in sequins
that would have made David throw his hands up in disgust. Purple
fucking sequins, boy-o. You wore ’em with a flair that made me shuffle
in my jeans and made my skin tremble with repression. I could have
leapt from the balconies to declare my allegiance to you and your fine
motherfucking body, but you were trying to be legendary and you would
have been so angry.
Never mind that Madonna came along and took it all away, our whole
childhood scene. Paris is Burning, indeed. Madonna is burning in hell
for never having an original dream. Madonna is the ultimate cop-out
mimic. She wanted to be Marilyn but without the pills. She wanted to
be a gay man, but without the cock. She wanted to rule the world, but
without the headaches. Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!
Who cares? I was talking about you.
You remember? Remember how you and I used to end up in the alley
outside the theatre, you pressed up against that dirty cold wall,
shifting those taut little boy hips up against me like you’d die
without contact? You with your pink kitten tongue that begged to lick
while you dug your claws into my shoulders and tried to draw blood or
just desire from my muscles, pulling so hard I’d think you were trying
to kill me until you nuzzled me with that rough pink tongue, licking
up the neck and tasting every inch of skin that came under your
kitten’s lips. Your head would bounce into the hard concrete behind
you and you’d laugh and try to nuzzle deeper, swirling around the
earlobe and under the jaw and I knew that nothing would be right until
I could dig into the hard boy muscles of your ass and your thighs.
When you weren’t a disciple of Ziggy Stardust (a few years too late),
you ran long distance every afternoon, turning your legs into
sculpture, living marble under my fingers–my runner, my beautifully
awkward arms-and-legs runner boy who wanted to play basketball but
wasn’t coordinated enough.
It was a drug, the smell of us together, young and stupid and amazed
at how skin felt under our fingers, the way muscles flexed, and the
way a cute smile and a little courtesy got us enough coke to dip our
hands in and sample, like cocaine was the food of love, washed down
with a stinging shot of the cheapest vodka ever slung back by two
incredibly cute boys in love.
We were those damned Davids, those beautiful youths that the Greeks
got their fucking cocks in a twist over when they should have been
fucking their wives, we smiled and smiled and when the day was over
and we were sick on glitter and coke and compliments, we’d fall down
on my shitty, squeaky mattress and touch each other when we were too
tired to fuck. Sometimes it was even better to touch than fuck,
because it felt like we were something when I just had your hand in
mine or when you were running your fingers down my back and murmuring
sweet nothings I couldn’t hear.
Then I’d fall asleep in the haze of the gloriously decadent and when I
came too the sun was glaring through the broken blinds and you were
gone to be the good high school boy who ran and ran until all the
excess flesh was burnt away and you were just a living statue, a
Donatello, a Michelangelo, an all-American dreamboat that lived and
died in my arms.
My sweet, sweet boy.
When you told me it was over, we were sick on cheap powder, drenched
in baby oil and gold flecks with the sweet-sick smell of reefer hiding
in the corners of my consciousness and somewhere in my brain was half
a bottle of scotch that smoothed out all your rough words and turned
them into beautiful, delirious poetry that would have made Allan
Ginsburg cream his shorts and Ernest Hemingway, that fucking tough
guy, turn purple and pretend he wasn’t listening as he hung onto every
word that slipped out of your glossy lips.
You gotta get it together, you said to me. Man, you could have a
future, but you’re wasting it.
We’re wasting the future together, I told him dreamily, blissed out in
my very own Xanadu. Eat, drink, and be merry, cuz tomorrow, we’re our
I’ll never be my father. That’s what you said before you stood up and
closed the door.
You left me and never said goodbye. Our short story was over even
before it began. You drifted out like a bad trip and left me to
languish somewhere between reality and fever dream and it was the
right decision, man, but you were my first love and I never forgot
that it was never really over. You never said goodbye.
Looks like it’s a fucking trend with you. I read in the papers that
you were gone and I had to go to the funeral. I met your fucking girl
there, man, the one who’s not your girl by any official papers, but
looks like she had a very productive meeting with your legendary cock?
The one that’s probably tight and tough and the only kind of chick you
could ever bang with your psychological issues?
I had to talk to her. Now that you’re not dead or anything (and what
the fuck is that? Are you Jesus or something?), you’re probably pissed
off, if you know. You might not. Your girl is a tough little bitch.
She’s got her own thing going on, things so deep and dark you can’t
even understand ’em. In fact, she’s starting to slip out of my pen and
onto my pages more and more, a
blueeyedredhairedvirgin-marybellybluejeanbeautyqueen as poignantly
real as anyone Joan Crawford ever played on the silver screen. If
you’re reading, if you remember that I was the boy you fucked twenty
some-odd years back and I write about you all the fucking time, you
might actually recognize your girl as she smiles from my sentences.
She was crying, crying bad, the way my sister did when this fuck, this
macho son of a bitch fuck, beat her up and she was crying because she
loved him anyway. I don’t understand women. I saw her belly–not my
sister, your girl–and I knew you’d left her without saying goodbye.
He’s an asshole anyway, I told her. He always just leaves without even
a good-bye note, and you look over your shoulder because you’d think
he’d be there, but he’s not, not ever.
Do I know you, she asked me, all pissy sounding, sour, like vinegar or
I knew him. I know how he is. He was my first real love, the kind of
thing that makes every other lover taste like Countrytime Lemonade
next to the real stuff. He’s a fucking drug, man. You don’t even have
to get a sniff to be addicted. You do crazy stuff, just for a little
bit of him. At least, that’s how it was with me.
She did a double take. Wait. Are you?
I nodded. The one, the only, the possibly famous. But forget about me,
I’m not here to talk about me, I want to talk to you about him. Would
you come have a drink with me?
She glared daggers at me with a quick punctuated glance at her belly.
I’m afraid that I can’t.
Come to my hotel room. Please. I just want to talk about him. No
She looked at me and I think she got that was the plan. We were the
bookends of your long (and no doubt enjoyable) career and it was
strange to be there, standing over your grave and thinking of what it
was like to be in bed with you.
Did you know, I asked her when we got into the hotel room. That he
was? That he liked boys?
Oh God, I knew. There was a time when I wanted him so bad I would have
told him there could be another man if we could be together just once.
She looked grim when she said it, sitting down on the lumpy bed and
making a face like it hurt to admit the truth.
So you were the first one?
As far as he told me. And you were the last one?
Yeah, I think so. So do we get candy surprises?
Her eyes glittered hard when she said this, like she had a fever or
maybe just a dream that wouldn’t leave her brain. I could see
immediately that she had loved you until it had sunk into the bones
and through the marrow. There was no getting you out of her.
Maybe a cruise to Maui, I suggested.
She laughed and that was crystal, brittle and tinkling like Laura’s
glass unicorn. I could smell you on her, seeping out from the marrow
and into the air like a fine white haze, a fog, a shadow. Though maybe
that was actually the little white pills I killed with three shots of
scotch, but I could feel you there with us.
I propose a toast to Fox, I said. May he actually stay dead and not
She looked at me funny. That’s an odd toast.
He never rested for a second in his life. Maybe he’ll finally get a
little rest and he won’t hover in our lives like the aftertaste of
You’ve got a way with words, she said. It must be useful in your line
They pay the bills, I replied, trying to be unironic and simple for
once, but I was failing miserably and all I could think of were your
hard thighs and rough pink tongue and how she looked at me with those
eyes that told me she knew how it felt to look up and know he was
gone, to know that he was only temporary. She knew and she knew the
pain of wanting him anyway.
You still miss him, she said. It wasn’t a question. Twenty years
later, and you still miss him.
It’s not like missing, I explained. It’s like needing, like
withdrawal, if you’ve ever done withdrawal, I do it every other month
when I can’t make the air sparkle with the right phrases. I crave him.
I get sick dreaming of him. The way his lips attacked me, I crave that
the way I crave a cheap bottle of scotch or a line of coke.
He tasted really good, she said slowly. I was never much on biting or
licking and I had to taste as much of his skin as I could. I still can
almost taste him and I keep needing to lick my lips, because maybe in
a corner I haven’t licked in a while, he’s still there.
Pregnant women crave funny things, I quipped. Like pickles in peanut
Like sex, she replied dryly. Then her mood turned on a dime and she
blushed. Oh God, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but ever since I
knew I was pregnant I’ve been itching and it’s just–I’m sorry, that
was totally inappropriate–
You were there, Fox, you crazy fucking sex god, and I swear to God you
were egging me on. Her itch was so contagious you could catch it just
by hearing the craving in her voice.
Everything about right now is inappropriate, I said.
She looked at me, her breathing jagged and harsh and hot. I could feel
how warm she was from ten feet away. The way she leaned there, just
looking. I wanted to offer her a cigarette or a drink or a trip down
the rabbit hole, but I couldn’t speak. I was suffocating in the haze,
floating in memories and drowning in that smell that seemed to be
coming from her, that faint trace of you that seemed imprinted in her
I wanted her and I never want women. I wanted to steal all of the you
she had and leave her high and dry.
She started whispering, her tuneless silent voice entwining with the
haze in a diabolical plot to evoke you and invoke you and drive me
into her delicate little body to try and find you like Alice and her
white rabbit until I found myself head over heels in a land that was
not my own and you know, I was dreaming enough in our world. She laid
back and my head started to swim with possibilities. What would I do
I kept hearing her whispering. Baby’s on fire, better throw her in the
water…baby’s on fire and all the instruments agree that–her
temperature’s rising but any idiot would know that!
I could hear her trying to drag me into her world of loss and I didn’t
know what to do. I couldn’t do it to her. I wouldn’t. She had a baby
to think about, man.
We should, I should, you should, I tried to speak but it seemed as
though I had lost all of the words. I definitely needed to dry out for
a week. It’s no good, it’s no good at all.
What are you talking about? Are you okay?