From: Valeanna1 Date sent: Thu, 18 Dec 1997 17:04:15 EST Subject: NEW: Falling Nexus (1/1) J. C. Sun Title: Falling Nexus Author: J. C. Sun Rating: R for profanity, violence and adult themes Spoilers: None Size: 8K Category: VA, questionable Mulder/Scully UST, mild Mulder/Krycek UST (UST here, UST there, UST here there everywhere....) Summary: One cold February morning, Mulder and Scully run Krycek to the ground in an abandoned warehouse. Disclaimer: Not mine. Yackety schmackety. *_Falling Nexus_* J. C. Sun 12/18/97 A lush, fierce silence stretchs across the naked beams of the warehouse, as faint, orange dock lights and water-grey sky trickles through broken panes of a skylight. Beneath, a terrain of packing crates and chill grey concrete, rough, dirt rubbed into the harsh surfaces. Breath steams and hangs in the air like smoke, slowly dissipating, for corrugated steel walls are flimsy protection against the chill of pre-dawn February. Numb with cold, I can feel my actions become jerky, clumsy as the frigid air burns my lungs; I curse when slow fingers fumble with the gun, and his pixie-face swings up to smile. Motherfucker doesn't even have the grace to act like he's under arrest, curled on that crate, easy as you please even though he's cuffed and has fully fucking loaded Sig Sauer pointed at his weasly chest. Perching on that damn crate like he fully chooses to be there, wearing his preppie leather jacket and giving me that look, low, sidling, easy and smug as if he could waltz out of this damn warehouse any fucking second he chose. I've never liked cats, and Alex Krycek is no fucking exception, excluding the fact that I want to blow his fucking playboy head off without a moment's hesitation. I would have and made him a little pool of blood and meat on the fucking concrete floor too, except Scully had to be rational and follow proper fucking FBI procedure. We have followed the shit for three months, Scully, and he would have blown your head off without a problem, happily killed both of us back there, gone home and watched Dave Letterman and gone to sleep without a single fucking problem. He fucking arranged for your abduction, he fucking killed your sister, your sister for Chrissake, while trying to kill *you*, and Scully, you give me the fucking dirty look. There's a definite connection between the motherfucker and I, because suddenly, he grins, eyes glittering and smiling like it's the funniest joke in the world. "So," he says, this lilt to his voice. "So, you screwing that partner, that Scully yet?" he asks My turn to do the head snap thing. I tell him to shut the fuck up. "Fuck?" he snickers, voice harsh, uneducated, such that I have not heard ever from him. "Fuck, that's the word. Such a nice ass on her, round, tight, firm, sweet even through that business shit she wears. Hot, pinning you down, snapping those cuffs on." The gun zeros in on his chest; my heart thuds against ribs. "Of all people though, you'd know, though. Rumors--did you know Skinner's secretary. The redhead, you know, the Clairol redhead? Chick ran the office pool on whether or not the two of you were beddin' down together, and if you weren't already, then just when, where and how you were going to get down 'specially after that Arctic team thing, what with the mutual examinations and all." A muted snarl, white-knuckled fingers. His face smiles at me, the dark, unreadable eyes underneath high-arched eyebrows, the soft, thin-lipped mouth drawn tight across gleaming white teeth. Slim, lithe shoulders cloaked in leather shrug as he takes the gaze of an automatic full in the face. A little grin, soft, gently mocking, yet cold and hardchipped beneath the easy charm, eyes crackling and snapping with mirth. There is something hypnotic about him, the pixie-slimness of it that catches my breath and sends my hands skittering toward an extra clip, makes my breath catch and brings us together without either one of us moving an inch. He watches me, and I watch the lightening sky through the jagged edges of a broken window. The silence redrapes itself around my ear, heavy, soft, so that his next words seem even more of a violation. "Mulder, " he whispers, his voice low, dark, striped with some twisted intensity that leaves him hunched and looking out at me with black marble eyes. "Mulder, let me ask you something, Mulder. " I grunt something lost between permission and negation, while something writhes and twists inside me. "Mulder," he whispers, voice sibilant and rich. "Scully, when she cums, what does her face look like? Are her eyes closed, is she a scr--" And suddenly, out of somewhere, spring released, I hurl his body upon the walls; the thin corrugated clangs as his limp body crashes into, the drum of his heels creating a second clang against my knees, as my wrist slams into his Adam's apple. Vaguely, out of the red haze, I recall screaming at him, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him like a rat, watching his dark head snap back and forth, limp. I smash him against the wall, shoving my face into his as I scream foul obscenities and drawing him square with me, so we are shoulder to shoulder, belly to belly, making a dent in the flimsy metal wall, and the barrel of a Sig Sauer digs into a pale white scalp that smells of gasoline and Jergens. He gives a short, sharp cry as a lump of metal into his cheek, then the other cheek, branding crimson marks, matching set as I press him against the flimsy wall. And I realize his eyes are green. Not green, not the green of fresh leaves, not pea green, not even the extraordinary green of the Thames, not that glassy shade, but the green of a shade all it's own, velvet, lush yet slick and hard, flecks of gold radiating out from the sinking black pupils, shards of gold against a verdant stolen from moss, from moist damp things and shaded dark,. Veneers fall away, slipping away, whispering to the floor to reveal a creature somewhere between the brute and the junior Fibbie, an expression of thing like Tunguska, yet...Different, in a way that sets a high-pitched whine in my ears, quickening the hammering in my head. The nexus between us contracts, and abruptly I am aware of the warmth of his body, of the heat, and the breadth of his shoulders pressed against mine, our chests crushed tight so that each breath is painful, pushing into the other's chest, so that when our breaths fall together, there is a grunt of contention. . .And fascinated, I watch his pupils slip larger, stretching across the green until only a faint rim of forest green remains as a backdrop to these whorling, pulsing things, vibrating, huge strange and terrible; slowly, I find myself drawn in, lured in, drifting closer, and I feel his breath curl around my face, feel the twitch of his lips against mine, hot jets of his breath slipping down my throat Something horrible and sickening twists in my belly, something shoves against my guts, and the barrels shoves into his head. Slowly, his head arches backward, revealing the pale whiteness of his throat, the smooth bump of the Adam's apple, the minuscule striations stretching from ear to ear, the skin, goosebumpy with cold, each slim-dark hair standing upon end. His eyes half lid. A lazy smile curls his lips, and I see now that he is not so much thin-lipped as pale-lipped, a delicate rosy shade, but not pale, because when he opens his mouth I can see the dark, pulsing redness of his mouth, the damp inner walls slick with moisture, dark and quick, trembling with the long, hard muscle of his tongue glittering with saliva. And his mouth opens gently, wide, tongue lightly arching against white teeth, opening, taut, the corners drawing taut and the interior gleaming and pliant, and somehow, somehow, as the nexus tightens, I am bending forward, tipping, wavering, falling, falling. . . . And I hear hear her voice slicing across the chill air, a shrill sound made of fear and anger and rage. "Mulder!" she shouts to the staccato beat of her heels and the bass of police and FBI feet. "Let go of him, Mulder!" she screams, tearing the Sig-Sauer from my hand and whirling me around, drawing me close to her. She whispers about not letting him provoke me. Not letting him get to me, you promised me, you said you wouldn't and you said you could handle it, what was it that he said to you, what was so important Mulder? And I watch him go, sliver of brown and black and green sandwiched between the swirling black of two agents. .la fin Allright--you've waded through this misery of a first-try at Mulder/Krycek UST. Loose that flame over to Valeanna1@aol.com and you'll feel much better.