I don't know why I feel like this around him. He stands on
the corner of a street, signalling for a cab. I don't think he's seen
me yet.
It's a twist of fate that I see him here. Seattle. I'm here
helping out on a case. God knows why. The Seattle PD requested
someone—apparently they've recently lost their best profiler—and
Skinner sent me. I don't appreciate it.
Krycek stands there, right hand holding his leather jacket
by the lapels, around his torso. He glances around, apparently
nervous. The evening breeze ruffles his hair a little.
My hand moves instinctively under my trenchcoat, taking
my gun. I mentally remind myself not to drop it, and walk towards
Krycek, head down.
When I'm directly behind him, I look up. He still hasn't
noticed me. His stance is closed, but he doesn't look suspicious.
I press the gun up into the small of his back, and step up
to put my arm around his neck. "Don't move."
I can feel a tremor go through him, and his body's struggle
to control it. "Mulder? What the..."
That familiar emotion runs through me, and I yank back,
dragging Krycek off balance. He stumbles, and I pull him up again,
keeping my gun on him. "What are you doing here, Krycek?"
"What are you doing here?" he replies.
Glancing around, I keep my anger in check. "Nothing that
has anything to do with you."
I notice the strange glances we're getting from passers-by,
and glare at him. "Turn around."
"Are you arresting me?"
"Just turn around."
Krycek does, and I shove the gun in his back. He
stumbles a little. "Walk." Deciding not to argue with me, he does,
although I can see in the way he handles himself that he's only
doing it because he doesn't want to attract attention.
Around the corner, I've parked my rental car. I reach past
Krycek, and unlock the door. "Get in."
He does so. I wonder about the reason for this obedience,
this subordination. As he simply looks ahead, I go around to the
other side of the car and get in. What am I doing? Why?
My car keys are in my pocket, and I take them out, sliding
them into the ignition. I don't turn them. "Why are you doing this,
Krycek?"
"Doing what." He states it flatly as opposed to asking.
"Going along with me."
"I don't want to disillusion you. This way, you can go on
thinking that you'd shoot me if I didn't." Krycek, disinterested,
looks out the window.
"I would have," I say, turning the key. The engine turns
over, spluttering in protest. This isn't the best car I've ever had. "I
still could."
"Keep telling yourself that," he says, staring blankly.
I drive without speaking, until we pull up at the house I'm
staying in. Skinner didn't want me to stay in a hotel, instead
opting for a house. I don't know who it belongs to. I have a feeling
I'm in it because of my history of expense accounts.
The streetlights are on, casting dim shadows across the
street and lawn. Krycek gets out of the car, looking around. "You
live here?"
"You know I don't," I reply. "But you're coming inside."
"Really." Again, it's a flat statement. I come around to his
side of the car, grabbing the man by the collar of his jacket. We
go inside, and I shove him so he sprawls into the living room.
"What are you going to do to me, Mulder?"
Krycek's voice is shaking a little. I point my gun at him. "I
don't know. Shoot you like you shot my father comes to mind."
"You can't kill me," he sounds bored. "I'm already dead."
"Shut up," I tell him. "I'm not in the mood to be
mindfucked."
"I wouldn't try to mindfuck a psychologist. But you can't kill
me. It wouldn't accomplish anything."
"I don't care," I reply. I step forward and bend down,
grabbing Krycek by his jacket again. I hear him exhale sharply,
and I shove him against the wall. "Stay there."
He turns his head. "What..."
"Don't you dare speak." I take out my handcuffs, and snap
them onto his wrists. Leaving his hands in front of him, I spin him
around. "Undo your fly."
"What?"
I hit him backhanded across his face. "Do it."
Deciding it's better to do as I say, Krycek struggles to
undo the top button. "Fuck you."
"Use your other hand," I suggest, glaring at him.
He doesn't bother utilising that suggestion, instead
keeping at it. Eventually, the zip's down, his jeans hanging open.
He's wearing black briefs.
I reach forward, and take the jeans by the waistband,
yanking them down. I then do nothing, and there's silence. I rear
back and punch Krycek in the stomach. He doubles over,
grunting. I yank him back up. I shove him into the wall. "Don't
make this harder than it has to be." I stand back, and look him up
and down. "Excuse the pun."
I hate this man. He's betrayed me so many times. Killed
my father, and numerous others. I turn him around roughly,
shoving him into the wall. In contrast to that movement, I gently
run a finger under the waistband of his briefs, taking them down
his smooth thighs bit by bit. Once they're at his knees, I stop. I
turn my attention to myself, instead.
Stepping back from Krycek, whose half-naked form is
illuminated by the streetlights coming through the windows, I
shrug my trenchcoat off. Then I remove my belt, and open my
pants. I slide trousers and underwear down my legs, until I'm
adequately exposed. Then I bring my hand down to cradle my
cock, stroking.
Before long, I am erect, helped by thoughts of the
sweetness of revenge. I step back towards Krycek, who knows
from the elements of the situation, what I'm going to do. I hear him
bang his head on the wall.
Pre-cum is slowly coming out of the head of my cock, and
I wipe my hand over it, feeling the heat. I bring my hand around, in
front of Krycek's face. "Lick it."
He turns his face away. "Fuck you."
"Lick it," I repeat, as if it's an order. Using my other hand, I
grab his face and turn it. I hold the hand with the pre-cum at his
mouth, and after a minute, his tongue snakes out onto my palm,
and licks it. "Good."
I take both hands back, and shove him into the wall. I
reach forward and spread his cheeks. Krycek brings his hands
down his front, to touch himself.
"Don't," I caution, reaching forward and tugging his hands
up so they're next to his chest again. "Don't you touch. This isn't
for pleasure."
Krycek doesn't answer, and I can tell he has his face set,
intent on simply bearing this.
I move closer, and enter Krycek roughly. His tight ring of
muscle contorts, and I hear his quiet, suppressed moan, probably
of pain. I'm going slowly, too slowly. I move back, almost coming
out of Krycek completely. Then, in one hard thrust, I enter
completely again. The process completes until he's almost
screaming. He's taken up biting down on the index finger on his
left hand to stop it, and I wonder about the pain. Eventually, I
come inside him, and collapse against his back. Revenge is
sweet.
I withdraw my cock, and stand back. I pull my briefs and
pants up, over my gradually dying erection, and do them up. I don't
feel satisfied.
Revenge may be sweet, but this sort of revenge...
I liked it.
That's the thing I never would have expected. Krycek turns
around, and I can see he's expecting me to unlock the handcuffs.
Without saying word, I do. Krycek bends down and pulls his
jeans up, zipping and buttoning them. I can't say a word.
He takes the cuffs off me, and I let him. He says one word.
"Again?"
Finally, I find my voice. "You're one sick son of a bitch,
Krycek."
"You enjoyed it," he says.
How can he read me like that?
"Do you feel better, now? Feel like the death of your
father's avenged? Satisfied, Mulder? Or do you just feel longing?"
I don't reply.
"Welcome to my world," Krycek says, and turns, walking
out the door. I allow him to go.
The End
Sweet Taste of Revenge
by Fleur
It's that time of night which is a transition between light
and darkness. Dusk, twilight, whatever you want to call it. The air
isn't cold—but I'm shivering under my suit. I'm sure it's internal. My
core is cold, everything chilled in an instant by the sight of him.
