Choirgirl Interlude: Black Magic
Rating: NC-17, M/K Slash, V/R/A
Summary: They’re baaack… and this time they’re using a bed.
Disclaimer: CC owns the characters, Tori Amos owns the song, I want the
make me laugh, say you know what you want
you said we were the real thing
so I show you some more and I learn
what black magic can do
make me laugh, say you know you can turn
me into the real thing
so I show you some more and I learn–
–“Jackie’s Strength” Tori Amos
I left my partner, my lover, my queen of the damned in an Alexandria
hospital. She wore a dark gray suit, severely cut. I don’t know how I
did it, but I did. I said good-bye to Scully. I memorized her image in
that suit, a dark and somber figure on a gray and cool morning in
My God. The figure engraved on my eyeballs is so beautiful, and so small.
A miniature, perfect, divine in every detail. The copper flame of her
hair. The ivory flawlessness of her skin. The soft round curve of her
breasts. The gentle hourglass of her waist, her hips, her legs. But the
angel had a few frayed edges. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was red
and stung with the salt of tears. The hollows of her face were shaded in
purples and blues, signs of sleepless nights and bruises bestowed by the
violence of sorrow. Each of her fingernails were ragged, chewed up,
probably spit out.
I left her behind, to ride into the sunset and out of the world I had
created for us. Scully, Scully, my Miranda, my Ophelia, my Horatio, my
daughter, my sister, my madonna, my whore, and finally, my replacement.
“Skinner told me,” she said in a voice tinged with electrical energy,
staccato, shocking. “Do you think you’ll ever come back?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. She nodded, expectation fulfilled. “Are you
staying with the X-Files?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “If– when– you ever decide to come back from
wherever you go, there will still be the X-Files.”
Unspoken words: but they will be mine, and not yours, Mulder. A fitting
revenge, a bargain between us. She gets the X-Files, I get– what?
“Mulder,” she said, in a voice so full of regret. “You know what you want.
Take it. I’ll live.”
“I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other. Good-bye,
Good-bye. Good-bye. Goooooodddddd-byyyyyeeee, like the last strains of
that song in Sound of Music. That’s what I’m thinking about as I drive
down the highway, looking for God knows what and headed the devil knows
where. Leave of absence. It sounds nicer than resignation, which is what
Scully has pretty much forced me to do. If I ever come back, she’ll be
there, the X-Files will be hers, and she will be Spooky in the basement.
That, Alanis, is ironic, not rain on your wedding day.
The time has come to think about Alex again. Krycek, Alex, Krycek, Alex–
I can’t decide what to call him. He hasn’t been around much since my
dramatic waking in that hospital room, but I’ve sensed that wasn’t because
he didn’t want to be. Alex. There is something of pleasure, something of
raw desire in the thought.
Those eyes, those glittering green eyes that sometimes lose all pretense
of civilization and return to a state where everything is instinct,
everything is– primitive.
Cell phone rings, and I forget that I’ve left Scully behind and she
wouldn’t have me back if I came back on my knees, for whatever services
she might desire. I forget that I’ve abandoned my career, whatever I
thought was so all-consuming–
“Hey, G-Man, have the time for a little chat?”
“I have all the time in the world for you.”
“Good, because I want it. Everything. So where are you?”
“Good. Go to Virginia Beach.”
“Room 345, the Virginian. And Mulder, be a good little scout and be
Click. Virginia Beach. Krycek. Prepared. My brain, which is fogged by
lust, processes this slowly, very very slowly and I almost miss the exit.
Virginia Beach. Alex. Prepared. I stop at a nice little convenience store,
and get prepared. Directions. Supplies. Alex. Room 345. A smile on his
“The Virginian? Are you meeting somebody special?”
Met him in a hotel, met him in a guess world, guessed anyone but you–
“Isn’t that nice?”
No. It’s not nice. It’s the fucking opposite of nice. Nice suggests
restraint, pleasantries. Fuck that. I want the feel of strong, rough
muscles and tough skin around me. I want a struggle, and I want I want I
I can’t remember getting here. I can’t remember anything, not driving with
a hard-on, not finding the Virginian, not getting to the front desk, not
why I left Washington and why I don’t care if I go back and–
“Yes, sir. You must be Mr. Mulder, sir.”
Key. Upstairs, no time for the elevator, I’ll take the stairs, it’ll
loosen up the muscles anyway, it’ll get the blood pumping, too long in a
car does strange things to the body, and I don’t need my ass to be–
Room 345, and I’m out of breath. Not because of the climb, either. My
mouth is dry. I fumble with the key, trying to shove it into the lock
“Coo coo kachoo, Mrs. Robinson,” Krycek says, opening the door and letting
me stumble through. He is quite a sight, wearing only a pair of boxer
shorts. “Look what the cat drug in.”
I tackle him. Caveman style. Though Alex really doesn’t have enough hair
to drag back to my dank little cavern. I pin him under me and kiss that
smart-ass mouth quiet, devouring him. I’ve missed him. God, I’ve needed
“Mulder,” he protests. “Mulder, get the fuck off of me!”
“There’s a very nice bed over there.”
“You want to use the bed?”
“Mulder, I don’t know if you have some sort of moral aversion to beds or
something, but I can’t take all this caveman on the floor stuff for much
longer. The bed, Mulder. Everything else is fine.”
I reluctantly get off of him and let him climb into bed. I grin. Caveman
Mulder is indeed on the prowl, and he doesn’t have time to get a word in
before I tackle him again, and silence him with another kiss over his
luscious mouth. I have the advantage of two hands, but Alex has the
advantage of being an opportunistic rat bastard. His hand goes immediately
for the groin and gives it a good hard stroke. My hips buck, and he takes
advantage of this to get into a better position.
“You miss me?”
My response is immediate, a good hard squeeze of the ass, and a shift of
my hips. Mmm-hmm.
“My, my, aren’t we in need tonight?” he whispers, moving his mouth away
from mine and using his tongue to tickle my neck. “I think that I might
make you suffer, like you made me suffer.”
“Alex, you’re going to kill me.”
“Hmm. What a way to go,” he murmurs. “You want it, don’t you?”
“Fine. I’ll go, then.”
He lets go of me and pushes me away from him. “What are you doing?”
“No games. You. Me. No ghosts, no bullshit. Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I want you. Don’t go.”
“Much better,” he replies, shifting back. “Get your clothes off.”
Under the piercing gaze of his eyes, I do what he wants. I want to do what
he wants. I strip bare and he smiles, a warm, delighted smile.
“This is the way it should be done. Hotel floors, backseats– they’re
I move closer. He grins. “You are just begging for it, aren’t you? Hot and
tight and wired all the way up, just the way I like it.”
His mouth surrounds a nipple, biting down ever so slightly and I groan.
He’s manipulating me into a complete and total idiot.
“Mmm-hmm,” he murmurs, his hand surrounding me and slowly, roughly
jerking. The pleasure is just– I can’t think anymore. I have to have
“Slow down,” he whispers, kissing his way down my chest, licking a path
around the navel. “We’ve got time. I want to make it hurt.”
He’s the devil. He’s killing me. He abruptly lets go of me and climbs
around me to the back, and that hand– one-handed he may be, but he’s got
more moves than any cat and he is fully functional– finds my ass and
begins to knead.
“Alex, give it to me.”
Anticipation is deadly. My entire body is so tight that I think I’ll
explode, voosh, just like Mt. St. Helens, we’ll take out the entire hotel.
I shimmy a little, to let him know what I want, now.
I want him beneath me, the muscles of his back gleaming and rough and
sensuous. I need to feel him. I can’t deal with this touch-me-not game.
He’s killing me–
“What do you need?”
“You. Beneath me. I need you so bad.”
“Having a hard time maintaining your cool, I see,” he murmurs, lightly
pulling his teeth over my shoulder. I really do lose it this time, pushing
him into position without much resistance– just enough to grind again my
increasing need and drive me insane.
“I came prepared, too,” I mutter, pulling out the supplies.
“Good for you,” he murmurs, letting me do all the work. So help me God, he
wants me to lose my mind. But the sound of his breathing– slowly but
surely gaining speed and losing control– lets me know that I’m not alone
in this madness.
Finally, finally, I’m inside, and it’s– there aren’t any words. There is
just sensation, the words all swirl around and disappear, disappear
against my hips, crashing against his body, disappear in the feral sound
that comes from my mouth, disappear in the sudden movement of my hand to
his nipple, twisting hard, vanish in the moment I help him along, feeling
the same impossible sensations. There aren’t any words, the words are all
rocking against his body, skin on skin, his muscles shining with sweat,
hot hot hot and it’s hot and tight and sweet and–
“Yeah yeah yeah, oh GOD!”
He comes and screams and I’m still lost in my raptures, taking my
pleasures harder faster faster and now and now and now now now– I lose
all control and even the words that have disappeared scream against my
skin as I lose it hard against him, shuddering.
Slowly the words come back. Slowly, the colors resolve into shapes.
Slowly, my heart sounds less like thunder and more like the thump of blood
being forced through my veins, and I feel the body beneath me and it’s
tough and strong and sensual.
“Never would have guessed you for a cuddler,” he says, as I slip out of
him and throw an arm around him.
“So what do you call this moment we’re having right now, asshole?”
“A brief downtime before I come back and ravish you again.”
He laughs. “You’re a fucking nymphomaniac.”
“That’s a fucking nymphomaniac with an oral fixation, too, rat bastard.”
He feels so alive underneath my arm. I’m not a cuddler, and mushy love is
definitely not the specialty of Casa Mulder, but I need to feel him, every
part of him, so that it can be real. I need this solid, unblinking
reality. Riding off into the sunset, turning a Gauguin and leaving my
queen of the damned behind all seems like a dream. But this is physical,
tangible evidence of everything.
“I expect I’ll give that fixation quite a workout, big man,” he murmurs.
“Fuckin, I’m tired. Get off me.”
I let go. But I breathe in, remembering with each breath that this is
real. This is real. There’s no way around it. He’s real.
I fall asleep, breathing in the reality of his presence and forgetting
everything else but the sound of his breathing.