From: eponine119  <eponine119@att.net>
Date: 25 Nov 1998 03:15:16 GMT
Subject: NEW: Crying Tears 1/1

Disclaimer: not mine
Author's note: smut, besides. [not all M/S, either]

Crying Tears
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net
November 15, 1998

	The case broke at two o'clock in the morning.  The suspect shot his two
hostages, his children, ages seven and nine, and then shot himself.  No
X-File there.  These things happen.  But even so, it's not an easy thing
to cope with.  One moment, you're negotiating and the next moment,
you're gun deafened, smelling gunpowder, and there's a spray of dark red
blood on your shirt.
	I wasn't surprised to find Mulder crawling into my bed when we got back
to the motel.  I was laying awake, half waiting for him, listening to
the shower run in the adjoining room, staring at the ceiling.  Thinking
of him, his body, being washed in the shower.  I couldn't get the image
of death out of my head when I closed my eyes, so I didn't.
	When I heard the shower end, I raised one arm above my head, folding my
elbow around my hair on the pillow.  Arranging myself for him.  One
corner of my mouth jerked in amusement at the notion, but my heart was
beginning to race as I listened for the creak of the motel bed on the
other side of the door.  I was rewarded with the scrape of the
connecting door lock.  I didn't move, smiling woodenly at Mulder, seeing
the blood and the death again.
	He makes the most delicious noises to substitute when there aren't any
words.  The sound he made as he mounted the bed, climbing over me to
burrow his face into my neck was indescribable.  His hands found my bare
breasts automatically, caressing them roughly as he nuzzled my
collarbone. I could smell his shampoo and feel his wet hair drip against
me.  It was like having wet hair myself, making me cold, but his hands
were like fire.
	We needed to affirm life.  This is something we do, sometimes, without
words, seemingly without thinking.  When the cases are difficult or
horrible, or when life gets difficult or horrible.  We couldn't speak to
each other, could barely stand to look at each other when I had my
cancer, but we fucked almost every night, as though it might be our
last.  It hadn't happened lately.  Mulder had been too angry with life,
with fate, and that carried over to me.
	He needed me tonight and it made me feel strong and powerful.  I felt
the blood rushing downward, gathering the sensitivity into the moist
center of my body as Mulder thrust into me, making me gasp.  He was
mumbling something, I couldn't hear the words but could feel the hot
breath and the rumblings in his throat and his chest.  I shifted, to
accommodate him, to increase the sensations for myself, lifting my hips
and tightening my muscles.  Mulder drove away, as though I wasn't even
there.
	I put my arms around him and dug my fingernails into the slick skin of
his back.  His teeth caught my shoulder and his head thrashed as I
reminded him he wasn't alone.  The twinge of his bite, the pain I was
inflicting on him excited me.  I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath,
on him, filling me, driving me...
	His grunt was long and loose and his movements stopped.  I sighed,
slightly, and he heard it, whispering an apology against my ear, the
contact of his lips almost a kiss that made me shiver.  He was drawing
away, sheepishly, embarrassed by his need and his performance.  One hand
slid across my cheekbone and his thighs enticed mine as he pushed
backwards, off the bed as his feet found the floor.  My eyes followed
his slumping shoulders as he crossed the threshold back into his own
room and closed the door between us.
	My mind found words too late - but we never spoke in these encounters. 
My arm still lay above my head and my now-aroused body was growing cold
with the covers disturbed and tossed onto the floor.  I turned my head
and looked at the clock.  Ten minutes and he was on his way.
	Ten minutes and I was as alone as ever, unsatisfied, still seeing and
smelling and tasting death.

	Eighteen hours later, I was home, alone.  Mulder and I hadn't spoken
much on the way back home.  We never did after these somnambulistic
encounters.  The one thing that should have brought us closer together
seemed to drive us farther apart.  Seemed, because despite it all, it
was a bond between us of the deepest kind, the kind that went beyond
words or even feelings, emotional or physical.  We just were, bound
together.  Forever.
	I couldn't stomach the TV news and I couldn't eat my dinner.  I was
tired and restless, wandering through the rooms of my apartment before
giving in, pulling on my loose knit cotton pj bottoms and crop t-shirt
and settling into bed.  It seemed selfish to be in bed before eight p.m,
but it had been days since I'd closed my eyes and dreamed.  The images
of death in my mind were being erased with fantasy images of Mulder. 
Like a girl, I was dreaming of him as though I didn't know how he
kissed, didn't recognize the texture of his fingertips, wondered about
loving him.  The Mulder in my dreams was nothing like the Mulder in my
life.
	From some old movie sound clip stored in the endless RAM of my head,
Clark Gable was saying, "You need to be kissed, and badly."  Thanks for
the advice, Clark, I thought, drawing my knees closer to my chest and
trying to ignore the throbbing nerves in my genitals.  I was too
agitated for sleep.
	The knock on the door was so soft and light I wasn't sure I heard it. 
I caught my breath to listen and it came again, barely more than
knuckles scraping the wood of the door to my apartment.  I almost
laughed as I threw back the comforter and dashed to open the door before
he was gone.
	It's always an abundance of riches, I thought, feast or famine, nothing
in between.  "What brings you here?" I asked in a low voice, raising my
eyes to flirt with my visitor.
	"You," he rasped, pushing past me into my living room and closing the
door behind him.  I felt danger here and danger was exciting.  Both of
his hands sunk deep into my hair before I could take another step back
or away - not that I wanted to - and he drew my mouth to his.  Just what
I'd wanted, a thorough kissing.  His lips weren't gentle but they were
good, grinding against mine as his tongue made slow, tempting circles
inside my mouth.
	I could only groan and move against him.  He was grinning in that
mischievous way of his when he pulled back to look at him, his hand
exploring the hem of my T-shirt and the drawstring on my bottoms
distractedly.  "You've missed me," he informed me cockily.
	"What makes you say that?" I raised a casual eyebrow at him and pulled
away, still feeling his hand burning against me.  My lips were gently
swelling from the kisses and felt delicious.
	"In bed at eight?" he challenged.  "You couldn't have known I was
coming."
	"Great choice of words, Krycek, what brings you to town?"  I perched on
the arm of the couch, digging my feet into the cushions.  With him, it
wasn't fun if we didn't play the game first.  I don't know, maybe I was
afraid he'd start to believe I did this because I loved him or something
- took my enemy into my house and made love to him.  I wasn't sure why I
did do it, but love wasn't a part of the equation.
	I think it was loneliness.
	"How's that gorgeous partner of yours?"  Krycek stayed on his side of
the room, standing with his back swayed and his hip stuck out, like a
cowboy on a billboard.
	I shrugged.  Sometimes when he talked like that I wondered if I wasn't
the only person Krycek visited when he came to town.  Wouldn't it be
funny if Krycek needed me for the same reason I needed him - weary of
Mulder's antisocial mumbling, no eye contact and egocentric lovemaking. 
Wouldn't it be ironic.  It made my skin crawl.  
	Krycek ambled over and reached for me and I slid down onto the couch. 
He moved with me, joining me, pushing my back against the arm. I felt my
vertebrae pop as he enveloped me in his arms.  I could feel him
straining through the rough denim of his black jeans.  We still fit,
even clothed, we fit.  His mouth claimed mine again, a slow, tender, wet
kiss as one of his hands slipped along the length of my thigh, placing
it where he wanted it, fitting my the bend in my knee just below his
hip.
	"We -" I couldn't even get the suggestion out.  I could feel myself
trembling on the brink with so little stimulation.  I'd been on the edge
of arousal all day, since Mulder left me.  But I didn't want to do it
like this, I wanted the full hot fudge sundae with the whipped cream and
the sauce and the cherry on top, not some quick popsicle melting faster
than I could eat it.
	I wasn't going to get what I wanted.  Krycek was agitated, his eyes
slitted and the muscles in his neck tight and straining.  "We - wait -" 
I managed and he stopped, frozen, looking into my eyes.  Forcing himself
to back off.  "I want to do this right."  I sounded drugged, whiny, the
way I sound when I'm tired or headachy.
	His eyes closed as he nodded.  He stripped off his jacket and dropped
it on the floor, meeting my eyes in a long glance that was erotic in
itself.  I couldn't blink or look away, concentrating on him, trying to
read the mind behind those dark green eyes.  He surprised me by dipping
his head, stretching my T-shirt and diving underneath to take my nipples
into his mouth.  They itched and tightened under his tongue until they
ached, until my entire body ached.  When he pulled his head up to smile
at me again, the smooth cotton of my shirt was too much for me to
stand.  I was close to sensory overload.
	"In bed, Scully, or here?" he asked me and my answer was largely
incoherent.  "Get ahold of yourself," he whispered into my ear as he
picked me up, striding into the bedroom like some kind of hero.  He
dropped me carefully onto my bed and lay down next to me, looking at
me.  I began to tug at his clothes and his hands fought mine. "I thought
you wanted to do this right."
	"I just want to do it," I informed him, surprising myself with how flat
and practical my tone could be even when I was out of breath and soaked
with desire.
	"It's not me making you this hot," he said, not making any move to
touch me.  "Is it?"  I couldn't meet his eyes.  "Is it?"  I turned my
face away, not answering.  What did he expect?
	He yanked my pants down and drove his fingers through the hair between
my legs.  I stopped breathing as jolts of electricity shot up through
me.  His mouth followed his hands and I clutched at his short hair,
unable to control the spasms in my fingers as tension wound my body.  I
could feel my breath - laboring too fast - and tried to slow it to a
pant.  Every time I jerked in a breath, it shook my whole body against
him.  My head thrashed and I was gone.
	He kissed me as he slid inside me even as the contractions of my orgasm
were beginning to subside.  "No," I murmured, pushing weakly against his
chest.  I couldn't stand any more, I was going to fly apart or burst if
he did any more.
	"No?" he asked, teasing me, pressing inside more deeply.  I could feel
him against my inflamed cervix, I could feel the tremors starting again,
quivering deep.  I was never going to be satisfied and he had all the
patience in the world.  He was driving me crazy.
	"Yeah," I breathed as my body released again, slowly and languidly this
time.  He chuckled and began to thrust, mindbendingly slowly.  I was
beginning to calm down, breathing evenly again, in through the nose and
out through the mouth in great sighs, determined not to feel those
explosions again.  It was the build up, the play of pleasure so intense
it was painful, that was so delightful.
	I closed my eyes and put my hands against his triceps, stroking the
undersides of his muscular arms supporting him above me.  The skin
prickled under my tickling and I could feel him straining.  A sharp
thrust and I thought he'd come, but he didn't. I opened my eyes and
found him staring at me.  "Who are you thinking of?" he asked me.  I
shook my head, feeling sick and scared suddenly.  Not scared of physical
danger or violence, but of emotional solitude.  "Who?" he demanded.
	I rolled my eyes and turned my face away, bucking my hips and clenching
inside.  This wasn't fun anymore.  I wanted him to finish, and he did. 
He lay heavy against me and I felt his breath carving into my belly,
crushing into me.  I could smell sweat and semen and his spicy scent and
myself.  In spite of myself, my inner muscles clenched a third time.
	A sharp fingernail edge pierced close enough to my eye to make it
tear.  I gasped in surprised pain.  "Him," Krycek said, sounding
surprisingly bitter for a killer and an assassin and a spy.  With a
swift stroke, he marked me and was gone.  I sat up, brushing away a thin
line of blood from the smarting scratch next to my eye.  I heard the
door slam and felt my eyes burn with tears - crying tears, not painful
tears.
	I loved my partner and we fucked.
	I made love with his enemy and his enemy was jealous.
	Why did it have to be this way? But what could I do about it?
	Only one thing being a slut brings you, Scully, and it's not love or
satisfaction.  It's the self hatred you'll feel in the morning when you
face Mulder and see his eyes flick over the scratch you both know he
didn't make. Or maybe it's the emptiness of being alone.
	I turned over and pulled the comforter closer around me as I closed my
eyes on hot, wet tears.

the end.
comments appreciated: eponine119@att.net