Chapter Text
DC always feels a little strange around Christmas. Most people aren’t from the city proper, so it empties out, leaving little touristy islands in a sea of highly decorated streets, shut-down government buildings, and unoccupied apartments.
Some people might call it soulless, but Alex doesn’t mind the eerie quiet. He doesn’t actually dislike Christmas — contrary to what certain people might think, he doesn’t hate joy like some kind of cartoon villain — it’s just that for a long time Christmas has felt like something that happens to other people. It’s a good day for him to work. True, he’s more noticeable in the empty streets today, but there are always a few people out: hospital workers, on-call maintenance guys, vagrants and city cops. Some foreigners, keeping open a few corner stores and takeout joints for people who don’t celebrate, or who just have no place to go. Other people like him, who don’t fit into the happy all-American version of Christmas you see on TV.
He’s being pointlessly morose. That is arguably traditional too, a very Russian way to celebrate, but it isn’t much fun at 11 AM without vodka. Anyway, he does have someplace to go, and that place is Special Agent Fox Mulder’s apartment.
His new employer doesn’t have the same obsession with Mulder that the Smoking Man did, but he still likes to keep tabs. The embarrassing truth is that these days Mulder often gets to key information before they do, so it's worth taking a look at what he’s working on when the opportunity arises. Today should be about as safe as it gets; intel says that a few days ago, when Scully tried to convince Mulder to go to her family Christmas, Mulder told her that he was going up to Connecticut to try to reconcile with his mother. Personally, if Alex found out someone willingly had an affair with the Smoker he wouldn’t go near them with a ten foot pole, even if it was his own mother, but some people are funny about family that way. Anyway, Mulder usually takes important files home with him over the holidays, and hopefully he won’t have brought them to Connecticut.
Breaking into Mulder’s apartment is so easy it barely counts as breaking in. Alex made a copy of the super’s master key years ago, but he can’t help noticing that it doesn’t look like Mulder has changed the locks since the last time he was here. It’s hardly an invitation, but it still makes Alex’s pulse quicken. They haven’t seen each other since that night (well, Mulder hasn’t seen him anyway), and that’s for the best. Nonetheless, sometimes he finds himself looking for excuses to make their paths cross. The only reason he hasn’t broken in when Mulder might come home is that if he did it twice it would just look pathetic.
The apartment feels familiar, even though he’s only been here a few times. It smells like Mulder, is the thing. It’s mostly just a books-and-ink smell, a little bit of coffee. The smell is warmer when it’s on Mulder, clinging to his hair and clothes, mixed with the soap he uses. More human. Still, the air in the apartment gives Alex this little jolt of recognition. Scent is the sense most strongly linked to memory, according to scientists. Mulder had told him that once, when they were doing research for God knows what. Back when Mulder used to tell Alex random facts just because he was there and happy to listen.
Fuck, he’s edging dangerously close to morose again. He wonders if Mulder has any vodka.
It’s tempting to make himself at home here for a while, but that feels disrespectful in a way that matters, though Mulder probably wouldn’t see the difference. The files are business. He doesn’t have a right to anything else.
He does feed the fish, because Scully is out of town too and who else is going to do it? They don’t seem as excited by the food as he expected, but it's not like he knows anything about fish. Maybe Mulder has a neighbor stopping by. He looks in the bedroom (to check if it looks like recent files are stashed there, and not at all because he wants to see if there’s any indication it’s being used for anything other than storage) but he can barely get the door open, and the dust immediately makes him sneeze.
He’s about to start searching seriously when he hears a key in the lock.
There aren’t any good hiding places. If he were sure it was Mulder, Alex would probably just cut his losses, say merry Christmas and make up some obscure purpose for being here. But Mulder’s in Connecticut. Alex bolts for the shower, drawing his gun as he goes.
He makes it just in time, stilling the rustling of the shower curtain as the door opens, trying to calm his ragged breathing. Best case: neighbor here to feed the fish. Worst case: assassin. There are a lot of possibilities in between. Neighbor, he thinks fervently, please just let it be a neighbor. He really doesn’t want to end this day disposing of a corpse. It’s Christmas.
There are footsteps — heavy, then lighter as someone takes off their shoes. The jingle of keys dropped on a table; plastic shopping bags crinkling as they’re set down. The easy, comfortable sounds of coming home. Fuck. Oh, fuck.
If Alex had just a little more nerve, he would come out with his gun drawn and tell Mulder he’s an idiot for not clearing the apartment. Instead, he hesitates for seconds that turn into minutes. There’s no reason to blow his cover. Maybe Mulder came back for something quick. Maybe his flight isn’t until today, and he went to pick up last minute presents. Alex can wait it out.
Mulder sounds like he’s unpacking groceries. That doesn’t bode well for a quick stay, but it could still be alright. He could wait until Mulder falls asleep and slip out — nevermind that it's not yet noon, and Mulder will probably want a shower at some point. Maybe Mulder will take a walk, or a nap. Maybe anything, because Alex doesn’t think he can face him now, but it will be a hundred times worse after hours of listening while he goes about his daily life. Alex is used to being perceived as threatening, but he doesn’t usually feel creepy. He wishes to hell that he had never kissed Mulder.
Staying in the same position becomes agonizing, but his leather jacket creaks when he moves, loud in the quiet apartment. Can’t Mulder turn on the TV or something? He reminds himself that he’s trained for this. He’s been through worse. He can’t tell how much time passes before Mulder walks into the bathroom. It’s fine, Alex tells himself, blood pounding in his ears. It’s not a big deal that Mulder is three feet away from him and doesn’t know it. Bound to happen. It's not like he’s being a pervert, he can’t even see anything.
But instead of relieving himself, Mulder sounds like he’s starting to undress. Alex’s stomach drops. What the fuck kind of time is this for a shower?
Nothing for it. He braces himself and pushes aside the shower curtain, gun in hand, and asks, “What the fuck kind of time is this for a shower?”