Sunflowers and White Linen
by Te and Debchan
July 2000

Disclaimers: If they were ours, they'd definitely be messier.
One way or another.

Spoilers: None, really.

Summary: Two views.

Authors' Note: These are for Rae, because it is her birthday,
and because we *luf* her. *mwahmwahmwah*


Debchan: Te: sunflower, music, lipstick

Alex in a field of sunflowers and... profoundly disturbed, actually. He's never liked the mutant things, triffids with a blond dye job. And yet there he was. Crouching, listening under the wind whistling breathily through the thick stems, under the silken brush-brush of petal against petal.

The leather and denim isn't precisely camouflage on this blamelessly sunny day, but this meet was called much too late for him to really give a damn.

Dangerous attitude to have, but Alex is now among the elder statesmen of assassins. Too good to fall to the attempts to kill him, too good not to hire again, no matter how many of an employer's own staff he kills along the way. Alex treasures his quirks.

In more introspective moods, he allows the possibility that he wants something human to hold on to, hopelessly irrational and potentially deadly. Every now and again he considers keeping exotic pets. If he makes it to 40, he's promised himself a signature, like a purple lipsticked frown-y face on the forehead, or perhaps a Method of Choice.

It could happen.

In the meantime, there are only his boots, and his young-but-abused jeans. Sunlight beaming green and yellow aggression down on him. Daylight... now daylight was just a stupid idea.

Alex wonders, idly, if it's time to kill an employer again, but has to shelve the fantasy when the rustles in the flowers become too regular. From the southeast, and Alex adjusts accordingly, timing his tiny movements to match the mark's own.

The mark. As if someone who would march to a meet with *his* employers with barely even *lip* service to guile could be anyone but --

"Krycek, I know you're scuttling around down there. Can we quit fucking around and be clandestine and mysterious now?"

Alex scrubs his hand over his face, uses the grip on the gun to scratch a tiny itch on his nose before speaking. "Clandestine works a lot better without the whining." And stands.

Perhaps ten feet away from each other. All he can see is head and shoulders above the horrible flowers -- which appear to be growing as he watches -- but he can tell by Mulder's posture that the gun is held loosely on one side. The right, of course. Alex matches the posture.

"What's it gonna be today, Krycek? Fight or fuck?"

"You tell me, Mulder." As if it could be any other way.

And Mulder looks up at the sky, spins around, easy and careless. Nothing really blocking the gun hand, though... not *too* careless. "I dunno... sunflowers make me pretty happy..."

"They would."

Mulder stops, mouth open in a half-smile, "Alex..." gun now dangling from one long finger. Alex erases the number of times he could have killed the other man from his head, the money each mostly undamaged part would get him, the power.


"I've always wanted to get fucked in front of a thousand triffids."

And Alex smiles, and tucks his gun away.

Te: Deb: white linen, olive oil, smile

The sheets are new.  No, not new.  Different.  Not the usual indifferently dyed cotton, but white linen.

Alex fingers an edge.  Old white linen, kind of coarse and scratchy.

"They were my mother's," Mulder says from the doorway behind him.

Alex must be losing his edge because he didn't even hear the key in the door.  Irritated at this, Alex says the first thing that occurs to him.  "You're the psychologist here, Mulder, but doesn't that seem a little incestuous?"

And he's really must be losing his edge, or else Mulder has cat feet, because he almost jumps when Mulder's arms snake around him and pull him back against his chest.  Mulder's chin settles on his shoulder and he sighs, a soft puff of breath in his ear before saying, "They were in a box.  With her wedding dress.  For Sam."

Well, oh fucking joy.  It's not enough that Mulder can't let his ghosts rattle around in his closet, he has to bring them to bed too.  A hair shirt for his entire body.  Jesus.

Mulder's hands wander over his lower abdomen, then over the points of his hips, areas Mulder *knows* are his hot spots, and Alex tries not to squirm.

Nope.  No way.  He's not going to do this.  Not here, where Mulder will undoubtedly attain some profoundly bitterly satisfying self loathing from fucking his father's killer on his dead sister's never to be used bridal sheets.

Because Mulder can fool himself all he likes that this thing between them is just another form of self flagellation, an inevitable descent into darkness combined with sex tinged 'fuck you, too' to dear old dad that Mulder can guilt and obsess over later when Alex is gone.

Alex knows better.

So he spins around and pulls Mulder into a kiss, tongue fucking his mouth while he walks them back into the living room.  Yeah, the couch plays hell with back and he really could live with out the leather burns on his back.

He lets Mulder push him down onto the couch, clings a little when Mulder pulls away, but uses his absence to peel off his clothes.  And okay, maybe the leather will burn later, but for the moment its cool and smooth against his back and smells like Mulder.

When Mulder walks back into the room, equally naked and with a bottle of olive oil, he smiles.  No ghosts here but those of orgasms past.  And maybe he was wrong, because the smile he gets in return is equal parts feral and goofy.

Ah, what the hell.  A wrenched back was worth it.