He knows I watch him. Guess that's why he can sleep. He doesn't have to
worry. And he has to know I examine him, study him, while he sleeps. I
can't help it. I can't tell him I watch him because I love him. Damn, I
can't tell myself that. Not like kisses and hugs love. It's something that
scares the shit out of me. It's dark, fucked up. He'd probably kill me if
it changed, or if I admitted it. We have to have this strangeness. This
distance. He can't get close. And I don't trust myself to. Isn't that
funny? I don't trust myself.
OK, so I should know better than to let him come here and play with my life.
But I have to let him in. And even as we lie here on the floor, in the
hallway to my bedroom, I know, somehow, that I'll always let him in, for
this or for his power games. His mind fucks. Even when he's "working" he
toys with me, feeding me secrets, just enough to pique my interest then
draws back. Even then I can't resist him. I'll always let him back in.
This is different, though. Separate from work. He'll come back for this.
He always comes back. So he's in as deep as I am, I guess.
I shift over to lean on my elbow, ready to begin my ritual. I see the same
old scars, run my fingers over his left shoulder, shudder and feel the same
old feeling. Almost me. Shouldn't have happened to him. I move on, pausing
on a new scar near his collarbone, almost healed, the scab small. I rub my
fingers over it, trying to determine how it happened. Krycek shifts, moving
closer to me. My breath catches at the sudden closeness, a shot of lust
driving through me straight to my groin. But I move back a bit. I have to
finish before he wakes up and leaves me again. No distractions.
A bruise on his right shoulder seems to be the only other new mark. I sigh
and tell myself that it's been a good month. I remember the last time he
came. He was covered in bruises. I wanted to be easy with him, tried to be
gentle. He just growled. Kissed me. Made me forget. And I did forget.
Until he fell asleep. Then I looked at every single bruise. The deep
purples and blues fought each other on his golden skin. I just touched them
all. Watched his chest rise and fall. Watched the shifting light move
across his face. Then he woke up and left.
Get this straight. I'm not some mushy romantic. I don't want him around
all the time, playing house. And contrary to popular opinion, I have a
definite grip on reality. I know it's not possible, even if I wanted it. I
just wish he didn't have to get hurt. He comes here and I can't help trying
to take care of him, even if it's just to catalog his scars. If I don't,
who will?
I don't know, maybe that's why he comes. He wants someone else to worry for
a while. It eases his load. Revives his survival skills. I'm sure he
forgets me as soon as he leaves. I know I forget him. For a while, at
least. I don't mean to, but the daily grind just doesn't leave room for
pondering over what happened to the assassin I screwed the night before.
Anyway, he's stirring. First, he'll stretch his muscles. We didn't make it
to my room last night or the couch, so he'll probably be stiff. At least he
won't be as sore as he usually is. Last time I saw the wince and shudder as
he pushed himself off the bed. I just had to watch. Like I always do. Sit
back and watch as he got dressed and left, not saying goodbye. Just looking
at me with those eyes—the last scars I see before he goes. Always
brimming with anger. And hurt. And strength. Showing the wounds that won't
heal. And without knowing it, he scars me. Cutting deeper every time.
He gets up and dresses like usual. I roll over on my stomach, prop myself
on my elbows, and watch him — like usual. The natural grace always
astounds me. He looks at me as he slips on his leather jacket. I feel a
sharp pain in my chest. He breaks the stare and moves to the door. He
slips out, the door easing shut behind him.
I have to get moving. It's already 7:30 am and I have to get to work. And
I don't think about him again until I step into the shower. And I let the
steady stream wash him away.
Scars
by Susan
I look over at him, lying next to me. He looks so calm. It's rare. I mean
almost nonexistent. Peace in Alex Krycek. Just doesn't happen. Except for
these few hours when he sleeps with me. Sometimes I wonder if he comes here
to fuck me or to get a couple hours of shut-eye.
