He'd yelled at Scully, unforgivably harsh stupid things
coming out of his mouth, had words with Skinner at the
hospital that couldn't be taken back, and generally acted like
an ass. He'd call Scully in a couple of hours to let her
forgive him; in the morning he'd face the A.D. and get his
dressing-down for his unprofessional behavior, and then
they'd go on again, until the next time. It was the way it
happened.
In between these things happening, he needed these
few hours to just sit and stew; precious, much-needed pity
time, penciled in with unfailing accuracy to the life of an FBI
agent. Requisitioned along with weapons and travel
expenses, documented every month on a report and filed
away with the number of pencils he'd thrown at the ceiling.
The X-Files had extra allowances of all of it, just on principle.
Sometimes, it seemed that nothing went right.
Finally, he keyed the lock and pushed at the door with a
non-committal shoulder, unbuttoning his coat and slinging it
off in the general direction of the coat rack. It was
unseasonably cold—although October in Washington the
middle of the night was hardly ever unseasonably warm—
and he'd been freezing his ass off in the middle of a field for
the past three hours. At least he'd worn his overcoat;
Scully was stuck in a skirt and heels. He'd offered her his
suit jacket and was warned off with an eyebrow raise to rival
anything known on 'Star Trek'. That was the last time they'd
spoken civilly that night.
They both knew it was a wild goose chase from a few
minutes after they'd arrived, but you couldn't just show up
and then leave; reports had to be filed, no matter how
useless or pointless a waste of ink and paper and hours.
Skinner showing up had been the last straw; every time he
was willing to just give in and believe his boss was on the
side of right, some stupid little thing would happen and
they'd be on their way to yet another stand-off at the end of
a gun barrel. He half-wished for a time when Skinner would
just get fed up and shoot him, already. Scully did it often
enough; it took the edge off of their relationship.
There were too damn many edges everywhere; too
many rough corners and not enough smooth in-between;
too many 'aliens' that led to more and more nothing; too
many loose ends and not a single damn answer that lasted
more than a few minutes before disappearing again. Didn't
anyone know that he just wanted to understand? Truth
was a buzzword that didn't have any meaning anymore.
Justice was food for someone else's fight.
He hung up his coat and was on his way to the couch
when he realized at last that he wasn't alone; eyes glittered
at him from the corner of the room, the light from the fish
tank glinting dully off of familiar scuffed leather. He thought
of nothing but drawing his gun and pointing it right at the
bastard's face: finally, unbelievably, for what might have
been the first time in his life, on the offensive. "Don't
move."
"Not a problem." The deep voice scratched a little, an
edge of a cold, perhaps—or maybe it always sounded like
that: rough, slightly 'oily', slightly hesitant. He hadn't
moved. "Could I get a little help, here?"
"What?" Unwilling to put down the gun, he struck the
light-switch with his elbow, then almost dropped his gun
anyway.
It was Alex Krycek, as he'd suspected. He'd come
home often enough to find his—nemesis? shadow? father's
killer? —in his apartment that it wasn't even enough to
register a surprise anymore. But to find him like this, well
that was something different.
He was sitting in the chair beside his desk, legs tied to
opposite legs of the chair, arms drawn behind him, duct tape
wrapped around his chest and torso. His eyes were
covered, but his mouth was free. His face was bruised, and
he looked like he'd been dragged through several of the
brighter spots of hell.
Mulder didn't even suppress the chuckle that rose to
his throat. "And I didn't get you anything, Krycek."
He walked over where the man was sitting, his sense of
decency warring with his need to just kick the crap out of
Krycek. But whoever had 'delivered' him had obviously
taken the opportunity to do just that already, and there was
nothing in him that needed to beat the guy up when he was
this far down.
He'd wait until he was back on his feet to do that.
He pulled the blindfold off of Alex's face, revealing a
matching set of black eyes. The skin around his lower jaw
was swelling up, his bottom lip was split, and the skin that
wasn't bruised looked pale enough to have been out of
sunlight for months. He'd put up a fight against whoever
had delivered him, that was for sure. "You kill someone's
father and forget to run?"
"I didn't kill your father, Mulder," Alex said, but there
was no passion in his voice. It was all rote—whatever
answers he had to give, whatever questions Mulder would
ask him—all part of the game that they played.
"I thought you said you'd be back sooner." Mulder
leaned over and kissed him, pushing his tongue in, opening
up Alex's mouth until he could feel the warmth of the cut
splitting again, a trickle of blood dripping down his chin. He
licked at that blood with his tongue, nipping and nibbling at
Alex's lower lip for emphasis, before drawing away.
"Bastard," Alex said, when he was released, but the
glitter in his eyes wasn't from pain or fury, nor was the flush
in his cheeks. "Believe me, I never planned on returning."
"It's been a long while, Krycek, and you didn't even
miss me? I'm hurt." Mulder tucked the gun back into its
holster, then reached around to tug at the tape that secured
Alex to the chair. Their bodies pressed together, and he
could feel the heat rising from Krycek's skin.
"One of these days you're going to surprise everyone
and shoot me, Mulder, mark my words." He rubbed one
chafed wrist and kneeled down to untie his legs.
"I've had enough opportunity already, and I haven't
done it. What makes you so sure?"
"You always sublimate your feelings, Mulder—you pour
out all of your energy on whatever you're doing at the time,
but you never get anything done. The X-Files, what is
that? A way to make your father proud of you. The search
for your sister—if you ever actually find her, then maybe
you can go back and get the love your parents never gave
you. I haven't figured out what getting fucked gives you, yet
- but I will."
It wasn't baiting enough to be hurtful, and probably too
truthful to be processed. "Has anyone ever told you that you
talk too much, Dr. Freud?"
Alex was untied now, and he pushed back on Mulder,
knocking him over on the floor and straddling him, sliding his
belt through the loops and rolling it up neatly. "Condoms?"
"Why start now?"
"Maybe that's it, then," Alex said, throwing his leather
jacket on the couch and unbuckling his pants. Mulder lay
passively on the floor, letting himself be undressed and
handled. It was better that way. "I'm your death wish,
Mulder." He spit on his fingers, raising Mulder's half-clad
legs up over his lap, thrusting two fingers inside him, twisting
them, stretching the opening with precision. He spit on his
cock with the same oddly loving care. "A—" Alex paused for
emphasis, drawing the word out until his cock was at the
opening of Mulder's asshole, pushing vowels and
consonants and his dick at the same time, "—release."
The first thrust was brutal, but it was always that way.
Somehow, it was never quite hard enough to make him
regret it, to make either of them regret it. He bit his lip,
lying there, letting Alex fuck him, trying to think of mundane
things to prevent his body's automatic response to the
assault on his prostate. Someday, he'd be able to win, to
stop his erection from forming, to cut off his need for sex
with someone else completely, to keep his hands at his
sides and not on Alex's corded forearms, to stop the words
forming in his throat and calling out his need, but if that day
ever came, it wasn't today.
He felt cock and nothing but cock, and it felt good,
better than he remembered, better than he deserved. He'd
stopped questioning why Alex came back—he liked the sex,
it was good for him, it made him feel good to fuck the man
whose life he'd ruined. And that wasn't even the truth—both
of them had been ruined by someone else, or something
else, or some mysterious group of men pulling strings
somewhere, or maybe just something called Fate that had
yanked them both by the short hairs through most of their
lives. Whatever it was, it drew them together like two halves
of something that would never be whole—not with each
other, and not with anyone else.
That's why it was okay.
He flexed his toes, still inside his shoes—he was still
almost fully-clothed, and so was Alex. He wondered if it had
been the kiss that had drawn the desire out of Alex's body,
or if he'd been sitting there—for how long? hours?—waiting
for him, thinking about it, his body hardening in response to
his surroundings alone, knowing that eventually he'd be
joined. Mulder snorted. 'Joined'. Good choice of words,
that. He hadn't even known that he wanted Alex again
until he'd seen him, hadn't known that he was going to kiss
him until he did it—except for the fact that what they were
doing was what they did to each other. Want had very little
to do with it. Neither did need. It was beyond them, beyond
their control.
Just another example of the random chaos of the
universe.
Alex was close; Mulder could feel it—his strokes were
staccato, faster and more shallow, with the occasional long
pause. Soon he'd be coming, that final push inside and then
nothing that was in his control, the short jerks of his orgasm
overtaking his reflexes, and pulse after pulse after pulse of
cum spitting out of his cock. He still hadn't touched himself,
preferring to let his own cock lie there, agonized, unworthy of
attention. Alex was holding himself up, and he was holding
Alex. It was the way it was meant to be.
Alex was on top of him, stickiness and clothing and the
post-coital need to be warm holding them together. He
could feel lips lazily grazing his jaw, but he didn't open his
eyes. He'd wait, still, as long as he had to—for Alex to get
up, to go into the bathroom, maybe even long enough for
him to leave. It was over. Once he'd played possum so
long that he awakened on the floor, almost like this, with a
blanket thrown over him and a pillow beside him and an
unlocked apartment door. He'd gotten up, locked the door,
changed into sweats, eaten cold Chinese food and slept on
the couch—still with the feel of Alex Krycek's dried come
against his body, the sticky remains of his own orgasm on
his stomach. He kept it there as long as he could, always,
surrounded with that smell and tangible memory of his
fucking—a grasping-point of reality. And then Scully would
call him or someone would dangle a carrot of truth in front of
him and he'd wash the memories away, put on his FBI agent
attire again and go out into the world that offered him
nothing as real as a few stolen minutes with Alex Krycek.
"What are you thinking?"
He shook his head, eyes still closed. "Nothing."
"I don't even know how I got here."
"Of course not. You're not supposed to. The carrot
never knows how it gets on the stick."
"What?"
"Nothing. You should go. If you stay much longer,
someone else might find you, and turn you in."
"Nobody ever comes here except me, Mulder. Scully
doesn't even come anymore unless she thinks you're dead."
"There's the fish."
"Right. Credible witnesses."
He felt the warm weight lift off of him, taking away the
vacuum-layer of body heat with it, and he bit back a request.
They didn't ask things of each other. He heard a door close
and the shower come on, and wondered why it wasn't the
same for Alex as it was for him; of course, Alex didn't have
the option of staying here, staying dirty. He had to go out
into the world, clean, untouched, untraceable.
He sighed, wallowing in his own selfishness and his
own self-loathing, wondering if it would be possible to just
stay here forever, to just lie on this floor, half-undone, until
someone came to see if he was still alive or not. Scully
would come. He could hear her pounding on the door,
picture her breaking in, finding him.
No, that wasn't right. He hadn't phoned her yet to let
her forgive him. He couldn't let her find him without being
forgiven. He'd have to get up tomorrow and do it again.
The bathroom door opened again. "You should invest
in a bed, Mulder."
He didn't answer. It wouldn't be right with a bed. It
wouldn't fit into the rough edges of his life.
He felt something rub against his lips, a thumb—it
caressed him in a way he'd never been caressed before,
and then he was kissed, lightly.
He kissed back.
A few minutes later, the door closed.
The End
Mary Jane
by Mona Ramsey
He stared at the keys in his hand, nothing in his thoughts
associating them with opening the door to his apartment.
He'd been standing there for five, maybe ten minutes, just
staring, going over and over and over the events of the day
behind him like bad home-movies replaying in his mind. It
had really been a crappy day.
