I drop my purse, keys, and jacket inside the door and head straight for the couch. It's been two weeks since my adventure with Krycek, and every day, Mulder has managed to work in some sort of veiled accusation. I finally called him on it today, and he claimed that he was just teasing me, but I wasn't buying it. If I was Mulder I'd be suspicous of me too. So I try not to think about Krycek at work--I think I get this faraway look on my face that makes it glaringly obvious that my mind is someplace else. And that place is nice, rather than the kidnapping terror that it's supposed to be. I pop a cherry candy in my mouth. I've taken to carrying them around again.
I'm sure Mulder's suspicion will pass, like it did when we started working together. I'll probably never see Krycek again and the whole thing will fade into some weird, erotic dream. I glance around my dim apartment restlessly. I'm exhausted from dealing with Mulder all day, but I need to get out. Be around regular people for awhile. People who don't worry about aliens, or goverment conspiracies, or whatever the hell else Mulder has rattling around in that Oxford brain of his. Sometimes I wish my biggest worry was still getting papers graded on time.
I exchange my suit for some loose fitting pants and a t-shirt. My work clothes land in a rumpled heap on the floor and after a moment I decide to leave them there to wrinkle. I don't know what's with me lately, but ever since Krycek . . . I just haven't cared about little things so much. Mulder was even forced to type up a report yesterday when he realized that I actually wasn't going to do it for him.
I wander with no real destination in mind. My mind floods with thoughts of Krycek after spending all day trying not to think about him. Sometimes I think about the night in New Mexico and it seems like I was another person. It wasn't me that practically seduced Krycek in the interrogation room. It wasn't me that took him from the police station. It wasn't me that kissed him, wasn't me that undressed him and slept peacefully with him not more than five feet away. It wasn't me that let him go and then lied about it. But then I think of the way his lips felt under mine, the way I arched and moaned into his touch. That was all me, and I can't deny it. I think I have a crush on Alex Krycek.
The thought startles me into laughter. I haven't had a crush since . . . well, since a certain professor from my college days. But that quickly turned into so much more. I can't picture that with Krycek. What would it like to be in a relationship with him? Never knowing where he is half the time, never knowing if he's going to come home alive, always wondering what awful, illegal thing he had done this time. Oh, but to have just one night with those lips and those hands. Somewhere down inside I wish I'd taken advantage of our time alone. It's been so long, and since Krycek, my own fingers have become frustratingly inadequate. Just one night . . .
That's when Dana Scully, FBI asserts herself and insists that I can't, because it would be against the law to consort with a known felon. I'd lose my job, and any future I have in the FBI, possibly go to jail. Good Catholic girls just don't do those sorts of things. But I don't think I'm a good Catholic girl anymore.
The sound of a bell draws my attention to the streetcorner. A man on a bike is surrounded by children--children buying ice cream. My stomach growls. It's not a milkshake, but what the hell. I insinuate myself in the group of kids, trying to ignore the way the ice cream man's eyes rake over me. If I see him look at one of the kids that way I'll arrest him on the spot. I might arrest him anyway if he doesn't stop trying to get a good look at my ass--sexual harrassment of a federal officer.
"Cherry cheesecake, please."
"Cherry's my favorite you know. Red."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and settle for a mild glare. "One scoop."
His face falls a little, and he gives me two big helpings of cherry cheesecake, only charging for one. "I don't think I've seen you before. Live around here?"
"No," I answer, dropping the correct change in his palm. I smile politely and walk away. Like I'd date an ice cream man. Oh, but you'd date a criminal, wouldn't you?
No. I wouldn't date him, but I'd . . . yeah, it takes me a minute to even admit it to myself. I'd really sleep with him. In a heartbeat if I got the opportunity. I'll have to ask Mulder if he's heard about a time machine in any of his X-Files. I could use one. I wake up at night sometimes with the sound of Krycek's husky voice whispering "Dana." I will away the instant heat that pools between my thighs. If I had a time machine I'd go back to the Sleepy Hollow Motel, to that very instant. And instead of watching him sleep, I'd strip off my clothes and crawl under the covers with him. He would have woken up pretty fast, I bet.
I slow as I come to the Tower Records that I walk by all the time without a second glance. Today, something gives me pause. I stare at the display of CD's in the window, and timidly make my way through the door. I still have my ice cream, but no one says anything, so I venture further inside. It takes less that a minute to find what I'm looking for. The Best of the Eagles. It has Hotel California on it, and some other titles that sound vaguely familiar. I turn toward the cashier, then look down at the CD. Why am I buying this? So if Krycek comes over he has music to listen to? That's ridiculous. I just like the song, is all.
The cashier, a gangly teenager with green hair and a penny stretching a hole in his earlobe, glances at the CD and then back at me. He does it a few more times.
"What?" I ask. He's looking at me like *I've* got pennies in my ears. What is with kids these days?
After a moment he replies, "You just don't seem like the Eagles type."
I frown. There's an Eagles type? I just want to buy the damn CD and get out of the store before I think better of it, but I have to ask. "And what type do I seem like?" I expect him to say Barry Manilow, or Chris de Burgh, or one of those 'lame' singers that people my age are supposed to listen to.
The casheir cocks his head and stares at me for a beat. "Beethoven. Debussy. Especially 'Clair de Lune' because it's simple and bittersweet."
Okaaaaaay. I wasn't expecting that. And now I'm a little disturbed. Not because he's right, but because I've obviously and incorrectly prejudged a perfect stranger. This kid is the last person I would ever expect to know anything about Debussy. I think of Krycek, and how people aren't always what they appear. I should have learned that lesson by now.
My surprise must be obvious, because the teenager turns a little pink and smiles as he runs my purchase through. "Sorry. I'm pretty good at reading people. You'll really like 'Hotel California'."
You have no idea, I think to myself, grinning as I leave the store.
I push the 'play' button on my stereo and pad back to the bathroom. The sound of a guitar begins to float through the apartment.
I let my satin robe pool at my feet and slide into the hot water.
A long sigh escapes my lips. Candle-lit bubble baths used to be a weekly tradition before I entered the world known as 'the X-files'. It seems that all I do lately is have quick snacks and take quick showers in case the phone rings. The phone is on the counter within reach, but I've already decided that I'm not getting out of the tub unless the building is on fire. Mulder can call, but after the week he's given me he's more likely to get a 'screw you' than a 'sure Mulder, I'll be there right away'. I don't care if bigfoot is camped out in his living room--they can play rock-paper-scissors for who gets the couch.
I take a sip of wine and lean my head against the edge of the tub, feeling the bubbles tickle my chin. As a doctor, I know that drinking in such high temperatures can be risky, but as a person who's had a really trying week, frankly, I don't give a damn. Now I'm quoting Gone With the Wind. How pathetic is my life? A voice deep inside nags at me, 'really pathetic, especially since you passed up Alex Krycek because you were too scared to give in.'
My next sigh has less to do with relaxation, and more to do with frustration. I kept his note--it's tucked away in my jewelry box like a momento from a high school crush. And seeing as how I have it memorized, I know that he indicated there would be a 'next time'. Does he expect me to go looking for him? Because I wouldn't know where to start. The Lone Gunmen can't even locate him, no matter how much Mulder yells. I wonder what they would say if they knew why Mulder hated Krycek so much?
Maybe I'll just turn around one day and he'll be there. Wearing his leather jacket and tight jeans, with that smirk that makes me feel incredibly dirty in the best way I can imagine. Or for a completely different picture, bobbing his head and singing along with the radio, looking carefree and happy. Both scenarios make me squirm and rub my thighs together. As if on cue, Hotel California begins to play. I still to listen to the song that Alex Krycek likes so much, hoping maybe it will give me a clue about what makes him tick.
The opening line makes me smile, thinking back to our own desert drive. My humor fades somewhat as I listen to the rest of the words. It's not a very happy song. It seems to be about going out of control, losing hope, being lost. Does Krycek feel that way? Is he trapped in a place he can't get out of, hopeless and lost? I go to take another sip of my wine, and realize with a start that the glass is empty. When did that happen? I fumble for the bottle on the floor and pour myself another drink. Maybe I should stop playing amateur psychologist and just enjoy the song. Next thing you know I'll be pronouncing him some misunderstood hero.
I lift my leg out of the tub, watching the bubbles slide slowly back into the water. It's a nice leg. I wonder if Krycek thinks so. I don't wear skirts very often because they're hard to run in. Plus it's hard to be 'one of the boys' when said boys are taking bets on what color your underwear are beneath that skirt. I laugh through my nose. One of these days I'm going to find the courage to wear a skirt with *no* underwear. Give me a private joke to lord over their heads all day. Men can be such jerks sometimes.
When the phone startles me out of my thoughts, I immediately think of Mulder and what a jerk he's been and that if he thinks I'm going to talk to him right now he's got another think coming. Who else would be calling me on a Friday night?
I reach over and grab the cordless, pressing the talk button. "Look, Mulder. If this is about those crop circles, I told you the pattern was inconsistent with . . ." I trail off. Mulder usually would have jumped in and tried to defend his theory by now. The only other person it could be is Mom, so why isn't she saying anything?
"Crop circles?" comes the husky voice. There's a faint chuckle in there somewhere. "Really, Agent Scully. Don't you have anything better to do on a Friday night?"
Oh. That's why she wasn't saying anything. Because my Mom is Alex Krycek. A thousand thoughts whirr through my brain, most of them equating with a primitive animalistic growl.
"What do you think, Dana?"
God, I think you could make a living as a phone sex operator. I'd call.
Don't I have anything better to do? Besides you?
I settle for clearing my throat, and trying to speak, but nothing comes out. I think I passed out in the bathtub and I'm dreaming that Krycek is speaking to me. In which case I'm probably drowning, but it's a nice dream . . .
"Hello?" he says, after my indefinite silence.
God. He must think I'm an idiot. "Krycek?" I manage to squeak. Oh great. Wow him with your mammoth intelligence.
"Give the lady a kewpie doll. How have you been Agent Scully?"
I wish he'd call me Dana, but I don't know how to ask without sounding completely pathetic. "Fine." Except when I've been lusting after you like a rabid school girl.
"And Mulder? How has he been?"
"Annoying," I mutter. He laughs. It's a pleasant sound. I try to imagine him, eyes crinkling at the corners, lips opening, broad shoulders shaking. I'm finding it impossibly hard to make conversation. What do you say to Alex Krycek? 'So, kill anyone important today?' I say the first thing that comes to mind.
"Thanks for the milkshake."
"You're welcome," he purrs, and the sound goes straight to my groin. I squirm again, and some water sloshes over the rim of the tub and onto the floor. Damn. I should have hung up my robe.
There's a pause. "Where are you, Scully?"
Now this could lead down all sorts of interesting roads. "I'm in the bathtub. Where are you?" What I'm really hoping he'll say is that he's calling me from the payphone down the street.
"In some dreary hellhole called London."
My hopes plummet, but I try to keep my voice light. "I'm sure the English don't share your sentiments."
"Yeah, well they can take their bloody rain and their bloody tea and shove it up their bloody arses," he says in a ridiculous accent.
I can't help but giggle. I'll blame it on the wine when I'm more sober.
"So ...you're really in the bathtub?" There's a definite note of interest in his voice. "I guess I don't have to ask what you're wearing."
"Just bubbles," I reply, and a tiny choking noise comes back over the line. I grin to myself.
"And what are you doing in the bathtub?" His voice is almost a growl
"Relaxing, having some wine, listening to music."
"I can hear it in the background. Sounds familiar."
I don't want to admit it, but he's going to figure it out anyway. "It's the Eagles."
"I thought you didn't like the Eagles."
"I never said that. I just never listened to them before."
I can see his smirk over the line. "But you do now. Interesting. And why is that, Agent Scully?"
If he were here now, he'd see that my face is going completely red. Time to change the topic.
"How did you know I wanted a strawberry milkshake?" And why didn't I bring any of those candies in here with me? I lick my lips and shift in the tub.
"I have ESP. I can read your every thought."
I laugh and take another sip of my wine. "I doubt that, Krycek."
I expect him to question that, but he says, "Alright. So I don't have ESP. But you do talk in your sleep."
"I do not!" ESP is more likely.
"Yes, you do. I distinctly remember hearing 'milkshake' and 'strawberry'. There could have been something that sounded sort of like 'Walter', but I don't really want to know."
Oh God. Could this be any more embarrassing? He might just be making it up, but I don't think so.
"I think I even recall hearing my name a few times. Nearly drove me off the road." The "Aaaaaalex," that he groans out in my ear is distinctly sexual. Oh. God. Did I really do that? Did it really sound like that? If he says my name like that the bathwater will probably start boiling. My hand begins tracing lazy circles around my bellybutton, inching toward my pubic hair. I've got to get back in charge of the situation, but he beats me to it. Was I ever really in charge?
"Thanks for tucking me in, by the way. You should have woken me up. I would have given you a hand."
Or two. And probably a tongue as well. "I managed fine on my own." So delicately that I can barely feel it, I run my fingers over my outer lips, teasing, circling. One leg goes up and hooks over the side of the tub and I rock back and forth slightly. The other leg goes up over the opposite side. I let out a quiet sigh. The gently pulsing water is doing amazing things.
"Hmm. I don't know about that. I still had half my clothes on."
In my head I'm leaning down to taste the bronzed skin just above the elastic of his black briefs. He's got strong fingers tangled in my hair, nudging me south none-to-gently. I grab the waistband with my teeth and start to pull . . .
"Well, that was then." My voice is slightly hoarse.
"And this is now? What are you implying with your use of cliche?"
Of their own will, my fingers begin a final descent, not stopping until my thumb brushes over my clit and I've got my middle finger buried inside myself. "That that was then," I breathe, suppressing a whimper of desire. Because if you were here now . . .
I guess I'm not that subtle, because his tone darkens. "I thought you were having a bath, Dana."
Oh God, there it is. He said my name with that voice. My breath hitches. "I am." Yes, my fingers have become inadequate, but if he keeps talking I just might be able to imagine that he's the one touching me. It's his strong finger slowing working in and out of my grasping warmth, curving upward, thrusting . . .
"Mmm hmm. What are you really doing?"
I'm going to be coming if he keeps talking to me with that voice. It's low, and husky, and dangerous, and sexy, and if he was here he'd only have time to remove the leather jacket before I'd pull him in with me.
"I-I'm listening to my new Eagles CD," I stutter. Good Lord, I'm panting now, and there's no way that he can *not* realize what I'm doing. I'm getting off while on the phone with Krycek. I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and my ear so I can free up my other hand. I pinch my nipple hard rolling and tugging it between my fingers. The tiny sparks of electricity spreading from my chest jolt my limbs. More water splashes onto the floor. I'm gonna have a mess to clean up.
I hear harsh breathing, and am surprised to realize it's not me. Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one getting some enjoyment out of this. Two fingers now, and I let out a high pitched moan as my hand speeds up. My other hand has gotten restless, and begins alternating between my breasts and my clit. There's an answering groan in my ear.
"God, Dana. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
My hips buck upward at his words, and I have enough presence of mind to pull the plug with my toes. Don't want to flood the whole bathroom.
He doesn't even hesitate. His words tumble into my ear and scorch a path straight to my pelvis. "You're the smartest, sexiest woman I've ever known. Being with you was like a wet dream, and I want you so much it drives me crazy. I can't stop thinking about feel of your lips, the smell of your hair. I want to taste all of you, Dana. Every single inch, and--" I think I hear the sound of a zipper. There's a strangled moan and a faint "Oh Jesus," that makes me speed up my own thrusts. I need to hear him talk. I want to come with him growling in my ear.
"W-what are you doing, Kry-Krycek?" My calves are starting to cramp with strain, and I know my left hand is going to be sore tomorrow, but I'm not stopping until I hear him come with my name on his lips. Thank God I'm right handed.
"I'm touching myself, Dana. Wishing I were touching you."
I arch against my hand with a long groan. Just keep talking, I want to scream. But I'm too busy mewling and thrashing against the side of the tub to produce anything that sounds like English.
"Do you wish I were touching you?"
"Yes," I manage to gasp. "Yesssss. Oh. Oh Gooooood." There's a tightly coiled spring in my belly, and I know in just a few more seconds I'm going to lose it. I can't even make out Krycek's words anymore--just the smokey timbre of his voice--as I tumble over the precipice. The phone falls from my shoulder as I toss back my head and cry out. It could be his name, it could be Skinner's name, it could be Don Henley's name for all I know. I come long and hard, stars exploding behind my squeezed-shut eyelids, every muscle locked and straining as I ride out the waves of my orgasm.
My legs slide down into the empty bathtub and I lay there bonelessly panting with the cool air peaking my nipples and creating goosebumps on the rest of my flesh. I don't want to move. Ever. Again. Slowly, the background music begins to work it's way back into my awareness. A lifetime later I force my eyes to open, somewhat surprised to see the walls of my bathroom, the flickering candlelight. I'd almost expected to be transported to some bliss dimension where Krycek would be standing there with the top button of his jeans undone, staring at me with a blazing green come hither look. That would be an x-file all in itself. My own personal, private x-file.
Speaking of Krycek ... I glance around the tub, groaning with the effort of reaching for the phone that's underneath my right calf. Even before I get the phone to my ear I can hear him shouting my name over the line.
"Scully! Scully can you hear me? Are you there?"
"I'm here, Krycek." Barely. I'm surprised he actually hears my soft-spoken words over his own yelling.
"Jesus! I thought you'd died or something!"
"Me too," I smirk. Then the full meaning of his words penetrates my lust addled brain. Because it sounds like he cares. Like he'd really be upset if something happened to me.
"That's not funny, Dana. Well, yeah, it is, but--" He lets out a creative string of curses, ending with, " ...give me a myo-fucking-cardial infarction."
I'm impressed. He must really have been paying attention in pathology class. I wonder again if he was one of the hundreds of faces I taught. I'll have to remember to ask him, but now just doesn't seem like the right time.
"Relax, Krycek," I say, not pausing to consider the absurdity of my words. When I used to think of reassuring Krycek, it was usually more along the lines of, "You have the right to an attorney."
"I'm fine. I'm better than fine, actually."
"Yeah, well I'm not." I can see that pouty expression in my mind. So he was worried about me. And he probably didn't get to have a mind-blowing orgasm like I just did. No wonder he's upset.
"Well, if you're so worried, what are you doing in London?" It's a blatant invitation, and I'm shocked at myself until I remember that I just got off while on the phone with him.
"Currently, I'm chaining myself to a radiator so I don't run to the airport."
I roll my eyes. Krycek is a drama queen. Who knew? "This is going to be an awfully steep phone bill, you know."
"It's worth it."
There. My heart did that flip flop thing again. I should say something back, like "Yeah, it is" but the words freeze in my throat. I'm not good at sentimental at the best of times. And right now I'm laying in an uncomfortable, cold, slippery bathtub.
"Dana," he says, and has to clear his throat before continuing. His words sound uncertain, almost like a question. "I can be back in the States by Sunday night."
That's two days from now. He's asking my permission, if it's really okay that he comes to see me. Hell yes, I think.
"But you'll miss church," I joke. I haven't gone to church in a long time, but it's more subtle than shouting, "Get your ass over here NOW."
He chuckles. I wonder how many people get to hear him laugh. Somehow I think I'm one of the privileged few. Because he can't have all that many reasons to laugh.
"I'll do what I can, okay?"
"I've got to go."
"Okay." Suddenly that's all I can say. And no, it's not okay. But I know he's got a job to do--a dangerous job. And if he gets himself killed because he's being distracted by me, I'll kill him.
I hear a sound over the line, like he was about to speak and stopped himself. After a beat he says, "I'll see you later, Dana." I don't think that's what he was going to say, but I don't know how to ask.
"Yeah. I'll see you Kry ...Alex." I can almost hear his delighted smile over the line. Well, it doesn't seem right to call him by his last name after what just happened.
He's gone before I can even reciprocate. I stare at the phone for a minute, and then let my hand drop onto my stomach. Two days, I keep telling myself. Two more days.
I might still be lying here in the bathtub when he arrives. Might not be such a bad idea. Plus I really don't think I can move my legs.