torch, August 1997
flambeau@strangeplaces.net

I'd like to blame this on Misha, who writes sad things and depresses me, but she's bigger than me so I don't dare. Call it a Sunday evening, do I really have to go to work tomorrow kind of thing. Disclaimer: not mine, not mine, not mine. Waaah. Do not archive this story without permission.

Battered Krycek Blues

You've made your point. I get it. You can stop now. I said, you can stop now — ouch. Was that what they call a love tap? I think you knocked a filling loose. Give me a break. Give your knuckles a break.

Yeah, it hurts.

Hope that makes you happy.

The way you look at me drives me crazy, you know that? You turned over a rock, I came crawling out. I'm slime, I'm a creep, I'm so fucking disgusting you have to keep hitting me over and over.

That's not how you used to touch me.

I remember, you know, I'm sorry about that, I know you hate the thought, but I remember. Your hands on me, your mouth on me, the way you smell and taste and the sounds you make when you just can't help it. I want to say I'd know any part of you, in the dark, but that's not true. Only some of them.

Don't hit me again, okay? Not now. I'm tired.

It won't stop me from looking at you, anyway.

It won't stop me remembering. I know you, not completely, but well enough. I learned you once, and you know what, it's like riding a bicycle. I bet it would all come back to me. If you gave me a chance.

If I could touch you again. I remember, I swear I remember just what you like. I'd make it good for you. I just want to—

I just want you to stop looking at me like that. Does it really help? Can it make you forget what it was like? It doesn't matter if you knock all my teeth loose, that won't wipe out the times when I've held you and felt your body shuddering on the verge of orgasm.

Having a problem with the truth, Fox?

Ouch. Oh fuck.

I'm really getting tired of this.

I just want you to admit it. Just once. Admit that we had something and it was good. Stupid as hell, yeah, I'll give you that. Doomed from the start, and all that tragic crap. But while it lasted, it was good. And you were, don't deny it, at least once, at least for five minutes, happy.

I guess that's why you're hitting me.

I'm sorry. But I'd do it all over again given half a chance. How the hell could I resist you? It's not your sense of humor, or your ass, though it's a great ass and I've always appreciated it, or even the mouth. It's that look you get in your eyes when someone's hurt you.

You've got it now.

I saw that and I was lost, Fox. I wanted to make it go away.

At least for five minutes.

Just tell me you remember. Just tell me it was real and it was good, for those precious five minutes, before everything got screwed up. Can you do that for me? Can you tell me that?

And if you can't...

...can you please close your eyes, because there's that look again, and I'd do anything to make it go away.

I'm sorry.

All right.

Hit me again, then.

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