—The Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene I
To add that special touch of nothing-is-sacred paranoia, I took him in
the parkcade of the Hoover building. I knew where the cameras were,
after all; and also where they weren't. My tax dollars at work.
Of course his paranoia seemed in fine working order—he didn't hear
me or see me or smell me coming, but as I eased out of the shadows I
saw him go stiff and wary anyway—jackals all around you, Mulder, but
I bet I'm your favorite...
Click. My gun. His already in his hand—pretty damn impressive,
Mulder—but I pushed the barrel of mine hard into his chest and he let
his drop—how sweet; he loves me.
"I think I was too easy on you last time." Right in his ear. I like to
watch him try to pull away.
"Last time you left me with a mild concussion, Krycek, and I let you
walk. Is it just me or do you see a connection here?"
His rage—it has a taste to it, when I'm this close. Old and metallic and
hateful and fine—I wonder if they knew what they were doing, when
they gave me to him as a focus for all that madness. "Are we gonna
compare trophies, Mulder? You wanna see my stump?"
I've got him backed, squared out against gray cinderblock wall. It
makes his eyes look like two holes punched into his face through some
unimaginable violence. "I don't want to see anything of you, ever again.
Think you could arrange that?" His voice is flat, uninflected—it would
have fooled me, once upon a time.
"Did you know that they wanted me to seduce you?"
I love it when he clenches his jaw like that. All that juicy emotion right
below the surface, Mulder—how do you stand it, being who you are?
"You mean... when?"
I just nod. Let him think it was every time, any time... no need for me
to spoon-feed the brain I'm devoted to corrupting...
And then his eyes close, and his head leans back surrendered on
cinderblock, and all the warm and weary weight of him sags away from
me and makes me aware of how tight in to him I'd pressed. "I don't
want to play this game, Krycek. Not anymore."
Oh, but I do—playing with Mulder has become quite a favorite pastime
in my little corner of the world. My hobby, my obsession, my sport—now only if they had televised re-runs of Mulder Mindfucking on
ESPN on Sundays, I'd spend a lot less time out in the streets killing
people and a lot more time on the couch with a cold beer like a good
little American grunt.
Pay-Per-View could make a fucking fortune, if only they knew...
And even here, here in this gray hell of a government parking garage
with grotesque lighting, dismal and sweaty in a rumpled suit that
probably looked pretty natty when he first put it on thirteen hours ago;
even here and now I'd like to eat him alive. A little concentration, a
little careful shift of muscles still painfully stupid, and I've got the
prosthetic up against his throat, black leather on skin there, right above
the awful tie.
In a rare moment of self-revelation, I realize that that's the first thought
I remember having when they fitted me for it, the first time I looked
down and saw that black-gloved hand all stiff and unnatural—I wanted
to see it around Mulder's throat.
That's okay. I can handle that.
Mulder can't. His eyes are open now, and I guess this must really excite
him, 'cause he looks like he's going to pop me one any minute, gun or
not. That fury in him, that skewed and twisted passion and everything
that hides behind it—it couldn't be any sexier if he dropped down on his
neurotic knees and blew me—face to face with such lovely and
demented duplicity, how can I not smile at him?
Some fucking psychologist he is, with that laser-beam awareness that
hasn't got clue one about the hook he's twisting on... "What the hell do
you think you're doing?" Sharp—so sharp and cutting. Doesn't he know
that only makes me want more?
"I am..." going to come in my pants—not quite what I wanted to say.
"I'm breaking the rules, Mulder."
That sarcastic smile of his—it always makes me feel superhuman, like
I'd leap tall buildings if only it would make him smile like that again. I
am amazingly unperturbed by how pathetic that is—part of me finds it
terribly amusing, in fact; if I was a schoolgirl I'd be scribbling his name
all over my notebooks—isn't that the cutest fucking thing you ever
heard?
"How could you possibly break rules, Krycek? How do backstabbing
traitor scum manage to find rules to break?"
"Watch and learn, you smug bastard." I dove in. Kissing his mouth is
like biting into a liqueur-filled chocolate—wetter and sweeter than you
might expect, with a nice burn afterwards that lingers on for awhile. I
like it.
Maybe it was the day, or the hour, or the parking garage, or my leather
jacket—whatever it was, everything got violent very, very quickly. He
doesn't usually push that hard. He got downright macho with me until I
steadied him a bit by slipping the barrel of my gun into his mouth
alongside my tongue. Then he got very quiet, let me squeeze him nice
and easy through his suit pants and pet that big hogleg of his with my
not-hand until all he could do was shiver and wheeze.
"How is— this— breaking the rules?" Wet lips, slicked over with my
wet gun. Very pretty. Hatred right there, right there on top in his eyes,
going a full ten rounds with lust—and who wins? Well... me, actually.
"They want me to seduce you, Mulder. I told you."
"And?" He wanted it again, I could tell. He wouldn't open his whore
mouth and beg for it, but he might as well have—that slutty angle of the
hips, and the restless, shifting movements, only barely restrained—oh
Mulder; you delight me so...
"And," I made the prosthetic close down on him, treasured the gasp.
"And it won't surprise you to learn that I have my own agenda."
One blow with the butt of the gun, hard, to the temple; and he went
down like a rubber-suit alien with no one inside it. Just looking at him
crumpled there made me hungry.
"See? I bet you're not surprised I did that."
I made sure not to be watching him when he came around. No use in
getting him thinking he's the center of the universe any more than he
already does.
"What is this, Krycek? What the hell is going on?"
"I wanted to talk to you, Mulder. I wanted to talk to you without them
hearing me. That ruled out your place and mine. So I brought you
here."
His face shut like a piece of clever origami, collapsed back into an
indecipherable series of exquisitely formed triangles. "I have nothing to
say to you."
I shrugged, and pulled my gun out of the back of my jeans. "I must
have hit you harder than I meant to—I guess I damaged your hearing. I
didn't say I wanted you to talk to me, Mulder; I said I wanted to talk to
you."
I watched him track my gun hand, wondered briefly whether or not he
knows that he watches my cock the same way, with the same enticing
mix of lust and revulsion and fear.
Whether he knows what that does to me.
When he finally got back to my face, I was treated to a rare glimpse of
Doctor Mulder—at least half of his fascination with me is what his
mind tells him is the old consanguinity of psychologist and sociopath.
I'm not about to point out the flaws in that position; it works well for
me when he thinks he has a place to hide in.
"You won't shoot me."
Click. "I might."
Now he looks thoughtful. "I see."
To watch him gather himself for a rational attack is, to me, an endlessly
fascinating affair—go ahead; slip into that human skin, Mulder; boot up
that part of your brain that knows how to imitate a real sane person...
He does it at lightspeed, blink and you might miss it. I don't blink.
That schism in him—a dividing line, what's on the top and what's
underneath; it's all there if you know what to look for, and I always
look—my favorite abyss to stare into, you might say. The exotic flavor
of his madness is so rich it fattens my tongue, soothes through me and
draws up a vein of hunger deep enough that you might think it had
never been fed before. That split in him, that gash, that ripped and
terrible place—and the whole time he looks so reasonable, so
disgruntled and almost bored and like nothing more than a lovely,
brilliant, irritated man—if you saw yourself, Mulder, what I see; you'd
put your own eyes out...
"Look, Krycek—whatever you have to say to me, why don't you say it
so we can get this over with? I'm not in the mood for games, I told
you..." he drifts off, cuts away as he looks around, really looks around
for the first time. "And where the hell are we? I've never seen—"
Silence, then, as the dim light through the few high and small windows
enters the room; last of the daylight playing soft over the
accoutrements. "What the hell...?"
I can go ahead and smile—after all, I'm the one with the gun. "I told
you, Mulder—couldn't use your place; couldn't use mine. So I brought
you to one of theirs."
The look he gives me makes me want to laugh—it always does; that 'I
knew you were insane but when did you become crazy' look of his
always tickles me. "Like they don't listen in to what goes on here?"
"Only when they think it's being used. Mostly this place stands empty.
And just in case..." I push an ashtray resting on the floor towards him
with my boot; generously layered with the powdered jewel glitter of
crushed bugs.
"Where are we, Krycek? What is this place?"
"I thought you might appreciate the irony, Mulder—you know me,
always considerate of others. This is one of the many places where
secrets come to die."
His eyes leave me, flicker like frightened birds over the horse, the
refitted dentist's chair, the shelves. "It's a torture chamber, Krycek."
I shrug again. "If you want. I think I can accommodate you." Mulder's
requests, like his lies, don't always keep him safe in the shallow end of
the pool.
Black fire in his eyes—he might be dead except for that, except for that
little pulse of what he wants so badly to be loathing... "I want you to
get out of my fucking life, you sick bastard. Think you can
accommodate that?"
Watch this; watch this carefully now, because it's rare enough that I get
him in this place where anger and fear and desire are choking him to a
slow death—it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. "Sure.
I'm game. I'll give you one chance, Mulder."
I went for him, and he scrambled to his feet with panic uppermost on
his face—a promising start. "You know what I want." Husky and close,
rich and dizzy with the smell of him. "Open your pants, my friend.
Open up for me and start talking, and we'll see if we can get you out of
this nasty situation you've found yourself in."
Stiff against me suddenly—the amazing plastic boyfriend—and in his
eyes I see that he knows very well what I want; and he doesn't think he
can give it to me. Just another quirk in that fucked-up funhouse that
passes for Mulder's mind—this was his fantasy originally, this little
tell-me-your-secrets-while-I-jerk-you-off game; and yet he's never
quite been able to do it himself. Too close to real for him, is my
guess.
"Krycek," he says, actually the voice of reason; and what in the hell
possessed him to think that would work on me? I put the gun to his
throat—snugged safely into the little dip above his adam's apple, and
take one long lick of his salty, stubbled jaw. "Oh no—don't do this,
Krycek; I don't want—"
"This is your one chance, Mulder. Take it or leave it." I can do the
voice of reason too, you see.
He bites his bottom lip, and his face is full of dark warnings as he
struggles briefly with his pants—belt, button, zipper; and then a bolt of
lightning strikes through the place where my arm used to go on as he
takes the glove, hard hand in smooth glove, and wraps it around
himself.
"That's it," I tell him, low and soothing—how I love to comfort
maniacs; "nice and slow, just like that—you can just pretend it's your
hand, Mulder, you twisted fuck—I like that. I like to think that you jerk
off alone and think of me, and then fuck my hand and fantasize that
you're alone..." A flash of heat twists through me when I consider a
pretty, pretty memory of a bird's eye view of a boy and his gadgets...
God, I love my job. Just the memory of that surveillance sets up a
heartbeat, a pulse, a hot rhythm in my cock, and then I can't resist
tweaking him about it. "Do you keep a glove at home, Mulder? A
special little Alex-glove?"
His shudder pierces through me; but then his head goes back and hits
the wall, and all movement stops. "I can't—I can't do this."
I hush him, gentle him, and press harder with the gun. "That's okay,
Mulder. We'll try a different direction. Now get my hand back on your
cock before I blow your head off... That's right." Well, I wasn't going to
keep him dangling from that particular strap for long, anyway. Must be
fair, here, after all, or else all the fun goes out of it.
Soft, rocking movement—hot and sweet traveling up to my aching
stump; and I swear to God I can almost feel my hand throbbing along
with the rest of me, and the smell of him makes me want to bite right
into his throat. "Come on, now; spill it—if you don't want to think
about me, if that's too much for you, who's your pleasure, Mulder?
Who've you got locked behind those eyes? Tell me all about it..."
I had to stop there. I heard the steady sound of my own voice slanting
off into breathiness, and that just wouldn't do. Not yet.
His eyes glint open, hot and dazed. "Would you believe the big blond
from //Britches Of Madison County//? The one with the belly chain?"
I couldn't help the smile. "I'd believe it if you were a normal guy,
Mulder. But if you were a normal guy, I wouldn't be standing here
getting off on watching you fuck a prosthetic hand."
Another glint. "Don't sell yourself short, Krycek."
I leaned in. If I pulled my arm away now I'd have that hard bulge in my
jeans pressed tight against his naked cock. Oh—that would be very
nice, right about now... but he's still shuffling nervously before the
board at the Krycek oral examination. Maybe soon... "Who is it,
Mulder? Scully? All white skin and black lace and deep wet silk?
Skinner, maybe? Can't blame you there—gotta love that big bad daddy
discipline—"
"Don't," he sounds so desperate, and I've actually let the gun slip a little
so that he can hang his head. "Don't do this."
Every time; every time I feel the twinning way our perversions mesh
and mirror and mingle I just dissolve, deliquesce into liquid-state-
Krycek; hot and ready to be poured into that reluctant vessel. "Come
on, Mulder—don't get all coy on me now. After all we've been through?
Talk to me—I swear I'll still respect you in the morning, even if you tell
me it's Frohicke forcing you to eat mashed bananas off the tip of his
dick—"
"Oh God," this is a very special thing about Mulder—if you get him
laughing while you're fucking him it just makes him hotter. "Scully," he
says after a bark of mixed lust and humor. "Oh Scully..."
"Good boy." Tense the shoulder, make it squeeze down on him. That
just freaks him out—and that's just such a damn fine thing, the way he
takes it, the way he turns from it. "What's she doing? What're you doing
to her?"
"Lips... mouth—Scully's mouth. I want..."
Bad choice, Mulder. Not a good place to trail off. I lean in closer.
"What do you want?"
He doesn't seem to be coming up with anything, so I continue. "How
about that lipstick—nice shade for your prick, don't you think? How
about seeing her with her face well-fucked and her makeup all
smeared—sweet little Catholic girl, good Doctor Scully with her sane
and sensible mouth gobbling you like you're the latest fucking thing in
communion wafers. You wanna let that Holy Sister transubstantiate
your cock, Mulder?—"
I've gotten to him. He groans and bares his throat to the gun, and down
below he moves my hand faster, humps against me like he can't stop.
"How very un-PC of you, my friend." I'm past the point of caring that
my voice shakes, at least right now. "Where are your feminist
sensibilities? Guess they go out the window when your dick gets hard,
just like your common sense and your paranoia and everything else
except that warped brain of yours..."
That was almost a wail, there, that sound he did deep in his throat; but
it's not his words, it's not deep enough inside, it's not what I want. "Are
you going to talk to me, Mulder, or are you just going to stand there
and whimper and spank your monkey?"
"Can't—" he bites it out like it hurts him to do it. "I just... can't."
"That's okay," I'm back to being soothing, and he's so lost in where he
is that it doesn't even seem to frighten him. "I didn't think you could,
Mulder. I'll make it easy on you."
Now he knows. Animal instinct is never more wary than at the first
whiff of something new, and this is the part of him I've been speaking
to; this raw animal meat. Now fear and anger is back and bright in his
eyes, wild and uncontrollable for that split second before I bash him
with the gun again—not hard enough to put him out, but still; he's
going to be woozy for a while, and he's going to have one hell of a
lump to remember me by.
He may be woozy, but he's got enough energy and coordination to
make things damned difficult. There were a few moments when I
considered giving him another tap before I got him naked and strapped
into the chair; but in the end sheer fortitude and ingenuity saw me
through. Nothing succeeds like success.
It's a marvel of engineering, this chair; if I ever live long enough to
have a permanent residence I'll have to get one. Built-in bonds, stirrups,
and hydraulics; all with the added convenience of easy-to-clean vinyl
and a drip-gutter for when things get sticky—you gotta love this
modern age.
It's got a very interesting smell to it—Lysol and baked-on, caked-on
fear. Mulder doesn't seem to care for it much, but I like it.
"Enough, Krycek," he says, his voice thick; "I'll listen to you—talk to
you; whatever. Just stop this now."
I have to turn away from him so that he doesn't see me smile. It's so
tempting to laugh at him; to give in to the urge to play the part like a
vintage 1950's bad actor in an old war-hero movie... it's all too easy to
picture myself in SS regalia, cackling evilly and saying things like 'yez,
you vill tell uz vhat you know', while Mulder twists manfully in his
bonds. I want to laugh at him, and yet I really shouldn't—it's rude to
laugh at someone right before you fuck them bloody. He probably
couldn't see me smile anyway—his vision must be pretty fuzzy after
our little tussle—but I'm not willing to bet on it, and so I turn away. To
cover I walk over to one of the interesting little racks scattered around
this place; stripping off my jacket as I go.
"Krycek," less thick now, and it seems like I can hear the pain I caused
him. He wants me to hear it—poor misguided Mulder, still mistaking
the markers for the game, even at this late date. "Did you hear me? I'm
not doing this with you—let me go and we'll talk—I know you went
through a lot of trouble to talk to me—"
"Oh, it's no trouble, Mulder, really;" I pause while the T-shirt comes
off, awkward as always with only one hand. "And I gave you your
chance just a few minutes ago—I know you probably don't remember,
what with the nasty bump on the head you took—but you said, and I
quote: 'I can't'."
"I..."
Even with my back to him, even with only that one word to go by—a
chill goes up my spine and my nipples tighten with painful intensity
and I have to work hard to just stand there and fuss casually with my
clothes; because he wants to ask me, he wants to know what I've got
in mind now that he's flunked the test he was never meant to pass; and
that means he's thinking all sorts of wicked thoughts. About me. I
mentioned that I'm fuck-stupid about him, didn't I?
A few easily concealed deep breaths, a few moments of giddy almost-
prayer, and I decide that jacket and shirt off is enough. Turn and smile,
boy, you're on Mulder Camera! "And so here you are—you don't have
to do anything."
"For the last time, Krycek—"
He shuts up so easily. One finger does it—one finger over his lips,
sweet little symbol of penetrative threat. "Oh no, Mulder; not the last
time. For you and me? Never a last time. This is the romance of the
century, haven't you caught on to that yet?"
"Goddamn you, let me—"
Fun is fun, but that's enough. When he's talking blather like that each
word is a wall between Mulder and where he needs to be; and I'm not
about to let him undo all my efforts—if I let him talk long enough, he'd
probably talk himself right out of that enormous boner he's got...
There's a black bandanna in my pocket, and it's only a moment's work
to whip it out and get it tied around his head, good and deep in that
treacherous, babbling, misguided mouth of his. "You'd have been so
much happier if you'd been born mute, Mulder."
He's reduced to glaring. Glaring I can stand. "There you go now—all
set. Nothing for you to do but lie back and think of J. Edgar."
I leave him there to stew on it while I go back to my jacket. The lube I
take, but I hesitate over the condoms. Eventually I decide to live
dangerously—I know I'm clean, and really the only thing I risk
getting from Mulder is chronic compulsive jerk-off-itis, which I believe
I attained an immunity to when I was about sixteen or so.
When I turn back to him he's decided that I'm not worth glaring at. I've
taken away his option of speech, taken away his options of movement
unless he's willing to squirm in that legs-up-spreadeagled position I've
got him strapped into; so his only remaining option is disdain. I don't
mind—fighting fury or abandoned slut; earnestly rational or
contemptuously vacant—I'll take my Mulder any way I can get him. All
paths lead toward enlightenment, Grasshopper; and all Mulders lead to
my favorite Mulder, the one that—a quick glance at my watch—is due
to arrive in about six or seven minutes.
"You look really cute like that," I tell him fondly; and even though his
head is turned away I can see his dismissive blink. "You do. It strips
you down, somehow—the more I take away from you, the more you
show up. How could you ever wonder why I love you?"
A sniff; would have been a snort if his mouth wasn't full of cloth.
I think I'll leave my gloves on.
"Did you ever play golf, Mulder?" He reacts, not to my words but to
sound, the sound of metal and fabric as I get my jeans open; the only
previously two-handed activity I've really been able to master with
finesse. Muscles show through smooth skin and that funny tic jumps in
his jaw again, and for a moment I'm absolutely faint with the
knowledge that he's mine, all mine, right here and right now. "Try to
think of this like a careful game of golf—you'll do better if you forget
about the score and just let yourself be the hole."
He might as well be fucking transparent, for the speed with which his
leap of fear communicates itself. "Be the hole, Mulder." Lube in hand,
a special slickness over leather; and then down to the crack of his
exposed ass—the prosthetic, just because he's such a good boy.
"Golf," I mumble, watching him try to ignore the way I'm plunging
fingers into him. I wish I had the patience to just fuck him with that
hard thing till he screamed, but I don't. I have nothing, anymore, except
this bare wire of need, something he must sense as he tries to pretend
that he's somewhere else entirely. Again, even through lust that shakes
my knees I have that urge to laugh—this is Mulder, after all, and I'm
actually quite surprised that he's not taking advantage of the chair and
his helplessness to indulge some of his nastier abduction fantasies. A
quick, flashing image of myself lunging into Mulder while wearing an
E.T. mask, and I have to back right off from that one. He doesn't want
to play that game—or any game, as evidenced by his tight,
infinitesimally controlled expression of disconnection. I can fix that.
"Your father played golf, didn't he?"
Oh, almost—he almost whipped over towards me, there—be careful,
Mulder; your cracks are showing. All of them.
"I know he did. Want to know who his golf-buddies really were?"
Yeah—I'm glad I skipped the condom. Nothing like the slick hot touch
of a tight hole shutting out my bare prick, just waiting there for me.
He's pulled as far away as his position will allow. Too bad it's not
enough.
"Want to know what I did to them?"
Soft sound from him; and that just whips in my blood like a parasite,
but still, he holds on. Not enough, not enough for him yet...
"Want to know what I did to your father?"
Amazing fulfillment—oh yeah, yeah Mulder that's it—his eyes
squeeze shut hard, and the bliss of that is almost enough to overwhelm
the physical as I shove forward and just rip right through. I didn't get
him anywhere near ready enough, so the first few seconds are a hell of
ecstasy in forcing him open, licking the inside of my top teeth
reflectively to distract myself from the feeling of him sundered around
me.
"I killed—the sonofabitch—Mulder," I've got a nice, rhythmic stroke
going; something I can talk through, even if only through my teeth.
"And you—knew it. And a few—months—after that... I had my—cock-
- jammed right—down your throat." This is it; this is the most pain
I've ever seen him in. My dick is like iron. "So you—tell me—who the
sick bastard is?"
Sure enough, the sick bastard's cock is red and huge and weeping above
a stomach that I would almost swear I can see myself moving under;
I'm so fucking high. He's still turned away from me, still shutting me
out, but he can't shut out his own body; not with the way I'm in him up
to my balls and pounding away.
I need to distract myself—I'm not ready; not yet, anyway—and so I
watch his hands instead of his flushed face; hands strapped tight to
padded arms, twisting and digging and seeking to kill. He'd do it—if I
unstrapped him now he'd go right for my throat... what a way to go!
But that's Mulder for you; never any appreciation of those who do the
most for him, the ungrateful sonofabitch. Speaking of which...
"Redemption time, Mulder—work your ass for me," I hiss out, fucking
deeper into that hot, bleeding groove I've carved out for myself; "time
to thank me for all the things I do for you. Do it for me—you can do it,
I'm really close... Get me off and this will all be over—and you can go
back to your TV and your sticky couch and your stupid little
fantasies..."
Immediately I'm glad for the soundproofing in this dump—gag or no
gag, he's got a fine pair of lungs on him, and that shriek's been waiting
a long, long time to come out, from the sound of it. It breaks in him,
takes him over; and then all I have to do is find the strength to keep
standing while he bucks his ass down tight on my cock, over and over
and over until the sight of him geysering out onto his own chest and the
dark flash of his eyes meeting mine for one brilliant killing moment
right there and the feel of him squeezing out of control around me
sucks air and heat and fluid from my body as I grunt and shudder and
come, eyes closed and my real hand fast on his hip to feel him move,
lift and drop for me while I corkscrew in and spurt out.
And this is when I feed, drooping gentle over his hot body while still
rammed so full and hard within; drift away like I never do anywhere
else at any other time ever. Alex the sponge, free to slurp up all that
sweet black pain that connects with Mulder in a way that's so intimate
it makes what I do to him look like a pat on the back. Mulder can feel
this. He can feel—he can...
"Jesus..." it got away from me but I don't think he heard it; breathless is
about the best I can do in this splintered, disintegrated moment. He
didn't hear it—he's fairly occupied with himself right now, and if I don't
get that gag off him soon it looks like he just might vomit in it.
"Okay, Mulder, just settle down. You're okay, Mulder—there, you can
yell if you want, now—as loud as you'd like, nobody's gonna hear you."
He doesn't want to yell, but he seems to be fairly interested in sobbing.
How extraordinary.
And in the interests of being meticulous, the Hoover building is where I
dropped him off. I had him blindfolded at first, but after five minutes in
the car the tight, fear-pitched rate of his breathing in combination with
his open mouth told me that he was asleep, so I took it off him. The
better to see you, my pretty.
He didn't wake when I parked on the street outside, didn't wake when I
turned the car off. I didn't try to rouse him. This was a bad place for me
to be seen, and I shouldn't stay for long—but surely I could excuse five
minutes, borrow fortune and damn fate for five minutes of watching
him be at the closest he ever gets to peace?
I wouldn't think, with my body this sated, that my mind would be this
active... //The quality of mercy is not strained—// oh yeah. You got that
right.
And what would your idea of mercy be, Mulder? If I put a bullet in
your head while you suck me off? If I followed orders, so that you
could feel like you've got me nicely nailed down?
If I left you the fuck alone, as you said you want me to do?
Look—when I touch his cheek, he turns into my hand...
No, I think not. You might think I make you wish you were dead, but
believe me—alone is worse; and I forgive you for hating me for giving
you what you need.
Time now. Five minutes can go so fast, sometimes. But I still smell you
on me, Mulder; and that's going to have to last me a while. Like this
kiss—come on, Sleeping Beauty; up and at 'em.
His first glance, his first look at me is full of such heavy, questioning
innocence, it lights an immediate fire in me—an unsuspected Fox
Mulder persona!—I'll have to ferret out and fuck with that one, next
time. He gives me these glimpses, these little peeks at Muldersplinters
on purpose; he knows it, I know it. I smile.
And then he's gone—still here, ostensibly, but he might as well be ten
thousand miles away.
And, silly me; stupid, stupid, addicted me—I feel like there should be
some words to offer; can you believe it? After all I've done, everything
I've poured out for him—I got one shining moment of eye contact with
the man I'd come to see, one teeth-rattling orgasm, and five minutes of
silent peace—and still I want to say something...
I might as well tattoo his name right on my fucking ass.
Go, Mulder; go and get in more trouble, and have more
disappointments, and lose your faith one more time so that I can come
to you and offer you mercy, my mercy; once again.
But I say nothing, do nothing, as he gets out, steadies himself on the car
for a moment, and walks slowly away.
The Quality of Mercy
by Mairead Triste
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.
