Calling the place a hotel was being much too kind. The room was oppressively
hot and the television set didn't work. But at least the sheets were clean
and there was lots of hot water. The old TV was a combination unit with a
radio built in. Thankfully the radio was still operational. Alex had
tuned-in one of the few radio stations that would come in. He wasn't sure
of the town or the state he was in. They had all started to meld together a
while ago. He hated this existence.
He also hated this feeling of vulnerability as he cleaned his gun. Though he
often carried a spare, and at times two, the Glock was his favorite—his
friend. It was weird to think of the cold inanimate object as his friend,
Alex thought. There was a time not too long ago, when his life was full of
real flesh and blood friends and real emotions. He shut the train of thought
down, and returned his attention to the Glock.
This gun had seen him through many tight spots which is why he liked to take
such good care of it. The lessons he had learned at the Bureau came rushing
back to mind, "Take good care of your gun, Alex, and It will take good care
of you." He laughed at the thought.
"I've been on my own way too long," he said to the empty room. "Luckily, I
haven't started talking to myself..." He took one of the smaller towels and
wiped the sweat from his chiseled face and well-defined chest.
Routine took over as he started to screw a tiny wire brush onto the handle of
the cleaning kit. At the last moment, he decided to leave the barrel until
later. He busied himself brushing the black carbon deposits from the gun's
other parts. Carefully eyeing each component until it would pass a drill
squad inspection, he finished by coating the entire assembly with a light
coat of oil. The Glock didn't need lubrication, but he liked the way it made
the weapon look 'showroom' new.
He turned his full attention to the final piece—the barrel. Gently he
picked it up. His beautiful green eyes inspected the inside of the barrel.
It really didn't need cleaning. It had only been fired a couple of times
since its last cleaning.
He placed the brass wire brush at the opening of the barrel. The brush was
made purposely bigger than the bore of the weapon and took a hard thrust to
get it in. After a small struggle to get inside, the brush slid easily down
the tube. As Alex watched the brush slide slowly in and out of the opening,
he realized why he had kept this part until last. The sudden rush of sexual
thoughts was having two effects: First, it was making him hard as a rock; and
secondly, it was reminding him of his nights with his ex-partner, Fox Mulder.
Nights when the action wasn't metal to metal, but skin to skin. Nights that
he didn't want to be reminded of—not now, and definitely not here. His
heartbeat and breathing began to race. Beads of fresh sweat broke out on his
body and ran down his lean torso.
Mulder would have brought up Dr. Freud, Alex thought to himself, saying that
his preoccupation with his gun was a replacement for the sex he wasn't
having. Mulder would add that it was also a subconscious replacement for
masturbation on Alex's part. That was stupid, he was still going to
masturbate—later. Really Mulder, sometimes you clean your gun simply
because it needs to be cleaned. And, sometimes a spade is still a spade. He
closed his eyes tightly and tried to clear his mind of all the distractions.
But something kept tugging at his consciousness.
Through the darkness, he could hear the lilting strains of a Barbra Streisand
song as it filled the tepid air in the room. "I really am in hell," he
thought as the words carried him away. His emotions followed as Barbra's
voice soared and echoed through the small confined space.
"I still can remember the last time I cried, I was holding you and loving you
knowing it would end. I never felt so good, yet felt so bad. You're the one I
love and what makes it sad is you don't belong to me...
And I can remember the last time I lied, I was holding you and telling you we
could still be friends. Tried to let you go, but I can't, you know, and even
though, I'm not with you, I need you so. But you don't belong to me.
Comin' in and out of your life isn't easy when there's so many nights I can't
hold you and I told you, these feelings are so hard to fight!
Comin' in and out of your life will never free me, because I don't need to
touch you to feel you, It's so real with you, I just can't get you out of my
mind.
but, I can remember...
The last time we tried, each needing more than we could give, and knowing all
the time, A stronger love just can't be found, Even though at times this
crazy world is turning up-side-down, you'll always belong to me.
Comin' in and out of your life isn't easy when there's so many times I can't
hold you and I told you these feelings are so hard to find.
Coming in and out of your life will never free me. I don't need to touch you,
to feel you, It so real with you, I can't get you out of my mind...
But, I can remember..."
Starting with the silencer, Alex Krycek began the arduous task of
disassembling the pistol again. "Well, now I have to clean you up all over
again," He thought.
It was well worth the extra time and trouble, Alex thought to himself.
Postscript: The Barbra Streisand song "Comin' In and Out Of Your Life," was
written by R. Parker and B. Whiteside. The song appears on Columbia
Records/CBS and all rights are reserved.
#1 With A Bullet
by Agentalexkrycek
Alex Krycek stretched out on the hotel bed. Almost nude, save for a pair of
tight white briefs that over-emphasized his package, he was intent on the job
at hand. His Glock was spread out in front of him. The pieces that comprised
his weapon were cushioned and protected by one of the hotel's cheap white
towels.
The sudden eruption of sound startled him out of his self-induced hypnotic
state. Through eyes stilled blurred by tears, he watched as sparks erupted
out of the now totally worthless radio/television set. He hadn't even
realized he had reassembled his gun, much less loaded it. A smirk came to
his angelic lips, and then the smirk became a laugh. The laughter filled the
room for a while. It felt so good to laugh again, he thought. "Whoa! Sorry
Babs!," he exclaimed. It had been a good clean shot, and had put the radio
out of his misery.
