It was almost painful to play that part. To pretend that I was innocent,
naive. A trifle squeamish even.
To have him try and ditch me when we had barely begun that first "case"
together. To end up playing third wheel to Scully who wasn't even his
partner anymore but still was there for him, maybe even more so than
since they had been separated, the X-files closed. I had seen the
possibility of it from the first—seen it in the profiles I had been
given to study prior to my assignment to the man—but they wouldn't have
believed me then. Not until after I had proof of them working together
despite procedure, despite orders, proof enough to warrant calling
Scully a threat.
Because what I had seen hinted at in those files, what I seen in blatant
display in those first few hours, told me that without her, Mulder would
have nothing and no one to turn to, no one to trust, and that he would
then be all the more malleable. While with her...
He seemed to get his fingers into everything.
To get in the way.
Not that working with him had been all bad, despite his efforts to close
me out, to keep me at arm's length. They had told me a few things in
advance about the case we were supposed to be investigating, as little
as they felt they had to, of course. So it was more that Mulder was
investigating the case and I was providing some kind of lackadaisical
assistance, all the while investigating him in the meantime, him and
Scully and who just might be leaking them their information. Still, I
had pieced together enough from my sources and his and Scully's
conversations to know that Augustus Cole could kill with his dreams,
had killed with his dreams.
That he could have killed Mulder there at the train station.
And it had scared me that, for a moment or two, I had thought that he
had died and my first thought hadn't been for my mission, for the men I
worked for, but for myself. For the man lying at my feet, so still,
curved in on himself as if he really had been hit by a couple of rounds.
No blood, but then there wouldn't have to be. He could be just as dead
without it. If he believed enough...
I had certainly seen a gun in the man's hand later, seen it aimed at
Mulder, and had somehow known, completely and horribly, that he was
going to pull the trigger. It hadn't helped to know the man's abilities
and it wouldn't have mattered anyway if I had seen through it, seen
through to the Bible in his hand and not the weapon it appeared to be. I
would still have killed him, if not in that moment then the first chance
I got. It was what I was trained to do, after all. What I had no choice
but to do.
Kill Augustus Cole. Retrieve the stolen file.
Lie to Fox Mulder.
The only problem—God, if it only was—being what happened in the
meantime. It wasn't something that they had likely counted on, that they
would have cared for if they knew which they probably did or would in
time anyway being who and what they are and I would end up paying for it
later, but what the hell...
I could think of it as a kind of twisted pay-back for the horrible suits
they forced me into wearing.
For assigning me to a man no sane person could resist.
Despite all his quirks. Or maybe because of them.
Not that they didn't know about my tendencies. Had even used them on
occasion. Maybe, they just thought that I had more restraint. That I was
enough of their boot-lick boy for it not to matter. And it wasn't
professional. It wasn't wise. It wasn't even practical. But sometimes,
you just don't give a flying fuck anymore, sometimes you shake your way
out of the leash for a second or two before it's pulled taut again,
before it chokes you down.
Makes you eat dust.
So it was that a few days after I had made my report, after I had
returned the file Mulder had hidden in his car, that I found myself
sitting in a car outside his apartment. Sitting and staring up at the
dim flickering patch of light in the window. Wondering what the hell I
was doing there and whether I was stupid enough to get out and walk
across that silent street and up those stairs to that one particular
door. The lateness of the hour didn't bother me. Hell, knowing the man,
he probably was crashed out on his couch right now, and that flicker of
light from the television set meant that he was watching one of the
tapes from that vast video library stuffed into that closet that used to
be called a bedroom.
The details of that particular "obsession" of his had been laid out in
his file. As had the fact that the man hadn't been on a date in a good
year or more. That he had had nothing and no one serious since his days
in England. At the time, it had been no more than a passing
consideration to me, something to take note of, no different than how
many cases he had been involved with prior to the X-files, where he
tended to go on vacation (few and far between that they were), and his
favorite fast-food delivery service.
It hadn't been until I met the man that I realized that his file photo
didn't do him justice. That it just couldn't capture the essence of the
man, the quick flash of humor, of annoyance, of anger. The quality of
his hazel eyes, so brilliant, so intelligent, so discerning. More
discerning than I really cared for. It had set me on edge despite my
preparations and I had retreated quickly into my act, perhaps even a
little too much. They had asked me to be green, not annoyingly so, not
that it probably mattered all that much to Mulder. He had disliked me on
sight. Disliked having to work with me. Having to work with anyone other
than Dana Scully.
Though he had done the right thing, the sympathetic thing, at the time
when I shot Cole. Reassuring a "young agent" of his choice, despite his
own feelings to the matter. It had twinged at me to slide back into the
car with him, knowing he would find the file gone. Knowing they would
have already begun tidying up at Scully's end of things. That it had all
been magicked away from under him once again.
Leaving him with nothing but frustration and hours of drug dealer
conversation yet to transcribe.
Mind-numbing work. An empty apartment. The memories of a sister stolen
from him growing dimmer over the years, the guilt growing ever sharper.
Always with him, especially late at night, until not even he knew why he
stayed up anymore, why it felt sometimes as if he were waiting. Waiting
for his life to begin.
It had rained earlier and the streetlights glimmered on the pavement, on
the dark leaves of the trees, on the parked cars. I could still smell it
in the air through my open window, a cool smell underlaid by the scent
of wet earth, wet grass. My own clothes smelled as well, though of less
pleasant things. Smoke and sweat and beer and cheap perfume. Lingering
remnants of the bar where I had picked her up, the room she had taken me
to. Where I had tried to forget hazel eyes in blue. Tried to find
release in a woman's softness, only to find myself yearning for
hardness, for arms as strong as my own to hold me, to pull me down, to
crush me beneath a heavy implacable weight. I had tried but, in the end,
found myself paying her off and walking out. Walking to my car. Driving
to an address I had memorized, but never been to.
It was stupid. It was unprofessional. But I couldn't quite stop myself.
There had been nothing in the file to indicate that he might swing that
way, that he might even be interested. Nothing but his incessant
curiosity. His sheer aloneness. The raunchy videotapes and the perpetual
phone sex bills, mostly straight, yeah, but it definitely betrayed that
he had a high enough sex drive, that that too hadn't completely dried
up. All things hinting at a need that someone might take advantage of if
they had few enough scruples. If they didn't care how the other person
felt in the morning.
If they were willing to risk a look of disgusted rejection and the
knowledge that it could possibly make regaining and keeping his trust
all the more difficult. A trust you needed in order to fulfill your
mission, in order to lie to him some more, spy on him, eventually betray
him to all the enemies he suspected and those he did not.
I reached out, touched the car keys, almost turned them. Almost turned
away. But then I found my eyes drawn back to the building again, back to
that light, and I let my hand fall again. Abruptly, my stomach was
churning, my mouth was dry, and I realized that I had made my choice
after all. Still, there was no way I was going in there without stacking
the odds in my favor. Always have an edge, that's what they had taught
me, what a few close-calls had drilled into me. Always have an out.
Even if it made you out to be a fool.
I rolled up the window and leaned over the passenger seat, reached
underneath it. Retrieved the brown paper sack hidden there. I pulled out
the bottle inside, scrunched up the paper and threw it on the floor,
then unscrewed the bottle and lifted it to my lips before I could change
my mind. The cheap whiskey inside burned even more than I expected, a
harsh and unforgiving flavor, searing all the way down. I took several
deep swallows anyway, felt it pooling inside me. Forming a hard knot of
warmth, false heat, false courage. Just enough to take the edge off.
Just enough to be able to play the game. I wiped at my mouth with the
sleeve of my heavy flannel shirt, then deliberately let some of the
alcohol fall on my T-shirt, scrubbed it across my jeans.
I would have preferred vodka, but vodka didn't have enough of a
betraying odor. Besides, vodka was just a little too close to home.
Leaving the cap behind on the floor as well, I pulled out the keys and
slid out of the car. Didn't bother locking it behind me. Just stood
there in the cool air and took another pull of the liquor, this time
because I actually needed it little, needed something anyway. The light
in Mulder's window flickered again and somewhere in the distance I heard
a car pass by, the rushing sound of tires on wet pavement. I took a
second, somewhat smaller sip, then carefully poured out half the
remaining whiskey onto the rain-swept street.
Not looking up at the window now, not looking at much of anything to be
honest, I walked across the street and up the front steps. It only took
half a moment to pick the lock, to let myself inside. The hall beyond
was dim, smelling faintly of some kind of lemon cleanser and fainter
still of cats, the carpet runner rather worn at the edges. Not the
world's greatest building, not the classiest neighborhood, but then it
probably wasn't something Mulder cared that much about. He spent so
little time here after all. Hardly enough time even to sleep.
I went up the stairs quietly, down the hall, passing silent doors. Here
the light was even dimmer, most of it coming from the streetlight
pouring in through the window at the far end. Pouring down the scuffed
hardwood floor. Mulder's door was silent as well and I paused in front
of it, wondering if he was watching TV with the sound off, wondering if
he was actually asleep after all. Not that it mattered exactly. I had
come this far and there was no way I was going back now, no way I was
leaving. At least on my own power.
I took another long gulp of the whiskey, this time allowing a small
grimace at the taste, then let myself slump a little, pulled an aura of
drunkenness about me. It would be a fine line I'd have to play—just
drunk enough to seem capable of losing my inhibitions, my good sense,
yet not so drunk as to be insensate. I would have to be maudlin, even a
bit morose. And most certainly hurting. Definitely not a man to let back
out on the road. Not that Mulder wasn't capable of calling a taxi and
pouring me into it if it came to that.
Though I felt I could face that more than the look of disgust that would
precede it, the withdrawal. The rejection that the man wouldn't mean as
cruel, but couldn't be anything but. The thought that I had risked the
mission—risked my life even if it came to that and with the men I
worked for it just might—risked so much for something all but
impossible from the start. Impossible and insane and hopeless.
It took more effort to knock than I really liked. More effort not to
just head on back down that hall and out the door. But I couldn't stand
that either, the thought of leaving. Of facing the man the next time
they sent me to cross his path and wondering, wishing...
Damning myself for being a coward. For playing it safe.
For being what they wanted me to be.
There was no answer and I was forced to knock again, louder this time.
Finally, I heard footsteps approaching the door, pausing on the other
side.
I deliberately didn't look at the peephole, kept my face turned to one
side.
"Yeah?" I heard the familiar voice say, tired-sounding, dragging.
Strangely, not terribly surprised for all that. "Krycek, what do you
want?"
"Mulder," I said. "Let me in, all right." I let my voice slur a little,
a very little, but I knew the man would catch it.
There was an even longer pause, then I heard the locks being undone and
the door was yanked open before me. And Mulder was looking at me, his
hair unkempt, a hint of shadows beneath his eyes, those sharp eyes. His
pale blue T-shirt was rumpled, as was the pair of grey sweats he was
wearing. A far cry from his usual well-defined suits. The room was dark
behind him, and if he hadn't been sleeping he hadn't been very far from
it. "Do you have any idea what time it is," he said and it was not a
question.
"Sure," I replied. "Late."
Mulder frowned, let out a quick breath. "Krycek, you're drunk," he said.
I glanced down at the bottle hanging loosely in my hand, tilted it back
and forth, letting the contents slosh against the sides. "Not
completely," I said. "Not enough."
The other man rolled his eyes a little, stepped back and to one side.
"Get inside," he said, a strange note in his voice, half-resigned,
half-amused.
I did as I was told and he shut and locked the door again behind me,
blocking out what little light filtered in from the hall. "Go sit down
before you fall down," he added, heading across the room in the soft
darkness. I followed him and sat down on the black couch harder than was
really necessary, then let myself slip a little sideways on the slick
leather surface, let my head fall back. The TV was on, casting a cool
pale glow across the room, though the sound had been turned all the way
off as I had suspected. I caught a glimpse of two women and one man
together on a large red satin bed, one woman with her head between his
legs, the other riding his face, before Mulder picked up the remote and
the image vanished, was replaced by what looked like some old black and
white war movie, then the even more innocuous weather channel as he
flipped the channel once more.
He tossed the remote back on the coffee table, almost knocking over a
stack of files, then sat himself at the opposite end of the couch. He
didn't say something for a long time, time enough for me to take another
gulp of whiskey. It didn't burn nearly as much anymore and I wondered
vaguely if I was getting used to it. Or maybe even a trifle drunk after
all. Normally, it would take more than that—a lot more than what I had
had—but I hadn't eaten much since this morning. Not since I'd woken up
thinking about the man across from me. Thinking about how empty the bed
was that I was in, how empty the room around me, how empty my life, and
what it would feel like to kiss those lips, to have those long fingers
touching me, stroking me, the weight of his body pressing me down into
the sheets, pressing my face into the pillow... and how much more of a
betrayal could I dare to have those things. If even for one night.
One short sweet bitter night.
Finally, Mulder glanced at me, at the bottle in my hand, and let out a
small sigh. "You know, that doesn't really help," he said. "Besides,
it'll give you one hell of a headache to think about in the morning."
I looked down the mouth of the bottle, frowned as if I were considering
his words. Considering and rejecting them. "It's all kinda blurry right
now," I said softly. "That's good enough, I guess. It doesn't..."
"Ever go away," he said, cutting me off. "But I doubt you want to hear
that right now, do you?"
"You warned me," I said. "But I didn't listen. I just saw that he... had
a gun and I..."
"You did what you had to do. What you were taught to do." Mulder shook
his head slightly. "You saw a gun and you acted accordingly. You're not
to blame for what happened, Krycek. Cole wanted to die. He made you
shoot him."
I leaned back some more, let the bottle fall as if I couldn't quite hold
it up anymore, nearly spilled out some of the whiskey on my leg, the
couch beneath me. I almost expected him to try and take it from me, but
he did nothing, said nothing, only sat there looking at me, a serious,
somewhat concerned look on his face. An earnest look, a look that said
he wanted to help, despite his own tiredness, despite his lingering
mistrust.
"I guess it's... harder to believe than I thought," I said at last. And
something real must have crept into my voice, because Mulder's face
changed again, his eyes grew a little softer, more mild than I had yet
seen them, except when he had been talking to Scully. Talking to Scully
and thinking that he was alone, that he was unobserved.
Then he was closing that off again, locking himself back up, and reached
over for the bottle in my hand. "Give it over," he said. "I think you've
had enough."
I let him take it and maybe he was right after all because the room
seemed to spin around me for a moment and a wave of hot blood pounded in
my head, pounded behind my eyes. I dug my fingers into the edge of the
couch and held my breath, waited for it to subside. The room suddenly
seemed far too dark, too full of things I couldn't explain, couldn't
handle. Couldn't deny. This moment. This man. This half-assed seduction,
lies within lies within lies. And the truth of it worst of all.
Ruthlessly, I bore down on it all. Slammed it away again in that cold
box deep inside me, the place that kept everything that wasn't useful to
me—the person I once was and could never be again, the fears and the
weaknesses that could only get me killed, bright things, light things,
things that came easy to those who still believed in honesty,
friendship, all that crap.
Not that Mulder much believed in them either anymore, I suspected.
Or, at the very least, would admit it, even to himself.
Because he was even now getting up, moving away, my bottle of cheap
whiskey in his hand, and I knew that if he left now I would lose him.
That I would lose my chance...
"Fox," I said. He paused, looking at me, no emotion at all on his face
now. "Sorry," I added quickly.
He raised his head slightly. "You're not my partner, Krycek. Don't
forget that. You'll never be my partner. But that doesn't mean I won't
be there for you when it counts. Like you were for me that night, with
Cole. If he hadn't been who he was. If that'd been a real gun..."
I let out a sharp breath, caught it back again. "Mulder, I didn't... come
here to cry all over you. I guess... I wanted to thank you. You covered
for me in the report. Skinner told me. You said I had no way of
knowing... of knowing that he didn't have a real gun. Not that I... killed
a man for nothing."
"Shit," I heard him mumble. "Krycek. Alex..."
He moved towards me and I reached up, caught his arm. He let me and I
knew then that he did trust me, if only a little. "Have a drink,
Mulder," I said quietly.
He shook his head. "I don't."
"Please," I added, falling back, letting go of his arm. "Then I won't
have been drinking alone."
For a long moment he just stood there, then without a change in
expression, at least none that I could see, he moved back to his end of
the couch. Sat down and lifted the bottle to his mouth, took a long slow
sip. "God," he said, letting the bottle fall. He made a disgusted face.
"How can you drink this shit. At least I got plastered on something a
little more palatable."
I shrugged, reached out for the bottle, but he refused to give it to me.
Instead, he set it down on the coffee table. On the one clear spot.
"Keys," he said firmly. "I think it's about time I drove you home."
I didn't answer. Didn't move. Certainly didn't offer to give him my car
keys.
"Fine," he said at last, his tone a little perturbed. "Have it your way.
Sleep on the floor then. But you're not driving home. Not in this
condition."
"I'm not that drunk," I responded. It was a half-truth. The closest
thing to a real truth I had yet told him tonight.
"Sure," he said. "I believe that one."
He started to get up again and this time I managed to slide over, to
stop him before he could get to his feet. He stared down at my hand on
his arm and I could sense him stiffening, pulling away, closing off.
"Krycek..." he started to say, a cold note in his voice.
I ignored the tone, the warning. His skin was so warm, so smooth, the
muscles beneath strong, jumping a little at my touch. My fingers
tightened before I could stop them, before I could consider, and then I
was leaning forward, leaning close, and brushed my lips across his face,
across the corner of his jaw. The skin there was rough, in need of a
shave, much like my own at the moment, and I had never tasted anything
so wonderful.
Mulder jumped, almost tearing out of my grip, and his head snapped back.
"What the fuck?" he hissed. "Krycek, are you out of your mind?"
I shook my head slightly, looked into those eyes. They were wickedly
sharp, shocked, but not appalled, not disgusted. At least, not yet.
"No," I said. "I'm not crazy, Mulder. Just a little drunk, I guess. Just
a little... lonely."
He let out a breath, shook his own head. Still, his eyes never let me
go, never came close to releasing me. "More than a 'little drunk' I'd
say."
"Maybe," I replied. "But not too drunk to know that..." I swallowed and
made the plunge. "That I'd like to kiss you again. Very much."
His mouth thinned out and, in that moment, I knew that he was about to
shake me off, kick me out, do whatever it took to make me disappear. To
pretend that what was happening had never happened. A sick feeling of
desperation twisted inside me, hotly mingled with the cheap whiskey I
had forced myself to drink, and I moved towards him again and this time
I found his lips and the kiss was both lighter and deeper at the same
time, bleak and hungry and wistful all at once.
He sat still for a long moment, so still, too still, and then I was
withdrawing, already girding myself for the disappointment of it, for
the rejection, even the anger, but his own hand shot out suddenly and
caught me, stopped me, held me there. He looked into my eyes and I
couldn't understand what moved in them, not entirely anyway, a hint of
anger, yes, but something more than that, something deeper and more
dreadful. I wanted to look away from them, look away before he could see
too much, know too much, but then he blinked and the intensity faded
away slightly, was merged into something else, something almost more
frightening. Familiar, but frightening.
A bottomless need, disquieting, dark, tearing at me even as it was torn
apart itself within the depths of those impenetrable hazel eyes.
As if the man behind them was made up of all sharp pieces, pieces others
had broken in him and pieces he had broken himself—that he couldn't
stop himself no matter how much it hurt, no matter that it left less and
less of him reflected in that mirror. That narrow window. That
needle-slender door.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, low and hard.
"Mulder," I said. "I just thought..."
"Why start now," he cut me off. "You didn't think things through too
clearly a moment ago. Didn't think of what the hell you were doing. No,
you'd rather start something and then high-tail it out the door,
wouldn't you?"
I laughed a little and, even to my own ears, it sounded nervous. Unsure.
"I just..." I started again.
"Thought I might break your teeth," he broke in. "Yeah, I know. Maybe I
should." Abruptly, he let go of me, sat back against the couch. He let
out a long sigh of air, shook his head slightly, his eyes hooded again,
not looking at me. "It's not that I'm not flattered," he said at last,
his tone subdued. "In a weird way. I just don't... haven't... gotten
involved with anyone in a long time. Not that I have anything against
guys, at least in principle. Just never had much interest. Not enough to
pursue anything anyway. Anyone."
I heard the pensive note in his voice and knew he wasn't just talking
about his relations with men, but with women, too. With anything other
than his job, his vocation. His relentless hunger for the truth.
Whatever the hell that was. Whatever it had come to mean for him.
Maybe, just about everything.
"Sorry," I said, and for that moment I was. One brief and painful
moment, before I cut it off again. Locked it up tight. "Mulder, I'll
just go."
I started to get up again, but this time it was his voice which stopped
me, which made me turn to look at him, sent a thrill of unexpected fear
and excitement through me.
"No," he said, softly, almost in a whisper. "Don't. I don't want you to
go. Krycek."
And he looked at me, looked up at me, and though his face was still,
almost deliberately drained of emotion, his eyes betrayed him. Betrayed
a loneliness and an emptiness that rivaled my own. A need for something,
anything, to sustain him through the night, through the coldest hours.
There was uncertainty there, too, uncertainty and quiet trepidation, but
obviously he had made up his mind despite it. Made up his mind that
something, no matter how frightening, how unexpected, was better than
nothing. At least, for tonight.
The look touched me though I didn't want it to, though I couldn't afford
it to.
"Shit, Mulder," I said, equally softly. "Are you sure?"
"No," he admitted. "But, right now anyway, I just don't fucking care,
okay? Maybe I will tomorrow. Hell, I'm pretty sure I will, but... at this
particular moment..." He smiled a little, a very little, a twist of wry
amusement that was aimed, no doubt, both at himself and the entire
situation. "At this particular moment, Agent Krycek, I would like you to
finish what you started, even if you're too damn drunk to remember just
where that might have been."
"I'm sure you could remind me," I responded. "Easy enough."
Still, his eyes flashed when I moved back towards him, sat down next to
him. He wasn't sure at all, but he was here and strangely determined to
let things proceed, most probably against all his better judgment. It
did remind me of myself, of my decision to come here in the first place.
I wasn't sure if I respected him for it, or felt sorry for him.
For myself.
It took almost a deliberate effort to bridge that last gap between us,
to reach out again, though this time I had his tacit approval. I started
slow, just touching his arms, his shoulders, running my hands up along
them, before finally sliding my fingers around his, my thumbs along his
bare palms. For a long moment, his own hands were still, unmoving,
simply accepting, then they finally tightened on my own and his right
thumb swept across my hand, stroking gently.
It made me smile, a brief flicker that quickly faded as I looked
directly into his face and leaned forward. Felt his breath brush across
my cheek. Felt his lips beneath mine, soft, so soft, and yet hard for
all that. Well-defined. Stubborn even. They didn't return my pressure at
first, but when they did I almost melted into them. Melted into him.
I felt more than heard his breathing hitch, then his mouth opened and I
truly fell. Sank into heat and salt and hunger so deep and hard I could
hardly stand it. I tasted him and God how that hurt, how that made me
hurt. I don't know exactly when he began to return the kiss, to suck at
my own mouth. All I remember is that the room had turned darker all
around me even than it had been before, that my head was spinning, that
nothing else mattered. Could ever matter again.
That somehow his hands had gotten free of mine and were closing on me,
digging into my skull, the back of my neck, holding me to him.
Intensifying the hot lick of his tongue, the sudden flash of his teeth,
nipping at my lips, at the side of my mouth, quickening breath and
quickening pulse, the rasp of rough unshaven skin across my cheek, my
jaw. It burned more than the whiskey, took that knot inside me and
twisted at it, twisted it tighter and tighter. Sharp shards of it
snapping off, piercing me all the way down to my cock.
I broke it off before he did, snatching for air, gasping, only then
realizing that we had both slid half-way off the couch at some time,
that my back was hard up against the edge of the coffee table. "God,
Mulder," I mumbled.
He smiled, a tiny flicker of something not even close to an apology,
breathing hard himself. He swallowed sharply, then raised his head. Ran
his own hands down my arms, tugged at the flannel shirt in a teasing
gesture. "Don't you think you're a trifle overdressed," he said.
I returned his smile and he watched me as I pulled myself to my feet,
swaying a little to my dismay—maybe the whiskey was still kicking in or
maybe it was something else, something more—and kicked off my shoes,
pulled off my shirt. The plain white t-shirt beneath. Cool air rushed
over me, but I still felt hot. I felt his gaze burning me. Studying me.
Memorizing me.
"All of it," he said. "If you don't mind."
Now it was my turn to swallow, to hesitate, but my hands were already
obeying him, going to the front of my jeans, undoing the button, even
more carefully letting down the zipper. I started to slip the heavy
material down, but he shook his head and stood himself, stepped right up
to me. Looked into my eyes, his own narrowed and narrowing. In a sudden
move, he pulled off his own t-shirt, pitched it on top of the cluttered
coffee table.
"Now, we're even," he said.
I laughed a little before I could stop myself. Then the laughter choked
off as he closed that distance between us in a sudden movement, slid his
arms around my waist, pulled me against him. Kissed me with such an
intensity, such a fury, that I couldn't hardly stand it. Couldn't hardly
stand.
It was rough, it was brutal, almost too much so, and I loved it. I put
my own arms around him and ground myself against him, felt a matching
hardness through the layers that separated us. And, God, but I wanted
it, wanted him. All of him, the brittle amusement and the pain, the
tender skin and the strength that threatened to break me, the scouring
intensity of those hazel eyes. Dark and dark as they looked at me now,
as he withdrew slightly to look at me, his breath washing across me, the
feel of his hands still imprinted into my back.
The knowledge that I was betraying him, was betraying myself, made it
all the sweeter, all the sharper.
My own hands slid downwards, across the curves there, hard muscle, sleek
and fine, and kneaded, pulled him against me again and again.
Counterpoint to the beat of pain and pleasure trapped in my jeans.
"Guess you're not... that drunk... after all," Mulder said in-between
breaths. His hands moved to grasp my upper arms, to restrain me. I
paused, feeling as if I were about to burst, glad that he had slowed it,
had stopped me. Hating it at the same time.
I shook my head, fought with and lost to a grin. I could feel his own
erection pulsing against me, almost as if in time to my own. "You're
right," I said. "Too many clothes."
"I'm... always right," he responded.
"Sure," I said, but it came out indulgent and he knew it.
"You first," he said.
Reluctantly, I let go of him, moved back a half-step. Back until I ran
into that damn coffee table again. His eyes never released me as I
pulled down both my jeans and my underwear in one quick gesture, stepped
up out of them. Kicked them away from me. Only slowly did they shift,
slide over me, slide down to look at me. "My, Agent Krycek, maybe you
should look into a career change," he said smoothly, wryly.
"Shut up," I mumbled, not meaning a word of it.
He tilted his head. Hesitated just long enough to make me wonder, then
gracefully stripped off his own sweat pants. He wasn't wearing anything
beneath them, at least nothing nature had not given him. His cock was
long, arching up and out from fine brown hair, the tip lightly flushed
with pink. Glistening a little, obvious evidence of his desire as if I
really needed any more clues to that.
"Get on the couch," I said, my voice rough.
"Of course," he responded. "Whatever you say."
He let me take charge again and I took advantage of it, of him. When he
had settled down on the black leather, his long lean form gleaming
palely against it, I came and stood over him for a long moment. Regarded
him with as much intensity as he had given me. His face went still again
as I stared and I suspected there was some small measure of
embarrassment he was hiding, embarrassment at his embarrassment. Still,
maybe I surprised him a little as I abruptly knelt by the couch, ran my
hands up his legs, down his inner thighs, and put my mouth to him.
Lightly at first, just a lick, just a touch, then as it jumped beneath
me, arched up even higher, I closed in on it. Set my mouth around it,
drew it in. Distantly, I heard him gasp and suspected it had been a long
time since anyone had done this for him, to him. Maybe years. He just
didn't seem like the quickie with a stranger in the elevator type, the
sort who would pay a hooker to service him, no matter how circumspect it
might be. Not that I particularly found those types of things eminently
enjoyable either, though I had done both before. Sometimes even of my
own volition.
Salty-sweet, hard and soft, corded and throbbing, I took it in as deep
as I could. Shallowed out again to lick, to nip my way down from head to
root. Swirled my tongue round and round and felt him moving beneath me,
trying to get away, trying to push in deeper. Gasping again, longer this
time, more ragged-sounding. Then I set up a rhythm on him, taking him in
as far as I could, lightly scraping my teeth down his length on each
withdrawal, and I heard what sounded like mumbled swear words, whether
words of encouragement or threat I wasn't sure. I suspected both.
When he began to thrust on his own, thrust in earnest, I slowed down the
rhythm, slowed and finally stopped, my face turned to one side, resting
on his hip. Gently, I touched him with my fingers, explored the silky
wetness of him—redder now and gleaming with my saliva, straining even
harder up from his body.
I heard him say my name and then he was drawing me up beside him, on top
of him on the narrow couch, putting his arms around me to hold me there.
To hold me close. Those eyes were half-closed, his mouth open, and I
kissed it softly, knowing he would taste something of himself on my
lips, in my mouth. He returned the kiss gently at first, then harder,
half-rolling over on me, his cock pressing against my leg.
It was my turn to be surprised when I felt his hand slid down my
stomach, move to close around my erection. Hard, but not too hard. Just
hard enough. For a long moment, he just held me, then as his tongue
pushed deeper into my mouth, he began stroking me, his fingers tight, so
tight. I arched up into it, into that grasp, then gasped myself when he
began a slight twisting motion every time he reached the tender part
just below the head. It hurt and yet it didn't, was beyond hurt. It was
agony and ecstasy all at once.
The sensation grew and grew until I felt as if I were burning, gasping
for air that just wouldn't come, that Mulder's mouth denied me time and
time again, and finally, dimly, I realized that I was thrusting into his
curved fingers, thrusting as hard and fast as I could. The heat knotting
up harder and harder, spiraling, centering...
Desperately, I tore my mouth away. "Stop. Mulder, please..."
Slowly, so slowly, he obeyed, his fingers loosening by degrees. He
nipped at the side of my jaw, then leaned back a little, his hand
unmoving now, but still holding me. His eyes were amused and they made
me alternately want to kiss him and to kill him. "A little quick off the
mark, aren't we," he said. "Been a while?"
I nodded slightly—not wanting to give more of an answer than that—then
closed my eyes for a moment or two, trying to steady my breathing, but
it seemed to take a long time, to take forever. In the meantime, Mulder
shifted again, lying sideways with me now. He let go of my cock,
reluctantly it almost seemed, and began stroking my back, lightly
running those long fingers up and down, kneading and tickling. Without
opening my eyes, I pressed forward against him, slid my right arm around
his back as far as I could, and molded myself to him. Crushed our cocks
tight between us.
Somehow, still without opening my eyes, I found his mouth again, found
it waiting for me, and kissed him as hard as I could. Knowing I was
bruising those lips, unable to stop myself. Finally, I moved on from
there to his neck and down to the hollow of his breastbone, down smooth
skin and hard bone, felt the beat of his veins beneath me, the shiver of
his breath. He arched back to give me free access and I slid further
still, finally taking his left nipple into my mouth, sucking and
nibbling on it. It hardened almost immediately and he jerked against me,
half to get away, half to push himself against me. His hand dug down
into the small of my back, pressing down on me, pressing me towards him.
I pushed him back down a little then, far enough to move on to the other
one, swung my right leg up over his, further trapping him against the
back of the couch. I swirled my tongue around this nipple again and
again, bit it a little harder than the first and was pleased to feel him
jump, mumble something a moment later. Something that sounded insistent.
I paused, lifted my head and opened my eyes, looked up at him. "What?"
Mulder had his head laid back against the armrest as far as it would go,
but now he raised it, and those eyes focused on me, fixed on me.
"Floor," was all he said and though I wasn't sure it was exactly what he
had said before I let it go.
"Wouldn't the bed be nicer?" I asked, understanding that I had to at
least ask. Not wanting him to suspect how much I already knew about him,
about his apartment. His life, or lack thereof.
He shook his head, obviously not wanting to tell me why—for reasons I
should have no reasonable way of knowing, after all—his bedroom was
unavailable. Though, perhaps unpassable was a better word for it.
He let go of me and I shifted around on my half of the couch, turned and
got my feet back to the floor and sat up. Mulder pulled himself up as
well, then stood, albeit a little shakily. I nabbed the whiskey bottle
off the coffee table a scant moment before he began shoving it over,
right up against the television stand, leaving a wide patch of floor
bare before the couch. He shot a glance back at me, but I took a sip
anyway, then meekly handed it off to him. Instead of putting it aside
again though, he took a drink as well, a much deeper one than before.
Let the bottle fall and stared back at me, a challenging light in those
hazel eyes. The alcohol gleamed on his lips and I felt an indescribably
wicked urge to lick it off, to devour that taste right from his mouth.
To drink it right up out of him.
Maybe something must have shown in my eyes, because he suddenly raised
his head and now there was a definite challenge there, unmistakable,
commanding. Part of me wanted to go for him right then, push him down to
that cold floor and take him hard, make him bend, but another part
wanted nothing more than to have him do the same to me. To have him
knock me senseless, pound into me, make me bleed. Fuck me till it hurt.
I got up slowly and walked over to him, stared into his eyes for as long
as I could bear, then got down to my knees. Put my hands to his hips and
my mouth to his cock, taking it in as far as I could in one long slick
movement. It threatened to choke me, but I loved it, wanted more. Wanted
it to last. Slowly then, in what must be agony for him, what I wanted to
be agony for him, I began moving my mouth up and down his length, not
using my teeth at all this time, just my tongue, curling it up hard as I
could to rub down the underside from root to tip. Stabbing with it into
that sensitive area just below the head.
At first, Mulder just stood there, not moving, not saying a thing, then
I felt his fingers close on the left side of my head, digging into my
hair, holding me to him. Urging me on faster. Urging me to take him to
that last unbearable moment.
And I could feel it gathering in him, feel how he began to arch into me,
to push harder and deeper, deep as he could go. Deeper than was really
comfortable for me, but still I let him. Until I sensed him about to hit
that edge and abruptly paused, held myself still, held him still in my
mouth, despite how his fingers strained, tried to drive me back onto
him. Tried to drive himself onwards, drive himself over. And for a
second or two we struggled over it and I heard him swear at me, strain
and anger and pleading in his voice, then I bit down slightly, not
enough to really hurt, but more than enough to threaten, and he froze.
Slowly, carefully, I pulled back, released him. "Now who's quick off the
mark?" I asked softly, looking up at that flushed face, those desperate
eyes.
"Fuck you," he responded.
I shook my head. "Not tonight, I think," I said.
His eyes narrowed a touch, registering the comment, but I couldn't tell
whether it appealed to him or not. Anymore than whether I really meant
it or not.
Instead, I pulled on his hips, coaxing him downwards, and he let me,
sinking gracefully down to join me on the floor. Setting the
nearly-empty bottle of whiskey down next to him. I faced him directly
then, unflinchingly, and didn't move as he reached out, brushed a hand
across my chest, abruptly seized one of my nipples in a hard grip.
Pinched at it. Rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. His head
tilted to one side and he looked down at me, at my erection, then back
up at my face as if considering. Wondering. Trying to come to some
decision.
Finally, just as I was about to give up hope, his mouth turned up a
little. "Lie down," he said firmly.
I met those eyes, was blinded by them, was lost in then, and finally
nodded. I slid backwards on the floor and stretched out, feeling
suddenly very vulnerable, not sure how much I liked it. How much I
trusted it. Or the man who was moving to bend over me, running his hands
down my sides, down my stomach, down the tender flesh of my inner
thighs.
I caught my breath, then couldn't seem to get it back again when his
mouth began to follow, to trace where his hands had gone before,
licking, kissing, half-biting me, tracing its way slowly down until I
felt his breath—teasing, pausing, waiting—brush across my cock. The
touch, when it finally came, was light, almost tentative, amazingly
careful. One lick of his tongue across the tip, delving along the narrow
slit there, and then his fingers closed on me again, closed on the root
of me, and his mouth moved to engulf me. Not as deep as I had taken him,
but then I hadn't really expected it.
Couldn't hardly have hoped for it, for any of this.
And it was hot, so hot, soft and sharp at the same time, a trifle both
rough and gentle, and I held myself still to it, allowing him to work on
me, to take it at his own pace. Still I closed my eyes and tightened my
jaw as his tongue began to stroke and probe me, his teeth scraping
slightly down my length on occasion—half by accident, half by purpose,
I felt—his fingers beginning a long slow pumping motion that, after a
few dozen strokes, caught up to the timing of his mouth. It was damning,
incredible, searing hot, and I could almost feel myself throbbing,
pooling down to one shining point. One feeling, one emotion, one desire.
Before I could stop myself, I began to push up, push into his mouth on
each downstroke. Unable to wait anymore. Reaching for that place that I
could just about see, could certainly feel, could sense just beyond me.
Could certainly sense in the depths of the mouth that held me, that took
me down and let me go again and again, took me down and saved me.
Savored me. Slaved me.
My hips rose high and higher and then Mulder's free arm suddenly came
down on my stomach, pushed me back to the cool floor. And he shifted and
had my legs down as well in a moment, pinned me beneath his weight. It
was both what I wanted and what I feared. What I thought I wanted. What
I suddenly couldn't hardly bear.
"Mulder..." I whispered, not really sure of what I wanted to say. If I
wanted to protest, to encourage, to deny.
His only response was to pick up speed, to take me in even deeper, even
harder. His fingers tightening, squeezing. Squeezing almost brutally,
unsparingly. And the pleasure of it tore at me, maddeningly acute, a
bitter fever, made all the more palpable by the fact that I couldn't
move, couldn't take it where I wanted it to go, had no choice over it
anymore.
No control.
I tried to say his name again, but it came out a strangled gasp, a sound
that I couldn't hardly believe I was capable of uttering. And then it
was too late. Despite his hold on me, I managed to arch up, to push up
against him, to thrust deep, and felt myself hit the back of his throat
and was unable to stop myself, unable to hold back anymore. Something
gave, shattered and tattered, pouring up out of me in a long torrent of
liquid heat and pleasure. Pleasure so intense it was almost pain. More
than pain. More than anything I had ever imagined feeling before.
It slowly tapered off, wound down in short bursts of tingling sweetness
that made me feel weak, emptied out, scraped clean. Dimly, I realized
that Mulder had pulled back and managed to raise my head a little,
looked down to see him now simply running two of his fingers down my
still-hard cock, tracing patterns in the remnants of what I had given
him. What he had taken from me. What he had stolen.
There was no expression on his face, just a mute concentration, as if he
was looking for some small measure of truth even in this. It made me
shiver, just a little, and I finally realized how cold the floor felt
beneath me, how uncomfortable. Just how sensitive my cock now felt under
his inquisitive touch. As if it had been rubbed raw.
"Mulder?" I asked. "Hey..."
He looked up at that and his fingers paused, retreated. He seemed to
gather himself. "Yeah," he said, his voice low, even. "I suppose there's
no need to ask how I..." He faded off.
I smiled a little, more a showing of teeth than anything else. "No, no
need." I let my head fall back to the floor, still feeling wiped. "I
could have figured... you'd be a quick study. Maybe, too quick."
"Thanks," he responded. "I guess. I'll just chalk it right up there with
being 'spooky.'"
I struggled to sit up and, after a moment, he moved off of me, let me
take him by the arm. "Spooky's not so bad," I said, looking right into
those hazel eyes. "There's a lot worse things to be."
He gave a little laugh. "Like you'd know."
I let it go. Instead, I ran my hand up his arm and to his neck, pulled
his mouth to mine and devoured it. Took it. Hard at first and then soft,
teasingly, accutely aware that it was myself that I was tasting as much
as him. I put my arms around him and gathered him close, ran my fingers
down the center of his back, along the bones there, down until I could
cup the lean muscle below, use it to pull the rest of him against me.
Pushing his cock into my stomach, still so desperately swollen. Needing.
God, he was so hard, so very fragile at the same time.
"Krycek?" he asked, breaking free from my mouth for a moment.
"Yeah?" I said. I already knew what his question was going to be—what I
was planning on doing anyway even if he hadn't opened his mouth at
all—but part of me wanted him to ask for it anyway. To hear him ask
me for it.
His hands closed on my shoulders and he kissed me once, twice, three
times, the last one lasting forever, as if he was trying to consume me,
to imprint the shape of his mouth on my own, and then he leaned back and
looked at me. Didn't quite look at me. "I want you to..." he said, then
paused.
"Yeah?" I asked again and couldn't quite keep the smile from my face.
The word came out in a long drawl, amusement layered over seduction. Not
at all succeeding in hiding the fact that I already wanted what he
wanted, that I wanted to eat him so bad right now it was all I could do
to wait.
To relish the moment.
He frowned back at me, but it passed quickly into a grin of his own.
Self-denegrating. Amused despite himself. "Shit," he said at last. "Suck
me off, will you? Before I end up waxing this damn floor all on my own."
"Sure thing," I responded, light as light could be. "Anytime, Agent
Mulder."
His eyes flashed at that, but then I moved on him, used my grip on him
to push him down beneath me. I bit at the corner of his mouth, the line
of his jaw, down his throat, and he laid his head back beneath the
assault, no doubt suddenly feeling just as vulnerable as I had felt a
few minutes ago. And I wanted him there. Wanted him like that.
Wanted suddenly to strip that air of self-assurance off of him.
Not that it wasn't a lie anyway.
Like my own.
I ran my hands roughly over him and then grasped his cock suddenly, not
giving him any warning. He gasped and his hips rose involuntarily,
hungrily. I stroked him for a few moments, hard and tight as he had done
me, and then let go again. His head started to come up, a look of
protest on his face, but I shook my head at him and turned, flipped
myself to that I was facing down along his length. My own now subdued
cock hanging right over his throat.
I grasped his cock again, a little looser this time, and ran my tongue
up and down its length a few times, before taking the plunge. Or,
rather, letting him take the plunge. It was salty. It was sweetness.
Surrender and commanding at the same time. And I swallowed him down as
far as I could, as fast as I could, never quite releasing him, never
giving him a moment's respite. And he responded to it swiftly, rising
upwards on each downstroke, rising as far as his hips would go.
And then I felt his lips brush across the head of my own cock and I knew
he was lost. That I was lost. Those long fingers closed on me, pulled me
forwards, and then I felt his mouth once more enclose me, draw me into
heat and sharpness and bruising pressure. My cock was still so sensitive
that it almost hurt, but then slowly it began to feel good, tiny motes
of pleasure beginning to swirl, to gather themselves into knots, into
patterns, into solidity. Into a heat and a desire that I would have
thought beyond me, at least for a few hours yet.
I lost the rhythm for a second or two as Mulder's lips moved to tickle
their way down my slowly increasing length, soft so soft compared to my
own efforts on him, and then as he began picking up speed, moving
instinctively to match me, I claimed it again. Claimed him.
And I didn't know what I wished for more—to feel him lose himself at
last, to bleed away down my throat or for that mouth to take me down yet
again, to destroy me.
But then he writhed beneath me, struggled and fought and cried out, and
cool air rushed in on my own suddenly abandoned cock. He gave one final
thrust, scraping across the top of my mouth, and then I was drowning,
desperately swallowing down the heat of him, the surge of him, as fast
as I could. Thick and rich and endless-seeming, pouring down inside me
with all his power, all his breathless strength.
He gave a few residual thrusts, broken and impossible things, and then
collapsed back, collapsed down. I swallowed the last of him, then
withdrew slowly, licking down the length of him, claiming every drop
that I could find along the way. His cock just beginning to wilt as I
finished, pulled my hand back to stare at what had spilled down onto my
fingers. Suddenly unsure of what I felt, what I was doing.
How could I have come to want him, to want this, so damn bad?
To risk so much...
And then the other man abruptly moved, rolling me over until I now lay
beneath him again and I felt his fingers fumble on me, close around me
once more, and forgot about thinking at all. Forgot about anything else
as he began pumping me brutally, long hard compressive strokes that
ended only where his mouth began. His lips encircling the head of my
cock, just far enough to run his tongue down the slit in the center,
nibbling, tasting, seducing.
And I came almost immediately, the pleasure fitful this time, more
intense for all that or maybe because of it. Dark pleasure, draining me
to the last. Making me cry out this time, making me muffle the sound
into my own arm. And I realized that my legs were shaking, my heart
pounding, pounding as if to try fill the emptiness that suddenly
followed, that shuddered through me, with something, anything.
But there was nothing.
Mulder recovered before I did. He sat up and turned, half-lifted me up
into his arms, and held me. Bent his head and kissed the side of my neck
and I was grateful when he said nothing, when he didn't comment on the
fact that I was still trembling slightly. Though there was no way he had
of knowing exactly why it had taken me like this, despite the obvious
one, of course.
The one that I would let him go on believing.
I would have liked to stay that way, to just lie there with him holding
me, but that would have been even more of a mistake. And I had already
made too many tonight. Most especially, choosing to come over here in
the first place. Ruthlessly, I stilled myself, wrapped my walls back up
around me, and shrugged my way free of his arms. Pushed myself away from
him.
He was a little confused, a little hurt even, but he hid it immediately.
Just frowned at me. "You okay?" he asked at the last.
I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "Just feeling a little sick, that's all. All
of a sudden."
He shook his head, but his eyes never relented. Didn't entirely believe
me. "Sure," was all he said though. Lightly. Too lightly. And I realized
that he had begun to close himself off again as well, to retreat behind
that dour look, that stiff manner.
"I gotta go," I said, not wanting to see it. To watch the transformation
take hold. To have to walk out in any more uncomfortable a situation
than I already had to. Let him think I was a coward. Let him think I was
regretting it. Anything but the real truth.
That I wanted to stay. That I couldn't stay.
That I would have to betray him. Was betraying him. Would even kill
him if I had to, if I was ordered to. If I could make myself do it.
I stood up and he got up too, headed over to the couch and sat down
again, looked down at his hands. As if he was studying them. But I
should have known that he couldn't just forget me like that. Couldn't
let it ride.
"You feel okay enough to drive?" he asked, quiet so quiet.
"Mostly," I said. "Just a little headache, I guess. Like you said."
"Oh," he replied.
He still wasn't looking at me and I wasn't sure I wanted him to. Wasn't
sure I wanted to see what was on his face. Or, rather, what was not. How
much he had already managed to bury, to lock away.
I turned away and began pulling on my clothes and, after a moment or
two, felt him watching me. I suddenly felt chilled and buttoned the
flannel shirt up almost all the way over my t-shirt, was ashamed almost
to be reassured by its bulk, its warmth. The extra layer it wrapped me
in.
He was looking down at his hands again when I turned back around. But as
I just stood there, he finally glanced up at me. And his eyes were
cold, removed. Piercing. Damning. But as I stared back, they changed,
softening just a touch, just barely enough to tell, and he let out a
quiet breath. Gave me a slight shake of his head, an almost indulgent
look. Almost.
"Get some sleep," was all he said though.
I nodded. "Right."
I headed for the door and I heard him get up behind me, following me,
being polite no doubt. Playing the host, the concerned older Agent, shot
to hell as that concept had become in the last couple of hours. Still, I
paused there in the doorway, my hand on the knob, knowing it was stupid.
Knowing I shouldn't. "Mulder," I said softly, knowing he would hear me
anyway. "Thanks."
I opened the door and stepped out into the hall beyond before he could
answer, if he was going to answer.
"Hey," I heard him call after me and then I did an even more stupid
thing. I stopped and turned, looked back, and he was standing there,
half-hidden behind the door. Not hiding at all. "Take care of yourself,
okay?"
It cost me more than I could have imagined—more than I really liked—to
force a smile to my face. It must have come off kind of screwy anyway,
because he shook his head again. Got that sly endlessly-amused look.
"Always," I said.
I didn't wait for him to close the door, only walked away, not too fast,
not too slow. Headed down the stairs and out into the cool night. It was
raining again, a light mist almost, and I crossed the street back to my
car without looking. Without really paying much attention to anything,
not even my own sudden regrets.
I didn't want them. Couldn't afford them.
Especially when I thought about tomorrow. All the other fucking
tomorrows.
What the future held for me, and the future that I held for him.
Whether one night was price enough for that.
Truth, Lies, and In-between
by Garnet
We weren't really partners, not officially anyway, but then I wasn't
really an FBI agent when it came down to it. Not that Mulder knew that,
though he distrusted me on general principle, especially those first few
days. Despite my smooth-faced boyish good nature. My openness. My
apparent willingness to believe.
