Kicking
Author: GatorGurl
Rating: R (for language)
Category: S/K, one sided UST
Feedback: Please. Gatorgurl94@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Early Season 8, nothing specific.
Disclaimer: All characters contained within are the
property of Chris Carter and Fox. 
Author's note: A huge "thank you" has to go out to
Rachel, for lending me her ears and her beta and also
to Savannah for hanging in there and being there from
the beginning. :)



I slip into the corner booth and wait. Part of me
thinks she won't show, even though this isn't our
first meeting and probably won't be the last. Not as
long as he's still missing and I still have answers.

The waitress asks what I'm drinking without even
looking at me. Water. No ice. No lemon. She nods,
acknowledges my order with a bored nod. She drops a
cocktail napkin on the table and vanishes. I glance at
my watch. Scully is late. She's not usually late. The
waitress returns with my water- ice and lemon. Jesus.
"You ready to order?"
"I'm waiting on someone," I tell her. 
"I'll give you another minute." She spins on her heel
and moves on to a more profitable table.

The restaurant is filling up, the din of voices
becoming full-fledged clatter. I can't relax,
wondering if this meeting is the one. The one where
she comes in wired, signaling in the feds when she's
heard enough. I recall our previous meetings and
wonder why she hasn't ever done just that. I fold my
napkin into a neat 1/2inch square. I glance at my
watch. Scully's going on twenty minutes; the waitress
is becoming increasingly annoyed. I'm on my fourth
glass of water and there is a line of people waiting
to be seated.
"You sure they're going to show, mister?"
I toss her a dirty look.
"Let me know when you're ready."

I watch the door and wonder if something has happened.
Wonder why she hasn't called to cancel, maybe she's
stuck in traffic. I decide to give her ten more
minutes. I wave the waitress down and order a coffee.
Black. No sugar. That's my new addiction, now that
I've quit drinking.

She comes through the door. Ten minutes after I said
I'd only wait ten more minutes. She scans the room,
locates me easily. Scully marches through the
restaurant to the booth. She shrugs off her coat,
tosses it into booth then slides in. She looks
annoyed; then again she seems to be in a perpetual
state of annoyance these days.
"I didn't think you were going to show." I say,
setting the small square in my saucer.
She settles into the slippery seat, her eyes doing an
angry roll. "Why wouldn't I?"
"You're forty minutes late. I don't appreciate
waiting."
"Then you shouldn't have." She picks up the menu.
Our waitress materializes at our side.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
"Do you have caffeine-free diet coke?"
"No."
"Water then." Scully sighs, closing her menu. "Little
ice and the lemon on the side."
The waitress' head bobs as she takes the order.
"I'll have your chicken Caesar salad with an extra
roll." Scully hands her the menu.
"What about you, mister?"
I shake my head. "Just a refill on the coffee."
"So where is it?" She demands
"You know the deal." 
She sighs again deeply, full of strain. She rests her
elbows against the table.

The meetings are mostly business. She asks questions;
I give her partial answers. Sometimes I tell her
exactly what she wants to know. Always, I bring a
gift; the only gift she'd ever accept from me-
evidence. It makes her feel better, keeps her coming
back. Best of all, it doesn't cost me a thing. It's
inconsequential. They are just words. Words in a story
I already know the ending to. She's never heard it
before so to her it's still interesting, still
unresolved. The words give her hope and make her feel
useful and that's fine with me. In return, I get the
pleasure of her company and sometimes even hostility
free conversation.

Tonight, though, hostility is the only thing I'm
getting from her. Must be the new man in her life. I
wonder what he'd say if he knew she was consorting
with the enemy, leading her own investigation without
him. I wonder if she realizes how many of her old
partner's habits seem to have rubbed off on her.
"Well," she says, impatient. " Anything?"
I shake my head, tapping the tabletop. She clearly
doesn't understand that I don't give a shit about
Mulder. Or truth. Or justice. Or revenge. I don't give
a shit about anything-except maybe her, though I'm not
at all sure why. 
"You said you had something." Anger tinges her every
word.

I dig a folder out of my leather satchel and set it in
front of her, another day, another secret government
program. She shoves it beneath her jacket without
looking. She never looks until I've gone. 
The waitress returns with her water, too much ice and
a wedge of lemon, not on the side. Her tip keeps
getting smaller and smaller. She drops two rolls
unceremoniously in front of Scully. 
"Your food will be right out."
Scully picks up a roll and tears it in two. She drops
one half back onto the plate and peels open a pat of
butter. She stabs at it with her knife, spreads the
whipped cream over her roll. She's living on the edge
tonight.

She eats and graciously allows me to watch. We don't
talk. When she's finished she pushes her plate back.
Dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin then
sets it back into her lap. She says nothing; she
doesn't need to. Her expression says it for her. Let's
get this over with. Suddenly, I'm tired. She watches
me, waiting. I lean forward, digging into my back
pocket, pull out my wallet and fish out a twenty. 
I lay it on the table, as I gather my bag, 
"Ninth Street parking garage, 3rd floor. 7:30 pm." I
tell her.
She nods; I go. 



I slip into my apartment, tossing the leather bag on
the floor beside the door. I shrug off my jacket; toss
it on the couch. I walk into the kitchen, making a
mental note to have the maid come everyday from now
on. When did I become such a goddamn slob? I fish
around for a clean glass, fill it straight from the
tap and drink. So damn thirsty these days. I hit the
bedroom next. Undress and slip beneath the cool cotton
sheet. It's only 8:30 pm. Haven't gone to sleep this
early since I was fucking nine years old, but goddamn
it! I'm tired. I contemplate masturbating, but only
for a second. It's just not worth the trouble. I pull
the sheets over me. 

I wake up fourteen hours later. I remember nothing;
I've stopped dreaming.

I pull the medicine cabinet in the bathroom open, scan
the pharmaceuticals I've amassed. I pull out an
anonymous container, pop two and move into the shower.
My whole body aches. I'm rusting. That's what happens
when you're put out of service. I crank the hot water
full throttle and slip inside. I don't feel it scald
my skin; I don't feel a fucking thing. Hot water
washes over me. I tilt my head back, mouth open. The
water spills into my mouth; I swallow. 


I channel surf. I flip through magazines. The alarm
finally rings-10:00 a.m.- time for my medication. This
must be what retirees feel like. 



Introspection is not a luxury I allow myself often.
Though, I admit it is something I find myself doing
more frequently these days. I sit poolside fully
clothed, watch neighbors I never knew I had, cavort in
the pool I only recently realized was housed on the
roof of my building and think about him. I should have
killed the bastard earlier, while he was still worth
something, still possessed power over the
organization. A tall blond saunters by, smiles
apprehensively as she approaches my lounge chair. I
nod a greeting; she picks up the pace. I should have
shot his fucking brains out.

I don't even like to think about how it did end. It's
just too fucking pathetic. Frankly, it's undignified,
completely beneath me to have terminated him in such a
manner. There was so much more I should have done. The
blond glances back at me from her own chair. God, she
looks like Marita. The wrecking ball of my heart
plummets into my stomach. I'm so fucking sorry,
Marita. I should have done more. I should have made
him suffer. I should have kept a souvenir-his forked
tongue in formaldehyde. I manage a smile; she looks
away.


It's been a week already, hard to believe. Seems like
I'm losing time all over the place lately, the days
spill seamlessly into each other, all remarkably
alike. I can't be bothered with keeping track. I only
need to know it is Wednesday. Wednesdays are the only
days that matter. The nightly news ends with a story
of hope and perseverance that is supposed to make up
for the last 25 minutes of depressing shit they've
been shoving down my throat. No matter, I have the
most depressing news of all, but I'm keeping it to my
fucking self -thank you very much. 

Seven o'clock, time to get dressed. I push off the
couch, move into the cubbyhole I call my office. I
rifle through my worthless pile of paperwork, video
and digital tapes. What to hand over today? More lab
reports, more proof? I choose a file that might appeal
to her. I move into the bedroom, scour through my
closet for something just right. What to wear? Ever
seen me in my one of my Saville Row suits, Scully? No,
of course you haven't. Then again, a suit wouldn't be
right, would it? Not for where we're going. I struggle
with the decision for an obscene amount of time, but
ultimately end up my same old uniform. No use
pretending what I'm wearing will make a difference. 

Tonight it's good old Elk Lanes in Elkton. 
When I suggested this place, standing in the murky
darkness of the Ninth Street parking garage, she
actually laughed. Okay maybe it was more like a
sardonic chuckle. Point being, I got a glimpse of her
neat little teeth and was immediately consumed with
wondering how those teeth would feel on particularly
delicate parts of my body. I watched her slip into her
car, got into mine. I spent the entire car ride
pondering the strength of her bite and the sandpaper
roughness of her tongue on my skin.

The PA calls for clean up on lane 4. I stop
scrutinizing the mechanically pressed perfection of my
paper cup. Focus my attention, instead on my dinner
date. Scully's not laughing now. She does though, have
her lips pursed in a way that makes me wonder what
they'd feel like puckered on my ass.
"You look bored." She says, sliding her empty cup to
the side. She fiddles with the paper wrapping of her
straw.
Bored? Oh god, no, Scully. How could I be bored
watching you? 
She licks her dry lips. Heat flushes through me,
puddles behind my eyes. I shift in my seat. Take a sip
of my water. She watches me carefully.
"What are you getting out of this?" She asks finally.
I run my fingers across the watermark left by my cup.
What am I getting out this? I don't know. This seemed
like such a good idea three months ago; now it just
seems pathetic and pointless. She taps her latest gift
with her index finger. Balls strike pins, crash like
thunder in my ears. The hanger-like building is
suddenly too warm. I tug at my collar. 
Sweat beads on my forehead. Scully, are you hot? I
rest my eyes on the curve of her neck. The crisp
collar of her dress shirt is almost as pale as her
skin. The temperature spikes another ten degrees.
"Where are you getting all this information?" She asks
casually, as if she were asking the time.
I'm taken aback. Is that what we were discussing? Have
I been sleeping?
She slings her right leg over her left, rests her arm
on her thigh, her other arm straddling the back of the
chair. Her foot bobs restlessly. 
I watch her and wonder what her bare feet look like. I
bet her feet are beautiful. She's always wearing such
square-toed shoes; she couldn't possibly have bunions
or hammertoes. Maybe next week I'll ask her to show
me. My head starts throbbing.
"Krycek." She snaps impatiently.
Have I been staring? Shit. It's just that...
She sighs. "So, that's it for this week?" Softer, dare
I say...concerned?
I'm in pain, doctor. Got any Percocet? 
"I suppose so." Each word doled out with what seems
like an incredible amount of effort.
She gathers her things up, tilting towards me as she
stands. I get a good whiff or her. She smells like
morning mass, like the comfort of a confessional, warm
and clean. 
If I confess to you all my misdeeds Scully, will you
promise to make me pay? Promise to make it hurt? 
She pauses, regarding me with her wonderfully cool
eyes.
Promise to make me suffer? I think you'd know just
how. I see it in those glassy eyes. You'd revel in
destroying any part of me you could. Believe me, I'd
revel in my destruction.
Her eyes widen.
Can you hear me, Scully? Are you offended?
She glances around. 
Who are you looking for? I'm right here.
She clears her throat, touches her upper lip with her
porcelain fingers. I mimic her, touching my own face.
I pull my fingers back- blood. 

I don't expect her to be standing outside the bathroom
door when I emerge. Yet, there she is coat draped over
her arm, waiting.
"Are you all right?"
What? I'm sorry, are you talking to me? 
"Krycek?"
She's standing intolerably close.
"I'm fine."
She regards me skeptically. I dig into my pocket,
pretending to search for my keys. 
What the fuck do you care, Scully? You've got your
file. Go.
She's not moving. Her quizzical eyes prod me for a
response.
"I've been having trouble sleeping."
"I can't imagine why." She sneers. 


"I don't think you should be driving." She says as we
approach our cars.
I laugh.
"Why don't you come home with me then? Just to make
sure I get there all right." I ask facetiously.
She leans against her sober Taurus. Is she actually
considering it? Maybe she's estimating how quickly she
can arrange for a SWAT team to be here.
"We go in my car." She says flatly.
I shake my head. "Sorry. I've no desire to end up in
jail tonight. I think I'll take my chances and drive
myself."
She glowers at me, yanking her door open. "Suit
yourself."
"Scully."
She glares at me impatiently.
"Next Wednesday. Same garage, same time."
She huffs and slips into the car.


Wednesday. At exactly eight thirty pm, her dark sedan
pulls up beside my car. Ours are the only two in the
east side of the garage. I lower my window; she
follows suit.
"Get in." I never take my eyes off my reflection in
the windshield.
Her car door opens and slams shut. The keyless entry
remote beeps as she locks her car. I unlock the doors,
watching her shadow cross my rearview mirror. Her dark
form yanks the passenger side door open. She drops
into the seat.
"Where are we going?"
I nod towards the cap I've set on the dash.
"I'm not wearing that." Firm. Clear.
I kill the engine, turn to face her. She doesn't
flinch.
"I can't have you knowing where we're going."
She picks the wool cap up, inspecting the poorly
stitched eye sockets. She sticks her hand inside,
holding it up for me to see. "Not really good with the
needle and thread are you?"
"Are you going to put it on?"
It's only the eyes that I've sown shut; the nose and
mouth are open. It could be much worse. It could be
one of those leather jobs with zippers for eyes and
place for me latch the leash onto. Then again she'd
never go for something like that, would she? She
glances at the ski mask one more time.
"Where?"
"Somewhere worth your while."
She looks back up at me, unconvinced. "What makes you
think you know what is worth my while?"
"I'd like to take a stab at it." I chuckle.
Her brow furrows. 

She looks delicious. Her hands folded neatly in her
lap, mask covered head held high, little tufts of
auburn hair peering out from underneath. Her tongue
darts out between her lips, disappears. I want to pull
over and just watch her sitting there.
"So, where is this place?" She asks, seemingly unfazed
by the situation.
"We're almost there."
"That doesn't answer my question." She tugs at the
bottom of the mask.
I roll to a stop at a red light, daring to glance over
at her. I want to yank that mask off of her. I want
this to be more than business.
"Scully?"
She turns to face me, red crisscrossed stitches for
eyes. "What?"
Can I trust you? I want to know.
The light turns green. 


I pull into the underground garage of my building;
tell her to take the cap off. She tugs it off;
brushing sweat soaked strands of hair off her forehead
and hands it to me. I accept it apologetically.

The apartment still sparkles from the maid's recent
visit. I had her spend a little extra time today. I
don't want Scully thinking I'm a slob. I let her in
and she heads straight into the living room. She
glances around the room, inspects the books on the
coffee table, finally she turns to me.
"Yours?"
I nod. Surprise flashes across her face, but is
quickly subdued. Her remote, laissez faire expression
returns.
"Why bring me here?"
I shrug off my jacket, hang it on the coat rack. I
offer to take hers. She refuses. You can keep your
gun, I tell her. She pauses then takes her coat off,
revealing her weapon. I take the coat from her slowly
and hang it next to mine. As she inspects the room, I
remove her cell phone from the pocket of her coat and
slip it into my own.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"This isn't a social call." She snorts.
No, of course it's not. 
She glowers at me. I slip into the kitchen, leave her
glancing through some miscellaneous art book.

I dump the cell phone into the trash compactor. Lean
against the counter, suddenly dizzy. What the hell is
wrong with me? Did I mix and match? Did I miss a dose?
I try to shake it off. Just need some water, I tell
myself, opening the faucet. I don't bother with a
glass; I drink straight from the tap, dipping my head
beneath the cold stream when I finish. The water
stings the back of neck, dragging my attention away
from everything but the rush of water in my ears and
the caress of it as it slips beneath my collar. After
what seems like an eternity I shut the water off and
stand, tilting my head back, eyes shut against the
pain building behind them.

"Turn around." Suddenly behind me, her gun pressed
against the back of my neck.
I turn slowly. She rests the gun against my chest. "I
could kill you. There'd be nothing to stop me." Her
cold steely eyes bore into mine.
I shake my head in agreement. My chest constricts; my
lungs burn. My brain signals for me to breathe, but I
can't. I can't do anything, but stare into her eyes.
The muzzle of the gun slides down my stomach, to my
crotch. I feel the blood drain out of me. She pushes
the muzzle against me. 
She inches closer, her gaze fixed on me- a predator
watching its prey. Her free hand does a cursory
weapons check. I'm disappointed. I thought we were
past all that. 
The gun slides against my thigh as she steps back. 
"I guess it wouldn't really be worth my while though."
She teases.
I lean against the counter, air rushing into my
lungs, blood rushing to my cock. 
"I can appreciate you like being in charge." She tells
me matter-of-factly. She pops the clip out and sets
her gun beside me on the counter top. "I don't
appreciate being made to jump through hoops. I think
you understand, I'm a person who likes to be in
control." Her eyebrow piques; my cock twitches.
"What do you think you're doing?" I finally manage.
"Just testing a theory," she says, flashing me a
subdued smile. She backs away from me. "What is it you
want Krycek? I get the impression from our meetings
this hasn't got anything to do with the x-files. If
you want to know the truth, this is starting to feel a
bit personal."
I stare at her mouth, my tongue clenched in my teeth. 
She moves towards me, the tip of her brown shoes
touching mine. 
"Is this personal?" She whispers.
Yeah, Scully, it's as personal as it fucking gets.

Her perfume is familiar, vanilla with some other
flowery scent; I can't think of the name. I can't
think of anything, but how close her body is to mine.
I look down into her upturned face. She is clearly
annoyed by my silence. I suddenly regret bringing her
here.
She takes the gun off the counter. "What do think are
the odds there is a round in the chamber?"
Pretty fucking good. 
She rests the muzzle against my abdomen. "Should we
find out?"
"If that's what you want to do."
She jabs me with the gun. "Let's go."

She stands beside the end table, the telephone in
front of her. I take a seat on the couch, glancing
over my shoulder at her.
"It's disconnected." My voice is flat and even,
doesn't betray the pain coursing from my arm straight
to the base of my neck.

She puts the phone to her ear, frowns and sets the
receiver back into its cradle. She moves to the coat
rack and fishes out her cell phone. 
"Don't bother. I took it."
She prowls back and forth across the room, inspecting
my things. I know there are things I should say, but
I'm still a bit dazed, confused by her demeanor and
her aloofness. She stops at the unused fireplace.
"How impersonal." She comments, noting the lack of
personal mementos.
"There is nothing personal about my life."
"Not even your death?" She crosses the sparsely
furnished room. "I'm certainly hoping to make that
personal."
I can't help it. I find myself smiling at the
presumptuousness with which she delivers her comment,
stated not as probability but as fact. As if there is
actually any chance of her being able to execute her
threat. It's not her fault. She just doesn't know it's
already over. She can't win this game.
"Why are you smiling? I suppose you don't believe I'll
do it. That I won't stoop to your level."
"Scully, I would never presume to know what you are or
aren't capable of." I reply, doing best to appear
nonchalant, hide my discomfort. The pain shoots down
my spine; I swear I can feel each vertebrae, each
nerve ending. 
She watches me, arms crossed sternly across her chest,
her entire body screams defiance. The pain shoots from
my spine to my ribs. I don't want to do this Scully. I
struggle to breathe, my ribs cracking every time I
inhale. I am acutely aware of my body: the tautness of
my skin, the pounding of my heart, the strumming in my
ears. Aware of the sweat soaked temples, my damp
hands, suddenly the entire universe is contained
within me, everything of consequence happening right
inside me. Nothing else matters, not Scully, not her
threats, not my vulnerability, nothing but my next
breath, the kaleidoscope behind my closed eyelids.
"Krycek." Her heavy hand lands on my shoulder,
crushing my bones.
"Krycek." Stern and intolerant.
I don't understand her anger. Is she disappointed?
Maybe she expected more from me. I wonder if she has a
plan, wonder if she rehearsed this tease. Has she been
waiting for this moment? Did she somehow know I would
bring her here? No, how could she have? A crushing
weight presses at the back of my head; I know what my
body needs. I chastise myself for not planning ahead. 
"Krycek." She takes my chin in hand, tilts my head up.
She stares into my pinpointed eyes. "What are you
on?"
Shit. Goddamn her, fucking doctors.
It is sheer will that gets me off the couch. I lumber
into the bedroom and head straight for the bathroom.

She catalogs the contents of my medicine cabinet with
a mix of astonishment and disgust stamped on her face.

"This is quite a collection you have here." She picks
up each bottle as she reads them off. "Vicodin,
Percocet, OxyCotin, Darvon, Mebaral, and what this?"
She removes the eyeglass case, pops it open, pulling
out its aluminum foiled contents. She peels back the
aluminum foil.
"Heroin?" She snorts. "What are you trying to do? Kill
yourself?"
"Don't be stupid," I say, plucking the case from her
hand. "I'm already dead."
I don't know what stuns her more, the words or the
resignation with which they spill out of my mouth. I
shut the case and place it back on the top shelf of
the medicine cabinet. 
"What do you want?" She asks, the hostility replaced
with clinical detachment.
What do I want? I'm mute. I don't know what to say. I
can't remember the last time I really knew. There used
to be a plan, but it seems to have evaporated, along
with everything that used to matter to me. She stares
at me blankly, waiting. It dawns on me she's not
asking for the meaning of life. It's just a simple
question; a question of function, not of desired
understanding.
I pull out a bottle and hand it to her. She taps a
tablet onto her hand, places it in my open palm. I
regard her expectantly. She looks into my still open
hand; drops one more into my palm. I pop the tablets.
All better.
She snaps the cap back on, jams the bottle back in the
cabinet, slamming the door shut. The entire cabinet
rattles. 
"Pathetic." She mutters, pushing past me.
I grab her arm. 



She puts up a good fight, though in the end it doesn't
do her much good. I still manage to wrestle her into
handcuffs. She struggles against her bindings, not
concerned with the futility of her efforts. She looks
sexy as hell cuffed to the iron headboard of my bed:
arms outstretched, body taut, her brown shoes kicking
at the comforter.

I didn't realize my life was so small- two suitcases,
one carry on. It doesn't take but five seconds for me
to pull them out from beneath the bed. They're all
ready packed. I sweep my toiletries into the carry on
and prepare to abandon yet another apartment full of
meaningless possessions.
"I'm sorry." I tell her, bags in hand. "I meant for
this to turn out differently."
She glares at me, shrieks an incomprehensible
expletive through her gag. Her face is flushed with
rage. The headboard slams into the wall. She scoots
up against the headboard, no doubt trying to ease the
strain on her wrists.
It's time to go. 
I know it is.
"Why did you get in the car? You had no way of
knowing where I would take you."
She is still; her eyes dark and muted.
"The files, the proof? Was it something more than
that?"
She turns her face away for an instant then lifts her
head. She stares at me coldly. She jangles the cuffs,
rattling the headboard. I can almost make out her
grunt. Let me go. She tilts her head back, shaking her
hair out of her face. 
Come on.
I have to know.
It doesn't matter.
Yes, it does.
I set the bags down: she freezes. She pulls her knees
as close to her body as she comfortably can. I
approach her slowly. I reach for her and she kicks at
me. I grab her ankle; she tries to squirm out of my
grasp. I slip her shoe off. Her foot is beautiful,
like I knew it would be.



I lean the seat back, as the stewardess asks me if I'd
like a drink. We're back to that. 
"Coffee," I tell her, my smile as genuine as her
breasts. "That's my new addiction, now that I've quit
drinking."
She laughs, her green eyes hot with interest. She
slips a strand of her short brown hair behind her ear.

"Cream?" She teases. "Sugar?"
She leans in more than she needs to, allowing me a
perfect view into her blouse. As I glance down, it's
not her breast I notice, but her too tight blue shoes
and the way her swollen feet bulge out of them.
I look up into her eyes, unable to hide my
disappointment. "No thanks. I like it black."

END