An observer would probably think that we're about to pounce on
each other and fuck ourselves silly, which they might find odd
because we're both men. But the passion you have for me has nothing
to do with lust—it's hatred that consumes you, not desire. Where
your hand grips my shoulder it's so tight that your nails are
breaking the skin, and when your lips part further, it's to spit on
me and say, your voice grating, "Bastard."
I'm not feeling very talkative today so I decline to reply,
which just inflames you further. Where's your gun, Mulder—did you
lose it again? I want to ask you, but you'll want to know why I
didn't bring mine in with me, and you'll jeer. Actually, I did have
it with me, but I left it by the door. Didn't want you to think I
was hostile—what an exercise in futility. I could be as harmless
as a fly and you'd still attack me—say I was a mosquito, or
something. Who am I kidding?
Thinking too slowly. I do that a lot around you and it isn't
very healthy, but I never seem to realize until pain blossoms in my
face when your fist connects with it. It does this now—you have an
adept fist, Mulder, always hitting the right spot—and I will have a
black eye tomorrow. Funny thing; you think you're hurting me when
you do this. You think when you beat me up, you're somehow
punishing me for backstabbing you.
How would you react if I told you that being thrashed by you
is one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life, second only to
the time when we worked side by side? Sometimes I wonder if you
noticed how much I stared at you while we were partners. I wonder
if you notice how much I stare at you now, Mulder. The worst
punishment that could be dealt out to me would be never to see you
again, to be bereft of your touch forever. Sure, it hurts when you
hit me, but it's not even comparable to the pain of being away from
you.
Why else would I keep coming back? You wouldn't think so to
look at me, but I'm one of the Consortium's top agents. Reliable,
talented, and efficient—Alexei Krycek, at your service! Who may
I kill for you today? My jobs are careful and precise, and I never
leave evidence. I don't get caught—didn't you think it was odd
that you kept running into me? That I was lurking around every
corner and masterminding every conspiracy?
I'm no psychologist, of course, and I don't have anything to
compare with your credentials. They've been training me to work for
them since I was a ten-year-old, so what did you expect? You can't
think that I'm some naturally evil person who relishes the idea of
ruining your life, Mulder. No one is that stupid, and I know for a
fact that you're a genius. Back to the topic, though—I know enough
about human nature to get along, I guess. But you kind of puzzle me.
You always puzzle me, of course, but there are some specific things
that I want to know.
As often as I keep running into you, you do the same thing. I
can't even count the number of times you've been without your gun
and had to resort to beating me into submission. It makes me think
two things—that you either hate me so much that you throw your
morals into the ditch whenever you think of me, or that you really
like to touch me. I can't imagine why you would like to touch me,
but it's something that I think about when I'm away from you or
when I think you're going to finally kill me, this time, and it's
vaguely comforting, I suppose. Believe the lie, you know?
We've been standing here for a while, now, and you've only
punched me two or three times. Now you're just glaring at me, and
I think you must have said something and you're waiting for me to
respond again. How could I have missed that gorgeous voice? I
think back and I remember it, now, but I can't figure out what you
said. That monotone of yours is so hypnotizing—I could listen
for hours and not recognize a single word.
You grab my shoulders again and shake me, roughly, shoving
me back into the wall. Giddy—I feel light headed, and I want to
smile at you, but you'd break my teeth. That old adage about
knowing your enemy works wonders, doesn't it?
"Give it up, Krycek. Tell me why you came here, you mother
fucking bastard." Daggered eyes are watching me, not that you ever
looked away, and you're running out of good insults to throw at me.
I bet you wish I'd try some on you so you'd have more fuel to add to
your anger, but I've been lethargic, lately, when it comes to
cruelty.
I'm trying to shrug, but you're holding me too tightly, so
instead I wriggle my arm. I can't think of a suitable lie. "I
wanted to see you," I say, and I'm surprised at how flippant it
sounds, because I mean it. You don't know how much I wanted to
see you. I was dying to see you, literally; I had to kill several
people to get to you. Not much of a loss—they were just grunts
who would have eventually gotten disgruntled by the Consortium's
lack of appreciation for their skills and gone on to kill kids—but I do like to keep my death toll to a minimum, and this was
something like a spree.
Looks like I've offended you, because your face has gotten
fairly red and you're digging into my skin again. You press me
into the wall, in a rage, and then you just stop and eye me
suspiciously. I wish you could understand that I'm never going to
tell you anything useful—I have to protect you from them, and
they'd kill you in an instant if you knew the -real- stuff. No way
in hell I'm ever letting you die. I tell myself it's my sense of
self-preservation kicking in—if you die, I die—but really I just
can't handle the thought of you not existing. You're Mulder, life's
one and only constant.
You're Mulder, all right, and you're squashed against me in a
most delightful way. This kind of thing—you do it on instinct,
maybe, not realizing the effect it has on me. It's sweet torture to
have your lips so close to mine. God, but I want to kiss you. The
next time I do that, it won't be on your goddamned cheek. I'm going
to plunder your mouth.
Not only are your lips mere inches away, your hips are almost
grinding against mine. I wish you'd get even closer, but then I want
you to back up. You keep doing this and I'm getting so fucking hard
and if you don't stop, you're going to feel it, and then I'm dead.
"Cocksucker," you hiss, slapping me. First I think you know,
but then I realize that if you did, I'd be a bloody pulp by now. I
wonder why it's on your list of demeaning putdowns. It says in
psychobabble books that psychologists don't think queerness is a
mental illness anymore, right? But some of you are prejudiced
anyway, I guess. Do you think it's a disease? You can handle Alex
the backstabbing spy who wants to make your life miserable and keep
you from the truth, but could you deal with Alex the queer who's
wishing, right now, as he looks at you, that he could suck you off?
I repeat some lazy platitude about how I want to help you and
you punch me again—I think you rattle some teeth, this time. But
you're still so close that I can barely stand it. If something
doesn't happen soon, I'm going to make it happen out of total
desperation. It's a good thing you leave your apartment so dark;
otherwise, you might see the look on my face right now. I doubt
even you could deny knowing my true reason for following you around,
after that.
It's so hot in here that it can't just be the weather, and you
still won't move away. Words linger on the tip of my tongue. I
want to say them. I want to tell you that I need you, I want you,
and that I think I love you. Do I love you? Maybe I just lust after
you. You're gorgeous, after all. My friend Andrei saw a picture
of you once and criticized your nose—I almost cut his off. I
think it just adds to your distinctiveness.
Doesn't that say something, though? If it was simply lust, I
could find a handy model type and fuck him until I got bored. I
don't even want to look at anyone else, Mulder. At first I went
about my usual business, giving the occasional blowjob and all.
Those old bastards love me, for some reason. I'd try to pretend that
it was you, but it made you seem cheap, and pretty soon I couldn't
even stand to think about it. I told Cancerman that I'd gotten an
incurable STD and the mindless idiot believed me—didn't even bother
to check me out. Funny how gullible you get when you're on the top
of the conspiracy instead of the bottom.
Your breath is shallow and it's falling on my cheek and I'm
seconds away from copping a feel (what a damn good feel it would be,
too) and suddenly you gasp, sharply, and stare at me like I've just
bitten you. I haven't done anything so I just stare back, trying to
figure out what the hell you've just figured out, and then I know
that you finally catch on to the fact that there's more in my jeans
than my legs and my ass and the more is standing at attention. And
for some reason I'm mortified—I know your opinion of me is that
I'm lower than low, but somehow I didn't want you to know about this
if you were going to use it against me.
It's sort of like I'm in a dream, fuzzy around the edges, the
kind where you want to do something but you're rooted there where
you stand. 'Cause I am—rooted there, that is—and I'm watching
you numbly as you push me away and stare fixedly at a point behind
my shoulder. Fuck, you won't even look at me.
"Get out, Krycek," you mutter, your voice cracking when you say
my name, and I'm stumbling in the direction of the door, too shocked
to protest and thinking that you'd find your gun and shoot me if I
tried. I find the doorway along with my gun, and I automatically
tuck it into my belt because it's what a trained assassin does. The
door is open—I'm about to leave—but I can't just leave it like
this, so I turn to look at you, maybe say something clever if I
didn't feel so drained.
But when I glance back over my shoulder, you're studying me
like you could bore a hole in my skull with your eyes. Jesus,
Mulder, you look shell-shocked. I wonder if it struck a chord in
you and I think that it couldn't have or you'd have reacted the same
way I did. There's always room for speculation, though. I'm
already busy speculating and considering the possibilities as I make
my exit and slither down the hallway like the innocuous little spy
that I am.
You know what gets me through the day, Mulder? Avoiding the
truth, denying reality. I pretend that my arm is real; I was never
inhabited by the black oil; I was never trapped in a silo, screaming
my lungs out because I thought I was going to die of claustrophobia.
I just don't think about it, and when I do, I contradict reality.
It's funny when I actually do think about it—my ideas are so
backwards that I could almost laugh. The truth means nothing.
You're on your dandy little quest for it, so dedicated, and
here I am trying to get rid of it. Because, while your truth is
finding your darling little sister all grown up and giving her hugs
and telling her how much you missed her and loved her, my truth, my
great insight is that there is no way in hell that you will ever
feel anything but hatred for me. And that's an insight I can't deal
deal with—so I believe the lie. I help them, so that I can be
near you, Mulder—so you can do anything to me, really. Kick me,
punch me, beat me to your heart's content—just let me stay near
you, and please, don't provide me with any new revelations. I don't
want the insight.
The End
Insight
by Meri Lomelindi
You stare at me, passion gleaming in your eyes. We're standing
so close, face-to-face, that your nose nearly brushes mine. Your
hand grips my shoulder and you're hot, so hot—I can see the sweat
rolling down your forehead. Those lush lips are parted ever so
slightly and you suck the air in with greedy breathlessness.
