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The killer in me
Is the killer in you, my love.~Smashing Pumpkins
You should have seen his face. Sweat like tears shining on his cheeks. He looked to me with wide eyes. I felt the responsibility bind my skin tighter around the muscles, the weak bones. Up to that point, I'd thought he was lying to me. In that moment, I knew he wasn't. I took him out for a beer.
"First time?" I asked.
He was staring at his glass of beer, still full. I knew the feeling. First kill. You know you're with the FBI, know the badge vindicates you, but you still feel like a murderer.
"You did the right thing," I said again. He blinked weary eyes up to my own. They had to be green, some bright, fresh color I've never been able to see. I remembered him telling me I didn't know the first thing about him. Grey like autumn fog on wet cement. Three rapid blinks, almost compulsory. His suit was wrinkled. He looked like hell. I drank my beer and looked away from all that innocence scarred.
"How'd it happen with you?"
The question seemed sudden to me even though it was perfectly understandable that he'd want to know. That the comfort I offered him wouldn't be something under my control but bent to the will of his need, answerable to his craving for benediction.
I swallowed and watched his hands fold together like a child's in church. I cleared my throat and started to tell him about John Barnett. He listened, his face clearing as he forgot about himself and focused on my story.
"But you didn't kill Barnett," he protested when I was finished.
I swallowed more beer, cold and strong. "No," I agreed. My head ached, a searing accusation right behind my eyes.
Krycek frowned at me. "You didn't kill Agent Wallenberg."
It was the first and only time I really had to have a reckoning with that particular demon. If I didn't, I was going to give the kid a complex, a twin to my own. I shook my head, the shaky sigh leaving my lips. I saw it play out in the black of my mind, Barnett taking the shot, me taking him down. "No," I replied, and it felt like a hundred shadows falling away from me, a fraction of the cloak I tend to wear.
Krycek finally took a drink of his beer. We didn't say anything more for a long time.
We closed the place. I put our drinks on the company VISA. I looked across at Krycek, now blurry and pink, tie gone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. I blinked slowly. "It's late," I told him. He nodded and stood up from the booth. He had his tie balled tightly in his hand.
We were staying at some dive near the Bronx station. It felt like everything was dirty, down to the clean towels. I would have preferred to get back to D.C., but Krycek looked like he was ready to drop into bed and hibernate till late morning. His hair was falling into his eyes. His shoulders sagged forward. I felt an inexplicable desire to brush my hand over them and feel them trembling.
"I've got Scotch," I found myself saying, my key in the lock on my door, his key in his.
He looked at me from under a lock of dirty hair. Coals, sooty black, kept lit from some unseen fire, not yet banked. It made me catch my breath. He nodded.
We drank with the bottle between us, the center piece, the divide. A single burning lamp dangled over the small, round ply-wood table. Its reflection shone in the amber nectar. The room was a mass of dirty shadows.
"Thanks," he said after his second glass, eyes cast down. I felt myself nodding. The room spun a little.
"I think..." I began. "I need to..." I was suddenly more drunk than I'd ever intended to get.
I think Krycek nodded. I know he stood and pulled the covers down on the bed for me as I staggered over to it and fell, legs still hanging off the side and no energy to rectify my position. The ceiling undulated, water stains dark like blood over my head. I felt my shoes slide off my feet.
Suddenly he was standing over me. His hair dripped down over his forehead; his eyes were drenched in darkness. I felt fear envelope me. I squinted and tried to say his name. I saw his lips part and his tongue sweep over them, making them shine with purpose.
I closed my eyes, unable to keep them open. He could let himself out. I swallowed thickly and tried to at least tell him good-night. I opened my mouth. I was gonna tell him he was a good agent, a good kid.
Before I could, his fingers trailed gently over my fly.
Everything stopped while he traced my cock through my slacks. I spun in my darkness for a moment, grasping for a simple thing like breath, like time and identity, his and mine. Then, when I couldn't find those things, when my inability to breathe stole even the panic from my body, I gave up, exhaled, and my whole awareness shot down between my legs.
He squeezed me there, the root of my hardening cock and my balls. I arched into the impossible warmth of it. I think his breathing shuddered. It might have been me. I could blame it on my drunkenness. And yet I wasn't too drunk to come up with the rationale.
My cock felt him tug at my zipper; it cried a drop of pre-cum. I groaned. We were so quiet otherwise. I heard the neighboring room's television and our breathing, an erotic composition. Blind fingers stroked into the pouch of my briefs and took hold of my cock. I watched him do it...let him do it.
I was so lonely. I was so untouched. His hand felt incredible. I was shoving my dick through his fist before I knew I wanted to. He let me fuck my hips desperately on the bed for a minute...two...and then he brought my cock out. When he released it, it stuck straight up. I peered down my body at it, red and bobbing, and Krycek going to his knees at my feet.
I turned my head away, afraid to watch his mouth latch onto my cock, afraid of myself. Words wandered through my head. Words like charges, censure, dismissal, consorting, flagrant violation, fraternizing. Words like faggot. Words that stung. Words that elated. Wicked words. And my hand came down on the back of his head to guide him down to my dick.
Sexual harassment, junior partner, suspension...
I pressed harder and felt myself slide between soft, opening lips.
Board review, allegations, OPR...
Thrusting my hips up, sinking my cock into his wet heat, him sinking down onto me, sucking it farther in.
Trial, hearings, ignominy...
I started fucking his face. I held him in place and I fucked him, all the way down his throat.
I grunted, tossing my head. The Scotch evaporated, my mind cleared, everything made sense, everything was in color, even green. His mouth was the fire I'd tried to dampen in myself. His hot, velvet throat was the place inside me flaring open. I dug my heels into the mattress and fucked myself wide open. I stayed deep, hips lifted, eyes screwed shut, his hair tangled in my fingers, and I came inside him, the rules breaking all around me.
I felt the ribbons of semen filling his mouth, my own juice and his tongue hot around my hard shaft. I felt him swallowing, taking the head of my cock back into his throat and letting its tight channel milk me. He pulled tears from my eyes and a desperate cry from my throat. I shook with pleasure and then felt my hips fall back down to the bed, his mouth gentling, licking, then leaving altogether.
I remember feeling ashamed that I felt too ashamed to look at him afterwards. Then I slept, deep and heavy, irretrievable.
To Be Continued...
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Series Name: History
Title: History, Chapter One: Disarm
Author: Sage Fyre [email/website]
Details: Series | NC-17 | 7k | 05/04/07
Pairings: Mulder/Krycek
Category: Drama
Summary: I wanted to write a story where Agent Mulder and Agent Krycek were lovers, but every episode/interaction between them thereafter stays true to canon (up until a certain point when it will have to take its own course.)
Notes: Spoilers: Every episode with Krycek (plus Young at Heart.)
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