Sat, 28 Mar 1998

The Executive
by J.M. Dakarta
Copyright 1998: New Bohemian Productions
e-mail to jmdakarta@hotmail.com

Rating: R or NC-17, depending on your sensibilities
Spoilers: Naw....
Disclaimer: If you think I'm actually going to make money off this, you haven't been writing long enough. And if you think they're mine, you had better like the colour white, because that's what the men who come with the big butterfly nets to take you away will be wearing. Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 have been kind enough to *lend* them to me, and I promise to return them unmutilated....
A bit of a PWP, Mulder/Krycek, with a bunch of Krycek-angst. As Methos would say: yes, oh, yes....
1075 words, if anyone really cares.
This one's dedicated to Kathy (KMS) who was so kind to get me hooked on slash. Can't thank you enough, my dear! Also thanks to Kat, who came up with this original story pic and was so kind as to actually appreciate my interpretation. Thanks, ladies!
E-mail (PLEASE) to jmdakarta@hotmail.com. Any and all feedback will be appreciated and responded to.

---

The apartment was very tastefully furnished, with grey steel and pink-kissed granite surfaces everywhere. All the furniture that required a greater degree of softness manifested itself in sleek, black leather. Expensive space was everywhere, for such large, roomy apartments did not come cheap in Manhattan. Real estate guides for other parts of the United States were considered pornography in certain areas of the city. Tall, upright lamps whose light, at full blast, could have heated the room through the dead of winter, stood everywhere; now, though, they were, dark, silent, and their tender residual warmth radiated throughout the apartment. All the windows had been shut, all the drapes had been drawn. The only light was the glow of the large-screen television at the end of the largest leather couch in the room, positioned just so someone reclining on that couch would have the best view in the house.

Which he did.

Alex Krycek lay across the couch, sprawled out like a panther, one arm behind his head, the other draped off the side, loosely clutching a remote control he knew that he was not going to use any time soon. His suit was expensive, Armani, or Gucci, he couldn't remember which. He now realised that he should have taken it off hours ago, but he hadn't, and now he found himself fully attired: coat, tie, shoes, socks, the whole nine yards. He looked like an executive someone had set out on a buffet, to be observed, or perhaps consumed. In a horribly ironic clich‚, the suit actually was black, but this seemed neither ironic nor clich‚ to Krycek, who was rather oblivious to everything, including attire. His necktie was crisp and ordinary, almost to Bureau standards, which was also quite ironic, considering he hadn't been a member of the FBI for over three years. Well, not an official member, but that was beside the point. Hangers-on and assassins made better salaries without the dress code. In fact, the only idiosyncracy about any of his appearance was his unzipped fly and the youthful, model-quality attractive man who hovered over it, giving what could only be considered a very professional blowjob.

The young man was actually quite good at what he did, moving with expert speed and care across Krycek's swollen cock. Krycek didn't know his name, nor did he want to, but was very accurate in his description of him as "The Young Man," for his little sandy blonde attendant-or, if you will, prostitute-couldn't have been a day over twenty-one. Beyond that, he didn't know; he didn't ask, he didn't look. He had something far more interesting to watch.

The screen showed a grainy, black-and-white video shot by what appeared to be an amateur security video taken of a strange room at a strange angle. The only interest seemed to be a man with a very familiar face, one that played a recurring role in several of Krycek's dreams. And nightmares. He knew every detail of the man's face, from the slightly oversized nose to the gentle hazel green eyes to the pouty lips. Krycek dared not close his eyes, knowing that the man's image was burnt on the insides of his eyelids and etched on his brain with fire. Though he knew his body intimately from many hours staring at him during long stakeouts, tense meetings, and violent, violent physical confrontations, he never *knew* his body. Not really. Not in the way he would like to, not in the way where he could feel the darker man's skin beneath his fingers, each muscle, each hair, each fold of skin no longer a stranger to him.

The young man continued, but Krycek no longer noticed his presence.

The video played on. The dark man walked across the room, picked up a basketball, and left. There was a momentary pause, then a jump to the man rushing back in the room with a towel on his head, grabbing for the phone. Krycek had yet to figure that one out, but the scene was nonetheless exciting. Another momentary pause, and the scene changed to show the man working on the computer, trying to type while eating Chinese take-out at the same time and getting more rice on him than in him. Yet another break in the action, then the dark man walking in the room, pressing a few buttons on his remote, and unzipping his fly in the glow of the television screen. Krycek wished the video had sound and moaned slightly, shattering the silence and startling the young man who paused for a second, then resumed his ministrations. Krycek, for his part, barely seemed to notice the break in stimulus.

On the television screen, the dark man got more and more excited as his dear pornographic movie got more and more intense. He had no idea of true pornography, Krycek thought, or how much he was a part of it. Krycek had read once in a magazine that while women fantasized about real men (and women, too, he supposed)--whether they be men they knew or famous athletes and movie stars--men tended to turn their fantasies toward imaginary partners, unreal sex gods and goddesses from the deepest core of their brain. How wrong they were, he mused. This reality was so much better than anything his tortured imagination could conjure. This was real life.

The dark man's face tightened in ecstacy at the same moment Krycek felt his world go white and heat with relief. His brain ignited and sent flames throughout his entire body, warming every muscle, every nerve. His body didn't move an inch. His eyes shut.

When he opened them again, the screen was dark and the blonde man stood. He wiped his mouth. Krycek wished he wouldn't do that. It made him feel so . . . dirty, for the lack of a better word. Abjectly filthy. As if he repulsed the young man, which he was sure he did, Krycek just didn't care to have him to express it.

"Same time next Tuesday?" the blonde man asked.

Eyes wide, pupils dilated, staring at everything and nothing, Krycek nodded. He did not see the young man leave, only heard the footsteps across the carpet, the sound of bills being taken from the kitchen table and stuffed in a pocket, and the slam of the apartment door.

A tear ran down his cheek in the few moments before the blackness swallowed him whole.

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