From: Daddy793 Date: 13 Dec 1998 03:01:18 GMT Subject: NEW: "Shadows of Better Men" by Te Shadows of Better Men by Te 11/98 Disclaimers: Neither Alex nor Mulder is mine, technically, but I sure do like playing with other people's toys. Spoilers: Tiny ones for most of the Krycek episodes, FTF, and The Beginning. Summary: Alex thinks about Mulder. Ratings Note: R for poor language, implied m/m interaction, violence shot through a soft lens. Author's Note: Sister Blue reminded me it had been a while since I'd sent her any new stories, and I mentioned what a pain in the neck it was that Mulder wasn't more like her. This happened. Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue for endless inspiration and holiday cheer, and to her and Alicia for fine audiencing. To Rye for marvelous beta. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Shadows of Better Men by Te Daddy793@aol.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I used to think it would be easy to love him. I know, that probably doesn't come as a shock to you, considering all those adoring glances I gave him while we were partners... But just remember that most of that was an act, all right? Back then, he was simply a mark, if a particularly well-dressed and attractive one. I used his appearance to make it easier to play the puppy. Agent Alex Krycek would dream about fine tailored wool dragging against his cheek as Mulder pushed him to his knees. Agent Alex Krycek would have liked nothing better than to have his mouth fucked into some sluttish new shape while Mulder looked down in perfect aging rich boy arrogance. Agent Alex Krycek jerked off thinking about just that, every night of his short, pathetic life. But I wasn't Agent Alex Krycek then, and I never will be. This isn't some butch game. I'm smart enough not to deny myself what I like just so I can be a better man. I like fucking and I like being fucked. But I never hated myself enough to let some pansy ass like Agent Fox Mulder get under my skin. No fucking way. It was only *later* when thinking about him started to feel dangerous. Ruthless punches, a gun to my head, and some cheap little hood ornament digging into my spine. Suddenly, Mulder was more than just some lily-lipped half-assed traitor whining about truth and justice. I got away, and reminded myself that even librarians get crazy on acid. The next time I couldn't blame it on the drugs, and the *next* time it was pure, unadulterated brutality. I started to wonder if his old drunk of a father had taught him anything useful after all. I started to dream of a Mulder who aimed all that delicious violence at *other* people. I saw the look in his eyes -- empty rage, cool and just this side of insane. I wanted. It didn't take long after that drive to Marita's for me to figure out that I could love the man, because suddenly he was *kin*. Have you ever felt that? Listened to or looked at someone and realized that, whether or not they believed it themselves, they *knew* you? Even if it was only because they were just like you in some ways... God, it's thrilling. It's a gunshot coming from too close to ignore, and too far to be absolutely sure it isn't aimed at you. Just another death wish, and I knew myself well enough to know precisely what that sort of thing did to me. And I didn't care at all. I wanted him, all of him. I wanted him to scream my name while I fucked him through a wall. I wanted to watch him kill a man by inches and suck him off when he was done. Lick the blood from his face and show him my favorite spots to ditch weapons and bodies. I believed I could have that, if I just kept trying. If you've never known kin then you have no fucking clue what I'm talking about. I don't think any of us get things like that too often... it's enough to make me think Plato wasn't just a sentimental old fag in a sheet. If you've known kin, then you understand. Looking at Mulder was like staring at some unpolished gem, or perhaps some chunk of steel waiting to be hammered into a proper weapon. I looked at him and I saw a soulmate for the ages, and so I did my best to run away from him. Going back "home" and doing my business. Activating former operatives with codewords stolen long ago from a dying man's breath. Bending them to my will. It was an old desire to have an army at my back, perhaps childish, but the practicality of the action allowed me to justify it. But I got caught, thinking with my dick, and damned if I shouldn't have just fucked everything I could get my hands on back home. Better than an ice cold whore with her own damned agenda. Lessons learned. The American shadow government might be an old boys' club, but a determined woman can always grow her own set of brass ones if she wants to. And if she doesn't have her own dick she can damned well buy one. The end result is always the same: You, bent over anything handy, learning yet again how to be someone else's bitch. If she wasn't so much like me I'd let her live for amusement alone. As it is, she's damned well going to have an accident. And the end result of that little escapade? Still another master for me. Another leash to choke myself against for the sheer, unadulterated hell of it. Another chance to see Mr. Mulder. He'll never be Agent Mulder to me again, no matter how many times I make myself say it. He's grey now, and he knows it. Or, at least, I thought he did. I tempted him with a kiss. I teased him with endless notes and promises, promises... I even delivered on a few. And in the end, I wound up with his gun pressed under my eye and the rest of him molded to me like so much clay. He was less another person than a sculpture of lust, melted, sticky on my body through God knew how many layers of clothes and when I asked him -- "For once, why don't you take what you really want?" -- I honestly didn't know if he'd shoot me or... or bite me. Hard on the throat and I didn't have time to cry out before he made me whimper. His tongue was hot and restless and it was a long, long time before that gun was moved. Fuck, it was just as perfect and dirty as I'd wished, and I didn't, couldn't curse my stupidity with Marita because it had gotten me right there. Backed up against yet another anonymously scummy alley wall with that lush mouth wrapped around my cock. The Christians say everything happens for a reason, and there's something marvelous in any religion that allows me something to believe in. And so it went. A night of pain followed by a night of welcome pain. I knew he still wasn't the Mulder I thought of as mine, but I thought I could feel him getting closer every time he wrestled me to the floor and fucked me hard for no one's need but his own. Or begged me to do the same. Then came the belts and cuffs and, what do you know? Suddenly, I'm his lover of choice because he couldn't dare ask the sainted ones to do this thing for him, because no one deserved to be a part of it that wasn't, well, us. I could've told him a few things about Skinner, but I told myself I didn't want to burst that particular bubble. Then I hated myself for a while for being such a *mealy-mouthed* liar. I kept my secrets to myself because I liked the way he moaned and screamed. For me. But then it occurred to me that this... this welcomed punishment, Mulder's atonement through suffering... It wasn't getting him any closer to where I wanted him to be. This wasn't the Mulder I wanted, and our pleasant little relationship wasn't getting us any closer to the vision I had of the two of us on my bike, killing and fucking across the countryside. He was still a Fed, I was still his nighttime indiscretion. I was sick and fucking tired of hiding in the woodpile alone. He might tell himself every damned night that I was just the punishment he deserved, but it was a lie. I'm no hypocrite. I trade in lies, live them every day I walk this stupid world, but I didn't ever lie to him about *this*, and I refused to let him do it to me. So I left him for a while. Made sure he got his precious X-Files back and disappeared. Watched him from the shadows and waited. I knew it wouldn't take long for him to join me there. He needed this, you see. Needed *me*. Months passed before the day he finally lowered himself to come looking. So sad at first... no one, *no* one does kicked stray like Mulder. Spewing all this self-serving bullshit about how everyone left him and accusations that I'd been using him. Yet another fight and I swore to myself that if he ever hit me again when I hadn't asked him to I'd cut off his motherfucking hand. I swore it to his face as he lay pinned beneath me. Panting and rock hard under yet another pair of fine wool slacks. I told him I was sick of his lies to me and to himself. Told him to take a good look in the mirror and see if he could still claim to be so clean. Pointed out my blood on his knuckles. Grabbed his hand and made him poke at the bruises he'd left *this* time. Gave him an image of sweet, rich rotting fruit and asked when he was gonna take the taste he'd always wanted. "I'll never be you, Krycek." Yeah, well, he couldn't if he tried. And if I wanted me I'd liberate one of the clones that are undoubtedly sleeping peacefully in some thick green ooze in one of the thousands of conveniently abandoned warehouses littering this fine country. So I just looked at him until I could see his face soften, and kissed him gently until his tongue was struggling to pull mine back into his mouth. We tasted of each other's blood and I was hard in moments. It took a while to pull away -- I'm not made of stone -- but I managed it, breathing roughly against his face, watching that too-short hair ruffle slightly before slowing. I asked him: "When I kiss you, what makes you surrender to it?" "The blood, the pain--" I slapped him. And again, to see him snarl. "What do you want from me?" "Same thing you do, asshole. A free fuck and a little time to forget." I think I almost cried. No, I know I did. It may not be something I do often, but that acid burn just behind your eyes is absolutely unmistakable. This is me, this is me wanting what I can't have. Nothing new, but I'd never thought I'd let myself be refused something... something like *this* by anyone but myself. I shook myself out of it to find Mulder staring up at me with that brand of contempt he'd polished so well all those years ago. "You want romance, Krycek? Buy yourself a more expensive whore. You want a blow job? Open up your pants." All cool professionalism. No anger, no want, nothing. There's something painfully absurd about having to wade through acres of bullshit with *Mulder* before getting to anything like truth. I got off him and walked out the door. Thought about leaving my gun behind, but I've never been fond of melodrama. Shut it behind me and walked away. Lessons learned. You're never too old to dream, but only kids look cute when they whine about life not being fair. I was never that pathetic, and I never will be. There are still wars to be fought, and it's better to be in love with a fantasy of your own making than a real man. Fantasies never... disappoint. ~~~~ End. ~~~~ Notes: Also at least partially inspired by Alicia's "Decorations" and a certain recent thread on SlashX. And thanks to Viridian for pointing out how painfully perfect "When You Don't See Me" by the Sisters of Mercy was for this... title stolen from there.