Title: z e r o

Author: Lopsided Weevil
http://members.tripod.com/~Lopsided
Archiving: please ask before archiving

Summary: Originally written as an X-Files Scully/Other, I decided to turn this into a slash story. No names are actually mentioned, so you can imagine any pairing you like, but I'm assuming M/K told from Krycek's POV Angst rating 10 out of 10, so buckle up.

 

 

 

 

I hate this part. It's not fair, I've done my job well. A task was set before me and I accomplished it, and yet the result is the same as last time, the same as every time. I know what's going to happen, it's just a matter of waiting.

Ten.

That's how long, that's how many minutes, and then it will all be over and I'll be asked very politely to leave, exit, depart, get the fuck out. Not a very nice thing to do, considering. Considering. CONSIDERING. Maybe I misjudged the rules somehow, maybe I'm expecting too much. I've done my job, but maybe that's all there is. Do it and get out. Don't expect a thank you, or a pat on the back, just get out.

I don't usually complain, I do what's asked of me and then quietly leave the scene. It's what I do best, but this time it's different, at least I thought it was. Nine times out of ten I'm usually right about these things. But not this time. Not this time.

Nine.

I like it here. Even if I'm alone now, I still have the knowledge of what happened, I can still feel the after-effects of my mission. Being alone here isn't so bad, it's better than being alone somewhere else.

The water's stopped running. Another sign that I'll have to go soon. The water had a mission, not unlike my own, only it's job was to erase any signs of my work, my accomplishments. Now the water has been turned off, taken away until it's needed again. It'll just be a few minutes and I'll be gone, a few minutes and I'll be sent down the drain, flushed away. Unneeded, unwanted because I'm dirty. Just a few minutes - eight to be exact.

Yes, eight.

I'm comfortable here, I want to stay. Can't I just stay? I hear the sound of his toothbrush now. He's fucking brushing his goddamned teeth. Thorough bastard. It won't be long. I know this part by heart, a few brushes on each side, the backs and then the front. Rinse and spit. Rinse and spit. Just like with me. Rinse me off and spit me out.

After that comes the deadly silence, signpost of another minute passed and another minute sooner to when I'll have to leave.

Seven.

He doesn't need me. What he needs is a fucking blowup doll. What he needs is a fucking combination blowup doll and toothbrush. That way he can get off and a pearly white smile all that the same time. Brush me off. Fuck me over. What's the difference? Is that all I am to him, some god-damned appliance, here to do a job and then be put away until the next night? Apparently so.

I usually have a sixth sense about these things but not this time. I don't this time. All of my senses are working overtime. I can hear him, hear his husky voice whispering in my ear, 'suck my cock,' he says, 'take it deep,' he says. I can see him, see his eyes so close to mine. I can smell him, taste his sweat as I lick up and down his spine. I can feel him, feel his hot skin against mine. I sense all this these things, though the original sensations are long past. Yes, all my senses are working fine, all of them except the most important. All of them except...

Six.

Why, why can't I stay? I like it here, it's warm and comfortable, even with the wet spot. I don't mind sleeping in the wet spot, if that's what he wants, hell I'll even change the sheets and do the laundry for him, if he'd just let me stay. I want to stay, just this once, can't I stay?

I did my job, I got him off. Hell, if I wasn't any good at this why have I been here every night this week? Every night. Every god-damned night. Last week was when it all started. He asked me over twice last week. But now, this week, I've been here every night since Monday. Can't I get a Friday bonus or a weekend pass or something? Five nights I've been here, five times I've been kicked out. Five times.

Five.

He likes it, I know he likes the way I do it. But does he like me? I treat him special, I pay close attention to him, touching him in all the right places, softly caressing his body. I make sure he feels good, that he feels it all over, not just bump and grind, grab his ass and shove it in. That's not me, that's not my style. I do it nice and slow, build up to it, keep things moving, make sure there's lots of variety. You've got to keep them on their toes, make sure there's a new twist around every corner. That's where the fun is, the challenge of it. This ain't no drag race, and I'm no Mario Andreti. This here's a roller coaster ride with lots of twists and turns and dips and edgy highs and breathtaking plunges. Yep, I'm an e-ticket if there ever was one. So why do I have to leave?

Four.

I don't just fuck-n-run. I want to stay here, to hold him close to me and have him fall asleep in my arms. Is that too much to ask? Fuck, why am I even arguing with myself? The decision's already been made. I'm going to leave. He's going to come out of that bathroom looking like a million bucks and he's going to walk slowly over to the bed and smile hesitantly at me and then, god, and then.

Three.

I'm not leaving, I won't. I'm going to bury my face in this pillow and pretend that I'm sound asleep. He won't kick me out, he wouldn't, would he? God, I can still smell his musky scent on the pillowcase, it smells so much like him, like being lost in a jungle. I want to be there, under the mossy branches of a big old tree, making love to him. Making love, not just having sex. Is that all this is to him, sex? Two people having sex, two people using each other to get off. Two separate, disconnected people.

Two.

He's going to come out soon, it'll be any minute now. He'll open the door and quickly turn out the light then he'll walk over to the bed. He'll sit down next to me and look into my eyes and smile. But then I'll see him look away, glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. And that will be my signal, the sledgehammer hitting my brain telling me to go. To get out, to get the fuck out. Fuck. Out. Simple as that. Fuck and then out. But he won't say a word, not a single word. Not 'thank you' or 'you were wonderful' or 'I love you,' lord, definitely not 'love' that word's not in his vocabulary. If there was one word he never used that would be it, that would be the one.

One.

Maybe it'll be different this time. It can be, can't it? He's not made of stone, is he? Is he? I can take my chances, can't I? I can wait and hope and cross my fingers and just pray that this time it'll be different, that this time what's in his heart will be different, that he'll realize how I feel. What do you think the chances are of that, what do you think my chances are that he'll let me stay?

 

 

-fin-

 

 

comments and suggestions always welcome. - the lopsided weevil