Bound For Glory

by Jennie

Title: Bound For Glory

Author: Jennie

Pairing: M&K

Rating: PG

Date: 1-27-04

Summary: Alex survives the encounter

Category: Slash.

Archive: Sure

My site:

Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money made.

Notes: All the really good lines are Kel's suggestions. The woman is brilliant! Teri and Ursula looked it over and fixed my mistakes.

Bound For Glory
by Jennie
Fortunately for all concerned, Mulder listens without interrupting too many times while I try to make him understand. He sits quietly, sipping his coffee, and listens to my uncharacteristically disjointed ramblings about me, my life, that bastard Spender, the hold he'd had on me, my attempts to keep Mulder alive, relatively sane, and basically unharmed. Finally, once I wind down, he sits back and frowns. Then - and this is pretty fucking scary - he grins. "You," he announces with entirely too much satisfaction, "are in love with me." My response? Staring. That's all. Just staring. Won't mention the blushing or the mouth hanging open. Yeah, I'm cool. Why do you ask?
He snickers - which makes me even more uncomfortable - and gets to his feet. "C'mon, Krycek. Let's go." "Go?" Voice breaking? In your dreams. "Where?" "Back to the motel, Alex."
Ah. Lightbulb. He's going to administer the ritual beating in private, to generously allow me to salvage what is left of my nonexistent dignity--because really, I have so much left by this point--by pummeling me in private. Is it any wonder I love this guy?
And, hey, what's up with this "Alex" thing? He hasn't called me that sinceOkay, let's not go there just now. First, let's deal with surviving, then we'll wallow in memories. Assuming we're alive to wallow. Oh well, I did say that anger was one of those things that bound me to Mulder. Why is it that I'm always right?
Resigned to my fate, I indicate my agreement by docilely following him out to the car and accompanying him back to the motel hell. He only speaks once during the drive. "I have to say, Alex, that I find myself really liking this newer, quieter you." I resent that. Really, I do. I believe I mentioned the whole man-of-few-words thing I've always prided myself as being. And I'd tell him that, right fucking now, except... well, he's never hesitated to punch me in similar circumstances. If I wait and let the beating begin in slightly more open surroundings there is a slight - okay, miniscule - chance that I can avoid a concussion from my head impacting with windows, walls and/or floors. Back at the motel and in his room, I watch dumbfounded as he kicks off his sneakers, pulls off his sweatshirt and collapses onto his bed. Where the bastard snaps the button on his jeans open and lies back against the pillows. He stretches mightily, yawns, raises his arms, and cradles his head on clasped hands. Then he directs a beatific smile at me. And I? Do not run. With all the aplomb of a sixteen-year-old virgin I stop at the door and watch his performance. Instead of running for my life like I should. "Alex," he purrs, "come over here and join me." "Um." Well, at least my voice didn't break this time. "Whassamatter, Alex?"
The matter? What's the fucking matter?
Let's take a moment to review, shall we? 1) I track his ass down. Tacitly admitting that I've been watching him. 2) I give him my keys and let him drive my car. Thereby placing my life in his hands. 3) I explain myself, my motives to him. 4) I blush. 5) I stutter. 6) I... dammit! I make a goddamned fool of myself. And Mulder? Definitely doesn't give me any breaks. Nope. He smirks. He teases. He announces that I'm in love with him. Smugly. Not that he was wrong, mind you. But he could have at least kept this particular revelation to himself. Which is moot now. I don't love him after all. I hate him. Fox Mulder is a devil from hell and he. Must. Die. Jaw clenched, grinding my teeth in frustrated fury, I glare at the self-satisfied bastard. "Oh for God's sake! Get over yourself already." That tears it. I'm gonna kill him. Here and now, I am going to kill him. I tell him so. Very explicitly and in great detail, I tell him exactly how I plan to pull out my glock and blow him into oblivion. He sighs. Drops the smirk and sits up, meeting my glare with a sober expression in his hazel eyes. "Listen... I... Dammit, Krycek, I feel the same way." Huh? Feels what way? He feels an overwhelming desire to kill me too? Or. He... he... "I love you too."
Well. With that being the case, I shed my jacket, shirt, shoes, and join him on the bed, where we-- You have a nasty, dirty disgusting mind. I like that in a person. But no. We talk. Just talk. For hours, we lie there, side by side, just talking. About what, you ask?
That, my friend, is private. So, by the way, are the following events. I'm sure, given that filthy mind of yours, that you'll have no problem imagining what happens next. I will, however, say that we're glorious together. Pretty too. Maybe, just maybe, I'll go into lurid detail when I write my memoirs. Which won't happen for many, many years. Live with it. "Always leave 'em wanting more," said... someone famous. Words to live by, wouldn't you agree?

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