New Drug
Fandom: The X-Files
Category/Rated: W for weird.
Year/Length: ~2860 words
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Disclaimer: Nope. Still not. I keep on trying.
Author's Notes: This is for Wildy. She earned it.
He's at the desk next to me, peering into the monitor as if I don't exist.
Maybe I don't.
His lips, as he nibbles at that pencil, pursing and flexing, fascinate me. I wonder if it's conscious - whether he knows what he's doing to me, but conclude that he couldn't possibly keep that gentle, lazy-eyed abstraction if he did.
I watch him, unashamed when he suddenly looks up to meet my gaze. The hint of what might be a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, and his finely molded lips purse again. A pink tongue protrudes to lick at thetip of the pencil, and suddenly I realize that he is. The bastard is aware of what he's doing. He's teasing me.
"What's the matter, Krycek? Cat got your tongue?" The lazy delivery and half-hooded eyes pierce me to the dick. Tongue. Yes. Give me...
The movement is fast, and I resist the urge to fall into a protective crouch. Before I can get out my gun, he's sent the pencil up to hang from the ceiling.
"Hey, good one," he says with a smile like sunlight, and reaches for another pencil.
Blurring... scales on my eyes. The voices echo in the garage but I hear myself call him brother and be denied. I can't... there is no time, no world but this one.
Don't deny me. I need.
A flicker, and there he is; there I am, we stand nose to nose, and who's to say which one of us is the more astonished as he rounds the wall.
He's in jeans. His body smells warm, like early summer, hay and meadowsweet and fresh sweat. I want him, but then I've always wanted him. When he takes my throat I let him, because it's contact, and it's him. He shoves me, body tight against mine, over to the car that waits just for this purpose.
Cold metal against the bare flesh of my midriff, and his body pressed to mine as he hits. God, yes. I want. Show for me, Fox. Show me what you got. I can feel it pressing in against my answering hardness, but I want more.
The punch is a caress; the hand at my throat is a joy as I fight for breath. The singing in my ears is a song of desire as I press up against him, rubbing myself shamelessly against the core of him and want, want, want...
The shot is like an orgasm. He arches back away from me and air floods my lungs. I get out of there, regretfully, my dick still tingling from the pressure of his body, and my heart still screaming out desire.
She's talking to him, but I don't hear, and the pain in my head is intense as he looks into my eyes and I see the rejection.
I push the gun towards him and whisper the only word I've ever been able to say to him with meaning.
"Kill..."
And he does.
The very thought of him is a trap into which I fall. My eyes are wide; I see but still I'm blind. His face swims in my vision and I lose myself in the need that seems like an old friend.
He's there, waiting to take me, press me against the telephones. He's angry again, and when was he not? That perfect mouth is twisted, savage as he growls and snarls into my face, and with my whole body I worship him as I wait for death.
It doesn't come. He beats me bloody and sends me away, far away to an exile from humanity that is unkinder than the slow death I anticipated. Love me now, Mulder. Love me now because you owe me. Love is the recompense you owe me for marooning me here in a place where there is no space, no time, and only my thoughts of you to give me solace.
Calling across centuries that drift about me like motes of dust, I yearn. Mulder is the lodestar to which I cling, a fragment of metal caught in the pull to a pole that terrifies me even as I reach for it.
I see the gun spark; I see the bullet. They say you see the bullet that has your name on it, and this one, I see with curious clarity. This is the way the world ends, they told me. This is the way, not with a bang, but with a whimper.
Only they forgot, the fuckers, to tell me that the whimper would be mine.
"Kill..." I say and push the gun towards him. My arms are useless both; the one lying somewhere on the floor of an ancient forest, and the other trickling my life from its shattered arteries. I try so hard to tell him the things he needs to know, but it all comes down to the one thing he hasn't done.
The one thing he has to do.
"Kill..."
I want to kill him. He left me here to die and it's dark, so dark. The sudden transition from airport to black hole is eerie and complete. I don't know where I am. All I know is that I'm here alone and cowering in fear because THERE IS SOMETHING HERE WITH ME.
No kisses soothe me. I feel no hand on my sweaty brow to ease my panic, and it's dark. There's a creature here and it knows my name. I can hear it in the darkness. It wants to take away who I am and use it, and Mulder left me here in the dark.
It's always dark. I am a lurker in dark places. When he comes to me at last, I smash the window of his car, crush his cellphone beneath my feet and snarl at him.
"Get out of the car." As he clambers out, tentatively avoiding the shattered glass, I'm musing. "Doesn't seem fair now. Doesn't seem right. Coming down to this. "
"What do you know about fair or right, Krycek? You're a coward." And he has a point. What do I know? Not much. Was I ever taught fairness? Did anyone ever give me right and wrong as concepts? The word coward is unfair though. That sticks in my throat. An acrid taste of oil boils up from somewhere within me. I don't care. I want him to see how wrong he is.
As he comes to face me I grit my teeth.
"I could've killed you so many times, Mulder. You've got to know that. I'm the one that kept you alive." My voice cracks a little, and I hope he hasn't noticed. Those lips are twisted in bitter rage and I can't look at him. "Praying you'd win somehow."
I want him even now. I want to press the hatred to me, to drink the bitter draft he'd give and hold him, need him, love him.
"Then there really is no God," he jibes, and I hang my head, because he's probably right.
The oily taste burns my mouth, the substance stings my eyes, and I bang on the cold steel door screaming.
"There is no god. No god at all..."
Oily residue burns my skin. I'm burning, burning in the dark and nobody can save me now. All I want is out there. He wants the truth, while I would be content with a lie, if only he were mine.
"Some of us believed in you, Mulder." He sneers at me. He's angry that I've outsmarted him, but that wasn't it. I didn't really. I just followed the longing that led me home to him.
"I believe in you, Mulder." He's unshaven, eyes red-rimmed with grief and sleeplessness. I take him by the shoulders, mouth the words, ‘come on,' and lead him home to his bed.
"I believe in you, Mulder." The silk falls like a whisper, and he stands there, confused and irritable, naked at last. "Oh, God, Mulder, you're beautiful."
My own drab clothing goes the way of his, though far less elegantly. I step out of my pants and almost go ass over apex as I attempt to toe off my socks without stooping to use my hands. He doesn't crack a smile as I bump him, merely putting out a hand to steady me. All of a sudden, I can see all my desires bearing fruit and I take him in my arms.
He fits. He belongs. He's mine, and he always was. Why did he forget that he was always mine?
"You think I'm bad. That I'm a killer. We wanted the same thing, brother. That's what you don't understand."
We kiss for what seems like hours. His body is fever hot and so very desirable that I can't find the words. My mind screams that we want the same things, but I know I'm lying. I don't want Scully back.
He doesn't speak to me. Those eyes of his say volumes with a look. He's tired, hurt, but I can be all he needs to heal. I press his lips apart to reach the core of him, shuddering at the taste of him, which is the way I'd always dreamed it would be.
His mouth is sweet; I taste tears and regret, fear and honest lust; it sends me reeling. My body covers his, melds, merges, and together, we are liquid.
In the end, when he calls my name, not hers, and his fingers bruise my buttocks, I am complete for the first time in my life. I have no words, because I can't speak, can only sob as I pour my essence out into him and the darkness takes us both to a place where we are free.
It doesn't last of course, nothing ever does. So soon does the old man lays his hand on me and claws me back into the darkness; leaves me in the darkness like a cat in a bag waiting to drown.
Lost, I am lost to him. Empty, I stumble out into the world, unsure why I've been banished from Eden, craving him, remembering his smooth white skin and burning kisses. Kisses that burn, and cigarette smoke, and red hot metal slicing through flesh and I scream and scream and scream...
I scream; there is no god.
Out of the garden now, I stumble blindly into darkness, and darkness is becoming my friend. I can see the faces cluster round me, seeking to have me notice them. The elder Mulder, Kritschgau, young Spender, Duane Barry, Coles... Augustus Coles. He had a gun...
He did, Mulder. He had a gun. So did Bill Mulder, your oh-so-sorry-ass, drunken, pathetic father. He had a gun. Do you think I didn't know? Did you imagine for a moment that I wouldn't protect you from that sodden, miserable piece of shit? He betrayed the human race in so many ways, your father, did you think he wouldn't betray you? Think about it for just one minute. He gave Samantha to them. He wasn't coerced, he wasn't blackmailed. He GAVE her. It should come as no surprise that he was gonna blow you away.
He didn't even fight when I took his gun away. He blinked a little when I shot him, but I'll bet we all do that. Look at me. Third eye blind. No more blinking for Alex Krycek.
Udacha tebya, tovarisch.
"I wanted to stop them," he says, knowing that I know who they are. "All you wanted was to save your own ass."
"No. I tried to stop them. Tried to kill Scully's baby to stop them." I'm lying. He knows the truth. He knows that I would have done anything, said anything. You are my drug, Mulder, now and forever, and it only cost me all I am to get that final fix. "It's too late. The tragedy's that you-- you wouldn't let it go. That's why I have to do this. 'Cause you know how deep it goes. Right into the FBI."
There are stars born and die in the time it takes for him to answer. Lies hang between us like gossamer, and the void is too big to be bridged. I see him sneer, and that's enough. The sneer is for me and I cherish it. When he speaks, it's the same words I've heard so often I could have said them myself.
"You want to kill me, Alex, kill me. Like you killed my father." Bill Mulder crumpling onto white tile, red blood and surprise spattering the floor. My love alone and confused in the next room. Mine, though you don't see it, mine. The words shimmer around me, draw me into his eyes. "Just don't insult me trying to make me understand."
A blow, no pain, but suddenly my arm won't work. I grit my teeth and try to make him hear me. The pain is out there somewhere with the truth, and perhaps I understand that this will be the time that pays for all.
Bullet coming. Incoming. He had a gun. He had a fucking gun, Mulder.
Face to face in the underground office he in apathy and shirt-sleeves, I in newfound arrogance, playing off airs to hide the stench of the jail that still makes my head reel. All I have to sustain me is the memory of him, the feel of his mouth on me, the press of his body, flesh and sinew and bone as I take whatever he has to give me.
I need him, and I know where he's going. I know that there are few that ever return, and fear that he will be returned to me altered. I have vowed that this won't happen, would kill him first. I send a silent prayer - udacha tebya, tovarisch - that he will make it back to me, and that I can save him when he comes, and take what I can get.
His body is less slender, but his skin still smells of summer grass, and his mouth still tastes of regrets. I take him or he takes me, and for one last time we share a moment stolen from the world. I taste slick heat and tears, the hint of salt that heats me, sears me, leaves me trembling as he turns to put his clothes back on and distance himself from me.
Everything else is a game, save for him. They will take him too, but they won't keep him. I won't let them. He's mine, not theirs, and always has been. I can't stop them taking him. I can't stop them.
"You know, back at the academy, some of the guys used to make fun of you."
He shakes his head, looks at me with a curl in the perfect lips that tells me how insignificant I am. "Oh stop it," he says, "Or you'll hurt my feelings."
I shake my head. How can I make him understand? "But there were some of us who followed your work. Believed what you were doing because we knew that there was more out there than they were telling us."
He opens cracked lids and peers, grey faced at me as I tip the antidote onto his tongue. They won't have you. You will never be anyone's but mine.
I stare at the intruder. It's that bald fuck. Too late to stop me, Skinner. Too late to do anything, thank God.
There is no god.
"It's going to take more bullets than you can... ever fire to win this game. But one bullet... and I can give you a thousand lives." Will he understand me? I'm bleeding, and there isn't much left to me now, but this he has to understand. I look up at him and whisper through the pain.
"Shoot, Mulder."
He doesn't, though I push the gun towards him with the last of my strength.
"Shoot..."
The sound of the gun, and that fucking bullet is winging towards me.
"Agent Mulder?" And he's there before me, there for the rest of my life, disheveled and perfect, the days' growth of stubble on his chin making him perfect.
"Yeah." He's disdainful. I crave you, Mulder. I crave you like nicotine, like candy, like sex. He doesn't care. Be my drug, Mulder. Let me mainline on you until my veins collapse and there's no more world.
"It's your 302." My voice is husky. See me, Mulder. See me and want me. Be my drug. "Assistant Director Skinner just approved it."
No god. There is no god. He sneers and hands the file back to me.
"There's a mistake here. There's been another agent assigned to the case." And oh, yes, I can help you; I can help you now. Be my drug, Mulder. Take me from the harshness of the shadowland and show me color; show me pleasure; show me you.
The bullet sings, and he sings with it in my memory. All I have, all I ever had. No God, no hope, only you, Fox Mulder.
Be my new drug? Aloud, I say, "That would be me. Krycek, Alex Krycek."
-- There is no more --
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