Date: 13 Aug 1998 03:53:30 GMT From: RosesDecay Subject: I'm So Afraid (1/1) Title: I'm So Afraid Author: RosesDecay E-Mail address: RosesDecay@aol.com Rating: NC-17 for adult situations and violence. Kids, please run away! Category: VA Spoilers: Tunguska Keywords: Slash Summary: Mulder comes back to Krycek and the balcony that night with revenge on his mind. Disclaimer: The X-Files and all characters related to the show do not belong to me. I don't claim any right to them. No infringement intended. Previous stories found at http://members.xoom.com/rosesdecay/ ~ I'm So Afraid ~ He doesn't know I'm awake. I feign it well, despite the bloodless hand slumping pale and white against the silver band on the railing. Lids shut lightly, no tell-tale wrinkles to prove I still observe. And I do still observe. I learned early the art of seeing with my eyes closed. He shuts the sliding door and it scrapes, loud and sweet in the still night. Perhaps lights flick on above, perhaps someone will notice me. I don't know. All I see is what's in front of me, all sights above and below hazy, mottled. He kneels, denim rasping with concrete. There is that look in his eye, broad enough that even my limited sight can see it. He is alone, or so he thinks, and he doesn't have to hide the look that haunts his eyes and twists his lips. He is staring without motion. Goosebumps raise on his flesh - the night is cold. He doesn't notice. There is enough frothy hatred in his eyes to keep him warm. There are ants crawling along the inside of my hand and it jerks without warning. He jumps with me, smooth palms dragging against the concrete in surprise. He looks at them briefly, lines of red blossoming from minute rips. I envy him. My hand will probably never bleed again. He leans forward and presses one palm against the cuff of my jeans. I want to jump back for a moment until I realize he's trying to wipe the blood away. He pushes further until he reaches my ankle and slowly rubs, his head hanging down. His other palm presses against the other half of the cuff and his fingers encircle my ankle. There is little blood, but some darker part of my imagination can feel oozing wet soaking through the cuff down to skin. His intertwined fingers move up suddenly and I can't help the short, startled intake of air that whispers through my lips. If he notices, he doesn't show it, his fingers flexing. The soft bulge of my calf sinks under the touch, and I feel the blood there too, slippery and wet. Another soft rasp as he moves forward. My eyelids are flat, perfectly smooth. I see nothing. There is warm flesh and warm blood, and the bites of ants under the skin of my dead hand. His hands must be dry now, the shredded skin beginning already to scab. They push up, fingers snaking to caress my thigh, to let it feel his blood, his hurt. I want so desperately to look at him now, but I don't know where his eyes are. His hands knead, and I want to look, stare, but I won't survive if those eyes of silken hatred are staring back. His hands still rise, but now they shift. He is not tentative as one hand breaks away, fingers curling to cup my cock. Air hisses from between my teeth again, a gunshot in the silence. Slick warmth erupts under his fingers, and I realize I don't know if it belongs to him or me. There is a dry wind against my face, an exhale. My eyelids are flat, smooth. I can't see. I don't want to see. There is the gentlest feather whisper of breath against my lips before he kisses me. His lips are dry and close to cracking, the roughness spreading as his mouth opens. His cupped fingers begin to knead, and despite myself I let my lips part. The ants inside my hand bite and die. Torn flesh swells, bodies pile up. His lips are bloody, and I'm afraid. The hand on my cock lifts and all there is are his lips, sweet copper. My eyelids raise. Hatred, spun in brown-gold silk. Agony lived over and over. Possibilities never explored, betrayals never forgiven. There is something hard and cold in his hand now, but his lips don't release. I wonder if he sees the fear as he pulls the trigger. My eyelids are like shutters, opened wide, bands of skin folding at the top. Lifted to see my belly burst, crimson and copper, as he stares. The ants stop biting as he pulls away. He doesn't bother to wipe his hands clean. ~ "I never change. I never will. I'm so afraid of the way I feel." "I'm So Afraid," Lindsey Buckingham