Pieces IV: Crush

by Susan

Title: Pieces IV: Crush
Author: Susan
Feedback to: sgtpeppr@bellsouth.net
Author's Website: http://www.geocities.com/xfox7/
Status: Complete
Category: Unclassified
Pairing (Primary): Mulder/Krycek
Pairing(s) (Secondary):
Crossover Fandom (if any):
Crossover Info (if any):
Other Pairing Info:
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Permission to Archive:
Series or Sequel/Prequel: A collection of snippets -- they are unrelated to one another. They are just grouped by style.
Notes:
Warnings:
Disclaimer:
Summary: Fourth in the Pieces Series. Krycek POV.


Crush

when you stand
beside me
my head
spins -
i am drunk
with your nearness.

i long to tell you
how much i think of you,
what i dream about you,
what we'd be like together,
how well our hands would fit,
how close our bodies would fit
together.
but i just say hi and hope you speak.

         --from my personal poetry journal, 
         dated April 1998

I've been day dreaming again. It doesn't take much to start it. This time he touched my wrist. Accidentally. Maybe. Oh, who knows? Anyway, I've gotten to where I can hide my response when he does that. Which is often by the way. Does that mean anything? Does he know what I'm thinking? Is toying with me? Damn, I'm starting to sound like a little girl. Maybe I should slip him a note in homeroom, you know, with little boxes, check yes if you like me, no if you don't.

The first casual touch made me jump up out of the chair I was sitting in. He just laughed and told me to relax. Yeah. Riiiiggghhht. Relax. Relax, no. Learn to hide it, yes. I have to.

I don't know what I'm thinking. He's such an unbalanced guy. I mean, one minute he's running his trap about an X-file, and the next he's moved on to some crazy movie he watched on late-night TV the night before, when he couldn't sleep, or the last Knicks game. He's so...wrong for me. I like order. He's chaos. I mean, I've seen his fucking apartment. If it looks like that, what would his brain look like if I could see inside?

But the more I try to be logical, tell myself what's so wrong about this situation, I just realize more and more what feels so right. Something in that jumble of a man calls to something in me. I know what I'm here to do, what I'm supposed to do, what I'm being paid to do, but I can't get past...him. I can't work because he's always there. He's the point of this assignment, but the point is my biggest obstacle. I can only focus on what I'm feeling. I need to be detached, cool, but it's getting so hard to do. I want to be near him and know him for who he is, not just for some surveillance assignment.

The smoking man wants his reports on a regular basis. Bastard. I tell him what I know, which is not a lot, other than inconsequential personal info I've gathered. Mulder's favorite Chinese takeout place and what he orders most often. Mulder's new obsessions, what he's reading and what he's investigating for personal reasons. What Mulder wore to work last Tuesday. What his answering machine says. The screensaver on his computer. His...OK, so this is sad. I can't believe I know all this. I can't tell the smoker these things. It's not what he wants. Besides, he'd figure out what I'm feeling. And that can't happen. I won't let him have that part of me too. He can take what he wants from me in every other respect, just not my mind. Or my heart.

It was easier to tell myself that Mulder doesn't give a flying fuck for me when he was being a pain in the ass. Not to mention, by the way, it was easier to tell myself he wasn't as attractive as I thought he was. But now, I don't know. He's changed. Opened up to me a bit or something. So, I'm back to hoping. I swear, this is pathetic.

I guess since he knows I killed to protect him, I'm trustworthy now. Well, at least he trusts me enough to talk to me. For him, that's a big step. He can actually share an opinion or a joke with me. And of course, I've taken to fawning over him and staring at him admiringly even more. The sick part is, I can do it so easily - it's not so much of an act anymore.

It just makes my life so much harder. How can something that makes you so happy make you so sad at the same time? The first time he truly acknowledged me - I mean talked to me for no specific reason at all, just to tell a bad joke - I almost flirted with him. A coy remark almost followed my laughter (of course I laughed profusely, even though it was a shitty joke). I had to check myself mid-sentence. He kind of stared at me strangely, shrugged, and went on talking. But when he did it again later that day, I couldn't stop the retort from coming all the way out, sexual innuendo and all. He just smiled at me - smugly, might I add - said, "Good one, Alex," and put his hand on my shoulder, and squeezed slightly. That's when I jumped up. Like an idiot. Humph. Relax. Yeah.

I went home that night and danced around my apartment, talking to myself, saying that it WAS possible. I was going to have Fox Mulder; I'd have him begging... But I stopped as I thought of something. No, I couldn't have Mulder. I had a job to do, and starting a relationship with the job wasn't in the itinerary.

And that's when the dreams started. They could hit at anytime. In my sleep. At my desk. In the line at the bank. Some were hot, sweaty, fast fuck dreams, leaving my breath shallow and my face red. I think people thought I was having a heart attack or something. Other dreams were sweet, slow, drawn-out devastation. All shared one element: Mulder and I were together and happy.

So now when I see him, my palms start to sweat and I feel dizzy. I see all my dreams in his eyes. (I think of corny things like that now.) And it is such a high. Who needs alcohol? Being with Mulder is worse than drinking a bottle of Stoli. I can barely walk after I see him.

Damnit! I wish I could tell him about my dreams. I'm not usually like this - I usually get what I want, when the opportunity is there. If I could, I'd let him know how good we'd be together. Show him what I'm feeling. Jesus, if I could just grab him and kiss those full pouty lips... Make him feel what I know - that we were meant for each other.

But I can't. I just...can't. We'd both get in trouble. So, I disguise my feelings. Act as if he's just a coworker, nothing more. Say hi as he strolls by and secretly hope he's noticing me, too.

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