The Prize

I didn't expect him to be here. I know he's not following the same intel that I am. Our information circulates through different channels for the most part. And I sure as hell didn't leak him this one. For precisely the reason that I now face: he's here, putting himself and the entire procedure at risk. I hate to admit that the old Brit might have been right about anything, but watching Mulder skulk down the corridor, emergency lights flickering on his clenched jaw, hand caressing his gun, I'm forced to allow that, about Mulder, about me, he may have been.

I sigh, holstering my gun at my back, sliding back up the wall where I'd been crouched, now waiting for Mulder's silent approach. The sweat rolls down the back of my neck even though they keep it so cold in this facility the discs are practically frozen in my inside jacket pocket.

Mulder always has adverse physiological effects on me. Even before he starts in with the fists of fury. I resist the urge to wipe at the bead of sweat traveling beneath my collar as Mulder gets closer, close enough that I can smell his designer cologne and the earthy salt of sunflower seeds. I inhale deeply, as quietly as possible, the thrill through my veins tickling like the sweat, and then when he's close enough, I grab his gun wrist, pressing on just the right spot, hard, as I whip him around, arm behind back, gun clattering to the floor, pressing his whole front side against the wall, me pressed as hard as I can against his back.

"Shut up or they'll hear you," I hiss in his ear. The only sound he's made is the grunt he couldn't exactly help when he hit the wall. I watch the muscle work in his jaw up close.

Putting safety before score-keeping, I quell the urge to point out that I've, once again, beaten him with one hand. I'm sure that's painfully obvious anyway, and I doubt any retort he could muster could top that last dig, if it could even be called that, back in his apartment five months ago. Instead, ignoring the way my dick responds with a pang of lustful agony at leaving the pleasant cush of Mulder's perky ass, I push off him, letting his arm go and getting my gun trained on him before he can turn around.

Turn around he does, and then he's staring at me, a bored, disgusted, scared look on his face, similar to the one he wore the last time my gun was on him.

"Pick it up," I tell him, and doubtful, he bends to retrieve his gun, keeping his eyes on mine all the way down and back up. He holds the gun at his side and swallows.

"I have what you're here for," I tell him. His eyes crease with skepticism. I hear the section B workers tromping down the hall to the emergency exit. This hallway will only be empty so long. "Inside left pocket," I say, glancing down at where the discs lie against my ribs. "Go on," I urge. And then I can't help myself; I'm still partly hard, "Frisk me, Mulder."

He eyes the gun that I leave on him for a moment, but then, keeping his gaze firmly on mine, he opens my jacket with one hand, feeling around for the intel with the other. His knuckles brush my thin shirt, the back of his hand, my left nipple. I can feel the mechanics of his nimble fingers working at my jacket pocket, and not for the first time, wonder what it would be like to feel them working me.

He rips the discs out of the pocket and steps back, dropping his troubled gaze to their shiny, inviting surface.

"Is this everything?" he asks, most of his bored hostility replaced by that ever-insistent hope.

"It's a start."

His eyes shoot back up to mine. "Why are you here, Krycek? What angle are you working, handing these over to me?"

Section C is too close now.

"We don't have time for this."

"Are you setting me up," his question more a statement, a demand.

I shove my gun in his gut, surprising him, surprising myself a little. "I still have the gun, Mulder. Now, unless you want to try to aim and shoot me before I can pull this trigger, I suggest you move. That way. Now."

Mulder pockets the discs and we make our way down the corridor toward the electrical closet. I swipe my keycard and motion with the gun for Mulder to get inside. I close the door gently behind us, just as Section C floods the hall, their boots pounding the linoleum as they pass.

"Vent," I say, jerking my chin at the air duct grate.

"You first," Mulder insists, and I stow my gun at my back once more. It would be entirely too low of Mulder to grab my gun out of my jeans whilst crawling along behind me. And even if he does, I rationalize, I think I can take him. If I end up wanting to. Rolling around in an air vent with Mulder wouldn't, after all, be anything close to the worst predicament I've ever been in.

I pull the grate off the vent. I want to curse that, with just the one hand, it takes two tries. But Mulder has no cracks at the ready. He seems to be all business now, for which I'm grateful. We need to get out of the building. I'm about 45 seconds off schedule.

I crawl into the vent and feel Mulder do the same behind me. I make my way as quickly as a big man with a prosthetic arm can through the long metal box to the end. It takes me a few panicky seconds to get turned around in order to kick out the exit grate, and it's actually a relief to brush Mulder's arm, to hear his slower breathing and smell the sharp, heady scent of his sweat. His presence, ironically enough, calms me enough to get my breath under control, kick out the grate, and then slip out the end, dropping the 7 feet down to the grassy ground.

I get out of the way, realizing I could be running, putting valuable distance between us, and instead I watch Mulder gracefully drop to a crouch, then quickly turn to make sure I'm still there. Maybe stupidly, maybe by destiny, I am.

"This way," I gesture.

"I have a van waiting," Mulder answers. "Over there."

I squint into the dark trees. "How far?"

"Half a mile," Mulder answers.

"It's too far. You need to follow me." I start off in the direction of my own car, but I hear the safety clicked off his weapon behind me. I stop.

"*I* have the gun now, Krycek," he says smoothly, and I turn to see him smirking. "Now, unless you want to try to aim and shoot me before I can pull this trigger, I suggest you move. *This* way. Now." For emphasis he jerks the gun barrel in the direction of the dense woods to his left.

Cheeky bastard.

I sigh heavily and pass him at a jog, feeling him fall in behind at the same clip.

About 500 yards from the facility, with Mulder practically breathing down my neck, I realize why this new plan really sucks.

"Shit!" I curse, my step slowing. Mulder nearly collides with me, and I feel the gun barrel graze my lower back. "Son of a bitch!" I half-turn, half-thinking of running back to save it from the, now, inevitable.

"What, Krycek?" Mulder says irritably.

I drop my head into my hand for the briefest moment, succumbing to something akin to grief, then I take off at a run again.

"What?"

"Oh nothing," I growl. "Except that you just cost me a car, Mulder."

"Serves you-" he starts, the "right" part completely cut off by the bomb blast behind us. Mulder falters, turning to see the facility go up in the darkness, blazing the undersides of the cloudy night tangerine.

"Did you-?" he asks breathlessly.

"Yes," I answer over the roar, still running as I pull the small remote device out of my jacket pocket. "And now I'm going to do this, too," I mutter. I key in the code, and a second, smaller, farther away blast does away with my Mercedes. God, next time I'm just getting a Ford!

"What was that? What did you just do?" Mulder grabs me and wrenches the remote out of my grip.

"I blew up my car, Mulder."

"You what? You blew your own car up?"

"Come on, Mulder," I fairly whine. I mean, enough with the having to know EVERYTHING! "I couldn't just leave it there!" I yell, and then we finally hit a small clearing with a black van parked in the middle of it. Two geeks are hanging out the sliding side door.

"Shit, Mulder, we thought you fried," says the one with the long, dirty hair. Langly, I'm guessing. The other one, the short squatty one, must be Frohike. That would leave Byers behind the wheel.

The squatty one speaks, "Is that Alex Kry-"

"Start the van," Mulder interrupts. "Get out of the way, let's go!"

The two geeks take the first bench seat, I jump in the back with Mulder, and the van speeds away along a barely-there dirt road. I had scouted this way in, too, but had decided on closer parking. Needlessly, it turns out.

"Did you get it?" Langly asks excitedly.

Mulder ignores him, turning to me in the long seat. Not long enough. Mulder jerks me in by the lapels of my jacket. "What the hell were you doing there, Krycek?"

"Same thing you were, Mulder," I answer, still out of breath from our run.

"And you, what? You were going to drop these discs off at my apartment over the three-day weekend along with take-out from Wei Chang's?"

"Let me see those," says Frohike, and Mulder hands over the discs, one hand still clutching me close.

"You'd never believe me if I said yes." In fact, I was going to give Mulder the discs, just not the Chinese food. Having him here really just saves me a trip. And costs me a car, my mind grumbles.

"You're right, Krycek, I wouldn't," Mulder seethes. He pushes me away, then, and I feel the cold his physical absence leaves.

Frohike has a disc in his laptop. "These are all your cases from..." He looks up at Mulder. "1991 to ‘93."

"Let me see that," Mulder says, launching himself up and half-over onto their bench to turn the laptop his way. His closest body part is now his ass. Again. It's been too long since I've fucked. And I always seem to underestimate the damage Mulder does to my professional resolve once I get around him. I rearrange my jeans surreptitiously.

He turns his gaze back to me, still hanging over the seat. "Are these traceable? Booby-trapped?" Asking me rather than his friends, but Frohike answers even as I shake my head no.

"They look clean to me," the little guy sighs.

Mulder looks back to the laptop, his face lit computer-blue, his eyes dancing over the screen. "Scroll down," he says urgently to Frohike. I can't see the screen, but I can see his face. Jackpot. I stop the smile that wants to spread over my lips. Car schmar.

"The others should cover through '96," I say.

Mulder slowly settles back in beside me, looking for all the world rather speechless. Then he looks at me. "Why did you give them to me?"

It's so fucking pathetic, it's hard not to roll my eyes. Or cry. The moody son of a bitch does crazy shit to me, like I said.

I don't answer him. Instead I ask our quiet driver, "Where are we going?"

I see Byers' eyes meet Mulder's in the rearview mirror. Mulder nods, and Byers speaks, "Motel two towns over."

I think about begging/demanding to be driven to and dropped off at the Boise airport, but Mulder's stalwart look tells me I'm not going anywhere but some dipwad motel in Riggins, Idaho. Lovely. If I hadn't run into Mulder and his three stooges, I'd be on my way to catch a flight back to D.C. and my suite at the Hotel Monaco. I look sideways at Mulder. He seems wary yet...his eyes are bright, shiny and dark. He wets his lips, a tell for him: anger or anticipation. Maybe both.

"So...this is really...?" Frohike gestures at me.

Mulder speaks before I can decide how to introduce myself. "How long till we get there?"

The motel is, of course, a fleabag. The F. Dubois Motor Court, specifically. Byers and Mulder go into the office, leaving me with his drooling friends who proceed to giddily interrogate me on everything from Roswell to nanotechnology to Dungeons and Dragons. I don't answer them except to advise, regarding the D & D query, that discretion is the better part of valor. They look at each other blankly, and I turn my gaze out the van's tinted window, ostensibly gazing at the stars but actually watching Mulder's every move.

Mulder pulls out some cash, handing it over the counter. His trench coat floats around his body like a cape, a high-fashion shield. His profile is all clean, elegant angles. Confidence and loneliness. I think about Greer's last conversation with me. It was about Mulder. Specifically, working with Mulder.

"Colonization will not happen as they told you it would, Alex," he'd said. He'd deposited me at the Monaco and stayed for a cognac, giving me the information on the alien rebel and instructions to take it to Mulder. "Your piece of the pie..." He smiled a little sadly, "is nonexistent. You'll die. Just like the others. Just like us all."

I was still sore from losing the vaccine to him, and I think I replied with something cocky and cinematic, something that let him know I intended to take my prize when this was all over. My stump had started to ache.

He put his drink down on the dresser by the door, a sadness in his eyes that I would have sworn could have been real. "You wouldn't know a true prize if it was directly under your nose," he told me, a hand on the doorknob. "See that Mulder goes to the base." And then he'd turned to leave, to get blown to bits and never come back, as it turns out.

The attendant hands Mulder what I presume is a key, and I feel my heart start to beat a little faster, in time with his footsteps on the damp cement as he strides back to the van. It's started a light rain.

The van door slides open, and while the gunmen unpack what looks like a ridiculous amount of gear just to go over these discs, Mulder unpacks me, his hand going possessively, tightly, around my upper arm, dragging me out into the mist. He lets go of me only long enough to hand Langly a key. I start to follow his friends to their door, but Mulder yanks me back into him and, without a word, starts unlocking the neighboring room instead.

"We'll head back out at eight," Mulder says to the three.

"Wanna come over for a pizza?" Frohike asks. "There's a- "

"No," Mulder says shortly. And then he pushes me through the door, follows, and shuts it resoundingly.

Apart from ripping off his damp coat and throwing it down on a chair, Mulder wastes no time, coming at me and shoving me in the chest. I can't help it, my dick starts to get hard.

"You were never going to just hand over those discs to me, Krycek," he hisses.

"I have a room at the Monaco," I tell him, maybe fatally. "It's in your neighborhood, Mulder. Alexandria." My voice has gone tellingly breathy. His face is like a forsaken god, full of thunder. "I was going to be on your doorstep Saturday night with those discs." Even though I'd considered selling them instead.

He shoves me again, and it's work not to go flying into the vanity. "What's your plan," he goes on, as if my words had been useless, assumed lies. "Steal them in the middle of the night? Maybe switch bags at the airport?"

"I got them for YOU," I growl, knowing I have nothing to be angry about and yet getting caught up in Mulder's swell of emotion. "I gave them to YOU, Mulder!"

He shoves me again, hard, and before I really give it any thought, I reach up and shove him back, even harder, one hand in the dead-center of his beautiful chest. He stumbles. And then he just stands there, a look of utter shock on his face, mouth agape, eyes round. I stunned him out of his rage.

I smile at his helpless bewilderment, a spontaneous chuckle escaping my throat, and then I snake my hand around the back of his head, and pull him roughly into a kiss. My aim is true this time, and I pry his surprised lips open with mine, easing my tongue deep into his pliant mouth. It's two hot moments before he seems to clue in, and then he's on me as hard as I've ever wanted, one hand pulling my short hair, the other going right for the ass like I never dreamed he ever would, hauling our bodies tight into each other, his cock bruising mine instead of fist to face.

I don't know why I thought he wouldn't be erect. He is. Gloriously so. And his mouth seems to have been hungry for me for some time. No matter what might be going on in his mind, his body is running the show and it has no qualms or question.

I rip at his clothes, delicate shirt buttons breaking for me, belt buckle whipping open like an alive thing in my hand. Mulder claws off my jacket and I get my jeans open while he does his own, together a frenzied rush of violence. As I pull my t-shirt over my head, I feel Mulder tug my jeans and briefs down in one swift motion. I pull them the rest of the way off, boots and all in a tangled bundle.

Mulder, shirt open but not off, has his slacks on still, but his impressive cock out over the top of his boxer-briefs, blood-rose and glistening ready. I hate to admit it, but my mouth drops open a bit and I can feel the drool collecting quickly under my tongue, anticipating that cock's assault on my mouth, the heady taste I can already smell.

But when Mulder comes at me, it's not to push my face down into his crotch for a (much desired by me at least) blow job. Instead, he flips me around, my fake arm lagging behind for a split second. Mulder doesn't seem to mind. He might not even notice it. He pushes me into the vanity, and I have to catch myself with a hand against the glass. He butts up behind me, naked cock slapping down in the sweaty cleft of my ass, sending a spectacular electric jolt to my own heavy dick.

He digs in his pants pocket, brings out his wallet, fishes out a condom, ripping it open. He's rough with himself, getting it slipped onto his straining hard-on. I see the whole thing reflected in the mirror right in front of my face. His eyes are hard and he winces at the condom rolling all the way up. He's infernally beautiful, all his anger at me over an assumed future betrayal now converted into this fuck-rage that I can't wait to feel unleashed on me, inside me.

Mulder grabs one of the small bottles of motel lotion and dumps a bunch into his palm. Then his hand disappears between our bodies, but I can see his arm working as he slicks himself up, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. I feel the moist cockhead lick at my anus. Call me a slut, but I arch my back just a little to invite him in. I'm already shaking, holding myself there for him.

He hauls my leg up, and I get my knee on the counter, the position frighteningly open, my hand squeaking across the dirty glass. Mulder spits on my hole, unnecessary with the generous lotion, and by the look on his face I see that he just wanted to do it to me. His lust and his disgust are kissing cousins. I don't give a shit. I just want those nine inches battering me open. I want pretty much whatever Mulder has to give.

He wastes no time getting into position. We both want it. Me so bad I'm practically on the verge of coming. His hands on me, the one on my hip, steadying me, feels oddly intimate, and the warmth of his fingers sends a riot of chills up my spine. I shiver for him. And then I feel the tapered head of his cock pushing in. I gasp like I haven't since I was an inexperienced teenager, eyes screwed shut against the pain. Unrelenting, Mulder slides it in against my resistance. He goes slower than I would have expected, but it also hurts more, too. I'm shaking. And then I realize...he's shaking, too.

I make myself open my eyes to watch him easing into me. Mulder. Crossing that boundary, one we can never uncross, fucking the enemy.

He gets it all the way in me, and we both groan, me more pain than pleasure, Mulder more pleasure than pain. Two tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. But even as it feels like he's ripping me in two, I start to feel that exquisite burn that has nothing to do with pain. That liquid heat filling me up from ass to balls to aching cock. I readjust my hand on the mirror and try to relax my asshole a fraction, feeling the heat bloom there and my cock once again stiffening with intense arousal.

Lodged up inside me, Mulder grabs the lotion bottle again, getting a big dollop in his hand, then he starts to pull his dick out of me, lubing it up as it goes. One deep breath from him then and he's fucking me. He holds my hips and ass, and he just screws the shit out of me.

I cry out, but this time not in pain. It feels unbelievably good. He's only going with about half his cock, but he's got the friction just right, the speed of his whipping hips and the angle of his delicious prick pistoning my asshole. I'm groaning like a whore, and I can't even stop. He's got his thumbs almost at my entrance, fingers splayed on the flesh of my ass possessively, controlling. And he's looking down at what he's doing, the expression on his face no longer hard with disgust; he's transported, elevated, vividly alive. Inside me.

He's screwed the shirt off one shoulder, and he's shiny with sweat. He starts pulling me back, hard, with each thrust. I give in to it, letting my eyes roll closed on the most ridiculously good feeling I think I've ever felt in my life. I'm done explaining it. I'm just going to come.

With Mulder's dick ramming into me from behind, I orgasm, shooting jizz all over the vanity, the floor, my stomach and thighs. I could be moaning his name, I'm not entirely sure. I know one moment my brows are knit with what feels close to pain, and then I'm smiling into my trembling arm, undone.

Mulder picks up the pace, assaulting me with a hard and fast fuck. "Hold still," he gasps, the first words from either of us since before I shoved him. Oh the shove felt round the world! I've never done a smarter thing in my life! He lets me have it, striving for his own release and, spent, I watch him, his eyes closing, breath hitching, holding, and then rushing out in a stream of helpless groans, mostly nonsense, but one or two syllables that could be an attempt not to say my name.

Mulder pushes himself in all the way now and grinds against my butt. I feel his hot cum through the latex. I feel him shaking with the last of it, gripping me tightly to him.

When it's over, his prick emptied, he rests there, panting, for a few precious seconds.

And then he pulls out. I cry out with the pain and cold shock of it. I see him grimace and stumble away, holding the condom in place. I peel my leg off of the counter with extreme effort and collapse onto the floor. Mulder leans on the vanity, out of breath and still trembling. He peels the condom off his half-hard dick and lets it drop in the waste basket. Then without a word, he turns and closes himself into the bathroom, locking the door between us.

When Mulder comes out, I've managed to get my jeans and t-shirt back on. I assume he's washed himself off; his pants are fastened. His shirt's done for, though, and as he comes out of the bathroom, he strips it the rest of the way off and then gets into his overnight bag for another. He pulls out a grey t-shirt, a pair of blue jeans, too, and a new pair of underwear, then proceeds to change in front of me.

I'm not one to turn down free peep-shows, so I simply watch Mulder undress down to nothing, admiring the ass I can't have and the long, exhausted cock that I can. Or at least did. The strong, long distance runner's thighs that pushed that cock into me repeatedly. The sweet back I'd love to leisurely kiss, licking the post-fuck sweat away.

Before I know it, he's clothed. He gets on the phone, dialing his friends' room next door. "Did you order yet?" Mulder asks. "Is there enough? . . . Good, we'll be over." He hangs up and turns to me. "Let's go." His eyes are schooled blank, which, if he knew what that tells me, he would never do. I see me reflected in his gaze.

We sit around the table and, between us, Mulder and I scarf one large pepperoni and onion with extra cheese and half of a combo. There's talk of what's on the discs. I'm consulted on where to start tracking down the rest. I get looks from Mulder, mutable like the sea, washing first distrustful, then hopeful, then angry, sad, closed-off, open again. I try not to blink too much under his intimate scrutiny. I know that's *my* tell.

The guys have started on the copies of the discs and there's talk of where they'll be safest. I'm surprised I'm not banned from the discussion, even though I know Mulder's got a couple super-secret, Krycek-safe locations he doesn't, and shouldn't, disclose aloud. I just stare at his full lips while he talks.

Just after midnight, Mulder gets up, stretches, and then jerks his chin at me toward our room. He looks at the guys. "Eight a.m."

"Sleep tight," Frohike calls. I think Mulder blushes a little.

Back in the room, Mulder picks a bed and sits against the headboard, ankles crossed, remote in hand. As he flips on the TV, he says to me, "Go take a shower."

I want to point out that now there are no guns, there's no reason I should just take his orders like I'm back as his junior partner, which I never was really to begin with. But as I'm parting my lips to go automatically defensive, I suddenly recall the smell of premium cognac, the gentle yet urgent tone in the Brit's voice.

"You wouldn't know a true prize if it was directly under your nose."

I remember having my gun on Mulder in his apartment, Mulder looking up at me with arousal and contempt. And the kiss I couldn't help. The feel of his rough cheek, the scent of his neck, his pulse beat. Perfection on the floor at my feet.

And I shut my mouth. I go into the bathroom, piss, turn the water on, strip my clothes and arm off, and get into the hot shower. I decide that I'm just picking my battles. But something tells me I might just be picking my prize.

Five minutes into soaping myself (I'm reluctant to do the ass for sentimental reasons), I hear the door open and my body flushes hot with desire. Mulder steps into the shower with me, the water sluicing over his shoulders, his dick half-hard and waiting for me.

"On your knees," he instructs, and though I've imagined those exact words from his lips, in my fantasies, they've always been leering and pornographic. Here and now, they are soft and yearning, like steam caressing my skin. I sink down, kneeling before him and looking up for instruction. He feeds it to me, and I take him in blissfully. I grunt and suck, and Mulder sips in his breath and gasps, head falling back into the deluge.

He alternates letting me suck his dick, just watching me, with holding my head still with warm, wet hands and slowly fucking my mouth. I hold onto the soap shelf and feel my erection bob excitedly for his taste.

Mulder threads his fingers through my hair, both hands, and starts to groan, taking short, hard jabs at my throat. I relax and close my eyes, surrendering to the slight pain, the panic that he'll choke me, the feel of his soft skin hot between my lips and over my tongue. He comes in my mouth, erratically pumping, and I swallow all that I can, having to let the rest squeeze out between Mulder's cock and my lips, dribbling down my chin.

"Oh shit..." he breathes, and I open my eyes to see that he's watching. I grunt on his cock and he finishes with a few, slow, long strokes into and out of my mouth.

"Get up," he gasps, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stand before him. He grabs me and shoves me, back against the shower wall. He takes my engorged and ignored cock in his hand.

"You think this wins you points with me, Krycek?" he pants in my face, stroking. "You screw me over *now*, I'll *kill* you."

Then he kisses me, hot, slow, and deep. And I should have known, that no one can kiss like Mulder. He braces himself with a hand on the wall beside my head and leisurely strokes my cock, kissing me long and languidly. I start to tremble for it, the agony of his gentleness, his insistence, his unrushed relentlessness. He knows just how to squeeze and pull under my cock's head, then he quickens his strokes but keeps his kiss painfully soft.

I cry out into his mouth and come all over his hand. He pulls it out of me expertly, never once ceasing the maddening kiss. He just thumbs my crown now and licks through my mouth, and I shoot one last, thick rope of cum I didn't realize I still had left in me. Mulder knew. The sick bastard.

He lets go of my sated dick, releases my tingling lips, turns and washes his hand in the shower spray, then steps out and grabs a towel, drying himself as he saunters back into the motel room.

I sag against the shower wall, disbelieving, wrecked, and smiling.

We sleep in our own beds, the TV on and muted on Nick at Night. The flashing bothers me, waking me every little bit thinking that I'm about to be attacked. But when I rub my eyes only to find Mulder's face turned toward me in the light of ‘Roseanne', I'm immensely relieved, and each time brings with it the realization that we fucked, that I'm in Mulder's hotel room, that I helped him get his files back, that we shared a pizza, a shower, and now sleep. I let myself fall back into sleep, listening to Mulder breathing in the next bed.

In the morning, he appears all business again. He packs up his toiletries with CNN on in the background. He calls the guys and checks to make sure they're ready, gets a consensus, minus me, on picking up Jack in the Box on the way back to Boise and the airport. He hangs up the phone, stows his gun. Then he walks over to me, expression unchanged, and pulls me hard to his body, crashing his mouth down on mine, as urgent as last night's kiss had been unhurried. I feel his hands, hungry, gripping and stroking wherever they can reach. I hold onto his back as hard as I can.

He breaks the kiss. "Now give me a cell phone where I can reach you. Something that will work today and every goddamned day, Krycek." He steps back and then hands me the motel pad and pen. He knows, as I do, that as soon as we're back in D.C., I'm gonna disappear.

I inhale deeply, frowning down at the pad: "Thank you for choosing F. Dubois! We hope you enjoyed your stay. Please come again!" I can't help but snort a laugh at that. And then, what the hell, I give Mulder my goddamned cell phone number.

He calls and tests it right away, satisfied by the ringing coming from my jacket pocket.

"If it's me calling, you answer it," he tells me gruffly.

I squint at him, unwilling to nod, but he keeps staring at me. "I'm dead serious, Krycek. You want this?" Indicating all that's gone on between us. "You answer."

So I do nod. I do want this. I want him. I don't see that ever changing.

"Good," he says. He pockets my number, and we leave our fleabag motel room -slash- cherry-popped fuck-nest to meet his friends at the van.

The day is blue and brilliant. The trees seem to glow as they fly by outside the van windows. Mulder and I share the back seat again. The van itself smells, for whatever reason, a little like liver and onions. My Mercedes always smelled new, expensive, leathery, and cold. I feel Mulder next to me now, his body heat and his kinetic energy. I look out the window, ostensibly watching the evergreens, but instead watching Mulder's reflection next to mine, mile after mile, always Mulder, secretly wishing the drive would never end.