She’s Your Cocaine
rating: R (language and adult themes)
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek pre-slash
spoilers: The Red and the Black
summary: Krycek muses a little about recent events.
disclaimer: CC and Company own the X-Files. And I’m in therapy over it, but I
do not have any claim to them. Sigh.
This is possibly the most ironic place on earth for me to spend an
evening. A lesbian bar. Yeah, I’m sitting here, the one-armed man in
motherfucking dyke central, and you know I’m not welcome. So what? Fuck
the bitches if they don’t like it.
Anyway, the bartender has her brand new Tori Amos CD in the player, and
was blasting this goddamn ‘Raspberry Swirl’ song about fifty times until
one of the really butch chicks told her to knock that shit off. I don’t
get women at all, straight or lesbian. Good thing I’m pretty much gay,
isn’t it? But anyway, bartender growls at the butch, and turns it to a
different song, and by this time, I’m on my fourth beer, no one’s talking
to me, and so I listen to the words.
“She’s your cocaine, she’s got you shaving your legs, you can suck anything,
but you know, you wanna be me–”
Oh, fuck me, doesn’t that sound like just what I was thinking about that
cocksucker Mulder? Special Agent Fox Spooky Mulder, who’s without a doubt
the best-looking man I never fucked. The man is insane, but good God, he’s
magnetic. Everyone wants a piece of his ass, especially that redheaded–
She’s never done anything to me, but I despise Scully, I do. She’s screwed
Mulder up far worse than he’s ever done her. She’s a little saint– Saint
Scully the Bitch, when this is all over, she’ll be smooth as satin and clean
as if she’d been packaged in plastic wrap. And cold– even that
doublecrossing whore Marita was probably a better lay than the Ice
Queen. I can’t believe I screwed Marita and not Mulder.
But as for Mulder, he’s obsessed with his dainty little Scully. The man is
fucked up in the head. She’s his little goddess, and she knows it. That bitch
makes him crawl.
“She says control it, then she says don’t control it, then she says you’re
controlling– the way she makes you crawl–”
I sling back another beer, and think about it. Why the hell should I give a
damn about Mulder? The stupid bastard hates my guts. When I kissed him in his
apartment, I admit, it was to mess with his head, but I also have to admit I
get a tremendous hard-on thinking about what it did to him. There’s also the
whole issue about whether or not he’d swing both ways, but when you’ve been in
the business (what business, Alex, does it matter?) as long as I have, you get
an instinct about the boys.
Goddamn that bitch Scully. Now she’s a nasty part of the equation. I swear,
half the Consortium wants to get in her pants (how they’d stand the chill
down there, I don’t know) and get off vicariously fucking her over from a
distance. The rest of ’em just want to dick around with Mulder some more,
keep him off the scent. Hell, even I get off dicking around with Mulder.
But Scully likes it more than anyone. There is no pleasing her, I know it.
And she’s in a fantastically powerful position in Mulder’s screwed-up psyche.
If she dies, if she bleeds, he follows suit. Anyone would enjoy that sort of
power, but her–
“Your Exodus laughing– and she knows what you are– so shimmy once and do it
I wonder what Scully would do if she knew half the shit about Mulder I
do. The bastard was actually married. And all that crap about her being
his only true confidante ever– bullshit. That boy’s got loose lips, loose
lips I’d love to give quite a workout– down, Alex, down– but if she knew,
those icy blue eyes would cut his throat. Metaphorically speaking of course.
“If you want me to, boy I could lie to you– you don’t need one of these to
let me inside of you–”
Shit, here I am, getting piss drunk and wanting the last man on earth I need.
No matter what he knows about EBEs, he’s just not the man he should be. I
blame Scully, but who the hell knows? Mulder might think he’s a bad
motherfucker, but he’s a pussycat. He has the heart of a psychology professor
in a world where he needs the soul of a killer. I pity him, even as I wish I
could fuck him senseless, not out of love, but out of desire and rage. Yeah,
Alex, that’s the ticket, next time you and Mr. Oxford Boy cross paths, throw
his punk ass to the ground and pound the shit out of him. Sexually speaking of
“Jesus, bro, you had a six pack already,” the bartender tells me. She’s
pretty, but I saw her making eyes at a six-foot Lucy Lawless wannabe.
Lesbians. I don’t get it.
“Fuck you and get me another one.”
“Fine,” the chick says. She’ll probably spit in it, who the hell cares. “What
the hell are you doing here anyway?”
“Would you look for a gay hit man in a cheesy lesbian bar like this, sister?”
“Fuck no,” she says. “You’re a fag?”
“Yeah. Usually. You got a problem with that?” I ask with a sneer.
“Nah, here, beer for you. What, you between boyfriends?”
“I don’t usually screw around with boyfriends, I’m just thinking about this
particular sucker I’d like to fuck senseless. He hates my guts. Where’d you
get this CD, by the way?” I ask.
“Virgin Megastore. Why, you a Tori fan?”
“Hell no, I just like this cocaine song. The guy, he’s got this controlling
woman just like the bitch in the song.”
The woman singing is making these incredible sounds, like she’s just come or
something, after pleading to the listener to “please don’t help me with this.”
It’s stupid as hell, but I like the song.
“Oh, okay,” the bartender says, going off to serve another customer. I think
about Mulder shaving his legs for Scully, and I just start busting up
laughing, almost miss the last words of the song, said in a flat,
“Cut it again.”
I finish my beer, pay the bartender, who gives me a fake smile, and stagger
off in the street, making a silent promise to Mulder– next time we meet,
things are going to get very interesting.
Very interesting indeed.