Not in public, anyway.
He'd returned from his home in the Northwest Territories to the unfriendly
environs of Chicago, reaffirming as much of his friendship with Ray Vecchio
as he could, hoping he hadn't damaged it irreparably in the last few months.
After all, how many friends, even best of friends, could stand nearly losing
the family home, his job, his reputation, and eventually end up nearly
killing said best friend on a train platform while that previously law
abiding Constable was in the process of running full out to catch up with a
known murderess and flee the city? Then take a bullet intended for that self
same friend not two months later? Then cart that same poor excuse for a
friend halfway around the Yukon while dealing with escaped felons, airplane
crashes and physical injury? He honestly didn't know how Ray put up with
him.
Not that that was an unusual feeling. He knew he was difficult, although God
knows he didn't mean to be. Look at what he attracted! Treachery. Betrayal.
Pain. It was much better that he be left on his own. Ray was trying very
hard, and he never actually said anything, which was unusual in itself, the
way the detective usually went on about things. But perhaps that, in itself,
was telling.
Very much like Steve.
And very much like Victoria.
Fraser stared out the small window of his apartment into the crowded, noisy,
perpetually busy Chicago night, and leant his forearm against the window.
Gradually, his head fell forward until his eyes were buried against his arm.
Too bright. Even in the middle of the night, even without the candles that
he had stowed away in the very back of his cabinets, even with the Coleman
lantern turned off, even with his eyes closed, it was all simply too bright.
He was living in darkness, had been since she left, had been even before
that, when he had first learned that his love bought only pain. The light
was all around him, burning his eyes, searing him, and none of it ever came
inside.
A shuffling noise caught his ear, pulled it away from the darkness inside
his head, and focussed his attention on the street below. Three o'clock in
the morning was not a normal time for street traffic, not in this
neighborhood, not if it wanted to remain breathing. There was too much
desperation on the street that early in the morning, and no protection. He
watched with vague interest, attention sharpening as he saw the shadows
gather around the stranger. As the first hand was raised, he abandoned his
post and ran for the stairwell.
He could always help. Others, anyway.
It had been a hell of a month, and it was getting worse rapidly. Alex Krycek
had been running hard and fast for the last twenty six days, and he was
nearing the end of his endurance. Desperation and adrenaline were a
fugitive's friend, but even the most desperate fugitive needed the
occasional rest. Dark holes to hide in had been few and far between.
He'd made decent time the first week, but then D.C. was his home stomping
ground. He'd had bolt holes, and stashes, and had hit them all in the first
three days after his erstwhile employer had tried to firebomb him into slag.
An apartment in Pimmit Hills, a safe deposit box in Cheverly, a bus station
locker in Glenarden. Then he'd hit the back roads and country trails,
gradually losing himself in larger and larger cities, from Martinsburg to
Canton to La Porte to Chicago. He knew that the Cartel had an international
scope, but he also knew his own particular nemesis was endemic to the United
States. The cancerstick wouldn't dare let the other members of the Cartel
know he had failed. His best bet, until the furor died down and his money
ran out, was to find an out of the way town somewhere in the wilds of
northern Canada to hide and plan his next move.
Now, how the fuck to get into Canada.
Normally, it wouldn't be a problem. It wasn't like sneaking from Greece into
Albania, for god's sake. Canada was friendly. Well, most of it was, and even
the parts that weren't were polite about it. But cancerstick had eyes, and
they were firmly planted along the border. If they caught sight of him on
the way over, they'd hunt him down. And he didn't think his luck would hold
a second time, if he was caught. No, he had to get into someplace relatively
large, like Toronto or Ottawa, where he could lose himself. It still made
him uneasy, and he would have preferred somewhere completely remote, like
the Yukon, where he could see forever and stop them before they got anywhere
near him. Even in Canada, in the big cities, there was a chance that
cancerstick's enforcers could find him. But he wasn't much for camping out,
especially in ice fields, so he'd have to take the cities and the dangers
inherent in them.
The days on the run and the nights without rest betrayed him, and even his
natural paranoia wasn't enough to give him warning in time to respond to the
sneak attack. As gangs went, it was a pretty pathetic one, but they
outnumbered him, and they got the drop on him. Two of them had his arms
pinned behind him and a third had slugged him in the gut before he had time
to so much as aim a kick at the leader's head. Fighting not to lose his
dinner as the nausea rose up from the impact of the punch, he missed the
next few minutes. Whatever whirlwind hit the little pack of muggers was fast
and efficient, for he found himself freed, on his knees, gasping for breath
as two bodies dropped and a third made limping tracks into the alley. Strong
hands wrapped gently around his biceps and a soft, precise voice sounded in
his ear.
"Are you all right?"
Canadian, from the sound of it. Canuck Street Avenger? Watching out for
unsuspecting (or just preoccupied and stupid) mugging victims? Krycek
managed to get his sense of humor under control at about the same time he
got the cramps in his diaphragm to ease up, and he looked up at his rescuer.
Holy shit. He was wearing a Mountie hat.
He saw a shadow move behind the broad shoulder, and reacted instinctively,
pulling his Avenger out of the way as a metal pipe crashed through the air
right where the Stetson had just been. The Mountie rolled out of the way,
shielding Krycek the entire time, and knocked the pipe away with his right
hand, pushing Krycek flat, out of harm's way, with his left. The mugger took
advantage of the split attention to drop his pipe and run for it. Sometime
during all the fuss the other mugger had also dragged himself back into the
shadows, and Krycek and the Avenger Mountie were alone, lying tangled
together on the cold concrete, staring at one another, wide eyed. Kryeck
opened his mouth to say... something... when his body realized it was
finally in a horizontal position and gave up the fight to stay conscious.
His last thought before passing out was to wonder what sort of glue the
Avenger used to keep his hat in place. It hadn't shifted an inch in the
entire fight.
Fraser looked at the unconscious body in his arms and immediately began
checking for injuries. He couldn't find any obvious bumps or breaks, there
was no blood flowing, and the only immediate signs of injury were the pallor
evident even in the low light and the victim's labored breathing. Feeling
the man's skull and neck carefully for evidence of trauma, he decided that
exhaustion and shock had caused the faint. Hoisting the stranger carefully
over his shoulder, he climbed back up the stairs to his apartment. As usual,
none of the neighbors gave any indication that they were aware anything
unusual had occurred. Of course, for this neighborhood, nothing truly
unusual actually had.
The unconscious body was heavier than he'd expected, and he huffed a little
sigh of accomplishment when he gently laid the man down on his bed.
Diefenbaker sniffed questionably at the hand that hung limply over the side
of the bed, licked experimentally at the forefinger, then returned to his
blanket.
"I don't know who he is, Diefenbaker," Fraser defended himself,
unaccountably perturbed by his wolf's obvious disapproval. "He was mugged,
right in front of me. I couldn't just leave him there. Besides," he busied
himself loosening the man's jacket and removing his boots, "you're just
feeling territorial." He tucked the sock clad feet under the end of his
blanket and moved up to straighten the dark head on his pillow. "Not that I
can blame you." He glanced apologetically at the wolf. Dief hadn't liked
Victoria either, and with good reason. She'd ended up shooting him. "But you
can't close out the world for a few bad apples." Even when those apples
taste like the Garden of Eden and you will never see the gates again, he
thought sadly. The darkness swelled, and for a moment closed out everything
around him.
Then he felt movement against his knee, and looked down to see that the
stranger had wrapped his hand around his leg. The grip was strong, but the
fingers trembled. Bending down to study the stranger's face, he saw emerald
eyes staring up at him through thick lashes. The eyes were nearly glazed
over with exhaustion, but he could clearly see the apprehension in them.
Unthinkingly, his hand covered the hand gripping his leg, and he smiled as
reassuringly as he could.
"It's all right. You're safe. No one will hurt you." He put as much warmth
and certainty into his voice as possible, and it seemed to work. The
apprehension faded, replaced by the dull fog of fatigue, and the lashes fell
to cover the impossible green of the irises. The grip on his knee faded, and
he stepped away, turning to place his bedroll on the floor alongside his
bed. Something inside urged him to stay close to his unexpected guest.
As he slowly relaxed into the darkness, Victoria's face flashed before his
eyes. His brows drew together, then the image was replaced by the visage of
the man he'd saved that night. Before he could decode the message his
subconscious was sending him, he finally drifted off to sleep.
The landscape cleared slowly, and when he finally realized where he was, he
shivered. The autumn of his seventeenth year, asserting a little
independence. What a dismal failure it had been. He and Steve along the
shores of Wapawekka Lake, down south from home in Saskatchewan. Doing some
fishing, doing some hiking... discovering loving.
He didn't know it was wrong. Still didn't think so.
But that hadn't stopped them.
Steve was older than he was by a whole two years, broad shouldered, black
haired, with the tawny skin and sparkling deep eyes of his Inuit ancestry
standing clear against the snowy background. He had a bright, easy laugh,
and he used it often. He didn't talk much, but then, neither had Benton.
Actions always spoke so much louder. Looking after one another, partnered in
every way that mattered. Practically able to read one another's minds.
Lodged in one another's hearts.
Of course, the hunters hadn't seen it like that. They'd just seen an Indian
and a white boy doing perverted things in the woods. Through binoculars, far
enough away that neither young man had been given any warning before they
were taken.
A collage of images tormented Fraser's dream state. Steve, laughing, face
lit by firelight; that same beloved face, contorted by screams of pain as he
was beaten senseless by a ring of animals, he couldn't call them men; the
rope burning into his wrists and his ankles, staking him to the ground,
knowing he would be next, screaming at them to stop, until his throat
spasmed and his cries dried up; wide, impossibly wide India ink eyes staring
at him, beyond question, beyond fear, as they took turns at his body like
the pack animals they were; the blood soaking his ropes as he tore the skin
from his wrists, finally breaking free. Working his ankles free, reaching
for the gun, the trigger under his finger, the fall of the bodies, the
frenzy of fear, he could smell it off the survivors as they ran.
Too late.
Too little, and much too late.
He'd attended to Steve. Properly, as properly as he could. Sang the song and
chanted the goodbye, then he'd gone home.
Alone.
He'd left the naked bodies of the animals who had made him so on the icy
ground.
The scavengers were at work before he left the shelter of the trees behind.
Illusory shelter. No justice. There could be no recompense for what he had
lost.
Autumn was a time of loss. And winter settled in his soul.
Krycek woke to the muffled sounds of whimpers coming from somewhere off to
his left. He stilled instinctively, listening intently to determine if he
was in immediate danger. He heard the click of nails across a bare floor,
then sloppy noises. The whimpers quieted, and turned to almost silent sobs.
Deciding that whatever, or whoever, was making the noise was too caught up
in misery to be much of a threat, he risked opening his eyes.
The room was bare, and chilly from a breeze coming through the blocked open
window. Who the hell was nuts enough to leave a window open in this rotten
part of Chicago, not to mention the fact that it was fucking cold? Shifting
enough to give the place a once-over, he wasn't impressed. It was a bare
little tenement apartment, ancient fridge in one corner, even more ancient
steamer trunk in another, not much else but the bed he was lying in.
And the man wrapped in some sort of blanket on the floor. Who was apparently
having a nightmare, and was getting a tongue bath all over his face from
what looked one hell of a lot like a wolf.
Okay, so he'd tripped in the alley and landed in the Twilight Zone. Stranger
things had happened. Shaking off the memory of some of those strange things,
he concentrated on the guy lying on the floor. As he watched the pale
features twitch under the influence of the nightmare, images from earlier
that night gelled. So, this man was a Mountie. Who'd saved him from getting
the snot kicked out of him, brought him home and put him to bed.
He could deal with that. He could even use it. Somehow.
Staring idly at the wolf's tongue as it lapped at the tears being squeezed
out from behind dense lashes, he was struck with the classical beauty of the
Mountie's face. The guy could be used for a recruiting poster. Square jawed,
fine boned, he even had pretty ears. Probably straight as a die and square,
indeed. Settling his head on one hand, leaning into his bent elbow, he
leaned over a little closer to study his rescuer. The wolf looked up at him,
whined once, and went back to licking. Almost as if the animal was asking
him to do something. Shaking off the fanciful thought, he was surprised to
hear the Mountie moan a word. No, not a word. A name.
Steve.
Then some other words.
As he listened intently, Krycek began to re-evaluate some of his earlier
assumptions. Maybe not quite as straight as he'd thought.
Then the words turned ugly. Anguished, as the man's throat tightened, and he
fought in his sleep. Sad, then wounded, and helpless. Then what sounded like
a mumbled chant under his breath, as the tears flowed faster than the wolf
could lap.
Okay. Homosexual, or at least queer enough to dream about it. In a lot of
pain. Pretty lonely, if the dump was anything to go by. Used to jumping in
and rescuing orphans from the storm, risking himself for strangers, and
probably not used to getting anything back for it, if Krycek knew his
average big city citizen. And he was Canadian.
Krycek leaned back against the pillow, letting his arm relax and staring up
at the ceiling. A lonely, needy, gay do-gooder Canuck. Ripe for the picking.
He could definitely use this.
The next three days passed in a blur of care-taking and consular duties. For
some reason that he couldn't quite explain to himself but that was an
amalgam of Ray being caught up with his family, the Inspector being
determined to turn him into a statue on the front steps of the Embassy, and
the shy, frightened demeanor of his house guest, Fraser found himself
keeping Alex's presence a secret. It wasn't so much that he didn't tell
anyone, as the fact that no one was particularly interested.
Staring off into the distance, maintaining textbook perfect posture and
composure while standing sentry, Fraser couldn't help but examine why that
particular thought made his chest ache.
The first afternoon alone, after faking sleep long enough to get the Mountie
out of the apartment, Alex had made a thorough search of the place. It
hadn't taken long.
Keeping care to not disarrange anything, he'd found the old diaries,
apparently from the Mountie's dad, and the deed to a cabin clear up north in
the Yukon. Now, that was interesting. He'd been looking for a bolt hole just
like that, and now it had fallen into his hands.
Now to get the Mountie to give him the keys.
Fraser's guest hadn't been particularly forthcoming about himself. He'd
introduced himself, hesitantly, as Alex Neekto, a Ukrainian immigrant who'd
fallen on hard times. Through patient cross examination, Fraser had
determined that Mr. Neekto, or Alex, as the young man requested he be
called, was in the United States illegally. He was a political refugee who
was attempting to start over again in a new land, but was not having a great
deal of luck. His mind flashed back to their conversation from the previous
evening.
Alex had eaten ravenously, once convinced that he was welcome to the food.
Obviously, it had been some time since the young man had been regularly fed.
In between bites, eating with impeccable manners, he had offered tidbits of
information about himself. Fraser had found himself mesmerized by the
combination of creamy skin and dark curling hair, bright eyes and full lower
lip. In an unusual lapse of concentration, he'd had to force himself to stop
watching that moist mouth move and actually listen to the words falling from
it.
"I have a cousin. Anton Astrov, he's a doctor." One strong hand waved
vaguely northward. "Up in the snow." His voice bore a vague accent, hard to
place but definitely Slavic.
Fraser blinked, chewed automatically, and asked into the lengthening
silence, "The snow?"
Eyes the color of old leaves in late autumn stared up at him before thick
lashes covered them. "Where he is, there is snow all the time. It is very
far north." Alex placed his fork carefully on his scraped-clean plate, and
sighed softly. "I would like to go there. One day. I have not seen Anton
since... for a very long time."
Those fascinating eyes took on a faraway look, and Fraser wondered what
memories could bring such sadness to them. Before he could ask, Alex made an
obvious effort to regain his composure, and politely gathered the dishes up.
As they were standing side by side, doing what little washing there was,
Fraser ventured another question. "Might you tell me, just how far north is
'very far north'?"
Alex made that vague waving motion with his hand again, and smiled. "Up past
the towns, where there is only mountain and ice. The Yukons." Fraser started
to make the instinctive correction, but held it back as Alex continued to
speak. "I could not stay with him, he is a, how is it put? A helicopter
doctor, and he lives with friends when he is in a town. But if I could find
a place to live up there, for a little while at least, I could find a way to... make a place for myself. Then I would be with family again." The hand
holding the dish towel gradually slowed, then stilled on the plate it was
polishing. "It has been a long time since I have been with family. I miss
them. And I love the snow. It... it is like home." Then he turned, stacked
the last of the dishes in the cabinet, and wandered off to stand at the
window, staring off into the darkness.
Fraser stared at the lonely figure looking into the night, touched by so
many similarities to his own loneliness, and began to work out some way to
help.
Wanting to learn more about his visitor, Fraser ventured to change the
subject. "If I may ask, Alex, why did you leave the Ukraine? Obviously, you
have a deep love of your homeland, and you miss your family." His tone made
it clear that he was not meaning to pry, and Alex took no offense.
Turning from the window, he hooked his hands into his back pockets. Fraser
tore his eyes from the strong thighs and solidly packed zipper so fetchingly
displayed. Recent nightmares were dredging up old memories, and recent
betrayals were bringing back old longings. It was not proper to subject Alex
to the physical ramifications of those desires—
"I am... homosexual, Benton. In my country, that is a serious social crime.
Men who are... who engage in such... relationships, they can be put in
prison, or locked in mental hospitals. They are not so... rigid in this
country. I do not want to be punished for the crime of loving a man."
Fraser's mind went completely blank. So did his face, and Alex
misinterpreted his sudden lack of expression. Dismay and fear clouded those
fine eyes, and his hands came up in a defensive gesture.
"I am sorry! I did not mean to offend. I thought... you seem so kind... I
did not—"
Fraser interrupted the stumbling apology with his own raised palm. "Alex!
Alex, please, it's perfectly all right. I apologize. You didn't offend me, I
assure you."
Relief painted itself across the expressive face, and Alex relaxed.
"Spazeba. Thank you. It is good." A tiny grin flashed across his face. "One
does not get without one asks, yes?"
Fraser fell into the spark of light in deep green eyes, and had to concede
the truth of that statement. Unfortunately, while his body was happily
agreeing with the concept, his mind was still struggling with recent wounds,
and he couldn't force his mouth to form the words. Alex gradually lost his
smile as he realized that Fraser was, literally, speechless, and with an
embarrassed little cough, he went down the hall to make his evening
ablutions. By the time he had returned, Fraser was bunked down in his own
bedroll. They exchanged subdued 'good night's, then lay in the darkness,
listening to one another breathe.
Remembering the particularly vivid dreams that had followed made his uniform
uncomfortably constricting, and Fraser exercised iron control to banish the
thoughts from his mind. Beneath the stoic demeanor, the darkness was
reaching out to the warmth he felt coming from his new friend, and a small
voice at the back of his mind whispered 'tonight.'
It was an incredibly long shift.
Alex stared at the candles he'd lit, ringing the counter, the small
windowsill, lighting the pathetic little rooms with the best imitation of
romance he could create. It'd have to do. He'd planted all the seeds he
could, and time was running short. By tomorrow he had to be on his way. He'd
read enough in the journals to get a good idea of the lay of the land—old
Robert Fraser had been pretty damned thorough both in describing the country
he tracked outlaws through and in rhapsodizing about his cabin. Krycek had
imprinted the information in his brain.
Even if he didn't get any help crossing the border, when he did manage to
sneak into Canada, he now knew where he was going to hole up. He had packed
a bag with everything he would need. Now he just had to distract the Mountie
for a few hours, keep him occupied. In the morning he would be gone. If he
stayed any longer, the cancerstick's eyes would find him. Then they'd both
be dead. And he planned on living a hell of a lot longer than this.
Night fell early as autumn slipped into winter. Ray had been delayed, other
commitments taking his time, so Fraser walked briskly home through the
gradually quieting streets. By the time he'd made it to his block, dusk had
given way to full darkness. He glanced automatically up at his window from
the sidewalk before entering the building. There was a light glow
illuminating the glass, bleeding through the cracked window into the night.
It cheered him, leaving him feeling, for an odd moment, as if he wasn't
alone. He refused to examine the feeling, simply enjoying the unusual
sensation while it lasted.
Unfortunately, it didn't last long.
The glow wasn't emanating from his lantern, as he had expected. No, Alex had
been busy while he'd been away. The candles he had so diligently stored,
deep in the cabinet, after his fiasco of an affair with Victoria, had found
their way back out. They sat scattered about the room, creating a dichotomy,
pools of light that filled him with shadows, shadows that gnawed at him. An
unaccustomed rage, sparked by buried anger and unacceptable pain, jolted
through him, and without thought, he swept his arm viciously along the
counter, knocking the candles to the tile floor.
Alex gave one startled "Shto?" then started stamping on the flickering
wicks, stopping the flame before it could spread. Fraser stared, appalled at
his lack of control, then began to back toward the door. Before he could
make it, not thinking, just reacting with the instinct to flee foremost in
his mind, Alex stamped out the last of the sputtering candles and reached
out to grasp Fraser's wrist.
"Fchyom dyela? What's the matter? Are you alright?" His grip remained
steady, and Fraser froze, unwilling to risk injuring his new friend by
taking the steps necessary to free himself. The worried look on the open
features gradually calmed him, and he began to relax.
"I'm... I am sorry, Alex. Please. It's my fault, I shouldn't have reacted
so violently," he tried to explain, but found that his tongue felt thick,
and the words didn't come out correctly.
"Nyet, nyet, I did something wrong. The candles? I am sorry." Releasing
Fraser tentatively, as if he expected him to bolt, he quickly made the
rounds of the room extinguishing the remaining candles. With only the light
coming through the window to illuminate the room, the shadows returned to
their proper places, and Fraser finally eased himself back into the room.
Alex sank down next to him, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "I
truly am sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."
Unwilling to meet those wide, searching eyes quite yet, Fraser stared down
at his own linked hands, clenching around one another between his knees.
"What did you mean to happen, Alex?"
"I meant... to see if there was a chance for us to be close. I did not mean
to hurt you, Benton. I meant to offer companionship."
The soft voice reassured him, eased some of the trauma associated with the
last time he had been in a candlelit room. "It's not... there was a woman.
Very recently. She... hurt me. I allowed her to hurt me. The candles...
brought it back." The words hurt his throat, the confession coming from deep
within in response to the honesty his friend had shown. He meant to
reassure, but it had the opposite effect.
Alex straightened away from him, removing his hand, putting distance between
them. "I see." The slightly accented voice was strained. "I misunderstood.
It is my fault. You do not want. I misread."
This time it was Fraser's turn to reach out and grasp Alex's hand, holding
him still when he would have retreated. "No," he admitted with further
painful honesty. "You didn't misread. You're... a very attractive man. In
some ways, you remind me of her." Alex stiffened, looking at him with
horrified disbelief. "Not in the bad way," Fraser continued hurriedly,
certain that, as usual, his explanation would not be sufficient. "In a good
way. She was beautiful. And she could be... breathtaking." He grimaced. He
was simply useless at talking about emotions. Unable to think of the words
that would explain his attraction without making Alex feel even worse, he
did something he very seldom did, and gave into impulse. Leaning sideways,
twisting his torso just enough to bring them into contact along one side,
retaining his grip on Alex's arm, he angled his head and brought their faces
together.
For a first kiss, it was surprisingly intense. Alex's mouth softened
immediately, opening slightly, responding to the gentle buss with a delicate
foray of his own. Their tongues slid along one another, then Alex's followed
Fraser's back into its home, probing deeply, not giving Fraser the chance to
back away. Somehow, as the kiss deepened, their bodies shifted, Fraser's
hand sliding up to cup Alex's shoulder, Alex moving backward, pulling Fraser
along with him until they came to a rest against the bed, Fraser blanketing
Alex with his body. By the time Alex finally allowed him to breathe, Fraser
was lightheaded.
The candles were forgotten, the memory of Victoria's touch burned away by
the strong hands restlessly exploring him. He found himself panting, pulling
at Alex's clothing as Alex pulled at his uniform, until those hands planted
themselves against his chest. A moan rumbled in his throat at the denial of
physical sensation, and a reassuring murmur sounded by his ear.
"No, no, tovarisch, we're not stopping. But the clothes are in the way, yes?
I want to feel your skin against mine. All that fire." As he spoke, Alex sat
up and reached out to him again, busy fingers making short work of the many
fastenings on the uniform. Fraser could feel those eyes burning into him
with an almost feral intensity, devouring every inch of him as the bulky
material was stripped away. With an ease that would be astonishing in
retrospect but seemed perfectly natural at the time, Alex stripped him and
placed the uniform neatly on his single chair, then stripped himself, with
less dispatch and more attention to detail. By the time Alex finished, after
checking regularly throughout his disrobing to ensure he had the other man's
attention, Fraser was in a state of extreme arousal.
The state was matched by his soon to be lover. Half expecting a hard, fast
coupling, Fraser was completely disarmed by the thorough attention Alex paid
to his body. Starved for touch, lost in the overwhelming sensation of those
hands, that mouth, worshipping him, Fraser gradually felt the loneliness
that was so much a part of him begin to ease. Alex lingered over him,
stroking his calves, up around his thighs, easing around to palm his
buttocks, avoiding true intimacy at the beginning, heightening the
anticipation.
Strong, kneading fingers dug into the long muscles of his back, smoothing
over the knots that were then worked into oblivion. Fraser felt an unnerving
combination of utter relaxation and total arousal by the time Alex had
finished his unorthodox massage, the kneading and stroking interspersed with
butterfly kisses, delicate licks, tiny nibbles until every centimeter of his
skin was completely sensitized. Those hands wrung every iota of tension out
of his back, shoulders, neck, up into his scalp, as Alex used his lips,
teeth and tongue from Fraser's navel along his ribs to his nipples. He
lapped, nipped and tugged until they were peaked before continuing his
journey. Fraser found himself paralyzed with sensation, unable to do
anything but lay there and be feasted upon. Then Alex attacked his neck,
gently suckling and biting, and he began to moan in response, unable to keep
from vocalizing his approval.
He was melting into the bed, he could barely keep his eyes open, and he was
so hard he was aching. When the talented hands and even more talented mouth
left his scalp and his throat, diving with unnerving suddenness directly
onto his erection, he yelped and bucked. The change in tactics brought a
whole new level of arousal with it, and his previous passivity disappeared.
His hands threaded themselves through the thick pelt of dark brown hair,
guiding Alex's head, encouraging his efforts. His hips thrust of their own
volition, not deeply enough to choke, but demanding fulfillment that Alex
was more than willing to provide.
As he felt himself draw nearer to the peak, his left hand wove through
Alex's right, and he pulled the caressing fingers away from his testes,
drawing them up to his mouth. Alex paused in his swallowing massage long
enough to look askance at Fraser, but he ignored the inquiring look and
began to suck on the fingertips. Alex moaned around his erection, and the
vibration nearly caused him to explode. He sucked fiercely at the fingers,
and Alex matched his rhythm perfectly. The combination of flesh in his mouth
and mouth on his flesh completed the circuit, and his mind shut down, buried
in a torrent of sensation, color, sound, and release that rendered him
nearly unconscious.
He wasn't truly aware of Alex's actions at that point; feeling the world
shift on its axis, he assumed it was further evidence of impaired sensory
input caused by an incredible orgasm. He lost the hand from his mouth, and
the solid presence of Alex between his thighs, but the loss was compensated
by the warmth lying along his back and thighs, shifting to his side, bending
his upper leg, the weight along his back pressing him slightly into the thin
mattress. He felt moist warmth at his backside, strong fingers spreading his
buttocks, then wet fingers probing at him.
Still recovering from the shattering climax moments before, his body was
completely relaxed, and the fingers entered him with little resistance.
Reacting to the unusual stimulus, he groaned and thrust backward slightly,
needing more. His unspoken demand was met by the careful working of a
bulkier intruder into his opening, and reality shifted again. There was no
coarse cotton pillowcase beneath his cheek; the thin woolen blanket rubbing
against his skin was transformed to the softest weaving, the bedroll a
buttress beneath it to shield them from the icy ground. The muttered
endearments whispered between his shoulder blades were Inuit, not Russian;
the slight breeze from the opened window was the crisp play of wind off the
lake. The bulk stretching, filling, completing him was not Alex. The
darkness was drowned in pure sensation.
The lovemaking went on for what felt like forever, but was not nearly long
enough, then was repeated with some variation and a great deal of need
throughout the night. As Fraser convulsed a final time, drawing his lover
into the abyss with him, clenching around his welcomed invader, words
tumbled from both men's lips. Neither heard the other, perhaps for the best,
for Alex was not to know who 'Steve' might be, and Fraser certainly did not
know what 'Mulder' meant.
Krycek pretended to sleep until the door had closed softly behind the
Mountie. It had been a hell of a night, and he stored up the memories,
reveling in the sensation, knowing it would be quite awhile before he got an
opportunity like that again. Giving his benefactor five minutes to get to
the front of the building, he rose and headed to the window. He watched the
taillights of a classic green Riviera disappear from view, then headed to
the sink for a quick wash. He'd do a more thorough job when he was far
enough away to take his time. Besides, there was something... satisfying
about feeling Benton's sweat on his skin, the feeling of his come still
washing inside him. A good job well done. Smirking slightly to himself, he
headed for the closet.
Fifteen minutes later he stood fully dressed in Benton's spare uniform. The
close attention the previous night, before things got totally hot, had paid
off, and he had no problem with what seemed like dozens of fastenings. He
placed the hat squarely on his head, rummaged quickly and neatly through the
trunk, removed the .38, the passport, and the spare ammunition from it, and
was on his way.
It had been sweet, and it had been useful. He felt rested, rejuvenated, and
ready to run. Damned good thing, too, because the race had really just
begun.
The border wasn't even a challenge. He was of the same height and build as
Benton, and his coloring and face were similar enough that he easily passed
the cursory inspection. A uniform was a wonderful thing. The boat took him
across Lake Michigan, the bus took him as far as Sault Ste. Marie, and by
week's end he was heading north from Thompson. As long as the money and the
supplies held out, he was safe. Within a fortnight, checking his six the
entire trip, he had made himself at home in the small cabin. As he relaxed
in front of the fire, he raised a cup in the general direction of Chicago.
"Thanks for the bolt-hole, Benton." It'd been fun. Too bad it'd had to be so
short.
Some minor infraction had incensed the Inspector, and she made him pay for
it in the usual way. Eleven hours of sentry duty in blowing snow wasn't
really standard procedure, but at least it wasn't the middle of a heat wave.
Fraser blanked his mind as completely as he could, but the memories of the
previous night kept intruding. Eventually, he allowed some of them to seep
through. They did have a curiously warming effect.
Eventually, even Inspector Thatcher had to relent, and by nineteen hundred
he was ready to leave. Unfortunately for his wayward libido, Ray had finally
disentangled himself from family obligations, and was eager to make up some
lost time by taking him out to dinner. It was less successful than their
dinners usually were, but Fraser found himself loath to share Alex with Ray.
For one thing, the relationship was still very new, and he felt unusually
protective. For another, he wasn't quite sure how his macho, Italian, Roman
Catholic detective friend would react to meeting another of Fraser's lovers,
this one being a man.
At least he wasn't a convicted felon.
After a relatively short dinner, pleading unfeigned fatigue from an all day
sentry shift (following nearly no sleep the night before), Fraser hopped out
of the Riviera and headed up the steps to his apartment. He was happy to see
that Alex hadn't repeated the candle arrangement from the previous evening.
Dief bounded up the stairs next to him, and directly into the room. As
usual, the door wasn't latched. Unable to contain his anticipatory smile,
Fraser called out a greeting as he entered the small front room.
It echoed.
The smile faded slightly, replaced by a concerned frown. Diefenbaker whined
at him from the bed, and he moved, slowly, further into the apartment,
removing his Stetson and placing it carefully on the table as he went. He
felt as if he were walking underwater, his footsteps reluctant, his body
tensing. With each step, the darkness in his head grew stronger. The short
hair at the nape of his neck was prickling.
The bed had not been made. He could still see, and smell, the results of
their passion on the sheets. In the indentation from Alex's head on the
pillow, a sheet of plain paper lay, looking incongruously tidy in the mess
of the linens. There were very few words on it.
"Benton. Thank you. You saved my life. Alex"
He looked blankly around the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, except
the bed. Where had he gone? Why had he gone? It made no sense. Moving numbly
through his evening routine, he unhooked his tunic and walked to the closet.
Opening the door, he reached in for his customary hanger and froze.
His other uniform was missing.
He hung up the tunic, absently, and looked around the apartment again, this
time with much greater attention. Something was out of place, something was... not quite right. It clicked on the third sweep, and he headed directly
for his father's trunk, pulled a quarter inch forward from where it was
normally placed. It was also somewhat shinier than it had been, and he
swallowed dryly, realizing that it had been wiped down.
It seemed Alex hadn't wanted his fingerprints to remain behind, either.
Opening the lid with restrained violence, he scanned the contents. What he
saw, or more aptly what he didn't see, caused his heart to sink. His weapon,
ammunition, and passport were missing. Sinking to his knees in front of the
trunk, his mind raced, calculating lead time and distance.
He could be anywhere by now.
His first impulse was to inform Ray. Bring in the police. Track him down.
Get his help stopping Alex from whatever it was Alex was planning to do.
Halfway out the door toward Mr. Mustafi's to borrow the telephone, he
stopped. It hit him like a physical blow, taking his breath, making his head
hurt.
He couldn't do that. Ray was only now recovering from Victoria. Now, here he
would be, with another invisible lover, stealing his clothing, his pistol,
for purposes unknown. And this time the lover was a man.
Fraser tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was too tight, only
allowing shallow pants. The darkness was threatening to drown him, this
time, and he was more than willing to let it. He couldn't drag Ray into
this. He would have to investigate it on his own. Not again would he allow
the only friend he had left to suffer for his own stupidity.
Sinking back onto the floor, staring blankly out the window, he wondered,
not for the first time, if the dawn would ever come.
Three months later:
Strapping on snowshoes, fingering the edge of a computer disk through the
layers of insulation protecting him from the elements, Krycek looked back
over his shoulder at the little cabin that had sheltered him through a
fierce winter. The storms had lightened now, and it was time to go.
Somewhere warm. Somewhere metropolitan, commercial, where his skills and his
information would find a market. It was time to leave his hiding place and
re-enter the rat race.
He stopped once on his journey, at Saskatoon, and posted a package to Benton
Fraser. Then he continued along the length of the country until he reached
Vancouver. There, with a carefully forged Canadian passport, expensive and
worth every penny, he boarded an international flight for Hong Kong.
It was time, again, to start playing the game.
The winter was as frustrating as the autumn had been cold. Every spare
minute not spent on duty was spent at the computers, until Ray Vecchio
finally asked him what he, Ray, had done to piss him, Frazier, off. That had
broken his self-imposed silence, and he'd told Ray just enough to interest
the detective in the search. Not all the details, by any means, just that he
had helped a man in need who had repaid that assistance by stealing some
items of value from him, and now he was trying to track the man down, and
having little success in the endeavor. Ray had looked at him, quietly,
searchingly, as if he knew that there was more to the story that Fraser
wasn't telling him. Then he had shrugged, accepted what he was given, and
offered his help.
Both of them came up empty handed. Leads disappeared before they could
develop, or turned out to be false trails. They hit one top level classified
barrier after another. It was intensely frustrating.
Shortly after the new year, a package wrapped in brown paper arrived at the
embassy for Fraser. Carefully examining it, he found no indication of its
origination point. Then it hit him.
He knew the writing.
Alex.
Sinking into the chair, he pulled the package toward himself and began to
open it slowly. Carefully wrapped, padded for protection, was his .38
revolver, lying atop his passport. Inside the passport was a key, and tied
to the key was a tiny paper with a number and location on it. A locker at a
bus station in Saskatoon. Nothing else.
He closed his eyes, the edges of the key digging into his palm as his fist
clenched around it. Somehow he knew that his spare uniform would be in that
locker. Probably any ammunition that was left as well. The unshakable
feeling that he had been an idiot struck him. Of course. If Alex had been
thorough enough to find his passport, he'd certainly had time to read at
least some of the journals, and would definitely know about the cabin. The
clues had been right under his nose for months, and in his blindness he had
missed them.
With equal certainty, he knew that Alex was no longer at the cabin. No
longer in Canada. No longer anywhere that Fraser could reach him. Placing
the key with shaking hands into his pocket, he straightened, tugged at his
tunic, and knocked quietly on the Inspector's door. He would take a short
trip to Saskatoon and retrieve his belongings. And when he returned, he
would take Ray out to dinner, and try his best to explain the darkness.
Perhaps, for once, he would make the right choice. Light to balance the
darkness. If fate was kind.
Fate was seldom kind.
finis
Way Station in Shadow
by Brenda Antrim
He really shouldn't have been surprised that the nightmares would come back.
Not that he would classify them as such, even to himself. Constable Benton
Fraser, RCMP, didn't allow himself to be upset by such measly things as
'nightmares'.
