The weather shouldn't have so much pull, but it does make
you think. About what you're doing, why you're where you are.
When things take over your thinking, it's possible to remove
yourself, make yourself go somewhere else inside your head.
Take a trip inside your head, leave. I perfected that art so
many years ago. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I'm every
bit as intelligent as the FBI's pride and letdown, Agent Mulder.
When I was in school, I used to remove myself in the way I am
right now. It's not hard. Boredom and discomfort are usually the
reasons I use. Excuses, I suppose you could call them.
Right now, my hair is plastered down against my head. I'm
watching several drips on my fringe creep to the end of my hair,
and tentatively look down at the great drop to the ground they're
going to have if they jump. They all seem to decide not to jump,
and instead creep down my face, trailing a cold, wet line. I shake
my head quickly, feeling the rain flailing out in all directions.
I think this is what they call obsession. I'm opposite Agent
Mulder's house. I have a feeling he thinks I'm dead. Thinks I've left,
gone.
News flash, Agent Mulder. I'm alive.
There's a light on in his window, and every now and again I
see his silhouette, crossing the line of the window. He moves
surprisingly gracefully—a certain way of holding himself. I've
studied him closely. I know the way he moves.
And meanwhile, on the other side of the street, ex-Special
Agent Alex Krycek is leaning against a lamp post, watching the
window. Noticing every shadow, each change in view. While the
rain pours down, probably ruining his leather jacket.
I cross my legs. I really should go back to my new
apartment. But it's going to be useless... I know I'll simply lie there
and jerk off, thinking of the man I've been watching. Pathetic.
Looking down at my appearance, it occurs to me to
wonder why I bother. I look so different from what I did a week ago.
No image ever matters to me, no version ever stays for long. A
week ago, I wore a bad suit and had my hair slicked back. Baby
faced, innocent little green agent. Now I look back to the facade I
prefer... blue jeans, black boots, black shirt and black leather
jacket. My hair's wet, due to the rain, but no gel in sight. I feel
better, also. I may be a good actor, but I didn't enjoy playing
Mulder's little sidekick.
I wish the men had told me more about Mulder before I met
him. Of course I knew about ol' Spooky. There was a fair bit of
innocent hero worship in the Academy... along with resentment.
Mulder seemed pretty unaware of all of it. I'd seen him, read up on
some of his cases. I'm a good little boy, I do my homework. But I'd
never met him, never been exposed to that sense of humour, that
spark of his that can't be described. He's brilliant, but almost
ignorantly so. It was strange, the first time I heard of him...
Another agent, a play-it-straight Hoover boy saying, "Yeah,
Spooky Mulder. His sister got taken by aliens and since then he's
chased after little green men, waving his FBI badge."
But, despite all my attempts to the contrary, I fell for him.
Fell in love is the incorrect expression for it. At first it was
hero worship. Then when I started holding my own against him, it
became almost lust.
Almost.
I'm bisexual, but I've always had a preference towards
women. Gay guys tend to be wimpy little things, always happy to
let me be dominant. If there's one thing that pisses me off, it's
subordination. I like a fight. It's been several years since I last had
a relationship with a man. It was fiery, quick, and violent. In other
words, my perfect situation. Then he left me just as quickly—a
random drive by shooting. I didn't mourn, didn't go to his funeral. I
didn't love him. The relationship was based solely on hot sex.
So when I laid eyes on Fox Mulder, I reasoned to myself
that it was simply a need for another man. It had been years, and
several inconsequential female relationships since the last, and
Mulder was there. He was the most obvious choice. And for that
reason alone, I veered away from getting in with him.
Sure, I flirted. And I like to think he flirted back. But I didn't
care.
At least, I didn't think I cared. For the longest time. Until I
realised... his light's turned off.
Mulder's just switched his light off. I check my watch...
only eight o'clock. Too early for going to bed. For Mulder, anyway.
I frown, uncrossing my legs. He might be watching a video. Might
be.
Just as I think that, across the road, the door to his
building opens and Mulder bursts out. I barely have time to make
out that he's dressed in a gray shirt and sweatpants before I turn
on my heel and sprint down the street.
"Hey!" I hear him call. "Agent Krycek!"
I don't know how he knows it's me, but I don't stop—just
keep on running. It's in vain. Mulder jogs every day, and although
I'm fit, I've gained a few pounds lately, and he soon catches me
up.
"What the hell were you doing outside my apartment
building?"
I glare at him. "Look, you have no goddamn idea, do you?"
"Don't turn this on me," he hisses. "I could have your ass
nailed for this. You, of all people, should know that."
"Shut up," I automatically respond. Stupid statement. "You
don't know the first thing about me."
He doesn't, and his face indicates that. Mulder has no idea
of how many sides there are to me, what I've gone through. "I don't
care. Who do you work for?"
That was random. Mulder's mind works in mysterious
ways. "What do you want me to tell you, Mulder?"
"The truth." I should have guessed.
"Mulder," I begin, sounding as if I'm talking to a small
child, "You wouldn't know the truth if my deathbed confession hit
you in the face."
"It'd probably be lies, like everything else you've told me."
Mulder's glaring at me.
I sigh. "What do you want from me, Mulder? Don't you get
it? I don't have an ounce of control over my actions."
He looks sceptical. "That's bullshit, Krycek, and you know
it. You're a double-crossing rat. And the worst thing about it, is
that I was more the fool for trusting you."
"I heard that you trust no one." It was conversation around
the academy. The Spooky patrol's motto was 'Trust No One'.
Narrowing his eyes. "Shut up, Krycek. I don't want to hear
another word out of your double-crossing mouth."
I decided to try the puppy-dog approach, cocking my head
and softening my expression. "Don't hurt my feelings, Mulder."
"Your feelings aren't worth a damn," he spits. The rain's
drenching him, and in the scarcely two minutes he's been out
here, he's become soaked to the skin.
I finally become frustrated. It doesn't usually take that long.
"Jesus, Mulder, get a clue! How goddamned naive are you? I'm
serving a greater good. So to speak."
"Well, aren't you just the good little soldier," he shoots
back sarcastically. "The only greater good you're serving is your
own ego."
That comment falls flat, striking me almost like a physical
blow. I manage to stutter out, "You don't know what you're talking
about." My voice is shaking badly. Get a grip, Alex.
"And you don't know what you're doing."
Always on the ready with a quick comeback, aren't you,
Mulder? Such a shame you don't know your left from your right in
government conspiracies. "Shut up."
He reaches forward and grabs my arm. I startle—it's the
first physical movement either of us has made this evening. "I'm
not staying out here to get wet all night. We'll continue this
conversation inside."
That last statement sets off warning bells in my head.
Watch it, Alex, you're getting in over your pretty little head. Both of
your pretty little heads. Get the hell out while you still can.
Mulder maintains his grip on my arm. Little Agent Krycek
wants to meekly go along. But Little Agent Krycek is dead. The
double-crossing bastard Krycek knows he'd be doing the world a
favour if he got out, and fast.
Turning around and walking towards his apartment, Mulder
pulls on my arm. I go along with him. It's been so damn long.
Of course, I could be shooting from the hip and completely
missing my target. Mulder may just be angry at me. Sometimes
my ego overtakes and I forget that not everyone is turned on by
the sheer sight of me. Maybe this is just wishful thinking.
I don't think so. I can get along fine without Agent Mulder. I
was only outside his apartment in the pouring rain because...
I don't notice that we're on the steps of his building, and
then inside. The rush of warmth and light hits me suddenly, my
body tingling with the sudden change. Mulder still doesn't look at
me, pulling me into the elevator.
It's old and run-down, and I'm nervous over the fact we
might not get up to Mulder's floor. I go to step out again. "I think I
might take the stairs."
Pressure from Mulder's hand on my neck. "My ass you're
taking the stairs." He still sounds angry. "What do you take me
for?"
I don't take you, Mulder.
I don't want to take you, Mulder.
I won't take you, Mulder.
I can't take you, Mulder.
I don't say anything further, watching the ascending
numbers with some trepidation. Once we're upstairs, Mulder
pushes me out of the elevator, and along the hall. I don't really like
this situation—the feeling of not knowing for sure that I have
control.
Mulder's apartment is number forty-two. In all the time I've
been researching him—that's the phrase I prefer—I've never been
inside his apartment. He unlocks it and pushes me in.
"What are you planning to do, Mulder?" I ask, turning
around.
He stares me down, looking satisfied when I break the
gaze to look nervously around the room. "Firstly, you can stop
making my floor into a river."
That was surprisingly civil, Mulder. "Pot, kettle, Mulder.
Look at yourself."
He does, and smiles wryly. Then he heads into another
room, which I assume is the bathroom.
It doesn't occur to me that this would be a perfect time to
get away, to leave. I simply stand there as if struck dumb. After a
minute, I go over to the couch and sit down gingerly.
Several minutes later, Mulder comes back out. His hair's
dried—fluffed up—and he's in dry clothes, without shoes. His
casual expression changes when he sees me. "Did I tell you you
could sit down, you piece of shit?"
"I'm not some dog you can tell what to do," I hiss at him.
He steps over to the couch, grabs me by my collar, and shoves
me into the wall.
"I don't care what you are. You're a cold bastard." There's
a pause, and you can almost hear the cogs in Mulder's mind
turning. "You work for that smoking bastard, don't you?"
I purposely kept my silence. Whatever Mulder might want
to think, he isn't about to get anything out of me.
"Don't you!" Mulder's shouting now. I tune him out. He
goes on, but I don't pay him any attention.
Suddenly, he grabs me by the collar again, slamming me
hard against the wall. "Damn you!" he shouts, frustrated. "Where
the hell is Scully?"
With that, he drops me, and goes over to the couch,
burying his face in his hands. Then he speaks—and his voice is
strained, hoarse.. "Where is she, Krycek? What have you done
with her?"
I do feel a twinge of guilt, but ignore it. "Nothing," I lie.
"You overestimate me."
"Don't give me that shit." The voice doesn't have the tired
venom the words do. "I don't know what to do."
I don't, either. I have no idea. Slowly, tentatively, I walk
over and sit on the couch beside him. "Scully's safe."
He shoots me a sidelong look. "How do you know?"
"Take something at face value for once!" I growl. "Must you
question?"
"That's the way I am, Krycek," Mulder replies. "You'll just
have to accept it."
"Why would I have to accept it?"
The question sort of hangs there between us, and I wonder
if I try, I would be able to take it back. We both avoid the other's
eyes.
"Why did you do it?"
The sudden break of silence surprises me, and I look over.
He's asking honestly—he isn't meaning it as a spiked question.
Staring forward, I emotionlessly reply, "I had to."
That emotionless tone of mine... I've always used it. I
prefer that way, without anyone being able to tell what I'm feeling. I
developed it when I first joined the old men... I didn't like the way
they could tell about me. I felt like a pet, kept on because I served
a purpose. That was when my smiles, my quick and quirky grin,
became few and far between.
"Don't give me shit."
How does he know I'm lying? I don't even know when I'm
lying. I do it so often. I don't know what the truth is. "I did it
because if I hadn't, someone else would have, and we couldn't
have gone on the way we were."
"Why not?"
That damned questioning personality. I look away. "It
wouldn't have worked."
Slowly, he asks, "Why not?"
I stand up, all of a sudden uncomfortable with this
situation. "I'm not FBI material," I bluff, stumbling over my words
awkwardly. This feeling! I should be in control here. I shouldn't feel
awkward or inferior.
"Why are you so uncomfortable?" He looks up at me, a sly
grin creeping over his face.
"I'm leaving," is my particularly intelligent statement.
However, I don't follow up on it, simply standing there.
Mulder stands up. "Krycek. I'm not about to just let you
go. Think again."
"Stop me," I shoot back, a challenge. He rises—to the
challenge, and literally—and takes my shoulders, shoving me
down onto the couch. I glare up at him. Mulder then sits down at
the other end of the couch to me, and flicks the television on. It's a
show I don't recognise—not that I know many shows—lit darkly,
with a repetition of two organ chords every now and then. Bored, I
allow my mind to wander.
I don't know why I'm acting like this. God knows I've
considered this option between Mulder and I. And if he wants it...
then why not?
But he's probably bluffing. I don't doubt he has the
knowledge and ability to play with my mind like that. From what I
know, he can be a right bastard when he feels like it.
When you're being watched, it's hard not to know it. You
just have this uncomfortable feeling, and I'm feeling it right now.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Mulder watching me. After a
minute of pretending to concentrate on the television, I give up,
and look over to him. Flatly, "What."
"This may sound strange, but are you homosexual?"
"Where the hell did that come from?" I snap, looking away.
"I thought Hoover boys were supposed to wear skirts, not leather
pants." Luckily for the sake of that statement, I'm in jeans.
"Answer the question."
Funnily, onscreen, the serial killer is going through an
interrogation, similar to the one Mulder is apparently going to put
me through. "Why's it your business." I've gone back to stating
questions. It's a defence mechanism of mine.
"Why aren't you answering?" He gets up, goes into the
kitchen, and soon comes back with two beers. He offers me one,
and I take it.
"Trying to get me drunk, huh?" It's a casual question.
"That's the basic plan," he replies. "I figure you'll let me
into the government conspiracies if you're out to it."
I take a sip, glad he's off the topic of sexual preference.
"Why don't you just kill me?"
A quick smile, but Mulder's watching the show more. "I'll
get more information out of you this way."
I snort. "You're not getting anything, either way." The
beer's of poor quality, but it's better than nothing.
"We'll see." He drinks.
Neither of us talk for a minute, and onscreen, they catch
the serial killer. I sigh. "We couldn't do it like that."
Surprised, Mulder looks over at me, then back at his drink.
"Yeah." There's silence for a while. "So, are you?"
"Are you?" I shoot back. I don't know how far gone he is,
intoxication wise. Maybe he'll answer.
A sigh. "Bisexual."
Admittedly, I'm a bit shocked. Not only had I not expected
him to tell me, I'd not expected him to be anything less than het.
"Yeah? Me too."
I regret the words once they leave my mouth. I'm not
drunk, just a little bit tipsy. Mulder simply nods, storing that
information for future usage.
We lapse into silence again, finishing our drinks, and
another can each. By then, my perception's sharpened, and it
occurs to me that we're going to go on like this until one of us
gives in and makes a move. It may as well be me.
I am physically attracted to Mulder, it's true. He's
attractive. I always hang back from getting in with someone I have
to have contact with on a regular basis. That would prevent me
from leaving, as I always will do until someone stops me. I know a
psychologist would call it fear of commitment. I ineloquently call it,
not giving a damn. My relationship with the other man was out of
convenience, neither of us really caring for or about the other. It
wasn't particularly satisfying, but it worked. And that's all I want
from Mulder. His body, not his soul. Sounds poetic, but it's not.
It's sad, really.
A psychologist would want to know, was I hurt as a child,
abused, a girlfriend break my heart? Well, ma'am, well, sir, the
answer to all of the above is no. I was loved as a child, it was me
who was born a careless bastard. This is just who I am.
I wonder if Mulder will want to care. Hope not. I move
closer to him on the couch, placing my beer can on the floor. He
doesn't move away, which is encouraging. "Try it?" I whisper, a
question I don't believe either of us understand.
My hand slips onto his leg, rubbing his thigh. It's a tired old
routine, seduction. Maybe I should have just slipped Viagra into
his beer. He arches into my touch, placing his hand over mine and
moving them both to his groin. I slip closer to him, so we're
touching. Mulder then sets his beer down, and pulls me in for a
kiss.
I hadn't expected him to kiss this well. It's like setting my
mouth on fire, our tongues dancing some elegant dance to their
own personal rhythm. Mulder's more talented at kissing than He
was. For him, it was like passing time before we cut to the sex.
One part of me wishes I had found out his name.
Through his telltale sweatpants I can feel the bulge of his
erection. It pleases me. I turn my attention to it, slipping my hand
under his waistband and down to cradle his cock, rubbing my
fingers hard over it. Mulder responds, unable to suppress a moan,
running both his hands over my body.
He's almost fully aroused, and I'm well on my way.
Keeping my hand inside Mulder's pants, I use the other one to
hurriedly take my jeans off. When I was with Him, he taught me to
undress quickly, and if one of my hands was occupied. In return, I
taught him how to eliminate someone. A useful skill. My jeans are
soon undone, and I wriggle my way out of them. Mulder's taking
his sweatpants off, working around my hand, which isn't about to
move. He isn't wearing anything under them—I think he'd planned
to go to bed pretty much straight away. I struggle for a short
minute with my tight black briefs, then they end up with my jeans.
Neither of us remove our shirts.
I fall to the floor, on my knees, and lean forward to touch
Mulder's cock with my lips. I don't open my mouth, just feel the
pre-cum on my lips. Then I turn my head up towards Mulder, who
leans down and kisses me, licking my lips. After this, I simply
take him into my mouth fully, sucking him. Mulder moans, and I
take this as encouragement, sucking harder. He shifts forward,
thrusting himself into me, into my mouth, touching the back of my
throat. I suck him... I know how good I am at blowing men. He told
me constantly that I was a damn professional.
Then Mulder's pushing my forehead, shifting me off him. I
look up, questioning. "What's wrong?"
I am, essentially, breathless. He motions with his head to
his desk. "Lube. Desk. Top drawer."
So, it's true—FBI agents can't string a coherent sentence
together. I nod once, get up, and stride over to his desk.
The top drawer's a mess. I throw out various pens, pencils,
and notepads before I find what I'm looking for. I throw it one
handed over to Mulder, who doesn't waste any time, squeezing
some lubricant out onto his palm, and rubbing it over his cock.
Just seeing that finishes my arousal, and brings me just one step
short of orgasm point. It's not going to take much. Probably
because it's been so damn long since I was with someone.
Mulder then takes me, pushing me onto the floor, sprawled
on my stomach. I make it up to hold the couch before he's on my
back, sitting on my legs which are behind me. I'm about to say
something when I feel a lubricated finger enter me. It pulls out
quickly, and two enter. My asshole contracts in a silent protest,
due to lack of usage. The two wiggle a little, teasing me, but are
soon pulled out, to be replaced by three. I can't help but thrust
back to enter them deeper into myself. I bring a hand down to hold
myself, masturbating. I'm on the very brink of an orgasm.
Then I feel Mulder's hands part my cheeks, and his cock
enters me. I moan, am hit by a sense of deja vu, but stay poised
on the brink. Mulder's going slowly, and he pulls out before
slamming back in at what I assume is full speed. If it's not, then I
am a lucky man. He thrusts some more, and it takes just three
before I hit orgasm, my body racked with it. I cry out, falling
forward onto the couch. My cum shoots through my hand, and
onto the floor, making me wonder about how Mulder plans to
clean. Still, he is thrusting, until I feel him come inside me, filling
me. Then he pulls out, and falls beside me onto the couch. I look
at him, and he looks at me. Then we lean forward into a deep kiss,
and that fire I felt earlier is back, burning.
I didn't come here to be burnt. Perhaps I expected, or
hoped, to be scorched a little. Burning wasn't part of the plan. But
it's part of it now. And it won't be removed. I don't think I want it to
be.
We sleep that night fitfully on the couch, entwined in our
half-nakedness.
The next morning, I'm the first to awaken. Mulder's arms
are both around me, and he's snoring softly. I throw the top arm off
me, and stand up. Everything is silent, and it's that morning after
feeling—atmosphere that I despise so much.
Him and I... we never had this. One of us would always
leave straight afterwards, to avoid it. It's a shame that I don't even
know where he was buried.
I look back at Mulder, who looks content. I frown. It's not
the feeling I want. I lean down and take his sweatpants, pulling
them on. Then I take my shoes—which I don't even remember
removing—and put them on, doing them up. I grab my leather
jacket, and walk to the door. "Thank you, Agent Mulder," is the
goodbye I bid the sleeping form.
With that, I walk out the door. Heading for the graveyards.
To examine the changes in my burnt soul.
The End
Death Burn
by Fleur
I've heard it said in places that the best view of your soul is
on a deserted street, under flickering lights, on a windy, rainy
night. When it's simply you and the elements, the howling of
ghosts and battering of demons. The darkness threatens to take
over, seep inside you, its clinging tendrils touching you in places
you'd prefer to stay untouched...
