Part V
Krycek. Alex. Fully dressed, as Mulder was, and even through the
painkillers Scully had left him, the younger man was trying to surface
from sleep as he felt Mulder's arms tighten.
Stupid-ass haircut, he said silently into the shock of silk as if it
were an endearment. Cradling the head against him with a gentle hand,
he relaxed back into sleep.
Later, dreaming of vampires, he woke again with Alex in his arms and
his whole body aching. Shifting to lean over the younger man, he waited
until those green eyes opened and then dropped his head like a striking
snake to bite into the side of his neck.
With a broken cry, Alex convulsed under him and then went limp in
surrender. Only the heart pounding against Mulder's ribs told him Alex
was still conscious. He shifted his grip and drew hard against that
sweet salt flesh as if his blunt teeth could indeed draw blood, and
Alex's desperate moan went down with him into sleep again and echoed
through his dreams.
Krycek was heading for the shower when Mulder got back from his morning
run. He watched the asymmetrical pale body walk away, and some perverse
impulse made him say "Stop."
"What?" Alex looked back at him.
"Don't shower. I want to smell myself on you for a while yet."
Alex's eyes darkened, and he stood unmoving for a moment. Then, chin
raised, he stalked back to Mulder with the edged and secret smile of
a Greek statue. "Hello, Mulder," he said, and with deliberate grace
licked his own fingers and drew them down the side of his own cheek
and breast, offering them to Mulder streaked with dried blood and their
mingled sweat and tears.
Mulder felt his nostrils flare with the rich scent, but he did not
move. With a smile half rueful, half angry, Alex lowered his hand to
cup his own balls and rising cock and then offered his fingers to
Mulder again. The sharp male musk of him brought Mulder to instant
hardness, but he was not going to play this game by the traitor's rules.
"Good," Mulder said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do need to shower."
And closing the bathroom door behind him felt like grabbing a rescuer's
rope when he was drowning.
Krycek had clearly been wrong when he said they might escape this
attraction by acting on it. The more Mulder saw, smelled, tasted him,
and the more he heard that low roughened voice, the more he needed.
And there was still nothing but violence between them, violence and one
blowjob not far removed from it. This cruelty too was addictive; he
could no longer live without tasting Alex's blood again and watching
his eyes flinch closed in painful pleasure. And those helpless,
smothered cries...
I've never been with a man. I've never wanted to. But if even this
much contact is addictive, how will—
Half-forgotten shampoo stung his eyes then, and he set himself to the
business of getting clean.
Walking into the kitchen, he found that Krycek had located his
collection of frozen bagels and was toasting them as he cut the moldy
layer off an old block of cream cheese. Krycek passed the cream cheese
to him without comment, but for himself he pulled a cup of beef
bouillon out of the microwave and dunked his bagel thoroughly before
each bite. For a moment, Mulder was puzzled, but then he saw how that
bruised jaw winced even at the softened bread and understood.
They ate in wary silence broken only by Krycek's incredulous snort as
he watched Mulder top his bagel off with peanut butter and mustard.
Mulder wordlessly offered him the same, but Krycek waved him off with
horror, and he saw no reason to insist.
After breakfast, Mulder found himself still wanting quiet, so he sat at
his desk and read e-mail. After a while, a faint half-rhythmic sound
caught his attention, and he followed quietly to see Krycek in his
hallway practicing kicks. It was clearly a formal pattern like a karate
kata, but seemed to fit perfectly into the limited space available. A
flick of eyelash told Mulder he'd been noticed, but Alex continued
without pausing.
Mulder didn't notice how Alex's balance was shifted to compensate for
the missing arm until the younger man strapped on the prosthetic and
began the pattern again, this time with a subtly different stance and
poise. Since he had not dressed since Mulder stopped him on the way to
the shower, the straps and cup of the artificial arm showed in stark
contrast to his pale skin, but somehow Alex wore it with an odd grace
like a musician with his instrument. Fresh heat and sweat warmed his
scent to fill the hallway's air, and the gold of his nipple ring caught
the light.
Turning quickly away, Mulder dropped to the couch and tried to think,
or maybe not to think. The blank, black face of the television was
easier to stare at than the inside of his mind.
Ten minutes later, he realized that the steady sounds had ceased, and
a faint creak was probably Alex removing the prosthetic. "Krycek—"
"Yes?" The voice behind him was wary, but Mulder didn't turn to look.
"Come over here and sit down." It was almost an invitation this time,
not an order, but he was still half surprised when Alex came over
without protest or smartass remark. The younger man hesitated beside
the open side of the couch, but settled instead to sit on the floor
beside Mulder's feet.
Still staring blankly ahead, Mulder realized from the incredible
softness against his hand that he had reached out to touch Krycek's
sweat-dampened hair. "Why?" he heard himself ask.
"Why what, Mulder?" There, that was the voice he knew. "The meaning of
life? The sky being blue? To get to the other side?"
"Why are you letting me do this?"
Alex tensed under his hand for a moment, and then let his breath out
with a long sigh. "Letting you? Mulder, I—I think you're the one
letting me. I need this. 'S new to me too, but ... it's like breathing.
Hell, maybe it IS the meaning of life."
"Don't be so fucking philosophical, Krycek! How can you—I mean,
goddamn it, I crammed a fucking knife-hilt up your ass, I beat the crap
out of you and almost broke your jaw. Why are you doing everything I
tell you?"
Krycek shook his head, but couldn't seem to find the words.
"Would you do anything I tell you?" Mulder was half afraid to hear
the answer, but he'd never been able to stop picking at scabs.
"Anything? Mm. No, probably not. Only things you need. I wouldn't paint
my toenails pink or take up tapdancing, Mulder; that'd just be you
trying to make a point, or to get some distance by humiliating us
both."
"Hey, maybe I like tap."
Krycek snorted, but refused to be distracted. "But when I hear that
sound in your voice, that hard need—I think I'd do just about anything
you wanted."
"Even if it hurts?"
"Jesus, Mulder, I—Maybe especially if it hurts."
"You like being hurt."
"No! I mean, I never have. Fuck, you're the profiler, maybe this all
makes sense to you, but I'm completely lost."
Mulder shook his head.
"How about you, Mulder? I wasn't just being snarky yesterday when I
asked how you could—could do this and still live with yourself, with
those white-knight morals of yours." Despite the words, Krycek's tone
was low and open.
"You killed—hell, Krycek, you know all that. You're the only person I
don't owe any human courtesy or restraint. You've forfeited any basic
human rights, even those I'd give a mugger or a serial rapist. I could
throw you in chunks in the sewer and you'd deserve it." Mulder, who
hadn't thought about it, was surprised by his own words.
"So I'm a fair target," Krycek said consideringly.
"Yeah, something like that."
"And I'm your only fair target. Most of the world you would never treat
like this; the other ones who do deserve it, the old men, you can't get
your hands on, and maybe you wouldn't feel right even if you could. So
it's me or nothing, and you've got a lot of rage built up."
"Could be."
"Yeah, I can see that. Okay, Mulder, maybe—Look, you're the only one
I can lose to."
"What?"
"Mulder, who the hell do you think I can trust in this world? I have to
stay on top, I have to win or work my way around or I won't survive."
"So?" His fingers were still combing through that dark, silken hair.
"So I can never really let go, never relax. And Mulder, I've had to do—
I've done some pretty bad things. If there were a hell, I'd burn in
it, and there are these dreams.... And I've got nowhere to take it,
nobody I can confess my sins to and ask for penance, or whatever. No
time for feeding orphans or helping old ladies cross the street. I
mean, I don't regret—I had to do the things I've done, and maybe
it'll all come out right and I'll have saved a lot more people than I
hurt. But Jesus, Mulder, I can't..." the spate of words ran dry, and
the head beneath Mulder's hand was trembling.
Taking a deep breath, Alex tried again. "It's not atonement; there's
no atoning to the dead. I mean, there was this kid, this young man, in
Kazakhstan—Hell, I'm not going to fuck you up with the details. But
I can't stop seeing them all, and I can't let go. When you hurt me,
it's like everything is all right because I can trust you to punish me,
and because it's giving you something you need. You—Mulder, you're
everything I've had to give up to be who I am. And maybe I see you as
my conscience."
"Wonderful." Mulder heard the dry tone in his own voice. "Fox Mulder,
flagellum. Or maybe I should change my name to Hairshirt."
"Mulder, you asked. And that's the only sense I can make of it."
"But it's not about sense, is it, Krycek?" The words came to him
suddenly. "It's about—it's about that dark wave of heat that smashes
over your head and drags you under. It's about fire."
"Yess..." Alex whispered, and Mulder clenched his hand in the short
dark hair.
"Yes," Mulder replied, and it was both confirmation and promise.
And then they had been talking long enough, and Mulder pulled that
battered head back and kissed his eyelids as if he were saying farewell
to the dead. The tiny shivers beneath his lips were unbearably sweet
and dark, and he ran a gentle hand down the line of sutures and tried
to breathe.
Jesus, I never wanted this. I never wanted to cross the line, to
become the kind of crazy sadist I've hunted all my life. Is that what
this is? Have I fallen over the edge? But—he wants this. Needs this.
And so do I.
Drowning, overwhelmed, he took one salt-sweet eybrow ridge between his
teeth and claimed it all, combing the dark lashes with his tongue like
a cat. Mine. God, he's mine. I don't have to be embarrassed or
unsure with him; he wants all of this. And if I tried to throw him out
of here for his own good, he'd probably shoot me. This was wrong,
unconscionably wrong, but nothing could have stopped him from tasting
the other eyebrow too and shaping it with his tongue.
Hesitantly, Alex reached up and brushed his cheek with his fingertips,
and it was hard to breathe. Mulder moved down to that inverted mouth
and sculpted it with lips and tongue, tasting the ghost of the bouillon
and something behind it that was purely Alex. For a moment they rested
there like a mystical symbol, dark and light reversed and intertwined.
But which of us is dark, and which is light?
And then, raising his head, he saw the red line of the cut along
Krycek's thigh.
Something snapped inside him as he remembered that fragment of broken
bottle, that half-tranced hand tracing a red line down parting jeans,
and suddenly in a tangle of motion they were on the floor, Krycek
pinned gasping on his back while Mulder sat astride his gut, trapping
real and plastic arms helplessly against Krycek's body with his knees.
His jaw hurt, and he realized he was snarling. He could barely
recognize his own voice.
"You hurt yourself last night." The growl tore low in his throat.
Alex inhaled sharply, fighting to fill his weighted lungs.
"You cut yourself. With that glass." Somehow the words fought their way
through his clenched teeth.
"Mulder—"
"You will not. Hurt. Yourself. Again." His face was now inches away
from Krycek's, and he saw those pinedark eyes widen in shock. For a
raging moment, Mulder could not leash himself, could not find a way to
stop himself from killing the man beneath him in this blinding fury.
And then Krycek went limp beneath him, his head falling back to expose
the long bare column of his throat to Mulder's attack, eyes closed in
the totality of his surrender.
Mulder felt the fragile windpipe between his jaws, the pulse beating
hard against him, and only Krycek's complete lack of resistance gave
him pause enough to draw breath and hold himself still. "You," he said,
and felt the long body shudder beneath him.
"Are."
"MINE."
"...yes..." Alex whispered.
Slowly, Mulder found himself again, becoming aware of his bruised
knees, his fists clenched damagingly on Krycek's shoulders, his fingers
cramped. Filling his lungs, he sat back and made himself set the beast
aside and become again the trained profiler, the analyst who could see
another way. And the man beneath him was still as beautiful to that
sight, still as elusive and maddening and utterly needed.
"Alex. Listen to me." He waited until Krycek met his eyes. "Don't hurt
yourself again. Do you understand me? If—If you ever hurt yourself
again—" and now was the time to gamble all he had guessed. "I'll make
you hurt me too."
"What?"
"If you cut yourself again, you have to cut me the same way. Just as
bloody, just as painful, just as deep."
"No! Mulder, don't—I can't—" His voice broke, and Mulder could see
desperate panic flare in those bottomless eyes. "Mulder, I don't ever
want to hurt you. You—" And with dizzying relief Mulder knew he'd
guessed right. Alex was stammering. "O God, d-don't make me hurt you."
"Promise me." This was no time for gentleness.
"I promise! God, Mulder, please, pazhal'sta, nyet—I promise. Never.
I'll never do it again. Just don't—"
And now he could relent and take that shaking body into his arms. "It's
all right, Alex," he murmured as he brushed hot tears from that poor
bruised cheek. "It's all right. I know. I know you can't make yourself
hurt me. I know—Just as you're the only person I can hurt, you need
me to be the person you'll never hurt, the one you'll never harm or
torture or kill. I know you need to be able to hold onto that."
He kissed away the tears that still spilled from the corners of those
beautiful eyes. "It's all right, Alex. I know you'll never do it again.
If you need—if you need to be hurt again, you'll come to me, and I'll
take care of you. It's all right."
And Alex curled up against him, fighting hopelessly against his own
sobs. Mulder held him tenderly, feeling as if he had brought a child
to birth, and remembered all the times he'd known him—the lies, the
betrayal, the rage and pain, all culminating in the absolute rightness
of this moment. Somehow even the darkness of Mulder's own damaged mind
was a gift now, a bridge without which he could not have reached this
man to draw him back from an abyss Mulder could barely imagine.
It wasn't going to be easy. Give Krycek an hour to think about it and
he'd panic, flaring out in anger and self-hatred against his own
dependence, his own need. But somehow Mulder would find a way to be
strong enough to hold him steady when that time came.
For now, though, it was time to make this thing real. Slowly, not
wanting to startle him, he ran his hands down the long bare shaking
back, feeling the heat burn his palms as he learned the muscle and bone
against his fingertips, line for line like a poem. So many scars,
cuneiform records of ancient pain. Such strong silk beauty beneath his
palms, each touch making his hands hungrier for more.
Women had always felt compellingly unlike him, their bodies
delightfully strange, their differences drawing him in with endless
fascination. This enemy, this man, felt like both a part of himself and
something so alien it had no name.
He knew the casual feel of men's bodies from the offhand contact of
daily business and the impersonal hostilities of the gymn. But there
was nothing casual about this touch.
Beneath the hot velvet of the skin, he could feel the hidden things,
bone and muscle true under the surface. Ribs and collarbone, shoulder
and hollow, and a heartbeat that was not his own. The unshaven jaw
rasped at his lips and tongue, and the salt richness of the taste left
him drugged and aching.
Against his thigh, he felt the salmon-leap of Krycek's pulsing
hardness, and then there was nothing left but need.
His hands shaped hips out of the fire, their fragile and sturdy curve
his home, his rest. And the tight hot muscles of a man's ass, so unlike
the diffuse generosity of a woman's softer form. They spasmed beneath
his hands and he felt Alex's arousal thrust helplessly against him.
An unexpected spot of hardness rubbed against his chest, and without
conscious thought he slid down to take Alex's pierced nipple between
his teeth. The swollen flesh tightened as Alex arched back, breath
rough and uneven as he offered himself without defense. Mulder felt the
frantic drive of Krycek's erection against his belly, and his starving
hands slid down to take the offered prize.
O God, the feel of Krycek's cock in his hands—
So soft, unbearably soft over the living steel within—Heavy and
moving in his hands, rich velvet—Mulder felt the fire close over his
head and there were no more thoughts, just the need and rightness that
moved him down until his aching lips came home. Salt and musk and the
life straining against his mouth, shaping Mulder out of nothingness
into a tongue that could taste this, lips that could part and a hollow
that could take it within. Too much to bear, this gift, this man-heart,
and yet too much to live without. His mouth ached with fullness and his
throat with joy.
Starving for this, he tried to draw it deeper and make it his own, and
with a flurry of meaningless sound it swelled and thrust and battered
at him until he choked on its surrender. The taste—O God it was more
his own than heart's blood, it was his soul that flooded his mouth and
spilled over his face like laughter. And even lost to himself he knew
it was Alex he held, Alex he loved and tasted and took within him.
He shook as Alex shook, slowed as Alex slowed, until he rested his head
in the sweaty cradle of Alex's hip. The thing in his mouth softened and
slipped away, but he knew it was part of him now, never to be lost
again.
Softly, he turned his head enough to brush a sticky kiss against the
tender flesh of Alex's belly.
It was Alex's hand that shaped him again from nothing, sculpting
Mulder's head with its gentle touch so that he knew himself real again,
solid and separate and alive.
And it was enough to lie there together, Alex spent and Mulder at last
at peace.
"Y'know," Krycek said drowsily, and then cleared his throat and tried
again. "You know, you've got some pretty severe mood swings there,
stranger."
"Yup." Mulder burrowed more tightly against him.
"Okay."
Hilt
by Nonie Rider
Point First
Drifting into waking, Mulder felt the warmth of a body curled in his
arms, its breathing and heartbeat matched to his own. He tried to
remember the night and brushed his lips over the head beneath his
shoulder, but the unexpected feel of a man's short hair woke him
completely.
