Just a little angst.... my contribution to the Jan 2000 Dream Challenge

TITLE: Dreaming Is For Dreamers
AUTHOR: 9th March 2000
E-MAIL ADDRESS: TarlanX@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: RatB - Yes. Gossamer - yes. Archive/X -
Yes. WWOMB - Yes. Spooky site - Yes. Basement - Yes. Elsewhere
please ask.
WEB SITE: <http://chaelyndra.com/nicklea/fiction> or on my page
at RatB <http://www.squidge.org/terma/tarlan/tarlan.htm>
SPOILER WARNING: Anything up to and including Amor Fati.
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT WARNING: m/m sex and some swearing. If this isn't your
scene then don't bother reading on - you know where the DELETE
key is. You have been warned.
CLASSIFICATION: X
AUTHOR'S NOTE: SkinnerKrycek list Jan 2000 DREAM Challenge.
COMMENTS: Any and all comments gratefully received - as long as
they're constructive. PLEASE FEED ME!! Even a 'YEP, I READ IT'.
Proves I didn't release the story into a void! Note: Flames will
be circulated around and posted to several lists so we can *all*
have a good laugh at your expense... I mean, why should I have
all the fun!
DISCLAIMER: Alex Krycek, Walter Skinner and all other X-Files
regulars belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX
Television. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters
you haven't heard of before, are copyrighted to me.

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Dreaming Is For Dreamers
by Tarlan
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Krycek awoke with a start, sitting upright on the lumpy bed. He
rubbed the sleep from his eyes then scrubbed that hand through
the short, sweat- matted, dark hair at the back of his head.

"Jeez. That was one doozy of a dream."

Moonlight bathed the interior of the room in a soft glow, casting
deep shadows into the furthest corners. Throwing back the covers,
he pushed up from the bed and wandered over to the bureau. The
thin veneer was peeling in a dozen places and rings had rotted
into the wood from wet- bottomed glasses but Krycek hardly
noticed the delapidation of the room; didn't notice the peeling
wallpaper or the musty smell. This was just one more seedy motel
room, one of a string that he had called home since he went on
the run all those years ago.

He slopped a generous amount of vodka into the glass standing by
the bottle, not concerned about rinsing it first. After all,
alcohol was it's own steriliser.

The cheap vodka burned its way down his raw throat, curling
warmly into his empty stomach. He licked his lips, savouring the
spilt drops that clung to them. He coughed as the alcohol fumes
tickled his back of his throat and replaced the glass on the
side, closing his eyes, momentarily, to banish real life from his
vision.

His hand dipped to his damp shorts and he sneered at himself. He
hadn't had a wet dream for years. These days his dreams tended to
be darker but as he re-captured the remnants he began to wonder
which was the true nightmare... the empty, black places in which
he found himself trapped; the peasants sawing off his arm for the
hundredth time... or the warm arms cradling him as he fell back
to Earth after mind- numbing sex?

"Don't kid yourself, Krycek."

His voice was raw from emotion, and from the shouts that must
have accompanied his orgasmic release.

"That wasn't sex. It was love."

And that was why it was more of a nightmare than *any* of those
other terrible scenes his mind replayed to him during those
'down- times'.

"Sleep. It's called sleep, Krycek. You're not a machine. You
don't switch off."

He sighed, berating himself aloud. If only he *could* switch off.
If only he *could* have dreamless sleep... if only he had someone
else to talk to other than himself.

Yes. That was the nature of his particular nightmare. It gave him
everything he couldn't have. It gave him a sweet, attentive lover
who would hold him tight; adorn him with kisses; smooth away the
lines of fatigue with tongue and deft fingers. It gave him the
one person he couldn't have. The one person he had hurt above all
others.

It gave him Walter Skinner.

Krycek checked his watch and grimaced. There were still many
hours until dawn. Many hours to kill before he killed or *was*
killed. He knew why he had this dream. It was his subconscious
telling him not to carry through with the latest set of orders...
telling him not to kill the one person he had grown to love above
all others, even himself.

He slopped another measure of vodka into the glass and carried it
back to the bed, lying down on the stained bedsheet, balancing
the glass on his bare chest as he stared up at the nicotine-
stained ceiling, whispering more words to himself.

"If I just close my eyes..."

He did. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander back along the
path of the dream that awoke him; allowed the luxury of feeling
himself nestled against a muscular chest. He smiled as phantom
fingers teased first one and then the other nipple erect,
pinching each nub until it ached, sending licks of energy zig-
zagging downwards. He felt that body move until his head was
cradled against the other's soft, inner thigh; could feel the
other's burgeoning erection nudging his ear and turned his face
so he could nuzzle the crisp, dark curls; breathing deeply of the
heady masculine scent of sweat and sex.

After a moment he turned over, bracing himself on two arms above
the straining, aching flesh. Yes. In his dreams he always had two
arms. He lowered his head to take the velvet, steel shaft deep,
tongue and teeth teasing along the length as a gasp of pleasure
drifted down from above. Slowly, he drove his lover insane; drove
him to the very brink and then drank from him as if he had been
offered the sweetest nectar.

Brown eyes, darkened to black with lust, would then hold his.
Strong arms would drag him up to share the fruits of his labour
in a soul- searing kiss. He would be flipped over onto his back
and a path of fire would trail from his face to inner thigh.

He would give everything he had to this dream lover... to Walter
Skinner, offer every part of his being, holding himself open for
every caress and pass into total bliss, returning to find those
arms still enfolding him in love's embrace.

Krycek opened hs eyes, tilted his head and gulped down the last
drops of vodka. He dropped the empty glass to the floor and sat
back up.

Reaching over to the bedside cabinet, he grabbed hold of the palm
pilot.

The last time he had used it was in Skinner's office, his
interrogation being interrupted by Dana Scully's unexpected
arrival. He wondered whether Scully realised who had sent her the
Navajo book... and the pass. He wondered if she realised he had
killed Fowley for those items, but not for Mulder's sake... or
for hers. He had killed Fowley because she had dared to confront
Walter Skinner; because she had been planning to sacrifice him to
save her own scrawny hide.

He stared at the gadget in his hand. He had caused Skinner untold
pain and humiliation with this device and now, in a few short
hours, he was expected to kill him with it... permanently.

"Dreaming is for dreamers."

Who had said that to him? His father? Spender? He sniffed. Did it
matter? He *had* been a dreamer once. He had dreamed of being the
hero; of saving the world. When had it all gone wrong? Was there
*any* way he could possibly make it right again?

Yes. There was one way.

Today he was supposed to kill Walter Skinner, but if he did then
this dream would die with him and there would be nothing left of
Alexei Krycek, the dreamer.

With a tightening of his lips, Krycek smashed the palm pilot onto
the cabinet. He smiled as pieces of plastic, glass and metal
skittered across the top.

THE END

Tarlan

Proud Krycek Klone #314 Owner 'Michael'
For Fiction see - http://chaelyndra.com/nicklea/fiction
http://www.squidge.org/terma/tarlan/tarlan.htm