What Friends Are For
"You okay?" Davis's soft southern drawl was right over Krycek, and Krycek
dragged his eyes open, faltered a fraction of a smile.
"Yeah." His voice wouldn't work properly, it was just a gritty little husk
of sound. "What did he say?"
"I told him you were pretty beat, so no debriefin' tonight, but you're to be
in his office at eight tomorrow mornin'. In the meantime you and the DAT
tape are to stay here where I can see you."
"Sure." Krycek lifted his head laboriously from the velvet soft dark red
suede upholstery of the couch, glanced to his left and right, taking in the
tussore silk drapes and Persian carpets and the Tang horse prancing on the
antiqued mirror surface of the coffee table. "I guess I can slum it here for
twelve hours." He let his head drop back onto the couch, settled a little
deeper into the cushions. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. He said for you to get a haircut, you're back on the duty roster."
"Ha ha," Krycek said humorlessly. "Believe me, I get no joy from looking
like this."
Davis said nothing, but he tipped his sleek little head with its close
cropped honey blond hair to one side, his gaze raking speculatively over
Krycek, up from his scuffed black boots, along the well filled legs of his
pale blue denims, the cloth softened by hard wear and hot washing. Over the
subtle curve of the fly, the brass rims of buttons peeking out of the
placket; over the buckle of the heavy black leather belt. Over the hard
narrow ridges of Krycek's abdomen, clearly traceable through the white
cotton of his t shirt, the sleekly muscled curves of his shoulders, circled
on his left by the broad strap of a shabby black nylon webbing holster, the
grip of a handgun jutting out at the side of his chest. Along the pale gold
of the skin on his biceps, the faint violet track of a vein snaking down
into the amber shadow at the crook of each elbow. The haze of dark hair
silking around the curve of his forearms, the tracery of sinew and tendon
down to each wrist, his long slender hands, one curved gracefully on the
crimson of the couch, the other lying tantalizingly close to his groin.
"Like what?" Davis's voice had a habitual undertone of humor, so he didn't
sound any different, but one straight pale brown eyebrow lifted in
amusement.
"Like a punk." Krycek made a little grimace of distaste, lifted his hands
and dug his fingers into the limp wing of his too long hair, ruffled the
glossy mahogany strands, dropped his hands again. His hair, somewhat
tumbled, was left hanging down to almost the tip of his sharp little nose.
Blinded by the curtain of hair in his face, Krycek didn't see Davis widen
his eyes, lifting the thick fringe of his cinnamon brown eyelashes in a sort
of 'oh my' gesture. Didn't see the gold dust sparkle in Davis's chocolate
brown almond eyes, fixed on the precise press of Krycek's narrow lips, the
little tension crease at the corner of his mouth, the small colorless mole
on his cheek.
"Where's the tape?" Davis asked, mentally slapping himself. Though his
thoughts tripped back to their previous round when Krycek, sitting up,
tossed his head to throw his hair out of his face; which worked for one long
second and then failed utterly, the wing of shining dark satin slipping,
slipping, dropping down again over the smooth black curve of his eyebrow.
Down further till it had obscured the deep golden skin of his eyelid and the
thick jet black fringe of his eyelashes.
Krycek dragged his jacket from where it lay on the arm of the couch, pulling
the heavy folds of battered and grazed black leather into his lap, snaking
one hand down into the torn lining of an inside pocket, following a trail of
gum wrappers and fluff round to the back interior of the jacket, and
snagging up the tape in its thin plastic case. "Here." He held the DAT tape
out to Davis, but it was refused with a slight turn of the head.
"Keep it, you can pass it on yourself tomorrow."
"Okay." Krycek burrowed the tape back into the guts of his leather jacket,
then tossed the jacket back into a bundle at the end of the couch.
"You want a drink?" Davis asked as an automatic defense against the effect
of Krycek, having disposed of his jacket, looking up at him with eyes
darkened to stormy marine green by tiredness.
"Yeah please." Krycek leaned back again, watching idly as his host moved
away. Rather abstractedly doing a visual stocktake of Davis's five foot nine
frame, his massively powerful physique smoothed and civilized by the fine
dark bronze cloth and irreproachable tailoring of his loose dress pants and
trim buttoned vest. Only the crisp voluminous ivory linen of his shirt
sleeves hinted at the sheer bulk of muscle underneath; his cuffs were
fastened with mother of pearl links, his right ring finger sported a heavy
red gold signet, and his tie was glossy silk patterned subtly in shades of
old gold and bronze and olive green. Even his shoulder holster was highly
polished russet brown leather which might as well have been chosen to
compliment his handmade shoes.
"Whisky?" Davis lifted one heavy crystal decanter from a silver tray on the
side table.
"Yeah, sure."
"Ice?"
"Don't even suggest it... I'm half Irish," Krycek said in mock offence,
then flashed a short vivid smile as he accepted the chunky cut crystal
tumbler from Davis's hand. He snicked out a short exhalation that was
almost
a laugh as his own long fingers, the large rather rounded nails rimmed with
dirt, brushed briefly against Davis's small square hand, his pristine little
nails buffed to the low gleam of a pearl.
"What's funny?" Davis asked, still hovering over Krycek, as if too restless
to sit.
"Me. Look at me." Krycek held out his hand, nails uppermost, then gestured
with the glass to indicate his boots, his clothes, himself. "Dubretsky
warned me. He told me this was a dirty game, I just didn't think he meant
this kind of dirt." He tossed his head again, swinging his hair back, where
it paused briefly before it returned to its accustomed place over his left
eye. He lifted the glass to his lips, took a slow savoring sip of the amber
spirit.
"I think you look great." Davis's lazy drawl was so casual that it took a
second for Krycek to realize what had been said. He looked up sharply, black
fringed eyes widening.
"Oh no, don't go there. We work together," Krycek said hastily, holding both
hands and the whisky glass up in front of himself like a barrier, shifting
forwards out of the depths of the couch till he was sitting on the edge of
the cushion, ready to make a bolt for it if necessary. Davis fell back a
fraction of a step, so that he wasn't quite standing on top of Krycek.
"No we don't. Right now you're a Black Budget item. You're not back on the
payroll till tomorrow. This minute you're not Company, you're not KGB an'
you're sure as hell not Bureau. In fact, I'm not that sure you even exist
right now." Davis lifted his own glass placidly, masking his smile, but his
eyes twinkled wickedly over the rim of the crystal.
"Owwhh..." Krycek dropped his head, his elbows on his knees, glass held
between his open thighs, his hair falling loose and swinging as he shook his
head in half amusement half despair. Then he lifted his head, fruitlessly
combing his hair back with his hand. Davis was standing close, too close to
be misunderstood. Krycek's face was on a level with Davis's groin, and his
cooly controlled mouth quirked, lips opening very slightly, as if he was
tasting the air. His gaze locked on the soft deep folds of fabric in the
front of Davis's pants, the gleaming edge of a gold buckle and red brown
snakeskin belt just showing under his vest. The awkward jutting bump of a
modest erection spoiling the perfect fall of the tailoring of his pants.
Krycek lifted one hand, slowly, drifting upwards, fingers brushing feather
lightly against the precision made edge of one pants pocket, down, along the
soft thin fabric of Davis's pants leg. Feeling the sculpted ridge of thigh
muscle underneath, the bulge and hollow and abrupt end to the lavish curve
where it tucked into the top of the kneecap. Krycek lifted his head, looking
up. Meeting Davis's glowing loam dark gaze.
"Come down here," Krycek husked, his fingers brushing back up to Davis's
hip.
"In a seven thousand dollar suit you wan' me to kneel down for you? You come
up here." Davis was smiling, the dips at the corners of his cupid's bow
mouth deepening. He reached back, put his glass down on the coffee table,
the heavy crystal clinking on the aged mirror surface. Krycek thrust up from
the couch, and Davis stepped back briefly as Krycek put his own glass down
next to Davis's. Then they squared up to each other with an air of
determined intent.
Davis stood passive, hands loose at his sides, exquisite face lifted to
Krycek. Krycek couldn't breath properly around the bulk of his heart
pounding at the front of his rib cage. Jesus, he really is beautiful. Krycek
lifted his hands again, fanned his fingers out carefully, cupping Davis's
small heart shaped face: savoring the fine bones and firm flesh that formed
his broad cheekbones and sharply tapered chin. His short snub nose, the fair
skin dusted with the faint ghosts of freckles, barely visible stains of
gold.
"You're too pretty for a guy." Krycek's voice was hoarse, as if he was
having to make an effort to speak, but still his tone made it clear that he
approved completely.
"Too pretty for women more like." Davis let his eyelashes drift down till
they were half veiling his eyes, flashing Krycek a sly considered challenge
from under them. The effect on Krycek was not unlike having a jar of warm
honey emptied into his crotch. He took a slow shaky breath, held it, let it
go again. His fingers tightened down slightly on Davis's flesh, thumbs
biting into the soft skin at each corner of his china doll mouth. Davis
parted his lips, exhaled, and Krycek caught the scent of peaches.
"You're as beautiful as any woman..." Krycek's mouth shivered a fraction
closer to Davis's, wondering if this experience was going to count as gay
sex at all, there was something so sweetly passive about Davis.
"I could break you like no woman could." Davis's voice was so soft and slow
and the slide and blur of his Louisiana accent so molasses smooth, and his
features were so effeminately beautiful, where did the blade cut of his
words come from? Krycek's heart jerked, froze, raced while his breath
stopped entirely. For long seconds he looked carefully into those tiger
eyes, trying to figure out what the rules were. His lungs started to ache
and complain about the absence of incoming air, so that when he finally
spoke, the words came out as shape with very little sound because there was
nothing to fill them."Alright killer. Show me what you've got."
Davis moved, so quickly that Krycek had no chance to react, yet so
efficiently and gracefully that there was no sense of haste at all. One heel
hooked around Krycek's ankle and swept his feet out from under him, one
arm
looping around his neck, Krycek's bodyweight momentarily caught against
Davis's right hip, then abruptly abandoned so that Krycek hit the floor
chest and hands first, Davis dropping one knee into the small of his back.
Krycek thrashed, jerking his head back from the finely woven surface of the
red and rust Persian rug that covered the hardwood floor.
"What the fuck are you—OW!" Krycek's protests as he struggled up onto his
elbows were cut off sharply by a cry of pain as Davis's small hand caught up
a fistful of hair at the back of Krycek's head, twisting tightly. The knee
in Krycek's spine dug in a little harder, and Krycek had to press himself
more closely against the floor to escape more discomfort.
Krycek could sense Davis doing something else, pulling at something, he
thought he caught the faintest high whisper of cloth, but he couldn't be
certain till Davis reached forwards and took hold of Krycek's right wrist,
dragging it out from under him and back around behind his side. Krycek
slackened a little, still adrenaline jacked, but also excited.
The silk of Davis's tie was chill and excruciatingly smooth as it was twined
around Krycek's wrist, jerked tight. Krycek shuddered, a rapid fine tremor
that weakened every muscle, so that Davis was able to hook back his left
wrist easily, binding it closely against his right, knotting the tie hard.
Three hundred and fifty dollars worth of hand dyed silk stretched and
twisted beyond redemption.
Krycek, with no way of supporting himself now that his hands were tied at
his back, laid his cheek down on the floor, feeling the subtle prickle of
the rug fibers while Davis pulled his left shoulder up, little fingers
finding the snap on the strap of Krycek's holster, pinching it open and
pulling the whole rig off. He lifted away, standing at the front of the
couch again. Krycek rolled, got over onto his side, glaring up at Davis as
he took the gun out of Krycek's holster, dropped the clip, checked the
barrel and chamber, shot the clip home again, checked the safety, put the
gun back into its cradle and put the whole thing down on the coffee table,
then removed his own holster and repeated the entire process. Krycek's
expression of annoyance gave way to a slight smile. Even in a situation like
this, Davis wouldn't forget proper firearms procedure.
Both guns on the table beside the two whisky glasses, Davis returned his
attention to Krycek. He saw the trace of the smile, and pounced. He caught
hold of Krycek's hair again, dragged him upwards and towards the couch.
Krycek yelped at the sudden stinging pain in his scalp, scuffled one boot
heel under him and managed to half scramble half fall onto the couch, Davis
releasing his hair just this side of scalping him. Krycek struggled along
the cushions, leaning up on his elbows, his hands trapped under his back,
one long leg stretched along the couch, one extended onto the floor. Davis
dropped his knee onto the seat between Krycek's open legs, missing Krycek's
groin by somewhat less than an inch. Krycek jumped, jerked back. Davis
lunged, catching hold of him by the hair again, leaning over him, eye to
eye.
"I think this is a good time to talk about 'limits' Alex," Davis said
conversationally. Krycek swallowed hard, tried to drag his brain away from
the engrossing subject of how hard his cock was throbbing against the
pressure of his tight jeans, back to what Davis was saying. He nodded
fractionally, not willing to trust his voice, and tried to convey attention
through his eyes. Davis's fingers tightened on the handful of hair he held,
sending a heated sluice of pleasure washing down the side of Krycek's neck.
"There aren't any," Davis said simply, and Krycek bucked under him, arousal
flaring out from the pulse in his cock and convulsing his body.
Davis smiled slyly, moved back, opened up the buttons at the neck of his
shirt collar, shook the crisp linen loose around his throat. He sat back,
flicked his cuff links out of his sleeves, put them down with a faint click
on the table top. Neatly he rolled each shirt sleeve up to just above his
elbows. Krycek, his head and heart and cock pounding, lay quietly and
watched as the broad extravagant curves of Davis's forearms and the
thickly
tendoned mass of his wrists emerged from beneath the starched buttermilk
colored linen, his left encircled by the heavy red gold face and band of his
watch. Finally Davis snagged open the uppermost button on his vest.
Then, gently and slowly, he lay down on Krycek, his powerful legs in their
fine pants between Krycek's longer denim clad ones. His rock hard board flat
abdomen against Krycek's firm but still flesh stomach. His flaring chest and
the powerful planes of his shoulders fanning out over Krycek like a solid
wall of muscle. Krycek was still leaning up on his elbows, and Davis put one
hand on the back of the couch to support his own weight, the other he
insinuated down between their bodies, down to where his own erection was
pressed against Krycek's tightly clothed hip, down to where -
"Oh Jesus!" Krycek threw his head back, his eyes crushed closed, abandoning
the sight of Davis's calculating gaze: suddenly torn loose by the ragged
skitter of pleasure that danced away from his cock as it turned to pure iron
under Davis's small hand. Krycek's next utterance was a muffled groan, a
gasp, a shaking breath that became a catch and an almost cry... Davis's
hand rubbing, squeezing, pressing hard, playing lightly on the small cool
slick stain that was soaking through the denim over the head of Krycek's
cock, then plunging between his legs, scraping upwards over the taut cloth
and double stitched seam, tracing softly over the full curve of his balls,
down again, probing for the dipping hollow that was the entrance to his
anus, making him buck and jerk, then back to his erection, painfully
constrained now against the tight denim. "Oh God yeah," Krycek whispered in
fervent desperation as Davis leaned his palm on the solid ridge of flesh.
"What do you want Alex?" Davis breathed, his lips only a few inches away
from Krycek's, though he still held aloof from that first kiss.
"Oh God. Anything. Everything." Krycek writhed, a slow venomous movement
that rubbed his chest against Davis's vest, against the fabric of his own t
shirt, his nipples screaming out for some kind of friction to either ease or
increase their fiery arousal.
"Alright then, you can have... everythin'. Everythin' you want Alex, but
first..." Davis was pressing his fingers between the cheeks of Krycek's
ass, pushing hard against the stretched denim, enjoying the way Krycek was
lifting against his touch, opening his legs further.
"Yes?" Krycek, his eyes still closed, was almost fevered with desire, ready
for anything.
"First you have to do somethin' for me." Davis lifted, was gone, his heat
suddenly scoured off Krycek's skin by what felt like a blast of icy air as
Davis got off the couch. Krycek snapped his eyes open, glaring furiously as
Davis stepped back, stood looking down at Krycek, savoring the tangled fall
of dark hair over one of those vivid teal blue eyes, the hectic flush over
his sharp cheekbones, the way his red lips parted to give a glimpse of
little white teeth and a dark red tongue. The way his chest, pulled open and
taut by the strain of his arms tied behind him, was lifting and dipping in
rapid rhythm, the way his denims were strained by the rod of his erection,
and darkened by the wet smear of precum.
"Sit up." Davis was unbuttoning the front of his vest.
"What?" Krycek had heard perfectly well, he just didn't feel like giving in
so easily. Davis stripped off his vest and threw it onto the matching couch
on the opposite side of the coffee table. He instantly seemed to gain an
extra six inches around the chest, as the smoothing effects of tailoring
gave way to the airy mass of linen shirt.
"I said 'sit up'," Davis repeated, a dangerous edge to his voice. His
perfectly manicured fingers were flipping shell shirt buttons free of silk
stitched buttonholes, pulling shirt tails out of his belt, stripping the
ivory cloth off his fair skin.
"Make me," Krycek husked recklessly.
Davis was on him in a second, slinging his discarded shirt away with one
hand and grabbing Krycek by the buckle of his belt with the other, yanking
him out of the couch cushions and back onto the edge of the seat, jerking
the waist of his denims viciously upwards, sending a white hot blade of
stimulation through Krycek's balls and into his cock, making him stifle down
a cry of pleasure. Krycek sat on the edge of the cushion, panting, hair in
his face and heart in his mouth. Enthralled by the sight of Davis's naked
torso: flawless skin, blond down barely veiling the center of his chest,
muscle sculpted and separated and sectioned with graphic clarity.
"Don't get sassy. Just don't." Davis was opening the zipper of his pants,
the structure of his heavy arms and enormous shoulders and even his chest
flexing with the small movements of his hands. Krycek licked his lips, tried
to find some degree of calm. Davis scooped his right hand inside his pants,
made a killing little quarter turn of his hips as he hooked his penis out
through the front of his shorts, pulled it out of his pants. Krycek groaned,
a low long powerless sound of lust.
"Open your legs." Davis pushed his own leg against the taut ice blue denim
of Krycek's knee, compelling obedience. He moved in closer, standing between
Krycek's thighs. His right hand went to Krycek's hair, brushing back and
holding the wing of hair that was obscuring his view of Krycek's sharp
featured face. The fingers of his left hand wrapped firmly around his cock,
presenting it to Krycek's parted lips.
"Suck me."
For one spinning second Krycek's heart sprang out of his chest, rattled
around his skull and the top of his stomach like a ricocheting round from a
gun, while his brain screamed out that the way to advancement in the CIA
was
not to go round sucking off lower ranking agents. Then Davis leaned in and
Krycek felt against his mouth the scorch of hot satin skin stretched tight
by the power of Davis's erection; the burning sweet acid salt trace of
precum stinging on his lower lip, the heady smell of Davis's cock. Krycek
opened his mouth, engulfed the smooth hard velvet satin leaking choking
erection, drew it in till his throat was filled, in till his breath was
crushed and slowed, in till his face was hidden in the soft folds of bronze
pants and dark olive silk shorts.
Slowly he drew back, making his mouth a deep pulling pressure, sucking hard,
then sliding forwards again, his throat opening to absorb the solid shaft,
swallowing, so that the lining of his throat worked against the head of the
cock. Davis let go of his shaft, both hands on Krycek's head, holding his
hair back so that Davis could see every nuance of his actions.
Krycek could taste the constant leaking of seed, raw and abrasive on his
tongue, and he drew back enough to lap at the weeping stream, the taste
incredibly erotic. His own cock was throbbing relentlessly, and a cooling
wetness against his skin told him he was producing the same trace of arousal
as Davis. He started to rock, slowly at first, then more quickly, working
his mouth on Davis's cock, and at the same time managing to rub himself
against the fabric of his jeans, achieving a little stimulation for himself
despite his hands being bound.
Krycek's movement was jacking up Davis's arousal level by a factor of
thousands. He had intended prolonging this experiment, but suddenly no plan
seemed as good as the one that involved him shooting his load into Alex
Krycek's coldly chaste mouth. He picked up Krycek's rhythm, increased it,
thrusting lightly into Krycek's mouth, feeling Krycek's building arousal in
the escalating recklessness of his motion, the way he could cram down the
thickness and length of Davis's cock into his throat and still breath in
shallow panting jerks through his nose.
Krycek could only figure that somehow his entire sexual response had been
relocated to his mouth, that the wet slipping slide of Davis's cock against
his tongue, down his throat, was going to bring him off as effectively as a
finger up the ass. He wished fervently that he could get his hands down onto
his own cock, but at the same time the sense of humiliating restraint was
acting as a potent stimulation.
Then, just he was swallowing down that iron hard shaft, Davis jerked, rammed
against him, choking him, making him try to pull back for air. But Davis's
fingers were wound tight in his hair and for a second Krycek was taken up
with the pain and the panic and his stomach flipping and his throat spasming
and he didn't feel how Davis was shuddering and then there was a rush of
warm thick cum flooding over the back of his tongue into his throat and now
he was really in trouble only he didn't care because the sense of Davis
spurting into his mouth and not making a sound not even breathing loudly was
making his own balls lift up and up and he was so close to coming and if
it's a choice between breathing and coming he'd sooner drown.
Davis pulled back, and Krycek was left trying to cough and swallow and wipe
cum and spit off his mouth by turning his face against the shoulder of his t
shirt. Gasping down air, and ready to beg for something to make him come
himself. Davis was standing, eyes sparkling, face composed, breathing a
little rapidly, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose flushed so that his
freckles were little flakes of gold floating in the peony pink blush. Krycek
opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn't sure what, but before
he
could make a sound, Davis forestalled him.
"Stand up."
Krycek had to stifle a faint moan of pleasure as he stood, and his cock
shifted against the slick wet inside of his denims. Davis took hold of the
front of Krycek's t shirt, dragging it up out of his belt, up over his
stomach, over his nipples. Krycek realized what Davis was at and dipped his
head, allowing Davis to stretch the soft cotton back over his head, down his
arms, so that it came to rest hanging down over the bindings of his wrists.
Davis's small hands went to work, sleeking firmly down Krycek's smoothly
muscled arms, back up, under his arms teasing through the soft fair brown
hair in his armpits, over his smooth chest, down his breastbone, along the
trail of light brown silk that darkened into a fine line and divided around
his navel then disappeared into the waist of his denims.
Fingertips circled around Krycek's wide set dark nipples, around, around.
Davis leaned in, licked lightly at each tight bud of flesh, blew softly on
them to chill and excite them. Flicked at each with the edge of one perfect
nail. Lapped at them, his tongue soft and wet. Krycek was trying
unsuccessfully to stay still. Each touch was a teasing torment, only
increasing his discomfort. Davis was idly tracing one fingertip over the
burning tip of one nipple, his tongue lying still on the other. Suddenly he
nipped the pebble of flesh under his lips into his teeth, sucked hard, as
his fingers pinched up the other one. Krycek convulsed, eyes wide, snatching
out a sharp cry. Davis strengthened the stimulation till Krycek was
struggling, then abruptly he stopped.
"Turn around."
Krycek, shaking and gasping and desperate for more, let himself be turned to
put his back to Davis. Davis twisted up the folds of Krycek's t shirt and
used them as a grip on his wrists.
"Kneel."
"In a fifty buck pair of jeans you want me to kneel?" Krycek asked as a last
show of bravado. Davis shoved his other hand forwards between Krycek's
legs,
hooking his fingers around the lump in Krycek's groin, pressing. Red hot
pleasure drenched down the insides of Krycek's thighs, weakening the lock on
his legs.
"On your knees."
Krycek dropped, Davis following him, no more concerned with the well being
of his suit pants than he was with the moon. Krycek sat down on his heels,
Davis appreciating the backview of worn bootheels jammed against the
tightly
stretched almost ice white denim at the seat of Krycek's jeans. Davis caught
hold of Krycek's belt and tugged him back up onto his knees, then he tucked
in close behind the taller man, his own thick thighs splayed out on either
side of Krycek. Krycek made a soft little sound of approbation as Davis
pressed his bare chest against Krycek's long naked spine, and reached
around
to the fly of his denims.
Davis put his mouth to the streamlined muscles between Krycek's shoulder
blades, taking up the soft dense flesh in his teeth, working his way upwards
into the amber angle of neck and shoulder, making Krycek sigh and shake and
turn his head away, giving himself up to the sensation of Davis's sweet
mouth. Davis's competent little hands were working at the buckle of Krycek's
belt, opening it, then snagging open the buttons of Krycek's fly. Krycek,
with his hands tied behind his back, stretched his fingers out till he found
the open fly of Davis's pants, the slip of silk. The warm damp spring and
lift of still half hard flesh, which pulsed and firmed under his fingers.
Davis, with his mouth on the fine untrimmed cat hairs at the nape of
Krycek's neck, slipped soft washed out denim downwards, his smooth firm
palms glancing lightly over Krycek's hips, into the shallow hollows of his
flanks, down onto the long lean muscles of his thighs. Krycek shivered and
flinched as his cock sprang free from the restraint of his jeans, its own
weight and heat and the cool kiss of the air hardening it even more.
"You really take this undercover stuff seriously, don't you?" Davis said
softly, trailing his fingers lazily over the quivering skin of Krycek's hips
and ass and down the backs of his legs.
"What?" Krycek dug down deep, came back up with the fragmentary sound,
trying to understand what it was Davis meant; trying to focus on something
other than the fine fiery trail of Davis's fingertips wandering lightly over
his flesh, the wet warm press and lift of Davis's mouth on the side of his
neck.
"No underwear." Davis's answer was illustrated by his hands cupping Krycek's
naked hips, drawing him back more closely against the soft brush of Davis's
pants. "Very punk low life."
"I never wore—underwear." Krycek's reply was punctuated by a sudden gasp
as Davis slipped one hand between Krycek's legs, reached, caught the loose
weight of Krycek's balls, squeezed softly. With his other hand Davis was
seeking something in his own pants pocket, found it, shook it free of the
fine fabric and put it on the edge of the couch cushion. Krycek glanced
sideways: it was an oval pebble of silver, a couple of inches long and about
an inch and a half wide, a hairfine divide between the upper and lower
halves, tiny hinges and clasp.
"Never?" Davis said in shrewd amusement, his hand stroking back from balls
to ass, then pressing on Krycek's spine, bending him forwards a little.
Krycek with his hands bound behind him had to tense the muscles of his
stomach and ass to balance and brace himself in position. Davis reached
again, cupping the slack weight of Krycek's balls, rolled them over his warm
fingers. "You mean to tell me that the whole time you were supposed to be
this so smart academic with all that education and the perfect Russian
accent and lookin' down your nose at the Spycatchers like me..." Krycek
would have protested the unfairness of that accusation only he was too busy
panting out his breath in little rapid jerks at the white hot cut of Davis's
fingertips trailing back along the crack of his ass, back to his anus, "...
All that time you were just... ready for it." Davis pushed the tip of his
finger right into the budding hole to the depth of his fingernail, then
jerked away again. But the touch, without warning or lubrication, was enough
to wrench Krycek's heart into his mouth and tear out a cry of pure desire.
"Oh God, yes!" Krycek was torn between the need to straighten up in order to
ease the burning tension in the muscles of his abdomen, and the equally
insistent urge to keep his body open and exposed to Davis's touch. A wave of
unadulterated gratitude washed over him as Davis took him by the hips,
guided him back and down till he was sitting on his heels again, then pushed
his body forwards till his stomach was pressed against his thighs.
"This's what you wanted, wasn't it? To just bend right over and take it from
anyone that wanted to give it to you."
Krycek was gasping, struggling against the riot of sensation that Davis's
light touch was sending careering down his nerves. Somewhere very far back
in his brain Krycek knew that there wasn't a word of truth in the
allegation, but the sheer force of the desire consuming him seemed to have
retroactive effect: he couldn't conceive there had ever been a time he
hadn't been almost sick with need, ready to submit to any humiliation for
the sake of his own release. "Yes." The lie had more integrity than the
truth could ever possess.
Davis reached the little silver case from the couch cushion and clicked it
open, emptied its contents out onto the red suede upholstery. The plastic
wrapped condom he tossed to one side, took up the second foil sachet of
lubricant, broke the edge of the seal in his teeth and tore it open between
his fingers. The pearl white lotion ran out onto his fingertips, and he
wiped them carefully onto the hot tensed flesh in front of him. Krycek's
body jolted, a movement of shocked excited yearning at the touch of the cool
liquid.
Davis pressed out the rest of the lotion onto his fingers, discarded the
empty sachet on the coffee table. He shifted his bodyweight slightly, moving
in close behind Krycek again, leaning over him, his hand pressed down
between their pelvises, working the slick wetness on his fingers around the
tight bud of the opening. He circled the tip of his middle finger around it,
a light tease of a touch that became firmer, a massaging motion, and he felt
the flesh turn softer, relaxing as Krycek pushed outwards with his internal
muscles.
Krycek's heart was pounding so hard that each beat shook through his chest,
knocked his breath free from his lips. He dropped his head till his fevered
forehead was resting on the rug, squeezed his eyes closed, tried to find
some focus in the maelstrom of arousal storming through him. One tiny part
of his brain managed to disengage enough to consider that this, like all
really good games, was in earnest. Krycek was strong and fast and it had
taken an act of iron self control not to break Mulder's neck when Mulder had
attacked him; but even without his hands bound behind his back he had no
chance against Davis. It is a commonly held misconception that heavy muscle
development makes someone powerful but slow. Davis was living proof that
with enough devotion to training a man could be whip fast and built like a
tank. Krycek really was helpless, and he sank gratefully into the luxurious
knowledge that he could trust Davis with his life, his feelings... his pain
threshold.
Davis jabbed his hand forward, his middle finger piercing the tight ring of
muscle, forcing into the smooth burning satin channel inside. Krycek
thrashed, hacked out a cry of ecstasy: from any other man the action would
have been pure pain, but Davis's slender little finger was just sparing
enough.
"Is that what you want?" Davis murmured sweetly against Krycek's shoulder,
drawing his hand back slowly.
"Yes." Krycek hissed the word against one knee of his denims.
"This?" Davis insisted, shoving forwards again. Krycek twisted, made an
inarticulate sound of admission. Davis drew his hand back again, his
fingertip stilling right at the soft opening. "No Alex, you have to tell me.
You have to ask for it."
"Oh God yeah go on come on..." The words tumbled out of Krycek, a
headlong
fall into incoherence. He convulsed again and cried out as Davis thrust
forward with his middle and ring fingers pressed together to make a narrow
shaft. Krycek felt the electric chill of metal against his burning flesh,
and then that cold golden kiss moved against him, into him, the rounded edge
of Davis's signet ring slipping into his body. Krycek was struggling against
Davis, against the twist and thrust and push of his fingers, against the
almost unbearable jolt of pleasure that shuddered up his spine at each
thrust of that small strong hand.
"What do you want? You want more than that?" Davis's voice was losing a
little of its softness, hard edges showing through the honey smooth blur.
Krycek made an honest effort to answer, but the words shattered open into
a
meaningless grinding snarl as Davis probed inwards, pressed down, found the
firm flesh he was looking for, rubbed his fingertips in a slow small circle.
Krycek felt the white hot tendrils of his nerves tighten, coiling themselves
under and around his balls, through the beating pulse of his cock.
"Like this? Come on Alex, talk to me." Davis pressed down again, and Krycek
felt the pressure of blood pounding in the head of his cock, his balls
creeping up closer to his body. He tried to say something, anything, to
ensure that Davis wouldn't stop, but all that got out around the choking
heat in his chest was a kind of muffled sob. Davis slipped his hand away,
left Krycek stunned at the sudden abandonment. Krycek was distantly aware
of
Davis's fingers on the knots of his tie, bound round Krycek's wrists.
"No! Don't stop, don't let me go!" Krycek finally found his voice, but he
was afraid it was too late. The binding on his left wrist had come free and
Davis was stripping away the twisted mass of t shirt from where it had been
bundled behind Krycek's hands.
"Let you go?" Davis repeated, a short laugh cutting off the last word. His
hand hooked under Krycek's shoulder, flipped him over onto his spine. Krycek
tried to scramble onto his elbows, at least get his shoulders up off the
floor, but Davis put one knee on the folds on Krycek's denims pinning his
legs down, and snagged the loose end of tie still around Krycek's right
wrist. "No, I don't think so." He caught hold of Krycek's left wrist and
bound it again, knotting the silk with quick precision, then flung wrists
and binding away from him, so that Krycek's arms fell back over his head.
Krycek was watching Davis with a kind cautious delight: he trusted Davis
implicitly, but there was a certain glittering something growing in Davis
eyes that had bad associations in Krycek's memory. The first time he'd seen
that look, Davis had been coming back from the restroom on the plane from
Russia and Arnzten had been on his way to the cargo hold in a bag.
Davis kept his knee on Krycek's denims, reached back and started jerking
open the laces on Krycek's boots. Krycek lay quietly, his eyes intent on the
small intricate shape of Davis's ear, the flawless fine skin of his cheek,
the candy sweet child pretty curve of his lips, the solid curve of muscle
flexing at the tip of his shoulder, the bulk of his chest and biceps.
Davis got both boots pulled free, not much surprised to find Krycek's long
slender feet bare inside them. He shifted his weight back, stripped Krycek's
jeans down from his thighs, over his feet, exposing the lean dark haired
length of his calves. For one second Davis just crouched there, nostrils
flaring and eyes narrowed as he soaked up the sight of Alex Krycek's slim
sallow body stretched out under him. Then he stood up, opened up his belt
and the waist of his pants. The fine fabric dropped down in folds, unveiling
the almost excessive flare and ridge and twist of thigh muscles, tapering
down to the clear blades of his kneecaps and widening again to rock hard
calves. He bent over, a supple athletic motion from the hips, slipped off
his shoes and pants and silk knit socks all in one highly expensive bundle
which he pushed aside with one small bare foot.
Krycek's gaze flickered from one sinewed hard hollow to another, from one
ample curve to another, then centered on the air fine silk of Davis's shorts
as Davis slipped his hands inside the waist and eased them down, bent again
and took them off entirely. Davis straightened up again, stretched, an eye
popping flexing and jumping of tendons and muscle, then he noticed the
little crease at the corner of Krycek's mouth, a sign he recognized as a
suppressed smile.
"An' what are you laughin' at?" He asked sardonically, hunkering down
between Krycek's legs, trailing his fingers along the twitching flesh at the
inside of one thigh.
"You." Krycek flinched under the hardly there touch. "The sweet faced
killer. You're a cliché Fairland."
"I'm worse than that Alex." Davis leaned in, his hand burrowing deeper,
finding the slickness he had left behind. Krycek gasped, bent his legs, feet
flat on the floor, offering himself. Davis's fingers were stroking,
circling, then working in again. "The sweet faced homosexual rich kid
killer. I'm a goddamn walkin' movie script."
"Oh yeah..." Krycek groaned out the words, not sure how much of the
approval he felt was for Davis's deprecating self appraisal and how much was
for the crashing wave of arousal lifting his pelvis off the floor as Davis
hooked his fingers upwards, catching the hardened gland under his touch.
Then all too suddenly the bliss was gone, Davis pulling away, yanking at the
bonds on Krycek's wrists, pulling him up.
"Where are we going?" Krycek gasped as he stood up, his skin scorching
against the velvet of Davis's flesh. He was looking down into Davis's lovely
face, drawn helplessly towards that petal soft mouth, but Davis pulled back,
jerked on Krycek's wrists again.
"Upstairs. Move."
"Okay." Krycek breathed his acquiescence, though it was so much wasted
breath since he was already stumbling into the hallway, up the first step of
the stairs, Davis right behind him, fingers biting into Krycek's shoulder,
his arm, down his side. Then Davis caught him by the hair again, and though
Krycek bowed back and took hold of the polished wood rail and tried to focus
on fighting his way to the dangerous nirvana waiting at the top of the wide
sweeping staircase, they put each other off balance and Krycek's knee came
down on the thick ivory carpet. Davis went with him, still clenching up a
fistful of hair tight enough to make Krycek's eyes prickle and burn, but he
wasn't paying attention to the pain, he was paying attention to the
sensation of Davis's body against his own, the crests of muscle at the front
of Davis's thighs pressed against the back of his legs.
"Up." Davis emphasized the order by thrusting his hips against Krycek, which
did nothing for Krycek's ability to obey. But Krycek bit off a mouthful of
air, clenched his small jaw, focused beyond the dark veil of his own tangled
hair, concentrating on the next step up. He got his bound hands under him
and starting dragging himself upwards. The nerve defying sensation of his
hard on rubbing across the softness of the carpet slowed him down, but it
didn't stop him.
One step. Krycek got his elbow onto the next one. Things weren't being made
any easier by the heat of Davis's ridged abdomen brushing against his spine,
the blind touch of Davis's cock on the inside of his thigh. Krycek was
panting, his heart hammering in his chest as he pulled himself higher.
Again. Davis was half kissing half biting Krycek's shoulder, up his neck,
fingers clawing into the satin of Krycek's hair. Krycek clenched his eyes
shut, trying to focus on what he was doing, not what Davis was doing.
Another step. This was getting impossible, Davis had discovered Krycek's
number one weak spot, the fine golden skin at the corner of his jaw just
under his ear. Krycek could hear someone moaning, a low hoarse breath of
sound that didn't seem to be coming from Davis.
Davis lifted away slightly, his mouth leaving Krycek's skin. Krycek lay weak
under the wash of regret for one second, then remembered what he was
trying
to do. He made another step before Davis's hot hand seared over his ass,
fingers probing inwards. Krycek shuddered out a desperate groan, made one
more step before Davis's fingers took him and he knew he wasn't going
anywhere. He dropped his forehead on the vanilla carpet and gave up,
abandoning himself to the push and twist and pull of Davis's knowing touch.
"Oh Christ..." Krycek ground out the words against the silk tied around
his wrists. Davis had found the quick shallow flutter that could send Krycek
into a headlong fall towards orgasm. Krycek squirmed, rocking his pelvis as
if he could escape the sense of his cock turning to pulsing stone, his balls
drawing up tighter, his ass opening softly around Davis's fingers. Every
other muscle in his body was drawing up tight and hard, his nerves turning
to a high tension hum, fire networking over his skin, behind his eyes. White
heat gathering in the depths of his stomach, behind his balls, coiling,
collecting itself...
Davis abruptly changed the quality of his movement, thrusting deeper and
harder and using a cruel little turn of his fingers. Krycek muffled his cry
against his arms, pushing himself back against Davis's hand, trying to cheat
out the last shade of sensation that would push him over the edge, but too
late. He had dropped back from the very point of orgasm, back into a
fevered
fully aroused desperation. Davis shifted slightly, brought his heavily
muscled legs to the outsides of Krycek's longer leaner limbs. He tipped his
hips, pushed; Krycek felt the hardness and wetness of Davis's cock tucking
in between his thighs, trailing slick honey on the skin inside his leg,
sliding back and forth in the same irresistible fucking rhythm that his hand
was imitating. For one crazed second Krycek was sure that the feel of that
cock against his thighs was going to be enough to bring him off, and he held
his breath till his lungs started screaming.
Then, maddeningly, Davis twisted his fingers away, out, gone. Krycek
snarled, his body lifting and flexing, but Davis was leaving, scrambling up
and over him and catching hold of Krycek's bound wrists and dragging him
onto his knees, up onto his feet.
"Alex, come on, move, right now." Davis's voice had the same urgent
commanding clarity that it would have had if someone had been shooting at
them. Krycek's body had no desire to move, and his conscious mind was
taken
up with wanting Davis to come back, but some part of him that normally
dealt
with issues of physical survival had a policy of always reacting when Davis
used that tone of voice. He stood up, gulping air, shaking: the final shock
to his senses was the realization that Davis had produced that firm voice
despite the fact that he too was panting for breath, his cheeks flushed and
eyes glowing.
Krycek blundered forwards, suddenly consumed with a need to taste Davis's
mouth, as if a kiss was the fullest sexual consummation possible. Davis was
moving back, they were both off balance when Davis hit the closed door of
the bedroom with a solid thump which was passed to Krycek as he hit the
equally unyielding surface of Davis's body. Krycek was dipping and tilting
his head, trying to get to that mouth, but Davis had his head turned away,
reaching for the handle of the door, and as soon as he twisted it the door
sprang open under their combined weight and they stumbled together into
the
bedroom.
Krycek made another lunge after the kiss which was rapidly developing
mythic
significance for him, but Davis somehow slipped away, then caught Krycek
again, kissing the beating pulse at the base of his throat as he guided
Krycek back towards the bed. Krycek was too taken with the pleasure
drenching down his skin and the anticipation loosening his muscles to
resist, aware only of the softness of Davis's lips and the satin smooth
surface of the mahogany floor under his bare feet as they moved together
across the darkened room.
"Lie down." Davis's instruction was given as a sweet seductive whisper
against the skin of Krycek's throat, and Krycek was shaking too badly and
his legs felt too weak for him to consider arguing. He found the edge of the
mattress, sat, lay back on a cover that seemed to piece together the chill
mirror gloss of silk and the soft warm kiss of velvet; he boosted further
back and his shoulders came down in the airy softness of feather pillows
that were unmistakably covered in silk.
Davis was gone, swift movement of warmth in the dark, then a click and the
room was washed with a golden glow of light from the lamp on the sidetable.
Krycek let his head drop back on the pillows, sparing one second to be
amused by the sight of high wooden shuttered windows with swagged drapes
of
cinnamon colored silk, the highly polished floor scattered with antique
rugs, the ornate inlaid furniture.
The bedframe was a delicate canopy of black wrought iron, arching and
angling almost to the ceiling, a single width of rust brown silk laid over
its top and draping downwards in a deep fold over the pillows. The sheets
and pillow slips were smooth creamy silk, the quilt was a museum piece,
thousands and thousands of one inch squares in every shade of spice and
earth and pollen painstakingly patched together to form the fabric.
Davis was reaching something from the drawer of the sidetable: a wrapped
condom and a bottle of lotion which he put down on the quilt. He leaned over
Krycek again, his fingers closing around the silk binding on Krycek's
wrists.
"This is my house Alex. There are rules." The glitter was back in his eyes,
full force, and his voice had the venomously sweet smoothness of a razor's
edge. Krycek swallowed hard, eased out the tiniest fraction of a nod. Davis
lifted Krycek's wrists, pressed them down into the pillows above Krycek's
head. "The first rule is that you keep your hands there. Do you understand
Alex? If you move your hands I stop."
"I understand," Krycek husked.
"If you move your hands I stop. If you move aroun' too much I stop. An' if
you make too much noise I stop."
Krycek closed his eyes for one long second, writhed carefully under the heat
of arousal pressing down on his skin. The thought of trying to lie still and
passive and silent under Davis's possession was almost too perfect to
contemplate. He lifted his hips slowly, arching his spine, wondering if
begging Davis to keep going would be considered being too noisy. Davis moved
away, Krycek opened his eyes in time to see him stepping to the end of the
bed, crawling up onto the edge of the mattress, eyes sparkling.
Krycek's fingers were tingling, longing for the feel of Davis's smooth hard
flesh. Carefully Krycek twisted up two fistfuls of pillow, determined not to
reach for the other man: he had no desire to test Davis's resolve, not when
his own was so dangerously ragged already. Instead he slowly and quietly
drew his legs up, till his knees were close to his chest, exposing himself
to whatever Davis wanted to do. But Davis shook his head once, tapped
Krycek
on the leg, indicating that he should stretch out again.
"Not like that," he said lazily. Krycek presumed Davis intended rolling him
over, and protested.
"Not from behind, I want to see you, I want to see your face."
"Oh don' worry, you'll see me alright." Davis was taking up the condom
sachet, turning it between his fingers. Krycek frowned, vaguely puzzled and
slightly unimpressed. In his experience simple sex was the best, from
behind, from on top... making it complicated didn't make it better. He
stretched out again, watching while Davis tore open the wrap and discarded
the pieces, holding the slick plastic in his fingers. Davis shifted, putting
one knee on either side of Krycek's legs.
"Remember, you stay still an' you stay quiet, okay?" Davis insisted, leaning
a fraction forward. Krycek realized what Davis was going to do, and his
heart exploded inside him, the fragments tumbling madly in his chest.
"Yes. Yes yes yes..." He jerked, then held himself savagely back, forcing
himself to stay still though his whole body was quivering, his cock almost
too hard and hot and pounding to bear as Davis's small hands took hold of
it, stroking the condom down over the iron rigid flesh, his touch turned to
something cool and smooth and maddening by the tight gloss of thin plastic.
Krycek plunged clear over the rim of reason into sheer need. He flashed
Davis a look that could scorch snow, then threw his head back again, biting
down on a cry, letting it gradually escape as a low acid hiss while Davis
was pouring a little lotion into the hollow of his palm and then bathing it
over the burning heat of Krycek's erection, one hand rocking a sweet steady
smooth pace at the head of Krycek's cock while with the other he stroked
upwards over the tense skin of Krycek's scrotum.
Krycek tried to stay still, to keep his pelvis pressed down into the
mattress under him but the muscles of his spine had escaped his control, his
hips were lifting slowly, insistently. Davis shifted again, kneeling up over
Krycek's groin, smearing the wet head of Krycek's cock into the hot crease
of his own ass. Krycek caught hold of the wrought iron curve behind his
head, fisted his hands around it until his fingernails were cutting into his
palms; he held his breath, tensed himself so fiercely that the only movement
was the fine tremor trembling through his limbs and the visible jump of the
skin over his heart.
Krycek jerked, bit down on a hoarse grunt as the tip of his cock was
squeezed into a vice of burning heat and satin smoothness. Gradually, with
agonizing slowness, his shaft was taken further in as Davis sank steadily
down onto his own haunches, onto Krycek's hips. Every millimeter was
another
shock of intensity, adding to the blaze on Krycek's nerves, another stunning
increase in the level of sensation. Davis pressed down on him, his own
erection brushing along the feverish skin of Krycek's stomach, lifted again
slowly.
Krycek's body was lifting and twisting and flexing slowly, consumed in a
lingering deliberate flame of pleasure, his knuckles turning white around
the slender metal bar he was clinging to, his eyes flickering closed then
opening again to glare brilliantly at the sight of Davis's powerful body
moving with studied care. Krycek's mouth was open, his small narrow lips
stretching over his teeth in a snarl of erotic delirium.
His heart was hammering as if it was trying to beat itself to pieces against
his breastbone; he was sure he could feel his blood slamming in his veins,
pounding in his temples and wrists and cock. His breath rasped through his
teeth, iced its way into his lungs and came back out as pure fire. His
thoughts finally shattered into a million fragments none of which had enough
substance for words, everything was reduced to ragged nonsense. All that
mattered was his body and its screaming insistence on more.
Davis's movements were turning hard and deep and relentless, his beautiful
amber brown eyes full of golden motes, his face flushed, a dew gleam of
sweat on his upper lip. The sight was pushing Krycek closer to oblivion,
making him look away, close his eyes, twist his face into the depths of the
pillows. And the sight of his extremity was driving Davis on, each of them
upping the stakes for the other.
Krycek struggled in the dark behind his eyelids a little longer, trying to
figure which was worse, to come and have this experience end, or to not
come
and have his heart crash open from need. A sudden harsh gasp from Davis
tore
Krycek's eyes open, and the image that branded itself on his eyes was
Davis's small hand wrapped around his own thick cock, the head stretched
tight and slick and red, seed leaking from him and dropping in nectar
threads onto Krycek's skin. Krycek thrust up hard, jerking his hips, burying
himself in Davis's tightening flesh, though he felt he was being crushed in
a grip of velvet.
"No. Goddamn... don't." Davis gasped out the words and they weren't any
kind of order they were a plea for mercy only the fact that his hand was
pumping on his cock and the way he circled and ground himself down on
Krycek's shaft meant that it wasn't mercy he was looking for.
Krycek started to buck in earnest, feeling the fire hot silk soft cruelly
tight channel squeezing him, but he was so smooth and slick he couldn't be
held back, he would find every fraction of depth his body could take for
itself. Davis snarled, and the sound was so alien to his usual offhand
composure that Krycek froze for a fraction of a second trying to figure out
what the problem was, and then Davis's face turned from an intent frown to
a
look of such stricken reproach that Krycek almost laughed it was so
enchanting, and then he felt Davis's body pulsing, saw the sudden liberal
spurt of semen between his fingers, felt it dapple heavily on his own chest.
Felt his cock gripped and grasped and pulled and pressed by Davis's internal
muscles, and one more long thrust took Krycek over the edge too, only he
wasn't coming, he was being brought, the cum being drawn out of him by the
motion of Davis's body. A beating red hot delirium stripping his muscles and
nerves back till his bones seemed about to crack with the power of the
constriction driving his seed out of his body, till his balls were aching,
trying to pump out emptiness, till his heart hurt from slamming itself
around in his chest. He would have cried out but there was no air in his
lungs, no air anywhere, just hard hot flame and all he could do was grind
out a low beseeching groan.
Krycek let his head drop back on the pillow, his eyes closed, gulping down
air, trying to figure if he was alive or dead. Alive. His heart began to
painfully piece together some kind of rhythm and then to impose some kind
of
pace on the headlong rush of that rhythm. His muscles began to slacken
around the burning aches racking his body, falling away into exhausted
relaxation, and his skin seemed to loosen and lie comfortably over his
flesh. Davis pulled up and off his body, a tidal surge of sensation that won
another low groan from Krycek's throat. The solid smooth glance of Davis's
body lying along his side, then the peach scent of Davis's breath. The touch
of his mouth on Krycek's.
Krycek knew instantly why Davis had evaded this kiss for so long. Davis's
lips were as soft and heady as eating roses: not those anaemic modern ones,
that smell of nothing but sugar water; the old fashioned kind that are dark
and vivid as pomegranate seeds and venous blood, the kind that are narcotic
with sweetness. The way his mouth opened so easily and let Krycek's pointed
tongue pierce him and search him and savor him was a complete renunciation
of all the cool powerful control he had wanted to exert over Krycek.
The kiss broke slowly and reluctantly, Davis's cropped head resting on
Krycek's shoulder, his breath rippling on Krycek's damp skin. Krycek's
fingers were still hooked loosely over the bar at the head of the bed, his
still stunned gaze tracking aimlessly over the silk drape overhead and the
ceiling above that.
Alive. He'd made it. He'd survived behind enemy lines in the Smoker's grip
for long months. He'd sacrificed the last scraps of his innocence, but he
had salvaged Mulder and Mulder's partner from the 'final solution'.
Somewhere deep down Krycek was scarred by the knowledge that they had
each
been saved at the cost of losing someone close: or rather Scully had lost
her sister, Mulder had lost the man he called his father. Krycek waited for
the blade of pain to come, but his body was so slack and loose and his mind
was still taken with the way his heart was slowing and his breathing
dropping away to nothing, there was nothing for the guilt to cling to. He'd
made his choices, he'd fulfilled his objectives and for him at least, the
game was over. What Fox Mulder and Dana Scully would make of his actions
didn't matter, he wasn't likely to ever see either of them again.
Davis shook himself out of the lethargy he had dropped into, lying with his
cheek on Krycek's chest, listening to the bass thud of his heart. He sat up,
ruffling his hands over his short honey hair, stood up, stretched, twisted
his neck to knock out a crick in the thick muscles. Krycek was watching him,
a smile starting to bloom on his small mouth. Then the smile broke open,
turned to laughter. Davis turned, grinning at the sight of Krycek, naked and
sweat sheened and with a pool of semen in his navel trembling as laughter
shook his frame.
"Yeah?" He asked.
"What the fuck was that about?" Laughed Krycek, lifting his bound wrists to
indicate that he was referring to their sudden outbreak of passion. Davis,
still grinning, shrugged, a massive movement of shoulders that seemed to
convey good humored bewilderment. He reached and took hold of Krycek's
wrists, starting unworking the knots in the ruin of his tie.
"There you go," Davis smiled as the cloth came loose and Krycek rather
ruefully rubbed at the pressure marks on the skin of his wrists.
"Thanks." Krycek shook out his hands, trying to get the circulation back. He
rolled up off the mattress, sitting up, flinching at the chill tickle of
cold semen running from his navel into his groin. Gently he eased the loose
wet condom off his soft cock, stood up, went to the half open door of the
bathroom. As he reached the doorway, just as he was about to step onto the
large silky stone tiles of the bathroom floor, he stopped and turned back.
"Thanks." This time it was said with more emphasis. Davis, pulling open the
drawers of an antique bureau and pulling out a pair of unbleached cotton
sweatpants and a dark brown cashmere sweater, paused and looked up,
meeting
Krycek's low tide gaze.
"Don' sweat it Alex." Davis went back to what he was doing. "That's what
friends are for."
The End.
These Men of Honor III
by Rachel Lee Arlington
Krycek let his head drop onto the back of the couch, his eyes falling
closed, his hands lying loose in his lap, his legs splayed out in front of
him. Davis's voice was a low current of sound from the next room, the one
sided play of a phone conversation. Krycek sighed, his attention moving
inwards, hearing the weary tread of his own heartbeat, the slow tidal lift
and fall of his breath. Feeling tired and dirty and shaken and sore and
guilty and like he should be dead. But he was still here.
