TITLE: Bentropy Ten
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K/? This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind, or perhaps lend one to Krycek.
SUMMARY: Entropy - chaos. Bent - not straight. 'nuff said.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is after everything, the season in the shower notwithstanding.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use...unless you count cheap thrills. Other characters belong to me...or someone else but they left them at my house so I'm playing with them.
Author's notes: I happen to think I have a great beta. I happen to think everyone knows who my great beta is. But I am dreadful about giving her credit for all her hard work. Shame on me. Thank you, Susan...the greatest beta in all betadom.
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Bentropy Ten
by Mik
"No."
I glanced at my watch again. Nine fifteen. I looked up at the Hollyesque bartender. He looked as if I was harassing him, just because I'd asked him four times in forty-five minutes if anyone had asked for me. I looked up and down the bar. No sign of a friendly face, or even a nonharassed one. "Where's Mich?"
He glared at me.
I glared back. I was in a mood to glare. Glaring kept me upright after Skinner practically knocked me flat, kissing me in public and all but vowing eternal devotion. If I didn't adopt a pissed off pose, I might just melt.
He slammed two Coronas on the bar. "She's upstairs."
My glare faded. I eyed the bottles quizzically and then reached back for my wallet. It was either extortion or a bribe.
Bribery. He waved me off, not even looking at me.
I reached for the two beers and someone slid a twenty under them. "Keep them coming."
Skinner was beside me, shoving his wallet in his hip pocket, his eyes scanning the dance floor, the doorways, the tables, missing no one and no thing. "He'll be here, Mulder," he murmured. "Come on, let me buy you a drink." He turned back to the bartender. "We'll be over there," he informed him.
Buddy Holly Boy didn't even nod in acknowledgement. He just moved down the bar as if happy to get away from me.
I let Skinner lead me to the booths on the opposite side of the dance floor. Once seated, he pushed one of the beers at me and saluted me with the other.
I took one long drag, trying to get my bearings. I was back in that place where I always felt out of my element. I swore I'd quit this place for good eight years ago. And yet, here I was. And here I was with someone who should have seemed so familiar to me yet appeared so foreign in his well fitting jeans and tight but not obscenely so black cotton tee, buying me beers and vowing devotion. I took another drink and glanced at my watch in distraction. "Maybe Mich has heard from him. I'll go -"
"Sit."
Now that sounded like the Skinner I knew. I stayed seated.
"He'll be here," he repeated, in a tone that implied that he had all arranged, and anything less would be unacceptable. That really sounded like the Skinner I knew. "Now, why don't you tell me how all this came about?"
"All what?" I hedged.
He made a face. "Coming to be in this place." He touched the tabletop and encountered condensation that had dripped from one of the bottles. He considered his fingertips in distaste, and glanced around for a napkin. Finding none, he worked an absolutely spotless handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his fingers. "Something happened here eight years ago. Tell me about it."
I shrugged. "You read the file. There was a serial ki -"
"Not the case," he broke in, shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket. "As you said, I have all the pertinent details." He looked at me in such a way as to imply I might have held something back. "What happened to you? That's what I want to know."
That's what I was afraid he wanted to know. I fumbled for a way out of telling him. "You don't really want -"
"Yes." That same Skinnerista voice. He softened it to add, "Yes, I do." He softened it even more to say, "It did start here, didn't it?"
I thought back to a hot late summer night, years ago. "Pretty much, yeah. You sent him out here to partner me after I got involved in that vampire case."
I could see him struggle not to say 'there are no such things as vampires.' What he did say was, "Yes, I remember."
"And you let us get volunteered to the local PD." I waited for him to look apologetic about that. He did not. I sighed. It was evident I wasn't going to get out of this. "We got assigned to a serial murder case. It didn't take long to figure out the common link among the victims was this place." I tapped the tabletop as he had done, but didn't react to the water on my fingers. "So, we went undercover."
He waited.
I shrugged. He didn't ask the question I would have asked. "We arrived separately. I let him pick me up."
He arched a brow.
I shrugged again, trying not to be defensive. "It was an excuse to go back to the bathrooms, since that was the last time any of the vics were seen." The jolt of that memory rushing back in full clarity made me go hot all over. I would have rather renounced the existence of alien intelligence, at that moment, than tell him what happened next.
I was not going to have that option. His eyes on me were relentless. "We followed the plan." I stopped again. How was I supposed to explain losing control in the stall of a public toilet? Not just losing control, but losing one more victim to a madman we were supposed to be watching out for. "We....um..." I reached for my beer, feeling myself starting to sweat. "We went back to the bathroom...and there..." I took half the bottle in a couple of swallows. "There...was...uh...a lot of...activity there."
It should have been comforting that he seemed as embarrassed as I felt. He dug his nails into the label of the bottle in his hands, unaware that he was scratching and peeling the paper away. I could see by the tightness around his mouth that he was forcing himself not to look away from my face. "What sort of activity?"
I think I blushed. "S-sexual activity." Why do I always stammer that word? "Couples ... and groups."
He let his gaze escape momentarily, letting it swing over the crowded dance floor, and letting me breathe. "And you? What did you do?"
Damn it, if he was going to be so clinical, then so would I. I took another sip and shifted in my seat. "We couldn't simply stand around and watch so we retreated to an available stall." Now it was my turn to make myself meet his eyes without squirming. "Krycek suggested that we take a position to suggest that we were also engaging in sexual activity, so as not to rouse any suspicions." As if anyone in that room that night had even been aware of us or any other couple there.
He was twisting the label off the bottle in shreds. "What position was that?"
I stared at him challengingly. Then I gave up. "He dropped trou and bent over."
The color swept up from his collar like mercury rising. "I see."
But I wasn't going to let him go that easily. Not after he'd forced me this far. "But I didn't do anything."
He looked perplexed, perhaps even marginally disappointed. "But I thought -" he checked himself. "Then what happened?"
"He got impatient with me because I wasn't sure how to respond in that situation, so ..." I paused for one last sip, deliberately withholding the information he wanted most just a fraction of a moment longer, "... he turned around, unfastened my fly and started giving me head." And I was hard again, just remembering.
His bottle rattled dangerously on the wooden tabletop. "And because of this activity, you lost your focus, and allowed a killer to take another victim."
I lowered my eyes. So long erection. He didn't yell the words, he didn't even say them cruelly, but they still cut deep. "Yes, Sir." I had nothing more to add so I sat still, watching my fingers grip the beer bottle, and listening to the relentless thumping of the music and trying so damned hard not to think about it.
Suddenly he slapped his palms on the table, and slid from the booth. "Show me," he commanded.
I lifted my incredulous gaze to him. He was holding out one hand. "Show me," he repeated imperiously.
I couldn't think of an argument fast enough. I sent an almost desperate look across the room to the bar, but if Buddy Holly could see me, he wasn't trying to. Or maybe he was trying not to. Mich was still, presumably, upstairs. No sign of Peyton. No other options. I slid from the booth, avoiding his hand.
Standing there, nose to nose, as a new song started, I thought of one more dodge. "Want to dance?"
His eyes never left mine, but he shook his head slowly. "Later."
"Okay. Later." I made a faint gesture toward the throng. "This way."
If I ever design a bar, gay or otherwise, I will make the dance floor far away from every other necessary part of the facility as possible, so that that no one is required to cross through a mass of vertical, writhing worms, with hands, reaching to pet, invite or cajole, when all one wants is another beer, or the bathroom, or the nearest escape route. I didn't look back to see how Skinner was handling it, but I was brushing people off with the same ruthlessness as an explorer in the jungle, machete in hand.
At the end of the bar, I made a full stop and turned, very deliberately, waiting 'til the bartender was forced to make eye contact. He did and gave his head a sharp shake, quite different from Skinner's denial a few minutes before, but with the same irritated meaning. I turned a degree more, and saw Skinner emerge from the foliage of arms and legs and bobbing heads. "This way," I repeated.
He followed. We both stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up, but the door to that second floor room remained closed and unwelcoming. Reluctantly, I turned toward the black door against the black wall, of the black corridor. "Here."
He stood in front of the door with me. We looked at each other perhaps thirty seconds. Then he put a hand against the door and pushed.
It swung open without resistance and the smell of disinfectant and cum hit us both hard. He actually flinched at it.
A couple of very young men were kissing against the wall under the window. Skinner and I both resisted an urge to break them apart, card them, and send them home. We actually smiled at each other when we realized what we were both thinking.
Skinner moved all the way into the room, and looked around. The bank of urinals, the condom dispenser, the sink, the three stalls. He looked back at me.
I motioned toward the middle stall.
He opened it wide and looked in. The expression on his face was almost as if he was looking at ghosts.
I wasn't. I was feeling them.
The door from the hallway opened. We could hear a grunt of impatience. Skinner looked at me, back at the door, grabbed the collar of my shirt and dragged me inside the stall, pushing the door to, and slamming the surprisingly sturdy lock in place.
And there we were, once again nose-to-nose. This time our noses were much closer. He was looking at me as if he expected me to sprout horns, or wings, or simply disappear. "Well," I muttered lamely, "alone at last."
He wasn't touching me. Not with his hands, they hung limply at his sides. But he was so close that the heat of his body was caressing mine. He was breathing...well, not hard, but measured, and careful, as if he was trying to breathe normally. His eyes were on me expectantly. He said nothing.
We could hear the two couples exchange a little knowing laughter, and the door to the stall next to us slammed open and the lock rattled as four hands scrambled to shut it and push the bolt into place.
Almost at once there was the sound of clothing being rearranged, and the metal wall that kept us from them, groaned as it was forced to support the weight of two men in heat. I thought that would make him blush and look at the plumbing or something, but no. He continued to stare at me, that his eyes widened slightly was the only thing to give away that he knew what was happening in the stall behind me.
When they started to moan at each other, I couldn't stand it anymore and reached for the latch, intent on leaving. He stilled my hand, his eyes still holding mine. "Then what happened?" he asked softly.
I was about to sprout something, but it wasn't wings. I licked my lips, wishing I had the strength to stop looking at him, wishing I couldn't hear the noise of anonymous sex behind me. I pulled my hand from his. "He...ah..." I let my tongue slide over my mouth again. "He turned around and undid his ... pants."
Skinner put his hands on my shoulders, twisting one, pushing the other. He was forcing me around.
I started shaking my head, and murmuring, "No. Oh, nononono," even as he got me turned around. His hands slid around my waist, fingers searching for the buttons of my fly. I put my hands on his wrists. "No."
He had my jeans open in a jerk, and began pushing them downward, slapping my hand away when I tried to cover myself.
"Skinnnnner," I hissed, clenching my thighs together so he couldn't push my jeans all the way down. "No."
"Hush," he commanded softly. While holding my jeans down with one hand, he began to stroke the exposed curve of my ass with the other. "Did you do this to him?" he asked, his breath hot in my ear.
I was shaking. Part fear, part ... something I didn't even want to name to myself. "No," I said as sharply as I could. "No. I didn't."
His mouth was on the back of my neck, his fingers straying dangerously close to no man's land. "What did you do?"
I jerked away from him so hard I slammed against the metal wall. We heard the couple of the other side mumble, "What the fuck?" and "Take it easy, man."
I twisted around, trying to pull my jeans up at the same time. "I didn't do anything," I said, not caring who heard me. "Nothing."
His eyes. Back in mine. Fixed and heated. Scaring me a little. Staying on me even as he began to slowly descend to his knees. Reaching for my jeans and spreading the fly open. He worked my cock free, and flicked his tongue over the head. "Is this what he did?" he asked, still looking up at me.
"Ohhh, fuck," I moaned. "Skinnnnnner. Please..." Please don't take my memory away. Please. Don't...oh, don't. My head fell back against the wall. I couldn't hear anything anymore. I couldn't see anything, smell anything. All my senses had melded into my balls. I couldn't do anything but lean against the wall in a public toilet, feeling that first and last precious memory slide out of my fingers and into oblivion.
His big hands wrapped around my hips and pulled me into his mouth. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get away. I wanted to stay and fuck his mouth, punish him for what he was doing to me. I wanted to come. I let him guide me in and out.
It was all there, all real ... even the ghost of Krycek's tongue playing me toward madness. The sounds came rushing back...groans and sucking and grunts and fucking ... tires on the pavement outside, steps on the stairs, doors swinging open and closed...screams.
Screams. I opened my eyes. I looked down. It wasn't Krycek, it was Skinner. And he wasn't moving. He was looking at me.
Outside there was that scream again. "Oh, my God, someone's been murdered out here!"
He banged his head against mine as he shot to his feet. We both burst out of the stall, scrambling for concealed weapons, even as I was trying to conceal something of mine. I was still seeing stars from the contact when we pushed the outer door open and shoved and pushed our way through the gathering crowd.
The alley. I hate that fucking alley. There was a body. Bloodied. Still. Familiar. Shit. "Call 911," I shouted, dropping to my knees. "Someone call 911."
Skinner was coming down to his knees beside me. "Mulder, don't touch him."
"It's Peyton," I told him, feeling tears sting. I told myself it was only because Skinner had smacked me in the head. "Oh, God, Peyton." I brushed blood soaked hair back from his pale face. "Who did this to you?"
He made a little sound under my touch. He was alive.
"Peyton? Hey, it's me...Jon. What happened?"
He didn't respond.
I looked up at the gawking crowd. "Did somebody call 911?" I demanded. I looked at Skinner who had snapped into AD mode so completely, no one could ever guess five minutes before he'd been sucking me off in the men's room. "Did you call 911?" I persisted.
"Easy, Agent," he was murmuring. "Don't touch the body."
"It's not a body," I insisted hotly. "It's Peyton. Did you call someone?"
"They're on their way," he assured me, forcing my hands away from the body between us. "You know better than to contaminate evidence." He swung his attention to the crowd. "Did anyone see anything?"
Michele was forcing her way through the throng. "Go on," she was snapping as she came through. "Go back inside. Everyone. Now."
I looked up at her. She had her baseball bat in one hand, mobile in the other. Just like old times. "Don't you aim that thing at me," I warned, pointing toward the bat she held. "I had nothing to do with this."
She was looking down on him with such pain in her eyes I realized something I had missed before. She had feelings for this kid. And not of a maternal nature. "You were asking for him," she stated flatly.
"Of course I was asking for him. I was supposed to meet him..." I finally thought to look at my watch. "Two hours ago."
"You suddenly disappeared," she added. I had a weird feeling she thought it was possible I could have done this. Then I realized she was looking at Skinner. I would have laughed if I wasn't in so much pain.
Skinner missed the speculation in her voice. "We were looking at..." he looked at me, "...evidence." Holy shit ... he was embarrassed. I wished I could laugh.
Peyton groaned softly. And then clutched at his middle, in an obvious spasm of pain. "Easy," I whispered, hunching over him protectively. "Easy, Peyton. Help's on the way. You're going to be okay. I promise."
Almost as if I'd magically summoned them, the lights of the paramedics splashed into and filled the alleyway. And directly behind them, police cars.
Skinner stood and went to identify himself. And suddenly we had a crime scene. Yellow tape went up faster than a prom queen's skirt. Mich and I stayed within the tape, hovering over the battered body, neither of us leaving him 'til that moment when he was lifted into the back of the ambulance and the doors were shut behind him. I had wanted to go with him. So had Mich. But neither of us was allowed inside. And the police made us move out of the alley.
Then there were just three of us standing in darkness again. "I should go..." I started.
"No, I will," Mich said, as if there was no argument.
I looked at Skinner. "Did they say where they were taking him?"
"UCLA Medical Center," Mich interjected. "It's the closest thing we have to a trauma center around here." She gestured vaguely with the bat.
I patted my pockets for keys. "I'm going."
"There are witnesses to interrogate," Skinner protested, gesturing not so vaguely at the back door of the bar.
"There are police officers here for that," I countered, pulling the keys out.
"We were officers on the scene," he argued. "We have an obligation -"
"Fine. You interrogate them," I countered impatiently. "I'm retired, remember?" I turned to Mich. "Wanna go with me?"
"Yes, I do." She looked at the bat as if she was surprised she was still holding it. "Let me drop this off and tell Jason I'm leaving."
"I'll bring my car out front," I offered.
Skinner tried to stop me once more. Now that we were alone again, he looked worried. "About what happened..."
I brushed him off. "Forget about it. Look, I've got to get to that kid. He came down here tonight because of me. I owe it to him not to let him wake up in the hospital alone." I moved toward the car. "I don't know how long it will take. Catch a cab back to the hotel."
He caught my arm one more time. "You were supposed to meet someone else at eleven o'clock, remember?"
I looked to the back door. I looked at my watch. I looked back eight years to the horrible choice I had to make when I thought Scully was dying. "Shit," I said with feeling. "Shit."
"You have to be here," he insisted.
I looked at the alley. The yellow tape still fluttering in an almost nonexistent summer breeze. "Shit." I touched his hand. "I have to go." It hurt to say that. "I have to."
- END Ten -