Title: Danishes
Author: JC Sun

Category: VAO

Rating: R
Summary: Upon the subjects of pastries and puppies. m/m interaction. Counterpart to 'Red Lights' and more reason to snicker at 'puppy'.

The morning is smooth, cool,steel-grey and the morning sun the morning sun comes in thin and cold and utterly chilling in the pale blades lancing through the still streets.  It turns the light of his companion the lightest, loveliest ash-blonde,white to the point of radiance and it reflects onto his skin, a thin, delicatemembrane that sticks close to the bones, revealing the fine line of his neck, the clean sweep of his jaw.  The man wavers in the sun, his existence unsure, and Krycek wonders how the creature can hide his elf-ears underneath that severe cut bristling over the head.  Pale, pale and washed and drawn from the smooth forehead to the lips half-a-step removed from invisibility, redeemed only by the full, round shape.  A sweet contour, delicate, rich, but not overly so, something about the neat upper lip and the smug lower one, the way they fit together, and the little gap between--

for a long, pounding moment, Krycek has a fantasy of tucking it underneath his own and biting down hard: save for the color, that mouth looks like Mulder's, excepting the quality, that loose, fluid quality that Mulder's mouth has. Perhaps, if that this mouth were torn apart, it would possess some of that more pleasing manner.

It's flesh limned in stone, thinks Krycek, leaning back against the wall, flesh limned in stone and painted in black to show the line of torso, from the angular shoulders to the waist, a touch of steel at the ear and fingers to bring out the harshness, not that the ascetic face would have needed it.  All rigid planes and lines, thinks Krycek, stone, limned stone.

"You missed your last report."

The voice is smooth, non-committal.

Offer no excuses, deny then when pressed.

"Well, Krycek?"

Krycek shrugs, lights a cigarette with a flick of his fingers and puffs the acrid smoke into the smooth, sculpted face.  The contact sniffs, drawing back from the gritty cloud, eyes faintly watering.

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

A growl.

Krycek sucks in another lungful and expels it into the air.  "Mulder doesn't like it much, so I usually save it for when I'm away, out of his apartment."

"Obedient little puppy, aren't you?"  Derisive smile, point to the brown sandwich bag in Krycek's left hand.  "Getting Danishes and coffee for your master."

A pause, and the cool, abstract flavor of Krycek's voice is easy upon the unwarmed air.  "I should kill you for that."

Arms thrown wide, easy drape of coat from shoulder to hip in a flamboyant cut of Italian leather, the glint of some expensive German firearm tucked far back, the shine sharp and deadly this morning.: "If you think you can. . ."

A grin, as Krycek taps the end of his cigarette against the package, the sound echoing in the still alleyway.

The edge of his hand catches the man across the cheek, a loud crack of flesh, then a sharp fists to the stomach, a kick to the knee and .  There's a thud of sleek body against rough brick, and Krycek finds himself looking into the most blankly intense eyes he's ever seen: this is the color of gentians on an alpine morning and how first light comes off the North Atlantic, all flat and dispassionately frigid. So brilliant as to be fake, like labeled paint, and about as deep as such, but Krycek catches the faintest edge of fear darting about in a corners. Smiling now, Krycek brings his mouth down for a kiss, a brush of lips across colorless shape, and there's time to watch another emotion flick across those still navy eyes, for the faintest arch of hips aching outward.

And then the man's head jerks backward, thudding from the bullet through his left temple.  The body slumps downward, still convulsing faintly in a pool of spreading liquid, little hunks of matter quivering upon the asphalt.  Krycek flicks a chunk off his sleeve with something approaching distaste, then examines the man's gun--nice, expensive SIG, all clean metal and strong lines.  He tucks it into his pocket: it truly is an excellent piece of work.  Then, with a yelp,  Krycek realizes that the Danishes might have been squashed when he set them down on the asphalt, but when he checks them, he allows himself a sigh of relief: they're still intact, still faintly warm from the bakery.  Krycek smiles, satisfied, and sets back out on the main street, and is back at the apartment before anyone ever investigates the body or before Mulder wakes up and finds his lover gone.

.end

Feedback to anasile@aol.com

Back to XF index