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Want to Believe

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Want to Believe by Merri-Todd Webster

DISCLAIMER: If they don't belong to me, why won't they leave me alone?
Summary and comments: Krycek muses on his relationship to Mulder and Mulder's to him and to Scully. Companion piece to "More than Anything" and "Want to Believe".
Again with the suffering. Thanks to Te and Amirin for encouragement, Alex for being there, and Chris Carter for being the master of ambiguity that he is. Rating for language, pretty much.

Want to Believe
by Merri-Todd Webster
(8 December 1998)

I want to believe he loves me, but I don't.

Fox William Mulder. Either the biggest curse or the only blessing of my pretty-fucking-cursed existence.

I had my orders, back then. Partner him, seduce him, betray him. Simple, right?. But it stops being simple when you want the other person to come as bad as you want to come yourself. It stops being seduction when you lose control under his touch, when you scream into his mouth. He slipped into my head and pushed all my buttons, and to this day I don't know how--or why--he did it.

I keep pushing back, slipping my fingers in, feeling for those vulnerable spots, but I haven't found them. I haven't found them all. Yet.

I love Mulder as much as I'm still able to love anybody. It's mostly lust, but that's not all it is. If it were only lust, I wouldn't have risked my life, more than once, to keep him alive. I wouldn't have defied my orders and changed my allegiance just for the sake of a really great blowjob. I love the bastard. And I don't think he loves anybody, not even himself.

Especially not himself.

Certainly not Scully. He tells himself he loves the little icicle, but she knows better and so do I. It's guilt and lust and need that binds him to her, that keeps them together against all reason. If she weren't as caught in his trap as I am, she'd have left him long ago and gotten herself a real life, a real career, a real lover. I want to hate the bitch--I know she hates me, probably blames me for everything--but the truth is I feel sorry for her. I know how helpless she feels.

I don't understand how someone so fucking selfish can attract so many devoted followers. Me, Scully, Skinner, the girl in the copy room, the boy at the video store. All Mulder has to do is smile, and that's it: He gets anything he wants. Why are we all feeding him our souls, keeping him alive at the expense of our own happiness? I just hope my soul poisons him, tainted as it is, but I think the bastard's immune. He's already so poisoned with self-love and self-hatred, nothing else can touch him.

Christ, I can't even think straight when I think about Mulder. He thinks I'm twisted, but he's so warped he belongs in some Star Trek episode. It's not so freakish that I should be in love with him; he's everything I could have been if things had turned out differently. Deep down, we're frighteningly similar, bent the same way but in opposite directions. But for him to be in lust with the man who took away his partner, killed his father, et cetera, et cetera, in short, with your friendly neighborhood nemesis, is pretty damned perverted.

I want to believe he loves me. I come close to believing it after we've had sex and the need for tenderness overwhelms both of us. Then I look in his eyes and realize he's used me again, not as a whipping boy, but as a whip. He beats himself with me, and you know, I really resent that. I may be a seducer/killer for hire, but I still deserve better than that.

Still, I come back, again and again. Back to the sarcasm, the words that cut, the loaded gun, and the ready fist. We haven't fucked half a dozen times in, what, five years? yet I feel about him the way I imagine a junkie feels about the drug. I can only go so long without a fix of Mulder. I tell myself I'm trying to help him, trying to fight my way out of the slime, trying to do what the old Brit wanted, trying to save the world without losing my hide. But I don't even believe myself. Pathetic. I just need my dose.

I wonder if Scully feels this way. If Mulder's a needle she puts in her vein. If it feels so good even though she knows it's going to kill her. I know more about that woman than she'd ever dream I know, let alone want me to know, and I know that it's cut out pieces of her just like it's cut off pieces of me. Mulder's a two-edged blade with no hilt, no way to touch him without getting cut. I've gotten used to bleeding and to bandaging things up, and I suppose she has, too. I've gotten used to the craving, the way nothing will satisfy it. Not even him.

The thing is, I don't crave suffering the way those two do. I don't tie myself up in knots. This is just the way it is. The only way out is through, and I'll get through all of this. I'm not complaining, just... musing. It can't be helped. And tomorrow night, I'll pick the lock, show up in his living room, hold a gun to his head again while I suck him off, then throw all caution to the wind and let him fuck me. Just like last time.

Or in three or four weeks, he'll ditch Scully, we'll go somewhere on some trumped-up errand, he'll handcuff me to the bed and be all over me, sucking, fucking, jerking himself off onto my stomach. He loves to do that. And I'll let him, and afterwards, I'll be grateful I've forgotten how to cry.

But I don't worry about it. That's just the way it is. I give him what he wants, I get something of what I need, that's all. And we both go back to work and forget about it. Or try to.

I want to believe he loves me. I want to believe he won't ever kill me when I'm lying there fucked blind. I want to believe there's a way through all this, a road that leads to some kind of survival and maybe even success. For all of us.

I want to believe. Really. But I don't.