It doesn't mean anything, really, that I marked it on both my calendar and my datebook, or that I thought about it off and on all day...hell, all week.
It doesn't mean anything that I changed my shirt, that I shaved again before going to meet him. I like to look sharp. It's who I am; everyone knows that. And I had a long, rough day at work. I don't want him to look at me and think that I'm tired, that I'm weak. I want him to look at me and think that I'm—
—whatever.
It's because he brings me important information. That's all. It's not the man himself I care about. I'd be satisfied to get that information from anyone else, should anything happen to—
Stop.
I'm not going to go there. Because that thought feels too much like a moment when you're driving too fast and you round a curve and all of a sudden you've lost control of the car. (Not that that ever happens to me, but it might to Scully, what with those short little legs that can hardly reach the pedals and all).
Anyway. Nothing has happened to him. He's sitting across from me, alive and well. And we're having dinner, just dinner. And exchanging information. Nothing more.
It means nothing.
Shades of Grey
by Ladyluck
It's just dinner.
They sit, two men in a restaurant. A small, out of the way Japanese place this time. Krycek's suggestion, after three days of back and forth emails on the subject, Mulder insisting that he did not eat raw fish. Krycek doesn't even open the menu, just asks for the chef's special sushi. It's easy to eat with one hand; no knife to deal with in front of Mulder. Not to mention the added satisfaction of being ballsier than Mulder in the food department. He shoots a pointed look at Mulder. Mulder doesn't respond, save for a slight twitching of his lips.
The first time they met, it was in a park, at dusk, autumn coming on. The resplendent colors of sunset and foliage went unnoticed as they climbed a hill, keeping to the lesser-used hikers' paths. They had spent half an hour walking through the park, Krycek laying out what he knew in low, urgent tones while Mulder listened in wary silence. Finally Mulder flung himself down on a bench, letting out a harsh sigh of frustration.
"Why should I trust you on any of this, Krycek?"
And Krycek said, not quite able to hide the edge of bitterness and frustration in his voice, "Because no one else gives a fuck about it. They've all got their heads in the sand."
Mulder looked off, down the slope. Below them was a small pond, where ducks clustered in the center and two children on the bank were sailing a toy boat. Their mothers chatted comfortably on a bench, watching. "Five more minutes, Alison," one called. Turning back, Mulder was struck by the expression in his old enemy's eyes. Beneath Krycek's cool exterior was a deep and bleak plea. They were two men with their backs to the wall, and they knew it.
Laughter sounded and they instinctively fell silent. A trio of skateboarders in baseball caps turned backwards and low-ride jeans whizzed noisily past them down the path. Mulder nodded his head, accepting the deal. A yellow leaf fluttered down to rest between them on the bench.
"I'll be in touch," Krycek said.
He looks good. Hell, he always looks good. By contrast, I must look like something that's been dragged around the block a couple of times. I've never been much of a suit-and-tie kind of guy, and, without my arm, the idea of taking off my shirt and getting measured and fitted is more than I want to deal with at this point. Still...maybe someday, if only to see the expression on his face. I may not wear Armani, but I know my way around a high-end men's shop if need be.
The Armani—that was my first surprise. From hearing about him at the Academy, I expected him to be one of those absent-minded-professor types: tweedy jackets from Casual Male, mismatched socks, gravy stains on his tie. Not this gorgeous young guy in a tailored shirt and suit that hugged every line of his impressive body.
Sure, I looked at him. Who wouldn't? I was young and dumb and he was...incredible. Not only the most attractive guy I'd ever seen, but brilliant, funny, and so damn...passionate. But that's the past. I've changed. The sight of him doesn't knock me sideways anymore. If my stomach flipped over when he walked in tonight and actually looked almost happy at seeing me, it's just hunger.
I've changed. We've both changed. A lot.
"We have special aged sake today," the waitress chirps. She's small and pretty, with a long ponytail that swings flirtatiously over one shoulder as she talks to them. Krycek gives her a measured look, sizing her up. Mulder, who's already sized her up as she walked toward their table, is studying the illustrated offerings on the menu with curiosity.
They were enemies once. Now, with the enormity of what is facing them, they have put that aside. There is an understanding that they have both paid dearly for the past.
They keep their voices down when they talk. They speak in code. The code was formulated as they walked through the woods on their second meeting, six weeks after the first. Autumn had passed and winter was upon them, the trees bare and the park almost deserted. Collars turned up, shoulders hunched against the cold, they had agreed they should meet indoors next time, which raised the question of how to discuss sensitive information without being overheard. It was Krycek who suggested the code, Mulder who came up with most of the names. The colonists are the "Wells Corp," after H. G. Wells "War of the Worlds." The rebels are the "James Group."
"After Jesse James, huh?" Krycek had asked.
"James Dean. Rebel Without a Cause."
Krycek had half-turned, on edge and ready to assert that there was a cause here, a life-or-death cause. Mulder met his eyes with a deadpan, slightly amused look. One corner of Krycek's mouth turned up, and he lowered his lashes for a second. A spark flared, so tiny as to be almost imperceptible. It died away instantly, as they turned from each other and faced back into the chilly wind, walking on. But something had changed in that moment, however unseen and unacknowledged. They had joined forces.
Their first indoor meeting was in a rundown, out of the way diner. They could have gone to Mulder's apartment, but neither one of them suggested doing that. So they huddled at the Formica table talking in hushed, distrustful voices over a meal of bad coffee, gluey apple pie and surprisingly decent French fries. Four weeks later they met again in a chain Italian place for dinner, both of them agreeing they might as well eat. They talked a little longer this time, the atmosphere thawing ever-so-slightly, and when he got up to head home Mulder said, half-joking, "So, Chinese next time?"
And so it has gone over the past few months, the dinners growing increasingly longer and the intervals between them increasingly shorter. They have taken to emailing each other in the interim as well; cryptic, sardonic messages with the traces electronically cleared.
Tonight is the first time they are meeting on a Friday, and it's later than usual. Always before, it's been midweek, Mulder coming straight from work. Why and how it changed this time, they couldn't say.
They never drink at these meetings, not even a beer or a glass of wine with dinner. They have to stay on their toes around each other. They have to stay focused. Mulder looks up now, finds Krycek watching him.
"Sake," he says, "sure. What the hell."
His hair is shorter now. The light is shining on it, but I'm not getting an impulse to brush my hand over it, so strong that my palm actually tingles.
His eyes are shadowed, but he doesn't look as fatigued as he sometimes has in the past. He doesn't sleep well; he's told me this. A few weeks ago he showed up looking pale with exhaustion, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as we talked.
I said his name—"Alex?"—and he looked at me, startled. It had been a long time since I called him that. Not that I was concerned, really. With informants, healthy is better, that's all. I expected him to pull back and stonewall me, but for some reason, he didn't.
"Do you remember, aah..." He cleared his throat, looking down. "The first case we worked, that guy Cole?"
"Yeah," I said, wondering where he was going with this.
"How he said he couldn't sleep...?" He was playing with a drinking straw, bending it between his fingers in quick, nervous little jerks. "He said he hadn't slept in...months...thought he was going crazy sometimes..." His voice rose and trailed off and he looked at me. In his eyes I saw my own long nights watching porn, surfing the net, pouring shots of whiskey that never did the trick. Watching the pale blue light creep across the ceiling and knowing I'd have to be at work again all too soon.
"Yeah," I said. "I know." In that moment the roles and masks slid away, and there we were, just two sad, lonely bastards who can't sleep at night.
See, I've come to realize that in the Great Satanic Chessboard of Life, neither one of us is the king, or the queen, or the knights we once imagined we were. He plays for the black side and I play for the white side, but we're both just pawns, really. And pawns meet in the middle.
Krycek opens his chopsticks and splits them one-handed in a practiced motion as the waitress sets a large tray of sushi down on the table. This place apparently being more authentic Japanese than his neighborhood sushi bar, however, there are some rather unusual offerings on the plate.
"What the hell do you suppose this is?" he asks Mulder. The item in question appears to be a pile of tentacles, with a few round things that might be—eyes? Suction cups?
"Octopus?" Mulder ponders. "Sea urchin? Taste it."
Krycek shoots him a look that says, no fucking way.
Mulder's answering smirk says, wimp.
"You eat it," Krycek says, raising his chin a fraction.
Mulder shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Sure."
Christ, that mouth. I lift the piece of sushi and he leans forward a bit, and I suddenly have this reckless, almost irresistible urge to reach across the table and hand feed it to him, feel those lips and that—
—tongue. Oh fuck. I set the sushi down on his plate fast. He picks it up and actually licks it, tasting it, the son of a bitch, before devouring half of it with a smug look. Okay, yeah, Mulder, you're more manly. Haven't you proved that all the times you've thrown me up against a wall?
When I pick up another piece—a recognizable slice of toro tuna this time—and eat it slowly, I'm not pretending that the feel of my own lips and tongue against my fingertips are his.
He sucks a grain of rice from his finger and I could care less. I do the same and find him watching me with those inscrutable, intriguing, slightly almond-shaped eyes of his.
I wipe my hands on a napkin and reach into my jacket. It's time.
No one is watching us as I surreptitiously slide the small manila envelope from my pocket. Reaching under the table, my hand grazes his knee, then his fingers brush mine as he takes it from me.
These are the only times I touch him, these brief moments at each meeting when I pass him whatever I've got—three disks, today. Just that fleeting encounter and it's over. It doesn't stay in my mind for days, weeks, afterward. I don't play it back in my bedroom, late at night. I don't fantasize about taking it further, about sliding under that table and—
—no. I don't.
With each new piece I bring him, it gets more dangerous for both of us. I email him almost every day now, partly to make sure he's still safe. If he's dead I'm dead. That his emails make me laugh, are often the one bright spot in my otherwise crappy day, is irrelevant.
I could do this more unobtrusively, just slip the envelope into his briefcase. I could do it without touching him. I could give him the information without meeting him at all.
I could care less.
Mulder signals to the waitress for more sake. Krycek sits back in his seat, watching in alert silence as she pours. The light is on his face and she's looking at him. He doesn't like it, but it can't be helped.
"Your eyes are green," she says. "So pretty!"
Krycek draws back a bit, his lashes flickering, before giving her a small smile.
"Your eyes are green?" Mulder says.
Krycek smirks at him.
"I'm color blind. I can't see red, or green." Mulder continues to study him curiously. "Kind of wish I could," he adds, almost absently. Krycek looks down, a slight flush rising on his cheekbones.
I have no concept of red or green. I'll never truly see the hue the rest of the world means when they say those words. It's never been a hardship. For instance, I know that Scully has red hair, but it's sort of brownish gray to me. Traffic lights, I rely on their position. I've adapted. Most days, I don't even give it a thought.
But now, looking at the roses on the table, I think, they must be red. And his hair, too, has a reddish tint. I know that from reading Scully's incident report after she shot me that day. I still don't know what he was doing there, hanging around my building after my father was shot.
I hated him that day, more than I'd ever hated anyone. I wanted to kill him, hurt him beyond endurance. But life has taken care of that for me. And I see more clearly now; I hate the people who really should be hated. He was just a hired gun, caught the same way my father was caught.
We've both lost so much. Next to all that, a little thing like not seeing colors seems insignificant. It's like coming home from war after both your legs and an eye have been blown off. And then you lose your sense of taste. Hardly matters at all.
Until someone puts a fresh Georgia peach in front of you, ripe and fragrant and bursting with juice. Then you'd give anything to have that one moment of sweetness.
They are deep in discussion over Krycek's latest offering, formulating complex plans, when the waitress approaches to refill their cups.
"Still talking business?" she chides them teasingly. "It's Valentine's Day! You should be with sweethearts!" Her slight Japanese accent makes the word sound like "Val-ren-tines."
Mulder gives her a distracted nod. The sake is making it harder to keep to his train of thought.
"So," Krycek says, as the waitress leaves. His expression is very similar to the one he used to wear when Mulder was about to hit him. "Where is Scully tonight?"
"Scully?" Mulder looks at him with a baffled frown, as if he's forgotten who Scully is. "Out on a date. After giving me a speech about what a loser I was for not doing the same."
Krycek smiles at this. Mulder warms to his subject.
"What the hell is Valentine's Day anyway? It's not a religious holiday, it's not patriotic, it doesn't celebrate anything. It's just an advertising opportunity for Hallmark and the candy and flower industries. But women go bonkers over it. Diana bitched for a week because I forgot and gave her the chocolates she wanted—demanded, actually—a day late. What difference does it make? Hey, the day after, I got them for half the price!"
He's laughing. Something I don't see very often. He has a quiet laugh, sort of under his breath; he ducks his head and looks at me through his lashes. I love it when I can make him laugh. It's like knocking one over the left wall of Fenway.
Not that it means anything. I'm too busy to have a personal life, so I take my pleasure where I can get it, that's all. It's why Scully was giving me grief earlier today.
"Look at you, Mulder. You're more excited about this meeting with Krycek tonight than you would be if you actually had a date. You're in love —"
"I'm not in love!" I snapped.
"—with your work." She was on a roll now. "You need to get out, form human relationships, blah blah blabbity blah not healthy to isolate yourself blah blah natural instinct to mate blah blah monkeys rhinos rats centipedes..."
"Rats?"
"Yes, in the laboratory! Over and over, right while I was working."
With that charming image knocking around my brain, I skipped lunch and caught up on my paperwork so I could get out of there early.
The kitchen is closing, and the waitress brings them the bill. Mulder lays his credit card on it; he can write this off as an expense. They have been talking for hours, despite so many topics being potential landmines. They are both feeling the effects of too much sake, although doing their damnedest not to let it show.
"Can't get too drunk," Mulder says. "Got to stay on top of you." It's only when he sees Krycek's expression that he realizes his slip. Their eyes meet and then they are laughing; then their eyes meet once again and under the slightly tipsy hilarity is something else: the nascent urge of possibility.
Both of them immediately close their eyes, then look away.
"It's getting late," Mulder says.
Outside the restaurant, Krycek hesitates a moment, then extends his hand. It is reminiscent of the first time they met, the fresh-faced, brash young Alex sticking out a hand in greeting to Mulder, who ignored it.
It's not their custom to shake hands when they part. It's not their custom to have any physical contact. The periodic roughing-up Mulder routinely used to administer to Krycek hasn't happened since the hostilities have cooled. Or since Krycek lost his arm. Or since he kissed Mulder, pick one.
This time, however, Mulder takes Krycek's proffered hand. A thought hits him and he squeezes Krycek's hand lightly, then continues holding on as he elaborates on the ramifications of Krycek's latest information. Despite the sake, or perhaps because of it, his mind leaps nimbly from one speculation to another, like Tarzan star-surfing on some celestial vine. Krycek is wearing gloves; black leather with a circular cutout. As he talks, Mulder idly brushes his thumb around the small space on the back of Krycek's hand.
How is it that I'm hypnotized by this: a single fingertip tracing my skin, so slow and light, concentric ripples of sensation stirring through me, and I'm so fucking glad I still have this hand. All the nerve endings of my body seem to have concentrated themselves there and I just want to close my eyes and crawl into it, that small, immense circle of his touch. But I keep them open, watching the shape of his mouth as he talks, saying something brilliant no doubt and I don't hear a word of it. I must be drunker than I thought.
He releases my hand, nodding his head at the point he's made. I have no idea what it was. He turns to go, and I have to physically restrain myself from running after him, grabbing his arm and —
"Mulder!" I call and he turns back. He stands with his hands in his pockets, waiting.
"My—my car's just down the block. You, ahh, you need a lift?" I'm blinking and stammering on the words. Lack of sleep will do that to you, of course. He seems to hesitate a moment, and I blurt out, "You'll never get a cab at this hour."
Walking the block and a half to Krycek's car, they are passed by two available cabs, but neither of them mentions it. The car, a black Mazda, is parked on a side street. Krycek unlocks it and turns on the heat.
Mulder leans back in the seat and sighs, closing his eyes, as Krycek starts the car. "Your car smells good," he murmurs.
"My car smells good?" Krycek shoots Mulder a look, incredulous and amused. "Aah...what does it smell like?" He answers his own question—"Coffee and donuts?" at the same time as Mulder says, "Leather and sex?"
Krycek shakes his head now, definitely laughing, definitely disbelieving.
"You've never had sex in this car?" Mulder says.
"Are you offering?"
Mulder, maybe sensing that he's crossed a line, is silent.
"It's too small," Krycek says finally, his voice rising on the words. "I'd never fit in that backseat."
Mulder closes his eyes again, and they ride the rest of the way without speaking. When the car pulls up in front of Mulder's apartment building Mulder straightens up and rubs his eyes, but makes no move to get out of the car.
"Where do you live, Alex?"
Krycek hesitates momentarily, then names a neighborhood much like Mulder's, middle class and nondescript.
"That's pretty far."
Krycek shrugs. "Forty, forty-five minutes. Shouldn't hit much traffic at this hour."
Mulder gazes out through the window. "You want to come up...have a cup of coffee before you hit the road?"
Krycek's mouth opens, and he darts a quick glance at Mulder. He doesn't answer, but as Mulder gets out of the car and heads toward the apartment building, Krycek gets out too and follows him. Both walk cautiously, looking around, as always. Sizing the situation up. They are very quiet, almost formal, as Mulder unlocks the door and ushers Krycek inside.
I've never invited him into my apartment before. He got in on his own volition once, of course. Maybe more than once. That was just the time I caught him.
That was the time he kissed me.
Nothing like that is going to happen this time. This isn't a date or anything like that; I'm a lawman and he's my informant. He's a felon. Ex-felon. Violent ex-felon. Anyway, my invitation was just for a cup of coffee. After all, his blood alcohol has to be near the legal limit. What kind of lawman would I be if I didn't get him off the streets?
I'm not thinking about that kiss, the way his mouth felt against the corner of mine, the way he looked at me that night. I'm not thinking about how I felt—stunned, bewildered—and okay, maybe a little frustrated.
I have no idea why he did it, and I've never asked. Probably some kind of Russian custom, or his latest version of a mind-fuck. I don't kid myself that it was anything more than that. I've been burned too many times.
He's not saying anything; just looking around. What, he didn't get a good enough look when he broke in?
Right there, on the floor, is where he kissed me.
The kiss meant nothing. Just like this means nothing.
It's just coffee.
Krycek stands stiffly in Mulder's foyer, taking the place in. Mulder tosses the day's mail onto his desk, along with his keys. He takes off his overcoat and hangs it on the coat rack, then motions for Krycek to do the same.
Krycek's eye is caught by the bulletin board next to Mulder's desk. Mulder follows the direction of his gaze. Tacked up there is a napkin with a place and time written on it in Krycek's distinctive handwriting, from a dinner a couple of months ago, arranging their next meeting. The meeting has come and gone, but Mulder has not thrown the napkin away.
Mulder turns and heads off for the kitchen. Krycek shrugs his jacket off and hangs it up. Running a hand over the back of his hair, he follows Mulder.
"Should I make coffee?" Mulder says. Pulling the refrigerator open, he studies the contents. "Or you want a coke or something?"
Krycek clears his throat. "Coke is fine."
Mulder opens two cokes and leads the way into the living room. In front of the fish tank Krycek stops, watching the fish dart lazily about. Mulder opens the top of the tank and taps in a few flakes of fish food, causing the fish to rush to the top in a frenzy. The two men stand together, seemingly engrossed in the sight.
Krycek taps the glass near an aggressive fish with iridescent blue and black stripes. "Cool fish. What's he, king of the tank?"
"Yeah. He's the top fish. They get that bright color from dominating all the others." Mulder turns his head to look at Krycek. "Hey, what color green are your eyes?" he asks suddenly.
Krycek looks at him quizzically.
"I'm serious," Mulder says. His own eyes are heavy-lidded from the sake. He leans against the bookcase. "Emerald green? Olive green? The green green grass of —"
"I have no idea. I don't look at my own eyes."
For some reason this strikes them both as funny. Still laughing, Mulder moves a little closer, gazing into Krycek's eyes. Whatever shade of green they may be, they are certainly quite striking eyes.
"Mulder, I don't want to talk about my eyes."
"No?"
"Hell, no."
He asked for this.
Standing so close, making all those remarks about my eyes...those pouty lips just inches from mine...what else could I do but grab the back of his neck and kiss him. Hard.
Cracking a safe, there's that moment when you hear all the tumblers click into place, and then the door swings open. I don't know why I'm thinking of that now. It's not because he kissed me back, instead of punching me in the face like I half-expected him to. It's not because the door is swinging open and everything I've ever wanted is inside.
And if I'm standing here feeling like a bunker full of explosives that's going to blow this place sky-high if we don't move into the bedroom right now, it's not the way he's pressing up against me, not the way he smells. It's just that it's been too long and I need this.
Why I haven't needed it in all these months, why I've felt impassive and practically numb, well, I've been busy. Not to mention the goddamn nightmare that was my encounter with that bitch Marita. After that I swore I'd never get involved with anyone else who was even remotely connected with any of this. If you can call fucking twice being "involved." Well, it's about as involved as I ever get with anyone, anyway.
If—okay, when—I fantasized about this, I thought he'd be rough. I thought he'd be selfish. I thought it would be over very quickly, leaving me with a few new bruises and memories to nurse.
Somehow we make our way toward the bedroom and he pushes me up against the door to remove my shirt. He's sucking my neck and the part of my mind that's still rational is amazed by the sounds I'm making.
He gets to the prosthetic harness and runs his fingers over it, like he's hunting for the clasp. I can feel myself getting tense. Unwanted memories are crowding in: the feel of hands holding me down; Marita turning away with a faint fastidious grimace of distaste. The vampirish way she stared at my scars.
He's still fumbling with it, and suddenly I've had enough. I can't do this. I'm just about to push him away, grab my jacket and get out of there when he short-circuits the whole thing by leaning in and kissing me again. And again. He's got one arm wrapped around my waist and the other roaming across my bare chest, until not only have I forgotten about leaving, I can't even remember my address.
"Maybe you should do this," he says when he releases me, fingering the harness. "I'm a little drunk." His voice is matter-of-fact. I reach for the clasp and, even though I've done this hundreds of times, I'm struggling with it now myself. Thankfully, he doesn't try to help me, just turns and begins unbuttoning his shirt.
I've seen him unclothed before, in the locker room at the pool, but I always had to pretend I wasn't staring. Now I can look. The bedroom light is off but he left a light on in the kitchen and I can see everything well enough. He's stunning, even more so than I remembered.
He gets me onto the bed in a smooth move that makes me doubt all those rumors of his celibacy. Then his hands and his mouth are on me and, all too soon, I'm terrifyingly close to losing control completely.
"Mulder," I gasp out, "wait. Stop."
He pulls himself up to lie next to me. My heart is pounding like a racehorse in the stretch. He puts his hand on my chest. In the darkness of his bedroom, he looks at me and I look at him.
"What do you want, Alex?" he says, like he really cares to know. The gentleness in his tone is my undoing. A tide of emotion sweeps me; I can feel my face working and I swallow hard a couple of times, fighting to get myself together.
"Just talk to me," I whisper. And he does.
There's a moment, sometimes, when you're working a case and it's making you crazy, and you find the piece that fits and it all falls into place and you think: oh yes.
There's a point, sometimes, when you're running, swimming, skiing, when everything else falls away and you're completely in the moment, the motion and the rhythm and the feel of it against your skin.
There was a night, one time, when I went running on a beach in Maine. I remember the steady crashing of the waves, the cool yielding sand under my feet, the millions of stars filling the blackness overhead. I remember kneeling in the sand, winded, barely able to see my own hands and legs. Looking up, I felt like the world was dissolving, like I was dissolving, into that huge night and every smallest part of it.
I'm telling him all this. I can feel him quivering under my touch, his chest rising and falling, and we're just looking into one another's eyes and he's nodding like he understands. I'm telling him who I am and he already knows.
His mouth closes over mine again and I'm completely lost.
And I can't say why.
Morning in Alexandria brings at first a pale purple dawn, and then a slow, steady brightening: a crisp, clear day with the first hints of spring. Budding crocuses and snowdrops are peeking through the earth, birds are sending out ecstatic bursts of song, and lovers all over the city are falling into each others' arms in tender bliss.
All this is lost on Mulder and Krycek, who lie like coiled snakes on opposite sides of the bed, staring at each other in horror and deep suspicion. Mulder's expression upon seeing Krycek in his bed is that of a man who's been punched in the gut hard enough to take his breath away.
"Shit," he mumbles. Rolling onto his back, he presses both hands over his face, as if to block out the sight.
Why didn't I leave when I had the chance? He fell asleep before I did, and I lay there thinking, get up, dumbass, and get the hell out while you still can. I didn't think I would sleep; I usually don't in a strange bed.
It wasn't because I waited a long time for this and couldn't stand to see it end so quickly. It wasn't that I wanted to lie there for just a little while longer remembering the night and the feel of him and the taste of his skin and the amazing things he did with his mouth. And how he wrapped himself around me on the bed and we lay there kissing and God it's been such a long time since I've kissed anyone like that.
I was just tired, and still pretty drunk, and it's a long drive back to my apartment. And it was cold outside, and damp, that fucking D. C. fog that gets all the way into your bones. Plus, the damn prosthetic. It's either go through the hassle of strapping it on, just to go through the hassle of taking it off again in an hour, or try to slip out of the building hoping no one notices I'm carrying an arm under my...arm. I didn't think I would sleep. Certainly not the whole night. I figured I'd lay there for a little while, sober up, and then take off.
Why do I get so stupid around him? So stupid. Why did I leave cigarette butts in my car? Was I somehow hoping he'd find them and understand that I didn't want to do that to him, betray him like that, but that cigarette-smoking fucker had me by the balls? What made me go back to his apartment building, after Bill Mulder was taken out? His father was dead and he was drugged. On my conscience, yes, but they would have put a bullet in both of us if I hadn't done what I did. I just had to go there and see him, be with him in some way. So I went back there and ended up with his gun to my head and Scully's bullet in him. Stupid.
So stupid. Why did I let him shove me up against the phones in Hong Kong and drag me off with him to that men's room, instead of knocking him on his ass and walking away? He wouldn't have dared to fire that gun in the crowded Hong Kong airport; he knew as well as I did that that little stunt would've cost him his badge and probably a good long stint in a Hong Kong prison. What made me follow him into Tunguska? He didn't force me. After he crawled under that fence, he turned and looked at me for a moment. Giving me my freedom if I wanted it; giving me a choice. I knew how dangerous it was, had a pretty good idea of what was there. Why couldn't I just let him walk in there alone?
Why am I here now, still in his bed? What have I done?
So fucking stupid.
Last night...he was sleeping, sprawled on his back with a hand thrown casually across his chest. His face was turned toward me and he was smiling a little.
It wasn't because I wanted to watch him sleep.
Mulder slowly lifts his hands from his face. Like a man steeling himself to receive a blow—or give one—he turns his head to Krycek.
But Alex doesn't look like a man who has scored an advantage. He looks tense, uncomfortable, and almost—afraid. He's sitting rather awkwardly, crouched is the word that comes to Mulder's mind. To hide the sight of his arm? They left the lights off last night, and Mulder can't remember how or when they removed the prosthetic. He wasn't bothered by it, but he can see where Krycek might feel self-conscious.
Or is Alex trying to conceal the fact that he, like Mulder, is getting aroused again?
Mulder reaches for his boxers and pulls them on, the action giving him time to collect himself somewhat. Krycek sits up a bit, his eyes traveling to the clothes scattered about the room, as though taking inventory. Mulder's expensive shirt and silk tie are carelessly crumpled on the floor near the bed, next to Krycek's well-worn sweater. The prosthetic arm lies on a chair, partially covered by jeans, so that only the hand, remarkably lifelike, peeks out. It reminds Mulder of one of those old horror movies—'The Thing With Five Fingers." The incongruity of it almost makes him want to laugh, but he keeps that impulse in check, knowing it would be the very worst thing he could do at this moment.
Krycek hasn't moved. He sits with the covers pulled up to his chest, not looking at Mulder. His gun is over on the chair with his arm. He is vulnerable in that moment, this being Mulder's home.
Reaching out, Mulder brushes his hand over Alex's shoulder. There is unexpected compassion in his voice as he says, "I'm going to make some coffee, Alex. You...do whatever you need to do."
My fingers are tingling where I touched him, but that's just a physiological response. My nipples are tingling, too, and the blood is rushing to some other parts of my body, but that's hardly noteworthy. Guys wake up horny in the morning. They do.
And that's all last night was: two guys who had way too much to drink and were horny and needed to blow off some steam. It's been scientifically—well, anecdotally—proven. Get a guy drunk enough and he'll sleep with anyone. These things happen.
Last night was an aberration, a monumentally foolish glitch. Any port in a storm, and all that.
I didn't expect him to kiss me like that.
I didn't expect him to touch me like that.
I didn't expect him to make that sound: a low, deep growling that seemed to come from deep inside, and built, and built, until he was screaming into my pillow.
"Ahh, God, Mulder," he whispered. It sounded like a sob. His lips were parted and I leaned down and kissed him again and we went on kissing, until we lost track of time and everything around us.
I didn't expect him to look that way this morning. I was ready for his usual calculating, conniving smirk, and ready to knock it right out of him. But it caught me off guard, seeing the expression on his face, the way he was sitting. Morning-after regrets? Or a more personal self-consciousness? I wanted tell him it didn't matter, that his body looked fine to me, more than fine in fact. But I didn't know how to say it. Or any of the other things I was feeling. Not even to myself. For once, I was at a loss for words.
These things happen.
Mulder makes coffee. Opening the cabinet to pull out a couple of mugs, he spies a can of gourmet maple-pecan pancake mix that Scully brought him when she went skiing in Vermont last winter. He's never opened it; it always seemed like too much trouble for a meal he deemed unimportant. Until now.
Krycek comes into the kitchen with his usual swagger, but there's something else there as well, something Mulder has never seen before: an uncertainty. He has seen Krycek tense, nervous, even frantic to the point of panic, but never unsure of himself like this. Alex is dressed in jeans and shirt, but Mulder notices he is barefoot and has not put the prosthetic arm back on. He can't discern the outline of Alex's gun, either.
Mulder pours a mug of coffee and extends it. Alex takes it wordlessly. They sip the coffee in awkward silence, not meeting each other's eyes. Alex stands slightly turned away from Mulder, not quite close enough to touch.
Alex casts his eyes around the kitchen stopping at the tin of pancake mix on the counter. Mulder follows the direction of his gaze. He takes the plunge.
"You hungry, Alex?"
Alex looks momentarily nonplussed. "Aah...you cook, Mulder?"
Mulder shrugs. "When I need to." As if aware that might not sound terribly hospitable, he amends quickly, "When I feel like it."
Alex, who rarely cooks—it's never been a task he likes, and doubly difficult now with the loss of his arm—raises an eyebrow in appreciation.
Their eyes meet, quickly turn away, return and hold. Searching each others' faces, they find the identical mix of emotions there: a combination of Christ, what the fuck have we done? and Are we going to do it again?
Alex steps forward, moving closer to Mulder to set the coffee cup down. Picking up the tin of pancake mix, he studies it for a few moments before meeting Mulder's eyes again. A splash of sunlight from the window falls across his face, glinting off his hair and turning his eyes to clear deep pools.
It's not red and green to Mulder. But it's not all black and white anymore either.
Am I hungry?
Have I been hungry for a long, long time?
The first time I saw one of Them, it knocked the ground out from under me. Like a new and horrible dimension had opened up in my perception of the world. This is the flip side of that. Through the looking glass, but in a good way this time.
He's standing against the counter in his boxers, looking very relaxed. The sun makes his hair a burnished gold color, and there's a faint red mark above one nipple that I guess I put there last night. He cooks, too, who knew?
I'm not imagining that he's offering anything but a plate of pancakes. I'm not looking for anything more. I'd be out of here already, really, except it's not good to drink coffee on an empty stomach.
Leaning to set the pancake tin down on the counter, I brush against his arm. His eyes flick down to where our arms are touching and I tense automatically, still half-expecting him to punch me.
Instead, he reaches out, cups my chin in his hand and kisses me warmly on the lips.
That must have been some damn strong sake last night, because I'm suddenly feeling like I'm about to pass out. And some damn strong coffee this morning, because I'm shaking all over. And some damn strong sunlight making my eyes sting like this.
His hands slide down to my waist and rest there lightly, as if he's giving me the choice of whether to back away or move forward.
And when I step closer and lay my head on his shoulder I'm not thinking that I could stay there forever.
It's just breakfast.
