A Marriage of Minds [X-Files]

A Marriage of Minds
by Jennifer-Oksana
classification: R, VA
spoilers: Orison
summary: Bourbon Street at night and Alex Krycek has discovered it isn’t
Big or Easy there–
disclaimer: 1013, CC, and FOX are the copyright holders, I’m scribbling
in the margins. No infringement intended. Move along, there’s nothing to
see here…

For the first time in my life, I’m disappointed in New Orleans. And it
isn’t even really the city’s fault. It’s the same decadent pit as ever–
unabashedly perverse, heartlessly seductive, leaving me with a twitch in
my cock and a spring in my step. But it can’t stop this change inside of
me. I came here looking for salvation. Then again, it’s somewhat foolish
to expect a city that actually has a sanctioned holiday for total and
complete insanity (they call it Mardi Gras) to change the craziest
motherfucking situation in my life.

Doesn’t mean I didn’t expect it, though. This city is like that.
Miracles happen, and not because you deserve ’em or because this place
is in any way, shape, or form holy or whatever. Ultimately, New Orleans
is just like the universe, or fate: it’s completely random and it favors
the bold. But here I lay, body sprawled out on a cheap mattress in the
tawdriest little French Quarter apartment, fucked over and waiting for
the phone to ring. Life ain’t fair, but dammit, it’s usually on my side.

Maybe some faith would do me good. I could be making a snap judgement
about this situation. This could be a blessing in disguise, right? I
groan. Bullshit this is a blessing. That’s the kind of lie hypocrites
tell themselves to maintain pretty faces in the morning. I don’t lie to
myself like that. That sort of self-serving nonsense is reserved for–

The sound of the phone is sharp and shrill against my ears. I count the
rings.

One.

Oh, who could it be? Who dares infiltrate my privacy?

Two.

I hear you knocking, but you can’t come in!

Thr–

I pick up the phone.

“Hey, baby,” I growl into the receiver. “How’s tricks?”

“Why the fuck are you in New Orleans, Alex?” Dana Scully asks me, her
voice sharp with irritation.

Witness my lack of surprise.

I knew that she’d find me sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but
fate has seen it fit to deal me an extraordinarily rotten hand of late.
I decide to shrug it off.

“I’m trying to get you out of my head, honey,” I say, proud of the
faintly contemptuous Southern drawl I manage to use. “You’re fucking up
my edge.”

She laughs. It’s a bitter laugh that I not only hear over the phone but
also feel deep in my gut, aching like battery acid, tracing hideous
scars into the stomach lining. God damn her. Why can’t she just leave me
alone? She knows where I am. Talking about it isn’t going to make any
difference at all.

“Why don’t you leave me alone, Alex?” she echoes in her desperate little
know-it-all voice. “What am I going to do? I can feel you. You’re under
my skin. I can almost see you, lounging about like a big cat, licking
your lips. When you breathe in, I breathe out. Hell, I didn’t even have
to look you up. I know where you are. I knew where you were last night.
I was practically there with you. That was a shitty little college bar,
by the way. Why did you even bother?”

I breathe in calmly and almost smile when there’s an exasperated rush of
breath on the other end of the phone. At least there’s some fun in this
hellish connection fate has seen fit to curse me with. I may be stuck
with Scully in my head, but she’s got me clinging to her every thought
too, an unwanted passenger bound to her as tightly as an unborn child. I
lick my lips slowly, reveling in the moment just for her.

“What did you think of *her*, Daaaaayyynnnnaaa?” I ask, caressing my
chest slightly, letting my thoughts trail back to that shitty college
bar with its slick, sticky floor, the stale stench of bad cigarettes,
the J. Crew clones that giggled as the perky bartenders made “three for
one” drinks closer to six-for-ones. I need a little fun in my life in
this dark period and this is as close as I’ve gotten in awhile.

“Who?” she snaps.

“You know who,” I murmur, remembering more. For a moment I almost lose
it as I realize that Scully is furious. Whenever Scully gets this angry,
she starts reliving the moment she found Luis Cardinale, but instead of
yelling at him she shoots him over and over, riddling his body with
bullet holes. The girl I’m thinking of isn’t nearly as important as
that. But I force myself to think of her.

“The sloppy one? The one who was raving like a lunatic?” Dana asks,
sounding rather judgmental.

“Raving like a lunatic’s rather harsh, isn’t it? After all, darling, she
had something like eight shots of vodka in her,” I murmur. “But you know
what? I think I’m going to kill her.”

“What?”

“I’m going crazy with you in my head, darling. If I don’t kill someone
soon, I might have to take more desperate measures. I thought she was
awfully pretty, even if she was so drunk she couldn’t stand up. She’s
probably depressed. I’m probably doing her a favor,” I say breezily.
“And if not, I’m doing the world a favor. There are too many college
binge drinkers. Maybe I should go on a killing spree, take out a whole
bunch of dumb college students who think the world is about getting
shitfaced on Friday nights to impress their sorority sisters.”

“Fuck you, Krycek.”

“You didn’t say that a few weeks ago, did you?” I reply cheerfully. “Oh,
I forgot. If *you* want someone dead, it’s for all the right reasons,
isn’t it?”

There’s a deadly silence in my head. Oh, shit. I have pissed her off.

“Get out of my head, Alex!” she screams suddenly. Damn, Scully’s shrill
when she’s desperate. I play off of it without even a shrug.

“You first, darling,” I reply. “It’d be nice to finally have my choice
of boy-toys again.”

“Fuck you,” she repeats. I laugh, and the darkness of the room feels so
much more comforting suddenly. It’s almost metaphorical, this darkness.
She’s in my head, but I’m in hers. The darkness is getting to her,
driving a splinter into her brain. We’re the two-in-one, an unholy
union, splintering personalities slowing growing together in the midst
of madness.

“Didn’t you realize, baby?” I ask, rubbing my cheek. I need a shave
before I go out tonight. And I do think I’ll go out tonight. “I’ve been
letting you pick ’em. You like those all-American boys, don’t you, baby?
Always so handsome and button-down, really. But you got a special radar
on you, babe, I’ll give you that. I never met so many good old-fashioned
boys who were so desperately in need of a hot daddy to give ’em
what-for… of course, you being in need of a what-for, I shouldn’t be
surprised, should I?”

“I’ll call the police if you kill that girl, Alex,” she threatens,
trying to distract me. Heh. Dana’s masochism is the highlight of this
entire experience. I hadn’t realized that behind such an uptight and
bitchy facade lurked a pathological sub. But it makes her just that much
more interesting. It also explains why she’s not fucking Mulder yet.
He’s just masochistic enough that he’ll never make a move. Poor kids.
They’re just two masochists in search of a sadist.

I could be that sadist. But I choose not to be.

“Oh, Dana,” I say in a mock-chiding voice. “Are you that interested in
prison sex? Or do you just get off on being completely dominated? Is
that what you really want? A big manly man telling you to get on your
knees and suck his cock? Sweet Jesus in heaven, girl, don’t you know you
just have to whisper your dirty little fantasies into Mulder’s ear and
your wish will be his command?”

I laugh as she slams down the receiver without replying, her anger hot
and corrosive and almost sweet as it echoes in my skull. Then I hope she
doesn’t get a rage migraine. It would definitely suck to be dancing with
Lance from N’Sync at Oz and feel Her Majesty’s headache take the fun out
of my night.

“I might even have to kill that girl if that were to happen,” I say
aloud to nobody. After all, she can’t hear me, not exactly. This is what
I’ve discovered after three or four months with this unwanted visitor in
my brain. She and I are linked. We just know everything about each
other. It’s not mind reading. It’s not visions. We just know. That’s as
far as I can explain it. She’s in my head. I can ignore her. She can
ignore me. But she never goes away.

God damn, what a fucked-up fate. To be linked, mind and soul, to the
last person on earth I would ever want to be linked to. But that’s life,
you know? Weird shit happens and if you don’t deal with it the best you
can, you’re just a victim and you deserve all the heartache you get. Me,
I deal with it whatever way I can and when I can’t, I run.

That’s why I’m here, right? I’m here looking out on the quiet side of
Bourbon Street, on an unseasonably cold January night to get away.
Fucking city– it isn’t supposed to be fifty degrees EVER in New
Orleans. This is a subtropical paradise, and what do I find when I get
here? Winter. Fucking winter. At least the plants are still green. This
place is an escape from the dark prison of Dana Scully’s head, where I
can almost see her staring at the bars on her window as she wonders what
exactly she did to offend a vengeful God.

“Dana,” I say, standing up and stripping off my clothes in the darkness
of my apartment. “Baby, don’t you get it? God doesn’t give a damn about
you or me. Get out of your house, babe, go out and fuck the universe
back for fucking you.”

I’m giving her advice now. What the hell is wrong with me? I want her
out of my head. I need her out of my head before I feel sorry for us,
trapped together without explanation or reason, just a freak of a
universe that’s nothing more than a lonely freak itself. Soon I’ll feel
bad about wanting to kill that girl, to watch her laugh at me in
delighted, idiot tones before her eyes bulged from the lack of oxygen
and before the bones in her neck snapped in operatic seconds. I wanted
her dead as amusement, as a beautiful reminder of just how unfair the
universe is.

Get out of the room, Alex baby, go fuck the universe as best you can.
Get the bitch out of your head or you’re lost, you’re fucked, and nobody
will be able to save you.

I leer at myself in the mirror. I may be lost, but I’m lost in a great
city with absolutely no morals and a lot of miles between myself and the
little voyeur in my head who’s stuck staring at walls in a bourgeois
upscale prison who’s paralyzed by life. And I fuck with her head a lot
more than she fucks with mine.

At least, I hope so. I really, really hope so, because if I’m forced to
have Miss Sweetness-and-Science in my head, I should at least get some
satisfaction from the experience, shouldn’t I?

Well, shouldn’t I? The pit of my stomach aches as I feel her laugh that
not-quite-laughter. I’m so disappointed in New Orleans. I came here to
escape. And now I’m starting to think there’s no escape anywhere. None
at all.

“Get out of my head,” I whisper suddenly, rubbing my temples. “Just get
out of my head…”

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