ArchiveX: 27 July 1998
From: "Twilight" <email@example.com>
Fly I: To the Sky
I can't believe how long this took, either. Sequel to the "Burn" and "Drown" trilogies. (Check my page if you missed them...)
To the Sky
They stood by the sea as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Krycek smiled. This feels so right, he thought. I've wanted this so long... and it feels so strange, having him. But it's right. I know it is.
Mulder turned in his arms, turning to face the sun and the sea, his back pressed close against Krycek's chest. He could feel Krycek's arms coming up around him, crossing in front and grasping his shoulders. This is so unreal, Mulder thought. Is this what love feels like? It was never like this before. Nothing was.
Krycek was laughing, he realised. He could feel the warm breath fogging his ear as he chuckled.
"What's so funny?" He turned his head, met Krycek's eyes with his own. They were moist again, the pupils dilated despite the bright sunshine glaring into them, but Krycek was smiling. It's strange, he thought. I don't think I've ever seen him really smile before.
Krycek sniffled, trying to stop laughing. "I feel like I'm in Titanic. You should be shouting 'Look, Alex, I'm flying!' right now." He made a little disbelieving snort, shaking his head. "This is too surreal. I keep wondering if I'm really here, with you, or if I'm just dreaming again..."
"Do you usually stand on cliffs with me in your dreams, Alex?" Mulder found himself laughing too, wondering why but unable to suppress it. He pulled from Krycek's arms abruptly, turning and kneeling to sit on the edge of the cliff, letting his long legs dangle over. He could feel his fingers and toes tingling as he looked down, down, down at the water breaking over the rocks below him. "Fuck," he whispered, hands gripping the edge. Why is everything so confusing? I never should have left...
He closed his eyes as Krycek's hand stroked up his back, moved through his hair. He could push me over now, he thought. Why do I know he won't?
"I'm just as scared as you," Krycek said, so quietly that it was obvious that he hadn't really meant for Mulder to hear. He felt the warm presence of Krycek's body as he knelt down behind him, resting his chin on Mulder's shoulder.
"If you're dreaming," Mulder whispered back, "then I am, too. What are the odds that we would dream the same thing?" Oh, how *poetic*, Mulder thought, looking down at the sea. It was so...compelling, the water crashing furiously against mossy grey rocks, strangely soothing despite its rage. He had a sudden mad thought of leaning forward, letting himself drop into the churning foam, dash against the rough stones. He reached for Krycek's hand, squeezed it.
"Scully will never forgive you if you do it, Mulder," Krycek said, wrapping his other arm around Mulder's waist and scooting him back from the edge.
Scully? He was so used to thinking constantly of her that the realisation of her absence in his thoughts was jarring. And there were the nagging voices again: Your best friend, your partner, you abandoned her for this sewer rat, a cold-blooded killer, you...he pushed them away. She can deal with being without me, he suddenly thought, blinking. Maybe it's better this way. She doesn't need me.
But how did Krycek know what he was thinking, anyway? "How...?"
Krycek shrugged carefully. "I've seen that look on a man's face before." He stood, pulling Mulder up with him, and they turned their backs to the sea as they walked back to the road.
The car was, of course, sitting where they had left it, looking lonely and out of place by the side of the road. Mulder could feel his heart pounding as they walked back to it, Krycek's hand resting lightly between his shoulder blades. He was still on the last remains of the adrenaline rush, now fueled by the sweeping landscape ahead of and behind him, and the man leading him back to the car. Keep going.
They stopped, and Krycek leaned against the car door, staring up at the sky, which had gone a vivid, blazing summer-morning blue. "Mulder?"
Mulder pressed a hand against the smooth, cool steel-blue skin of the vehicle, absently watching his faded, alomost colourless reflection in the window. "Yeah?"
"I think we need to start this over." His eyes were so warm, open, a look Mulder had never seen before. Not veiled, not hidden, just...real. The soft leather of the gloves clung slighty to Mulder's skin as his fingers brushed Mulder's face, tracing along his cheekbone, thumb following the curve of his lower lip. Mulder closed his eyes.
"Start what over?"
Krycek blinked, looking over Mulder's shoulder at the road behind him. "Nothing." He opened the door. "Let's go."
22 September 1998
Archive: Ah, hell, wherever you want.
The 8th story in the Elements cycle; the 2nd in the "Fly" (formerly "High") trilogy. (The others can be found at my site; check the end for the URL.) I love Krycek-POVs, can you tell?
Fly II: Scared as You
I peeled the gloves off my sweating hands as the car heated up, the sun glaring in through my window; I rolled it down, wanting to just let my head hang out in the roaring rush of air. I let my eyes scan the road, looking all around for signs of other drivers, houses, anything at all besides the expanse of water on the left and the empty fields on the right - just an empty highway, no one and nothing for miles and miles. Alone.
I turned back to my passenger. Mulder's head had fallen back against the headrest in his sleep, leaving his throat exposed; I can't believe he trusts me that much, even asleep. I lifted my right hand from the steering wheel, watched it in slow motion as it glided through air to Mulder's jaw, stroking up to touch the unwashed silk of his hair. I could feel myself sighing as I touched the tip of a finger to Mulder's parted lips. Amazing that I could get away with this, now.
I was supposed to act this way when I worked with him; I refused, at first. Macho pride. I couldn't be like this with some man, even if it was only an act. I went home from the assignment meeting dreading my having to meet the notorious Agent Mulder. Not that I had a choice in the matter. I had never met him, been anywhere near him; he was only a dossier to me, a nuisance to the Project, someone that I had to hate, because my employers did. And then, that morning, I put on my new self, along with the ugly suit, the hair gel, the dopey innocent face: Special Agent Alex Krycek, FBI. Wet-behind-the-ears kiss-up. Worshipper of and new partner to "Spooky." And I met him, saw that fire that he carries with him, saw the flash in his eyes, even in annoyance and distaste, and it suddenly wasn't an act anymore...
He changed me, even more than the old bastard who still had me at his beck and call then did. My former employer appealed to my sense of greed, my fantasies of being a double agent living a glamourous life. I thought working for him would be like a James Bond movie. Mulder appealed to my need for truth, honesty, the desire to expose the lies. To save the world. He was my light.
Which is not to say he's perfect, by any means. His temper, his impatience, his eagerness to pick at decades-old mental scars until they bleed, while rushing to repress anything that doesn't fit into his view that everybody is out to get him...
A view which, while nowhere near as accurate as he believes, is far more accurate than many other people seem to think, by the way.
But I could forgive these things. I felt like I could forgive him anything. He changed me.
I knew my employers would kill me if they found out.
I hated that fear. I hated *him*, for taking me against my will. I wasn't supposed to want him this way, to feel *something* sharp race through me at every scornful glance, every sarcastic word. I wasn't supposed to go home every night and jerk off until I was sore, thinking of him. I wasn't supposed to think of him at all; only watch him, keep him from getting too close to his precious "truth."
*He* was supposed to love *me*.
Maybe he did. Is it egotism to hope that he wanted me from the beginning, and was only better at hiding it than I was?
That his anger, his violence, was only a mask all along?
Somewhere along the way, the anger must have changed; his presence beside me is proof of that. Or maybe he just realised what the anger was a mask for.
Ha. I wish.
I'm tired; I stayed up as long as I could last night, watching him sleep, before unconsciousness dragged me down, away from him. And then he woke me again in the early morning, with his fears and insecurities.
At least they plague us both.
I still can't believe he ran away with me. With *me*. Things like this don't happen to me. Or to him, for that matter. It's like a movie, a romance.
How else can this end?