Title: And Not Be Satisfied (Lesser Unreal 1/?)

Author: Julia 'Isn't Uberangst a Cool Word?' du Mais

Rating/Content Warning: R, if only for liberal use of various colorful metaphors. But there's also some naughty thoughts, thank god, though unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) not in great detail, as I suck at writing sex. Kinda dark.

Summary: Krycek meets someone in Sunnydale. Swearing and angst follow.

Keywords: XF/Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover.

Krycek/Spike slash, Krycek/Mulder UST, references to canonical, latter-fourth season Buffy couples.

Spoilers: Um. I don't really know. Minor one for Tunguska/Terma (or perhaps a big one, as it involves Carter leaving X-Philes open for a lot of 'Fugitive' jokes at Krycek's expense). General season four for Buffy.

Series: The first in a series, tentatively titled 'Lesser Unreal'. This part is titled 'And Not Be Satisfied'. This is my first real M/M slash piece. Nothing explicit, since I've tried, and found I suck at, sex scenes of any kind what so ever. Kind of dark, lots of swearing. I'd give it an R, just to be safe. I've attached it (20kb), since it'll get messed up with the tiny space they give me to write in here. I've got an actual series planned around this. Buffy/X-Files crossover. Krycek/Spike. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Feedback is welcome, obviously. Unless you're writing to tell me how stupid it is and that I should go back to lurking (as if I didn't know), in which case I'm not the author, my evil twin is. I'll pass your flames along to her, but she's currently busy trying to come up with more Will/Dru plotlines, and starts muttering evil-sounding things to her dolls if disturbed.

Disclaimer: Have I told you lately that they're not mine? The Great Lying Surf Weasel Chris 'Plot Hole' Carter. Whedon. 1013. Mutant Enemy. Kuzui. And of course Fox. Lyrics property of Tommy Henriksen (the snippet at the beginning) and of Sarah McLachlan ('Possession').

Note: I used 'Posession' in a rather different context from that which is generally used in the 'fic world, because I simply don't see it as a happy lovey song. I mean, come on, it's what my mom refers to as a 'stalker song'. Ick. I really don't see it as very romantic at *all*. "I'll hold you down/Kiss you so hard I'll take your breath away/And after I wipe away the tears/Just close your eyes"? Yeah, that's romantic. To me, it's on the verge of being about rape. Anyway Just my little thought for today.

Lesser Unreal 1: And Not Be Satisfied

by Julia 'Isn't Uberangst a Cool Word?' du Mais

Life is a fucking bitch.

That's pretty much common knowledge, I guess. It's just that so few people actually bother to think it.

But it's true. Life. Is. A. Fucking. Bitch. She will tease you and make promises and talk dirty and do any fucking thing she can to get you to come back to her place, and then, before you know it, you're sitting in a fucking bar in some middle-of-nowhere California burg with one of your arms gone surrounded by uber-angsty teens whose greatest trouble is that possible C+ in AP English, and you realize you're already half-dead and that you haven't gotten a good lay in over a year.

I really shouldn't drink. I get too damn philosophical when I'm drunk.

And horny. Philosophical and horny.

And for some damn reason, all I can think about is a pair of goddamn hazel eyes.

Hazel, for crissake. Hazel. Fuck me. Hazel. Hazel is coffee. Hazel is fucking romance-novel shit. No. Romance-novel shit would be to go into how they're such a deep brown you could get fucking lost in them and how they shift with his moods and all that shit. Fuck that, I don't have time for psuedo-poetry. Well, I do. But I don't have the eloquence. Hell, I probably do. Even drunk. But I don't have the energy. Fuck, I've probably got that, too. You know what? I just don't fucking feel like it. Of course, that doesn't make it any less true. Mulder's got nice eyes. Nicer ass, but nice eyes.

Hey, I'm a foul-mouthed drunk, too. Whoda thunk it. Pretty-boy Krycek. Double agent Krycek. I'm-looking- out-for-number-one Krycek. All-I-can-think-about-is- fucking-fucking-Mulder Krycek.

I was hiding in a motel in D.C. when I heard a whispering about some new project of the smoking man's group. Something called the Initiative, in California. Somehow, I got my ass on a boat to Seattle and made my way down the coast, which is how I ended up here, in Sundale or Sunvale or whatever the hell this town is called. The fact is, it's small and it's quiet and it's a place where I can hide and it's got the added bonus of the possibility of fucking up more of that bastard's plans.

And if this is the only place in this town where I can get a drink (and who knows? Maybe even a fuck!), then so be it.

And if sitting here with nothing better to do, getting more drunk and more philosophical and more foul-mouthed and oh yeah! more horny by the second is the only activity in this town, then so be *it*.

After I feel that I'm suitably inebriated for the time being (as long as 'the time being' is defined as 'the next one hundred and eighty seconds'), I finally lift my gaze from the worn bar where, no doubt, many a proposition has been made and many more a poor horny teenaged SOB has sat and fucking wished, and actually take in my surroundings for the first time.

The music, I've managed to adjust to. After the screamings that echo off the walls of the countless prisons I've been in and my own screaming that echoes off the walls of an abandoned missile silo, I can handle a little loud, off-key angst from a too-cool-to-be-truly-appreciated teenage testosterone band. I'm not saying it's any better, just that I've adjusted to the shit.

So, what kind of distinguished clientele frequent this hellhole? Oh yeah. Uberangsty teenagers blah blah blah. I seem to remember covering that before.

Preliminary scan of the room; none of these people poses a real threat to me. The ones who might possibly be construed as such are too far away, and me too close to the door, to do any harm. The closest person to me is a stick-thin, blond girl, seated at a table about twenty feet away with a stick-thin redhead. Between the redhead and the blond is a brunette, male, and a female brunette, chattering vapidly. Her boyfriend's got brown eyes. Not, I might add, hazel. Between the second brunette and the blond another brunette guy is pulling up a seat. Tall. All-American boy. Eats his Wheaties. Between the first blond and the redhead is another stick-thin blond girl, holding hands with the redhead. Awww, this is a dyke-friendly uberangst teenaged crowd. She's got hazel eyes. I linger on her the longest. It's probably just that between the liquor and the dim lights and the oh-I'm-so-tortured expression, she bears no small resemblance to a certain Special Agent. And hey, there's a scrawny little redhead next to her. Isn't it cute, it's a fucking Pocket-Sized Mulder and Scully.

Disgusted, I turn back to my fucking drink. That basically killed the mood. Although, hell, the redhead wasn't bad-looking either. And, hey, Mulder's enough of a pansy that he could just bleach his hair and get a nose job and he'd look like a stone butch dyke. Hell, if he got a sex change, Scully'd probably jump him (her?). No way that bitch is straight. Probably something between her and that little Agent, Ivy or Mistletoe or whatever it was. A sordid little affair consisting of quickies during lunch.

Somebody takes the seat next to me. A voice, already sounding slightly inebriated, demands a beer. Is that just a particular quirk of the alcohol, or dost mine ears detect a British accent?

"Saw yeh checkin' out the Slayer's gang, mate," the voice sounds again, directed at me. "Not a bad-lookin' bunch, are they?"

The name throws me for a moment. Slayer? What the fuck is a Slayer? I could swear I've heard it before. But who the hell cares. I grunt noncommitally. Fuck conversation, fuck politeness, fuck what Mom taught me about being nice. Fuck Mulder (wrong choice of words, what would I give to do that?), fuck Scully, fuck the Bureau, fuck the cigarette man, fuck the teenagers, fuck this shithead.

Glancing up, I realize that hell, that's not such a bad idea itself. Not a bad-looking guy. No Mulder, of course. But hey, who is? Blond. Lousy bleach job, but it adds to the whole bad-ass look. Not to mention the death-himself complexion and the lost-little-boy, cornflower-fucking-blue eyes. All black wardrobe, of course. Were it not for the worn jeans and duster, it would take away points. This shithead actually manages to pull off the oh-so-goth-chic, and makes it look... well, pretty fucking chic. Speaking of chic, there's also the heroin-chic cheekbones.

And is it just the alcohol, or is my semi-functional gaydar going off? Looks like getting laid is a distinct possibility after all. Whoop-de-shit.

The guy glances at me, and lights up a cigarette, then, before putting the pack away, glances at me. "Smoke?" he mumbles around the cigarette, going through his pockets for a lighter. I glance at the pack. Morleys. Fucking Morleys.

"No thanks," I snap.

He stops, gives me a look I can't quite interpret. Laughter, maybe a little irritation. Drops the cigarettes into his pocket. Pulls out the mythical lighter. "Well, at last he speaks. Just offering, mate."

"No thanks, *mate*," I say, mimicking his accent. He chuckles, and lights up. Though there's no real need for anything to be said. I say something anyway.

"Those things'll kill you, y'know."

Another chuckle, this one a bit longer than the last. "That's what they tell me."

"Another fucking immortal, huh?" Maybe he's one of Mulder's precious vampires.

He closes his eyes for a second. Opens them again, and smiles, displaying a few teeth. And so help me God, there is a flash of yellow eyes, of fangs, of a heavier brow.

"That's the general idea, mate." And then it's gone again. And we're back to fucking cornflower and teeth too white to be real and his nails are just perfectly manicured black ones again, rather than perfectly manicured pointy black ones.

I'm too jaded to even be frightened anymore. Maybe this Initiative is the Syndicate's answer to the X- Files that don't involve little green men. Whatever.

"Nice trick," I hear myself smirk.

"Fuck you," he answers shortly, taking a drag.

"That's the general idea." There we go. The real meaning of Alex's Night Out comes out.

The bastard gives me the once-over. "Believe me, mate, it'd be a pleasure, but that's not possible at the moment."

I snort, downing another shot of vodka and enjoying the sensation that at least something is alive in me as I feel the drink burn its way down my throat. Well, scratch that. Two things. I've got definite life signs from not only my throat, but my dick as well.

What was it Mulder said? "Isn't that how you beat yourself?" Like you do a whole lot better, Fox. Why don't you analyze yourself sometime; I'm sure you'll find a lot of interesting shit there. Nuerosis. Obsession. And let's not forget the raging sexual repression and cryptohomosexuality.

Finally, I speak again. "What's wrong, neutered?"

"Effectively," he says succinctly, nodding in the direction of the blonde's table. "Ask Captain Iowa over there about his little GI Joe gang. Or I'm sure Slutty the Vampire Slayer'd be all too happy to tell, as well."

I assume he means All-American and the blond girl. The Slayer would be the blond, then. It still pisses me off that I can't remember where I've heard of her. Still, I assume there's some bad blood between her and this guy. Vampire. What the fuck ever.

GI Joe gang. Well, what do you know. What *do* you know. Looks like All-American might not be quite so clean as he looks. Squeaky-clean on the outside, dirty double agent on the inside. Reminds me of me. Except not. Come nightfall, he spends his time tracking down the vampires and dragging them to...where? Well, wherever the hell it is, I'm sure it fucking stinks of cigarette smoke.

Looks like the plot has thickened already. This town's looking less fucking quiet every second.

*************

This one's cute.

I've seen a lot of cute ones, of course, but this one's damn cute. Enough anger and masculinity and sheer bloody joyous rage to pass for Angelus, but enough tragedy and pain and insanity swirling about to pass for Dru.

That line I gave him, the neutered one, that wasn't exactly the truth. I can fuck perfectly well, even with the chip. Just can't bite. But whatever ninny doesn't think that makes a difference doesn't know dick about vampires. Maybe Angel can do the sex-without- blood scene, but he's a soulled pouf. Can't set him as the standard, can we?

And I'd love to fuck this one. Christ, I would. I'd love to fucking tease him and torment him and make him scream and beg and fucking cry.

But I want to bite him, too. And nothing-*nothing*- happens between me and anyone until I can do that, until I can make it real.

Maybe it's something about not being forgotten. Some male thing, some ego thing. Maybe it's some stupid sentimental thing. But, hell, I've bitten before and they all leave eventually. Even on a human, fang marks heal.

And yet, something's still stopping me from racing out into the alley behind the Bronze with my odd little Dru/Angelus hybrid human and going at it like we were the last pair rabbits on earth.

I'm going to regret this tomorrow, when I wake up in the crypt and it's just a hung-over, fully clothed me all by my lonesome instead of a hung-over, naked me next to a hung-over, gorgeous, naked warm body. I'm going to wish I'd raced out into that alley and had that crazed-bunny sex. I can see it now. I can practically feel it, waking up alone once more.

Maybe later. Maybe if someone else comes along. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe I should enjoy what can come of this this while I've got the chance.

The band currently blasting out whatever passes for music in the Colonies nowadays finally leaves the stage, much to the relief of the crowd. Or, hell, maybe they enjoyed having their eardrums blown out. I know that's my idea of a good time, right up there with fucking the Slayer and bathing in holy water. There is a pause for a few seconds, during which you can hear the heartbeats and bloodflows and breaths of every single person here, and during which I can hear the heartbeat and bloodflow and breath of the man sitting next to me, which is all I really care about right now, anyways, and then the club is filled with music again. Still angsty, still painfilled, but more on-key. More often than not, there's a reason those unsigned bands are unsigned: they suck.

Sarah McLachlan. 'Angel' Oh, joy. The other patrons of the Bronze, of course, don't share my enthusiasm, or lack thereof. The witch and her girlfriend are even heading for the dance floor, leaning into each other.

The song's perfect for the pouf, too. So much damn guilt and unhappiness. "The thorn keeps on twisting/ Keep on building the lies/That you make up for all that you lack," yadda yadda yadda. At least the Slayer seems to have noticed the connection too. That look that just screams martyr comes over her face once again. Captain Iowa shifts uncomfortably, noticing his girl's sorrow. Now that's more like it.

My lovely companion, meanwhile, has downed another couple of shots, and my cigarette is burning out. Though there's an ashtray in front of me, I toss what's left of it to the floor. As the song slows to a close, I stand, and offer my hand. I'm nothing if not a gentleman. "Dance?" the word escapes, gruff, uncareful.

He stares at me, uncomprehending, for a long moment. Eyes narrow. My expression doesn't change, and he finally nods, standing. Offers me his right hand, and I pull him up as a better song comes on. 'Possession'. This is more like it. Slow start, but quickly growing faster. This song is vampire sex personified. The thought flashes through my mind, and I quickly push it out. No sex. No fucking. Nothing.

But this is almost as good. Bodies grinding together - even through layers of clothing - it's almost as good.

**********

*Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide Voices trapped in yearning mem'ries trapped in time The night is my companion and solitude my guide Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied*

It's a dangerous fucking game he's playing. But damn if I'm not drunk enough and horny enough and lonely enough to play along with him.

For once, I'm quick to settle into the sub position. For once, I let someone else control me. Would I give him this much control if it were sex? If we were back in my motel room or wherever, fucking, would I just let him run it all?

Who knows?

Right now, the only fucking thing I can feel is the music and a cool body pressed up against me, is an arm around my waist and an arm around my shoulders, keeping me there whether I like it or not.

**************

*And I would be the one to hold you down Kiss you so hard I'll take your breath away And after I wipe away the tears Just close your eyes dear*

***************

Why do I always need to be in control?

You could probably point to Angelus if you wanted to analyze me, go deep in there and poke around and see what kinds of fun things you could find inside my undead brain. My sire. The only person I ever really gave control to.

And look what happened there.

Dru...Dru was an odd case. Sometimes, she was in control. I could do nothing. But other times, she was perfectly content to let me take charge. To lay back.

Ever since she left, with everyone I've been with, I'm in control. I'll take control. I'm always in control.

And this time...I'm in control, yes. But only this first time. And after this? Hell, how do I even know there's going to be an 'after this'?

There is. There will be. It's not wishful thinking. Hell, I'd just as soon this guy ran off to the next damn pair of arms after this. I really don't give a good goddamn about one more pretty face.

But there's gonna be an 'after this'.

*************

*Through this night I stumble so many times betrayed Trying to find an honest word to find the truth enslaved You speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes My body aches to breathe your breath Your words keep me alive*

*And I would be the one to hold you down Kiss you so hard I'll take your breath away And after I wipe away the tears Just close your eyes dear*

***************

His hand slips up under my jacket, to rest on the small of my back, as though he can read my mind and see all the goddamn times I've seen Mulder do just that to Scully, and see the desire that smolders like a fucking flame on its last few coals. Pulls me a little bit closer. Just a little closer, a little less time to flee, a bit more of space between me and D.C., me and Tunguska, me and a missile silo, me and every goddamn place I've ever been.

Each of us is almost daring the other to move a little further, to pull back. To take another step one way or another.

The song will end soon. And every part of me screams for this goddamn experiment in torture to end. But some parts scream a little more loudly than others.

***************

*Into this night I wander it's morning that I dread Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread And through the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride 'Cause nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied*

*And I would be the one to hold you down Kiss you so hard I'll take your breath away And after I wipe away the tears Just close your eyes*

*****************

I can tell Slutty's getting tense. Another aspect of Spike comes to the surface. Oh yeah, Slayer, wondering now if I might not have gotten friendly with a certain vampire we both have in common?

She's going to notice, how closely my dance partner can resemble Angel in the right light. It won't escape. Knowing the Slayer, she'll figure it's all a big show just for her benefit. That's definitely an added bonus, but I don't think it's the only reason. Though who knows, it could very well be, knowing yours truly.

But this one's mine. I can feel it. No matter how many people, male or female, he meets, greets, hell, fucks, while he's here in Sunnyhell, he's mine. He's not going to forget it, and I'll be damned if I am.

I turn a bit, I lift my head just a bit above his, which now rests on my shoulder, one arm around my waist, the prosthetic one (I'd figured it out soon enough) hanging at his side, a reminder of every little aspect of humanity that I've forsaken and that he's still trapped with, and lock eyes with the Slayer.

Enjoy the show, Slutty.

****************
THE END

Though the Brightest Fell, as far as I know the only Willow/Drusilla shrine on the 'net, ficless at the moment, as there are so few stories out there, if any.