Four Days in November by DS buddhaxds@hotmail.com
Genre: Slash, M/K, Krycek POV
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Nothing beyond Amor Fati
*****WARNING***** This story contains graphic descriptions of homosexual love. If you are 
under 18 or disturbed by this kind of fiction, please don't read it!
Archive: Please ask
Summary: "I'll be anything anyone demands of me, as long as he is mine for four days in 
November."
Author Notes: To D., who told me to write something about the Mississippi River, which lead to 
the bizarre stream of consciousness that birthed this story. 
Sheri, your price is far above rubies, my Dear One. Sleep well, Noble Heart.
Many thanks to Bertie, for beta and encouragement.

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Fox has really gotten sentimental over the years. This year he's got a christmas tree up 
already, and it's only Thanksgiving. I can see the lights of the tree twinkling through the 
big picture window as I pull up to the cabin. 

I park my jeep next to his rented SUV and reach into the back for my bag. My pulse races 
with anticipation, but I school my features into casual indifference before walking up the 
stairs and opening the front door. 

I have to remind myself to breath after I catch a glimpse of him. I haven't seen him in 
many months, and then it was on official business. He's standing in the kitchen pouring 
out two snifters of brandy. Dressed in snug-fitting black jeans and a deep green fleece 
pullover he looks warm and masculine. Jesus Christ, I think my mouth is watering. 

He gives me a casual smile and walks over to me with the brandy, sliding a finger across 
the back of my hand when he passes me the snifter. "Happy Thanksgiving, Alex."

He's mine. For the next four days, that is. Our lives are dangerous, and our feelings for 
each other have no place in them. Love is sheer madness in a situation such as ours. But 
every year for the past four years, from Thanksgiving Day until that Sunday, we belong 
only to one another. It's a pittance compared to what we both long to give one another, 
but giving in to our feelings any more than this could get us both killed. 

"How's it going?" I ask, feigning indifference as I sip my brandy. This is part of the 
game-we have an agreement not to jump each other until we've cooked and eaten 
Thanksgiving Dinner. 

"Good. I already started the duck and I chopped the apricots and currants for the dressing. Oh, and I 
made the pie crusts. Here, let me take your bag."

"Hang on, I have a bottle of wine in there. And your Christmas presents." I turn and walk 
into the living room. 

I really love this cabin. Fox inherited it when his grandmother died, but he'd never even 
been here until we decided to find a regular place to rendezvous. It has open beam 
ceilings and a huge fireplace in the living room and master bedroom. The wood stoves 
don't provide much heat, but we usually manage to keep each other pretty damned warm. 
The huge Douglas fir dominates a corner of the room, and I must admit it really does look 
quite homey.  I guess this place is my home. It's the only place that I have love, 
companionship, and a feeling of safety. Isn't that what a home is supposed to be?

"Everything looks great, Fox. How long have you been up here?" I reach out and take his 
hand, a wicked remembrance of exactly what he can do with those hands running through 
my mind. 

"Since yesterday. I found the ornaments in the basement, so I ran into town and bought 
the tree and some lights. I had this fantasy of taking you underneath the Christmas tree, 
so I decided to run with it." He grins, a devilish gleam in his warm hazel eyes. Sounds 
like a damned good fantasy to me. 

"Kinda redefines Christmas cheer, doesn't it?" I pull him to me and lift my face to his for 
a kiss. He brushes his mouth hesitantly against mine before growing bolder and opening his mouth 
to me. I drink him in hungrily, sucking on his tongue and sliding my tongue across the silky heat of 
his palate. I'm hard instantly, aching for him in a way that rattles me to the core. 


He pulls back, looking at me with his eyes half closed and his cheeks flushed. My dick gets even 
harder knowing that he wants me too. 

"None of that, now. Dinner first, and then dessert." He sets his brandy on the table and walks over 
to the crackling fireplace. He is *such* a nut. Instead of putting the chestnuts in the oven, he's 
actually roasting them over the fire. God how I love this sentimental idiot. However, if he starts 
singing The Little Drummer Boy I am going to have to kick his gorgeous ass. 

We go about the dinner preparations like synchronized swimmers, chopping and peeling and 
stirring until the duck is done and the pies are cooling on the rack. Fox sets the table while I plate 
the food and we finally sit down at the huge oak table to enjoy our creations. 

Dinner is fantastic. I never get the chance to cook, and I really enjoy getting to go all out and share 
the fruits of my labor with him. Fox isn't a bad cook himself, though I think he cooks about as often 
as I do.  We feed each other forkfuls of food and go through two bottles of wine during the meal. 
Finally I push my plate away, unable to eat another bite. 

"That was fantastic." I groan, tempted to unbutton my jeans lest I explode out of them. 

Fox brings two cups of coffee laced with cream and Grand Mariner to the table. "It was. It's a good 
thing I don't eat like that more often-my waistline definitely wouldn't thank me." his face becomes 
serious and he leans over to kiss me. 

"What was that for?"

"To thank you for a divine meal, for coming here in the first place, and to tell you I love you."

Something frozen and pained inside of me melts. He says those words so rarely, and they fill my 
soul with music. I can live the other 11 months of the year as long as I get to hear him say those 
words to me in November. 

I stand up and pull him to his feet. "C'mon, big guy, let's go sit by the fire."

We throw some pillows down onto the large sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace and lay down, 
setting our mugs to the side. 

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close to him, nuzzling his face in my hair. "Blossom," I 
hear him whisper against my ear. 

I pull a face. "I don't know why you call me that. What kind of flower am I, Fox, a Venus Fly 
Trap?"

He kisses me firmly, tracing across my lips and gums with his tongue, sliding one hand under my 
sweater. "No, I think you're a Rose of Jericho. All closed up and untouchable until you're nourished 
properly, and then you bloom and you're so beautiful. That's you, my Blossom."

When he's touching me like this I don't even mind the stupid nickname. Hell, he lets me call him 
Fox, I shouldn't complain about anything he chooses to call me. As long as it's not Liar, Traitor, 
Murderer. I've heard those names, those accusations, too many times from him. I couldn't bear to 
hear it again. Though all of them are true, I think he finally understands why I've done the things I 
have. 

He starts sliding the sweater up my stomach, touching me in light, feathery strokes. I close my eyes 
and breath deeply of his scent, the cologne and unique muskiness that is his alone. I could identify 
Mulder just by this scent, if all other senses were lost to me. My lips find the soft skin of his throat 
and I latch on like a babe at the breast. He moans, and the sound rumbles through his chest and I 
can feel the vibrations against my breastbone. 

He tugs on my sweater and I let him go long enough to pull the offending garment over my head 
and toss it into a chair. I feel exposed with the prosthetic still on, even more so than when I have it 
off. The unnatural juxtaposition between skin and hardware is painfully obvious. He senses my 
discomfort and silently unfastens the clasps, then moves to kiss the chafed flesh underneath it. 

I twine my fingers in his hair and tug on his head, pulling him back up for more kisses. I could live 
off of the sustenance of these kisses. When he works his way down my jaw and bites down on my 
earlobe I hear myself whimper with need. Our first coupling is usually a frantic release of pent up 
frustration. I've never had the courage to ask him about his sex life, but for my part since the first 
time we made love I haven't touched anyone else. There is no one for me but him, and I'd rather 
live with the pain of loneliness than be sullied by the touch of another. 

I push his shirt up and he pulls it over his head and discards it. The warmth of his body infuses me 
when we are finally skin to skin. I knead the muscles in his shoulders as he kisses his way down my 
chest, sucking at my nipples until they are hard and sensitive beneath his tongue. 

"I've missed you so much, Alex," he breathes against my skin before biting at my nipple. I arch up 
and press myself tightly against him as arousal courses through my veins. His lips tickle against the 
hair on my chest and I slide my hand into the waist of his jeans. 

His tongue reaches my belly button and he fumbles with the top button of my jeans. I lift my hips 
to help him push them down, and before I know it his lips are on the head of my cock. He teases me 
with no mercy, his lips skimming lightly across the skin and his tongue barely licking across my 
heated flesh. I call his name softly and push my hips up, pleading for more contact. 

"What do you want, Blossom?" He asks softly, his lips nuzzling the skin between my hip and groin.

"More."

"More what, Alex?"

"More of you, Fox. More of you." I pant the words out. Only he can open me up this way, and I 
rejoice in having something of myself that I can share with only him. 

The wet heat of his mouth encases my length, and I cry out, sounding something less than human. 
He fondles my testicles as his mouth slides up and down me. I am so lost in my own pleasure that 
all I can do is run my fingers through his hair and hang on for the ride.

I'm so blissed out that until he hits my prostate it doesn't register that he's pushed a finger inside of 
me. I howl with the raw bright pleasure that sings through my veins, exploding along my nerve 
ending in a fiery crescendo. Before long I feel the telltale pulsing that warns me of impending 
orgasm. 

"Fox, I'm gonna come...stop...want you inside, Baby," 

His only answer is to increase the suction and tongue the slit. My climax explodes through me, a 
synaptic Fourth of July that runs down my spine and radiates out to the very tips of my toes. I shake 
with the force of it, and Fox steadies my hips and holds onto me until I'm somewhat calm again. 
When I have my wits about me again I pull on his shoulder and bring him up to face me, planting a 
long, searing kiss on his lips. 

He grinds his hips against me and I can feel how hard he is through the flannel-lined denim of his 
jeans. His skin is beautifully flushed and his hair is wild and dark, matching the look in his eyes. 

"I need you Alex, I wanna fill you up and make you scream," he grinds out between kisses. 

I grab his hip, feeling myself beginning to harden again at his words. Oh yeah, I want him to make 
me scream. I want him to fuck me until there is no ending or beginning between our bodies and 
souls. "Do me, Fox, fuck me...please."

Now we are literally knocking boots, my Doc Martins against his Timberlands. It becomes obvious 
we're going to have to let go of each other to divest ourselves of the remainder of our clothing. Fox 
releases me and then scrambles down to unlace my boots, then tugs them off and rips my jeans the 
rest of the way down. He stands up and I get a stunning view of his taunt, lithe body. He looks 
ethereal in the soft golden glow cast by the fireplace.

He quickly shucks off the boots and jeans, then darts to the bedroom for the lubricant. When he 
returns he drops back onto the rug beside me, smoothing the palm of his hand down my hip and 
thigh. I'm shaking with need. I need him to complete me, to fill me with the goodness and strength 
that is his alone. 

"Fox, I've been waiting three hundred and sixty-one days for this, *come on*." I whine, 
purposefully rubbing my thumb across the head of his dick. I'm going to throw him down and take 
the driver's seat if he doesn't hurry up. 

He smiles at me with that slow, sexy grin of his and moves between my legs. I spread my legs and 
lift my hips for him to place a pillow under me. I am belly up and utterly defenseless against him, 
offering him my submission and my love in the only way I know how. 

A slick finger pushes inside of me, and I buck involuntarily. "That wasn't what I had in mind." I 
growl at him, impatient and hungry. 

"Patience, Sweetheart. We've got four days. I'm gonna fuck you nice and slow. If you want to be 
able to walk tomorrow then let me get you ready properly."

Four days. It goes by so quickly. I don't just want to screw his brains out; I want to talk to him. I 
want to make sure he knows it wasn't me that killed Jeffrey Spender, explain to him why I did what 
I did at the facility where they found Marita and Cassandra Spender. I even want to confess that I'm 
the one who hit him in that stairwell and tell him why, since he apparently doesn't remember the 
incident. I want him to forgive me for all the horror that has occurred this past year. 

The second finger arrests my train of thought and my brain becomes nothing but a vessel for the 
sensation of receiving him, like a benediction, an absolution. I writhe on his hands as he sets me on 
fire with his touch, as he soothes the jagged edges of my soul with the sweet cadence of his voice. 
Finally he removes his hand and I feel the blunt tip of his cock pushing against my opening. I can't 
take it anymore, and push myself onto the rigid heat of him. I feel him pop past the ring of muscles 
and he cries out softly as he slides in to the root, his balls flush against me ass. I hook my ankles 
into the small of his back, crying now. 

"Hard, Baby, give it to me. Need you. Oh God, p...please, F-Fox." I'm begging, and I don't give a 
damn. I'll do anything to get him to take me, possess me, to burn away my sins with the heat of his 
passion. 

He pulls back and pushes back in with agonizing slowness, twisting his hips as he goes. He repeats 
this motion several times until I am incoherent with desire, the world reduced to the sensation of 
him filling me and the sound of his soft whispers of love in my ear. I clamp my muscles down 
around him and he gives a strangled shout, then gathers me close to him and rocks into me with 
driving intensity. My dick is trapped in the pool of sweat between our bodies, and the grind of the 
wiry hair on his abdomen against the sensitive flesh is driving me to the edge. 

I come again, biting into his shoulder to keep from screaming. My ass clenches so tightly that he is 
trapped, and with a muttered string of curses he wrenches loose and slams back into me one last 
time before he comes with a shudder that courses through his entire body. 

I can feel his heart beat against my chest, frantic like a wild animal in a cage. I smooth his hair and 
croon softly to him until he relaxes and his head drops into the crook of my neck.

We lay like that for a long time, me caressing the too recent scars under his hair and him dozing, 
boneless, cuddling like a child against my breast. Four days. It's not enough. Forever with him 
would never be enough. But Four days with him is a treasure beyond anything God envisioned for a 
man like me. This man in my arms is a bright and pure gem in my dark life, and his price is far 
above rubies. I'll do anything, say anything, and be anything anyone demands of me, as long as he 
is mine for four days in November. 

END