From: Floramore Date: 25 Feb 1999 11:06:41 GMT Subject: "Faucet" (1/1) by Floramore Title: "Faucet" Author: Floramore E-Mail: Floramore@aol.com Keywords: M/K Slash, rape, alternate universe. Kind of. Summary: Mulder muses about a very strange dilemma Rating: NC-17 for language and situation This is my first ever slash story. Did I do it right? Please send me feedback!!! "Faucet" by Floramore ------------------------------------- Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound pierces through my dull facade. I'm free. For the first time in an eternity, the fucking steel handcuffs are off. And I have free access to the room I'm in. Just this room. This one, alone. How could he be so fucking cruel? I watch as my feet trace paths in the worn, rough linoleum. Circles, ovals, doubling back in a tired, timeless rhythm. I can see my shadow casting darkness onto the floor. Just where light is needed most. I rub my wrists, the pads of my fingers tracing a path long since etched into my flesh. Ribbons of fury, grooves of hate, spikes of pain and lust and everything in between. I turn, arching my back towards the sink. I ignore the dripping faucet to retch, my stomach lurching manfully, bile bubbling past my lips and into the corroded sink. How long have I been here? Time has no meaning. It's like a current that carries you on top of it. But you can't control it, just as the water makes you powerless. Helpless. Like driftwood. And just as useless. A piece of bark discarded. That's all I've become. I jerk my head up from the sink, my lips stinging from the acid pouring from my rebellious stomach. I want to commandeer that acid. I want that door to desolve, taking this room and these scars and the puddle of vomit from this room. Except I don't. Not really. This thought sparks something in me. Suddenly, I want out of here. Back where I'd been living for so long. If nothing, it was safe. Safe from the agony of knowing what would await me if he actually let me go. Back to the world I escaped from all those many months ago. The lair of the rat. I snort with reckless laughter, then shut myself up before it alerts him to my mental state. Which would be what, exactly? I wipe the bile from my cracked, eaten lips, and take a jagged breath, my long-healed broken ribs momentarily stabbing me sharply. I'm ecstatic. Exhilirated with my sudden, unexpected freedom. Empowered by the trust he's suddenly giving me. No. Actually, I'm scared shitless. I try to stand, but my weak, pasty white legs fail me. Since I left the FBI and started on this path that led me here, something in me has changed. I'm different. More cavalier, maybe. Less focused. Briefly, I wonder what Scully's been up to. Not that I care. I realized some time ago that her need to know and need to understand weren't necessarily the same thing. Her need to understand me, and my motivations - my quest, as she used to call it - vanished like the fucking California Condor as soon as she realized that I was staying in the FBI for one thing. Just one. "One is the loneliest number..." I hum, my voice sounding to me like nails on a very rough blackboard. When that thing was gone, I was gone with it. Everything that made me the obsessive, sardonic bastard she knew and loved just evaporated. That was when I found out that Krycek was working for us. To my surprise, nothing had seemed important after that. Not the tests, not the coverups, not the lies or the lies to cover them. All I could think about was Krycek. He'd been on our side, all along. Somehow - some way - he'd known the right. And I hated him for it. It fucking destroyed me. There wasn't a reason for the hate anymore... the bitterness and the hopelessness and the venom that sprayed like a broken fountainhead from my brain every single waking moment. My little economy-apartmented world split apart. And then I found him. One day, I walked into my apartment, and just found him. Sitting there. On my floor. His legs splayed cockily, arms bent at strident angles, chin pointed up. And his eyes found me. My first thought had been to run. Run away, away from the uselessness and the anger and the confusion of suddenly not knowing which way was up. "What are you doing here," I managed, my lips curled into a pistoned snarl. He laughed, but it was a sound I could barely identify. It seemed to contaminate the next breath I took in, my lungs heaving, and suddenly I was flailing on the floor, prostrating myself before him. I became a new being, an unfamiliar organism, just as single-minded and unitary of purpose as a single-celled plankton. All my life's purpose leeched out of me. Scully had been promoted, Krycek was Our Golden Boy, working on enemy lines to further Our Cause. Which wasn't my cause. And it hadn't been for a hell of a long time. "I'm here for you," he whispered implausibly. Then, I laughed. It was a strange uttering by a strange man in a strange, uncertain time. Maybe that's why it sounded so right. When the onslaught came, I wasn't surprised. Outraged, for sure. Maybe even enraged. But the anger and rage pounding through my veins fed me, and I knew I'd been famished. Anorexic, even. Starving. And no one had noticed or cared. How could this be Krycek? How could salvation come from the source of my eternal damnation? I couldn't wrap my mind around the paradox. Couldn't find the answer I needed. His hands were surprisingly gentle. Flaccid, calm, but flashingly hot and searing. A total paradox. I struggled, as anyone would, but my struggling took on a strange and discentered quality. It wasn't me who was thrashing, fists flailing, chest aching and throat constricting for lack of air. Had to be someone else. My mind was somewhere else. I saw him rip open my pants, his hand groping insistently, then finding what it sought. I saw my dick grow hard and hot. Saw the veins fill with blood, engorged, dripping, straining in his small, impatient palm. But that wasn't the goal. That was only a stop on the way. He regarded it coolly, calmly. Even clinically. One finger swept over the shaft, and I began to tremble, astonished, freezing with fear and surprise. I'd stopped struggling. There seemed to be no other option than simply allowing him to stare down at me, regarding me with maddening arrogance. "Something to behold...," he sneered quietly, dark eyes flashing up, then flicking back down with a flicker of impatience. In one quick, impetuous movement, he'd ripped open his own pants, and his strong arm threw me back and over. I felt the floor of my apartment meet my nose in a sudden, sickening crunch. Thankfully, that's all I could feel when my insides heaved and Krycek's cock fit into me... a too-big lock into a shriveled key, rusty and dark from disuse. But that was a long time ago. Long before I came to be here, with him. Long before love turned to denial, and anger turned to resentment and hostility. I wonder if Scully ever fully understood it when I packed up my desk for the last time. Her eyes were hooded, like a cobra who has lost interest in her prey. Somehow, I'd expected it. And I knew she'd been waiting for my resignation. Although she never knew the true reason for it, and never would, she sensed a mortal change in me. I think it scared her. It certainly scared the living shit out of me. And now I'm scared more than ever. I thought I'd wanted freedom, but somehow it feels worse than anything he could have done. Worse than the abuse, worse than the torture... worse than not having him here with me. A sudden creak fills the air, and I'm mindless with terror. And pleasure. A hard, thick hand extends slowly from the door. I hear a clink first, then see the shiny silver rings dangling from one finger. I smile. Freedom's overrated, I decide. I follow him through the door, and resign myself to the irreconcilable path he's chosen for me. Chose for me. A long time ago. ------------------------- That's it! Did you likeit?? Floramore@aol.com @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ "It's Mr. Mulder to you, you peanut-picking bastard" @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@