From: "Shannon Kizzia" Date: Sun, 09 Mar 2003 22:58:57 -0800 Subject: NEW FIC: Arrogant Bastard, M/K, NC-17, 1/1 Source: direct Arrogant Bastard by Shannon Kizzia (shannon@hegalplace.com) Website: http://hegalplace.com/shannon/ Rating: NC-17 Keywords: M/K, Krycek POV Category: SRA Spoilers: Up through Never Again Archive: You bet! But please let me know where! Disclaimer: This again? *sigh* Chris thought 'em up. I play with them. They play with each other. Everybody's happy. Summary: Krycek buys Mulder a beer. Date Posted: 3/9/03 Notes: I'm taking a break from writing a really long, angsty M/K written from Mulder's point of view. I desperately needed a little Alex, not to mention some nookie for these two! I hope you enjoy it. :) Dedication: For Satina. Lyubimoy. .................. I never come here myself. Too brass-accents-on-polished-wood. Too upper-middle class. Too Anglo-Saxon. Way too straight. I raise my real hand to signal the bartender. The top shelf vodka here is Grey Goose and it's outrageously priced, but that's okay. I used to be proletariat. I'm not anymore. I can afford the best of the best. Better than they have here. But I remember a day when I was way too young to drink. When I stole my father's last two dollars and scrounged in the couch cushions for change to go buy a cheap, sweet bottle of wine to drink out in the alley behind our apartment building. I remember the tongue lashing I got for that, all those thick Russian words flying wet from his mouth...the sting of the belt. I find I've been unconsciously rubbing at my other arm. The one that doesn't feel anymore, or shouldn't. It's hard under my leather jacket. I take my very real right hand away and reach into my pocket for my wallet. I notice that the bartender is trying not to look at my prosthetic. I don't say anything. I let her not look as I produce the cash. I hold it out to her. "All yours." "Thanks," she says softly. She's way too meek to be a bartender. She's probably not happy. She should be playing the flute or something. It says so in her hands, bird-like, pale, precise. I wonder how she got here. The place is starting to fill up. He'll be here soon, too. He comes here. I don't. When I need a drink, I usually go to Giovanni's Room. It's dark and secret and feels like sex. The lights are red and few. The bar is black. The floors aren't very clean. The men are good-looking and at least less pretentious than at The Hole or Nexus. And it's pretty easy to find someone to suck my cock. If that's what I'm there for and often I'm not. Nobody here looks like they give good head. But you never know. People can surprise you. There's a blond woman at the other end of the bar in a silk blouse and too many gold bracelets. She's laughing at something the man beside her said. She fluffs her hair up some more, smiling. She might be all right. If she were my type. She's not. I take a drink and look at my watch. Almost time. He'll sit in his car first. In the parking garage. He'll think about what he's done and he'll feel bad. Too bad and not bad enough in turn. He has no idea what he's done and if he did, he'd think he should never be forgiven. I'd been watching on my closed circuit TV. I started watching them as an assignment back in my pre-self employment days. It became kind of addictive. When my assignment was officially over and my bosses tried to blow me to bits, I just re-bugged their office and kept listening. Soon that wasn't as fun as it used to be and I added the perverse invasion of a visual. When I wasn't making nice with Russian physicians, when I was actually in town long enough to spend some time in my sparse living quarters, I quite enjoyed looking in on them. It became not about the information. It's always been quite clear to me that Mulder has very little of what he actually needs to make a shit of a difference. No, it's always been more about just....them. Him. What he does. How he does it. How often. I've seen some pretty cool shit. I've seen the subtlety of their dialogue, their relationship. I've seen the give and take of partnership. Something I so briefly experienced. Something I would have valued and given attention to...appreciated, if I wasn't so busy doing my job for them. Sometimes I wish I could go back and just be that again. Mulder's partner. I envy her that. Well, most of the time. Not tonight. Tonight I'm pretty sure she'll go home and cry herself to sleep. I watched it all. Watched the rift between them grow exponentially with each passing unsaid word, each unvoiced hurt. I saw her rose petal there on the edge of the desk. Saw it in black and white. I wished I could have seen if it was red or not. I think it must be...have been. Red like her hair. I wonder what color Mulder sees, since he can't perceive red. Maybe that's his whole problem with her. Maybe if he could see the beautiful, unique red of her hair, he'd finally see the beautiful, unique woman he shares not just his office with, but his life. Maybe he'd get her a fucking desk. Somebody just put Free Bird on the jukebox and I want to shoot whoever did it. I don't exactly hate this song. It's nice if you're in that Arkansas, backwater, country roadside bar, beer against your lips, peanut shells under your feet kind of a place. But I'm not. And I don't want to be. I resent somebody's imposing Arkansas on me at this moment. And of course, that's the moment he chooses to show up. Not with that attitude, asshole, I think as Fox Mulder walks in and pauses, looking past me, through me, to the bartender and the bottles behind her. His eyes are red. Shoulders slumped miserably. He's so goddamned beautiful I want to fuck him right up against the door he just walked through, right where all these accountants and advertising execs and government lackey suit-types can watch. I visualize it for a moment, succumbing to temptation. I so rarely do. Even in my own apartment, with no one there to see, I don't let myself think of him that way. I tend to think it'd get in the way if someday I might be forced to kill him. And it would. So I don't. I redress him, zipping up his slacks in my mind, and watch him walk over to the other side of the bar, lowering himself into one of two empty barstools, raising his eyebrows at the bartender once in lazy, self-pity-drugged greeting. I don't hear what he orders, but I see her take down the Dewar's and pour for about six seconds. A double. Looks like his guilt pendulum has swung over into the Responsible For All the Hunger, Hopelessness, and Heartache in the World range. Great. This ought to be fun. I consider leaving. Maybe going to find Scully instead. But after another swallow of my drink, I decide I kind of owe this to him. I let him drink down what he has. Watch him order another. Dock of the Bay comes on and I wish that's where we were. Wish things were less complicated and Mulder and I were sharing drinks with our feet dangling over the end of a pier, fending off seagulls and watching the water. I'm not usually this daydreamy. I don't normally entertain fantastical thoughts about Mulder and me. About anything. Maybe it's the vodka. Maybe the loss of my arm, instead of jading me further, turned me into some kind of a sap. Somebody who thinks about the ocean and long, pleasant talks. It's been a long time since I thought about anything except fighting for the survival of this planet. The irony of fighting for the ability to sit and watch an ocean I don't sit and watch doesn't escape me even with three shots. Or probably, more likely, because of them. I turn off the little voices in my head and just watch him. I just experience the look of him down there at the end of the bar. Does he really like it here? It doesn't seem very...him. It's as though he decided to take his lunch breaks in the third floor bullpen. These aren't his people. Mulder doesn't *have* any people. Except maybe the gunmen. Or Max Fenig. Why doesn't he just go home and drink away his guilt? I knew he'd be coming here. Why? I'm not a profiler. I just seem to...know him. Maybe the time we spent in that cell together, nearly drinking down cockroaches, getting sweaty and smelly together, has gifted me with some insight into his occasional bouts of anti-anti-social behavior. Maybe it was being Skippy Rat with him. I know that's his name for me. He wrote it down once. A doodle. I remember I was shocked. Mulder doodled me. He did it in the quiet lull of the mid-afternoon office. Scully had gone for a Diet Coke. He'd said he was going to clean off the tops of the file cabinets which were crowded with about-to-topple-over stacks of casefiles. But he didn't. He began to doodle. And my camera's vantage point was such that I had a good view. First came an alien head. Very typical. I was kind of disappointed. Then there was a palm tree. Then another palm tree. Then a hammock in-between, left empty because he moved onto...a figure. A little guy with stick hands...a suit...a knife in his hand...bad hair. And below it he had scrawled in angry slashes, "Skippy Rat." I stared at it and then at him staring at it and then back at the drawing again, before Scully came back and he crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. For some reason, it had been a moment of real triumph for me. Here I was watching him, and he was thinking of me. I found it somewhat...sweet. Well, for whatever reason, he's here. Maybe he's going to actually try to get laid. Yeah, that'll help, I think, drinking down the last of my shot. Treat Scully like a drone made specifically to do your bidding, get pissy when she fucks someone else, and then go out and bang a chick to get it out of your system. I shake my head. If Mulder thinks that's what he needs, he's got another thing coming. And I've given him way too much credit. The bartender comes over to me. "Another?" she asks. "Please," I say, digging for my wallet again. She doesn't look at my prosthetic hand again, but this time it's not quite so on purpose. She nods and begins to turn when I stop her. "Wait." The blackboard full of specials above the bar has caught my eye and I can't believe my luck. I can't believe they have it here. "You have Arrogant Bastard Ale?" I ask. "Sure do," she smirks. "One of those," I say decisively. "Coming right up," she answers and starts to turn away. "Actually, it's not for me," I tell her. "I still want another Grey Goose. It's for that guy down there. Fourth from the end." "Brown hair? Nose?" she asks. "Yeah," I confirm, bristling only slightly at the reference to what she clearly identifies as a flaw. "Should I say it's from you?" she asks, pouring my drink first, without even looking at what she's doing and not spilling a drop. "Only if he asks," I say and thank her when she places the new, chilled drink in front of me. I alternately watch her rummaging in one of several mini-fridges beneath the rows of liquor, and watch him swirling his alcohol morosely. No going back now. The ball is rolling. I wonder if he'll start hitting me right here in the bar. I hope he doesn't. I have some things I'd like to say to him. Things he needs to hear. The bartender finds the right bottle, pops the top off with an opener set into the wood of the bar, and walks over to him, setting it down. I see him look up at her. Watch his lips ask a short question. See her respond. See him shake his head and say something else. See her respond and then gesture with her head in my direction. And then he's looking. I force my face into a mask of calm and meet his eyes when they search me out. For a moment, I can't read him. And then...he looks down. That's all. Nothing. No response. Well. This is certainly different. I get up, taking my drink with me, and walk over to his side of the bar. He doesn't look up when I'm standing next to him, not yet taking the empty seat to his right. "May I join you?" I ask. I was trying for bemused irony, but it sounded more like the question it was with a held breath at the end. Not the start I wanted really. "Fuck you." It's said with very little anger. A little more disgust. But not even a lot of that. It's...tired. I sigh and take the seat anyway. He's staring hard at a bottle of tequila like he wants to make it explode with his laser eyes. But in the depths of them swims too much sadness to let the rage he wants to have show through. "I noticed you're a Scotch man, but I thought you could use one of these," I tell him, and I watch his curiosity slowly get the better of his forced resentment and he looks at the bottle. He chuffs an unamused laugh. "Fuck you," he says again, eyeing the evil tequila bottle once more. "It's good," I tell him, ignoring the meaningless phrase. "I think you'll like it. It's a little bitter. It's strong. It's got a good head." I allow the smallest of smirks. I'm flirting. I almost can't believe it myself. I've never done this with Mulder. I wonder how he'll take it. I don't expect well. If the punches are going to roll, I'd place my bet on now being a good time. "What do you want, Krycek?" It's on a sigh. So tired. And whose fault is that? "I want you to take a drink," I tell him harmlessly. He looks at me now. At my face, but not into my eyes. He shrugs and picks up the bottle, bringing it to his lips as he looks away. He swallows deeply and grimaces. "This tastes like shit," he says and it holds more passion than did his assertion that I become fucked. I stare piercingly at his profile and put a seriousness behind my words that I hope he'll hear if not fully understand. "It's an acquired taste." He looks at me. Oh God, into my eyes. Searching. Imploring. Condemning. Wanting something from me. Not seeing it. Not believing it. Hardening. "You can have it, then," he says, pushing the bottle toward me on the slick, glossy bar. I take it. I force myself not to look away from his eyes. I take a long...slow...gulping, lusty drink. I drain the bottle, putting it down empty, and I lick my lips. His eyes drop to see. Then he's looking away again at his own empty drink. The bartender comes over. "Another round?" She looks from me to him and back. "You want another Scotch, Mulder? I'll buy." He laughs ironically again. "Sure, Alex. Let's tie one on." He looks pathetic. Haunted. I want to draw his bottom lip in between my teeth and chew on it. I take a deep breath, my brain just now catching up to his words. He didn't say no. Why didn't he say no? "Dewar's and an Arrogant Bastard?" she asks. She's good. I nod. "Uh, yeah," I answer, my mind on other things. Like why the fuck he's even still here. He looks like he'd just as soon punch me in the gut as look at me. But he's going to let me buy him a drink. Why? I'm absent-mindedly fumbling with my wallet when it flicks out of my hand and sprays coins across the bar. "Shit," I mutter under my breath. Mulder looks over as I start to gather them back up again, putting one handful in my pocket and then another. I look from the money to him and back to the money, but something in his face has me looking again. His eyebrows draw down and a crease forms between them. Then he looks down at my arm. My left arm. His lips part on a gasp. My fist closes tightly around a quarter and two dimes, and I watch him look me over. He starts down at where my hand should be, but where a piece of hand-shaped, peach plastic peeks out from my black sleeve. Then, as if he could examine the whole, naked prosthetic, his eyes travel up my arm. Up to my false, still elbow. Up my no-longer-there bicep to my shoulder. I actually tingle there with him looking at where my jagged flesh meets the straps. He's looking right at the spot. Right where they cut at me. Fuck. I wish he'd stop, but I can't exactly ask him to. Not without becoming the most vulnerable goddamned fuck in the universe. It's not even that I have a real problem with the whole arm thing. I'm aware of my karma. I asked for this. I don't have any weird shit to get through. Well, not a lot anyway. When most people look at it, I remain unphazed. Most people have whole sections of their souls missing. What's an arm really? But now... With Mulder being the one to stare... My phantom arm is itching like a son of a bitch. I feel naked and hot and uncomfortable. I'm grateful when my drink comes and I have something to wrap the fingers I have left around. I let go of the change, leaving them for the bartender if she wants them, and hold my beer tightly. "They got you?" he asks rather stupidly. I have not known Mulder to be stupid often. "Yeah," I say, taking a drink. He nods. And then what was becoming a look of softened fascination turns cruel. "You deserve worse, Krycek." He pushes his new Scotch away now, judging it more harshly now that he remembers a little more of why he hates me. He thinks I was going to leave him in that cell to bust up rocks and eventually die from the test. What does he see when he looks at me? Horns and a pitch fork? "You want to take off the other one?" I ask him. He has the grace to wince. He doesn't want that. I didn't think so. He probably just found a new reason to hate himself in his inability to want to cut my arm off. He's so fucked up. I almost laugh. "Why are you here, Krycek?" "I'm having a drink. Why are you here?" I counter. "You followed me," he says, voice rising slightly. "Mulder, I was here first." And even though he's wrong, I find I don't want him to feel like an idiot. "But I did come here to see you. You're right about that." "Why?" he asks. Why. Which answer do I give? Because you need to confront yourself and then cry on my shoulder? Because you fucked up with Scully and you deserve to run into the devil at your favorite bar? Because you need a friend so fucking bad it's not even funny? "I...wanted to make sure you were all right," I tell him. Let him think I'm talking about Russia and not his partner. It's all the same. He laughs again. "What the fuck do you care, Krycek? You *left* me there!" Suddenly all laughter, ironic or otherwise, disappears from him. "I...don't..." The bartender walks by and I glance up at her, lowering my voice when I speak again. "You think leaving you to languish in a cell in Tunguska just does it for me or something? I give a shit what happens to you, Mulder. Contrary to what you think you know." "Why should I believe you?" he asks. Not a statement that he *doesn't* believe me. A question. A...chance. Did he mean to give that to me? "I don't know," I tell him, honestly. Wishing I had more to give him. "Because I'm buying you expensive drinks in this cheesy-ass bar?" I can't believe it when I actually see him have to fight something even less than a small smile off his face. He eventually succeeds, the darkness over-powering the tiny flame of hope, of trust. He can't do it. But I see in him that he wants to. I hurt for him anew. I'm very much a part of why he's as fucked up as he is. I want to put the shattered bits of that trust back together again. I watch him pull the glass in toward him again. I know he doesn't want me to take it as a sign that he's giving in to me. He's thirsty. That's all. God, I want to kiss him. It hits me like a cinder block in the chest. It hurts. This wanting so hard. I tear my eyes away from where they've alighted on his lips. I take a drink of my beer. He takes a drink next to me. Suddenly, I'm aware of how close we sit to one another. I wonder if he is. "How can you drink that?" he asks out of the blue. That's fine. If he doesn't want to talk about Tunguska, about history and betrayal and grief, neither do I. "I told you. It's good." I find myself smiling at him. He's wearing an uncomprehending frown. "That is the farthest thing from good I've ever known," he says seriously, looking perplexedly into his own drink, and it makes me smile bigger. Suddenly he looks up at me and his eyes widen slightly. He looks at my mouth. My smiling mouth. Then he shakes his head and drops his eyes to the bar. He's not exactly drunk. But he sure isn't sober. This can only work in my favor, I think. I watch him take yet another drink and my smile softens. "What's wrong, Mulder?" The question is out in a loud whisper before I decide to ask. I wait for him to lay into me. "You think you have the right to ask me that, Alex?" he asks bitterly. I don't answer right away, both taken aback by the casual, though snide, use of my name and considering which answer is the most true and won't get a fist in my face. He doesn't let me. "You think everything you've done to me isn't enough?" He throws back his Scotch. That's how his father drank it. "You were a wreck when you walked in the door. You want me to believe that's all for me? My ego will go through the roof," I tell him, feeling bad for leading him, for knowing what the real reason is and keeping that from him. Maybe my next project is going to be debugging their office. He mutters the answer to himself. "Because not everything is about you." "What?" I ask. "'snothing," he says, closing his eyes for a moment. "Just...I had a bad day. Leave me the fuck alone about it." "Might help to talk about it," I say. "With you?" he asks incredulously. I look as deeply into his eyes as he'll let me. "Maybe. Yeah." The fight seems to drain out of him then. Like he doesn't want to tell me but he also doesn't want to fight about not telling me. I decide on a different approach. "Wanna take me out back and beat the shit out of me?" His head turns to me so fast, it makes me blink. "What?" It's not just a word. It's a force. "Might make you feel better," I explain to him. He shakes his head. "You're sick, Krycek." "And you're an arrogant bastard, Mulder," I tell him simply. For a psychologist and a criminal profiler, he can be horribly obtuse with symbolism in his everyday life. Especially when it comes to me it seems. "So I've been told," he says sullenly. God, snap *out* of it, I think in exasperation. Just be it and move on! "It's not the end of the world," I say and then regret my choice of words. I know I just put images of aliens and old men and fire and brimstone in his head. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, now looking at me again. "You can be a prick, Mulder," I start and he interrupts me with a syllable. "No, shut up. You need to hear this." To my surprise, he shuts up. My heart is beating crazy in my chest. I can't believe this is happening. I have to make myself keep going. "You can be an absolute asshole sometimes. You can be over-bearing, egotistical, and insensitive." His eyes have gone completely round. It'd be comical if I didn't think I was about to get a black eye once he shakes himself out of his stunned silence. I go on. "You can be selfish and rude and a real fucker when you wanna be. And I still..." I stall out, having almost said something even *worse* than all those other terrible things. I hope he'll let it go. Just go beat me like I'd suggested earlier and be done with it. His wide-eyed stare turns into a suspicious frown and he sounds completely freaked out when he asks, "Still what?" Oh, fuck. Well. What did I come here for if not to do this? *I'm* the one in denial here. Suddenly everything's so plain. As I look at him so close to me, my left arm aching now to reach out to him. I let some self-deprecating humor color my answer. Nothing to lose. "I still keep coming back for more." He stares at me. Eyes searching mine again. I let him see. I wonder if he *will* see or if his stubborn need not to see me as human will get in the way. I don't know what he's seeing now. I can't read him. All I know is that his mind is racing. And then he's up off his stool and walking quickly away from the bar. I jump up and go after him. In for a penny, in for a fucking pound. I follow him into the dimly lit hallway leading to the restrooms and the back exit. He whirls on me suddenly. I stop myself from running into him. "What are you doing to me?" he hisses. There are tears in his eyes. What *am* I doing? "Do you think you can just..." A man turns the corner and begins walking toward us and, seeing him, Mulder stops. After the man passes, presumably on his way to the phone advertised around the corner by a blue sign hanging from the ceiling, Mulder grabs the front of my jacket and hauls me through the door and into the men's room. "Do you think you can just come here, into my life whenever you want and say whatever you want and it's all just fucking okay? Fuck you, Krycek! You can go to hell. I don't need *you* telling me who I am!" "What *do* you need?" I hear myself ask in a breathy murmur. "Stop it," he says, his voice breaking on the command. Stop what? "Mulder..." "I said stop, goddamnit!" he yells and shoves me back into the wall, following and holding me there with one hand on my bicep, one on my prosthetic. He looks at where his hand grips the leather and plastic. "Fuck," he whispers, those tears still in his eyes. He leans in, his lips almost at my ear, his body against mine. He's shaking. "Just stop it," he whispers. "Stop." And then his lips are on my ear, mouthing the word. "Stop." Breathing on me, wet and hot. "Stop." He feels like he's going to break open on something he's been holding inside too long. Oh, Mulder. I close my eyes and a shiver rushes through my body as his tongue finds my earlobe. And quicker, almost, than I could register that he was there, he's gone. He pushes himself away from me, turning his back, hand on his head dipped low, standing in the middle of the too-white room, breath heaving. I take a shaky step away from the wall and reach my hand out to touch his shoulder. He turns quickly with a tortured groan, pulls on my hand, and as I fall against him, he locks his lips to mine. Oh God, this is not happening to me. Not happening. Mulder's lips are pressed to mine and now they're opening mine and his tongue is in my mouth and... I feel myself want to relax into this. I close my eyes. His were already closed. His hand flexes on the back of my head, pressing me into him. I thought his kiss would hurt. Hell, I never thought he'd actually ever want to kiss me. But in my fantasies, the ones I let myself have, his kisses were like a rape of my mouth, bruising, his tongue so harsh, punching at my teeth to get inside. Here and now, he tilts his head more and his tongue steals in further, then pulls away slowly, then slips back inside against my own tongue, warm and wet, a slow fuck of my mouth. So slow. So deep. His other hand presses into my lower back, pressing our bodies close. As far as I'm concerned, it can't be close enough. I'd touch him, but I can't raise my arm from my side. I'd kiss him back but, Jesus, he's not letting me. I can't even react, much less respond. The faint taste of Scotch on his tongue is a drug seeping into my body. I feel like I could die here with Mulder's tongue stroking through my mouth and his arms holding me tight to him. Who knew Mulder could kiss this way? And that he'd kiss *me* this way. I moan involuntarily, releasing my breath into his mouth, giving him my relaxed body. If he wanted to kill me now, I wouldn't bat an eyelash. He has me. I wonder if he knows it. Or if he's wrapped up in his own fantasy behind those closed eyes, behind this overwhelming kiss. What is he thinking? His hands tighten on me when he hears me moan, but then he's letting me go. I congratulate myself on not stumbling when he releases me. Our lips part on panting breaths, bodies separating, warm to cold. He doesn't back away, doesn't put comfortable space between us, but he also doesn't look at me. His lashes are lowered on almost closed eyes and his head is bowed. His chest rises and falls heavily. "Go lock the door." My head snaps up and I want to curse the quick movement, not wanting to break whatever spell is cast on this room. Mulder's voice is rough and low and quiet. I watch him swallow. I watch him restrain all the physical responses he'd had, try to tame the wildness in him enough to wait until I do as told. When I don't move, he raises his eyes and looks at me. The heat there burns and I can't stand it. I sip in a quick breath and move away to lock the door. As the bolt clicks loudly into place, I wet my swollen lips and turn to him. He moved so silently. He's almost right up against me, and I turn merely to be pressed back against the wall beside the door. His eyes are a wet, deep brown, lashes moist. His hand reaches for my cheek, palm lightly brushing against me, fingers caressing hair, ear, jaw... Sweet God, I'm dreaming. Then I feel his questing hand ball into a fist and he pulls it away, only to slam both hands against the wall, open palmed, on either side of my head. Suddenly, he's breathing like he's been running, the tension in him a nearly a tangible thing. He looks like he's ready to yell at me, to let the accusations fly. I wonder if he's remembering Hong Kong now like I am. It's almost the sa me look. Except now he has tears in his eyes and his bottom lip wants to quiver. I wait for him to say something, anything. He says nothing. Instead, he breathes hard as he eases his body closer to mine, moving to where his temple rests next to mine, and I feel him position himself against me. Chest to chest. His cock and mine...touching. I gasp, and what I inhale, he exhales, shivering his breath out near my ear. He edges his right hand in closer to my head. It crawls along the wall, and then I feel it against my hair. He turns his head so that his lips are all but touching my ear again. "Alex..." It's a pained sigh. God, I want to be that for him. I want to be Alex.= I want to say yes, Mulder, whatever you want, whoever you want me to be. Whatever you possibly could ask. I breathe in to say something...I don't know what, but something. Before I can, he's gently pushing down on my head, urging me to my knees. Whatever I intended to say, it comes out as a desperate whimper instead. I look up at him as I slowly lower myself down. He's watching me go through hooded eyes, both tortured and aroused. He's not looking into my eyes, but he's watching me. His head bows as I descend and I fall slightly forward into him when finally I have to drop to my knees. He shuffles his feet back a little to give me room, but one hand remains against the wall, high over my head. His other hand comes slowly around until his thumb touches the corner of my mouth. I look at him. He watches his own thumb rub gently over my lips. I part them obediently. Is this what you want, malysh? I feel light-headed. It's a dream. I'm dreaming. This can't be... He pulls his hand away and begins to unbuckle his belt. I drop my eyes from his drowsy face. I watch his graceful hand, deft fingers releasing leather from silver. I'm breathing heavy and fast, watching him. My breath is loud in the room. I've begun to shake. I've never wanted anything like this. I've never let myself. How can I let this happen?= How can he? We're crazy. I don't care. His pants fall to the floor and he pulls his erection free of his boxer briefs, holding around the base, drawing a shuddering breath above me. I look up and he's still looking at my mouth. I want to just lean in and swallow him down. But I wait for him to take over. He doesn't. He lets go of his proud cock and touches my face again with a trembling hand, first the backs of loose fingers, then the pads of his long fingers tracing my jawline. And then he shuts his eyes, eyebrows drawn down. A tear squeezes from his eye and slides down his face. Oh God, he can't do it. He's standing over me, ready to have his cock sucked...able to take my mouth against my will...and he won't. "Jesus, Mulder," I whisper in awe, without conscious thought to do so, and then I feel my own desire and need take over, and I lean in, grasping the thick root of him and enveloping his cockhead with my lips on a sigh. "Unngah," he moans and it shoots into my cock as though he fisted it and squeezed. I groan around his dick in my mouth and suck gently at the head. Mulder tastes good. Better than I'd let myself imagine on those sticky, D.C. nights in my apartment, watching him absently stroke himself through his pants under the desk when no one else was around, and during those nights in Russia, when I had no one and nothing. Only the memory of his violent touch and his eyes. And I would think about this. For just a few short moments. Five strokes of my own hand. Three breaths. Never enough. His skin is so warm it's almost hot, and he's smooth, sliding on my tongue. I suck him down farther and hear his breathing catch. Only now does his hand slip around to the back of my head, and he doesn't pull me into him, forcing himself into my throat. No pressure. Just the phenomenal tickle of his sifting fingers against my hair and skin. I shiver. He shuffles his feet, searching for more stability, a better fit of his cock inside my mouth. I suck back to the tip of him and let my lips play there like a musician...tenor sax. I manipulate the tiny hole with the tender point of my tongue and rejoice in his deep moan and the release of a drop of pre-cum . I kiss at it, letting it smear just inside my pursed lips. Then I lick them close enough to his cock that I'm actually licking him, too, at the same time. "Ffffuuuhhh," he murmurs semi-incoherently. It's so amazing...heari ng that from him...not a voice in my head, not a facsimile, but Mulder actually making these sounds. Because of me. I take him deeply into my mouth again and squeeze the base of his twitching shaft. That's when his slim hips start to move. It's barely anything. Just a rocking back and forth. His movements are liquid and graceful. His hand slides up into the hair at the back of the crown of my head and he makes a fist. Still with very little force, he tilts my head back slightly and slides his cock back just to my throat and then back out almost all the way. I flit my glance up to his face just in time to see him open his eyes and look down at me. He looks into my eyes for a moment, his expression enigmatic now. His eyelids are still heavy, and he appears to be looking at my eyes, not into them. And then he shifts his impenetrable gaze to the sight of his own cock as he rocks his hips forward and impales my mouth with it. "Awwnnnn!" he groans more loudly, only shutting his eyes for the briefe st of moments before returning to my mouth around him. He pulls out, watching intently, and drives slow back in. Again not choking me, not going too far. I whimper around his flesh, lowering my eyes to watch his penetration one moment and then blinking back up to see his beautiful face, transformed by arousal. He grits his teeth and grunts, jabbing into me once but still not breaching my throat. I moan in response. He does it again. "Nnnn!" I want to tell him to take me, to just do it. I want it. I suck harder at him. "Yeeesss..." It's just a whisper. I want him to say my name so badl y. I can't want this. It's so dangerous to want this. I flash on a vision of us lying on my bed, draped over each other's bodies, sheets crumpled around and beneath us. The sun is coming up. We're naked. We've made love.... Oh God, this is not happening. I feel what I've always feared the most where Mulder's concerned. I feel them and I want to bang my one remaining fist against the wall in desperate frustration. Tears. Hot. Clogging my throat, building in my eyes. Mulder, stop. I suck at him as I think it. I can't stop. I can't. T he tears flow now because I know my life is over. I wonder when it was that it happened. How long I've... The words are too damning to even think, despite their horrible, definite truth. If I think it, I'll die just a little bit more. It takes me a moment to realize he's stopped gently fucking my mouth. He's still. I open tellingly wet eyes and look up at him, my mouth coming sloppily off his cock, leaving us both glistening. He's frowning. I look into his eyes. He searches me. As he does, his mouth opens on words that stick in his throat, his hand strokes my cheek, thumb wiping away my tears. "Krycek?" he asks finally, uncomprehendingly. My last name strikes me, a physical blow. It shouldn't. In the space of ten wonderful, dreadfully impactful minutes, I've come to long for my first name from his lips. I'm ready to beg for it. But I've been knocked back down into my place. I'm Krycek. I betrayed him. He hates me. He hates me.... Why are his fingers so sweetly stroking across my face? "Kuh..." Before he can say it again, I lunge forward on a sobbing growl and wrap my arm around his buttocks, grabbing at him blindly, and taking him back into me. I sink onto him, this time feeling him push into my throat. As the tears stream steadily down my face, I start to bob my head back and forth, working him quickly with lips, tongue, barest hint of teeth, giving him everything, just to take this one thing. I have to have this one thing from him. If I have it, I can let him go. I feel his arms held stunned out to his sides. I feel him watching me. I don't stop. I don't want to ever stop and I can't wait for this to end. He'll come and I'll swallow and I won't kiss his cock clean. I 'll just go. I just want to go. Everything's different now. He can slay me with one wrong word and he doesn't even know it. Mulder, fuck you. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck you. I don't know how long I've been madly sucking him. It feels like nothing, like a blink of an eye, and now he's panting...panting...and he 's coming, yelling the first half of profane words, head tossed back, stumbling, and I hold him up as he empties into my mouth. I barely taste him. If I catalogue his taste, if I memorize this moment, it will only mean countless future pains, and so I shut down. I suck him dry and pull my mouth away. But once he's gone, God, all I want is him back inside my mouth. I want to suck him hard again, and again, until he's wasted and I'm wasted and I can't think about how much I want him anymore. I want to leave. To just walk out. It would kill me to do that, I think. But it's killing me to stay. In the end, I find I can't move except to sit back on my heels with my head bowed. I'm scared to look at him. I feel and hear rather than see him pull up his slacks and walk over to the sink. I keep my head down, looking at the floor in front of me. White tile with little black squares connecting them. A paper towel balled up and tossed over by the wall. I hear the faucet turn on. Mulder's cleaning up. The water splashes slightly a few times. It turns off. Paper towels are pulled out of their metal house on the wall. Hands are dried. Pants are zipped up. A buckle is redone. There's a moment of stillness and complete silence, interrupted by the realization that I can still hear the music from outside, a faint soundtrack to other people's lives. I decide I need to remove myself from Mulder, from what took place here, before he can break this, break me. So I make my heavy body uncoil. I rise up, my muscles reluctant to do my bidding. They want to stay with him. He pleases them...it...my body . It doesn't understand moving away from him now. It yearns for him now.= New tears spark behind my eyes and I turn to go. I've taken but one step when he stops me. "Where are you going?" There's the edge of belligerence in his tone.= There was almost an emphasis on 'you.' Like he was the one that was going to walk out on *me*. I turn and look at him looking at me in the mirror. I want to ask him. What is this to you? What just happened here? Did you, for one instant, feel anything like what I felt...what I feel for you? But my instinct to preserve something of my old self speaks loudly to me that to voice anything of the sort would be to hand over my life to him on a plate. And *that* I just cannot allow. Not in this lifetime. And so I say simply, "I have someplace I have to be." It breaks my heart. I turn to go again. "Wait," he says, quietly and powerfully. And even as I stop, I realize I have given him this power over me. I want, more than anything, for him to have it. I need him to save me now. I wait with bated breath. I hear him turn. I close my eyes. The door can't be more than four strides. And he's five or six strides behind me. I could make it. I could re-establish everything I lost in here, I tell myself. I could forget about him. I take another step, but his hand is on my shoulder. I gasp and go still. Shit, when did he move? I really am losing it. "Wait," he says again, a little more insistently this time. Fuck. Oh, fuck. He wraps his arm around my chest, closing his hand gently around my shoulder. He puts his lips to my ear. He presses up against me. I wait for cutting words, for a punch to the ribs. For familiarity to rock me back into reality. He continues, the low rumble of his voice tickling my ear. "You thought you could give me a fucking amazing blow job and then just walk?" I almost choke on my breath. Fucking amazing? My heart leaps ecstatically in my chest. Suddenly, his right hand has snaked around my waist and rests against my stomach. My cock swells back to life with his hand so close, the teasing hint of paradise. Then he says the impossible. "Don't you want me to touch you?" It's soft and suggestive. And it floors me. I just want to lean my head back onto his shoulder with a moaned, "Yyyeessss." Instead, I'm speechless as he waits behind me, his heart pounding against my back. He's waiting for an answer. Does that mean he really doesn't know? How can he not? If he reached down... "You're hard, aren't you, Krycek?" he asks as if prompted by my thoughts. The question doesn't carry the smug easiness of arrogance to my surprise. Neither did his asking if I wanted him to touch me. Both inquires were...honest. I realize lying would be about the stupidest thing in the world right now, the evidence being so easily procured. He's got me. Does he want me to beg? I wasn't just being mean when I called him an arrogant bastard before. It informs so much of what he does sometimes. I don't usually mind it. Not when I haven't just given over my soul to him to do with as he pleases. So now, if he wants to have that power over me... Well, I would be surprised if he didn't. No sooner have I thought it than he smiles against my ear. "What's the matter? Scared I'll hurt you?" "Fuck yeah," I blurt, very nearly laughing. It's out of my mouth without a thought to how deeply it damns me. He says nothing, but the smile disappears. And very slowly...painfully slowly...his right hand slides down, unbuttons my jeans, unzips them, and then slips into my briefs to wrap around my dick. "Ahhh!" I cry out at the feel of his fingers closing around me, warm a nd strong, somehow making me feel completely on edge and totally safe at the same time. An electric pulse shoots through my balls and up along my cock. I'm close already. And then he pulls up, squeezing beneath the head and then relaxing back down in a loose fist. I feel him settle in against me, his hand pumping me once more, but then he stops. He takes his hand away. "Nnnnnoh," I whine on an aroused breath. Is this my punishment this time around? That he makes me show him how much I want him and then he leaves? Arrogant bastard wasn't strong enough apparently. It's everything I can do not to sob or beg him to come back as he moves back away from me. It takes half a second when his hand reaches under my jacket at my back and finds my gun for me to stop breathing entirely. My nerves are on fire now, all senses heightened. He pulls it out. I close my eyes. I wait for the click of the safety. Go ahead Mulder, I will him. End it. End this. Fulfill this dark destiny you and I have created. I give in to one final sickness and hope that maybe he'll decide to bring me off before he pulls the trigger. And still I wait. Terrified. Nobody else in this world terrifies me. I wonder if he knows that. Frantically, I try to think of something to say to him. Maybe I can convince him that the mess would be a real nuisance to clean up. That Scully would not condone killing me in anything other than self-defense. That even though I killed his father, I did give him great head even by his own standards, and shouldn't that count for something? Mulder, can't I just kiss you good-bye? I feel those awful tears welling up again. I've begun to wonder if the real cruelty here is the waiting. And I start to get angry. "Just fucking do it, Mulder," I whisper brokenly. I hear his clothes rustle behind me. I hear my gun impact lightly with the linoleum. I hear it slide along the floor, see it go beyond reach out of the corner of my eye. Not breathing. Not breathing. I can't yet, even as I hear him stand up, feel him come up behind me again, press in close, arms around me. I feel myself start to tremble. His right hand again slides down my jeans and closes around my cock. "What?" he asks innocently into my ear and jerks up on my cock with enough force to shock me back into breath. He could have killed me. He could have had his sweet revenge. Instead his hand is securely wrapped around my cock and he's working me slowly in his hot fist. I think I might die for entirely different reasons. Suddenly, I don't care how fucked up this is...we are. Nothing matters b ut that he made the choice to touch me. Whatever the reason. I don't fucking care. I lean my head back against him like I'd so wanted to do before. Life's too short, I decide, with a wry inward smile. I can have this now. Hell if I'm not going to take the chance I've been given. "Mulder..." I sigh it like I was by myself. In my bed. Only imagini ng him with me. "Anybody ever tell you you're a slut, Krycek?" he asks at my ear, hand sliding down to fondling my balls, weighing them with tender, sure fingers. I buck into his hand and his other arm tightens around me. Yeah, I'm a slut for you, Mulder. I'd fucking do anything. "For you..." I groa n, and his hand seizes my shaft again, his teeth biting down on my earlobe simultaneously. "Get that jacket off," he commands, left hand coming around to the back of my collar and jerking down, already helping to pull it off of me. I shrug the heavy leather off and then his hand is up under my shirt, on my chest, rubbing across my nipples, pinching them in time to the urgent pulls on my cock. "Ohgod!" I cry, and he's grunting in my ear, licking it, biting it, tilting his head and biting my neck, grunting. I had no idea it could be...that he'd want... I'm close. Oh God, so close. "Gotta fuck you." "Ggggaahhhh!" I yell, all sensation now. The very idea, his voice saying it. I can't hold back.... And his hand is closing tight around the base of my cock, hard. He knows. He's not gonna let me. Oh, Mulder. Wanna come for you. "Don't," he murmurs hotly in my ear, jerking me back into him with t he arm around my torso. His hand squeezes tighter, staving off my orgasm. "Can I let go now?" he asks. I shake my head violently. "Nuh-nnnnnooooooo...." He laughs a low, sexy chuckle into my ear. That's not helping, goddamnit! God, Mulder, what more could you do to me? Who are you now that you can be this with me? We're in our own little world here in the men's room. Maybe we could stay. Never leave. I swallow back a wave of raw emotion. "Now?" he asks, still amused. I nod uncertainly and he lets me go, sliding his hand out of my shirt as well. "Wall," he instructs succinctly, and after the hot, prickly flow of light-headedness recedes, I take the three steps to the wall and lean my good arm against it. He comes up behind me and his breath is hot in my ear as he pulls my jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh. Can't believe this.... Can't believe... I feel him look down at my bare ass, his breathing shuddering against my neck. His hand reaches out and strokes one cheek lightly. I tense. He chuckles. "Slut." And then he squeezes hard, and while he does, I hear his belt buckle once again coming loose. The leather brushes my skin. He hastily finishes and his pants drop to the floor again. The hand that was on my ass, sneaks back around to hold my cock, and I feel him aim the tip of himself between my cheeks, nestling his cock up against my hole. He brushes his cockhead around my opening and speaks roughly in my ear. "You have anything on you?" I gulp and nod, words failing for a moment. Then, "Jacket pocket." "Fuck," he says in exasperation. I imagine that he rolled his eyes. It makes me feel...proud. He doesn't want to stop to get it. He doesn't want to leave me. I hate the grand, false generalization of that statement. But I can have it here. In this room, with this Mulder...I can believe it. He squeezes my dick once and then moves away from me to pick up my jacket from the floor, not having to walk away, but still unable to maintain contact none the less. I turn my head to look at him. His pants are around his ankles and his dick is bobbing happily and he's digging through the wrong pocket. "The right one," I tell him. He pulls out a condom and a small bottle of lube. I feel bad that he's going to think I carry those around to let anyone who winks at me have a go. But even in this made up world, I can't bring myself to tell him that they're for him. I turn my face back to the wall as he throws my jacket aside once more. I wait as he works the condom onto himself and slicks up his cock with the lube, throwing wrapper and bottle to the ground before pressing back between my asscheeks and gripping my erection. There are no more words now as he grips us both and pushes carefully at my hole. We both groan. After tenderly manipulating me to relaxation, he pierces the muscle and pushes his way inside me a little. Oh, shit. He's not even all the way in and... "Gonna..." I tell him and that's all it takes. He's squeezing the base of my cock again, knowing my body so well already. "Breathe," he tells me and the absurd desire to hear Madonna's "Lik e a Virgin" strikes me. He rocks into me a little farther. "Don't come.= I'm almost in," he murmurs. Shut the fuck up, Mulder, or I'm gonna lose my goddamned mind as well as any control I have left. "Uuunnnnnnnnn..." He releases one long groan as his dick slides all the way up my ass. His hand slackens a little, and I can't stop it. I shoot my cum all over the wall on a whining sob. "Nomulderohgaaahhhhh!" My ass squeezes strong around him and he moans against my neck. "Ohyeah...." I pant against my arm as I finish, and his hand lets go of my barely softening cock. "That was good," he tells me, still deep inside. He takes my hips in his hands. "But I'm not through with you yet." He pulls out slowly and then slides smoothly back in. My half-swollen, over-sensitive dick jumps as he hits my prostate. I want to cry. He holds my hips still as he fucks me, stretching my ass open and making me ache. I'm shaking against the wall, my body nearly refusing to stay standing under the assault. I've never been fucked like this. He's n ot even working hard at it yet and I don't know if I can take it. He feels too good. It hurts just right. And since he's already come, he's very much in control. My cock starts to stiffen again with each time he pushes into me. God, Mulder, what are you doing? I can't handle this.= Belatedly, I realize I'm crying. The tears roll down my unguarded face and something in me feels set free. "Can you take more?' he asks silkily. "Fuck, Mulder, no," I tell him, eyes nearly rolling back in my head. He smiles against my ear again. I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes it feel like making love. It makes him glitter with danger. "We'll see," he tells me and starts pulling my ass back onto his coc k as he thrusts faster and harder. His lips are no longer teasing my ear. All I feel are his hands grasping my hips tightly and moving me, and his solid, hard cock driving into me over and over. My cock is painfully erect again now. The air alone feels like fire. "Muh-Mulder...ohJesusfuck!" He's grunting now. He's slamming into my ass and I fight to stop the shaking in my legs. Please, Mulder. Please. I don't know how much more I can take. I certainly can't get harder, can't get more turned o n. And that's when he chooses to slam into me and hold himself there, shuffling his feet in closer and walking me in toward the wall more. "If I'd known..." he says out of breath, "how much of a slut you ar e for me...I would have fucked you sooner." His hand finds my cock again and I cry out. Mulder lets go of my hip with the other hand and wrenches my head back by the hair, suddenly plundering my mouth with his, sucking on my tongue, and then twisting my lips with his, tongue-fucking my mouth repeatedly until we're both out of breath and he tears his mouth away. He keeps my head pulled back by the hair as he starts thrusting into me again and stroking my aching cock. It's too intense. It hurts and it burns and it's easy and hard. My bo dy hangs on the precipice of another orgasm and Mulder shifts his hold on me so that his hand is up my shirt again on my chest and holding me back against him. I've never felt like this. Never. And I never will again. The tears flow. I've long since stopped caring. My body and my soul are his now. I didn't want it. Didn't ask for this. But it's what I have. Whether or not I have anything else, I have this moment. I'll have it long after he walks away. Right here and right now, I feel like I could fly if he asked me to. And then it's like I am. Mulder squeezes rhythmically and quickly up under my cockhead on several particularly hard thrusts and my brain hardly registers the long, groaning string of half-formed words coming from Mulder's mouth as I scream, coming explosively. And then I know nothing. ............ I flinch as something collides with my face. Something stings slightly. I lift my hand to brush it away and I hear a voice as though from the end of a tunnel. "Dammit, Alex, wake up." I don't want to wake up. I frown. But it stings again. Someone just slapped me. My eyes come open quickly and I find I'm staring up into...into the face of God. "Mulder?" It rushes back. The whole night. At the bar, mild flirtation, old feelings of hurt, new feelings thick with confusion and trepidation and a longing I'd denied for so long. And then the bathroom. Oh God, we...we did everything! My eyes widen, staring up at him remembering how it felt to have him inside me. He's beautiful now, looking down at me with a crease between his eyebrows. I feel my heart lurch in my chest. I can still feel that first kiss. His expression changes as he looks down at me, his eyes dancing over my face before coming back to peer deeply into mine again. I have the extremely eerie feeling that he just read my sappy, love-struck mind. Yeah, I thought the word. What I told myself I'd never admit to aloud or even to be let formed into words in my mind. It's there and now he sees it, too. I can tell he does. The tears haven't even dried on my face and they're making my eyelashes stick together annoyingly. I see comprehension dawn on his face. It feels like a death sentence. Quickly, I close off to him, breaking eye contact and struggling to a sitting position. Jesus, I had my head in his fucking lap! There's no time to process that at all because there's a loud banging at the door. "Is anybody in there?" an exasperated male voice calls. Mulder and I look at each other. He yells back without looking away from me. "Just a minute!" We scramble to our feet. I notice my pants are up and fastened. Mulder's are not and he redresses quickly. "You go hide in one of the stalls," he tells me as he buckles his belt.= "I'll go out first and I'll meet you..." I interrupt him. "No, Mulder." He looks up, surprised. I smile at him sadly. "You stay. I'll go out first." "Why?" he asks suspiciously. I nonchalantly walk over and retrieve my gun. I know it's not what he expects when I level it at him. "In the stall, Mulder." His face hardens, but he walks backward and enters the stall just the same. I'm sorry, Mulder. You don't understand. But you will. You ha ve to. "Sit down," I tell him softly. He does, but not without protest. I would expect no less from him. "Coward," he spits. I smile at him again. He's so beautiful. I decide to tell him. In so many words. I lean in and brush my lips against his cheek and I whisper the words in Russian. "My love...so beautiful. There are no words to thank you. I am a coward. Maybe in the next life, things will be different. Please be safe." I start to back away, but the look on his face stops me. "Lyubimy," he whispers on a slow smile. It's what I called him. Lyubimy. My love. Oh, shit. "Byers got me a Russian-to-English dictionary for my birthday this year," he says, eyes now sparkling. Son of a bitch. I back away from him. Nobody with a gun on them should look so pleased with themselves. "Arrogant bastard," I whisper to him, unable to control my own small smile in return. I unlock the door as Mulder closes the stall door on himself. "What the fuck were you *doing* in there?" a rather drunk and odiferous man asks me when I exit. "Sorry," I murmur as I walk past him and continue to the back door and out into the alley. I can't take the chance that Mulder will follow me, so I take off at a run. I run around the corner and down the street, ignoring the looks I get as I fly past pedestrians and restaurant windows. I duck into the parking garage where I left my car and check to make sure I haven't been followed. He didn't want me to leave. He wanted to talk about it. Well, maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to have another round. I shake my head of the images that assault me as I make my way to my car. Maybe he can just continue on after what happened. I can't. I need time away from him to think. If I let him in now...stay in his presence and subject myself to the full psychological work up he's sure to give me, I might as well throw myself off a bridge. I start my car and zip out of the garage with a violent roar of the engine. As I maneuver to the Beltway, I tell myself I did the right thing. Staying there, being with him in the aftermath of the most incredible sex I've ever had in my life, would have been a nearly fatal mistake. Feeling an unpleasant draft from the vents, I flick the knob to heat and frown. It's then that I notice something awful. My jacket. I left my fucking jacket. Shit. I sigh, knowing there's nothing to be done about it unless I go back there. For almost a full minute...I consider it. He already knows. Whether he believes it is something that remains to be seen. My foot actually comes off the gas slightly as I ponder it. Being with Mulder. It would mean giving more than I have to give right now. And on that realization, I press my right foot down again and feel my car react smoothly to the request for speed. I drive the rest of the way home thinking not about what I was going to do or what I should have done or anything really all that important. Except how he smelled. Like sage and cloves and warm skin. And Scotch. I think about how he sounded when he came. I think about the fact that no matter how hard I try, I can't stop fate. I think about him finding my jacket on the floor. I wonder if he'll take it home with him or take it straight to the FBI labs for analysis. I wonder...if he does take it home...if he'd put it in the closet next to his own things. I shake my head again with a self-deprecating laugh. He'll probably chuck it in a dumpster or something. I should probably begin shopping for a new one. Although...that is my favorite one... End Feedback adored at shannon@hegalplace.com! Thanks so much for reading! -- My fic: http://hegalplace.com/shannon/ My quote: "When you drop your keys into a pit of molten lava, let 'em go, because man, they're gone." syzygyshan@warpmail.net -- http://www.fastmail.fm - mmm... fastmail...