Plus, it was cold. Damned cold.
He struggled for every step, never quite catching the rhythm that normally
let his subconscious do its spooky magic when he was on a tough case. When
dry, icy flakes began to sting his face, he gave up, turned around and
headed back down to the lodge and warmth.
Running downhill, he found, was not much easier than running uphill and
was harder on the knees to boot. The snow, coming fast and furious, was
slick, and he slid, almost falling, pulling a muscle on the inside of one
thigh.
Fox Mulder was winded, sore and thoroughly chilled by the time he hobbled
into the lobby at the Indian Springs Lodge.
"I need a shower," he panted at the early morning desk clerk. A large
evangelical gathering of fundamentalists had taken over the nearby gambling
towns of Black Hawk and Central City (Keno for Christ), spilling over into
the neighboring mountain towns and leaving nothing for rent in Idaho
Springs but one of the older rooms at the historic Indian Springs Lodge. It
consisted of a squeaky bed, a toilet and a sink. No shower. Not for the
first time, Mulder fervently wished they'd driven the 30 miles back to
Denver.
"I know it's only 30 miles, Mulder," Dana Scully had told him at midnight,
"but it takes an hour and a half to get there! We're staying." And he'd
been too tired to argue. Dammit.
On the upside, Scully didn't take up too much room. Downside? She snored.
Mulder's insomniac tendencies woke him up well before dawn. Since there
was no television in the room and nowhere to read without waking Dana —
the bathroom was so small his knees hit the sink when he sat on the toilet
— he gave up and went running.
"Please," he gasped at the clerk, teeth chattering as he sucked in air,
bent over, hands on knees.
"You poor thing," she clucked at him. "You're not used to the altitude,
are you?" When he shook his head, she continued. "You need to start slow.
Altitude sickness is nothing to fool with. People die. You don't have high
blood pressure or a heart condition do you?"
"Not 'til now," he said straightening up with a grimace.
She grinned, altogether too cheerful for the ungodly hour. "Let me guess.
You're from somewhere flat and humid."
"Washington," he told her, putting on his best kicked-puppy face.
"Well, you're in Colorado now. And not only isn't there any moisture in
our air, there's damned little air in the air." She laughed heartily at her
own joke while stacking a folded towel, washcloth and little packets
of—thank you, Jesus—shampoo and conditioner on the counter. "Darlin', you
need a long soak, then a shower and a good breakfast. Lots of carbs. Lots
and lots of water." She shook a finger at him when he made a face. "Water.
Coffee and soda don't count. Into the caves with you now. They don't really
open for another hour, but this is medicinal."
"Caves?"
"Geothermal pools, cut right into the mountain. Downstairs and to your
left. That's the men's. Get in there and peel off those nasty sweats before
you catch your death. Follow the arrow that says 'Caves' and pick out a
pool to your liking. They get hotter as you go farther in. I'd recommend
the large communal pool unless you're used to it. Just sit and soak until
you're warm clear through and your bones stop hurting. Then you'll be
more'n ready to kick ass the rest of the day."
Mulder looked at her helplessly. All he wanted was a shower. "I didn't
bring a suit," he said. "I'll just use the shower if there is one."
She shook her head. "Soak naked. Trust me on this."
He sighed and picked up the towels. "Then can I shower?"
"Yes. And you can thank me later."
Mulder frowned at her and went for the stairs. They were as squeaky as his
bed had been.
He was unprepared for the blast of hot, humid air that hit him as soon as
opened the door marked "Men's." The air seemed thick, with an underlying
tang of minerals he tasted at the back of his throat. He considered just
showering and going about his business, but this early, there was nothing
to do. He couldn't even study the case files without waking Scully, the
kitchen didn't open for another hour and the only television he'd seen
anywhere was in the bar, which also didn't open until 7 a.m. He might as
well follow instructions and soak.
The dressing room was shabby but clean. The lockers, such as they were,
looked salvaged from some high school locker room and were painted a garish
orange and blue. "Bronco colors," he thought. "This is Colorado after all."
No locks, but he doubted anyone would want his well-worn sweats, even if
there was anyone else about.
The sitting room was more of the same, sans lockers with long wooden
benches against each wall, polished to a high sheen by decades of bare,
sweaty butts. He followed the arrows marked "caves" and noted the other
warnings: No swimsuits, glass, alcohol, oil or loofahs; no loud talking or
inappropriate behavior—in that order? he wondered; not recommended for
pregnant women or persons with high blood pressure, heart problems or under
the influence of alcohol or meds. The Colorado statute against lewd and
lascivious behavior was posted in its entirety and repeated, he assumed, in
Chinese.
Condensed moisture beaded the ceiling, dripping slowly but continuously
down on the carpeted floor. "Wonder if it's the minerals in the water that
keep everything from mildewing," he thought, since there wasn't the
slightest scent of mold anywhere.
The arrows led him to a glass-windowed door that was too steamy to see
through. He opened it slowly, peering tentatively inside. Steam assailed
him. Squinting, he entered the caves.
They were, indeed, cut into the rock, and Mulder felt like Bilbo under the
mountain or one of the dwarves mining for precious stones. It took very
little imagination—and Fox Mulder had more than his share—to turn the
glittering bits of mica in the granite walls to gems, and the hiss and
gurgle of the constantly flowing hot springs into the snore and rumble of a
sleeping dragon.
The dim lighting was, well, spooky and gave the cave a gothic feel. A
frisson of unease tickled his stomach. Silly, he thought. Where was the
danger to be found, here, this early in the morning?
Mulder eased himself into the first and largest pool, thinking of the desk
clerk's warning about the temperature increasing the farther back one went.
This one felt like a hot bath, and Mulder couldn't imagine the heat of the
farthest pool. He climbed down the steps cut into the pool and ended with
water hitting him mid-chest. He seated himself in a far corner, his weight
supported by his arms on either side of him and the buoyancy of the water.
As much as he hated to admit it, the desk clerk was right. It was heavenly.
Lovely.
The heat went beyond soothing. The slightly metallic odor, somehow
meditative, put him into that fugue state he'd searched for but failed to
find during his run. He could even feel the pulled muscle calming itself,
the discomfort easing.
While the bulk of Mulder's mind concentrated on the case at hand, the rest
of it kept note of the drip, gurgle and hiss of the hot springs. He was
slightly surprised, although not alarmed, when the door to the caves opened
and a towel-clad figure strolled in. Another poor schmuck with no shower in
his room, Mulder thought idly. The newcomer walked with his head down, a
towel over his head, as if he were trying to capture the steam for a
facial. He nodded in Mulder's direction, then shed the towel around his
waist and entered the large pool to settle in the corner opposite Mulder's.
He kept the towel over his head.
Strange, thought Mulder, just as the lights went out. "Shit!" he
exclaimed, rising to his feet. The dark was total, like nothing he'd ever
experienced. Panic rose in his throat like bile, and he screamed—a
high-pitched, admittedly girly scream—when a strong, wet arm encircled his
throat and something hard poked him in the small of his back.
"Shhh, Mulder," said a familiar husky voice. "You don't want the
management to think that their big, brave fibbie's afraid of the dark now,
do you?"
"Jesus Christ, Krycek! Just shoot me, will you? You don't have to scare me
to death!" Relief subsumed the usual rage Alex Krycek made him feel. "What
the hell are you doing here anyway?"
"Heard you and the good doctor were pokin' around, so I thought I'd just
stop in and say 'howdy.'"
"Howdy?"
"When in the west, Mulder."
"Yeah, whatever. What the hell do you have sticking in my back, Krycek?"
he asked, trying to squirm away from whatever it was.
"My weapon," Alex purred. Mulder could almost hear the smirk.
"Fuck."
"My thought exactly."
"Oh, no…" Mulder really tried to squirm away, but the arm around his
throat just tightened its hold, making it hard to breathe.
"Oh, yeah…" A tongue slid into his left ear, swirled around and then left,
leaving Mulder awash in gooseflesh and lust. "Might as well bow to the
inevitable," the whispery voice said. "Or in your case, bend." With that,
Krycek bumped his knee into the backs of Mulder's, forcing the tall agent
to kneel on the rock seat he'd just been sitting on.
"Don't do this, Alex," Mulder pleaded, praying hard to a god he didn't
believe in for both light and deliverance. "Please. I hate you." He
repeated it softly, begging, "I hate you."
"But you want it so much," Krycek said, biting his shoulder and bringing
his free hand around to grasp Mulder's cock. "And I do it so good." He bit
again and stroked Mulder, milking him slowly. Biting hard enough to make
Mulder gasp, Alex used his body to force Mulder to bend until his chest
rested on the side of the pool. Alex removed his arm from around Mulder's
throat, but kept his hand there, squeezing just enough. "I know what you
like, baby," he cooed, milking and squeezing, adding painful little bites
here and there for seasoning.
Mulder tried to scream when he came, but the hand on his throat kept the
sound inside. He saw light finally, silvery shooting stars firing from his
brain like rockets over the Potomac on the Fourth of July, just before he
fainted from the lack of air.
When he came to, the hand at his throat was gone, but there was a burning
pressure in his ass. "Hurts," he whispered to the dark.
"It's supposed to," came the answer. "Go with the pain," the husky voice
said, "accept it. Love it."
Mulder whimpered with loss when the cock in his ass slid out, then gasped
in shock as it slammed back in. Krycek set a punishing pace, ramming
Mulder's chest against the side of the rough-hewn pool, until the burning
pain in his ass and the scraping pain on his chest short circuited into
pleasure. He was hard again and close to coming. Too soon! he thought. I
can't come again this soon. Then Krycek was convulsing against his back,
screaming "Fox" over and over, sobbing for breath.
The absence of pain in his ass compounded the pain in his overly hard
cock. "You're under arrest," he rasped out at the collapsed body clinging
to his back and had to smile in the dark when he felt the chuckles.
"You can handcuff me some other time," said the voice from the dark. "Turn
around now and sit on the edge."
"Why?"
"So I can suck you off."
The words themselves were almost enough to send him over, and Mulder
wanted to swear, but he couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. The
worst words he knew were totally inadequate. "You have to move," he said to
the weight on his back.
Again he felt the smile. "Knew there was a catch." Then all restraints
were gone. Left by himself in the total dark, Mulder didn't know what to
do, except to turn around and hoist himself up onto the side of the pool
and hope for the best.
He felt the water move, then felt the body kneeling on the ledge between
his knees. He moaned when something bit the inside of his thigh, the pain a
lovely burst. He wanted Alex to suck at the flesh there, to mark him, but
wouldn't ask. He could beg to be fucked, but not to be marked. Not by
Krycek. "Please," was the only entreaty he allowed himself, and Alex,
misinterpreting the request, engulfed Mulder's staff. It was weird, being
sucked in the dark like this. Intellectually, he knew it was Krycek going
down on him, could picture the lovely mouth and dark too-thick lashes. But
it took a total leap of faith to actually believe it. Maybe it was really
some alien clone with Krycek's voice. A many tenacled monster sucking at
his very essence. Maybe he'd gone insane in the dark and he was actually
alone in this warm, wet cavern, buried alive. Maybe he was dead and this
just some existentialist form of hell, a heavenly hell where he'd be
pleasured throughout eternity by a voice he hated and a form he couldn't
see.
"Oh, god, Alex," he prayed and came again, pumping his wad into the back
of what he knew to be Krycek's pretty, pretty throat.
"You're welcome," said the darkness, and then it kissed him, tasting of
semen and salt and Alex. And then it was gone.
Mulder sat motionless for a long moment, listening to the pad of bare feet
on wet rock. He sighed when the sound faded, feeling absurdly bittersweet
and wondered if he could find his way out of the caves in the dark. The dim
lights, when they flickered suddenly back on, seemed painfully bright. He
smiled finally, at Krycek's skill and timing. It didn't take a leap of
faith for him to know that the power outage was no accident. He waited
longer than he was sure he needed to before leaving, not wanting to chance
another meeting with his archenemy and wayward lover.
"Mulder, the altitude must agree with you," Dana Scully said around a
mouthful of toast. "I haven't seen you look so relaxed in months."
"It's the water," he smiled. "You really ought to try it."
END...
In Hot Water
by moco
Mulder's breath puffed out in white clouds as he ran up the curving road
past the lodge where he and his diminutive partner had spent the night. "It
will be a short run," he thought, as the high elevation seared icy air
painfully through his lungs. He easily could run for an hour or more in
D.C., but running uphill more than seven thousand feet above sea level was
another story.
