TITLE: Str8 Three
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 bits of the bear's birthday (try saying that five times fast!). Thanks to Michele and THE Jason Fedorchuk for the help with the delightful beverages.
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 Three
by Mik
Oh, God ... what a day.
No day that begins looking at dead bodies can ever be any good. No day that begins with watching a mother look at the sexually mutilated body of her only child can ever be forgotten. Those screams will haunt me as persistently as the tune from Jeopardy until I get the right answer. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch with my bare hands. And before he dies, I'm going to look him in the eyes and ask him how his mother would feel if she had to see his body when I'm through with it. Bastard.
Swallowing hard, I leaned back under the steaming stream of water, trying to wash away the stench of the morgue and the grime of the city. Nothing seemed to help. I still felt dirty. My mouth tasted stale, a staleness even Crest's minty freshness couldn't brush away. The staleness of cigarettes, smog, coffee, beer and ...
I closed my eyes and there he was. Tight jeans, soft shirt, flyaway hair and molten gazes, looking like an advertisement for Calvin Klein's wet dream. He kissed me tonight, shoved his tongue down my throat and touched me like he owned me. He's damned lucky not to be in a morgue himself, or at the very least, sucking asphalt in that alley. But trapped in my shower and my memories, I couldn't make him go away. I could still see him, feel him, taste him.
I've never liked the little prick. There's always been something a bit suspect about him. His record was too clean, his manner too eager. Always asking one question too many about anything I was doing. And tonight? White on rye? Where did he learn his colloquialisms? That was a red flag ... red flag ... huh.
And how did he know so much about that special little `cafe society' we've been privy to the last couple of nights? He seemed to know all the etiquette, all the rules. Little shit danced like a pro, handled the locals like a pro, kissed like a pro ... sucked cock like ... Stop thinking about that, damn it!
I picked up that little paper wrapped square of soap like substance they give you to tease you into thinking you might be able to get a lather going and worked it savagely between my hands. I had these massive wells of anger in me and every one of them was about to blow. Scully, the Bureau, this bastard in the bar and now Krycek. God, I wanted ... I needed to hit something. Scully ... God, Scully, I need you. I need your sense of reason. I need your ability to doubt in the face of incontestable proof. I just ... need you.
I sniffed harshly and dragged my hands over my chest, and down my body. For a moment, I contemplated jerking off to ease a little of the mounting tension within me, but decided to avoid my genitals all together. I needed the tension, really. I needed it to get my mind into this bastard. If only I would stop having these alarming flashes of getting something else of mine into someone else ... someone ... unthinkable.
I came out of the bathroom, one tiny towel barely covering the essentials, the other useless piece of terry draped over my dripping head. I stumbled around, looking for clean shorts and sank down on the foot of the bed, looking at nothing, and looking for something, anything that could answer some of my questions. Think, Mulder. Why is he doing this? What is he getting out of it? What is he looking for? I tried to imagine the implements of pain he must have used gripped in my own hands ... looking for the sensations he was seeking. All I could feel was terror. I closed my eyes with a groan and sank back on the bed.
Lying there, feeling miserable and useless and alone, I could hear movement in the room next door. Movement without purpose. I could almost imagine someone pacing restlessly in there. And then I realized it was Alex Krycek's room. I tried to shut the sounds out but I couldn't. There was something compelling about the sounds. I listened, trying to imagine what he was doing. He had a bottle, there was no question. And he returned to it frequently. I think he was muttering something. There was an occasional low sound that wasn't right to be television or radio. Faint creaking of the bed. And then ...
Oh, I know that sound so well ... that `ripped up from the base of the balls' sound that means only one thing. He had been jerking off. And then he came. And it was good, judging by the prolonged grunting of a two-syllable refrain.
The bastard, I thought furiously. He spent the whole night groping me and now he's getting off to it. I now knew whom I wanted to hit. Him. But the sound had an unexpected effect on me. I was getting hard to it. I couldn't help think of him, yet again, on his knees, last night, his mouth ... he ... No. I pulled my hand away from the towel and stood up. I was not going to think about that. I wasn't going to think about him in my lap, cuddled up like a kitten and purring just as hard. Or him pressed against that wall, pressed against me, pressing ... oh, shit. I turned around and headed back to the shower, and this time turned the water to cold.
Oh, God, what a day.
*******************************************
I gave up on sleep by five. The sky was getting light. A new day ... a new chance to view a body in the morgue? I kicked back the sheets, and brought my feet to the floor. My one solid comfort was that Krycek hadn't been able to sleep either. He was pacing again. Muttering to himself again. I thought for a moment that I'd love to know what he was saying, and decided sharply I would not.
I moved through the room as quietly as I could, pulling on jeans and trainers and a long sleeved tee shirt, tucking my wallet into my hip pocket, and tried to let myself out without giving myself away. I needed some time away from my partner to think.
The air caught me by surprise ... fresh. Cool. First real oxygen I'd had since I landed here. It forced me to realize there was actually water near me. I stood there in the parking lot trying to get a map in my head. If I turned left at the driveway and kept on Lincoln, I'd hit Wilshire. Wilshire would take me all the way to the water, wouldn't it? Worth a try. I started walking.
I'd passed the P.D., tossing the building a disinterested glance. Kept walking. My head was spinning. I felt like someone had put one of those View-Master toys in my head. Click ... Scully. Smiling. Looking confident. Oh, yeah, Scully, what could you tell me about the injuries on -- click ... those smug faced LA Bureau bastards, telling me that they'd like my cooperation in this -- Click ... Sean Seals. Just enough body left to see he died in agony. Shitshitshit! Who are you, you son of a bitch? Why are you --click ... Krycek. Click ... on his knees. Click ... smiling up at me around my ... Click! Click! Click!
I didn't even realize I'd broken into a run `til I hit Wilshire Blvd. And sagged against the light pole, breathing heavy. I hated this place. I wanted to be home. Focused on finding Scully. That's why I couldn't think, I decided. I couldn't get into this bastard's head because I was still trying to find out where Scully was, and who took her, and if she was all right. I was worthless to anyone else right now.
"Buy you a cup of coffee?"
I jerked around. Krycek was behind me. "What are you doing here?" I snarled, and jabbed the button for the crossing light.
"Following you," he answered evenly. He looked at the early morning traffic. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"
"No." Across the street was a Starbucks. There's always a Starbucks across the street in this town. "Come on. Coffee's on me this morning."
We darted across Wilshire, and down the block. It seemed we were the first customers that morning. The barristas didn't even have their little green smocks in place. One looked at me blearily. "Start you a drink, sir?"
"Yeah ... uh ..." I looked at Krycek.
"Two Americanos, the biggest ones you've got," he said, muscling in front of me. "Mark `em with foam."
I grimaced. The man is just too enthusiastic for mornings.
"Four shots okay?" the kid asked, marking paper cups. "Want a pastry with that?"
Krycek was considering the case. "Yeah ... two almond croissants." He was reaching for his wallet.
I caught his hand. And let it go immediately. "On me. I said so." I pulled a Los Angeles Times out of the unopened bundle on the floor. "And this." I wanted to make it really clear to everyone that I was not here for a coffee date.
The kid gave me my change ... literally. I dropped the remains of a ten dollar bill into the tip jar and took the paper to a table against the far wall. Krycek was right behind me, two plates in his hands. "If you want to smoke, we need to sit outside," he told me.
I glanced out to the scattering of tables and chairs around the front and side of the building. "I won't smoke," I decided. I really need to give it up once and for all.
I braced myself and unfolded the paper. No new bodies were discovered by the time the Times went to bed, so that made me feel a little better.
"Two foamy Americanos," the kid hollered as he set them on the counter, even though we were the only customers in the place.
Krycek got up to get them, stopping for sugar packets and stirrers before returning to the table. "Here." He set one in front of the paper, blocking the article I was reading about the Lakers. "Thanks," I growled and moved it. "What the hell is that?"
He was smacking his lips, and there was white stuff on one of them. "Four shots of espresso, and hot water, with foamed milk on top. Nothing like it."
"That's comforting." I went back to the stats page.
He was bouncing to some kind of highly ethnic music that had just started pouring out of the walls. "Try it. It's good."
I glared again. "Are you always this energetic in the mornings? No wonder you're single." Shit, I know he got just as much sleep as I did ... which is to say no sleep.
He grinned, the cheeky bastard, and continued to bounce. When the song mercifully ended, however, he stilled and reached for his cup. "Seriously."
I looked over the paper at him. "Hmm?"
"Tonight, I think we need to make a move."
I glanced at the kid behind the counter. He was yawning broadly and scratching in such a manner that made me certain I didn't want to eat my pastry. "What kind of move?"
He shrugged. "I think we need to get this guy's attention. Before he moves on to fresh ground."
I leaned forward a little. "I wanted to ask, how do you know so much about the gay bars around here?"
He ignored me. "I think we need to have a fight tonight. Something really public."
I smiled meanly. "Best idea you've had. How `bout I kick the shit out of you on the dance floor?"
"No wonder you're single," he shot back.
"How will me breaking every bone in your miserable neck help to catch this guy, or is it just a bonus?" I asked him, reaching for my own cup and a cautious taste.
He shrugged and actually lowered his voice. "Think about it, Mulder ... you said this guy was trying to figure out why his father did what he did. What does he do when he figures it out?"
I sat back, stunned. "He tries to kill what he hates about his father that he's found in himself." I took another sip. It was strong, but not unpleasant. "He's not suicidal. If he was, he'd have succeeded before he killed someone else. So ..."
"So he moves on to kill himself in someone else." Krycek's eyes were as bright as green marbles on a sunlit sidewalk.
"Like ..."
He was nodding.
"Not bad, Krycek. I might not kill you ... today, anyway." I really was impressed. Why didn't that occur to me? Because I was so self absorbed that all I could think about was finding Scully and fucking Kry-shit. No. No way.
He was frowning at me. "What is it? Did you think of something else?"
"No." Nothing else I could tell him, anyway. I glanced at my watch and folded the paper. "I need to get back and check my email before we get down to the PD." I needed to get away from him. "You ... you go ahead and finish your coffee. I'll see you later. We'll talk about it later." I ran. I admit it. I ran out of there.
*******************************************
It had been a long, hot, frustrating, get nowhere day, and I was a wreck by the time I paid my cover charge and slipped inside the bar that night. Bois Town did a much bigger business on Friday nights. There was a live band doing an overloud cover on an old Chicago song and the dance floor was packed. It was three deep at the bar, as well. I almost thought that was a good enough reason to put it in reverse and get out, but as luck would have it, my old pal, Lola was at the far end and he waved at me. "Over here." Not that I wanted to spend the evening fending off a guy my size in heels and a padded bra, but I was grateful for a spot out of the throng.
I climbed up on the stool next to him and even managed to smile. He really didn't have the face to be a woman, I decided. The curly black wig looked very dated and he wore more make-up than ten women. I guess I felt a little sorry for him, and that made me a bit more tolerant. The other thing was that he wasn't drinking ... at least not noticeably. He had a cup and saucer on the bar in front of him, and he would take a dainty sip every few minutes. He had long red nails that clicked on the countertop impatiently. But he didn't talk to me, or touch me, or do any more than give me a polite smile now and then. Finally, I had to ask. "Why did you invite me over here? I was rude to you the other night, and it's obvious you don't like me any more than I like you."
He nodded in the direction of the bartender. "Mich asked me to hold a spot for you. She figured you'd be in." He opened a small bag and pulled out a folding mirror to pat his face and hair. He did that weird pursing thing with his lips that women do when they put lipstick on. I've even seen Scully do it. He had the movement down perfect. The whole effect was bizarre. The guy was probably a basketball coach somewhere during the day, but here he sat on a barstool in a sweater and skirt outfit that probably would look hot on a coed. "Well, my duty's done. I'm off to do battle." He adjusted his `breasts', smiled and slid off the chair. I think the fact that I was gaping amused him.
I shook my head. You're a psychologist, Mulder, I scolded myself. Stop behaving like a farmer from Ohio. I guess knowing the pathology behind cross-dressing and actually seeing it in practice are two hugely different things.
A glass slid in front of me. I considered it. It looked like someone had dumped Mylanta over a snowball and then added spritzer. I looked up and `Mich' was grinning at me. "What the hell is this?" I demanded.
Her grin broadened. "A carbonated cum bubble," she told me. "On the house."
I felt all the blood drain from my head. I pushed it away gingerly. "It's not ... it's not ... not really ..."
"No." She was laughing out loud now. "It's vodka, creme de cacao and milk, with Sprite."
An inveterate beer drinker since high school, I shuddered. "Why would someone drink that?"
She laughed harder. "So they can order a carbonated cum bubble, of course."
"Umm ... could I just have a beer, please?" I closed my eyes. Okay, Mr. Wizard, I wanna' go home.
She brought me a bottle and a glass and waved away the money. "Thanks." I took a long desperate drink. "Hey, why did you have ... um ... that ..." I gestured to my right to the cup and saucer.
"Denise," she supplied removing the dishes. "Why did I have her hold a place for you? Because I knew you'd be coming in and I had a feeling a Friday night crowd might be a little daunting for you." She put them in the bin under the bar.
I looked at her indignantly. "What do you mean by that?"
"You are as out of place here as she would be in the DAR." She lowered her voice. "What are you doing in here? You're straight, aren't you?"
I gulped. Thank God it showed. "What makes you say that?"
She laughed again. "Because I've got a homo-tracking device. It's called a uterus."
I raised a brow at her.
"It's the natural drive to meet and mate," she explained. "Only mine's slightly off kilter. If I'm attracted to a man, it's a given he's gay." She pointed a bar rag at me. "You, I'm not that crazy about."
I tipped the bottle at her in reply. "I'm very relieved."
"So what brings you in here? Curiosity? Research?"
I started uncomfortably. "Research?"
"Yeah." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "I think I've got it. You're a writer, aren't you? And you wanted to write realistically about gay life, right?" She wiped down a bit of the counter in front of me. "Listen, honey, this isn't the real gay life any more than 90210 is the real straight life. It's just color television, that's all. Most gays and lesbians live quiet, family lives, just like you and me." She laughed again, not so heartily. "Well, maybe like you."
I was working the label off the bottle with my thumb. "Should I leave my contribution at the door?"
She patted my hand. "I didn't mean to preach. I only meant ... oh, here he comes." She nodded over my shoulder.
I turned. Krycek was snaking his way through the dance floor. I'd managed to avoid him all day, even managed to drive any thoughts of him out of my mind until I was dressing to come down here, and then I actually looked in a mirror and wondered if Krycek would like the black jeans and white shirt.
"Hey, Jon," he said with an enthusiasm that didn't quite ring true. There was accusation in his eyes. He knew I'd been avoiding him. "Whatcha' drinking?" He slid up on Denise's recently vacated stool. I didn't realize I'd been subconsciously holding the spot by keeping a hand resting there.
I slid the glass toward him. "Help yourself."
Mich laughed all the harder and moved away.
"Did she have any useful information?" he asked me, lifting the glass doubtfully.
"Yeah." I timed it carefully. "How to make a carbonated cum bubble."
I waited for the spit take. It didn't come. He took another sip and scanned the dance floor. "Busy tonight. Think we'll have any luck?"
"I don't know," I sighed. The little prick was licking his lips again. "I have a bad feeling about it, though."
"Precognition?" He put the glass down and looked at me eagerly.
I shrugged. "Not necessarily. Just a bad feeling."
"Cheer up, Jon," he said brightly, "you get to beat me up tonight, remember?" He leaned forward and his breath was wet and warm on my ear. "If that doesn't get your rocks off, nothing will."
I jerked away from him, almost guiltily.
He slid down from his stool and put both hands out to me. "C'mon, Jon. Our song. Come on."
I didn't recognize it right away, because the last time I'd heard it, Frank Sinatra was singing it, slowly. But this band evidently thought The Way You Look Tonight should be played up-tempo, and they were belting it out at a frenetic pace. I let Krycek lead me out onto the floor, even though I knew I would only stand there like a fool. He bounced around and grinned at me. True to form, I stood still and looked around.
No one was making my spidey sense tingle but I had an overwhelming sense of foreboding out there. Maybe it was just the fact that I'd been playing hide and seek with my libido all day, and there he was, in skintight jeans and a muscle tee, with his pelvis rocking toward me in a way that went beyond suggestive and was practically an order. I admit it. I lost it. When he came near me, I shoved. "Get off!"
He staggered back, a little bit surprised, worked up a little teasing smile and came right back at me, wrapped his arms around me tight, and ground himself against me. I knew I was getting hard, and I was filled with panic that he would feel it. I shoved again, and followed through with a hard wheelhouse that missed him by a fragment of an inch. He staggered again, and would have fallen but several other dancers caught him and pulled him upright.
"Now," I hissed, "leave ... me ... alone."
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, expecting some big burly sort ready to escort me to the sidewalk, but it was the bartender. I dropped my gaze. She couldn't have been as tall as Scully. "Why don't you take a walk ... cool down a little." She had a way of saying it that let me know she wasn't going to argue.
She shifted her gaze to Krycek. "Come on, Skippy. I'll buy you a beer."
I gave her an exasperated look. "He started it!"
"Walk it off, Jon," she told me meaningfully.
I started to move, the crowd parting for me. My only comfort was the look on Krycek's face when she called him Skippy. I'd have to remember that.
I took my anger for a walk around the block, ignoring honking horns and catcalls. I was angry, I was anxious, and I was annoyed. I needed to get back in there to become bait, and it wasn't fair that I got tossed while the guy who started it ... no, I was the guy who started it. I knew that. I just wanted to blame someone else.
After twenty minutes on the street, I was good and cool. I decided not to try going back in the front, and as I came around the corner, I hurried beyond the entrance to the alleyway. I heard a strange thud as I turned into the blackness, and then a groan. "Hey!" I shouted, fumbling for my gun and my maglight.
A dark figure came out of the dim, knocking me over as he rushed by. I scrambled to my feet and turned around, but by the time I reached the sidewalk again, there was no one in sight, not even the men who had been at the entrance moments before. I might have given chase, but I heard another groan and I flicked on my flashlight and went back up the alley.
It was Krycek, face down, and protecting his ribs. I knelt and turned him gingerly. His nose was bleeding, and it was obvious he'd been kicked and beaten pretty bad. He flinched and moaned when I touched him. "My God, Krycek, who did this?"
He was struggling to make words come out when I felt something cool and hard on my neck. I shifted.
Mich had a cell phone in one hand and a Louisville Slugger in the other. "I've got a phone and a baseball bat and I'm intending to use both. Get away from him."
"Call 911," I barked. "Now."
Krycek gripped my hand. "No cops. No hospital."
"Get away from him, first."
I gave her another exasperated look. Did the woman not have eyes? "I didn't do this!"
She nodded. "Uh huh. You hit him inside. I've got fifty witnesses." I could see her hand was on the speed dial.
"I took a swing at him," I protested. "I didn't hit him. I deliberately missed. I didn't do this." I looked back at the man I was cradling in my arms. "Kry -- Alex, tell her. Who did this?"
She leaned over us, peering down at Krycek. "Can you talk, Skippy? Come on, give me one good reason why I shouldn't knock him out of the park."
Krycek opened his mouth and gasped, "Not him." He looked up at me. "No cops. No hospital." And fainted.
"Call 911," I repeated.
Mich was shaking her head. "He doesn't want that, and until I know why, I'm going to respect his wishes. Can you move him safely?"
I knew better. Scully'd have my ass for moving an injured person without knowing the scope of his injuries, but I lifted him up and settled him in my arms. He didn't even whimper. He was out.
She juggled the phone and the bat and dug out keys. "Upstairs. There's a room. Be careful with him."
She scared me almost as much as Scully. I think I liked her.
- END Three -