Forensic Evidence

I hear you, stalking down stairs, one at a time, shiny shoes clicking like death beetles. No one else sounds like you; hours of marching through swamps and bureau halls have created their own peculiar cadence. I hold your life in my dead hand, one push of a button and that odd, rhythmic man-music stutters, stops. Those little creatures, mechanical representations of my esteem, wait dormant within your blood like passion. One touch and you would be on your knees, those creased slacks sucking the dust from a thousand fibbie shoes between tightly woven fibers.

I wonder if I could make you beg?

What a pleasant thought.

Come now, is that a hiccup in your step? Did you hear me? Smell me? No, that's not possible, you're still a half flight above me and I'm still waiting for you here in the shadows left by unmarked sedans. Not even the cameras can sense me.

You couldn't know, but it makes me hard as fuck to imagine you do.

I started this game because I had to -- it's stunning what I'll do for the right cause and the continuing welfare of Alex Krycek is the most noble cause I know - I'm playing now because I can. There's nothing like having you at my mercy. It's better than anything, better than a hot whore moving slick-wet beneath me, better than white powder in my nose. Better even that my hand slamming into Mulder's oh-so perfect face. The feel of your throat spasming around my cock, your eyes rolling with that clever mix of panic and pleading and icy-cold rage... Oh, that is worth daring death.

Worth playing death.

Not that you'd know anything about this sort of thing, would you? The feel of my broken body curled over your fist never made your dick like a diamond in your jeans. Not that you've ever pressed me beneath you, spread my legs and shoved yourself into my ass, right, Assistant Director Skinner?

Last time we played I had star-shaped bruises on my hip that lasted for weeks.

The memory of you whispering your sweet nothings lasted even longer. "I'm fucking you, boy. Don't you like it? Move, you son of a bitch. Ride me, you sweet slut." Music to my ears.

I wonder, do you tell yourself I loved it when you're fucking your hand in the dark, splashing your incredibly expensive scotch on your starched shirts when you come? Do I moan beneath you, yielding and passionate, in your white-static fantasies, or does the sound of screaming as you tear into me make you hard? Do you look out on your balcony for marks made by cuffs on the railing, look for stains?

Forensic evidence of blood and sweat and semen and spit.

Must be true love.

Come on, Skinner. Move down the fucking stairs. It's getting cold down here and I miss you. I want to hold you close in my arms and whisper long-forgotten lullabies into your ear while I let you wrap your lips around the barrel of my gun.

What? Not romantic enough for you? Next time I'll remember roses.

If you're very good, I'll even let you fuck me again, call me Mulder when you hit me. You can pretend it's punishment, pretend I'm a tortured lost boy looking for a way home, pretend that you don't really like the feel of my skin beneath your teeth and my cries in your ears and my tight ass squeezing your cock.

I don't mind at all.

After all, I'm the one with the control, aren't I?

Here you are, moving out the door like a one-man swat team. Maybe you did hear me, your gun's in your hand. Impressive. One of the things I love about you is the flash of fury that slashes through that Quantico-inspired predictability.

Look over here, in the shadows. Can you see me? I'm just an innocent little rent-boy with a rock-hard cock and dead stone eyes. "Hey, mister, want a date?"

You don't even have the good graces to look surprised.

"What do you want, Krycek?" I love how my name sounds like ashes in your mouth.

What do I want? Same thing I've always wanted, Skinner. I want to fuck that all-American-home-of-truth-and-God-and-apple-pie mind until the only way to get my voice out of your brain is with a bullet.

Somehow I doubt that's what you want to hear. "You, obviously."

Oh, yeah. Press those lips together, clench those fists. Let me see how I make you feel, Skinner. Cock that hammer back as I move closer. There's nothing sexier than an armed man.

I tighten my shoulders, pretend I can feel it as the leather-bound fingers move, pressing buttons. Your eyes are lovely in their agony.

On your knees, Skinner. It's my turn to call you "Boy."