by RavenD
Now, if I could just figure out which one of us deserves the appellation
more. I mean, I'm the one out here in the weather, with the wind biting
into my skin and leaving spots that ache almost as much as the deep
burning kisses your fists left. I'm the one who is trapped, bound, with
a pacing, snarling man-beast trying to convince himself he doesn't want
to bring me in and fuck me silly against the stairs.
Of course, you're the one with an assassin kept on your balcony in
piece-of-shit fibbie cuffs.
You don't think you can keep me here, do you?
Self-righteous overconfidence is going to be your downfall, old man.
Well, either that or a well-timed blow to the throat. There's no telling
how things will come down. Eventually the price on your head will be
higher than the pleasure I get from watching your ass in those tailored
slacks.
Fuck, it's cold out here. My balls are trying to crawl up next to my
spleen. If I had known these were going to be my accommodations for the
evening, I'd have worn a heavier coat. Maybe even carried a pillow,
these tiles aren't the easiest things to sit on. Gloves too. Next time
I'm cuffed out on Skinner's balcony, I'll need gloves.
Come on, Skinner, if you don't finish your coffee and go to bed so I can
get the hell out of here, I may just kill you on principle.
Just think of the fun we'd miss if that happened.
Oh, I do love it when you listen to me. That's right, rinse out your
cup. Can't risk bugs after all. Check all the doors, lights, make sure
the coffee maker's off. What a responsible man you are, it's almost
attractive, in a June Cleaver in pearls sense.
Now me, check your prisoner. Look at me, Skinner, so cold, lost. Big sad
eyes. Don't you feel sorry for poor, thin-skinned Krycek, turning into
the human icicle? No? Figures.
I'm not bad, you know. I'm just drawn that way.
If you keep looking at me like that—like I'm some Kafka-esque
nightmare lapping up the bitter come on your belly at the end of your
favorite wet dream—I might fall in love. Go to bed, Skinner. You
don't have the fortitude to pretend perversity with me.
What are you doing, standing there? Your breath's fogging the door,
softening your edges until all I can see of your face are those dark
eyes looking at me. You're so tense, pecs bunched up and your hands
clenching at your thighs. Testosterone wrapped in silk and iron. I
could lap hundred dollar an ounce liquor off your stomach and die a
happy man.
Please, Skinner. Please go to bed. Damn Mulder and his games. I knew
he'd leave me somewhere, my face is a temptation his fists don't want to
resist and Scully frowns on his odd moments of male posturing.
I didn't think he'd bring me here, though. Facing the boxer in his
neatly-framed, perfectly dusted, I-hired-a-designer, Crystal City lair
was not on my game plan for tonight. Don't get me wrong, I knew I'd take
a punch or two, knew I'd end up with a slate of bruises to moan over in
the shower.
I didn't think I'd be on the receiving end of your fist drilling into my
stomach like the world's hardest cock.
Fuck, you're lovely, in a low-rent nightclub bouncer sort of way, and
this is way too close to fantasy life. Well, except that in my fantasies
I'd be tied to a palm tree on the beach. Winter does nasty things to the
male physique and I want you to be impressed.
It takes long dying minutes, maybe hours for all your lights to go off,
for the warning bells in my head to calm and let me know it's time to
take a chance. A quick dig in my pocket for a little piece of metal and
click, time to blow this popsicle stand.
Stupid.
You didn't lock this door. You honestly thought I would stay? Out there?
In the fucking wind?
Not likely.
Oh, it's warm in here, so nice, so fucking cold my hands are shaking and
my bruises coming back to life and damn you for leaving me out there you
asshole—thank lady luck and anal Bureau Assistant Directors that the
tracks are well-oiled. You'll be sleeping by now, flat on your back,
hands at your sides, my little soldier at attention. Yeah, you'll sleep,
Skinner, but it won't be soft or deep. Last time I checked, I wasn't
conducive to sweet dreams.
Shame really. I'd love to curl around the pleasure-centers of your brain
and squeeze. I'm tempted for a moment to sneak up those stairs, look at
you, dig my hands into your flesh. I wonder if you wake with a squeak or
a roar.
What does it matter? I need to go and you wouldn't know what to do with
me if you had me. Face it, I'm more than your alpha-male,
I-only-fuck-the-boys-when-they-deserve-it soul can handle.
"Going somewhere?"
Oh, fuck me.
When my radar goes down, it goes down big-time.
I wonder if I close my eyes and click my heels together—there's no
place like home, there's no place like—no, didn't think so. You're
still standing there, wearing nothing but shadows and I'm nowhere near
Kansas.
It would be too much to ask that a house fall on me, right? A freak
fucking tornado? Fire alarm? Heart attack? Come on, a little help here.
Where the hell are those fucking aliens when I need them?
I'm so screwed—and not in the fun, spanky way either.
"I asked you a question, boy. I expect an answer."
What game are you playing here, Skinner? "It's cold out there. A man
could freeze."
A man could freeze, but it's not going to be me, not now. Not with my
heart beating like a teenaged boy meeting his date's father before the
big school dance. I'm flying, burning with the knowledge that I'm in
trouble, in real serious, bend-over-no-vaseline kind of trouble.
I can make the door. He doesn't have his gun, at least I don't see it
and I could make it.
"Don't even try it. I'll shoot you where you stand, you piece of shit."
"Where's your gun, Skinner? Got it shoved up your ass, waiting for
Mulder to get back?"
Oh, that defused the situation. Soft spot, huh? Spend some time on your
back thinking about those deer-in-the-headlight eyes, looking up at you,
that pseudo-scientific psychobabble stopped up with your cock?
I can understand.
No one suffers quite like him. You're out of his range of vision,
Skinner. He cries when he jerks off, and it's not your name on his lips.
Wonder if you'd pay to find out whose mind he's fucking...
Come on, move toward the door, keep the couch between us. Don't just
stand here, back against the glass, looking at him. Move.
"Do it and you'll pay. I'll make you beg before I kill you."
I know what rabbits feel like, skin shivering underneath hungry predator
eyes, caught between the need to bolt and the need to wait for the
firestorm of teeth ripping into their flesh. I want to bleed my lust and
fear out on your fingers, your thighs, your cock. I want to get the fuck
out of here, down the stairs, out into the street. I want you to pull
your weapon, force my hand, break this nerve-rattling moment.
Even more than that, I want to live, so I reach behind me and slide the
door open. So fucking cold, the wind tearing into my skin like a jilted
lover.
See me? I'll show my soft belly to the big dog, roll over, play dead.
Whatever you need. Don't hurt me. You win. I'm going back outside to
shiver around my bones and you can go back to bed.
Live to fight another day and all that happy crap.
Fuck, for a big man, you move like a ghost. My throat is becoming close
personal friends with your balcony railing before my brain realizes that
click-slide sound isn't my teeth chattering.
Man, you can see for miles from up here. Pretty, all those lights.
"You think I'm stupid, boy?" Oh, you're warm. How can you be so hot,
pressed up against me, lips branding my ear. Your hatred is distilled
into instant addiction.
"I hoped." Can you hear me or is the wind stealing my voice? I can see
headlights, moving, teasing my oxygen-deprived brain with
almost-patterns, cryptologic subliminals mocking my resistance as your
hands push under my clothes, baring me to the elements.
Elements. It's cold, freezing except for the places I feel fire.
"Wrong answer."
The end.
tupid.
