Alex Krycek kissed me.
Alex fucking Krycek, liar, traitor, coward, murderer, and triple-agent assassin
kissed me!
I hate him right? What am I saying, of course I hate him. Son of a bitch killed
my father. He may not have killed Scully's sister but he was there. So why the
fuck can't I get that kiss out of my mind? Why can't I stop thinking about Alex
fucking Krycek and how soft his lips felt against my cheek, and how I wish I'd
had the courage to turn my head so we were mouth to mouth.
I want him. God, I'm sick, but I do. The minute his lips touched mine I got a
woody the size of the Empire State building and it was just as hard too. Thought
I was gonna shoot a load right there. And the way he smelled—primitive,
primeval. Green like the forest and musky like an animal in heat. Fuck, I can
almost picture him stalking his prey, stalking me, like a panther, black,
deadly and so wild he'll never be tamed or predictable.
What the fuck is happening to me? Hell, he gave me back my gun, called me his
friend and turned his back on me. Why the fuck didn't I shoot him like the dog
he is? Because despite the fact that he had me slammed up against my desk in
less than a heartbeat, despite the fact that he was spouting that I don't give a
fuck whether you live or die unless it serves my purposes attitude, he helped me.
He gave me a piece of the puzzle.
He gave me more than I bargained for. Christ—he gave me nightmares to beat all
the previous ones I'd ever had before. What I saw in that truck. The alien
without a face. The rebel sent to disrupt plans for colonization. Sent to kill
Scully because she'd been taken against her will and implanted with who the fuck
knows what. Sent to stop the colonization of earth, to help keep us free from
those things that had destroyed his world and caused his people to take such
extreme measures of self mutilation to keep the black oil from infecting them.
A war, planetary invasion—Christ Krycek, couldn't you have come up with some
insane plot to murder the president? How about your usual back stabbing lies?
No, you had to tell me the truth, open my eyes to what's really coming. What I'm
a part of thanks to who my father was and what he did. Thanks to who I am and my
search for the truth. You made it sound like I held all the cards. Like my
knowing these things could prevent this nightmare from coming true. Like I was
some sort of fucking savior of the human race. Jesus—talk about your high
expectations.
And that look—Jesus God, the heat that man, that rat bastard, can generate with
those electric green eyes. I nearly self combusted.
What was he really trying to say when he wished me luck? He had this look in his
eyes like he was trying to say something else, like he wanted to call me
something other than Tovarish.
I've been learning Russian. He knew that somehow. Something I did gave me away.
I started to learn it in order to avoid being caught in one of his sadistic
little traps again. Or was it because I wanted to know what he were saying? Was
it because I wanted nothing, not even language barriers between us? Fuck I'm so
confused. Here I am lusting after my enemy, my friend, my... obsession.
There I said it. Alex Krycek is my obsession, just as much as the X-Files, just
as much as my search for the truth. Ever since he showed up with that stupid-ass
hair cut in a g-man suit I've wanted him.
Desperately.
It was those eyes. Those glorious jade green eyes that looked so old and so sad
in such a young and beautiful face. He was beautiful in an innocent boy next
door, choir boy way when I first met him. All squeaky clean and eager, telling me
what I so desperately wanted to hear—that he believed in my work. Believed in
me. Bullshit.
He betrayed me. He let them take Scully and disappeared without a trace. He
drugged my water, made me hallucinate, killed my father and helped Melissa Scully
end up dead. Then there was Skinner's beating, the DAT tape going missing and
dozens of other things. Fuck I hated him then.
But life seemed to hunt him after that and I wasn't much kinder. I used him for
my own personal whipping boy. He saw and felt and experienced and learned and
had things happen to him that turned him into this raw, sexual, beautiful and
deadly creature. He's very much like a wild animal now. Afraid to trust. More
inclined to attack then to let himself be touched, cared for. Everyone is an
enemy, every act of kindness a suspicion.
A wounded wild animal.
God his arm! I wanted to weep with shame when I saw his left arm but instead I
was my usual sarcastic self. If I'd shown the slightest bit of compassion he'd
have taken it as pity and I'd never see him again. And I want to see him again.
Very badly.
How I knew that, I'll never know. Just another one of those damn instincts I
have. I did this to him. I dragged him to Tunguska, threw him in the back of
the truck, let him get away—let those... butchers find him and mar that
exquisite body. What else am I responsible for that I don't know about. He
wouldn't have told me about his arm, didn't have to—it was obvious. What other
scars and nightmares am I responsible for?
But somehow they only make him more beautiful to me. Slight imperfections that
makes him more accessible, no longer the perfect young god but just a beautiful
man with tiny flaws. I want to see it. See where the prosthetic attaches. See
the marred and scarred flesh and I want to kiss it. Show him it doesn't repulse
me—he don't repulse me. I want to see all the wounds I 've contributed to and
gentle them with kisses, soothe their memories, beg you for forgiveness.
I wonder what Scully would think if she could hear these thoughts—she'd
probably have me committed on the spot. I think she hates him as much as Ido,
did. Or did I? I keep running around in circles, chasing my tail. I hate him,
I hate him not. Was it hate or was it repressed lov... fuck that, lust.
Repressed lust. It would explain my need to beat on him all the time. Only way
to touch him, feel that gorgeous, sleek, dangerous body next to mine was to slam
him up against a wall and me into him.
Some fucking psychologist I am—can't even admit my own faults, flaws, neuroses,
wants or needs. Hell, I am the one with a collection of porn tapes and
magazines, not to mention real interesting phone bills. But they all star women.
I sit on my couch and watch women get it on with one, two, three, a dozen men
and wrap my hand around my dick and imagine in the darkest recesses of my mind
that it's Alex's hand—Alex's mouth. Alex's lusciously tight ass I'm plunging in
and out of. I've fantasized that ever since I met the son of a bitch. I even
have a few gay porn movies hiding out among the straight.
I'm not gay. Never wanted another man before, only ever wanted women. Hell I
spent years secretly mooning over Scully, bet she never even saw me as anything
more than a partner, maybe another big brother. Always liked 'em exotic, with a
bit of danger before that. Just look at Phoebe Green. Fuck, I even had a brief
thing with Marita Coverubias, the bitch, and let's not forget my fling with the
vampire lady. It never even crossed my mind to think of a man like that—but
Alex Krycek, the most gorgeous thing I've ever laid eyes on, could not only tempt
but corrupt a saint. He'd better fucking not. He's mine.
He's mine.
Oh god, how did I go from railing at the universe because the rat bastard kissed
me to growling like some animal at the thought of anyone else touching him? At
the thought of him belonging to anyone but me? I have though. And I'll never be
able to go back.
You couldn't have just lied to me and left could you Alex? You had to tell me
the truth. You had to kiss me.
End.
He Kissed Me
by Angel
He kissed me.
