TITLE: Green in the Blackness

NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. Not suitable for children, Baptists or Republicans.

SUMMARY: When you didn't see what they thought you saw and couldn't have seen what you thought you saw.

ARCHIVE: This story belongs to Susan.

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: None.

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 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I personally think Chris Carter, et al, should just give them to me, since they're not using them anymore, and anyway, I treat them much, much better, but there you are.

Author's notes: This story is for Susan who contributed to the Katrina Disaster Relief Fund not only with money but with her time and patience while I wrote stories for everyone else who contributed. Thank you.

Green in the Blackness, by Mik

I don't know why I've always hated the dark. It's not that I'm afraid of it, I just don't like it. Darkness is where things hide; truth, for instance, is often hidden in darkness. Evil can be found there, as well. There's a certain level of helplessness in darkness and, as familiar as I am with the feeling of being helpless, I don't like it. Not one bit.

I don't like the connotations of darkness, to be 'in the dark' means you don't know what's going on. 'Going to the dark side' is pop cultures for giving up good for evil. 'The dark one' is a Christian reference to the devil, and we all know who 'the dark lord' is, else we've been sitting in a cave the last ten years...in the dark.

Yet, as much as I hate being in the dark, I find myself in it far too often. I don't plan on it, I don't look forward to being there, I just accept it's going to happen. I'm going to be hot on someone's trail, turn a corner, and find myself in the dark. And that's usually when someone hits me on the back of the head.

That's what happened. I turned a corner and something smashed into the back of my head, and everything went dark. So, I don't know if it was an hour, a day or a month later when I tried to turn my head and a pain shot through my entire body. I groaned.

When one has been beaten up in darkness, to the point of darkness, it usually isn't wise to bring attention to yourself by groaning, but I did. I couldn't help it. To my surprise, I wasn't rewarded with a kick, another blow, or being dragged up to my less than cooperative feet. There wasn't silence, either.

"Shhh...shhh." Arms came around me. "Don't talk. Shhh."

"Wh-who are-"

A hand was pressed firmly over my mouth. Which hurt. I had a cut across my lower lip that I'm pretty certain wasn't there when I started out on this venture. "Be quiet."

I relaxed against the arms that held me still. I wasn't quite ready to fight.

"Good." The body to which the arms were presumably attached shifted nearer. "Now, listen to me." It was painful to listen. The voice was hushed to a point where it was no longer a whisper, but a rush of air through a raw opening. "They will be back any minute. You must convince them you're still unconscious. If they know you're awake, they'll start all over again."

You see? What did I tell you? I started to struggle again, but the arms tightened.

"Be still. The last two times they checked on you, they just opened the door and looked in, shined a light in your face. If you can be still when they do that you'll be all..." the whisper stopped, the arms around me fell away. "I've got to go. I'll be back."

And just like that it was not only dark, but silent again.

No, not entirely silent. I could hear water dripping somewhere nearby. Slow and anything but steady, which suggested that there was a controlled flow of water nearby...a sewer, or hoses for gardening, or something like that. There was none of the delightful stench of a treatment plant, so I decided someone was watering a lawn by hand, or washing down pavement. Must be someone's cellar or an old subway tunnel. I had heard there was an entire sub-subway system which had been abandoned decades before. I'd never been down there, but it was rumored there were entire communities of people who, being displaced in the every day world, were living and dying below it.

Of course, I was being fanciful. I could be in the back of a truck, a cargo container, someone's guest bedroom. I could be at home, on my sofa, hallucinating. But the pain felt real, the occasional drip of water seemed real, and the darkness, wherever it was, was real.

There was some scuffling somewhere in the fuzziness of what lie beyond my awareness. Footsteps, the labored breathing of someone doing something for which he was not in condition, a scraping sound, a rough voice barking something like 'heyouinthere', a light in my eyes.

Against every urge and instinct I managed not to flinch or wince. The light went away. I caught myself holding my breath. Why? Because urging and instinct told me someone was holding his breath, waiting for me to give myself away. Finally the scraping sounded again. So, I was locked inside something. I heard the footsteps move away. I relaxed. Tried to. It's hard to relax when you don't know where you are or why or for how long.

I might have passed out. Might have fallen asleep. I just know there was an unspecified lapse of time between the receding footprints and that raw whisper. "You okay?"

By now I was capable of a full sentence. "Who are you?"

"Never mind, right now. Are you okay?" The whisper got closer. I felt hands groping near my face. "Here. Can you drink this?"

"What is-" I didn't get a chance to finish that sentence because the rim of a cup was pressed against that cut on my lip. I nearly howled and tried to push the cup away, only to find that my hands were restrained behind me, something I hadn't noticed before.

"Just drink it," I was advised. "It will help."

Scotch. I'm not sure what it was supposed to help, but it went down as raw as that whisper. I choked a little and he put his hand over my mouth again. Well, I assume it was a 'he'. It might be a really big 'she', with hands like a stevedore. "Who are you?"

"Why do you focus on the unimportant things?" There was irritation in that whisper. "Do you think you can walk?"

"I don't know."

"Okay." More scotch was forced into my mouth. "I can get you out of here, but only when you're strong enough to run."

"Where are we?"

"Does it matter?" The hoarseness sounded as if it was now tinged with impatience. "Do you want to stay here? In this condition?"

I shook my head.

"Then stop asking irrelevant questions and pay attention." I heard something...I think some of that scotch was going into my rescuer now. "What matters is you have been beaten. Really worked over. You might have broken bones, I'm not sure. We've only got one chance at getting out of here, so I need to know if you're capable of running, no matter what."

It would have been so easy to say I was. It's the natural response, the testosterone speaking. But I was willing to be less than a man at that moment. "I don't know."

The whisperer didn't whisper for a moment. "Then we may need to pretend you're still unconscious one or two more times. Can you do that?"

That I could do. "Yes."

"Good." I felt the person leave. He didn't go far. A moment later, he was back, kneeling next to me. "Let's find out if walking is even feasible." Those strong hands patted down the length of my body. I groaned again. Again a hand went over my mouth. "Will you be quiet? Or do I have to gag you?"

Before I could respond, I heard something, something like fabric tearing, and something shoved into my mouth. This person was a man. No woman would sweat like that.

Again hands patted down my body. Not deliberately rough, but it still hurt. "Well, you might have some bruising, but I don't think anything's broken." For some reason, he didn't pull the gag out of my mouth. I felt him shift and move around me. "You're going to be all right."

I was turned onto my side, and blood started to flood my arms, my hands. It was like a thousand swords. I might have openly wept at that point, but sobs were cut off, and tears are, for the most part, silent. For a moment I thought I was going to be released, but I could feel the solidness of a body now, behind me, hands coming over my waist, holding me. I might have fought that but the body was warm, and that eased the pain in my arms.

"Relax. I'm going to stay with you 'til they come back, okay?" The hand was rubbing over my chest and belly lazily. Although I believe it was meant to be comforting, it was disturbing. I wanted to ask him to stop, but I couldn't force my protest past the torn shirt in my mouth. The hand went no further, certainly not moving into no man's land, as it were, but it was still unnerving to have a man caress me in that manner. Especially a nameless, faceless...even voiceless stranger like this.

"When we get out of here," that voiceless voice continued, softly, right in my ear, "I'm going to take you down an alleyway, and point you toward a busy thoroughfare. You should be able to get to the street and get into a taxi before anyone catches up to you. Do not turn around, look to see who is following you, or if you are even being followed, is that understood?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now you're acting sensibly." He stiffened. I could feel him lift his head. I could almost 'see' him listening. He jerked away from me and, at the very last moment, yanked the gag from my mouth. "Be still," he warned. And evaporated. Just like that.

It was a repeat of the last time. The heavy steps, the labored breathing, the scraping sound, the light. There was a gravel voiced comment about how long I'd been out, and was someone sure I wasn't dead, but no one actually approached me. Then a reverse process, scraping sound, labored breathing, heavy steps.

"We don't have much more time," the whisper came. Then the hands. "Next time they'll try to wake you up."

I twisted my head to one side, despite some protest in my bones. "What is going on?"

There was an impatient sigh behind me. "You saw something you weren't supposed to see. And they want to know just how much you saw."

"I didn't see anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you think they'll believe that?"

"I can't pretend to know something I don't know."

"But you can pretend not to know something you do know." The hands came around me again. "And even if you don't know anything, they'll beat it out of you. And when they do, they'll be done with you."

"Done?"

"Yes." There was a grim note now to the whisper. "And you'll be done as well."

It was no strain on my mental agility to make the leap he intended me to make. I sighed. "But I didn't see anything." It wasn't a protest so much as a testament. The water dripped onto my nose again, and without thinking, I tried to wipe it away. Of course, being shackled, I could not. "Can you..."

"I will when the time comes. Here." More burning, soothing liquid met my lips, slipped over my tongue, glided into my throat.

Tears came to my eyes again, and glided over my cheeks. "Thank you," I whispered. "When can we go?"

"Let me check something." The solid warmth of that body was gone again. It seemed to be gone longer than usual. Could I be mistaken? Could it have been a dream? An illusion? My head hurt. Could I have experienced a migraine coma hallucination? Could I simply be out of my mind? "One of them will leave for food soon. Then we'll go."

Food. I wanted to laugh. Something as mundane as food was going to be my salvation. "Go where?"

"I told you. Now, be still." The warmth was against my back again. The arms were around me, the hands were dancing over me. "Shh." Who could imagine that jagged, rough hewn whisper could be so calming. "Be still."

"Who are you?" That I know he hadn't told me.

"You ask too many questions." There was a suggestion of a chuckle in that rawness. "Just someone who is trying to help you. Don't you want to get out of here?"

I tried to turn and get a glimpse of his face, but the blackness was as resolute as it was absolute. I saw nothing. "Where are we?"

He made a huffing sound. I felt the hot air on the back of my sweat stained neck. "In a maintenance room."

Well, that didn't sound too ominous. If there was a need for maintenance, that must mean there was some legitimate enterprise taking place. I wasn't in an abandoned subway, or someone's basement. "Where?"

"In a place you need to get out of," he rasped impatiently, and shoved the rag back into my mouth. "Be still, be quiet, and wait." Again those sure, supple and soothing fingers spread over me, and this time they had no respect for the barrier that was my belt...or, where my belt should be.

The first sensation of warmth and pressure over my groin caused me to arch and scream into the stuffing in my mouth. His response was to slap my thigh, hard, dangerously close to that which I did not, do not nor ever will want slapped. "Hush. Enjoy it. This is not something I would do for just anyone."

And who said I want you doing it for me? I yelled in my mind, because my mouth was occupied, gagging on the sweat soaked fabric.

His body shifted over mine as his hand worked open my fly. I bucked and writhed and he slapped me again, this time on my right buttock. I must have been kicked or hit there before, because I howled silently at the unexpected pain.

"Going to behave now?" he breathed, working his fingers into the privacy of my crotch. "Mmm, this feels pretty."

At first I thought he was referring to my penis, shriveled and recoiling against my thigh in horror. Then I remembered the microfiber thong. Well, it makes a good line under a suit, okay?

"Oh, are we shy?" He lifted the edge of the thong and I felt cold air and his scotch hot breath at the same time.

Oh, no. No. Nononononono!

I wanted to pull away, I wanted to fight. I wanted to kick. I wanted to kill the sonofabitch. But I just lay there, taking it. The idea that some strange man had me shackled in a maintenance room while he fellated me overwhelmed any pleasure I might have felt at his obvious skill.

And skilled he was. His mouth was a well of fire, his tongue was a dragon that leapt and flew around my grudgingly appreciative member, shooting fire over my balls, drawing me in, forcing me out, loving, caressing, destroying me. I'd never felt anything like it.

I've had my share of blow jobs; reluctant girlfriends in school, disinterested prostitutes, and once, on a cold night in the everglades, a certain person who couldn't give head any better than she could sing. But this...this harsh elemental was saying more to me with his tongue than I had been able to hear with his voice.

When he realized that I wasn't going to achieve orgasm, no matter how capable he was, he pulled away from me, wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock and started to pump. "Can't stand it, can you?" The gravelly sound was sneering at me. "Can't stand the idea that you're getting hard for another man? Can't stand thinking what that makes you? What will people think of you now?" He pumped harder and, damn him, I was getting harder. "What will you think of you now?" He leaned over me, his mouth the gate of hell, his words the everlasting fire. "Come on. Find out. Give in. Give in."

He slid back down, rolling me onto my back, putting my weight back on my hands, forcing my legs apart, burying his face there.

I didn't want to. I resisted as long as I could. I thought about horrible disasters, naked nuns, little grey men, anal probes and...and...ohhhhhhnnnnooooooooyyyyyyessssss.

I thought I was going to choke to death. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't stop shaking, I couldn't stop sweating, or swearing. I heard him chuckle, and let my dick slide out of his mouth, wetly. I heard noises, familiar enough to believe he was washing down my...essence with more scotch. A moment later he tugged the cloth from my mouth and put the bottle to my lips again. I twisted away from it. My cum was on that bottle. My cum, which had been in his mouth, which had touched that bottle, and had touched me. My brain was starting to spin.

He rearranged my trousers and rolled me onto my side. "I know you want to kill me right now," he said in that maddening, soundless voice, "but if you do, then you'll never escape."

I felt the restraints at my wrists give, and my hands were free. I shifted forward, testing their strength gingerly. "Bastard," I grunted.

"How do you feel?"

It seemed monumentally inconsequential at that moment, nonetheless I stopped to do a mental inventory. "I'll live," I admitted resentfully.

I felt him laugh again. "Endorphins. Nature's miracle cure." He stood up, putting his hands on me, guiding me up. "Now I think you can run."

I searched for his in the blackness. "You mean...you did...did that to..."

"To get you on your feet? Of course. Why else? You were in no condition to get out of here, otherwise." I heard his movement somewhere beyond me and the rasping sound of something heavy and wooden moving. "Come on. Let's go."

There was a faint light in a corner and I moved toward it. Looking down I could see there was a ladder, and a shaft. I lifted my head and looked quizzically around.

"It will take us to an alley." I felt his hands pushing me. "Let's go. We don't have that much time."

The iron bars were cold, the concrete walls covered with mildew. There was an unpleasant, oppressive air around us, as if it hadn't been exposed in years. I held my breath as long as I could, descending into greyness. Finally my foot met with something firm but slick. "Careful," he whispered above me. "Ground's slippery here." He stepped down behind me, and put his hand on my shoulder. "This way."

Although I was in front of him, he guided me along a tunnel that was neither dark nor light. I could see my feet, but I couldn't see two feet in front of me. He guided me as if he were taking me on a tour of his own home. There wasn't a single missed step.

We reached a door with barred windows and a heavy metal latch. He nudged me and I lifted it cautiously, expecting it to screech out in rusty protest, but it slid back silently. I pulled the door open and felt cold, wet air. It was raining.

I stepped outside and tipped my head back. It felt so unbelievably, dammed good. "Thank you," I said, fairly close to a gush.

There was another push at my shoulder. "That way, to the right. There's a street there. Go quick. Don't look back." The door slid shut behind me.

I did look back. I couldn't help it. I didn't see much. Just the faintest shape of a face behind the dirty, barred window. A face with green eyes, staring back at me from the blackness.

I turned and I ran.

End