A small café, in Washington DC
John Byers strode into the café, looking around him. Mulder sat at a table
by the window, with his reading glasses on as his magazine shared table
space with a sandwich on a plate.
Byers took off his coat and walked up to where Mulder sat, oblivious. "Late
lunch? I'm lucky I managed to catch you here."
Mulder looked up, peering at him through the glasses. They lent him a
birdlike quality. "Actually, I keep my own hours now. One of the perks of
being self-employed. Sit down, have a sandwich."
"So why do you still come here for lunch?"
Mulder took off his glasses and folded them away, then did the same with his
magazine. "Force of habit. I like the food here. You wanted to see me?"
Byers nodded. "I've come into the possession of some rather startling
information. I don't think it should go through official channels, but
since you still have contacts in the Bureau, I thought you might know what
to do with it."
Mulder stared at him. "What is it? And where did you guys get it?"
Byers handed him the microfilm and a document folder. "An anonymous source
on the inside, a member of the Resistance. I've analyzed it. It's good.
It's the real thing."
Mulder snatched up the folder and read the front page. His eyes widened.
He flipped through several pages. "This is a list of every name that we
were trying to get hold of from the Census Bureau."
Byers cleared his throat. How to approach this? "Mulder," he began, "Billy
Miles is in there. And so are you."
Mulder grinned slightly. "Yeah? Well, I'm the one that got away."
"Well, that's just it. I was also given a medical file that describes
detailed experimentation on an unknown subject who was targeted for hosting
the alien virus. The gestation period appears to be approximately three
months. I'd say that you got in just under the wire."
Mulder shot him a look. "You were given? Isn't this... you mean this is
an outside operation, outside the activities of the Lone Gunmen?"
Damn. Too sharp... Byers shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. But the source is
impeccable. I can vouch for the contents personally. Look, Mulder, it's
just—the virus—" he fell short.
Mulder considered him. "What about the virus?"
Byers continued quickly, "Mulder, the virus had already taken over Billy
Miles, and Knowle's name is in that file too. You know, Agent Doggett's
contact. And you were all infected onboard the grays' ship during your
abduction. They wouldn't have brought you back unless they were already
certain of your infection. And once you were—buried," Byers paused,
assailed for a moment with the memory of standing there, solemnly watching
Mulder's casket lowered into the ground. "Three months gestation. And you
were dug up and then saved within days. But in the medical file, it states
quite specifically that ordinary medicine doesn't have anything resembling a
cure or even a preventative measure to slow down the process. Apparently
they tried, desperately. In fact, the only thing that works is a vaccine
that wasn't even developed by anyone down here, in any government lab.
Apparently it was outsourced—and given to a few select members of the
Resistance."
"Which explains how Krycek got hold of it. The Rebels? Or Jeremiah Smith's
group?"
"The Rebels. Smith apparently didn't need it; his powers are more than
ample in dealing with the virus and his followers relied on him and their
healing methods instead. But Mulder, this means that simply taking you off
life support and giving you a course of standard anti-virals is not what
reversed the action of the virus in your body. In fact, it looks like the
only way you could have survived this is if someone had administered the
vaccine at some point when you were laying in the hospital."
Mulder calmly regarded him. "I know."
Byers stared. "You do?"
"Yeah. I already know all that. What's important is this list of names.
Every single person contained here is an abductee, and every single one has
been infected with the virus. We now have a chance of reversing the effects
of the virus, possibly, on those who are still infected, and pinpointing the
people who are now simply hosts for the aliens. Byers, you need to tell me
where you got this information."
Byers could hear the gravity in Mulder's voice. "Why? What is it?"
"Because whoever has this knowledge is also holding the keys to reversing
the damage. They have the vaccine and they have the identities of the
hosts. It doesn't make sense; why would they give it to us? Why not just
get on with it? There's something we're missing here, something—"
Byers closed his eyes. "Of course. They don't have the access to the
official channels; they have to do it through us. They're relying on us to
find a way to take care of the infected hosts on a large scale, and to take
out the ones who are already lost to us."
Mulder was shaking his head. "By now, they could already have done it
themselves. Why come to a fringe group like the Lone Gunmen, and an already
discredited and fired ex-employee of the FBI? We don't have access to the
resources necessary to deal with this. Even the FBI doesn't have the
resources to pull off an operation of this size. And this is a big one.
We're talking thousands of people. No, I think someone is jerking us
around. And I know who it is."
"You do?" Byers felt a curious misgiving go through him.
Mulder was nodding slowly. He looked back up at Byers, chewing his lower
lip. He added, "I smell a rat." And smiled knowingly, but not pleasantly.
"I watched him get shot in front of me—I should have known he'd have back
up. Probably had the aliens revive him the moment we left."
Byers sighed, heavily. "Look, Mulder, what is it with you and Krycek?
Why is he always hanging around in the thick of things, just when the shit
starts to hit the fan? And why are you always fighting with him?"
Mulder blinked. "He has issues about me. He can't leave me alone. And now
he thinks I owe him a favor because he gave me the vaccine. And now he is
feeding us this information—I can't really do anything with it because I'd
be doing exactly what he wants me to."
Carefully, Byers paraphrased. "So he saved your life? Why would he want
to do that? Why not just kill you, get you out of the way?"
"I just told you. He has issues—"
"Seems to me he's not the only one," muttered Byers.
"What?" demanded Mulder. And then he laughed. "Byers, I don't believe it.
Are you calling me out?"
"No, of course not. I'm just—"
"Well, it sounds like it to me. Christ, you're worse than Scully."
"There are three sides to every story. I'm not defending his actions in the
past, but so far, he's proven that he wants to stop them as much as we do."
Mulder sat back and whistled slightly under his breath. "Byers, my God; I
didn't think you had it in you! Now why would you be defending Krycek all of
a sudden unless he contacted you and gave you all this information? And you
had bought into his lies, bought his whole bullshit story he undoubtedly
concocted just for you?"
Feeling trapped and not a little out of his league, again, Byers defended
both himself and Krycek by replying, "I'm not saying I trust him, or that
anyone should. But he has the vaccine, he has the information, he has the
contact with the Resistance and the Rebel force. Whatever his motives are,
or his relationship with you, he's still an important player and we
shouldn't be dismissing him just because you don't like him."
Mulder's eyes narrowed as he watched Byers speak. Slowly, he said, "He got
himself involved just because he can. He doesn't have any higher motivation
than that. He helped to bring down the Syndicate—for personal reasons—and now he's at a loose end. So he keeps sticking his nose into things
because he wants to be part of the game. But it's still just a game to
him. And frankly, I'm surprised that you're speaking for him."
"Mulder, the only one judging things from a personal angle here is you."
Mulder raised his voice. "He's a liar and a murderer! He tried to get
Skinner to kill me! I should have known the bastard wouldn't die," he
added, under his breath.
Byers raised his hands and said, "Please, I'm not defending him. Believe
me, I know he's a clever manipulator. A smooth operator. I don't trust him
anymore than you do. But I understand him better than you do, because
you're blinded by your reactions in his case."
"Oh? Enlighten me, why don't you?" Mulder's voice was cutting.
"I understand his behavior, especially with regards to you. And the only
reason you can't see it is because of the way you behave towards him."
"And just exactly what are you implying?"
Byers shook his head. "I'm not implying anything. He likes you. And you
like him, but you can't afford to examine that too closely so you try to
hate him, instead."
Mulder was quiet for a while. Then he looked back up at Byers. "A little
out of your field, aren't you? Psychology isn't really your area. Are you
dabbling, now?"
"Have you ever profiled him, Mulder?"
"No. I don't want to get anywhere near his head, let alone inside it."
Mulder grimaced.
"Maybe you should. Except of course that would mean examining yourself as
well, wouldn't it?" Byers stated this calmly, matter-of-factly.
Mulder pursed his lips and regarded him. "Why do you care?" When Byers
didn't reply immediately, Mulder continued, "He has the vaccine for the
Black Oil, too. In fact, he has it all. And I'll be damned if I'm going to
crawl to him and beg for any of it. He has all the answers to the questions
I've been asking for years and he won't volunteer anything, just keeps
playing us like fish on a line."
"Maybe he believes that you expect him to give it to you as recompense for
all his past crimes. To, sort of, make up for all the things he's done. "
Mulder looked away, frustrated. Angry. "There ain't no such thing as a free
lunch," he muttered. "I know that everything comes with a price. But with
that son of a bitch, the price is too high."
"What is his price? What exactly does he want from you? If he's as smart
a player as you say, he can't be doing this just because he wants to jerk
you around. He understands the severity of what's at stake; he has to.
We're talking about human hosts being absorbed and taken over by alien
invaders from the inside out... It's like 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers'
or something. Come on, Mulder, the possible outcome is too horrible for
anyone, even Krycek, to ignore."
Mulder didn't respond. He looked caught; the temptation to let Byers try to
get some answers from Krycek was too much for him. Byers was counting on
this to make Mulder accept Byers' continued association with Krycek.
Byers shrugged and took a breath. "I think he wants you to go to him for a
change, and not expect him to come running to you and bail out the situation
every time there's a crisis. I mean, here we are, yet again." Byers
motioned to the files on the table before them. "He's giving you the goods,
another freebie. Another token gesture towards the cause, to try to show us
that to accept an alliance with him, however shaky, is still the smartest
thing we could do at this point. Like you said, he has all the answers. He
keeps proving it over and over. But he isn't in a position to do much
except from behind the scenes. It's up to us to take a proactive and more
public approach."
Mulder still didn't speak, but it was obvious that he was carefully mulling
over everything Byers had said. Byers continued, "He knows that you have
too strong a reaction to him, for the past or whatever reason, and that's
why he must have decided to contact me instead. Believe me, he didn't know
it was me, at all. All he knew was that I was some unknown agency who had a
connection with the FBI. And then he found out and he thought you had set
him up somehow, putting me up to it. He doesn't trust me, or you, and we
don't trust him. But that makes it all very clear, doesn't it? We at least
know where we stand, right now."
"No, we don't," Mulder scoffed. "How can we believe anything that he tells
us? Sure, he'll throw us a few scraps now and then, if we beg properly."
"He's the one holding the cards," Byers reminded him, gently. "We don't
really have a choice. And besides, whatever the price, we're still talking
about the truth—your truth, that you've been pursuing for so long, that
you've invested so much time and energy in trying to find."
"The price is my soul," Mulder said, suddenly. "I'm not going to sell
myself, even for the truth. He doesn't believe that truth exists. He said
as much to me, once. It's a game to him."
"Maybe that's why he respects you," Byers commented. "Maybe he knows that
you have the integrity and the belief, and that's what makes him acknowledge
your importance in all this. Plus you have the drive and the ambition to do
something about it. I don't think he's stupid enough to think he could ever
have you working for him; your agenda exists on a parallel to his, not
inside it. And whatever else, you have to admit that both of you understand
the scope and the stakes of this situation, from whatever viewpoint, despite
all your differences."
Mulder shifted in his seat. "I cannot believe I'm sitting here discussing
Krycek with you. All right, do whatever you need to. But remember, he's an
immoral bastard with a predilection for mindfucking everyone he works with.
He could have someone like you for breakfast. And I'm not," Mulder stressed
this with an agitated finger, shaking it in front of him, "I'm not
prepared to deal with him directly. You let yourself into this; it's up to
you to get yourself out. Jesus, I just hope you don't end up paying for it
too highly."
Byers silently wondered just what it was about Mulder that Krycek liked,
anyway. Could it merely be the man's single-minded, idealistic pursuit of
the truth? His innate belief in what was right and just? There was an
undeniable level of selfishness in Mulder's approach, but he also had a
definite moral center, regardless of whatever neuroses he suffered. "I
don't need you to hold my hand through this. I can take care of myself.
Don't you see; I have to do what I can, where I can? I can hardly ignore
what's going on, myself."
Incredible. Mulder looked like he was pouting slightly. "When will he
contact you again?"
Byers frowned. Mulder sounded almost...envious. Oh well. Served him right
really. After all, Krycek was obsessed with him. No one else stood a
chance in hell—with either of them. No wonder Scully was pissed. Byers
sighed. "I don't know. It's been two weeks since we met."
"You met him?"
"Yes. That's how we found out who we were. I thought he was someone called
'Arntzen'. Believe me, it was a shock for both of us to recognize each
other."
Mulder threw his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head.
Byers cleared his throat. "Ah, Mulder? There's one other thing." He
wondered how this was going to go down with Mulder when the ex-agent was so
touchy about Krycek already. "He thinks that you're unaware he's still
alive. He thinks I won't tell you that it's him giving us this stuff, or
that he's my contact. I—sort of promised. Although, he'll probably
figure it out anyway. He can hardly expect you not to work it out
eventually. But what should I do? Will you stay quiet about this—for a
while, at least?"
"Don't worry, Byers. I won't endanger you." Mulder looked pensive and a
little distracted. "Be sure to get back to me, though. He'll expect you to
have given me this information, and you should tell him that I was quite
excited about it. I have every intention of acting on this. Like you said,
the stakes are too high. What choice do I have?"
The Marriott
Byers checked at the reservations desk at the hotel. Sure enough, there was
a message for him. Krycek was already up in the room and had brought the
package with him, as promised. Krycek had contacted him two days after
Byers' discussion with Mulder, and told him to meet him here in Sacramento.
Apparently, he'd come into more information regarding the off-shore Texas
oil-rig that Doggett and Mulder had investigated.
When Byers had alerted Mulder, Mulder had only smirked and said something
about already knowing what had happened on the rig. Byers was dubious. He
knew Krycek would hardly want to set up a meeting unless it was something a
little more vital than mere confirmation of what Mulder already knew. The
Black Oil had been involved, apparently. All the workers on the rig had
been infected, and had departed by unknown means as the rig exploded around
them. Doggett and Mulder had barely escaped in time to leap off into the
dark, swirling waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
For the duration of the flight from DC to Sacramento, Byers had been going
over the hardcopy printouts that Langley had insisted he take with him for
the journey. Extra credit, Langley had said. He'd promised Byers that he
would be glad he'd gone over it before meeting Krycek again.
Frohike and Langley had reacted quite strangely when Byers had told them he
was going to meet a contact on behalf of Mulder in California. When he told
them the name was Arntzen, they had both exchanged a look. "Alex Krycek,"
they'd both said, in unison.
"How—how did you know?" Byers had asked.
Langley had thrust a disk at him. "Read this. The dude's biography."
"Forewarned is forearmed," Frohike had said. "Mulder asked us to dig up
something on him and said it would come in useful someday soon. Said to
give it to you when you needed it."
"Jesus, man, why didn't you tell us?" Langley had said, then.
Byers had sighed. "I'm sorry, you guys, I really didn't want to involve you
if it wasn't necessary. He's dangerous."
"So is getting up to go to the toilet in the dark, in the middle of the
night," Frohike said. "Come on, we're friends. Friends need to stick
together."
Byers had been quite astonished at the amount of detailed information on
Alexander Krycek. He found himself wondering just how Langley had managed
to come up with these files. They were extensive. He wondered if Krycek
even knew they existed. They were insider documents from within old
Syndicate archives somewhere. God knew where Langley had managed to
scrounge them up. But, his kung fu was the best. Byers couldn't believe
that Mulder hadn't been curious enough to ask them to dig up Krycek's files
before now. Except of course Mulder had been repressing any curiosity about
the man for years on end.
Sitting and reading about Krycek's life and times on the flight over had
been enough to help Byers shove the secret fluttering of nervous anxiety at
the thought of seeing Krycek again into the back of his mind. Now that he
was to meet him again, he realized that all the thoughts and dreams he'd
been exploring since that fateful, initial encounter were purely in the
mental realm and hardly anything he wanted to pursue. He just hoped he
wouldn't make too much of a fool of himself again.
Besides, any other thought was simply crazy. After all, he knew Krycek and
Mulder had unfinished business and that it didn't matter if one or both of
them died and was resurrected a hundred times over, their peculiar little
dance would never end.
If anything, Byers contented himself with the knowledge that he was able to
watch the play as it unfolded, both of them sublimating like mad and
desperately trying to remain within that safe little circle of denial.
Mulder would have to be insane not to be fascinated by Krycek, just by the
man's looks alone. Of course, Mulder remained completely convinced that he
knew what he was doing with regards to the 'rat-bastard', but Byers knew
better. Mulder was completely gone on him and couldn't handle it.
Admittedly, Krycek could not be trusted and was entirely dangerous. What
was it about the man that had people falling for him on sight, even as they
railed and ranted against him and his 'evil' intentions? Simple charm?
Charisma? The inevitable fascination of someone dark and shadowy?
Mysterious?
Of course, having read the man's life story, however accurate he could trust
it to be despite its Syndicate origin, Byers now regarded Krycek with a
little more sympathy. The man wasn't just a survivor; he was simultaneously
a hero of the Resistance and a self-serving rat-bastard. And it was just
lucky for Byers that Mulder wanted nothing to do with him.
But once Byers was standing outside the hotel room door, he realized he was
panicking. Larger than life, and entirely too perilous to have in anyone's
life. He remembered the first time he'd seen Krycek in the flesh, just
before Mulder's abduction in Oregon. A secretive hot flash went over him.
He'd felt it then too, if he were perfectly honest with himself. And to
stand there, watching quietly as Mulder circled around like a
barely-restrained hunter, coldly ignoring Krycek's presence as much as
possible and making it plainly obvious to everyone else in the room that he
had so many problems with having the man there with them that it wasn't even
funny.
The door was suddenly pulled open and Krycek stood there, frowning
slightly. "Were you planning on staying out in the hall?"
"No. Sorry," and John slipped into the room past him. Taking a breath, he
turned to face Krycek who was regarding him a little quizzically. "Do you
have it?"
"What do you think?" Krycek went to sit back down in his seat where he had
been drinking a Coke.
A volatile, liquid thirst; that's what it was. To drink in the nearness of
Krycek's presence after waiting to see him again. Krycek was wearing black
jeans and a plain dark coat, not leather, and a dark shirt. Nondescript and
actually a little overdressed for the climate. Still, the attire flattered
him. John dropped his gaze, suddenly aware he'd been staring.
"You told him." It was a statement.
"I didn't have to," John replied, quickly. "He figured it out for himself."
Krycek was impassive, silent. Gauging him. Then, he thoughtfully rested
his hand against his chin, leaving his black-gloved prosthetic on the left
arm of his chair and abruptly conspicuous. "Who's paying your travel
expenses these days?"
Byers stopped short, wondering why he felt caught all of a sudden. "What do
you mean?"
With a half-smile Krycek sat up, saying, "Flying in from the east coast to
Sacramento can't have been that cheap."
Stiffly, Byers responded, "I have a bit set aside for times like this."
"Right, of course you do. All this cloak and dagger must appeal to you."
"Look, Mr. Krycek, you called me here. You set this up. You said you
had further information, that it was crucial to the investigation into the
events on the offshore drilling platform."
There was a knock on the door. Byers reacted, startled.
"It's only room service. I got here half an hour ago. Why don't you get
the door?" Krycek was unfazed.
Byers went to open the door, revealing a large trolley and an eager young
man who quickly observed that it was a single bedroom, occupied by two men.
Byers realized it looked either like a 'business' meeting or a tryst. Maybe
even both. The kid didn't seem surprised. He felt his face go hot as he
thanked the kid and gave him a tip. A broad smile and thanks was returned
and the young guy left them to themselves.
Krycek had stood up and stretched. "I don't like plane food. How about
you?"
Byers shrugged. He was hungry. "So. Why here? Or shouldn't I ask?"
Krycek lifted a brow at him. "You don't like the Marriott?"
"Sure. But Sacramento?"
"Are you prying, by any chance?" But Krycek sounded calm, and merely
continued to lift covers off of dishes.
Byers nodded slowly. "I get it. Neutral ground. It's not Mulder's turf.
And far enough out the way to be an inconvenience."
Krycek was loading a plate. "Inconvenience?"
"I didn't mean to me, I meant for Mulder..." Byers replied quickly, trailing
off as he realized he was sounding entirely too defensive. Like the man had
said, last time they met, what did he really have to be nervous about?
What, indeed. The thought of eating at the moment, however hungry he was,
seemed unappealing—mostly because the butterflies in his stomach had grown
worse after the food had arrived and the door was closed on the two of them
once more. Being in the room with Krycek now was even more agitating than
he had imagined it would be. He was just glad for small favors at this
point; the temperature of the room was at a manageable level.
At the stillness, he looked up quickly. Krycek was regarding him with a
slight smile and something of a knowing look. "See anything you like?"
Byers gulped. "W-What-?"
"From the menu," Krycek added, with a little wave of his fork over the food.
Depends what's on the menu, Byers thought. But didn't dare say this
aloud. Stiffly, he approached the trolley and began to help himself,
avoiding looking at Krycek who actually chuckled and then went to sit back
down.
Damn it. He's drawing me out, thought Byers. He's playing with me, like a
cat with a mouse. Serves me right, I suppose. I've been far too free with
my observations so far.
His resolve strengthened, Byers took his plate and went to sit in the other
seat, which was on the other side of the coffee table and the lamp beside
Krycek.
A silent game began though, at this point. Byers refused to comment further
and Krycek wasn't volunteering anything. They ate in silence until the air
grew so thick between them that Byers found he could barely swallow, his
mouth was so dry and his teeth were on edge. And his hands were shaking,
slightly. And, hopefully, imperceptibly.
Unfortunately, Krycek had apparently decided that the ball was in Byers'
court and merely finished eating in his own good time. Byers found himself
wondering what was expected of him at this juncture. He put the plate of
half-eaten food down on the table. "I'm still not clear on why you believe
it necessary to get the facts on the oil-rig disaster to Mulder. Although
he's quite excited about what you've given us, his activities are severely
hampered now that he's operating outside of the FBI."
"Who would you suggest? He has a tendency to leave explosions in his
wake. What better way to get attention?" Krycek stood and went to the
trolley to retrieve the bottle of wine from the bucket of ice. He examined
the label. "Not bad. Here, open this and I'll get the files." He held the
wine out to Byers.
Byers got up to take the bottle from him, noting that Krycek had managed to
get him to open the bottle in a way that didn't call attention to the fact
that he might have found it a little awkward. Krycek went to a bag that
he'd stowed on the floor by the bedside out of the way and retrieved several
document folders from it to place them on the bed.
As Byers poured two glasses of wine, not daring to even begin contemplating
what this little scene was supposed to accomplish, he mentally patted
himself on the back for not spilling a single drop and pouring with a steady
hand. Well, relatively steady. Krycek was standing near him, too near for
Byers' presence of mind, and obviously waiting for him.
Byers sighed soundlessly. And picked up the glasses, handing one to
Krycek. As his fingers brushed Krycek's, albeit accidentally, he couldn't
help noticing how... warm they were. And perfect. In fact, Krycek's hand
was a masterpiece—the man's hands were simply beautiful—and then Byers
nearly jerked away as he realized again that Krycek only had the one. A
shame... hell, a travesty. And he didn't dare lift his eyes to meet
Krycek's undoubtedly smirking face now because his own face was probably
scarlet. At least, it certainly felt that way.
And during this swift interlude where Byers' mind had fled far down the path
of impossible considerations discarded and lost, Krycek had taken his glass
and smoothly clinked it against Byers', saying, "To the truth."
That was a little too tongue-in-cheek for Byers' taste at this point but he
was getting used to Krycek's needling and evasive attitude. Byers wondered
if Krycek had any idea that his surface act began to betray too much hidden
beneath it after a while, betraying the existence of a deep undercurrent.
He echoed the toast and then sipped, praying as he did so that the wine
would at least settle him a bit. He couldn't have said at this point
whether it was a good vintage or cheap, and it didn't appear to matter.
Going to the files on the bed, holding the glass in his left hand, he opened
the top one and glanced at a few pages, rifling through them.
Then something dawned on him. Turning back to Krycek, he asked, "What do
you get out of this? What do you want in return?"
"I don't recall mentioning a trade this time. I distinctly remember telling
you only that I had something on the Black Oil." Krycek sounded bored.
Byers sipped from his glass again. He was glad he had eaten as much as he
had; this wine going down on an empty stomach would have left him feeling a
little too muzzy. His paranoia kicked in for a moment and he wondered if
Krycek had drugged him... A few moments later he examined the little twinge
of something that went through him as disappointment that he hadn't. "So,
I'm the go-between? I can't help noticing that you're using me to get to
Mulder, and he's using me to get to you. It would save a lot of trouble for
us all if you two just met up somewhere yourselves and got it over with."
Krycek gave a short, little snickering laugh. "Try telling Mulder that."
Byers regarded him gravely. "I wouldn't presume."
Krycek's eyes narrowed. "Why do I get the feeling that you already have?"
Byers felt the tension mount in the room. He sipped again, a larger draught
this time, for courage and... fortification. "I'm working on it."
"I don't need a campaign manager." Krycek's growl was startling, the velvet
roughness of it shocking Byers with the sensuousness as it resounded
throughout his head, tiptoeing over his body, even as he couldn't find
himself surprised at Krycek's reaction. Especially considering what they
weren't saying.
"No," Byers agreed. "But you do need a middle-man." Which was overstating
things, really. Quick, quick—what could he say? Grasping at the first
thing that sprang to mind, he added, "I'm wearing him down. I daresay he'll
want to see you in person, next time."
"After what happened last time?" Krycek snorted. "Dream on; it's not gonna
happen." And he drained his glass.
But Byers was slowly growing accustomed to looking past the brusque shell,
Krycek's cold façade, and he heard the tiniest hint of a self-deprecating
bitterness in his words. "It would be more than a fair trade, don't you
think?"
Krycek's eyes glittered at this. Byers knew he really was presuming too
much at this point, to keep involving himself in their relationship, such as
it was. He tried to ignore the cold frisson of fear that ran down his
spine. He covered it well though, moving to drain his own glass.
The moment passed, however, and Krycek had placed his glass down to refill
it, smoothly, with a graceful ease that spoke of long practice using just
his one hand, so smoothly in fact that Byers found himself admiring it even
from purely a motor-dexterity view of his skill. Combined with the elegance
of the motion, as it called no attention to itself whatsoever, it blended in
as though he had adapted completely; Byers doubted anyone else would have
noticed. For some reason, Byers couldn't stop wondering what it would feel
like to have that hand touching him with the same effortless surety.
Krycek stopped to remove his jacket and toss it over on the bed. Byers
tried to swallow the accompanying thud of arousal that thumped through him.
He took a breath and looked up, realizing Krycek had begun speaking again.
"I see. Mulder must be champing at the bit, to have you involved to the
extent you are."
"Well, I figure it's time someone cut you a break. It can't be easy
juggling all the balls in the air, the remnants of the Syndicate, the
Russians, the UN. Even the FBI. Let alone Mulder."
"It would be nice, even at this late date," Krycek agreed, almost
familiarly.
Relaxing a little, Byers continued, "I guess it's just as well that no one
else has any pieces of the ship. I mean, those artifacts from the craft
submerged off the Ivory Coast. The one that Scully was investigating a
couple years ago? God knows what effect it would have on Mulder, after his
abduction experience."
Krycek's reply was downright mild. "Indeed. You think it would have an
effect on him, now?"
Byers realized with a shock that he'd said far too much this time. Krycek
was undoubtedly wondering just how the hell Byers knew that much about it—and him. To buy a few seconds, he moved to the wine and poured himself
another glass. Halfway this time. He'd betrayed that he knew too much.
Jesus, how could he fix this?! "Isn't that why you took it? It would
hardly be prudent to have just anyone running around with something like
that."
Krycek was dry. "I fail to see how it has any bearing on us here."
Byers replied uncomfortably, "Well, you could still use it to put the
'whammy' on him, as a last resort."
Krycek swirled the wine in his glass contemplatively. "Don't you think it
would be smarter of you to come clean at this point?"
Byers went quite still. "About which part?"
"You've been doing your research on me. I think I'm entitled to know just
how much you know." He grinned, a little toothily for Byers' liking. "You
know, purge that guilty conscience and all. Besides, I've run my own check
on you. Hell, if you're really cooperative, I might even tell you where Ms.
Modeski is located."
Byers nearly dropped his glass. "She's alive?"
"Fair exchange," Krycek reminded him.
His mind whirling, Byers went to sit back down. The last he'd known,
Suzanne had fled as 'Holly Fitzgerald'. He should have known that they
would eventually catch up with her though. A pang went through him as he
realized that all this time he'd believed her to be free, she had in reality
been ensconced back with the same people. This really was like making a
deal with the devil, but now he had no choice. He had to do what he could
to get her out. Which meant dealing with Krycek. "We managed to obtain the
Syndicate files on you, through access to one of their archives."
"We?"
Byers groaned silently to himself. Well, there wouldn't have been any way
of hiding it for long, anyhow. Krycek had to know that he had the others
help him; how did he expect him to work? "The Syndicate plant in the UN,
Marita Covarrubias, had made detailed reports on her contact with you over
the years, and also on a meeting in St Petersburg soon after you recovered
the artifact." He tactfully neglected to mention that the Syndicate had
also included some details of personal notes on Ms. Covarrubias' involvement
with Alex Krycek. And in omitting them, he found himself also having to
swallow an abrupt surge of jealousy at what she'd had. Particularly in the
light of her own duplicitous behavior toward him later on; the bitch hadn't
deserved him.
Krycek paused, and then swore under his breath, his own thoughts undoubtedly
following a similar vein. The gaze he turned on Byers was razor cold.
"Exactly how extensive are those files?"
Byers knew he was so deep in shit now that it really didn't matter; he owed
it to Krycek to at least let him know, considering how revealing the files
were. "It was a full biography. They were dated up to sometime before the
demise of the Syndicate Elders. I don't think anyone was around to update
them much after that," he said, quietly.
Byers couldn't stop the knowledge of the man's life from surging to the
forefront of his mind: the death of Krycek's parents, the orphaned boy
growing up in Russia with the man who'd ordered their execution... His
subsequent absorption into the inner circles of the Syndicate and
unfortunate, varied relationships with people like Mulder and Marita and the
CSM, the Brit... Byers couldn't help feeling a measure of pity. He was all
too aware that this was probably what Krycek wanted the least. And he
wondered how on earth he'd moved from feeling simultaneously attracted and
afraid of Krycek to feeling sorry for him and wanting somehow to comfort
him, despite the serious and even menacing nature of this exchange.
Krycek's voice was ominously quiet. "Has Mulder read those files?"
Byers licked his lips. "Not yet. He will." Byers felt trapped; he didn't
owe Krycek anything, actually. But neither could he agree with the way
Mulder had handled things, on his side. It really wasn't any of Byers'
business, exactly. Yet here he was, inextricably involved and getting
deeper in with every sentence he spoke aloud. What the hell am I doing,
he thought, and how the hell am I going to get out of it? As if reminding
Krycek of his end of things, he prompted him, "Suzanne Modeski?"
Almost absently, staring at his glass as he held it, Krycek replied, "Los
Alamos. Where else?"
Byers closed his eyes. Of course. Where else, indeed? She'd told him
herself the last time he'd seen her, in Las Vegas. And of course, he hadn't
been able to confirm where she might have gone afterwards, either, although
Los Alamos had remained a possibility if they'd caught up with her again.
Still, it was nice to have it confirmed from someone who probably knew
better than anyone. For some reason, he didn't doubt that Krycek was
telling him the truth. For all his prevarication and games, Krycek had his
own code, even if it didn't quite match Mulder's idealistic notion of honor.
He opened his eyes and solemnly regarded Krycek, who looked as if he were
lost in thought. "I suppose at this point it would be more appropriate to
bring out the vodka and mourn our respective losses."
Something flickered in Krycek's eyes, something Byers didn't really know how
to interpret. "When's your return flight?"
"In the morning. I wasn't sure—how long this would take," Byers
dissembled, not wanting to elaborate.
Krycek nodded. "In that case, let's not waste the bottle." His voice had
regained that slippery, confident tone that he'd had before. The silk,
curling one that kept Byers on the edge, wondering if he was scared of
Krycek or fascinated or both. "We've wined, we've dined. We've even
commiserated, and reflected on the relative stupidity of the choices we've
made in the past."
"Yes. I guess television would be banal, at this point," Byers agreed,
wondering how in the hell he had moved from being suspect and not trusted to
being considered one of Krycek's drinking buddies. Although expensive wine
hardly constituted 'drinking'. Not to mention also having his own losses
considered on a par with Krycek's, when they both knew that Krycek had been
through far, far worse—and that his actions had been far more severe and
long reaching than Byers'.
"Television?" Krycek shot him another look, this time it was laden with a
little more humor, although he hadn't lost that dark edge that warned
against taking him too lightly. "I was thinking more along the lines of
sleep."
Byers didn't fully comprehend what Krycek meant by this until it hit him a
few moments afterwards. There was only the one bed in the room. Byers
blinked, holding his glass numbly. Trying to think. He should get another
room, that's it. After all, there was nothing whatsoever that Krycek had
even slightly implied throughout their meeting tonight that Byers could
interpret as anything resembling something more than-
His train of thought was derailed completely as Krycek added, "Are you sure
you don't want to reconsider this, John?"
There was no avoiding what Krycek was referring to, now. Not with that
sharp look that flayed his ability to hedge around the fact that he found
Krycek irresistibly attractive. For some reason. Byers' throat closed up
and he couldn't have spoken even if he'd managed to find an appropriate
response. Mulder's words came back to him. He hastily took a swallow of
wine. "I got myself into this; I'll find my own way out."
But Krycek was back to the cat and mouse tactics. "Give me one good reason
why I should let you."
Despite the return of the fear that Krycek's words brought over him, Byers
decided to take this at face value. With a sudden burst of insight, Byers
realized that Krycek wasn't threatening him at all; he was actually offering
him the way out, whether he knew it or not. Krycek didn't want to exploit
him. But why? As he asked the question, Byers next realized that he was
lost. Utterly. No way back; no way out. Because somewhere along the way,
he'd committed himself to proving himself to Krycek in some subtle way that
went far beyond the kinds of games that Mulder liked to play. It wasn't
about avoidance at all, but an unspoken collaboration that bound them with
nuances of understanding each other's positions too intimately to discuss
them aloud.
Slowly, he matched Krycek's gaze evenly this time. "Is there anything that
could gall Mulder more?" And then held his breath, wondering if he'd pushed
things past the limit yet.
But Krycek merely looked thoughtful. And quite oblivious to the sight he
presented, wearing his dark colors and his strength like some kind of
shield, unaware that to someone with the capacity for forgiveness and caring
he was completely transparent—his insecurity, his pain, even his
despondency.
Byers now found he was holding his breath for other reasons entirely and his
pulse quickened. Somehow they'd moved from dancing along a knife-edge of
danger to one of mutual collusion. He felt lightheaded from adrenaline and
the wine. And if he was honest, the pure electricity engendered from being
sequestered, alone, with Krycek in a hotel room in the closing hours of
the day. For a moment, he felt a wave of panic rising inside again; he knew
he must be completely obvious. Had been from the beginning.
Krycek smiled, almost reflectively. Apparently, he approved of Byers'
reasoning. The glint in his eye was one of appreciation, this time. When
Byers finally met his eye again, Krycek held it without speaking.
Byers couldn't look away, even as the seconds began trickling by far too
fast and too long. And still he couldn't look away. Krycek wasn't even
blinking. The sensation of lightheaded anxiety grew to unbearable
proportions. Though he still had the choice of backing out, he knew he
couldn't, wouldn't. Cat and mouse, he thought suddenly, wondering why
Krycek would bother with a mouse in the first place, now that they came down
to it.
Krycek broke the tension. "Drink up." He got up to retrieve the bottle for
a refill and then put it on the table between them so Byers could do the
same.
Nerves. This had to be the most excruciating sensation of anticipation he
could ever remember having experienced before. Filling his own glass up
once more, carelessly, he considered the facts. He wasn't going to back
out. And Krycek knew it. He wondered if he was supposed to be feeling any
mortification that the supposed motivation for this little pact was to
provoke Mulder into a resulting jealousy—and hopefully a self-realization
regarding his unreasoning reactions of violent hostility towards Krycek. At
the moment it now seemed like just a rationalization—an excuse.
He guessed they'd progressed way past the suitability of further
discussion. That would render the excuse unusable. This one encounter was
safer than any kind of commitment or future relations. Any extension of
this would hardly provide either of them with a desirable outcome. He was
glad. He didn't want anything more than this. He still couldn't
understand what Krycek could possibly be getting out of it, actually, apart
from the consequences with Mulder. He doubted Krycek would 'whore' himself
to the likes of him—especially with an understanding like the one they
were sharing here. He didn't want to read too much into it, or into the
almost comradely way that Krycek was sitting there across from him, as
seemingly committed to following this through as Byers was.
But Krycek seemed to sense that he needed some kind of rational reassurance
beyond imbibing, for he looked over, catching Byers' eye once more. That
knowing look again, but daring him. It was—inviting. Encouraging.
A rush of hunger curved around his insides and clenched in his belly,
squeezing him with furtive pleasure. There was enough of a warm abandon
running through his bloodstream that John was able to finally let go
momentarily of his apprehension at his undeniable response to Krycek's
nearness now. John smiled back, completely unaware that he looked
wide-eyed, flushed and guilelessly cheerful.
Krycek turned back to his glass, chuckling again, evidently enjoying
himself. John wondered how often Krycek had found opportunities to indulge
in an encounter like this, without finding the sex twisted into a bargaining
tool to bring to the table, or as a means to get something out of someone.
Something honest, where it was simply a mutual expression of satisfaction
and experience. And both were going to get some kind of benefit from the
results. Meaningful sex, rather than an empty one-night stand.
In a way, despite Krycek being the dominant presence, John had the upper
hand. Because he cared. Genuinely. Krycek wasn't just being gracious; he
was making himself vulnerable by accepting John's concern and regard for
him. Which meant it wasn't a game.
The only proviso John could imagine Krycek insisting on was that it had to
be a voluntary exchange, because the shock of intimacy was most likely to be
overwhelming for someone in John's position... And Krycek presumably never
opened himself like this for anyone, particularly after having been burnt in
the past.
Of course, at this point, John was completely addled with lust and his
chemical response to Krycek and so he didn't know that what he was offering
was unconditional, non-judgmental love, and that Krycek couldn't even
recognize that's what it was either, having absolutely no faith in such a
thing ever being laid at his feet.
Krycek finally got to his feet and stretched, saying, "I'm going to have a
shower."
"After you," John agreed, glad that he'd packed an overnight bag. He
couldn't even begin to think about the possibilities after they'd both
finished. Still, he also couldn't help watching Krycek's ass as he walked
away and retreated into the bathroom.
John was accosted with mental images of Krycek undressing. He shook his
head slightly, and finished his glass. He weighed the possibility of
getting undressed himself and joining him in the shower against simply
waiting until they were in bed. Assailed by a shudder at the thought of the
bed, then the shower as he heard Krycek turn it on next door, followed by
the thought of leaning over in the dark under the sheets, John stood frozen
in indecision.
The temptation to take advantage of the opportunity of having a naked, wet
Alex Krycek in the shower was enough to ensure that John's cock was too hard
for him to worry about softening anytime soon. But the illicit pleasure of
considering it was impacted by the accompanying nervousness at baring
himself and doing something so impulsive. Krycek probably expected it.
What would happen if he didn't, and merely went in to shower after Krycek
was done, waiting until they were in the security of darkness and closeted
beneath the covers to... Hell, at this point, both options were so
overwhelming to him that he began to worry that he'd even interpreted it
correctly, despite the electric signals that had passed between them not
five minutes before.
Fortunately enough for him, the decision was taken out of his hands when
Krycek finished in the shower relatively quickly and came out with a towel
draped around his neck and wearing a bathrobe. Hotel issue. White, fluffy,
thick and... setting off his pale skin and tousled, wet, dark hair nicely.
Droplets of water still showing, dripping down his neck to disappear beneath
the casual chevron fold of the robe in the front. The fresh scent of his
wet hair. For some reason, his lashes and his eyes made darker from being
splashed with water. And the way the robe hugged his body, encasing his
figure; such a token gesture at covering that for some reason it seemed to
afford no modesty at all, despite not showing anything but contours
beneath. The nearly decadent suggestion of untying the robe and throwing it
back off his shoulders—
Holy fuck—how—how was he supposed to—
John gulped, and tried to not behave like someone completely stranded with
no ability to think or make sense of who he was, where he was, or what he
was doing.
Krycek cast a glance at him. "Your turn."
Trembling, John fled to the relative safety of the bathroom. He stripped
fast and climbed into the shower to try to scrub away his feelings of
inferiority while allowing the hot water to pound away his reticence and
uncertainty. Trying to ignore the near-ache of the stiffness of his
erection, which he dared not touch in the shower beyond the most necessary
and cursory attention to hygiene; it would have seemed almost unfaithful to
not leave it now.
He almost didn't want to wear the hotel bathrobe; it seemed too voluptuous a
luxury considering his circumstances. Still, the alternatives were wearing
a mere towel, his suit, or nothing. He donned the robe and brushed his
teeth, then gathered up his clothing. Then he took a deep breath and put
his hand on the doorknob, preparing to leave the bathroom, feeling absurd
and out of place and trying to ignore the real reason for his trepidation.
Who was mostly likely lying naked in the bed by now. His hands were still
shaking. Damn it! If anything, his tremors had grown more pronounced.
Fear and desire warred and raged and he bit his tongue slightly in an
attempt to try to regain some semblance of dignity.
Krycek had wheeled the trolley outside the hotel room door and turned off
the light. There was a small amount of light coming in from the
streetlights and the city below, but only enough to allow John to make out
the indistinct shape of the bed, the vanity and the chest of drawers in the
room.
A stifled yawn told him where Krycek was: already in bed. Christ. Just—just go with it. Move. One foot, then the other. Desire so strong it was
almost oppressive. Anticipation and dread both strangling each other in
their attempts to gain superiority over the butterflies in his stomach.
"Hey," Krycek murmured, in the darkness. "Get in." He sounded
matter-of-fact, and a little tenderness as well as gratitude went through
John at the note in his voice. Krycek didn't necessarily mean to be as
mercenary with him now as he was before. Maybe because the rules had
shifted. Or something. Certainly the safety of the dark is a double-edged
sword because one feels strangely secure in personal revelations when
wrapped in it.
As he divested himself of the robe and climbed in between the covers,
attempting not to bump into Krycek just yet, he realized the reason why this
might just work between them was because they shared an unspoken,
indisputable parallel. They both had a distant beloved, each set up on
their respective pedestals. Krycek had Mulder, John had Suzanne. In a way,
it made it perfectly honest and safe for them to take comfort in each
other's offered company, considering the relative unlikelihood of either of
them ever attaining their heart's desire, anyway.
Still, he wasn't prepared for the moment when Krycek suddenly moved against
him, pulling him to him, or for the startling reality of warm lips against
his. It was different in the dark, wordless and nameless. Urgent and
possessive, a tidal wave of sudden onrushing flames. He couldn't stop now
regardless of the consequences because there wasn't anything else in the
universe but this hard, longed-for body against his. The surprising
sweetness of the taste of Alex's mouth, his remarkable beauty and the
sensation of their tongues tangling together. John found himself responding
with boldness and fever, surprising himself with the intensity of his
passion and yet also surprised by Alex's tentative affection and caring
behind the power, the need to keep up those defenses.
Surprising himself too with the certainty of his desire despite never having
felt the need to explore his sexuality down this avenue before. John
suspected that it might have been different if it had been someone—anyone
-else. He shared a level of kinship, loyalty and affection with Ringo,
understood him even as he didn't quite share that particular identification
with the gay element, but this, Jesus, not this. Never like this. Not this
engulfing surf of heat and excitement. Maybe it was the danger, the feeling
of stealing moments, a stolen night in the arms of someone else—stolen not
only from Suzanne but from Mulder too.
It didn't even seem to be an issue—the truncated stump of Alex's missing
arm; if anything it was irrelevant—out of tact, sensitivity and more
pressing matters. But it was one grand exercise in discovery, exploration
and forging a way through to unknown lands to continue because the sheer
delight of running his hands over Alex's chest, down his sides to clasp at
his waist, and lower, as Alex conducted his own mapping of John's neck and
down his chest to his nipples, was not enough. Not nearly enough as he
strained upwards against Alex who was already sliding against him, their
hard cocks meeting in accidental brushes with each other. It was just as
suddenly almost too much and he sucked in a breath, having to cease his
attentions momentarily.
Alex read him, knowing he was too close and not wanting it to end there,
with them humping against each other. Both of them lay there, panting,
waiting, and allowing their senses to come back briefly while thinking of
their options.
Feeling enervated and emboldened, John managed in a tone so husky he was
taken aback by it, "Will you—are you, you know, thinking of..." he trailed
off. Mulder. After all, he was thinking about him. Mulder's ghosted image
was there, simply because they both knew how Alex felt about him.
"You have a beard," Alex pointed out, his voice devoid of his earlier
sarcasm and sounding so much freer and younger that it caused a heavy twinge
within John's chest.
But he was right; it wasn't that easy to get them confused. Still... John
realized that maybe he could help Alex this way. "I want you to," John
replied, not sure why he was suddenly so certain about this. "You can, with
me."
But Alex was wary of this kind of generosity. "I don't need to. Anymore
than you do." Hardness crept back into his voice.
He hadn't meant it that way, hadn't even really meant anything much at all,
except that he wanted to hear Alex lose it. Really lose it. Not just
with him, alone here in this place, but to give up the barriers for once as
well. To let down his guard and actually accept what John was offering
him. Not to 'use' him, but to be safe with him. For Alex to let go, with
someone who really did understand his need to. Besides, who could
understand Alex's feelings better than someone who actually knew both of
them, and knew that Alex was in love with Mulder?
In an odd way, John felt if he could get Alex to let him in that far, to let
down his guard, John's entire infatuation with Alex would be validated,
resolved.
He could feel the fight waging inside of Alex even now; the anger and the
bitter reproach against making himself that vulnerable to anyone, let alone
John, and the little fluttering hope of Alex's that had never died—the one
that sang of sad but yearning, wistful dreams of one day finding forgiveness
and mercy in the heart of that one, special other person in his thoughts.
Long since given up as a hopeless endeavor. A lost cause.
Angrily, Alex grabbed both his wrists with his one hand and held them up
above his head, breathing hard. "Don't go there. Just don't."
But he didn't need to anymore because he'd already taken Alex there. John
could feel it instinctively. And leaned upwards to kiss him again. To
reconnect with him. Alex responded, fiercely. He was still angry; John
could tell. But the trembling in Alex's body mirrored his own now and there
was only one practical conclusion, one logical resolution to this. Alex
seemed to give in to it at this point, as well.
Hungry hands and mouths, blindly seeking each other out, tracing a
fulfillment of their pact in the trails of pleasure that somehow negated
their loneliness for this short while. Trying to swallow each other and
lose their need in the snatching of each other's desires.
And then Alex was reaching up under the pillow beneath them and kneeling
back to rest on his heels. And John could hear the grin in his voice as he
ordered, "Lift your legs."
Swallowing around his sudden fear and dread, he clung to the heat and desire
for it even as he heard the sound of a condom being torn open and then
almost inaudibly being unrolled. Alex pressed overly slick fingers to the
crack of his ass and slid them along, pausing at the tight pucker of his
hole to slide in, just barely. John found himself moaning and making the
most abandoned, strange noises he'd ever made. He could feel Alex smiling
in the dark as he continued to work on him, stretching him with first one
finger and then more. By the time Alex withdrew them, John was inflamed,
pleading. And then Alex was steadying himself with his hand on John's leg
and had pressed the blunt wideness of himself against John's ready opening
and he was pushing forward...
Full, aching, tight, so full, wincing pain and lancing through him, but so
good, so good, "Oh God, Alex," and then feeling the slick thickness
sliding in deeper and deeper and harder until it came to rest. Inside of
him. He wasn't penetrated, he was invaded, conquered, taken. Owned. And
yet, Alex was trapped now in tight, silken, welcoming heat and pressure and
John had no intention of letting him off the hook.
He was at once both relieved and dismayed to find Alex had stopped, and was
waiting for some sign from him that he was all right. He wriggled slightly
under him, trying to get him to move and Alex gasped aloud. "Fuck! Just—God, just wait. Wait a minute." Alex's voice was strained. When he'd
seemed to recover his poise somewhat, Alex began to move once more. That
magic rhythm, John had never realized just how specific, how wonderful and
exacting it was until now, as each thrust and grind of Alex's cock shoving
into him, shallow at first and then more deeply and fully, began to reveal
to him why. Not until now. Until he was giving open-mouthed cries with
each one, each time Alex thrust against that spot that caused sparks behind
his eyes.
And then he couldn't stand it anymore and reached down his hand to grasp his
own cock, eagerly pulling in time with each building wave crashing, of Alex
inside of him. And he felt it begin to crest in the tone of Alex's groans
and his little sobbing, vulnerable noises, and as John began to tip over the
edge, he said desperately, "Alex, say it. I want to hear to you say it.
Please. Just—let go. S-Say it!"
With a final jerking, fast bucking of his hips as he drove into John's ass,
Alex followed him over into that drowning moment and moaned, "Oh, God,
Fox!" in a poignant, sobbing wail. John hardly heard him as he also
erupted in a burst of white-hot release, pushed over the point of no return
by the sheer thrill and stimulation of having Alex come inside him, with
him, because of him, letting go, finally dropping the pretense and the
walls.
When he finally felt the pounding madness in his head abate and the bright
ringing in his ears begin to subside, he became acutely aware of Alex
slumped atop him, resting against him.
And very silent despite the heaving chest.
John closed his eyes. I love you, he thought. Even though I know you don't
want that, don't want to hear it. All I can give you. This. Just this.
And he wrapped his arms about him where Alex lay on him, close and
embracing. It was all he wanted to give, everything; it made him feel like
he'd achieved something beautiful, to offer a safe haven for someone's heart
for a little while. Particularly someone as dark and bruised inside as Alex
was.
Somewhere along the way the sheets had been cast back, to the foot of the
bed, and now he realized they needed them again... for cocooning against the
urgent press of the passage of time and the looming of tomorrow, for however
many hours they might have left.
Playing With Fire
by Jami Wilsen
II Mahler
2:30 PM
Sacramento, California
21:09 PM
His heart was pounding. Lamb to the slaughter, indeed, he thought savagely
to himself.
