Title: Slush
Author: RosesDecay
E-Mail address: RosesDecay@aol.com
Rating: R for language
Category: V
Spoilers: None
Keywords: Pendrell/Krycek - UST, romance, whathaveyou.
Summary: Fears in the slush of lives too abnormal to be easy.

Author's Note:  Just to warn you, this is complete schmoop. I just
finished book 3 of Iolokus (what a way to ring in the new year, huh?)
and I NEED a little sugar sweetness in my life. You Have Been
Warned.

Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name and e-mail address
remain attatched.
Disclaimer: The X-Files and all characters related to
the show do not belong to me. I don't claim any right to
them. No infringement intended.

~
Slush
~

"I'm afraid of the dark."

He's sitting on the side of the bed, his back to me. I prop myself up
on one elbow uneasily as his hand goes to his throat, loosening his
tie before yanking it off.

The silence isn't that uncomfortable, but I've never been that great
at guessing tension levels. "I'm afraid of sharks," I offer lamely.
His head turns slightly and he looks at me out of the corner of his
eye, an inscrutable little glance that says nothing. Holding eye
contact just long enough to make his point - whatever the hell the
point may be - he turns and stands, ambling into the bathroom to
change.

Christ. I sink back to the bed, half wishing I had kept my mouth
shut. He really is a fucking lunatic, screwing with my mind like
there's no tomorrow. But then, he's smart enough to understand there
may never be a tomorrow, so I suppose I can't blame him.

A breath pulses from my chest. I'm the fucking lunatic. I lap it up
and crawl back for more.

He's left the door to the bathroom open the slightest notch, just
enough to allow the thinnest sliver of light and sound to emerge.
"The dark," I ask, my tone just a hint louder than before, "or what's
in the dark?"

Nothing, just the muted struggle of arms pushing through cloth. The
light snaps off and he knees the door open, still caught in the
tangles of his t-shirt. My gut instinct is to sit up and help him,
like a goddamned mother hen, but I'm waiting for an answer, so I lie
back and try not to look like I'm concealing a smirk. It doesn't appear to
work because as soon as he gets himself straightened out he eyes my
face and glares at me.

"Both," he says finally. He settles down next to me, mimicking my
position. Flat on back, elbows behind head. He studies the intricacies
of the ceiling without interest. "Actual sharks or the Jaws stereotype?"

"All sharks are the Jaws stereotype."

He laughs, a mild, warm sound that never ceases to grab my attention.
I roll over onto my stomach, staring at the lines of amusement fading
slowly from his face. It startles him to no end when I do it, but he's
come to tolerate the action. I've tried to catch him in the act of
laughing ever since I met him, to actually catch him with his damned
guard down. I've been close but never successful, getting nothing but
faint traces of wrinkles and tacitly amused blue eyes.

Meanwhile, the bed is small enough so that in rolling onto to my stomach
I've effectively rolled onto his. I can feel him breathing underneath me,
that small swell of a developing belly pushing against mine. He's a
fucking obsessive over that tiny flaw, treating it as some doomsday
sign of impending middle age. I've never had the heart (or, rather,
the guts) to tell him that it makes him look obscenely coquettish - like
a goddamn seventeen year old still shedding the baby fat. Not that he'd
be insulted, I just don't want him to start thinking he's too pretty
for me.

The baby-blues are staring placidly into mine, his stomach pushing
against mine disagreeably. "I'm not big on suffocation, either," he
says. I raise myself to my elbows reluctantly, lifting off him about
an inch. He inhales and bumps my stomach again, a careless invitation
to danger. I consider letting my full weight drop on him, but it
wouldn't be worth the trouble. He can take me any day, and he knows
it.

"So," I whisper, watching with amusement as the hairs on eyebrows try
to escape under my breath. "What's so bad about the dark?"

He rolls his eyes and I grin, nipping at his lower lip. It's another
one of the walls I'm continually slamming myself up against. Rolls
his eyes, and by the time he's through he's come up with a satisfactory
answer. Safety in preparation. I give him time for an extra-long one,
gnawing delicately at the tempting line of his mouth. An absolute
fucking lunatic, but with such delectable distractions I can't help
but indulge him.

"You can't see in the dark," he finally whispers through battered lips.

I snort, and the minuscule hairs attempt to flee for safety again. "You
can't be fucking serious, Brian. Really."

The baby-blues are still caught in the upward roll, a glaze of
contemplation over his features. "Go to hell," he whispers absently,
and I snort again. He's been around me too long.

"There're probably sharks in Hell," I mutter, going back to pay
attention to his ear. I sink my teeth into the lobe and he breathes in
sharply, eyes flickering back up to meet mine.

"Things hide in the dark," he whispers after a moment, rolling his eyes
back up. "They don't exist in the light. They can only appear when the
sun sets and the lights go out."

"Goblins?" I stare at his lips, mentally debating over which looks less
abused. I decide on the top and attack.

"Monsters." It's only a breath, lost somewhere between his teeth and the
back of my throat.

His eyes flicker back towards mine and I stare equally back. "How many
monsters of the night have you personally met?" I ask, tasting the
faintest trace of copper on my lips and licking it away.

Thin red lines are raising on his lips and I lean down to soothe them,
my elbows beginning to complain. His lips part, his eyes rolling back
into orbit. "None," he whispers, tongue snaking out to lure mine in.

I accept happily. "Fucking liar," I mumble into his mouth. He nips at
my tongue and I recoil, squeaking like a goddamn chew toy. He stares at
me as my eyes focus outward once more.

"You still wanna be my monster of the night?" he asks quietly.

I consider glaring at him, nursing my tongue in the side of my cheek,
but something more solid lingers in the baby-blues. "Remind me. What's
the job description?"

He exhales, bumping into my stomach again. I glance down and back up,
waiting as his eyes complete a roll. "Lurking in the shadows until
sunset, fleeing before dawn. Making a night of it, but never a day."

I look at him a moment, taking my own pause without a stir. I can see
the little wrinkles around his eyes, evidence of a thousand laughs. Few
and far between, hard to get a hold on, or so I've always thought.

Maybe I've been looking between the wrong set of twelves.

"Don't you ever get tired of the graveyard shift?" he whispers.

I nod before I realize I'm nodding, but it feels reasonable so I go
with it. "It'll be harder," I say after a moment. And it would. The
hours of daylight were business hours, dangerous hours. And if the
shit hit the fan, the consequences would undoubtably occur between
sunup and sundown.

His eyes haven't change, waiting. I take a breath. "What if I said
I'd try?"

He stares for a moment, then smiles, the thinnest lines fanning out
around his eyes. He understands. It's the best promise I can make,
and he accepts it.

"Then I'll have to think up a new title for you and hide all my copies
of 'Jaws,'" he says after a moment.

The smile is contagious. "I can be your angel of music," I offer,
darting in to taste the crease of his eyes. His eyes roll skyward
again, but the corners of his mouth pull up even farther and the
lines appear, full force. I attack them ferociously until he distracts
me, planting a kiss on the underside of my neck. I arch into it, feeling
the intricacies of teeth and tongue. "You're a fucking lunatic," I
whisper into the air.

"Yep," he says against my throat, and for a moment I wonder if I
should fear for my jugular. A snippet of the Jaws theme reverberates
against my throat before he leaps up for the kill.

"Glad you're around to be the sane one."

~