Sour Times [X-Files]

Sour Times
by Jennifer-Oksana
rating: R
summary: Scully on a night like this, in a world that’s the size of a
hazelnut where alternatives are few and far between.
note: this is a companion/sequel to “A Marriage of Minds.”
disclaimer: 1013, CC, yada yada. Don’t sue.
archive: ask permission first.

All I can do on nights like these is scream.

Why don’t you go whisper your dirty little fantasies into Mulder’s ear,
Dana?

Why don’t you go get yours, babe?

Babe, babe, babe– he’s worse than under my skin. He’s coating my skin
like a thin layer of grease, something I can’t get rid no matter what,
even if were to I scrub forever. He’s in my head, whispering gleeful
madness into my brain. And still I don’t know how it happened. All I can
remember is how it began. It was so simple. I was in Skinner’s
apartment, watching him stare at me with anger in his eyes. I thought he
was going to yell at me for letting Mulder run around loose again.

The next thing I knew, my hand was twisting a little knob and Skinner
just doubled over, moaning. I liked listening to him moan, because I
knew I was going to make him scream soon enough–

It was a moment before I realized I didn’t have a cock and nobody has
ever called me Daddy, not even in jest. Especially not in a situation
like–

God, Alex Krycek is a sick fuck.

My hand is still trembling on the receiver. I want to call him up and
scream at him some more, but it wouldn’t do me any good. He’d talk until
he decided he was bored, then he’d sign off with some unspeakable
suggestion that would torment me the rest of the night. The worst part
would be when I recognized his suggestion from a dream or fantasy of my
own and get sick to my stomach.

So instead I sit here, stewing to the milquetoast tones of the radio.
Dammit, did I let my mother choose the radio station? Oh, wait. I did.
She was over helping me clean up the mess from my– latest break-in, I
suppose I could call it. I refuse to think of it in Alex-terms. It
didn’t happen in Alex-terms. It happened here, without any help from
that son of a bitch.

“Go to sleep, everything is all right–” the sleepy, heavy voice of Roy
Orbison tells me. Fuck you, Roy. Everything is far from being all right
and especially not when I sleep. When I close my eyes, I can’t tell
myself apart from Krycek. There are some clues– I never dreamed about
telling pretty boys to strip in front of me and jerk themselves off and
then– and now it lurks there in my subconscious, both sickening and
dangerously alluring.

“Into the magic night, I softly say–” the music sings counterpoint.

I know, the way that I know I want a big chocolate bar, that he’s
planning to find himself a fucktoy to bring home and show off for me, a
really pretty boy he’ll turn to his evil will and enjoy thoroughly. It’s
his revenge for my daring to be in his head. Of course, it’s not my
desire to be in his head or within fifteen hundred miles of him, but
there you go.

The music won’t stop. I need to change the station or I’m going to break
something. “In dreams, I talk to you– in dreams, you’re mine– all of
the time– in dreams, in dreams–”

I could get some revenge if I wanted. I’m in his head as much as he’s in
mine. All I’d have to do is pick up a phone and call Mulder. Krycek
pretends he’s a heartless bed-hopping son of a bitch, and usually he is,
but he has a weak spot for Mulder. It’s the one thing we have in common.
In our weak moments, both Alex and I want Mulder to descend out of
nowhere and fuck our brains out.

“I hate you, dammit,” I whisper, holding my hands against my temples.
“Why are you in my head? Why can’t you fuck off and die?”

I can’t help it– I can’t help it– if I cry–

I swear I’m going to break that radio. I’m a child crying for the moon.
What’s Krycek supposed to do, pull a miracle out of his ass? He doesn’t
want me here any more than I want him. If he could get out of my head,
he’d be gone and he wouldn’t be strolling down the street in leather
pants, thinking about the one and only time he and Mulder– in beautiful
dreams–

“Fuck you, Alex,” I hiss. “Go to hell, you son of a bitch.”

It only gets worse every day. Sometimes I stop thinking and I’m with
him, watching him saunter down alleys, knowing instinctively just where
to wrap his fingers around the neck to snap it, feeling a feline,
lustful enjoyment of seeing the body fall to the ground, knowing that I
did this, that I had this power–

He is not me. I don’t have that power. I don’t want that power. I don’t
want him and his sociopathic desires drowning me in a java sea of horror
and death. I want to be rid of it, those leering whispers of his, the
midnight phone calls I feel compelled to make, locked together in a
self-defeating bond that can’t be severed. He knows me. He knows all of
my little flaws that I lock away from the world because there’s no place
for them. Instead of indulging myself with no regard for the situation
around me and within me the way he would, I don’t indulge. After a
while, you can pretend they’re aberrations. I know. I did.

I do.

Now he’s in my head and he knows what darkness lurks behind respectable
exteriors– and it won’t go away. I can’t turn around without him
taunting me. He doesn’t have anything resembling scruples and he will
fuck almost anything on two legs. Damn him to hell. He likes knowing I’m
there with him, knowing that I can’t do anything.

Why can’t I do anything? I’ve been there for perpetration of at least a
dozen crimes, including murder. I could send Krycek to prison for the
rest of his life times ten. But there would be so many questions and who
would really believe that I wasn’t an accessory to a crime?

Sure, Agent Scully, you’re in his head. I’d be in a mental hospital and
Alex would be in prison in no time flat. It may be small of me but I
can’t do that. I’m getting an ulcer from all the guilt, but I can’t find
it in me to make an anonymous phone call to the police department and
bust him. What’s worse is that now, even if I did that, there’s the
entire matter of Donnie Pfaster.

God, I don’t know if I can stand thinking about it anymore.

I turn up the stereo, but only after I turn off the radio. No offense to
my mother or her taste, but Lawrence Welk is simply not the soundtrack
to lose your mind to. I hit the button on my CD player. I don’t care
what’s on it.

I sit down on the sofa, covering my face with my hands.

Dammit! Did I let my mother choose EVERY last bit of music I own?

“She wore blue velvet– bluer than velvet was the night– softer than
satin was the light from the stars–”

“This day cannot get any worse,” I hiss. I lean back against the couch
cushions, anger burning in every muscle. I throw my legs apart in a
surprisingly male position and set my hands on my thighs, throwing my
head back with my eyes closed. I have a sociopathic murderer in my head,
like an itch I can’t scratch. He doesn’t do anything. All he does is
watch and whisper. It’s an indirect assault, the kind I can’t fight
against fairly. Everything I could do to him is forbidden and I’m not
sinking to his level.

But God, I itch. I itch to do something, even something petty. All of
this rage and doubt is wearing on me. There’s nothing I can do except
for maybe accept it. I have a maniac in my head. He watches me. I watch
him. We’re driving each other crazy slowly but surely–

Damn Alex. He makes me want to do every stupid, childish thing I’ve ever
thought of doing, beginning with throwing a temper tantrum and trashing
my apartment in tears. He does what he wants. He enjoys it, and living
with that enjoyment, that guilt-free delight in watching a man beg for
mercy, grovel to the point of humiliation, and then kick him in the
shortribs and laugh, I start to feel resentful. Is there really no
justice in this world? Don’t people like Krycek ever get theirs?

The doorbell rings. Great. That has to be Mulder, because no one else
ever comes around here without calling. I suppose misery loves company,
but I don’t really want to go running after the latest sewer monster
right now. I want to be left alone.

“Completely alone,” I mutter, even though Krycek can’t hear me. He’ll
just know, if he wants to know. But I’m not sure, maybe he’s distracted
by the loud music and the warm bodies clad in tight jeans and mesh tops.

Oh, hell. I do know he’s distracted right now. I forgot for a moment–
and the doorbell rings again.

“I’m coming, Mulder.”

There’s some sort of mumbling from the other side of the door I can’t
make out. It’s okay. He’ll repeat himself if I want him to.

I walk up to the door, undo the five or six new locks I had installed
after the Pfaster incident, and finally swing it open and lean against
the doorframe. I am fully aware that I look like hell and Mulder is
still dressed for work. And I don’t care.

“Are you okay, Scully?” he asks.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” I reply. “Don’t I look fine?”

“Well, is yes the wrong answer in this case?” he asks, smiling. He
definitely wants something. I don’t know what, but I sense slime and
autopsies.

“Only if it involves me going to the morgue.”

He’s still smiling. He must have another elephant for me to autopsy. Oh,
goddammit, this can’t be good.

“Scully, can I come in?”

My day really can’t get any worse, can it? I sigh and straighten up.

“Sure,” I say dryly. “But if this involves autopsying an elephant, I
will shoot you.”

He shakes his head, walks in, and closes the door.

“Scully? I want to talk to you about something–”

Oh, dear. This is going to be something, I can just tell.

And so can Alex.

Oh, damn.

END

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