Retam Sullet - Part One

A story can only be improved by a clear sense of setting, and this is no exception.

It was November 21, 2004. Unseasonable cold blew along a flinching eastern seaboard. John Ashcroft was still attorney general and although under severe pressure for the un-American activity of filling out a subscription card, The Lone Gunmen News' subscribership had dwindled to next to nothing, the number of actual readers had increased tenfold. The gun shops, independent bookstores, and pagan supply houses willing to carry the paper found themselves unable to keep up with demand.

For the publishers, though, it was as much of a hand-to-mouth existence as ever. And while the public interest was encouraging, the fact that civil liberties were slipping away like so many suds down a drain was not.

Langly and Frohike were just settling back into their around-the-warehouse routine after two weeks uncharged in Montgomery county lock-up, when Byers saw an unfamiliar figure on the front door surveillance camera.

"Someone's at the door," he said, surprised.

"Anybody we know?" Frohike asked, elbow deep in wires as usual, from across the room.

"I don't believe so," Byers answered. "No one I know, at least."

"Cop?" Frohike asked.

"A boy," Byers replied. "Or rather, a young man. I think."

Langly had rolled over from the game on his screen and was now scrutinizing the surveillance monitor. "And I'm supposed to be the blind one," he muttered. "That's a girl."

Frohike peered at the monitor. "I know you don't see the real thing on a regular basis, but the ones in the magazines you got with the pages stuck together, those are girls. And that," he pointed to the figure on the screen, "looks like a boy to me."

Langly folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head and glaring at Frohike. "Nuh uh."

"Uh huh." Frohike glared back.

"One way to settle this," Byers said, crossing the room and throwing open the door locks.

The figure in the door stood almost as tall as Langly, with ramrod straight posture. The newcomer was pathetically underdressed for the weather, wearing an unraveling black polyester sweater over layers and layers of t-shirts and a pair of torn, filthy jeans. The person's hair was a month away from clean-shaven scalp, and stood up in tiny chestnut brown spikes.

"Well?" Langly said as the others stared.

The guest swallowed and reached for the small of his or her back.

Langly and Frohike leapt back from what they were certain was a gun, one ducking, the other stumbling and finally sprawling on the floor, swearing.

Both were more than slightly embarrassed when the would-be assailant presented John Byers with a small spiral notebook.

"What's it say, Byers?" Frohike asked, trying to regain his composure.

Byers read the words printed in unnaturally precise block letters aloud. "My name is Thea Fidelis. Gibson Praise told me to come to you. He said you know where my parents are."

"Thea," Langly repeated the name, dusting himself off. "Told you she was a chick."

"Fidelis? Sorry, kid," Frohike said. "I'd remember anybody with a handle like Fidelis, and it doesn't ring any bells."

"But we do know Gibson Praise," Byers said.

"We know OF Praise. It's not the same thing," Frohike replied.

Byers looked at their visitor. Making deliberate eye contact, he asked, "Thea, are you deaf?"

Thea frowned at him and tapped the notebook.

ARE YOU DEAF? Byers wrote neatly.

The girl frowned and printed rapidly, NO, IT'S AN ACT. She rolled her eyes. JUST WAIT UNTIL I BUST MY HELEN KELLER MOVES.

WE DON'T KNOW ANYONE NAMED FIDELIS, Byers wrote, quelling his irritation.

She took the notebook and wrote more slowly this time.

These words Byers did not speak. "Oh," he said, surprise in his voice. He passed the palm-sized book to Frohike.

Frohike's brows rose, and he passed the book to Langly.

"Bullshit," Langly muttered. "She's too old."

"I don't know," Frohike countered. "Take a close look and tell me that face isn't familiar. Really familiar."

Langly looked at the words in front of him, then at the girl, then back at the words.

MY PARENTS ARE NAMED DANA SCULLY AND FOX MULDER, it said.

He grabbed the nearest pen and wrote in his spidery script, THEY'RE DEAD.

Thea wrote, GIBSON SAID YOU WOULD TELL ME THAT. BUT IT'S A LIE. GIBSON TOLD ME MY PARENTS ARE ALIVE AND YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND THEM.

Frohike grabbed a sheet of paper from a nearby printer tray. HOW WOULD GIBSON KNOW ABOUT US? he scribbled.

The girl shrugged. HE READ HER MIND, I SUPPOSE.

Byers took the paper anxiously. WHAT ELSE DID PRAISE SAY ABOUT US?

HE SAID MY MOTHER THOUGHT YOU MADE A PRACTICE OF COMMITTING AN AVERAGE OF FOUR PROSECUTABLE OFFENSES BEFORE BREAKFAST, BUT SHE STILL BELIEVED YOU WERE ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS. She looked from man to man. THOSE WERE HER THOUGHTS, ACCORDING TO GIBSON. YOU GUYS. ANGELS.

Frohike frowned. "That sounds about right," he offered.

IF YOU WANT US TO BELIEVE YOU, WE'RE GOING TO NEED PROOF, Langly scratched out on the page, his knee bouncing nervously. BLOOD, DNA WORK.

She didn't seem at all bothered. SURE, I'D LIKE TO BE CERTAIN MYSELF. She wrote back. I ONLY KNOW WHAT GIBSON TOLD ME.

"Ask her if she came from a lab," Frohike instructed Byers.

"What kinda lab?" Langly asked.

"You know what kinda lab," Frohike replied.

Langly whistled. "Dude, that would be a hell of a story, wouldn't it? We could blow it all wide fucking open couldn't we? The whole military-industrial complex, the whole Roswell-Project Paper Clip-everything."

"And get a first-hand chance to know how Wile E. Coyote feels when the anvil falls on his head? No thanks." Frohike shook his head. "The fewer people know about her, the better." He took the pad from her hand and scrawled, WHO WERE YOUR MANUFACTURERS?

ZEUS, she wrote back in her unnatural penmanship. I WAS GROWN IN COSTA RICA BUT I BELIEVE MOST OF MY DESIGN WAS A COMBINED DEUTSCHE NIPPONESE EFFORT.

HOW DID YOU ESCAPE? Frohike wrote.

I DIDN'T. I THINK THEY WERE HAVING BUREAUCRATIC PROBLEMS, she answered. THEY MISPLACED US, SO WE LEFT.

WE WHO? Byers wrote.

GIBSON AND I. WE WERE ON OUR OWN FOR FOUR YEARS. THEN HE DIED, she replied.

SO YOUR TRAIL - IT'S COLD? Byers continued.

At this, she simply nodded.

"Good," Frohike said half under his breath.

The girl snatched her pen and wrote clearly, ARRANGE THE TESTS. WHEN SHOULD I COME BACK?

Langly leaned forward when he saw the note and snatched her by the sleeve, steering her to sit in front of a monitor.

He leaned over her and typed.

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

TO FIND FOOD AND A PLACE TO STAY, she typed quickly.

YOU HAVE MONEY FOR A MOTEL? he asked.

She frowned.

WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO STAY? Langly insisted.

She lifted her chin. I'LL FIND SOMETHING.

NO WAY, Langly typed. STAY HERE.

She shook her head. NO, she typed.

Frohike nudged her slightly to the side so he could get at the keyboard. BLONDIE'S RIGHT, he typed. STAY WITH US. WE HAVE ROOM AND THIS PLACE IS PRETTY SECURE, JUST INCASE YOUR TRAIL ISN'T AS COLD AS YOU THINK. Then he turned to Langly and Byers, making sure Thea couldn't read his lips. "But I'll be damned if we lead her to Mulder, daughter or not. She could still be a spy."

"Damned skinny spy," Langly said. His lip curled. "And she smells like a dumpster. I'll bet that's where she's been sleeping."

"Yes, I noticed." Byers nodded. "And if she isn't who she says she is, it'll be a lot easier to keep an eye on her if she's here." He scanned her familiar features again briefly. "And if she is who she says she is, well, we should do what we can for her."

Frohike nodded. PLEASE? he typed. YOUR PARENTS WOULD EXPECT US TO KEEP YOU SAFE. YOU'LL BE SAFE HERE.

She shook her head. NO. NO OFFENSE, BUT HOW DO I KNOW I CAN TRUST YOU?

The three men blinked at one another for a moment. "Good question," Byers mumbled.

After a moment's thought, Langly turned back to the keyboard. GIBSON TOLD YOU. WE'RE ON THE SIDE OF ANGELS. YOU TRUSTED HIM, RIGHT? WOULD HE LIE TO YOU?

Thea bit her bottom lip. She shook her head 'no' quickly, as if, now that someone had asked, she wasn't entirely certain.

JUST UNTIL WE CAN RUN THE TESTS, Langly typed. JUST A FEW DAYS.

She hesitated. OKAY, she typed. JUST A FEW DAYS.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

The tests confirmed every word she had told them.

The few days she had promised Langly stretched into weeks, then months. The first time Byers found her dressing in the kitchen before dawn, a room was cleared for her.

One day, Langly noticed equations crammed into the margins of her notebook where he expected to see doodles. That same day, he began explaining to her the work that took up the majority of his attention.

Frohike noted she never needed him to explain anything twice. He also noted that Langly didn't once accuse her of the high crime of stupidity.

The following month, her room mates scrounged up enough cash to pay an oral surgeon to remove her wisdom teeth.

Two years, four months, and two days after she had first arrived in Takoma Park, Thea Fidelis was still there.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Thea Fidelis had only once before stolen something she could not justify. She was a small child and her transgression involved a spoon.

It never occurred to the men responsible for her well being to give the child a toy. During a brief visit to the estate of CGB Spender to examine her growth, development, ability to perform on a standardized test, she stole a spoon from the old man's tea set. A sugar shell really, small and silver with wavelike curls swelling around the bottom. When she looked into the scanty, tarnished bowl, she could see her own face reflected. It became her poppet.

She did not play with it as if it were a doll. Usually, she simply held it in her pocket. At the worst of times, though, she'd pull it out, then sit and stare into her own face in its shell, and pretend she wasn't alone.

The second unjustified theft was a kiss from Ringo Langly.

Even years later, certain aspects of unfolding events stood out Thea's memory. She remembered being gripped by an anxiety akin to physical pain in the hours between making the decision to kiss him and having the opportunity to actually do it. She remembered very clearly the moment when he began to respond, his body moving toward her and his mouth relaxing and opening, his oven mitt caressing her back.

His stumbling backwards and retreating, first to his room, then leaving the house altogether.

She made convincing excuses to Byers and Frohike, then spent the night sitting on his bed, fingering his books, his dice, his plastic bag full of twist ties and wondering if he hated her. Wanting to throw herself on his mercy.

Thea had never risked so much in her life as she did the moment she took Langly in her arms. She was no longer presumptuous enough to simply want something and take it. The tight frown of Richard Langly was far more terrifying than any of the tortures meted out by CGB Spender. Before the kiss, she was sure Ringo liked her. She had no problem stealing what was necessary for subsistence but there was no way on earth she could justify a kiss. A kiss?

She must have been insane.

Of course the blowing-up-in-her-face part was inevitable. She didn't look anything like the women in the magazines he kept between his mattress and box spring, so why would he want to kiss her? She was stupid, stupid, stupid and now it felt like a hole, like Gibson had died again, even though she knew it was wrong to compare the two.

She considered herself wise, jaded even, when it came to human behavior. And perhaps her life had afforded her a certain understanding of the nature of powerful men and their sycophants, of sadism and loneliness, and of the struggle for survival, but she sorely overestimated her understanding of relationships between adult men and women.

At that point in her life Thea equated sexual intercourse with reproduction and pleasure with her own hand. She kissed him because it was something she had wanted to do for a very long time. In the act she had neither reason nor goal but simply want, want akin to blind greed. Her thought went no farther than his lips.

Thea, of course, had no way of knowing that, although he'd occasionally had sex that involved no kissing at all, Langly had never in his adult life had a kiss that did not lead directly to sex. It never occurred to him when he was kissed, by the same girl who had been his partner in a four-handed keyboard attack on Dow Chemical two hours earlier, that she had anything other than sex in mind.

They were both in possession of a rather debauched form of naivety. What followed could not have transpired otherwise.

When he came in the next morning with his hair even less brushed than usual and his shirt inexplicably wet and smelling like Mountain Dew, she attempted to explain, apologize, and lie lie lie. Her words flew so fast he didn't understand a single one. Then all of the sudden he was angry, yelling and signing at her. And as resilient as she tried to be, there was a catch in her chest and tears broke out like water through busted plumbing and he tried to fighting them off at first and then...then...then he kissed her. He held her face in two hands and his tongue shot into her mouth like lightning to ground.

Certain things stood out about the experience, later: the agony of waiting for his judgment; the repeated kissing and the repeated pushing away; him standing, face to the wall, before he admitted haltingly that he wanted her. That he was afraid but not enough to let it stop him.

Not until he asked if she was a virgin did she realize he meant to have intercourse with her. She was immensely flattered. She thought perhaps it was the best idea anyone had ever come up with. Of course it was; Ringo was brilliant.

She had read about sex in medical texts. She was thoroughly aware what was occurring on a physical level. Changes in the pattern of blood flow, increased heart rate, surges of adrenalin. She was utterly unprepared for the way he touched her, as simple and tentative as his ministrations were. She had never seen a grown man naked, let alone achingly erect. She found him exquisite and unnerving.

She did not understand the words he mouthed at her. Did not know he said what he was afraid to sign. Did not recognize the words 'I love you.' Did not understand why he would not let her touch his penis.

She never expected him to take her nipple into his mouth, suckling her like a baby. She was amazed at the way the sensation went straight to her clitoris.

She stared at his face. His soft hair was spread out cross her chest, his hawkish nose nestled against her, his eyelids trembling as if in dream. There was something unfamiliar about his face without his glasses. She had the fearful sensation that she was with a stranger. Naked Langly, without glasses, shy and seeking comfort at her breast even as he pressed his almost unbearably warm erection against her leg, was totally foreign to her. He looked...different. Not frail or weak, not delicate or needy or pensive, but 'something' she was uncertain how to articulate.

Suddenly, she was aware of the quality of maleness in an entirely new way. He smelled like musk and black pepper. The most beautiful freckles spread themselves across his shoulders like flakes of gold. He looked other-worldly, a study in pale colors, tone on tone.

He seemed so grown-up this way, naked with his arms around her, and she felt so young and stupid that her own fear infuriated her. He had to be the smartest person alive to think to do this, this thing with her nipples. His touches were so intense she waited in pained anticipation of what he would do to her next.

This was sex. She kept feeling as though she was about to swoon. His left hand moved from her ribs down to her hard hip bone. She made fists reflexively.

DO YOU WANT ME TO STOP? he spelled with the fingers of one hand.

She shook her head.

OPEN YOUR LEGS, he spelled.

He seemed surprised when she complied. They both shivered when he gently spread her labia.

His thumb skated reverently over her sex. She recognized right away the pattern of his motions. Her name. He was spelling her name on her clitoris again and again. His hand between her thighs felt nothing like her own. Her orgasm blew like an explosion of ice.

She tried to beg him with her lips, her brain was a burning funhouse maze of thought insisting NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW no matter where she turned. Her every nerve ending screamed for penetration. He stared up at her totally void of understanding.

FUCK ME NOW LANGLY she spelled.

O.K. he spelled back.

He climbed on top of her with awkward slowness and laid there motionless for a long while, the tip of his penis not quite penetrating her. Had she been able she would have screamed in frustration. She rocked her hips. Mouthed a word she hoped he would recognize.

PLEASE.

He stopped her hips with his hands. He signed, ARE YOU SURE? IT'LL HURT, I THINK. I'VE HEARD IT HURTS.

She nodded, on the teeth-gritting edge of something that was like anger or desperation without being either one.

Slowly, incrementally, he penetrated her.

He was right. It hurt.

There was a surreal element to feeling one's own body tissue tear. She was surprised at the unforgiving hardness of him. She did not realize she made a sharp squeaking sound. She was surprised at how quickly the pain stopped once he began to move more rapidly.

She expected it to feel different, like they were one person. Instead, she felt every vein and ridge of him moving inside her. She was reminded how close they were, but still separate, his narrow body pushing against hers, his large hands squeezing her small breasts. She was surprised at the second orgasm she felt rise as he ejaculated inside her, taking her unaware. She felt the groan in his throat at the same time as his seminal fluid surged into her.

Afterwards, snuggling against her, he frowned worriedly when she asked if she had performed badly.

NO, I JUST - I FORGOT THE RUBBERS.

Regret that he had neglected to employ prophylaxis? She wrinkled her forehead and fought to conceal how stunned she was. His purpose had been pleasure only. She felt a wonderful cold in the pit of her stomach. There was no utility in this except maybe, just maybe, to share. How decadent. How beautiful. Incredible. She fought the lump that wished to rise in her throat, keeping her face blank. This was about the two of them, together, nothing else, no purpose beyond pleasing one another. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.

YOU COULD GET- He didn't know the sign.

WHAT? She asked.

DO YOU KNOW WHERE BABIES COME FROM? he signed uneasily.

OTHER THAN A LAB? SEX. BABIES COME FROM SEX, Thea signed matter-of-factly. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ONE? she continued.

He grabbed his glasses off the top of the clock. He looked so alarmed

UP CLOSE, I MEAN? she amended her question.

He blinked. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A BABY?

ONLY FROM A DISTANCE, she answered. LIKE AT THE ZOO.

Of course, it would have been fine with her to have a tiny Langly growing in her uterus. Better than fine. But Ringo seemed bothered by the idea. Well, she supposed, if he'd wanted offspring he would have them by now, wouldn't he?

She closed her eyes, secure in the statistical unlikelihood of impregnation.

He tucked the quilt around her shoulders. Although his hands were cold, his semen was warm and sticky and seeping out onto her bloody thighs.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: 

When she woke, he was sitting tensely on the edge on the bed, already showered and dressed.

ARE YOU MY GIRLFRIEND NOW? he signed.

She rubbed her eyes before she signed, WANT ME TO GET YOUR NAME TATTOOED ON MY ASS TO PROVE IT?

I'M SERIOUS, he signed, his eyes darting furtively.

SO AM I. Something feral flickering at him from behind her eyes. I'M NOT PHILOSOPHICALLY OPPOSED TO THE IDEA OF BRANDING EITHER, BUT ME, NOT YOU - YOU DON'T HEAL WELL AND BESIDES, YOU GET BITCHY WHEN YOU'RE IN PAIN.

THEN SAY IT, SIGN IT, WHATEVER, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, THAT WE'RE TOGETHER, he signed rigidly.

She tilted her head, her eyes wide. I ALREADY TOLD YOU I LIKE YOU.

He didn't know how to ask this. LIKE ME HOW? THE SAME AS YOU LIKE BYERS AND THE MAYOR OF MUNCHKIN TOWN?

I-

She paused and looked down suddenly, mesmerized by the bedspread. I DON'T KNOW, THAT'S WRONG, I KNOW BUT I... I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TELL YOU.

GIVE IT A SHOT.

YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE I'M OUT OF CONTROL LIKE I'M NOT ALONE, LIKE I, I, I LOVE YOU. She winced, awaiting his response.

With an awkwardness born of utter unfamiliarity with what he was about to do, he leaned over and kissed her with closed lips. Warmth spread across his cheeks as he was gripped with wonder. Oh god, it was real. He felt himself blush darker, imagining she understood the words he'd mouthed at her while they fucked.

I love you. I do.

He thought them again, his arms wrapped tight around her.

That evening, at dinner, he laid his hand on her knee underneath the table.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

end 01