TITLE: Str8 Two
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: mik_dok@yahoo.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.
SUMMARY: The case in California that Chris didn't tell you about.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is right after 3.
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. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king ...

AUTHOR'S NOTES: More in the bear's birthday present. I guess it's the natural inclination to call Krycek Skippy, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago here on this very list. It used to be pretty common before ratbastard became the popular reference. Recently, I've seen someone else agreed with me, and to avoid confusion, I thought I might try something different. I tried Jif, but it didn't seem to fit. And Peter Pan was right out. So ... I'm just going to use Skippy as well.

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.

Str8 Two
by Mik

He looks miserable.

He looks gorgeous.

I could eat that lower lip for breakfast with cream cheese.

I'm hard.

I couldn't help it. I shifted awkwardly in that proverbial booth in the back in the dark, and watched my prey, a tall, dark haired man in black jeans and a grey tee shirt hover near the bar, anxiously scanning the room for me. He was so damned obvious I almost felt sorry for him. The night before I'd deliberately hung back and watched him get hit on by an assortment of characters before rescuing him. It was worth it for that one moment when he recognized me and actually looked glad to see me.

It had been a bad day for him. Last night a kid got snatched out of here, despite our efforts. And he died a horrible death. Mulder was already blaming himself for that when the kid's parents showed up and the local constabulary left it to Mulder to explain what had happened to their only son. Like typical parents they didn't believe their son could be in a place where such a thing could happen to him. They got angry. They railed on Mulder, called him names, threatened his body and his badge for suggesting such a thing. And he took it all, letting himself be the bad guy for them.

Then she wanted to see the body. Why do women do that? That so-called mother love is just masochism. Mulder tried, valiantly, to keep her from going to the morgue. But she wouldn't listen. She insisted. My God, you could hear her screams three floors up. And every one of them pierced Mulder through.

He was angry, too. Not at the mother, but at the person or persons who had made that mother scream. I'd seen him angry before, in fact, I'd been a target for his anger, so I had a feeling there was a sonofabitch out there who didn't know the wrath of Mulder was descending upon him. But until Mulder could wrap his long fingers personally around that neck, he was going to be miserable. And he was. But he was gorgeous as he suffered. There's something not quite noble about the pain that hunches his shoulders, pinches his eyes, twists up the corners of his mouth. There is something that cries out to the fates `It's my fault! Take me, instead. But let me kill the bastard who did this, first!'

After searching the bar for me, he climbed back up on a bar stool and tossed a tight smile toward the woman behind the bar. I had to laugh at how carefully he sat, back rigid, legs tight together. He wasn't advertising anything this night.

I sat watching him for a long while, my mouth watering. After losing our perp last night, I had gone back to my room, had a few good shots of Stoli, and thought about Mulder. Thought about the way he felt when he gave in and really started dancing with me. Thought about the heat of his breath on my face, and then I thought about and thought about and thought about the taste of his cock in my mouth.

I'm not usually the one on my knees. All my life the boys have gotten on their knees for me ... some even begged for the privilege. I've had a few old men down there as well. But when I really want someone ... I didn't realize until last night that I really wanted him. I didn't realize until I pulled him out on that dance floor and watched him transform from icicle to electricity that his was a body I wanted under me, that his was a mouth I wanted under mine, that he was a man I wanted as a lover.

Fox Mulder, a lover ... now there's an X-File. First time I met him, he was just an assignment to me, an overblown legend who needed to have his credibility and his ego deflated like a balloon. He was too handsome, too well groomed, too confident in his own beliefs, one of those supremely conceited people who say the sky is white no matter how much evidence has been gathered to say it is black.

Then I spent some time with him. I started admiring his steadfastness, his loyalty to his partner and to his beliefs. His confidence and sardonic wit continued to annoy me, along with his propensity to hit whenever I got into his proximity, but there was something about him; maybe it was seeing the pure, raw and unabashedly real emotions he was capable of allowing to well up and spill out. He wasn't just loyal to that redheaded bitch, he loved her in a pure, white-hot way that was so far above romantic and sexual love that it made the sky white, after all. I almost felt bad that they took her away. Almost.

And last night I danced with him, teased him, tormented him, then let that silky glans slip past my lips to taste him. And after that, I didn't want him dead, destroyed or deflated. I just wanted him.

As I watched, reflecting on these remarkable events, a beefy looking young man approached him, moved in too close. I saw Mulder flinch and try not to recoil. I felt heat flare within me. It was my space that guy was invading. I was surprised at my jealousy.

Before I lost my cool, Mulder had said something to discourage him without bloodshed, and resuming his prim little pose, he began to suck on his beer again. Naturally, my thoughts went to filling his mouth with something else. Selfishly, I was hoping that the case would stay open long enough for me to get to that point.

He was talking to the bartender. She said something that made him smile. First genuine smile I'd seen from him since we had been dancing last night. The heat rushed in again. I wanted that smile for myself. I emptied my glass in a gulp and was ready to rise up from the booth and claim him when she moved on to another customer, and his eyes came back, sweeping over the room in search of me. And to have him seeking me was enough to ease me back into my booth, and watch.

One or two others approached him. One actually put hands on him, trying to coax him to the dance floor. I was ready to intervene again, when he stood, and we all realized he towered over the man in question. Evidently it was enough to cool his ardor because he moved away rather quickly.

Then another young man approached. A twink ... a chicken ... very young, auburn haired. I saw Mulder react. And then desperately try to keep the kid engaged without giving any indication that he was going to provide what the boy was looking for. Eventually the boy caught on, though, and short of actually touching him, Mulder couldn't do anything but let him go, his gaze trailing after him anxiously.

I took pity on him then, rose and worked my way through the throng on the dance floor. I couldn't resist sliding up close to him and letting my lips brush his. "Hey, `Jon'," I teased. "Glad you made it back."

He glowered at me, tipping his head forward to whisper, "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Awww ... were you missing me?" I tried to give him the sort of smile that might intrigue him, but he was beyond intrigue. He was just angry. So, I caught the bartender's attention. "What's he drinking tonight?"

He turned and put his hand flat on the bar. "He's through drinking," he announced in a voice as flat as his hand. And he slid down from the stool.

I shrugged at her. She shook her head at me. I had a feeling she was bursting with advice for me on how to hook and reel this one, but I've always been the adventurous sort, and thought I'd try it my way first. "Good. Then you're ready to dance." I slid my arm under his and around his waist. "Come on, `Jon'. Dance with me."

"He's here," Mulder muttered at me as I guided him toward the floor. "Laughing at me. I can feel it."

"Relax, `Jon'," I murmured, turning him to face me. "I told you, we weren't made." I tugged to get him close. "We'll get him. I promise."

He moved into my arms almost automatically. The music was slow and loud and I pulled him tight to me. I could feel him checking the room, absorbing faces, filing them in that eidetic memory of his. I felt like shaking him, like insisting that he pay attention to me, but all I could do was hold him, feeling the barely contained rage of his body.

We'd danced, boardlike through two songs, and unlike last night, he was oblivious to me. As the third song began, I felt him jerk in my arms and I turned a little, to see what he was reacting to. The auburn haired kid was talking to a tall, slim man in a dark corner. "Not this time," I heard Mulder hiss. He pulled away from me. "I need some air," he announced, pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared.

I waited a moment, and followed. At least, I thought I was following. I ducked into the head and glanced around. It was doing a good business tonight; all three stalls were full, and one couple wasn't even waiting for privacy, giving each other hand jobs in a corner with such ferocity I knew one or both would have palm burn in the morning.

I backed out, glanced up and down the dark hall and then pushed out the back door. At first I didn't see him. He was sitting on the fender of a black Toyota Camry that absolutely screamed Japanese car club. He was ... smoking. In all the months I'd known him, I'd never seen him smoke, never sniffed it on his overpriced suits, never even seen him cast a longing eye at someone taking a smoke break outside in the hail and sleet and snow. It was jarring to see him now. There was something ... no. Couldn't be.

He didn't look up as I neared him. The cigarette dangled from his lips, and the smoke curled up around his crunched up eyes. The man was wound up tighter than grandma's clock. I reached out and plucked the cigarette from his lips, looking at it doubtfully.

"I'm trying to quit," he said almost mournfully. "Sometimes I can go weeks without one."

I nodded and lifted it to my mouth. It had been years since I'd had an American made cigarette. I hated the taste. But I loved putting my lips to a place his had just been.

He didn't react, but I did. I felt a jolt in my balls at the cool wet place on the filter tip. I nearly sighed.

He was glaring at the back door. "He's going to do it again. Tonight, I know it. Did you see that red haired kid? He had the face of a baby."

The door opened behind me. Impulsively I threw myself against him, winding my arms around him. I kissed him hard.

He reacted to that, all right. He went rigid and started to thrust me away but I wouldn't let go. "Hang on. Hang on. Do you want to get made now?" I demanded against his compressed lips. He gave it a full second of consideration before sliding his arms around me and tipping his head so that he could watch the door. His mouth may have been closed for business but his hands were fully operational, moving over my back firmly, and rhythmically, until his fingers worked up into my hair.

I was kissing him anyway, licking and caressing his lips and grinding my jeans against his. I'd made him hard once before, I was going to do it again. His fingertips over my scalp were making my whole body zing. Then his fingertips curled and tightened, and tugged. "Get off," he hissed. "It's just the dishwasher having a smoke."

Reluctantly, I pulled back. I couldn't let him see that he had affected me, so I lazily worked my fingers through my hair and lifted the cigarette back to my lips for one last drag.

He was ignoring me, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. He sent his eyes back toward the door and then up at me, just as I flicked the butt away. "That was quite a performance. Where did you learn all this stuff?"

I stalled for a moment ... was now the time for the truth? No, that kind of truth he couldn't handle. I gave him an enigmatic smile. "You're not the only one with a porn collection, Mulder."

He blushed. It was a dark brown color in the poor lighting behind the bar, but it suited him. Then his brows knotted up. "Wait a minute ... you have a gay porn collection?"

I shrugged. "I acquire things."

"You acquired gay porn," he said doubtfully.

"Yeah, I --" The door opened behind me just as I prepared to launch into an elaborate lie, and instead I launched myself close to him again. "Long story, Mulder." My lips were brushing against his as I spoke. "I'll tell you sometime."

His eyes were on the door, but I could tell he was more aware of my nearness this time. His breath seemed very shallow and I could swear he trembled slightly. His eyes drifted to mine for a moment. Up close they were the color of a stormy Russian sea. I was homesick in his eyes. Then he looked up at the door. "It's the woman from the bar."

"She has the hots for you, Mulder." I wasn't entirely teasing.

"She's looking at us," he whispered in almost a panic. "And she thinks I'm gay, remember?"

"You're not very believable." I slid my arms around his neck. I kissed the corner of his mouth softly. "She might think you're pretending."

His arms remained at his sides. "She seems very intelligent, and a keen observer. I wonder if she's seen anything that could help us. She's got to know there's a connection to the disappearances and this bar."

I backed away. "Do you want to question her, Mulder?"

He nodded faintly. "Someone should."

Reluctantly I started to turn. "I'll go get her."

His hand moved to my wrist. "No. Not yet." He tugged me a little closer, but his veiled glance remained on her.

I feigned a little tumble that put me right in his lap. He seemed surprised but did not remove me, so I remained there, my cheek against his neck, waiting.

We both watched her. She was watching us, but in a way that seemed to suggest she wasn't actually seeing us. Perhaps it was a skill she had acquired working there, to make patrons feel as if they were not on display. After a moment, she tucked a hand into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a box ... she tapped it against two fingers, and plucked a cigarette from the stack. She lit it, tipped her head back, letting lots of hair spill around her shoulders, and sighed. We could both feel the release and satisfaction ... it was almost sexual.

With her hands on the step rail, she looked around the parking lot again. Her eyes brushed over us without pausing. Then her gaze came back, a slow circle. She was being a keen observer, no doubt, but as if she wanted to observe something in particular. She took a drag on the cigarette and did that one hundred and eighty degree look around one more time.

I had been so intent on watching her watch us without actually looking, that for a moment, I missed Mulder's restless hands on my arms. I don't think he was consciously caressing me. I don't think he was even conscious of me sitting in his lap. His head was tipped slightly downward, as if resting against mine, but I knew his eyes were fixed on the shadows of the alley next to the door where she stood ... the last place we had seen the van last night. I had a feeling he was just waiting for her to go inside so he could take a good look at that alley.

She glanced at her watch, took one long last draw from the cigarette before dropping it and grinding it under her heel. Just as she reached for the door to go back inside, she paused, and without looking back at us, said, "Last call, boys." And she went inside.

Mulder looked at his watch, startled. "Last call?"

I nodded. "It's two a.m. in California."

He pushed me unceremoniously from his lap. "Let's see the alley."

"Mulder," I protested, staggering to keep from ending up on my butt. "The forensic boys were over that alley like white on rye."

He shot me a smirk and started for the alley, digging his pencil mag from a pocket.

My fingers itched for a gun. I had a bad feeling about the darkness. In a moment, I knew why. Maybe it's all the years I've spent in darkness, but I have eyes like a cat, and I could see there was a van sitting way back in the shadows. "'Jon'," I called and came up on him hard, swinging him around and pressing him against the outside wall of the bar. I was grinding myself against him, pulling his hands out to the side, biting into his neck, and in between nips, whispering harshly, "There's someone down there watching us."

I'll give him credit for not pushing me away and trying to run down the alley to look. He didn't even peer off into the darkness. He just whispered back, "Are you sure?"

"Light colored van, might be the same one we saw last night, but I wouldn't testify to it in court." I tugged his tee shirt free and slid my hands up his bare skin. He didn't shiver, he was too focused on what I was telling him. But I did. His skin was an unexpected surprise; firm, lean, smooth, like warm silk fitted tightly over polished wood.

Another surprise was unexpected aggression on his part. Suddenly he had his arms around me and was forcing me to turn so that we had switched places and he was against me. Granted, his crotch wasn't rubbing mine with quite the same ferocity, but there was contact. He was kissing me almost savagely as he pulled impatiently at my shirt. "Can you see anyone inside? How many?" he demanded roughly against my mouth.

It took me a moment to react to his question, my body was reacting to his assault. "I ... uh ... I can't tell. Def -- ohhhh ... definitely a driver." Smooth, Alexi. Very smooth. Why don't you just come in your jeans while you're at it?

I felt him laugh against me. "Think there's anyone in the back, Rainman?"

"Asshole," I retorted brilliantly. "Wait a minute ..." There was the sound of an engine turning over, and the sound of tires over glass and rubble. The van wasn't coming toward us. With lights still off it was backing up and out of the alley. Only when it reached the curb and settled itself out into the street could we see it was the van or one very, very similar to the one we saw last night.

He turned to me. "Did you make the plate?"

I shook my head. "No front plate."

"I thought it was a law in California to have both plates," he said, in a tone that implied it was my fault.

"Fine, when we catch the bastard, we can haul him in for a traffic violation, too," I answered hotly.

He had pulled away from me and was straightening his clothes. "Should we go after it?"

I shook my head. "We may as well go back to the hotel."

He glanced up the alley and back toward the back door. "I'm going to make sure that kid's still in there." He took a step toward the rail and halted.

I came up hard into his back. "What the ..." Over his shoulder I could see him looking uncomfortable. There was another couple on the other side of the steps, one on his knees, his face pressed against the open fly of the other. The guy on the receiving end was obviously enjoying himself, his legs splayed, his head tipped back, making sharp, short sounds of ecstasy. The one on his knees was moving like a machine, back and forth, hard and smooth and rhythmic. Mulder was staring in horrified fascination, his throat visibly constricting every time the one standing thrust his hips involuntarily. I caught Mulder's hand. "Come on, `Jon'. Let's go. Let's go inside."

Mulder flinched from my touch and reached for the rail just as the lucky guy exploded, crying out with several expletives as he pumped white stuff all over his partner's face. Blushing, Mulder grabbed the door and darted inside.

It was pleasantly cool inside after the mugginess out in the alley, and I would have been content to collect that last beer before the place shut down, but Mulder was marching through like a man on a mission ... which I suppose, he always is. The crowd had thinned down to a handful of older men who hadn't gotten lucky and a pair of drag queens complaining about some jerk who messed up their frontage on the dance floor. The woman behind the bar was managing to commiserate with them, pour coffee for one guy who needed more than coffee to get himself home, and listen to another guy lamenting that Los Angeles was the worst place to try and get laid.

I leaned up against the bar and pulled out a five. "For smokes," I called.

She moved to my end of the bar. "The machine's broken. Sorry." She paused. "What's he smoke, Skippy?"

I shrugged helplessly. I hadn't noticed the brand, so stunned was I over the idea of him having a cigarette in his mouth.

She ducked a hand into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a pack. She tapped it a couple of times and offered me one. "You're wasting your time on that one, Skippy."

"Don't I know it," I sighed, pulling the cigarette free. "Still, a man can hope, can't he?"

She laid a book of matches on the bar. "If he can't, then I'm going to quit working here," she said with a chuckle and moved back to the queens, who were now on a quest for safety pins.

I took the matches and stepped outside, assaulted by the heat, the neon glare and the noise of Sunset Boulevard. Mulder was at the corner, talking to the auburn haired boy. He had a hand on the kid's shoulder. He was trying so hard I felt sorry for him.

He stood there a long time after the kid had waved a goodbye. It was as if he thought he was going to watch until the kid was safe home in his own bed. I came up beside him, and lit the cigarette. "Here," I said, holding it to him.

He took it without thinking. "That kid's going to be next," he said, as the smoke escaped his lips.

"Intuition?"

He shook his head and offered me the cigarette as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to share a fag with me on a street corner. "He's another one of those kids looking for a `daddy'. That scares me. What drives kids to want a father figure to fuck them?"

"Wow, that's an alliteration, Dr. Freud. You tell me."

He reached for the cigarette. "I'm not Freudian. I mean ... I don't have the greatest relationship with my father, but I'm sure not looking for someone to ..." he stopped. "I'm just afraid this kid's going to find the wrong `daddy'."

"So what's the next step, Holmes?" I asked him.

He inhaled deeply and let the smoke curl out from his mouth and nostrils. It was amazingly erotic. "We keep watching until we catch him, I guess. Unless the guy moves on to another bar." He looked up and down the street. "How many of these would you say are gay bars?"

I stretched for the cigarette. I am so hard. "Oh, half, easily. And that's just Sunset ... you've got Second, Santa Monica, Westwood ... and a couple of biker bars on the coast. All within twenty minutes of here." I take one last drag and flick it away.

"We've got to catch this bastard," he said fiercely.

"Okay. Tomorrow night." I dropped an arm around his waist. "Let's go back to the hotel."

He went rigid in my embrace. "Do you have to do that?" he asked tightly.

"As long as we're standing out here on the street, yes," I answered.

"Then I'm calling a cab and getting off the street." He raised his hand and a yellow Crown Vic swung toward us. He muttered the address of the hotel and sent me a black glare as I climbed in after him and settled close to him. The driver smirked at us knowingly, and pulled out into traffic.

Mulder squirmed away from me as the car began to move. "Knock it off, will you?"

I could feel the driver watching us in the rear view mirror. I nudged Mulder.

Mulder looked up, rolled his eyes, and tried to relax into my embrace. "When this is over," he told me very softly, "I'm going to beat the shit out of you. And then I'm going to get rough."

And yet, the idea had appeal.

The cab rolled up in front of our hotel and Mulder couldn't get out fast enough, leaving me to pay the fare. The driver nodded toward my reluctant assignation. "Not very romantic, is he, that one?"

"He's just shy in public," I told him, thrusting bills into his hands. "But behind closed doors ..." I whistled.

I had to trot to catch up before Mulder had made it to his door. "Should we talk?" I asked hopefully. "Go over our plans?"

He shook his head and worked his key. "The plan is we're going to catch this son of a bitch. End of plan."

"Just like that?"

He looked back at me and his eyes were hotter than the end of a cigarette. "Just like that." He pushed the door open and paused. "And by the way, Secret Agent Man. It's white on rice, not white on rye."

I had a sinking feeling I had just been made.

- END Two -

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