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.