Numb
Barrel of a Gun II
by Meri Lomelindi
"Any word?"
Officer Wells was jogging back to the bench with an overflowing
bag and a mouth stuffed chock full of potato chips, his dark, sweaty
hair plastered to his forehead. He fell onto the seat beside her,
dropping a box of wheat crackers into her lap and a Coke Slurpee into
her less than grateful hands. After he had finished chewing, he said,
"Nope—but I 'spect he'd call you if he was gonna call anyone, ma'a,
err, Agent Scully." He munched noisily as he dug into the bag, and
the grease was palpable in his voice. She resisted the urge to give
him a lecture on a healthy diet and its relation to law enforcement,
instead opening the box and nibbling on a cracker. It was stale—
not that she had expected anything else.
"I asked for coffee, Officer—didn't they have any?" She
tried to keep her tone light, but she had the feeling that her
irritation had seeped through anyway.
Wells' mouth was occupied again, so he shook his head and
endeavored to empty it. "Machine was broken," he explained. "This
was all they had with caffeine." There was a pause while he gulped
down a large portion of his orange soda—disgusting stuff, she
thought—and then he cleared his throat apprehensively. "You're
SURE you don't wanna go back to your hotel, Agent Scully? It's
real late, and it's not safe for a woman, sitting out in the open
at night."
Wanting to growl at him, she took a deep breath and a careful
sip of her Slurpee. It wasn't too bad, actually. She thought that
she sounded remarkably calm when she spoke, considering the amount
of provocation she'd endured. "Officer Wells, I am not going to
sleep until Agent Mulder is found, and I'm sure he would do the
same for me. We can sit in the squad car if you'd feel more safe,
or you are welcome to take your leave. I'm sure I could wait at
the station."
She didn't mention that Skinner had left the accommodations to
Mulder who, true to form, had booked them adjoining rooms in the
hotel of terror, the Oceanside Inn. It was nowhere near the ocean—
Tampa faced the Gulf of Mexico—and it was miles from the Gulf as
well. She had gone to drop off her luggage earlier and then fled
when she found a roach crawling on the defunct television set. There
was no way she was going to return there, and even if it had been
clean, she couldn't fall asleep when Mulder had vanished like this.
She wasn't terribly worried—he had probably just gone off on some
obscure lead—but the way he'd looked right before pulling his
disappearing act, so pale and exhausted, was troubling. Thinking
about it was an exercise in futility, though, until he returned.
Horrified, judging by his expression of dismay, Wells shook
his head vigorously. "Oh, no, Agent Scully. I'll stay up as long
as you do. And besides," he added, with a hint of pride, "folks
are less likely to bother you if you're with a man in uniform."
Scully fumed silently, toying with the idea of telling him off
before she remembered her personal therapy method for situations like
these. She had developed it while in the Academy, when a cocky male
candidate had jeered at her. Although she doubted that any real
psychologist would find it healthy, it always took the edge off of
her anger and made her feel in control. Control was very, very
important to Scully.
A cracker rested in her hand, untouched, and she began to
systematically crush it into infinitesimal little crumbs. Imagining
Officer Wells' head in place of the cracker, she noted with glee that
a some of the powdery remains had splattered on his uniform, mingling
with grease stains. When he tried to brush them off, they stuck to
the fabric. "Sorry," she offered innocently, "they aren't very
sturdy crackers."
He shrugged, frowning, and settled back against the bench with
his potato chips in hand. Scully thought it odd that he hadn't
insisted on returning to the squad car even though it was directly
beside the bench, but then realized that it was probably ten degrees
warmer in that sort of cramped space. Air conditioning most likely
had to be rationed the way heat was in D.C. when it snowed.
Sighing wearily, she flipped on her cell phone, dialed Mulder,
and wasn't too disappointed when she received no answer. Despite his
professed resolve to stay awake, Officer Wells had closed his eyes
and was even beginning to snore. She found herself battling the
temptation to nod off and, to that effect, downed half of her melted
Slurpee; it wouldn't do to fall asleep at a gas station.
She was dozing anyway, only half alert, when the insisting
ringing of her cell phone startled her back into wakefulness.
5:10 AM (ET), February 19th, 1995 cold
Headlights blazed through the fog of his mind, blinding him
momentarily, and he shivered. Somewhere, someone was honking their
horn with an insistence that made his lateness for work clear. It
was dark except for the little spots of white light and a green
console that spread out in front of him. For a moment, he imagined
that he was on an alien spaceship.
But it was just a car, and Mulder, in the driver's seat, was
going ten miles below the speed limit on what appeared to be a
highway—in morning traffic, no less. Self-preservation kicked in,
finally, so he put his foot on the gas and righted the wheels before
he swerved off of the road. A glance at the car's radio told him
that it was five in the morning.
Five in the morning when it had been eight in the evening, and
he had no idea where the hell he was or how he'd gotten there. He
flicked his eyes down for another second and noted that there was
nothing new in the car, nothing he didn't recognize; still the same
clothes, thankfully, and the cell phone was peeking out from the
pocket of his discarded trenchcoat on the passenger's seat. The
air conditioning was blasting out of the fans, making his teeth
chatter, but his body felt curiously bereft of pain; he hadn't even
remembered the bandages on his wrists until he noticed the whiteness
of them against the steering wheel. His sleeves had slid down with
the angle of his arms, he supposed. Voices still mumbled in his
head, but they warbled and wavered and sometimes he couldn't even
make them out—not that he minded.
scully
The cell phone was there for the taking and he grabbed it,
without much thought, and speed-dialed Scully. It took a few rings
for her to answer, and when she did she sounded sleepy.
"Scully."
He felt like he'd just woken up as well, and he couldn't seem
to think of anything to say.
scully, helpmehelpmehelpme don't let him do this
"Hello?" She sounded annoyed now, but then her voice
softened. "Mulder? Is that you?"
"Sc-cully," he mumbled, "help me." His voice cracked as if
he hadn't used it in years, and the curious fog was still there,
hindering his actions. Bewilderment was prominent in his mind.
"Mulder!" she said again, sharply. "Are you okay? Where
are you? Did you find something?"
"I don't remember—I don't.. don't know where I am." Too
late, he thought that he probably shouldn't have been so forthright;
she'd think he was insane. Not that the rest of the Bureau didn't
think that already, though. The sun was starting to come up, and it
brought him some clarity. "I'm okay," he added hastily.
Scully must have thought he was scared, because she sounded
both soothing and terrified. "Okay, Mulder. You're okay. Look
around—where are you? Help—" A noise in the background
interrupted her—a man's voice, from the sound of it—and she
sounded faraway as she muttered something to him and then returned
to Mulder. Now she was more guarded. "So what are you doing?"
Feeling more lucid, Mulder scanned his surroundings. "I'm
in the car, Scully, on the highway in.. just a sec." There were
billboards on both sides of the road and he eventually spotted one
which spelled out his location. "I'm just outside of Atlanta."
"God, Mulder," Scully replied in her long-suffering maltreated
partner voice, a mask over her worry. "Officer Wells and I have
been wondering if you totaled the squad car." Officer Wells—who
the hell was that? Oh, the man who wouldn't let them touch the
body. "Do you need me to fly up there?" It was phrased as an
innocuous question, but it was obvious that she wanted to retrieve
him and figure out what was wrong.
"That's not necessary," he said, rushing to assure her. The
last thing he needed was her hauling him off to some FBI counselor
for a round of idiotic psychobabble when he had a degree himself
and was perfectly capable of managing. "Besides, the car has to
be returned to the precinct. I'll drive straight back—Atlanta to
Tampa—it should only take eight hours. They'll probably be less
than pleased with me for putting this kind of mileage on the car, but
the Bureau is paying for gas, after all. I'll talk to you when I
get there." He awaited her reply with bated breath.
"Okay," she agreed, conceding his victory, at least for now.
"Meet me at the police station. You remember where it is?"
"I remember everything," he reminded her, trying to sound
appropriately wry but not quite succeeding.
"I'll see you there. But call me if you have any trouble,
Mulder. Okay?"
little slut
"I will, Scully," he promised as he hung up and tried to find
an exit, hoping he had complete control over himself this time.
you'll do anything i tell you to, pretty boy, won't you
The sun was brighter now and he could see the ghost of his
reflection in the windshield, haggard and ill. His ass was killing
him and his wrists throbbed endlessly, making it hard to steer.
if you didn't want me, why'd you come up here
He couldn't reach the briefcase with the Tylenol in it unless
he stopped the car. Fuck.
you know you want it baby
Mulder sped up as he looked for a rest stop.
just dying to have my cock up your ass, just dying
He just sped up, period.
1:15 PM, February 19th, 1995 "It looks like he's back, Agent Scully," someone called out.
Scully peered out the window in an attempt to catch a glimpse
of him and, failing that, turned to watch the door. She felt fuzzy
and covered with grit, having overslept after a return to the inn for
what was supposed to have been a short nap; there hadn't been time
for a shower. At least she had a clean suit, though she'd spilled
coffee on the edge of the sleeve. Thank God it was a dark jacket and
the stain wasn't visible unless you were looking for it.
The door swung open with a clang of chimes. Chimes in a police
station, she thought to herself. In the police station of a
reasonably large city, no less. Didn't they have any regulations?
"Scully," said Mulder by way of greeting, catching her gaze and
holding it instead of avoiding her, as she'd speculated he might do.
He looked absolutely horrible but, oddly enough, his walk was steady
and unerring. The same dark circles ringed his eyes, glassy with
exhaustion, and the rumpled sleeves were again pulled low, almost
concealing his hands themselves. The split lip had closed up and
would heal smoothly, but he was twice as pale as he had been the
previous day, making the scratch on his forehead stand out in stark
relief. His hair was matted and she thought for the first time, as
she scrutinized, that his suit hung a bit looser than usual. True,
he tended to neglect his nutritional needs, and he had just recovered
from the ordeal in Alaska, but he should have looked healthier. It
just seemed wrong to her.
"Hey, Mulder." A hollow, raw feeling, worry and fear, had
lodged itself in the pit of her stomach when she'd first heard his
shaky voice over the phone line, and she'd thought it would vanish
when she saw that he was okay, but instead it only intensified. He
was the one who had run off, so why did she feel like she was coming
unglued? Yesterday morning she'd barely thought of him, except in
mild exasperation, and now she was well-nigh consumed by the need to
keep him safe. Something was definitely wrong with the both of them.
The police officers had gathered around Mulder in something of
a loose circle as he entered their headquarters, and now they spread
apart to reveal the local detective who had first taken the case.
He'd been off duty the night before and unreachable, but when Scully
had arrived at the station this morning she'd gotten an earful about
how he was perfectly able to profile the case himself and didn't
require the help of some kooky feebie (Mulder's reputation preceded
him, as usual).
She watched Mulder apprehensively; she'd thought she would get
a chance to talk to him alone before the detective accosted him, but
the illustrious Detective Peterson was fast approaching, his lip
curling in distaste. "Agent Mulder, I presume?"
Mulder shifted his weight and extended a hand which the other
man ignored, looking as if he was going to plow right through Mulder
on his way to the unsub. "You presume correctly, Detective..?"
When he realized that the detective wasn't going to shake his hand,
he withdrew it and raised a questioning eyebrow, neither hostile
nor particularly friendly.
"Peterson," the detective replied with a fair imitation of a
smirk, his tone gruff. There was a tense pause in which both men
seemed unsure of what to say, Mulder swaying slightly as if he were
about to keel over and Peterson looking as if he couldn't decide
whether to throttle Mulder or make him buy a new squad car. "So
what did your lead turn up? There wasn't any evidence that the
unsub had ever been in Atlanta.." She'd told everyone that her
partner had run off to chase a promising new lead, but she hadn't
been able to get him on the phone when others weren't listening
so that she could tell him what he'd been doing.
Both eyebrows shot up now and Mulder blinked, startled, but
he recovered himself quickly and said, "If you'll find me some
paper, I'll clear everything up, Detective." He'd smoothed his
surprise over with a thin veneer of respect for Peterson, though
Scully wasn't sure if the man deserved it. Glad that he hadn't
fumbled, she tried to pat his shoulder in her usual fashion as
Peterson led them back to a suitable desk. To her consternation,
he shied away and gave her his glazed, I'm-busy-profiling look.
So Scully pulled up a chair, halfway across the room, and
rummaged for something to read while he cleared the desk. Some
officer had given him a yellow notepad and a pen, blue ink, and she
watched wonderingly as he scribbled. She's always found it amazing
that he could do that without crossing anything out; when she wrote
her reports she was forever backspacing, deleting, making things
concise and logical. Perhaps it was just another aspect of his
genius; he seemed to work things out in his mind before ever putting
them on paper. Once, he'd told her that he could envision pages
in his mind, the words and placing, and then he'd just reconstruct
it. When she tried to do that, everything looked blurry.
There were copies of the autopsy reports on what she supposed
was Detective Peterson's desk, and since the man had stalked off
toward the restroom, grumbling, she simply snatched them up and began
to peruse the file on the first victim. Soon she was receiving odd,
darting glances from the officers who milled around the station.
She conquered the impulse to tell them off, as she always did, but
still applied a fresh coat of her icy mask.
When would people understand that she was just as competent an
FBI agent as the next man?
Her scalp was itching, still dirty from the hike through the
woods to get to the body, and the make-up she'd hurriedly applied
upon waking felt heavy and caked on her cheeks. Stubbornly she
continued to read, but after a few minutes, relented and fled to
splash some water on her face. A couple of officers were holed up
in a corner, whispering as she passed them, and she caught a few
words about herself. Unsurprisingly, it seemed to be a running
commentary on her sexual prowess and what would happen if someone
ever got her to unbutton her suit.
When she got back, Mulder was standing like a zombie, notepad
in hand and writing utensil abandoned somewhere. He yawned even as
she approached him. "Mulder—the profile?"
He waved the yellow paper at her, filled with his unruly
scrawl. "It's done, but I don't see Peterson here." Sleep lingered
in his voice, threatening to steal him away, and he scrubbed at his
eyes uselessly. The sleeve on his left arm started to slip and she
glimpsed something dark, bruised, but he yanked it back with such
sudden ferocity that she thought better of questioning him.
Just then, Peterson stepped into the doorway. His ever-present
sneer receded somewhat upon acquiring the profile, which he began to
skim immediately. There was little in the way of conversation, as
drained as Mulder was, and after a minute, the detective flashed him
a strange glower. "I didn't consider this," he said, eyes narrowed
into slits. "We'll check the records. Don't go anywhere." And
with that he stomped out of the room, papers swishing off of the
desks with the stirred up breeze.
She'd been standing on the sidelines, watching Peterson, and
when she looked up at Mulder he was staring off into space. He'd
changed in a way that she was at a loss to define, so different from
the Mulder in the hospital bed that she wouldn't have recognized him
if not for the bloodshot gaze. "Mulder," she prodded, gently.
For a long moment, she thought he was asleep on his feet, but
then he seemed to struggle back into reality. "Scully," he said,
abruptly anchored in grimness, "we're going back to D.C."
Floored, she just goggled at him, though she doubted anyone
else could see her bewilderment. It was the last thing she'd been
expecting to hear. What she wanted to hear, it certainly was, but
when had Mulder ever done what she suggested? She cleared her
throat and composed her words. "Mulder, we have to stay until the
case is resolved. You don't know that they'll find a single person
who matches your profile. Besides," she lowered her voice, "I want
an explanation for your actions unless you want me to be tempted to
report you for psychiatric evaluation."
"We're going back to Washington," he repeated, his entire
expression darkening a shade.
Scully crossed her arms and debated before turning toward the
door. "Come with me," she ordered, and he followed meekly, shoulders
slumped. They walked out of the building and she stopped, finally,
on the side of it. There was a shoe shop next to them, but no one
was close enough to overhear. "Mulder, what is going on with you?"
"I'm fine, Scully," was his automatic response. He alternated
between staring at the pebbles on the ground and focusing on the
wall. "I know that the profile is correct. With the specifics I've
provided, there can't be more than two or three people who will
match it. They'll find the unsub without any further assistance and
Detective Peterson can claim the victory. They've got over a day to
apprehend whoever it may be before Elsie Gardner is killed."
Funny; she'd almost forgotten about the Senator's missing
daughter, having missed the frequent calls to the station from his
office, demanding to know what they'd found. Peterson had been
whining about them, initially, but she'd tuned him out. "How does
your profile differ from theirs?"
"The original profile is accurate—essentially," he said,
blearily lethargic. Only his mouth was moving. "The unsub did go
to the Persian Gulf, with a less than honorable discharge. Average
intelligence, a history of abuse. The same applies to the torrid
love affair and the subsequent desire to inflict pain upon anyone
who resembled the unsub's former lover. I suspect that the lover
was the first victim, and with each kill, the unsub fell further
and further into a psychotic state. Even without my profile, the
unsub would have grown careless and gotten caught within the next
two murders."
"So," she pressed, "what's the difference?"
"The unsub is female."
"Oh." Her mind worked rapidly, processing the information.
"A lesbian?" At his nod, she wanted to go back into the building and
kick Peterson. "That's one of the first things you're warned about
when you go into profiling, right? Not assuming that the unsub is
male just because the majority of serial killers are men?"
He nodded again. "They could've caught her a long time ago if
they had investigated the possibility of her rather than him."
She tried to look into his eyes, but he tilted his head. He
was trying to distract her—she knew that—but this had something
to do with the case, too. "How did you know?"
Mulder shrugged noncommittally, and there was nothing in his
expression to tell her what he was thinking. "It's hard to explain,
Scully. You know that."
"Yeah," she conceded. "Mulder—what happened?" She took a
step forward—they'd been standing a few feet apart—and invaded
his personal space. He didn't seem to care, normally, but now his
eyes flickered nervously.
"Nothing," he said, scuffing at the rocky ground with his
shoes. "Just let it go, Scully."
"You know I can't do that, Mulder." She wanted to touch him
but, remembering how he'd reacted the last time, took pause.
"Why not?" His tone was defensive, almost betrayed.
"Mulder—" she felt exasperated again and it colored her voice
into something that she didn't want it to be. Sighing, she tried
again, more softly, an entreaty. "Mulder, when you called me this
morning, you told me that you didn't know where you were. You said
that you didn't remember."
Something took shape in his eyes, wide and chilling. He looked
positively terrified, his posture stiffening, arms rooted at his
sides, but his voice had the same casual, weary monotony. "I'd just
woken up, Scully. I was groggy and disoriented."
"You fell asleep at the wheel," she asserted, raising both of
her eyebrows, though she knew it wasn't true. It was a serious
offense for an agent.
"No—I wasn't at the wheel. I was—"
Even as she grew more concerned, she knew that her mask was
drawing in, tight and closed. "God, Mulder, don't lie to me. I
could hear the engine." There was a layer of stubble on his chin,
for of course he hadn't had time to shave, and she reached up to
cup his jaw and force him to look her in the eye.
Violently, almost as if she'd tried to hit him, he jerked
away from her and stumbled out of arm's length. "Don't touch me,"
he hissed under his breath, raising his hands warningly.
All she could do was stare at him in shock.
2:03 PM, February 19th, 1995 don'ttouchme don't don't please don't hurt me
She was looking at him in a new light, hurt and wonder in her
eyes, which had deepened. Dark blue, like the ocean. He wanted
more than anything to get away from her, to run to a deserted room
somewhere and curl up in a ball until it all went away. But she'd
make good on her threat about an evaluation; she'd say it was for his
own good, the same way he'd tried to protect her when she'd returned
to work after her abduction.
look at those sweet lips foxy they were made for my dick
Shaking, he drew a breath, his ribs aching painfully, and tried
to calm himself as well as his partner. Realizing that his hands
were braced in front of his face, he lowered them and hoped that she
hadn't seen his wrists. She'd caught a glimpse earlier, he thought,
but since then she hadn't mentioned it and perhaps he'd mistaken the
curious look in her eye. "Sorry," he began, and thankfully his voice
cooperated with him, "I'm just tired, Scully, and still a bit sore
from my running accident."
you're a fucking whore and you give me a half-cocked blowjob
foxy—what the hell is that
She straightened, studying him cautiously like she'd eye a
tiger who'd gotten loose from the zoo. "Okay, Mulder."
fucking pretty boy with a fucking leather jacket
Looking at her, he could see the carrot-orange of her hair and
was struck by how easily it could be mingled with blood. And as
soon as he could conceive of the idea, it was pooling around her,
dripping from slashes on her arms, trickling in dark rivulets from
her crushed nose. She was dead, a skeleton, bones and shiny white
teeth with rotting bits of flesh, a hole in her cracked skull.
Then, suddenly, he was looking at himself through her eyes, and
it was he who had the slashes. As he watched his clothes were slowly
stripped off, revealing the thin lines of rib, crushed, sticking out
at cruelly awkward angles. Staring, eyes riveted, and the rich
crimson dried and congealed, transforming itself into a sticky
whiteness that spurted from above, somewhere he couldn't see, to cover
his entire body. Smashing his larynx, seeping in through the cracks
in his lips, filling his lungs, and he couldn't breathe, choking and
gasping for the blocked air.
you wanted this foxy boy, wanted me to come inside you
Unwittingly he'd hunched over, clutching at his chest as he
coughed and hacked, and before he knew what was happening the
sunflower seeds and apple danish he'd had for breakfast were
smiling at him from the ground. He was kneeling, gulping oxygen as
if he'd never had any in his life.
When he could draw breath in a normal fashion, he glanced up
only to find Scully at his side, hands twitching in her obvious
need to touch him. "Mulder, you look feverish."
who has the gun boy
While he probably did look flushed, that wasn't the half of it,
and he wasn't about to talk to her. No way in hell. "It's just the
danish," he tried to say, but his voice was scratchy and jagged, and
it came out as more of a whisper. Stomach acid was thick on his
tongue, caustic and bitter. "Went down the wrong way."
got gun, will shoot, pretty boy—do the right thing
"Mulder," she insisted, brushing her hair back with one hand
while the other snaked out to feel his forehead, "you might have a
temperature. I have to check—"
nononono i'm not this way not this way swear
Her hand, outstretched, reminded him of a lily, pale and
unsullied. Couldn't let her feel the dirt that clung to his skin,
that acrid, salty stench that attached itself to him no matter how
many times he showered. So he ducked to the side, scrambling to his
feet in rapid motion, the world spinning around him but not yet
collapsing in on itself.
fucking homophobic queer
"I'm fine, Scully," he said, quiet and controlled. "Look,
this is what we're going to do. I'm going inside—I need to wash up
and see if they've identified the unsub. Then we're going to catch
the first plane back to D.C. to write our respective reports for
Skinner, while the local Tampa P.D. apprehends the unsub."
not that way
Eyes wide as saucers, and she was burning holes in his skull
with that gaze. "You don't care if they catch the unsub or not."
fucking hard on and you say you're not queer foxy
"I'm exhausted. They're perfectly capable." Indeed he was;
weariness was settling in his bones even as he spoke, his eyelids
falling drowsily, but he snapped them back open and observed her.
Her mouth, shiny and red-lipsticked and perfect, was a thin,
pursed line. No breeze and the humidity hung in the air, ominous,
but she was all shine and glitter, little diamond eyes and ruby
lips. Well-coiffed serenity, smoothly stark, and she wore so much
concealer that he couldn't even see the mole above her lip unless he
interrupted her during a shower. She wouldn't let him see anything
important, but he had to show her everything that mattered. He
wanted to slap her. He wanted her to get the fuck away from him and
leave him alone.
Instead she stared at him, fire and ice. "I want to talk
about this. You have to talk to me about this, Mulder."
cocksucking pretty boy is what you are
Fucking cold bitch, prying and poking and invading him when she
had no right, and he wanted to slap her, to break the evenness of her
face with the long, red streak his hand would make.
don't touch me
Just as suddenly as it had washed over him, the rage curdled,
soured, and he was empty. Overcome by the urge to yawn, he did so,
several times, and when he could bring himself to look at her, she
was practically ogling him. "Tomorrow," he rasped, lying through
his teeth.
sister scully so sorrysorrysorry help me please
He thought she was glaring at him, but she was wrapped up so
tightly now that there was no way to tell. "You have to, Mulder,"
she said, sharp and incisive. "Tomorrow."
Wondering at the tender side of her that he'd seen, once in a
blue moon—wondering if he'd ever see it again—he cleared his
throat, trying to get rid of the taste of bile that had welled up
inside it. And he answered, "Okay," but there was really nothing to
say, nothing for him to talk about tomorrow.
wordy bastard
He could tell her that he was sore all over.
you won't talk so much once i get a piece of your ass
He could tell her why he was sore all over.
too bad you're spoiled, pretty boy
He could tell her about Krycek, about the -real- Krycek, and
then she'd know that he'd really wanted it.
wouldn't go so hard on you if you were a virgin
When he closed his eyes the images were imprinted onto the
lids; Krycek and his goofy smile, hair slicked back, long lashes
resting, fluttering against the high cheekbones, long limbs encased
in the cheap suit. Krycek in his leather jacket, hair wild, the eyes
that he said were green smoldering into his; the strong, unrelenting
mouth. Denim and Krycek, molded around the curve of his ass, the
casual winks and the flash of tickets. Mulder and Krycek in the
back of the movie theater making out like rebellious teenagers,
armrests poking uncomfortably; nipping at the hollow of Krycek's
shoulder, pressed together like peas in a pod. Krycek divested of
his clothes, silhouetted by lamplight in the window. Mulder and
Krycek in the seldom-used bed, writhing, twisting, mangling the
sheets. Krycek, gone in the early morning hours.
a bit of teeth now—i court danger
Scully, commenting on Krycek's initial squeamishness.
bite too hard and i'll blow your head off pretty boy
Mulder, wanting to believe.
a dick is a terribly thing to lose, but so is a head, isn't
it, foxy boy
Krycek, remnants of a Morley in his ashtray.
who needs fucking lube when you have such a slick ass
Krycek, vanished into thin air.
loosen up
There wasn't anything to say to her, really.
dirty
Mulder, an automaton, followed Scully into the police station
and behaved like a robotic angel.
To be continued.
4:32 AM, February 19th, 1995
Outside 7-11
Location Unknown
Tampa Bay Police Station
Tampa Bay Police Station
