From: Shannon To: whispers list Subject: [XFNC17ff] NEW FIC: Trust, Fear, Regret, and Aftershave M/K, M/Sc, "R", 1/1 Date: Saturday, December 01, 2001 1:06 PM Trust, Fear, Regret, and Aftershave by Shannon Kizzia (lmelao@earthlink.net) Website: http://www.angelfire.com/scifi/xtasy/shannon.html Rating: R for sexual thoughts and situations Category: V, SRA Keywords: M/K established relationship, M/Sc (It'll just sting for a second.) Mulder/Scully friendship, Krycek POV Spoilers: Paper Clip Disclaimer: Krycek, Mulder, Scully and all other X-Files characters are not mine. They belong to FOX, 1013, and Chris Carter. I'm not making any money off their use. I'm just babbling. Don't mind me. Archive: Yes, yes, yes! But tell me where! I like to visit my prodigal children. :) Author's note: Thanks to Mik, Jax, Bertie, DS, Michele, and everybody else on the slashmulder list for being so welcoming of me even though I'm a shipper. ;) I'm sorry I couldn't leave Scully out of this one. LOL! Maybe next time. Thanks to Indi for talking to me about love in all its complexity and for helping me to better understand mine. Thanks to David for being a Libra and for his unwavering warmth and caring. This story is for Satina. I love you. Trust, Fear, Regret, and Aftershave by Shannon Kizzia Five weeks without you. Five weeks with knowing you would run to her instead in the wake of my rejection of you. I don't know why I did it. Well, fear. I do know the fear. How can I not? I push it out from behind my eyes every morning, push it down beneath lung and ribcage and stomach. My heart accepts its intrusion, houses my terror well, has for years. You fit in well there with your open, expressive eyes asking too much of me. You pushed me too far that day in the cold, wet, grey of December. Your warm lips on mine, so cold and trembling. My love for you made me cry, but faster than the tear tracks could frost over in the 23 degrees, I ran, retreated, hurt you. I left you standing there, arms empty of me, your hands clutching. God, how I crave those long fingers, how they work me, how they slow and stop me from running straight out of myself. But run I did that day. Faster than I ever have and that includes the time I outran death in the form of a car bomb with my name on it. But I couldn't stay away for long, try as I might. I came back three days later to surveille you. They taught me to do it so that one day I might kill you. And there I was outside her apartment and you were killing me. She brought you in, took your coat, traced her fingers down your wet cheeks. You knelt at her feet, letting her soothe her hands through your hair. And then you parted her robe and buried your face, your nose, your mouth, your sorrow for me between her naked thighs. You ate her sloppily and I felt it in my bones, in the marrow for fuck's sake. I couldn't leave until you were done. Until she came, gripping your head to her, head back, pretty red hair falling between her shoulder blades. I turned my back on the both of you, pulling my dick out of my jeans, and came into Scully's jade plants, my breath rising, visible and moist in the crisp, night air. Then I went to my hotel room, pulled the coverlet off the bed along with a pillow, and slept on the floor. I can't do the bed without you. What would be the point of trying to be comfortable? Comfort doesn't come to me without you there to provide it. I never knew what it was to be safe before you. Which is so ironic seeing as how your place is about the easiest to break into I've ever fucking seen. But it's not about locks and alarm systems, this safety you provide for me. It's about allowing my soul to return. About your heart keeping watch over mine. But you've got your work cut out for you. You really do. I do not love easily. I have not let you love me. How can I let you love this? Can I still love you knowing you love a killer, an assassin, little ol' me? Yeah, it's fucked, but I can. And not only that, I can need you to love me. That's the shit right there. That's what made me run. And that's why I'm back. Raw, pure, unwanted need. And there you are. Sitting. Brooding. Probably horny, because you haven't been back to see her. Not for sex, that is. You and she have shared nothing more than whiskey and tea and a couch since that night you went there wanting to forget me in her. You feel guilty and she knows it. It hangs between you like it always has, the sex, the guilt, the draw to and away from each other. I hate that you have that with her. I hate that she understands your relationship with me, that she has that luxury, is so sure of the two of you together, what you are to each other. What do I get to have with you? Is it just the sex? No, I know the answer to that. If it were just that I would never have run, never had cause to, never seen and recognized the love and trust you let me see in you. No, I know my place with you, my importance. I *knew* it. Now I don't. Now that I've ripped the trust right out of your gut. Again. Shit. You don't know I'm behind you as you sit alone, eyes cast down, on this park bench. You don't know that I've come back because I know I fucked up and I know you can't come to me, bad as you want to, and because I keep dreaming of your aftershave and the sound of your pants softly pooling on the floor, accented by the sweet ping of your belt buckle. I miss the taste of you, the sound of you when I'm tasting you. I miss being forgiven when I hurt you, seeing the blue cast in your eyes when you let me back in. I'm going to wrap my arms around you now from behind and tongue my "I love you" into the taught tendon of your neck. Please moan yours back and be mine again. End Feedback loved and nurtured at lmelao@earthlink.net