Cuts You Up - Annie Oates

Title: Cuts You Up
Author: Annie Oates
Fandom: X-Files
Pairing: Krycek/Mulder
Rating: R
Archive: Ask.
Disclaimers: Chris Carter met up with the characters. I just supplied the issues.
Warnings: Self-Injury, Obsession
Author Notes: Was previously published in X-Plicit Fantasies Three by Maverick Press. Also won a STIFfie Award at MediaWest.
Summery: Krycek’s in a thoughtful spot.
Timeline: Post Ascension. Pre Apocrypha.
Feedback: Always welcome.

Crimson fell and spread. Water diluting the perfect sphere of blood. Life flowed from his flesh, only to be lost in the white pool around him. The water burning hot. The stained, chipped porcelain, ice against his back. His arm stretched beyond him, resting on the edge. The cut welling up and dripping into the water. There was no pain. Only the shocking contrast of red on white.

He was alive. His heart still beat. His blood still flowed.

Along side the shallow gash he made another. And another. The fine blade sliding though skin. Three wounds weeping in harmony. Angels sang as he bled. And demons fled.

Breath, now reassured came even and measured.

Level.

Balance.

Control.

Chaos blinded Fury beyond the veil he drew around him.

Whirlwinds lost in Dance.

Lies lost in Truth.

Love lost in Hate.

"I bleed for you." His breath pushed words past lips unmoving. Currents flowed before him, finding freedom in silence.
How many times had his breath touched that skin. Exhaling screams and moans, accusations and confessions. Born in awful silence.

Even his pulse was dead to his ears. Ears that were to be keen and sure. To hear the things predators here. To hear the death rattle of the hunted. Now hearing only the absence of that voice.

How he preened under that scrutiny. Gawky, he shifted from foot to foot with stars in his eyes and a hardon in his pants. Those days found cheap polyester to be his friend. Their shapeless reluctance holding no form. He drew himself within the folds and emerged a new man. A little too cocksure, a little too gun-shy. For a time he became real. Eyes saw him. Those eyes saw him. His voice was heard. Heads turned at a laugh too harsh. Eager responses barely waiting for the questions. He oozed desperation and normalcy. Ever so careful he became the part. Stopping off at the corner store on the way back to the apartment. A six-pack of brews and an evening watching the game. Any game. Real men watched sports, drank beer, ate chili. Always interrupted by that phone call requiring a detailed report of the days activities. Returning a bit of information on the subject in question. The rest of the beer swallowed furiously. He was doing a service. He was one of the good guys. He was a patriot. Recruited for his zeal, growing fat on the lies fed to him. Complacent. Unquestioning. Loyal. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the cause. Nothing he wouldn’t give. He was a hero. When this was all over, his name would be uttered by the lips of the grateful as though it were a blessing. Then why did it feel so wrong?

Lonesome nights often found him seeking solace in a bag of sunflower seeds. Sucking the salt from the outer casing. Teasing the crack open with his tongue. Coaxing the seed from its hiding place. Eyes closed, seeing a hundred images, hearing a hundred urgent whispers, feeling nothing but the burn of salt upon his lips. Eyes opening to frustration and denial. Hand flinging the bag against the wall. Shower of seeds spilling across the floor. For days afterward, he would find reminders of his secret. Hiding in his shoe. Pocket. Holster. Denial dancing away from his grasp. You know you’ve hit bottom when even snack food mocks you.

The sudden bark of laughter echoing off broken tiles startled him. He sneered in the cooling steam and glanced out the doorless frame and into darkness. Red numbers glowed at him. Menacing him with their countdown. The time had come. He rose with remnants of steam. Vapors chilling on his skin. Tightening veins. Restricting flow. Dead again, he left the water in the tub. Dripped it across the floor and into his jeans as he shrugged them on. Denim chafing up damp, muscled thighs. Black t-shirt rolling awkwardly into armpits. Leather soaking its scent into his pores. He dressed himself in this personality and became shadow. The light sucked from around him, settling into a dampened glow behind his eyes. Hollow and hungry he left memories and life behind him. Stalking the night itself, Death searched out his mission. Reduced to errand boy, his job was to bring things. Tonight he brought an end. No one he knew. No one he wanted to know. A nameless face matching the photo slipped under the door. Hidden in a manila envelope, smelling of paperclips and copy paper. Generic.

Every time he pulled the trigger he heard that voice. Consoling him. Comforting him. As once those soft words had done. His orders had been to shoot. He did. But not because he was under orders. But because he had really seen a gun instead of a bible. He took a tortured man’s life to protect that gentle soul. With that hand on his back. Rubbing small, reassuring circles. That mouth speaking solace. Every thread his hand cut he brought out that memory. Hid in its warmth. And let his body cry for him.

ท ืท ืท ืท ืท

Breath makes icy fingers in the cold air of the car. Dark and still, the temperatures drive the sane into the warmth of their homes. Into beloved arms.

Leather creaks in its folds along elbows. Teeth clenched against the chatter. Against the howl of the lonely.

Noises transmitted through headphones. Falsetto moans. Dialogue standing in for foreplay. The wet smacks of flesh on flesh. That figure lying prone on the leather of the sofa. T-shirt showing a teasing glimpse of belly above the loose sweat pants. Drawstrings dangling to either side of the hand creeping back and forth.

Unaware of the chill he listened in his car. Torturing himself with these images. Providing scenery to the soundtrack. Every night he wasn’t sent on an errand, he sat here. Out of sight. Listening. Every night he was treated with a show. Accompanied by different soundtracks, but always ending the same.

It started as always with those long legged strides entering the building. Pulling mail from its box. The elevator safely depositing its passenger on the fourth floor. Door opening. Pause. Door closing. Rustle of jacket being dropped. Followed by tie as shoes are toed off. Holster. Pants. Shirt. Each button sliding through the hole. Persuaded by elegant fingers. Collar separating. Laying bare that neck. Opening down, down, down. Falling from those shoulders. Landing on the pile of clothes. They smelled of that odor. He had smelled that odor once. While leaning close to catch a glimpse of open file. Pointing out information that didn’t exist just to brush that thumb holding the page. That scent. Hard worked. Perspired. He wanted to lick that skin where it lay. Wanted to bite and suck. Wanted to offer himself for sacrifice. Live. Pulsating. Raw. Gripping the steering wheel he listened as the clothes were gathered up and heaped in a forgotten corner. T-shirt and underwear. Only cotton between him and fantasy. Messages checked. Notes taken for that night’s report. Take out food ordered. Delivered. Eaten. TV flipped. Sometimes resting on basketball. The mating habits of various creatures. Infomercials. Finally, the tape slid in place. He would listen. That soft breath coming faster. The rustle of material being pushed aside. Then the rhythm would begin. Never changing pace. Steady. Then silence. Sleep would claim that form. Always the same. Silicon sirens singing their lullabies.

His eyes would be tired and grainy. Angry tears choked back.
"I want to be your addiction." The frost suffering hot words. Grabbing scab’s edge. Ripping. Weeping. Red tears trailing down his arm.
With pants too tight he would start the car and head back to his room. Make the phone call. Report, and receive his orders. Sometimes entering back into the night on errands. Sometimes huddling in the corner until dawn scorched over the floor. Sometimes laying in a bathtub of reddened water until time to begin again.

One evening, darkness came without entrance. He sat in the car. Tightwire nerves stretched between himself and the empty doorway. No long legged strides. No elevator ride. No maddening noises of that body undressing. He felt lost. Unsure. Fear. What had happened? Why was he left alone? Abandoned for the night he pulled out a cell-phone and made the call. Nothing to report. Subject absent. Falsely calm voice. Minimal information returned. Subject away on case. Report back tomorrow. Dead hum of disconnection.

Shaking. Every muscle flexed. He opened the car door and leaned out. Retching into the darkness. Stomach inside out. Following, he stepped into the darkness and approached the entrance. Long legged strides up the steps. To the elevator. Fourth floor. Down the hall. That door. Accusing. Shaming. Mocking. He picked its worn lock and closed it behind him.

Wide eyes looked before him. Every space with its own sound. Rustle of jacket being dropped. Boots untied and taken off. Weapon. Pants. T-shirt. Fingers touching his neck where the tie would be. Looking at the pile of clothes. They smelled of him. Wrong. Clothes were gathered up and buried in the heap of a forgotten corner. Naked. Air touched his skin. He breathed the same air that mouth breathed. Taking deep gulps. Sucking stale exhalations with each breath. Messages checked and reset. He touched everything. Caressed the space it occupied. Its mass. Its volume. Each room explored. Dustballs delicately adored. Shower used. Water made to touch that body, cascading over his own skin. Medicine cabinet. Bare but for spare razor blades. Sleeping pills. Expired condoms. He pulled the blades out and turned them so light glinted from their edges. They would soon be touching that face. Scraping it clean. Carefully each blade extracted. Diagonal slashes made across chest to belly. Each one used. Wiped visibly clean. Leaving himself unseen on the blade. In the box. Soon enough. On that face. Soon. Soon he would be part of that skin. That body. Soon he would never be left again.

TV flipped. Sometimes resting on basketball. The mating habits of various creatures. Infomercials. Finally, the tape slid in place. He watched. His soft breath coming faster. The rhythm beginning. Never changing pace. Steady. Then silence. Sleep claiming him. Dreamless.

Disturbed he opened his eyes to early light. Hurrying he pulled his clothes from the pile. Inhaling. Ignoring the rust on his torso. He dressed. Happy. He had that smell on him. Leaving.

ท ืท ืท ืท ืท

Now it’s dark.
Raw. Clothes in a forgotten corner. Shoes hidden in shadow. Feet bare against cement. Hands bloodied against steel door. Pale light or blinded eyes. No difference. Screams soaked into the stone. Hoarse voice croaking pleas. Fingers tracing bruises.

Those hands had touched him. Pressed into his flesh until marked. He was marked. A territory. Those fists had bruised ribs. That knee slammed into his thigh. Held up, floating above that face. A mantra inside. Punish. Atone. Purify.

Bleeding. Bruised. Clean. Curled fingers and digging into ribs. Fist pounding thigh. Closing eyes and feeling that body that did this.

"I belong to you."

The darkness laughing at him. Calling him a fool. The ship. Gleaming in his blindness. Knowing his secret. He had been a ship. A vessel for that....thing. Used. It had stolen from him. He didn’t care about the tape. There would always be more information. More secrets to sell. But there were things about the journey he couldn’t remember. He could see them. But he couldn’t know them. Sitting together on the airplane. In the rental car. So close. Touching. The accusations made by that voice didn’t belong to him. That thing had taken them from him. Left him empty and obsolete. Useless.

Grief refused tears. Loss. Wrenched. Wretched. Desperately restless. Pacing. Keening. A wounded animal trapped. Ready to chew off its own leg. Nails stabbing. Skin surrendering. Emotion welling up and spilling over onto the cold floor. Not only was anger red. Grabbing bits and pulling. Pain. So much pain. Burning him. Making him real. Making him worthy. Pulled back into his body, then beyond. Expulsed. Transcending. Into the black that was without light. Then that face. He saw that face. Hovered in front of it. Around it. Through it. He whispered and screamed at it. It talked, but not to him. Those eyes did not see him. Those shoulders, shivering with a sudden chill did not understand the coldness of his touch. He watched that face argue, laugh, smirk, cajole, console, subdue, submit, joke, think, eat, sleep.

Then, burned by the sun. Light grappling him, pulling him away. Fighting. Forced back into his body. Cold. Too bright. Arms grabbed him. Pulled him. Rolled him into a vehicle. Eyes closed. Too bright. Clothes forced on him by latex hands. Mumbled gasps. Vibration of travel. Rocking. Sleeping. Moved into another vehicle. Much smaller. More traveling. Dumped. Yelling. Picked up. Laid flat. Moving. Bright light. Eyes closed. Forced open one at a time. Restrained. Wrists. Ankles. Sharp on his arm. Cold rushed through his veins. Pain gone. Floating away.

He grunted. Waking himself up. Confused. Opening one eyes, he squinted in the dim lighting. Stomach itching. Moving to scratch, stopped short. Opening both eyes. Frowning. Suspicious. Beeping. Heart beat registered on monitor. IV hanging above his arm. Steady dripping. Uncomfortable presence of catheter. Wiggling hips. No luck. Closing eyes again and listening. Soft nighttime sounds. Hospital sounds. Time passing. Curtain pushed aside. Warm hand on wrist. Looking. Eyes meeting his. A mother’s eyes. Gentle. Reassuring words. Leaving. Doctor arriving. Explaining. Dehydration. Bloodloss. Miracle. Unstrapping.

He stayed in the hospital for a two days. Long enough to enjoy a warm bed, warm food, warm faces. Too long. Eyes averted. Escape made.

Back to darkened rooms. Full bath-tubs. Hero’s quest. Contacts made. Bridges burned. The game was the same. The rules had changed.

End.