Work Text:
A Scent of... (Krycek)
by JiM
It's cold again. But this time, I am dressed for it. Cashmere overcoat, wool suit, Italian shoes, gloves -- glove, I correct myself. The information trade has been profitable and I am enjoying the benefits.
This time, I am not ill. My mind is clear and sharp and no fever burns away my common sense.
No. That is not true. I am sick. What other reason could there be for me to be standing in the misty shadows of Roosevelt Island at midnight, waiting for one of the legion of men with reason to wish me dead? Waiting for Mulder. I shiver, deep inside my cashmere overcoat, from something that is not cold, not at all.
I stare down into the Potomac, hoping to see my reflection in the dark water, but the shadows are too deep, the light too dim, too far away. A car pulls into the lot and draws up next to the footbridge. The headlights go out, but I can still hear the engine. I watch, and wait, for ten minutes. There are no tails that I can see. Nothing moves but the fog, rolling in off the river, up from the sea.
I walk over to the passenger window and knock, once. The door is unlocked. I open it, slide inside and close and lock the door again. Then I turn to look at him.
- Mulder.
- Krycek, he returns evenly.
His face is shadowed, the dashlights illumine too little. His eyes seem huge and dark, yet there is a green gleam deep in them. Feral hunger, or reflection from the tachometer, I wonder, and smile a little at my own folly.
- Something funny?
- I think we need a soundtrack. You know, something suited to -- I wave my hand around -- all this.
He looks at me as if I am mad. Mentally, I shrug. I am.
I do not need Special Agent Fox Mulder. That is my mantra now. And it works as well as most mantras. So I am sitting here, next to a man who would like nothing more than to watch me drown in a pool of my own blood, selling him back the little mysteries of his life. Tonight, it is the address of the Smoking Man's daughter. I do not need the money Mulder will pay me for this slip of paper. What I need is....
- Something mysterious and eerie, suited to shady deals made with hired killers in dark places at midnight? he asks, lips twisting. I nod. His sense of humor always caught me off-guard.
The heater is still on and I am gradually relaxing into the warmth. Our breath is misting the windshield, the fog inside struggling to join with the fog outside. There is a scent to him, that he has always had.
Once, I hid at the foot of a redwood; it had begun to rain, and I was pressed in tight against the solidity of the tree, protected by it. There was a rich, spicy scent in the air and I gulped in great sobbing breaths of that perfumed air as my pursuers passed me by. Sitting beside him, it is that same scent that twines through me now, like smoke, like incense, like the fog curling all around us.
- You've come up in the world. His fingers are tugging lightly at the lapel of my overcoat, running up and down.
- Business has been good.
His knuckles are pressing against my chest as they slide up and down. There are layers of cloth between us but I feel his touch. His hand stops, presses a little harder over my heart.
He knows. Damn him, he knows. I breathe deeply, his scent swimming in my head.
- What do you have for me this time?
- A woman's address.
- Which woman? But he knows this, too. I can feel his hand tremble against me.
- This one.
I pull out a small black and white photograph, taken years ago, of a college girl. Her features are surreal in the greenish glare of the instrument panel. Or maybe it is we who are distorted and she is merely... a girl. I flip the photo, to show that there is an address written on the back.
-What's the price?
- It's a current address, Mulder. I checked it myself. She was there this afternoon.
His hand clenches on my coat. He wants to hit me, I can feel it. He needs to strike out. And he wants to find his sister. He wants the truth, he wants to believe. His wants and needs vibrate through him.
- I know, Mulder, I know, I say stupidly, trying to comfort him. I know what it is to have needs and wants that will never be met.
- The price, he grinds out, shaking me.
- I don't need money anymore, Mulder.
That, at least, is the truth. How odd, I think, he never seems to realize that I tell him the truth more than any other human being. I have only lied to him once; of course, it was the biggest and the cruelest.
He has both hands twisted in my coat. He has pulled me close, half-dragging me across the seat. Mulder is staring into my face, his eyes burning into me. The fever is back, rippling through me. The fog has completely muffled the car now -- there is no sound but our breathing.
I watch the heat die in his eyes. It is replaced by a cool sort of calculation. Now I am shivering -- it is definitely the fever again. He knows, my mind babbles in numb terror. I do not move.
- I know what you want, Krycek. I know.
I'm in trouble. I'm in more danger than I was when he held a gun on me, strung out on acid and insomnia. Oh Christ, Mulder, pull your gun -- I know what to do with that. But he doesn't.
He kisses me.
His mouth is hard and demanding. There is contempt on his lips; his tongue stabs angrily past my teeth, searching for mine. This is no lover's kiss, no.
I don't care.
One hand slides up and his fingers are now locked in my hair. My hand is on his shoulder, barely touching him. I wish I were not wearing that glove, I want to touch him properly, with my own fingers, without violence. Just once.
That hand in my hair yanks my head back, and I stare into the darkness, into his face a couple of inches from mine. I can't see his expression.
- Is this the price, Alex? he whispers viciously. - How far do I have to go? How much do you want for the picture, Alex?
I shake my head, trying to push some words past the Mulder-scented fog in my brain. I didn't mean for it to be like this. Did I?
- Come on, Krycek. Name your price; here I am.
I can't help it. I kiss him. His mouth opens easily and I am stealing into the richness that is Fox Mulder and it is so sweet that I am shaking. I put my hand up and try to loosen his grip on my hair; he tangles his fingers up with mine and I am trapped again.
I tear my mouth away, trying to get enough air to think. We lean against one another, cheek to cheek. His ragged breath is harsh in my ear and sweet, so sweet. I am kissing his cheek, his jaw, his throat. When I find the spot where his pulse beats, he groans, and I am caught there. Biting, licking, soothing with my lips before attacking him again. His scent is stronger here and I drink it in greedily.
The heat is flashing through my body; I can even feel it in my missing hand. He is here, right in my grasp, not fighting me. No, he wants this as much as I do. I can feel it singing in him, the same demon that has been howling in me. His hand is scrabbling at my coat, pushing it aside, tugging at my shirt buttons.
I am losing myself and I am terrified. I only wanted to dream of this; the reality of him is far too dangerous. Crystal clarity returns for one moment and saves me.
Pulling my hand free, even as I bring my mouth back to his, I grope around on the dashboard until I find the photograph. I slide it into his breast pocket. Even then, he almost snares me again. I cannot help but stroke his chest, just once. He moans into my mouth and pushes against me, begging for more.
No. No more. I can't take it, Mulder. I pull away from his mouth; it is the hardest thing I have ever done. He looks as dazed and crazed as I feel.
- Paid in full, Mulder. God, was that whimper mine or his?
I rip open the door; the cold slinks in as I half-roll out of the car. I do not look behind me, at him, as I slam the door. If I did that, nothing would save me. Nothing.
I watch from the shadows as he sits in his car, head in his hands, for long minutes. Suddenly, he smashes his fists onto the steering wheel. Temper, temper, Mulder. But my body understands perfectly and wants to smash something in sympathy.
I watch from the shadows as he drives away. His taste is still sweet in my mouth and his scent clings to me and it causes my vision to swim as he is swallowed up by the night and the fog.
end