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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.

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


Meri's stories

Date: January 2000
Fandom: X-Files
Contact: lomelindi@hushmail.com, feedback givers adored.
Spoilers: general Krycek, I guess.
Rating: PG13 for cursing, sexual references
Class: Vignette/Angst
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Keywords: Mulder Krycek slash
Summary: The staple of M/K slash—an angsty vignette of Krycek's thoughts during an interlude with Vindictive!Mulder.
Warnings: It's slash. If you dislike gayness, go away.
Disclaimer: Duh—I don't own the X-Files, 1013 and Chris Carter and Fox and the Consortium do, obviously. They could prosecute me if they gave a damn, but I haven't anything of value for them to acquire. Cept my dog. And I love my dog, so please be nice. NO X-FILES CHARACTERS WERE KILLED IN THE WRITING OF THIS FANFIC. Send appropriate replies of gratitude.
Notes: Beta by Karen-Leigh. Any other mistakes are all mine.

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