A Question Of Intellect

Stupid.

Now, if I could just figure out which one of us deserves the appellation more. I mean, I'm the one out here in the weather, with the wind biting into my skin and leaving spots that ache almost as much as the deep burning kisses your fists left. I'm the one who is trapped, bound, with a pacing, snarling man-beast trying to convince himself he doesn't want to bring me in and fuck me silly against the stairs.

Of course, you're the one with an assassin kept on your balcony in piece-of-shit fibbie cuffs.

You don't think you can keep me here, do you?

Self-righteous overconfidence is going to be your downfall, old man. Well, either that or a well-timed blow to the throat. There's no telling how things will come down. Eventually the price on your head will be higher than the pleasure I get from watching your ass in those tailored slacks.

Fuck, it's cold out here. My balls are trying to crawl up next to my spleen. If I had known these were going to be my accommodations for the evening, I'd have worn a heavier coat. Maybe even carried a pillow, these tiles aren't the easiest things to sit on. Gloves too. Next time I'm cuffed out on Skinner's balcony, I'll need gloves.

Come on, Skinner, if you don't finish your coffee and go to bed so I can get the hell out of here, I may just kill you on principle.

Just think of the fun we'd miss if that happened.

Oh, I do love it when you listen to me. That's right, rinse out your cup. Can't risk bugs after all. Check all the doors, lights, make sure the coffee maker's off. What a responsible man you are, it's almost attractive, in a June Cleaver in pearls sense.

Now me, check your prisoner. Look at me, Skinner, so cold, lost. Big sad eyes. Don't you feel sorry for poor, thin-skinned Krycek, turning into the human icicle? No? Figures.

I'm not bad, you know. I'm just drawn that way.

If you keep looking at me like that -- like I'm some Kafka-esque nightmare lapping up the bitter come on your belly at the end of your favorite wet dream -- I might fall in love. Go to bed, Skinner. You don't have the fortitude to pretend perversity with me.

What are you doing, standing there? Your breath's fogging the door, softening your edges until all I can see of your face are those dark eyes looking at me. You're so tense, pecs bunched up and your hands clenching at your thighs. Testosterone wrapped in silk and iron. I could lap hundred dollar an ounce liquor off your stomach and die a happy man.

Please, Skinner. Please go to bed. Damn Mulder and his games. I knew he'd leave me somewhere, my face is a temptation his fists don't want to resist and Scully frowns on his odd moments of male posturing.

I didn't think he'd bring me here, though. Facing the boxer in his neatly-framed, perfectly dusted, I- hired-a-designer, Crystal City lair was not on my game plan for tonight. Don't get me wrong, I knew I'd take a punch or two, knew I'd end up with a slate of bruises to moan over in the shower.

I didn't think I'd be on the receiving end of your fist drilling into my stomach like the world's hardest cock.

Fuck, you're lovely, in a low-rent nightclub bouncer sort of way, and this is way too close to fantasy life. Well, except that in my fantasies I'd be tied to a palm tree on the beach. Winter does nasty things to the male physique and I want you to be impressed.

It takes long dying minutes, maybe hours for all your lights to go off, for the warning bells in my head to calm and let me know it's time to take a chance. A quick dig in my pocket for a little piece of metal and click, time to blow this popsicle stand.

Stupid.

You didn't lock this door. You honestly thought I would stay? Out there? In the fucking wind?

Not likely.

Oh, it's warm in here, so nice, so fucking cold my hands are shaking and my bruises coming back to life and damn you for leaving me out there you asshole -- thank lady luck and anal Bureau Assistant Directors that the tracks are well-oiled. You'll be sleeping by now, flat on your back, hands at your sides, my little soldier at attention. Yeah, you'll sleep, Skinner, but it won't be soft or deep. Last time I checked, I wasn't conducive to sweet dreams.

Shame really. I'd love to curl around the pleasure-centers of your brain and squeeze. I'm tempted for a moment to sneak up those stairs, look at you, dig my hands into your flesh. I wonder if you wake with a squeak or a roar.

What does it matter? I need to go and you wouldn't know what to do with me if you had me. Face it, I'm more than your alpha-male, I-only-fuck-the-boys-when-they-deserve-it soul can handle.

"Going somewhere?"

Oh, fuck me.

When my radar goes down, it goes down big-time.

I wonder if I close my eyes and click my heels together -- there's no place like home, there's no place like -- no, didn't think so. You're still standing there, wearing nothing but shadows and I'm nowhere near Kansas.

It would be too much to ask that a house fall on me, right? A freak fucking tornado? Fire alarm? Heart attack? Come on, a little help here. Where the *hell* are those fucking aliens when I need them?

I'm so screwed -- and not in the fun, spanky way either.

"I asked you a question, boy. I expect an answer."

What game are you playing here, Skinner? "It's cold out there. A man could freeze."

A man could freeze, but it's not going to be me, not now. Not with my heart beating like a teenaged boy meeting his date's father before the big school dance. I'm flying, burning with the knowledge that I'm in trouble, in real serious, bend-over-no-vaseline kind of trouble.

I can make the door. He doesn't have his gun, at least I don't see it and I could make it.

"Don't even try it. I'll shoot you where you stand, you piece of shit."

"Where's your gun, Skinner? Got it shoved up your ass, waiting for Mulder to get back?"

Oh, that defused the situation. Soft spot, huh? Spend some time on your back thinking about those deer-in-the-headlight eyes, looking up at you, that pseudo-scientific psychobabble stopped up with your cock?

I can understand.

No one suffers quite like him. You're out of his range of vision, Skinner. He cries when he jerks off, and it's not your name on his lips. Wonder if you'd pay to find out whose mind he's fucking...

Come on, move toward the door, keep the couch between us. Don't just stand here, back against the glass, looking at him. Move.

"Do it and you'll pay. I'll make you beg before I kill you."

I know what rabbits feel like, skin shivering underneath hungry predator eyes, caught between the need to bolt and the need to wait for the firestorm of teeth ripping into their flesh. I want to bleed my lust and fear out on your fingers, your thighs, your cock. I want to get the fuck out of here, down the stairs, out into the street. I want you to pull your weapon, force my hand, break this nerve-rattling moment.

Even more than that, I want to live, so I reach behind me and slide the door open. So fucking cold, the wind tearing into my skin like a jilted lover.

See me? I'll show my soft belly to the big dog, roll over, play dead. Whatever you need. Don't hurt me. You win. I'm going back outside to shiver around my bones and you can go back to bed.

Live to fight another day and all that happy crap.

Fuck, for a big man, you move like a ghost. My throat is becoming close personal friends with your balcony railing before my brain realizes that click-slide sound isn't my teeth chattering.

Man, you can see for miles from up here. Pretty, all those lights.

"You think I'm stupid, boy?" Oh, you're warm. How can you be so hot, pressed up against me, lips branding my ear. Your hatred is distilled into instant addiction.

"I hoped." Can you hear me or is the wind stealing my voice? I can see headlights, moving, teasing my oxygen-deprived brain with almost-patterns, cryptologic subliminals mocking my resistance as your hands push under my clothes, baring me to the elements.

Elements. It's cold, freezing except for the places I feel fire.

"Wrong answer."