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26 September 2012 @ 02:19 pm
Archiving an old fic that hasn't been posted here.  
(I might be doing this from time to time so that LJ doesn't delete this account.)

Title: Eve of the Apocalypse
Chapter: 1/1
Author: inlaterdays
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Words: ~800
Genre: Drama, Angst, Vignette, Sex
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine.
Summary/Author’s Note: Originally posted here on 21 Sept 2008 to xf_pornbattle for the prompt "midnight". Thank you to Shannon for the beta! Also archived here.

I'd given up being surprised that you'd survived, against all hope and all the odds; I'd given up being surprised that the aliens had regenerated your arm before you'd sold them out; I'd even given up being surprised that you'd turned out to be on the same side I was all along (more or less) - though I still questioned your motives and methods. To say the least.

I never gave up being surprised at that one incongruous streak of grey in your dark hair, your face unchanged, if a bit more weary-looking. Your beauty, as always, was startling, and I still didn't trust you.

We were older. But no wiser.

You were late. I'd almost given up when you melted out of the shadows. You knew what I wanted. You knew I hated myself for it.

I cursed under my breath at my inability to exercise what little common sense I'd ever possessed when you were around. I slammed you against the wall, needing the violent contact of my body on yours. I wanted to break your bones. I wanted to crush you to powder. I wanted to grab you and never let go.

I shoved you again, harder. You never fought back. That roused me more, and you loved it: the power to make me react.

"God, I hate you..."

"I know." So calm. You could make me angry, but I could make you panic. And although I wanted your heart pounding, I didn't want it like that.

"Damn you."


I pushed again; you fell, and I was on you instantly. You broke my grip and rolled. I lunged, clumsy with need; you dodged and ended up on top, letting your full weight rest - there, ah, God - just for an instant...then got up.

This was not to be borne. I pulled you back down roughly; but you flipped us again and began tearing at my shirt. I'd won; you'd given in and started it. I let the triumph show on my face, but you broke me with the raw need in your voice. "Stop it, Mulder. Just..." Hands again, clawing at me, desperate, and you were right: I gave in, too. Tore the fabric of your shirt and you were panting, I was sweating, and God your fucking belt buckle stuck...

Somewhere a clock struck the half hour. We had so little time left. We'd wasted so much.

Nothing else mattered then; we were burning. My whole being ached with the need to possess you, as if by entering your body I could invade your soul and change your essence. Your thoughts were inscrutable, but your body was mine for half an hour. It was enough.

I took you roughly; I knew it hurt you. I wanted to hurt you: punish you for what you were and for what you weren't; punish myself for desires impossible ever to see realized in this lifetime, and you, again, for rousing them in me.

"Look at me." I thrust roughly; your eyes flew open and locked on mine. For an instant, for one impossible moment, the world was right and you were mine and I was yours.

My body was unable not to finish what it had started. I thrust again; your eyes closed; you grabbed and arched and groaned. I wanted to make you scream, but you shifted your balance, did something with your hand, and I was the one who was lost, yelling your name, cursing; finished too soon. You were muttering in Russian. Your lashes were wet.

I wanted to caress you as we disengaged, but my traitor hand would never touch you gently. I lifted and dropped it, defeated.

"Get dressed," I said, roughly. And now, I couldn't meet your gaze. I'd left part of myself in you forever, and there was no taking it back. You knew it. But I also knew you'd keep it safe.

You stood over me. I had my head on my knees; you put your hand on my hair. You knew the truth I always denied.

The clock struck midnight. I didn't want you to go.

"Get out of here," I said.

"Look at me," you said, your voice husky with pain and afterglow.


"Look. At me." Something in your voice made me do it, and we locked eyes for the last time.

Then you were gone, back into the shadows, at the last stroke of midnight.

It was the first hour of the first day of the invasion, and Fox Mulder, future hero of the resistance, sat weeping as if his heart would break.