One rainy night

By Palinurus

February 9, 1999

A continuous, heavy pounding made his head ache. Breathing was difficult, the air too thick, almost liquid. Something, a wire or a thin rope, was wrapped tightly around his throat. He writhed to free a hand to touch his throat, to tear it off, but his arms were restrained against his sides. He began to panic, squirming, panting; he tried to scream, but the viscous air wouldn't leave his lungs. Suddenly the sky split open like a shell, and he woke up.

The room was dark and stiflingly hot. The bright-red digits on the alarm clock said 10:46. The sheet, clammy with his sweat, was wrapped tightly around him.

He remained motionless until his heartbeat slowed somewhat; then he freed one arm, moving carefully. He was trying to remember where the light switch was when a loud pounding on the door made his body jerk. His heart took off again, forcing him to breathe heavily when he was trying to be still.

There was a voice outside, shouting at top volume, but he couldn't make out the words.

Another series of bangs against the door made him grit his teeth as he jumped out of the bed in the dark, almost falling face-down on the floor because one leg was still tangled in the sheets. He untangled himself, groped around for his shorts, then his gun, and hurried to the door. Through the spy-hole, he could see a silhouette leaning against the doorframe in the pouring rain. He looked for a switch for an outside light, but couldn't find it. As he watched, the figure outside leaned in again and there was more pounding, more shouting; now he recognized his name.

"Mulder! Jesus Christ, open the fucking door will you, I'm dying out here!"

The voice did sound familiar, but in his daze he couldn't place it. Cocking his gun, he opened the door on the chain and looked out. The door was pushed open, slamming against the chain; whoever was outside must be leaning against it, trying to force it open.

"At last! God, I thought you'd let me freeze to death on your doorstep! Take that fucking chain off!"

At low volume, his stunned brain at last managed to locate the face that went with the voice. "Step back Krycek, I can't get the door open when you're leaning against it." The chain went slack, and he took it off. Krycek almost fell into the room, off balance, missing Mulder by an inch. A waft of cold, humid outside air came with him. After two unbalanced steps, he caught himself and stopped.

Mulder had come to his senses enough to switch on the bedside light. Krycek, as usual, was dressed completely in black: thigh-length leather jacket, t-shirt, jeans, ankle-length boots. This time, however, everything was dripping wet and covered in gray mud. Drops of gray water splashed on the linoleum-covered floor next to the door. On his right side the mud wasn't splotched, it was a continuous cover, as if he'd been wallowing in a muddy puddle. A gash over his right eye was oozing blood; a little trickle of it, diluted with water dripping from his hair, ran down his cheek and mixed with the mud. His hand was inside his jacket, gripping the ribs on the opposite side. He stood with his legs apart, swaying slightly, staring at Mulder defiantly.

"My God, Alex. What happened to you?"

"I was attacked."

Mulder waited, still in a daze from his rude awakening, unsure of what to make of this sudden apparition.

"They beat me up. A bunch of country yokels. A bunch of brainless Neanderthals. A bunch of glue-sniffing, backward cretins that should have been removed from the planet before they were born. A bunch of motherfucking gorillas..." Breathing heavily, he stopped, then suddenly turned around and gave the bed a vicious kick that made it squeal. It took the second kick, even harder, in shocked silence.

"While I was on my way here. I wish you wouldn't have this predilection for godforsaken places that smell of pig shit and incest, Mulder." He glared at the other accusingly. "I had bought a bottle of really, really excellent Scotch, but I had to break it on one of their heads. God, I hate traveling without a gun." He kicked the bed again, and almost lost his balance. He turned around and sat down heavily.

"Shit. Motherfucking bastards." He stared ahead dejectedly. The gash in his head was still bleeding, but now the blood was undiluted, and it began to thicken.

Mulder walked over and took a closer look at the wound. "Hmmm. Of course I'm not an expert, but it doesn't look like you'll need any stitches. It's not too bad."

"Like I could go to a hospital for something like this. Thanks Mulder, now I feel much better. Jesus Christ." He sounded like a petulant child.

Mulder sat next to Krycek and looked at him. He looked awful. Muddy, blooded, and totally defeated. He looked like he was close to tears. Would he ever cry? If he did, what would he look like? It seemed incongruous, almost impossible. But Mulder felt that a small push might be enough to make it happen.

His light-headed surprise gradually made room for - was it compassion? No, it couldn't be. But it definitely felt like something akin to sympathy. He wanted to put an arm around Krycek's shoulder and tell him it wouldn't hurt so much in the morning. The thought was so ridiculous it made him bite back a grin. Then he moved over a bit and actually did put his arm around Krycek, suppressing a shiver when the soaked leather of the jacket touched his bare skin. The absence of the arm inside the sleeve was suddenly very obtrusive. He watched Krycek's face closely to see if he would break down, not sure if he wanted that to happen or not. It seemed a close call, but Krycek bit his lip and managed to keep control.

"Shit," he said after a few minutes.

"I'll start a shower for you," Mulder said gently, "I'm sure it will make you feel better." I really should have a couple of kids, he thought on his way to the bathroom, I'd do great with them. He threw his sodden towel into a corner and put two fresh ones in easy reach from the tub, then stepped out again. Krycek was undressing, struggling with his T-shirt.

"Why didn't you let me help with that?" The look he received eloquently told him why.

"That's a nasty bruise you have there." He pried Alex' fingers away from his ribs and studied the swelling, a red chafed streak running across it.

"Jesus Christ Mulder, I was beaten up, did I forget to tell you? Did you think they just pushed me over into the mud and left me wailing?" He turned his back to the room as he stripped of his boxers. Without looking at Mulder, he marched into the bathroom.

When Mulder joined him, he was facing the wall, leaning against it full-length, his head supported by the elbow of his single arm. "Alex..." He didn't look up when Mulder touched his shoulder, but his posture changed subtly, from resignation to wariness, anticipation. "Are you OK?"

The response was fierce. Turning his head to the side that had no arm, Krycek said, "What the fuck do you think Mulder? My arm has been cut off by a bunch of illiterate retards. I followed you like a dog to this damned hell-hole, only to get beaten up by another gang of retards. My whisky ends up in the mud. And you suddenly pop into nanny mode. How OK should I be? Don't worry about a thing, I won't die on you. If I decide to off myself tonight, I'll do it outside so I won't wake you."

Mulder moved up behind him and leaned against him, wrapping both arms around him. He felt the body go rigid, but hung on until it began to relax again, and then to soften. He nipped softly at the back of the exposed neck, not moving.

Finally, Krycek turned around.

They looked at each other for a second, then moved closer again and stood chin on shoulder for long minutes.

Krycek hesitantly drew a breath and began, speaking to the wall behind Mulder. "You know, the worst of it was..." He stopped, breathed again, and started over. "The worst of it... was that they didn't... they wouldn't have stopped if ..." He gritted his teeth, looked at the shower curtain, moving in the warm air. "They only stopped because they noticed my arm." His other arm tensed around Mulder. "They had some fun with that. An amputated arm, what a great joke. Then they went away." Mulder's arm, the one on Krycek's armless side, stroked his back in an upward movement and stopped when the hand cradled his neck. "Shit." It came out very softly, not much more than a whisper.

They stood, in silence.

Later, Mulder, balancing on one leg, used his toe to flip the handle that closed the stopper of the tub, and the water began to rise. When it reached their calves, he stepped around Krycek and sat down with his back against the wall of the tub, then pulled on Krycek's arm until he sat down too, leaning against Mulder's chest.

Mulder felt him fall asleep in the warm water: his breathing changed slightly and he went completely slack. His head fell back onto Mulder's shoulder in a posture that didn't look completely comfortable and that opened his mouth slightly. Mulder realized he hadn't seen Krycek fall asleep very often. He usually went under before Krycek had a chance. It was quite endearing, really. He reminded Mulder of a child again, but now an exhausted, relaxed child. A trusting child. To his dismay, he felt flattered.

He caressed Krycek's chest, his remaining arm, his flat stomach. His whole body had been softened by sleep. It felt quite strange, almost like a different body. It was like inspecting an empty house after moving: it looked familiar but somehow felt completely alien, with strange details suddenly standing out.

Everything on Krycek's body seemed more solid, less fragile than on his own. It was sturdy, built to resist stress and hardship. It was a body with reserves of everything. It was clearly designed to go against the wind rather than bend with it. Considering Krycek's lifestyle, that was probably a good thing. Maybe he envied it. Having a body like that might inspire a feeling of power, of potency. Like carrying a gun.

He gently pushed Krycek's knees apart and took the flaccid cock in his hand. That, too, felt alien, and sweet. Very sweet. He would have liked to bend over and kiss it, but that was impossible with Krycek leaning against his chest. He made do with holding it, stroking it with small motions from his thumb.

I shouldn't fall asleep now. That would get very messy.

Then the water was sloshing over the edge of the tub, in spite of the desperate slurping noises from the overflow drain. He shot up, startled, and woke up Krycek, who muttered something and then said, "Shit!"

When Krycek was out of the way, he turned off the shower and opened the stopper. Grabbing some towels and throwing them on the floor to soak up the water, he envisioned the ruin of the bedroom: soaked carpet, warped floor boards, water dripping into the crawl space below with hollow splashes... When he opened the bathroom door, the damage appeared to be limited to two or three feet of carpet, which was only damp, not soaked. He heaved a sigh in relief.

A resounding "Shit" came from the bathroom. "You used up all the towels, Mulder. They're soaking wet, every last one of them."

He could barely contain his annoyance, stomped into the bathroom, grabbed Krycek's good arm and pulled him over to the bed, where he toppled him over. "There. Sleep. That's what you do best anyway."

"Whatever," Krycek snarled, tore the covers loose, got under them, and rolled onto his right side, away from Mulder.

Mulder got into the bed, considered, and moved over to Krycek, who was lying on his good arm at the far side of the bed, pretending (he could now clearly see the difference) to be asleep.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Piss off, Mulder. Let me sleep."

"Can I fuck you?" Mulder asked, mostly out of spite; he knew what the answer would be.

"No way. Jesus Christ Mulder, do you finally see your chance to fuck me, now that someone else beat me up first?" Krycek sat up and glared at him. "Goddamn it. I'm bruised and sore as hell, I probably caught pneumonia, and you see an opportunity to put forward your charming proposal. You have balls, Mulder, I'll grant you that. Shit."

"Okay Krycek, don't get yourself all upset, it'll give you a headache, sweetheart. Lie down."

Still grumbling, he lay down again, his back to Mulder, who stretched out beside him and reached around his waist to the other side.

"I don't suppose you'll accommodate me by switching sides?"

"Do you expect me to believe you can't give me a hand job with your left hand? Dream on, Mulder."

Mulder grinned. Mysteriously, the other's bad mood was beginning to cheer him up, maybe by the same mechanism whereby a magnetic pole always generates its opposite. It was weird.

He concentrated on his one hand; he was determined to get Krycek out of his gloom, even if he had to drag him out by his hair. The best way to go about this was very, very slowly. He pushed his upper leg between Krycek's thighs, which earned him a warning sound that made his grin wider. "Shhh, don't worry dear," he taunted. Krycek grunted, but apparently wasn't about to risk his hand job.

Mulder slowly ran his hand down one thigh, then up the other, repeating the movement several times, gently touching Krycek's balls whenever he passed. He stopped, let his hand hover in place and gently tugged on a few pubic hairs. Then he moved it up, still very slowly.

"Jesus. Are you aiming for a nomination for the cock-tease of the year awards, Mulder? You're doing great," Krycek grouched.

Mulder's smile refused to leave his face now; he was really enjoying himself. "You're wounded, Krycek. I'm just taking it easy." His hand moved back, brushing Krycek's cock lightly in passing, and resumed the thigh-stroking routine.

"You've been there before," Krycek muttered.

"Stop bitching about my technique, OK? It's my left hand as per your orders, and I'd much rather screw you senseless anyway. One more complaint and you're on your own, Krycek." He could feel the frustration grow in the tensing muscles of Krycek's back and legs.

His hand went back to hovering over Krycek's crotch, descending now and then for a furtive touch, immediately moving away when Krycek tried to meet his hand. Soon, Krycek began to respond to each touch with a small twitch, as if he received a tiny electric shock every time. He turned slightly towards Mulder and spread his legs a little to free his hips, but he still wasn't fast enough to follow the hand. His back began to feel tight with the tension.

Mulder slowly increased the frequency and force of his touches, until he heard a small whimper. "Having a good time, Krycek?" he inquired maliciously.

"Oh Jesus, Mulder, please..."

Mulder raised himself on his elbow and looked at Krycek's face, now flushed dark with arousal; at his cock, which was flushed darker. He gently kissed Krycek's ear, sucking on his earlobe, and heard Krycek hold his breath; presumably for fear that more mouth would mean less hand. Mulder lifted his hand away, and heard Krycek gasp. Then he lowered it again, which resulted in a stifled "Oh..."

He used one finger to trail the length of Krycek's cock, slowly up, slowly down, evading all Krycek's attempts to thrust up. "Keep still, Krycek. Or it might easily take another hour or two."

Krycek gritted his teeth and tried to stay still, the muscles of his thighs now trembling with the effort. His hand was holding the sheets in a death grip, but he kept quiet.

Mulder touched his balls again, gently pushing them down. "Oh my, Krycek, you're really getting close, aren't you?" he drawled. Krycek had thrown back his head, looking up at the headboard of the bed, probably not seeing it. His breathing was rapid and deep; in his exposed neck, an artery pulsed, signaling monstrous impatience, barely contained. Mulder bent over and pressed his lips against it, then his tongue; and held his mouth there as he finally moved his hand up and enclosed the throbbing cock in his hand.

"Should we do it now, Krycek? Do you think it's time?"

The response was a strangled moan that didn't sound like anything. He was tempted to insist on a decent reply, but decided that it had been enough. Strengthening his grip, he moved his hand up and down, starting slowly (a hoarse "Oh CHRIST!") then faster ("Oh please, please..."). Krycek arched, almost curled up against him, and then came with a wild cry, followed by a sobbing sound.

"Oh Jesus, Mulder... remind me next time to let you fuck me," he managed, slumping.

Mulder lay back, suddenly very much aware of his own straining erection. Damn. "Hey," he said, and when Krycek looked at him, pointed down. The malicious grin now appeared on Krycek's face, and he said triumphantly, "Experience tells me you're very capable of taking care of that, Mulder."

"What!? You're kidding, right? You're not really planning on leaving me like this..." Before he had finished the sentence, he knew the answer.

Krycek winked at him, still smiling. "I'd love to watch you jack off, Mulder. In fact, the more I think about it, the better the idea seems. Very enticing." He turned around to face Mulder. On that side he had no elbow to lean on, but he still managed to look like a seductive diva; it was partly the aftereffect of his arousal, which had made his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips wider than usual; and partly renewed interest. "You're not shy about that, are you Mulder? Some people are, but I didn't think you would be one of those. Am I wrong? You can always take yourself to the bathroom, of course."

Mulder looked at him, exasperated. "Are you really going to make me jack off when you're lying beside me? Is that the best you can think of?"

"It is. Definitely the best. Don't worry, Mulder, I'll be looking after you, it can't go wrong, you'll be fine," he offered, grinning widely. He leaned over and gently kissed Mulder on his cheek. A kiss of encouragement. A kiss for the long road.

Mulder sighed in resignation and turned on his other side, away from Krycek, who immediately got up on his knees, leaned over Mulder and sang, "You can run, but you can't hiiiiide..."

"Jesus Christ, Krycek, I'm really tempted to swing you another punch right now. You shit-head!" Mulder exploded.

Krycek suddenly sat very still, on his knees, for several long seconds, looking at him, now inscrutable. Then he said, now in a soft voice, all traces of taunting gone, "Masturbate for me, Mulder. I'd love to see it, really."

Mulder looked back, surprised at the sudden transformation. The new, melting, pleading, dark look on Krycek's face reached inside him with a firm hand and twisted his gut, leaving him slightly breathless. And now very, very hard.

Krycek lay a hand on his shoulder and slowly pulled him over on his back, without losing eye contact. Then he reached for Mulder's hand and slowly moved it to his cock. "Do it. Please," he whispered, stretching out next to Mulder, very close but not touching.

Mulder stared back into the dark, bottomless gaze, and couldn't look away anymore. When Krycek began stroking his thigh, he closed his eyes momentarily, but immediately felt so disoriented that he opened them again. It was as if Krycek rooted him to the ground, kept all dimensions positioned right. The hand doing slow pirouettes on his thigh aroused him immensely. Knowing Krycek, that hand wasn't going to go anywhere else. He touched a finger to his cock, trailed down, and up again; then repeated the movement with two fingers. There was a small gasp from Krycek. He felt his cock twitch under his touch, and Krycek's total attention. His breathing grew heavier. Finally, he put his fist around it.

Krycek's eyes became even blacker. He was now studying Mulder's face with utmost concentration. The close scrutiny was hard to bear, but incredibly arousing. Their locked gaze seemed to exclude the light, the bed, the world. Mulder felt the muscles in his face slowly assume an expression of... was it fear? No, it was closer to pleading. Don't lose me. Don't let go of me, don't let me drown. He searched his mind for the emotion that went with it, and almost recoiled when he found it. He closed his eyes and forced himself to keep them closed, breathing heavily, fighting a sudden tingle of panic.

"Don't close your eyes. Look at me," Krycek said, his tone commanding. Mulder opened his eyes again, looked, but Krycek's eyes were now their normal dark green. He sighed, partly with relief, and concentrated on Krycek's hand, which was now laying in his groin, the thumb slowly caressing his flesh. So very close... but he knew Krycek wouldn't relent. He felt his cock jerk slightly under his own hand every time the thumb came close.

Krycek moved his head closer and nuzzled Mulder's neck, gently nipped the skin of his shoulder. Then he raised himself a bit and leaned against a pillow that sat against the headboard. He pulled Mulder's head towards him so that it rested on his armless shoulder. Now the whole plane of Mulder's body was visible, the erection jutting out like a storm-bent tree in a field, and he could still reach most of it.

He sucked on Mulder's ear, then whispered into it, "Stroke yourself, with two fingers. Slowly. I want to see it."

Mulder began to jack off, with slow, dreamy movements. It felt as if Krycek had him on remote control. As soon as his hand moved, hot waves of turmoil rippled through him, and he knew it would be over quickly. He slowed down, stilled, and it felt like an act of rebellion. He stared at the ceiling sightlessly, chest heaving.

"Don't stop." Krycek bit the bony ridge of his ear, and it almost made him come; he moaned with the effort of holding back.

Krycek moved one knee below Mulder's legs, forcing his knees up a bit, and spread his legs by moving the foot of his other leg between them. Then he moved his arm up so that it lay across Mulder's chest, cocooning him as much as possible. "Now you can come," he said softly. There was another soft moan. Mulder went tense, arched his back, jacked off a few more times, and came, in slow, thick spurts; it felt like his guts had liquefied and left him through his cock. When it was over, he was too exhausted to even lift his head.

"Did I wear you out?" Krycek asked. It was impossible to say if his tone was mocking tone or concerned. Mulder turned his head towards him and had already forgotten the question.

Krycek sat up and switched off the bedside light, then gathered the covers and draped them over their bodies. Lying down again, he touched Mulder's stomach with a finger, then with the flat of his hand, and spread out the cooling semen. Looking at Mulder's face, he said, "That was... beautiful. Yes. Very beautiful." He stretched out on his back and sighed.

When Mulder woke up again, he was completely disoriented at first, and startled, almost panicked, to find someone walking around in his room. He lay very still, trying to remember where his gun was; that brought back the confused earlier events.

"Alex? What are you doing?" He half got up to turn on the bedside light.

"Nothing. I just need some fresh air. Go back to sleep."

Mulder blinked sleepily, watched him struggle with the t-shirt, and then began to wake up. "Fresh air? Don't be an idiot, it's raining cats and dogs out there. Just listen. And your clothes must still be wet. Come back to bed."

"I can't sleep, Mulder. I'm... I just can't sleep. I'm going out." He resumed his struggle with the wet shirt, shivering continuously.

Mulder got up, pulled him over to the door by his arm, and opened it. A wave of cold air swept in. In the dim light of a sodium streetlight, sheets of rain could be seen; the water in the parking lot appeared to be ankle-deep. "Look at that, you bone-headed fool. If you go outside again you can be sure of catching pneumonia." He quickly closed the door again.

Krycek was shivering quite dramatically now, his teeth clenched against the chattering. Even so, he picked up his jeans and fumbled with them. "I need to... I just can't stay here anymore. It drives me crazy. I can take your car. I'll find them and shoot their fucking brains out."

It took Mulder a moment to realize who he was talking about. "How are you going to find them? Go from door to door, ring the bell and ask to look at everybody's children? You can't do a thing now, Krycek. Maybe tomorrow, but certainly not now." He realized he was almost pleading.

Krycek's elementary logic module apparently still worked. He started pacing like a caged lion, which was probably an accurate reflection of how he felt. A powerless caged lion. He threw the jeans into a corner, and once again kicked the bed violently. "Goddamn motherfucking sons of bitches..." But he sounded deflated. Eventually, he sat on his side of the bed, staring at the floor, shivering in his wet t-shirt.

Mulder sat next to him, not sure if it would be safe to touch him. Finally he just tried, putting a tentative hand on Krycek's upper arm. There was no reaction. He moved closer, then got up and sat behind Krycek, putting a leg on either side of him and wrapping him in his arms. He had to suppress a shiver himself, but it quickly passed. The t-shirt smelled of mud and cow shit. He waited until Krycek stopped shivering, suppressing the urge to run a hand over the naked thighs that were within tantalizingly easy reach. Not now.

Krycek cleared his throat, then was quiet for a while, then cleared his throat again. "It's that arm. If I still had my arm, it would be okay. Nothing bothered me when I had two arms." He fidgeted, swallowed several times, clenched his teeth, and said in a fast, tightly controlled voice, "What I told you before... They looked at it. They held me down and stripped me, and they studied... it. Like I was a freak, an interesting lab experiment. They looked like fucking scientists there, studying an alien life form, while they held me down in the mud, on my side. Jesus Christ..." He got up again, paced the length of the room, and sat back in the same place, breathing fast. "How can I live with one arm?"

"Alex. How many were there? How many could you have fought off even with two arms? I doubt if you could have managed two, even then. It would have happened anyway."

Predictably, that put him in the line of fire.

"What the fuck do you know? Were you there? Did you maybe have only one arm in a previous life? I'll bet you've read some *books* on how the loss of a limb affects the psyche. And now you can tell me that after a period of adaptation one can live a healthy, happy life. Thank you, Mulder. You're a great help. Next you're going to tell me the sex is still good." He got up again to kick the bed; it shook alarmingly on its unsteady legs.

Mulder had in fact planned to say exactly that, and he still wasn't sure what was wrong with it, other than what was wrong with everything else he could say: that it came from someone with two arms. He waited.

Instead of coming back to the bed, Krycek pulled one of the rickety chairs away from the table and sat down, his back to the room. After sitting there for a minute, to Mulder's astonishment, he began to laugh. "I can't even rest my head in my hands anymore! Jesus fucking Christ, it's so pathetic!" His head fell back and he looked at the ceiling for a second, then to the wall. "Oh well, it's just life, I suppose." With a dramatic sigh, he got up and walked over to Mulder. "Get into the bed, Mulder. You're in my way." Struggling to get out of his t-shirt, he sounded completely normal again.

Back in the bed, Mulder spooned behind him, Krycek whispered, "Mulder. Say something nice to me."

Mulder thought for a second, then said, "I like your dick even better when it's soft."

There was a moment of silence. Then Krycek grinned and turned his head as far as he could, looking in Mulder's direction, although he probably couldn't see much. After he'd turned back, he said, "It didn't have to be the truth, you know. A nice lie would have done fine." He half-raised himself, stomped the pillow a few times, lay down again. "I may have only one arm, but you're out of your fucking mind." He moved back a bit to fit himself against Mulder.

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