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But, oh god, he did not want to move. Because Fox Mulder was curled up
behind him, the length of his lean, strong body pressed into Krycek's back, arm
wrapped around his waist, with an elbow pressing into his belly and two fingers
curled tantalizingly close to his left nipple, and warm breath tickling his
ear. And this was only the second time he'd ever lain with Mulder, hazy and
content in the afterglow of sex, and while twice was so much sweeter and more
wondrous than once, he was still wary of it, still half-expecting Mulder to
turn angry and cold and order him out of his bed and out of his life, sneering
at him, voice heavy with hatred, saying, No, I don't want you, I lied, this
is betrayal, how do you like it? The feel of Mulder, flesh and skin and the
soft fuzzy hairs of his chest and groin, the sinew of arm and thigh and
shoulderit was magic, and Krycek did not want to break the contact, did not
want to move away from Mulder, for fear that the spell would be broken and he
would never feel it again.
But his back was killing him. Sighing, he shifted again, hoping to move
slowly and easily onto his stomach, to keep Mulder's arm around him, not to
wake him. But the movement sent shooting pains down his spine, and he gasped
and jerked and flopped over onto his belly like a landed fish.
He brought Mulder over with himarm now trapped, in a way that must be
uncomfortable, under Krycek's chest, one of Mulder's thighs jammed between his
legs, chest squarely on top of the stump of Krycek's left arm. It had been a
vain enough hope to try to move at all without waking a light sleeper like
Mulder; this would surely wake the dead. And Mulder was moving, now, pulling
his arm free, lifting himself from Krycek's collapsed body.
Gentle fingers brushed the hair at the back of his neck, sending pleasant
shivers down his spine. Mulder whispered, "Alex? You okay?"
Alex. Oh god, Mulder hadn't called him Alex sincesince the day he'd
borrowed Krycek's car keys and driven straight into Krycek's betrayal. Since
Krycek's final, horrible day in the FBI. Alex.
"Yeah," he managed to whisper back. "Back's a little sore."
"Where?" Mulder's hand drifted down his spine, to lay flat and warm over
the precise spot where strained muscles still twitched. "Here?"
"Yeah."
Mulder settled half on top of him, one leg curled comfortably across
Krycek's thighs, the stump of Krycek's lost arm tucked into the hollow of his
armpit. He brought his cheek down to rest on Krycek's shoulder, and began to
move his hand, fingers and thumb kneading, working the sore muscles.
"Ooh" It felt good. It felt too good, too gentle, too generoustears
filled Krycek's eyes. He wanted to tell Mulder to stop, but he couldn't
possibly. He pressed his face into the pillow and bit back sobs.
Deep breaths, he ordered himself. One, two, three. Count to ten; relax.
Yes, that was better. Mulder's hand stroked, massaged, and Krycek settled into
it. Thumb and fingers pressed firmly into the muscles alongside Krycek's spine,
into the hollow at the small of his back, the upward curve of his backbone as
it led to the crevice between his buttocks....
Eventually, Mulder's hand strayed lower, no longer massaging, but stroking,
teasing, cupping the round buttocks as they met sturdy thighs. Krycek smiled
into the pillow and relaxed further, feeling the first pleasant tingles of
arousal in his groin. Surely Mulder was too spent to want him again so
soonand that was fine; Krycek was, toobut let him play, let him enjoy the
body he'd taken. Being used for sex Krycek understood, or at least he thought
he did, where nothing else between him and Mulder made the least bit of sense.
He hardly knew why he was here, except that Mulder had wanted him to come back
after his errand to Russia, and it had seemed important to give Mulder what he
wanted, as long as it didn't do any harm. That was the thing, thoughwhat harm
would come of it? You never really knew, where Mulder was concerned. Pain could
come streaking out of the strangest places without warning, where Mulder was
concerned.
Still, he'd come back, despite the risk, to see whether they might somehow
exorcise the demons of the past. And there were two reasons he'd thought that
risk was worth taking.
The first was what had happened after they'd had sex the first time. It had
been a revenge fuck, plain and simplehe and Mulder both knew it. And that was
fine with Krycek. Mulder was still searching for some way to take out his anger
on Krycek; some way to ease the burning in his soul for the betrayals, the
murders, the lies, the pain. In other days, Krycek had let Mulder hit him,
hoping that would assuage his need to even the score, until it had become clear
that no amount of beating would ever be enough, and Krycek had finally put a
stop to it. So then Mulder had wanted to try sexwell, fine. At least it
wasn't violent. Oh, there had been a little dirty talk. A yank on the balls.
And a good, hard fucking. Not even what Krycek would call rough trade. And
afterward, if Mulder had thrown him out of bed and sent him on his way, he'd
have gone away satisfied that just a tiny bit of penance had been paid.
But Mulder hadn't thrown him out. Nor had he gone to sleep the rest of the
night in the other room, or even moved away to lie on the other side of the
bed. No, Mulder had flung his arm across Krycek's back, settled down half on
top of him, and gone to sleep. And Krycek didn't know what it meant, but he did
know that it hadn't seemed quite so much like a revenge fuck any more.
And the second reason was Mulder's reaction to the accidentKrycek's lost
arm, and its prosthetic replacementwhich was pure Mulder, and a balm to
Krycek's wounded soul. Curious, as he was about everything. Practical. Matter
of fact. Do you want to take it off? he'd asked about the prosthesis.
And, I don't mind it. I just thought you might be more comfortable without
it. And tonight it had been: How do you get this off? I want you naked.
Really naked. The prosthesis now lay on Mulder's chest of drawers, of no
more interest, after a brief inspection, than the shoes and underwear lying in
the floor. No shock, no horror, no pity. No cruel taunting, which was what
Krycek had really expected. So they cut off your armwell, you deserved it,
you murdering rat-bastard. At least you're still alive, which is more than you
can say for my father. How many times had he heard those words from the
Mulder in his mind? How many accusations, how many confrontations, in which
Mulder saw the stump for the first time, grinned viciously, and laughed? Now
your body's deformed, just like your black soul.
But, as it turned out, those were Krycek's accusations, not Mulder's. What
did it feel like? was what Mulder had asked. And he had listened to Krycek's
answer; his hopelessly inadequate attempt to explain what it had felt like to
be held down on hard, frozen ground by half a dozen one-armed men, and to have
his arm hacked off with a knife. And then Mulder had kissed him, and made love
to him, and the lost arm had been insignificant, of no concern at all.
And then Mulder's roving fingers slipped between Krycek's buttocks,
sliding through the lubricant that remained from the time before, teasing at
his anus. Krycek squirmed and giggled. Randy devil, Mulder, he thought.
Mulder brought his mouth next to Krycek's ear, and whispered softly, "I
want to fuck you."
It was the third time Krycek had heard those words from Mulder. The first
time, three weeks ago, they had been harsh, almost a curse. Tonight, when
Krycek had first arrived, a desperate plea. Now, a heated whisper, a come-on,
an invitation. And each time, an electric current through Krycek's body. He
could feel his hips rising in response.
But. "Love to, Mulder. But my back is killing me. I don't think I can take
another fucking like that tonight."
Mulder's finger pushed in, wriggling. Krycek's fingers curled, digging into
the mattress.
"I'll go easy this time," Mulder offered. Still in that hot, smoky whisper,
moist words directly into Krycek's ear. So. Offer Mulder a blow job? Tell him
to go to sleep? Or... ?
Hips tipped up, half on his knees, hand braced against the wall to keep
himself from being slammed into it by Mulder's thrusts, cock driving into him,
so deep he could almost feel it in his throat....
"Easy, huh?"
"Promise."
Alex sighed. "Fuck me, Mulder."
Oh, god, that felt good. Mulder's long, slender fingers, cool and slick
with lubricant, eased into him. He was still relaxed from the time before, warm
and happy, ready for it to happen again, and again
And he could try, but there was really no hope he could prevent the
Syndicate from finding out he was seeing Mulder. They'd try to stop him, or
worsethey'd expect him to spy on Mulder. It would be like the FBI all over
again, except that this time around he would know better than to trust them.
And Mulderwould he want Krycek to tell him what he knew? Would he be
satisfied to leave Krycek's work out of whatever it was between them? No doubt
there would be questions. Demands. Recriminations. They hadn't even begun to
settle things, not really. Did he really imagine that Mulder might ever forgive
him for everything he'd done?
But the man kissing the back of his neck certainly wasn't acting like a man
with an unforgivable grudge. And Krycek was finding it harder and harder to
worry about it.
Unimaginably, he felt the heat begin to build again in his groin, spreading
through his belly and thighs. Surely, he'd thought, he wouldn't come again
tonightjust lying under Mulder, feeling Mulder's cock sliding in and out of
his ass, was pleasure enoughbut his cock had other ideas. Without conscious
intention, his hips began to move, ever so slightly, pushing back into Mulder's
thrusts, rubbing his throbbing cock against the pillow under him. And the rush
of arousal continued to build, spreading throughout his body, until even his
fingertips tingled, and the gasping breaths that echoed in his ears were his
own.
His orgasm, when it came, was the clear, sweet peal of a bell, ringing
through him in waves, spilling out of his cock in bright pulses, vibrations
lingering in his body for long moments after. He could feel his sphincter
throbbing on Mulder's cock, and Mulder's fingers digging into his shoulders,
and Mulder's hot breath on his neck. And then, with a groan, Mulder drove into
him, and again, and again, moving his hands down to grip Krycek's hips, still
thrusting with long, slow strokes, but deep and hard, until he gasped and
pulled Krycek's hips up and emptied into him.
Mulder collapsed on top of him. Krycek sighed, and turned his head, trying
to reach around for a kiss. Mulder obliged him.
"You're going to wear me out," Krycek whispered, his consciousness already
dissolving into sleep.
Mulder's only response was a papery chuckle, fading half into a snore. Then
he groaned, and lifted his body off of Krycek's, reaching down to roll the
condom off his softening cock. "God, I hate condoms," he muttered, as he
reached over the side of the bed to find the wastebasket. "Tell me you've been
tested."
Krycek pushed himself onto his sidehis right side, fortunately, so he had
an elbow to prop himself up onand regarded Mulder warily. "I have. Last time
was when I was in the hospital. I'm negative. Don't tell me you trust me."
Mulder stared back at him. Even in the half-dark, there was a strange, hard
glint in his eye. "Maybe. About this. You're in more danger than I am, anyway."
Well, that ended that pretty little interlude. "Assuming I'm always going
to be on the bottom. And that I trust you."
It truly hadn't occurred to Mulder that Krycek might worry about Mulder
infecting him; Krycek could see it in his face. It was endearing, in a
pig-headed sort of way. "I'm negative." There was a slightly reproachful tone
in Mulder's voice. "You don't believe me?"
"I believe you. But let's just use the condoms, okay? I hate them, too,
but, hell, we've got enough to worry about. At least we don't have to use
Russian ones."
That brought a tiny smile to Mulder's face. He nodded. "Okay. I see your
point." He settled back in bed, began to pull Krycek towards him.
Lying on Mulder's chest, Krycek sighed deeply and tried to relax. He was on
the wrong side, with his arm jammed under him against Mulder's side, and his
stump where he would have wanted an arm to curl around Mulder's chest. He tried
not to think about it. All right, they'd had the Condom Talk, and come to an
agreement, and everything was all right. It was a good sign, he insisted to
himself. They could talk things over without disaster. This thing between them,
whatever it was, wasn't going to crumble up and blow away at the slightest hint
of conflict. Which was good, because there was no way they were going to avoid
conflict.
Still, there was a slight adrenaline flutter in his stomach as he lay
there, a niggling impediment to the hot, sticky pleasure of having Mulder's
arms around him, Mulder's chest under his, and the memory of Mulder's cock in
his ass. He told himself it was foolish to let it upset him; they hadn't even
raised their voices. But things between them were so damned fragile, any tiny
crack was a potential crisis. And it wasn't only Krycek's paranoiahe could
feel Mulder's heart beating against his chest, rapidly enough to tell the tale
of Mulder's own anxiety.
But they were here, together, in Mulder's bed. For tonight, that was
enough. In fact, that was a miracle.
Although... maybe he could slide over a little, and warm himself against
Mulder's body. If he was slow and careful, he might not wake Mulder. Too bad he
was still on the wrong side of Mulderwell, the wrong side for lying facing
Mulder and putting an arm around him, anyway, which would be a nice thing to be
able to do. But he wasn't about to try to switch sides, not even if Mulder had
been already awake and willingit was just too damned humiliating to have to
crawl over a bed partner to accommodate his missing arm.
But it was the right side for facing away from Mulder, and pressing his
back and butt against Mulder's body. Which was also a nice thing, and seemed to
be the way Mulder preferred him, anyway. He shifted carefully onto his side,
and began to edge back towards Mulder.
He had barely come into contact with Mulder's hip when he heard the change
in Mulder's breathing, felt a hot hand on his shoulder.
"You're cold," Mulder said, voice muzzy with sleep. Krycek felt Mulder
moving behind him, rearranging the blanket over him. "I've been hogging the
covers." Then Mulder was pulling him close, tucking his warm body up behind
Krycek's, encircling him with one arm. "Better?"
Better? It was unimaginable. Why was Mulder being so damned nice to him? It
scared the shit out of him. There had to be a catch. Krycek shivered once,
violently, then his whole body seemed to melt into the soft, sweet warmth.
"Yeah," he managed to answer, his voice ragged. He hoped Mulder would think it
was only the lateness of the hour.
This couldn't be for real, Krycek thought. Where was the angry Mulder, the
bitter Mulder? The one who took potshots at him, dragged him around in
handcuffs, hurled insults with every breath? He wasn't gone, Krycek knew. Not
even the best sex in the world could make a man forget the kinds of things
Krycek had donehelping abduct Mulder's partner and best friend, nearly
getting her killed, helping to kill her sister, killing Mulder's father. He had
reasons for doing all those things; reasons he hoped one day to make Mulder
understand, but he expected it to be a long and arduous process, full of
recriminations and pain. He didn't expect Mulder to just put the past aside, as
if it had never happened. Either Mulder was deliberately faking it, trying to
earn Krycek's trust in order to return the betrayal later, or else he was in
major denial about the past, and would avoid dealing with it until it was
forced on him. Either way, there was a major blowup waiting for them down the
road, and it was not going to be pretty.
So he supposed he ought to be grateful for whatever small comfort he could
grab along the way. And, despite his suspicions, he couldn't really believe
that Mulder might be faking all this. Mulder, who wore his heart on his sleeve,
could never hide his real feelings from anyone, with the possible exception of
himself. Which meant it was denial, and it was going to be all the worse for
Mulder when he was finally forced to confront the full range of his feelings
towards Krycek. But it also meant there was hope that once those feelings had
been worked through, there might be something left for them to build on.
Mulder stopped, just out of bed, a tentative smile half-formed on his
mouth. "Don't get up. I'm just going out for a run." His face dissolved into
uncertainty. He nibbled on his lower lip. "I'll bring back breakfast?"
This was all the farther they'd gotten the first time, Krycek thought. One
night, and then Krycek had had to leave for Russia, to take Dmitri home. So now
was the test: this time, would they get any farther? He nodded. "Okay."
Mulder's smile widened slightly. He proceeded to pull on sweats and
sneakers, and then slipped out the door.
"Well. I've got to get ready for work. You can stay... if you'd like."
Krycek tried to smile. "I'd like. But I need to check in with my people."
"Haven't you done that yet?"
"No. I came straight here from the airport."
Mulder's face brightened for a moment. Then his mouth tightened. "What
about... later?"
"I don't know. I'll call you. What time do you think you'll get home?"
Mulder looked around, shrugged. "I don't know. You have my cell number,
don't you?"
"Yeah." Krycek stood up, ran his tongue over his lips. "I'll call."
Mulder nodded. But his expression was bleak. The image of Mulder in his
dirty sweats, sitting at his kitchen table surrounded by the wreckage of their
fast food breakfast, staring blankly up at him, lingered in Krycek's vision
long after he left the apartment.
The Englishman's New York apartment was as crisp and elegant as the man
himself. The breakfast nook, where they were now seated, was light and sunny,
with white eyelet curtains framing the tall windows brightening two walls of
the corner room. The breakfast table was well-polished white pine, carefully
set with a clean white crochet-trimmed cloth, on which lay a silver tea service
and porcelain cups. Krycek had been offered boiled eggs and toast and jam,
which he'd declined, although he had accepted a hand-painted cup of Earl Grey
tea. It was quite a contrast to the formica table in Mulder's kitchen, with its
litter of McDonalds wrappings. Krycek wished he were back there.
The Englishman had told Krycek to call him Smith. John Smith. Krycek had
wanted to laugh, but had only nodded. Smith. Jonesthat was what his former
patron, the cigarette-smoking bastard, had wanted Krycek to call him. What was
this obsession with aliases and titles, instead of names? Well, no matter. If
the man wanted to be Smith, Krycek would call him Smith.
"You've seen Mulder," the man commented, in his smooth, cultured voice.
Krycek looked up, startled, nearly spilling his tea. "What makes you think
so?"
"I've no objection to it. Your relationship with him may be of some use."
"Relationship?" Krycek could feel his face grow hot. "I don't have any
relationship with Mulder." He was surprised by his own bitterness. No
relationship? After he'd just spent the night with him?
Smith's brief smile was rueful, almost gentle. "Of course you do. That's
why I sent you to talk to him about the rebel alien, rather than attempting to
do it myself. I knew it would have more effect coming from you."
"He hates me." And that was undeniably true, regardless of what had
happened between them since.
"Yes, he does. His hatred for you is quite intense. Rather startlingly so,
considering the number of other, worse enemies he has, for whom his hatred is
far less. It makes one wonder what else he feels toward you, besides hate."
That's what I'm trying to find out, Krycek thought. He said nothing.
"As I say," the Englishman continued, "I have no objection to it. As long
as it doesn't interfere with our work."
"It won't. It doesn't have anything to do with our work. And...." He
paused. He should just leave it at that, he knew. But, hell, in for a penny, in
for a pound, as his colleague would say"That goes both ways. Our work
shouldn't interfere with whatever happens between me and Mulder. It's...
personal."
The man smiled. Something in his face softened, ever so slightly. "Yes, of
course it is. Don't lose that, Mr. Krycek. It becomes too easy in our business
to forget that the personal is, ultimately, what we are fighting for. But you
must be careful. Mulder is not exactly a disinterested party to our cause."
"I know." God, he knew. It was a very fine line he was walking. A knife
edge.
"Well, we'll keep it our little secret for now. I have it in mind to bring
you back into the group. Since your previous patron disappeared...."
"Disappeared? I thought he was dead." Word had come all the way to Russia,
when that man had been reported dead. Krycek had celebrated with a bottle of
Stoli. Krycek wanted him to be dead, that cigarette-smoking bastard.
"There was a great deal of blood found in his apartment, but no body. I
believe we've located him, in Quebec. I may want you to go there and bring him
back at some point. But there's no hurry. As long as he believes he's safe,
he'll stay where he is."
"So let him stay there." Hiding out in Canada, was he? The fingers of
Krycek's prosthetic hand dug into the table, unnoticed.
"He may be useful. He's a weapon, Mr. Krycek, and you do not discard a
weapon lightly. Especially not when the odds are against you, and you have so
few weapons available to you." The man's gaze hardened. He lifted his napkin to
his lips. "Just as I did not discard you, after I got the vaccine."
Krycek felt his face go red again. The nerves in his right wrist still
tingled with the memory of long hours handcuffed to a bulkhead deep in the hold
of the Star of Russia, where the Englishman had kept him, until he'd finally
given up the vaccine. "You said you wanted to bring me back into the group."
"Yes." The Englishman's smile was hard, but there was a glint of amusement
in his eye. "Now that we have the vaccine, and have lost one of our most
hard-line collaborationists, not to mention the appearance on the scene of the
alien rebels, the lines of power are shifting within our group. There has even
been the suggestion that we might want to reestablish contact with our Russian
counterparts. You could be very useful there."
Krycek laughed shortly. "I'd think I'd be the last one you'd want to
contact the Russians." After he'd stolen the vaccine from them, and left one of
their doctors hanging from the rafters....
Smith just shrugged. "Things change. Not long ago, you might have laughed
at the idea of rejoining our group, and yet here you are. You've just come back
from Russia; how did you find things there?"
This time, the shock was too deep to hide. Krycek put down his cup, slid
his chair back, hand poised to go for his gun. "You knew about the whole
thing."
His hand waved dismissively. "Relax, Mr. Krycek. Yes, we knew the boy had
survived the attack on the bridge. And that you took him back to Russia. It's
not a problem. If we'd wanted to stop you, we would have."
"How did you find out?" Krycek let his hand drop, but he didn't move his
chair back to the table.
"Information is my specialty. You know that. Please don't concern
yourselfI was glad to see you do it."
"Why?"
The man paused to sip his tea, staring thoughtfully out the window at the
crisp spring morning. "Your former patron was a man who thought that any show
of sentiment was a weakness. I believe he did his best to teach you to think
that as well. If I thought he'd succeeded, I wouldn't be interested in bringing
you back into the group. It's my belief that our emotional ties are our
greatest strength." He turned back to Krycek, setting down his teacup with a
self-deprecating laugh. Then his face grew serious. "I have grandchildren that
boy's age."
And children mine, Krycek thought suddenly, though he didn't say it.
"Then why didn't you do it yourself?"
"It seemed important to you to do it. Besides, you were much better
equipped to find him a home in Russia than I would have been. You did find him
a good home, didn't you?"
"As good as any in Russia these days."
Smith nodded briskly. "Good. Now, before I make any further plans for you,
I think perhaps we ought to discuss the matter of your... physical
limitations."
For the third time, Krycek's face blazed. His mouth tightened grimly. "What
limitations?"
"Please don't be angry. I know you're still quite capable. But I don't wish
to ask you to do anything that might require physical abilities you no longer
have...."
"I can do anything I could do before," Krycek insisted hotly. He was lying,
and he knew it. "So don't worry about it."
The man regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. Forgive me."
Krycek tried to force himself to relax. His heart pounded. He nodded back.
"Well," Smith said, "I think that's all for now. I want you to come back
here this afternoon at three o'clock. There's a meeting I want you to attend.
Do you have a place to stay in town?"
"Yes." He didn't, but he'd find one. He pushed himself to his feet. "I'll
see you at three."
But perhaps that wouldn't be such a good idea. Perhaps he ought to give
Mulder a little time to get used to the idea that Krycek had come back at all,
before he showed up again. Give them both a chance to think about how they
wanted to proceed. He had to admit he was still a little rattled about the way
Mulder had come on to him, as if nothing bad had ever happened between them. He
didn't trust it. He worried that Mulder was setting them both up for a fall.
And he was rattled about Smith knowing about his visit with Mulder, too. Not
that he'd expected to be able to hide it for long, but damn it, he hadn't
expected the man to know about it before he'd even called to tell him he was
back. Sure, he seemed okay with it for now, but Krycek just didn't like knowing
he couldn't make a move without the Syndicate's watchdog finding out about it.
Idly, he shifted his spoon into his prosthetic hand, and dipped it into his
bowl of soup. The spoon flipped out of the plastic fingers and clattered to the
tabletop. And I can do anything I could do before, he mocked himself
angrily. Jesus.
Damn. Mulder. He'd promised he'd call. He rolled over and scrabbled for
his jacket on the floor, pulling his cell phone from the pocket. He punched in
Mulder's number with his thumb, too tired to try to manipulate the prosthetic
arm.
"Mulder," came the answer.
"Hey, Mulder." He rolled over onto his back, yawning. "How was your day?"
"It was all right." Mulder's voice was tentative, wary. "How was yours?"
"Long. Tiring. Look... it looks like I'm going to be pretty busy for the
next couple of days. I'm not sure when I'll be able to get back to D.C."
"Oh." It sounded as if someone had let the air out of him.
"Maybe this weekend. I'll keep in touch. Okay?"
"Yeah. Sure."
Krycek cursed silently. Mulder obviously wasn't buying it. Krycek wanted to
protest, You can believe me, Mulder. I came back, didn't I? I kept my
promise. But that would be pointless. Mulder needed more time. He needed
more chances to see that Krycek would do what he said he was going to do. But
Krycek couldn't bear the hopeless tone in Mulder's voice. "Here, let me give
you my number." He firmly put down the stab of reluctance to give up this
private information. If he wanted Mulder to trust him, he was going to have to
give him a little trust in return. He read off his cell phone number.
Mulder repeated it. Then, "So... maybe this weekend?" There was a little
more animation in his voice.
Krycek allowed himself to smile. "Yeah. Sooner if I can. I just have to get
some things settled."
"Okay. Well. I'll talk to you later."
Krycek switched off the phone, reached out to let it fall onto the
nightstand, already drifting into sleep.
Then he pushed the pillow aside, struggled upright, and swung his legs over
the edge of the bed to sit with his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose.
What a fool, he told himself. He was acting like a man who'd had a lover and
lost him. When in fact he didn't have Mulder at all, but in time, if all went
impossibly well, he might. And he would see Mulder again soon. He would sleep
again in Mulder's bed, with Mulder's body next to his. Soon.
Meanwhile, if he wanted to be covered, he was going to have to cover
himself. Krycek forced himself to his feet and undressed, dropping his clothes
carelessly onto the floor, and laying his prosthesis on the chest of drawers.
Then he crawled under the covers. He lay on his back for a moment, staring up
into the dark. Then he sighed, stuffed one of the pillows down under the
covers, and leaned his back into it.
He was still cold. But he was used to being cold. He closed his eyes, and
slowly found his way back to sleep.
"What do you know about the Russian vaccine, Mr. Krycek?"
Krycek nodded to the group, then stood up to address them. He'd returned
with Smith to another meetingof the full group this time. He was officially
welcomed back into the fold, and now it was time for his brain to be picked.
Half the Elders sat attentively in their elegant leather wing chairs and
silk-upholstered easy chairs. The other half, including the First Elder, a
thick-necked Canadian with a voice like Marlon Brando's, stood here and there
around the room, some moving restlessly, others conferring privately in
corners. Some, Krycek thought, had been against his being allowed to rejoin
them, and were deliberately ignoring him. He did not intend to make it easy for
them.
"The vaccine provides protection from a single exposure to the black oil in
eighty percent of the cases. More than fifty percent are protected from
multiple exposures. Some have remained immune for up to ten exposures."
That got their attention. There was a collective intake of breath from
around the room, then a quiet murmur of voices.
"We had no idea they'd been so successful!" the Elder from Germany
exclaimed. "Why do they withhold the vaccine, and continue to experiment, if
they've come so far?"
"It's not good enough, in their opinion. Twenty percent of those inoculated
still have no protection at all. The colonists have a pool of six billion
humans to draw from, after all. And twenty percent of six billion is more than
enough for them to execute a takeover. Also, even among the test subjects with
the strongest protection, the vaccine fails eventually after repeated
exposures."
"You mean they become susceptible to invasion by the black oil?" asked the
Italian Elder.
"No, in most cases, they die. Their immune systems can no longer withstand
the assault. The Russians have been unable to develop a vaccine that protects
permanently from infection."
The murmurs now had tones of disappointment in them. "But at least, they
are not all colonized?" the German Elder said.
"No. The Russians estimate that around seventy percent of those vaccinated
will eventually die before being colonized by the black oil. And some will stay
alive and protected through many repeat exposures. It's an encouraging
resultbut not good enough to ensure our survival."
The First Elder nodded. His quiet voice brought silence to the room. "What
is their goal?"
"At least some measure of protection for close to one hundred percent of
those vaccinated. Complete, permanent protection for some substantial
proportion of test subjectstwenty to thirty percent or so. So that none will
fall to the colonists, and at least some will survive indefinitely. They
believe that that will enable them to have some chance of success against the
invasion." Krycek crossed his arms, and looked around the room with grim
satisfaction. He had everyone's attention now.
Finally, Smith joined the discussion. "What about delivery?"
Krycek nodded. "They have a separate division working on the problem. I
wasn't as closely involved with them, and don't know the details of what
they're working on. It would be easier for the Russians to institute a mass
inoculation program with no questions asked than it would be for us. But, of
course, it would still be a major undertaking to get enough of the population
vaccinated to protect themselves against an attack before the aliens found out
and put a stop to it. I don't believe they have an answer yet."
"Perhaps the answer is to use the vaccine offensively, as a weapon of
attack, rather than merely as passive protection." This was from a small,
bird-like man near the back of the room whom Krycek didn't know.
There were murmurs of agreement with this. Then, Smith said, "But first, we
must have the weapon."
"But why were the Russians so determined to destroy our vaccine program?"
the German Elder asked in sudden exasperation. "Surely, they would be as happy
if we developed a successful vaccine."
Krycek decided there was no need for him to stand this time. "They weren't
trying to destroy our programthey just wanted to eliminate any possible
connection between their program and ours. They worried that the hard-line
collaborationists within our group would betray them to the colonists."
"And now?"
"They abandoned the Tunguska site immediately after Agent Mulder's escape
from the facility, and moved their program to another location. There are only
a few researchers finishing up at the Tunguska installation now." He felt a
strange little lurch in his stomach at saying Mulder's name out loud in this
company. He glanced quickly toward Smith, but the man's expression was bland
and noncommittal. He hoped that meant that his brief reaction had gone
unnoticed, not merely that Smith was better at disguising his feelings than
Krycek.
"Do you know where their new testing site is?"
"No." Actually, he had a pretty good idea. But, he decided, it would be
better to hold a little in reserve. He'd only been back in the Syndicate for
one dayhe didn't want to outlive his usefulness too quickly. Besides, he
wasn't sure the Russians weren't right to hide their vaccine program from their
former associates. Krycek was himself of the opinion that some of the
collaborationists in the Syndicateincluding his former patron, the
nicotine-loving "Mr. Jones," were far too quick to curry favor with the
colonists, and would not hesitate to betray the Russian program to them if they
thought it would gain them personal advantage.
Several of the Elders frowned, as if they suspected that Krycek was holding
out on them. But they said nothing. Krycek gave them his most wide-eyed look of
sincerity and settled back in his chair.
But the one thing that continued to niggle at him, to make him question and
wonder, and even to fear, was something so tiny, so seemingly insignificant, he
could almost convince himself it had never really happenedexcept that when he
thought of it, he felt his face flush and his heart pound and his palms begin
to sweat.
It was the moment he'd spoken Mulder's name aloud in the Syndicate meeting.
He told himself over and over again that no one had noticed the slight flutter
he'd felt in his gut when his lips had formed the name of the man whose body
had so recently covered his. His voice hadn't cracked; the tone hadn't changed.
His hands had remained still and calm at his sides. If his heartbeat had
quickened momentarily, it had been a brief and invisible reaction.
And even if any of them had noticed the almost imperceptible intake of
breath, or the tiny glance at Mr. Smith, what could they have made of it? It
was well known that he and Mulder had a history of an intense and personal
kind. Anger, vengefulness, rivalrythese were passions, too, and could easily
be the cause of any flicker of emotion on his part.
But. That there had been any reaction at all, however unnoticeable or
unattributablethat was what unnerved him. That he had not been able to shut
down that part of himself to concentrate on the business at hand. That the
warm, sensual vibration of Mulder's name in his mouth had suddenly and
unstoppably evoked the presence of the man himself, enveloping him with the
sensation of velvety skin, hot mouth, hands and hips and cock.
When had it happened? When had that passion overtaken him, become something
he could no longer put away when it was time to think of other things? He'd
always found Mulder attractive, there was no question of that. The sad, soulful
eyes, the full, cupid's bow mouth, the lean, graceful form: yes, Mulder had
always been easy on the eyes. He'd considered it one of the perks of the
assignment, back when he'd been playing the FBI-puppy; a nice bit of scenery, a
pretty man to look at. And certainly, he'd enjoyed Mulder's company, as
wellthe quirky, self-deprecating sense of humor; the sharp wit, the
intelligence and curiosity. He'd amused himself with the occasional fantasy;
even wondered whether he ought to make a moveafter all, getting close to
Mulder was what he'd been hired to dobut he hadn't. He'd told himself that
Mulder was straight and there was no telling how he'd react to sexual advances
from his male partneralthough Mulder was charmingly non-judgmental, and there
were even hints of youthful experiments with the boys at Oxford, so the idea
didn't seem entirely fanciful. But the truth was that Krycek hadn't really
wanted to take Mulder as a lover back thennot as a spy doing a job, not with
the betrayal he knew was to come. He'd been content to enjoy the man's
presence, the shared smiles, the hand on his arm, the shoulders pressed
together as they hunched over some computer monitor or microfiche reader, and
wanted nothing more.
So it hadn't been then, not when they were partners and perhaps something
could have been done about it before the betrayals colored everything with dark
anger and pain. And after that, Krycek was on his own and caught up in far more
than he'd ever dreamed. Soon he was running for his life, and Mulder had become
a bittersweet memory, and even the fantasies had gone by the wayside. Their few
brief encountersoutside Mulder's apartment the night after Bill Mulder's
murder, Hong Kong, Tunguskawere highly charged, to be sure, but only with
madness and fury. The face leering into his with hatred, the fists smashing
into his face, were not objects of desire.
But then had come Russia, bleak Siberian autumn, and he'd been held down
onto the cold, cold ground, assaulted with fists and knees and hard, terrible
faces, and a hot knife sliced into his shoulder with a crushing pain beyond
anything he could possibly have imagined. And then fire had come from the sky
in Kazakhstan, destroying the abductees the colonists had so carefully prepared
for the takeover, leaving one frightened and desolate boy alive among the
rubble. The damaged, one-armed man had taken the Russian orphan and begun to
formulate a wild and desperate plan that led from Kazakhstan to Vladivostok to
New York and improbablyyet somehow inevitablyback to Mulder.
Was it the loss of his arm? The hopeless pleading on the violated face of a
young boy? Something had changed him. Something had cut him open inside and set
free things he'd kept locked away for years. Because when he'd seen Mulder
next, that night in Mulder's apartment, nothing was the same, not the feel of
the floor beneath his feet, or the shadows moving along the walls, or even the
air filling the room. The gun he'd held on Mulder felt huge and almost alive in
his hand. The breath from Mulder's lungs had floated between them, caressing
his face. And, as he delivered his message, everything had seemed to shift and
reform until he felt that he was in an absurdist play, and he'd wanted to laugh
and put down his gun and sit beside Mulder and say, What a mess we've made
of things.
What he actually had done was barely any less ridiculous: he'd leaned
forward to kiss Mulder's cheek. Then he'd handed Mulder his gun and turned his
back and walked away, as if there had never been any threat between them.
And now here he was in a hotel room, back in the Syndicate, with a war
raging between alien factions and the first promise of a vaccine against the
black oil, and his life in as much danger as it had ever been, and all he could
think of was Mulder, and the hot desire rising in him. It was going to be a
disaster, he thought. He was going to get himself killed.
Several more days passed. He didn't call Mulder again; he wanted to give
himself a little space to think. Besides, he had nothing to say except that he
wasn't able to return yet, which would only mean more disappointment and
awkwardness for them both. He'd told Mulder perhaps the weekend, so he would
wait until then to check in again.
He spent his days in discussions with his new patron: about the vaccine,
the Russians, the rebels and the possibility of an alliance. Neither Mulder's
name nor Krycek's handicap were mentioned again, but both subjects remained
just below the surface, conspicuous in the careful way they talked around them.
Smith gave him money. Krycek felt odd about that, since in his opinion he
hadn't done anything that warranted payment yet. But there was no denying he
needed ithe'd used up all his reserves and favors getting Dmitri out of the
country, and would have ended up at the YMCA if he hadn't found another source
of income. So he took what was offered as an advance against future services,
and used it sparingly, continuing to stay at the same cheap hotel, buying only
a few changes of clothing for himself, and the occasional meals he didn't eat
at Smith's. He made himself useful in whatever ways he could, acting as Smith's
driver and running errands for him, knowing at the back of his mind that he was
doing it to prove that he could, as much as to earn his keep.
When Friday came, he told Smith he was going back to D.C., steeling himself
against the Englishman's reaction. But the man only nodded agreeably and told
him to keep in touch; he hadn't any particular assignments on tap, and could
stay in D.C. until needed. Unspoken was the suggestion that having someone in
close contact with Mulder might turn out to be useful. Krycek frowned, but left
his own warning that he would do nothing to compromise Mulder unspoken as well.
Back in his hotel room, he threw his few belongings into a duffel bag, and
sat on the bed contemplating his cell phone. Now that the moment had finally
arrived, he found himself strangely reluctant to call. It was mid-afternoon,
and Mulder would be at work. If he called Mulder's home number, he'd have to
leave a message on the machine, and he didn't want to do that. If he called
Mulder's cell phone, though, he might catch him in the middle of something,
busy at work or with people around, in a situation where he'd find a phone call
from Krycek inconvenient and distracting. He could just wait and call Mulder
when he got to Washington. But he didn't want to call at the last minute; he
wanted to let Mulder know he was coming.
Krycek sighed, and dialed Mulder's cell number. Two rings later, Mulder
answered. His voice was at once heartbreakingly familiar and utterly shocking.
For a moment, Krycek sat frozen, unable to speak. Then he sucked in a breath,
and said softly, "Hey, Mulder."
Now, it seemed it was Mulder's turn to freeze. Or perhaps he was just
moving out of earshot of his company. "What's up?" Mulder said brusquely.
"I'm on my way to D.C. I'll be there in a couple of hours." He looked at
his watch, made a mental calculation. "Probably be at your place around eight.
That is, if you don't have other plans."
There was another pause. "No. I mean, yeah, okay. I'll see you tonight." He
disconnected without saying goodbye.
Krycek switched off his phone, lips pressed together, heart pounding. He
shouldn't have called Mulder at work. He'd obviously caught him off guard.
Perhaps Mulder didn't really want him to come, but couldn't talk in front of
Scully or whoever was there, and agreed just to get rid of him.
Or perhaps Mulder did want him to come, just as badly as ever, but found
himself as tongue-tied and out of breath at the sound of Krycek's voice as
Krycek was at Mulder's. And Krycek was going drive himself crazy fretting over
it. Just go, he told himself. Once he got to Mulder's, and they'd had a chance
to get used to each other again, everything would be fine.
He worried at it all the way to Alexandria, then finally sighed and cursed
himself for a fool and slung his bag over his shoulder. He had to stop this. If
he were only any ordinary thirty-three-year-old man who found himself acting
like a lovestruck teenager, the situation would be merely laughable, but as it
was, it was dangerous and stupid. He was an adult; Mulder was an adult; if they
couldn't get past these minor awkwardnesses, how in heaven could he hope they'd
ever get past the real horrific obstacles between them?
The door opened. Mulder stood there, in jeans and a pale rose-colored
tee-shirt, with white athletic socks on his feet. He looked like ice cream,
Krycek thought. Cool and creamy and delectable. Krycek realized that he was
grinning foolishly.
Mulder grinned back. "Hi," he said, and stood aside to let Krycek come in.
"I came straight here," Krycek hastened to explain. "I'm not trying to move
in on youI can check into a hotel later, if...."
Mulder smiled. "No, you can stay. Why don't you... ?" He reached out,
stopped in confusion, then reached again for Krycek's bag. "Here, I'll put it
in the other room."
Krycek gave up his bag, and Mulder disappeared with it for a moment. His
face was as pink as his tee-shirt as he emerged from the bedroomwhere later
they'd lie, and touch each other's bodies, and sleep wrapped around each other.
Krycek felt his own face heat. He wanted to step forward and put his arms
around Mulderand damn the arm that couldn't feel the body pressed against
itbut he hesitated. It was too soon. If they were ever going to stop feeling
awkward with each other, they would have to slow down and talk to each other.
"Are you hungry?" Mulder asked.
God. He hadn't eaten since breakfast; and though he hadn't given it a
thought all day, his stomach was suddenly painfully empty. "Yeah. I'm
starving."
"Me too. Let's go out."
"So," Mulder began. He paused for a sip of beer, licked the foam from his
lips. "You've been out of D.C."
Krycek nodded. "New York." It was a big city; there was no harm in telling
Mulder.
"I don't suppose there's any point asking what you were doing there."
"Working." Krycek shrugged. "It was boring. Meetings, mostly. Errands.
Nothing important." Which was mostly true, if evasive. But Mulder surely
wouldn't expect him to tell him everything. Still.... "I think I should tell
youmy patron knows I was here. He knows I'm seeing you. I didn't tell him;
he's got better sources than I thought. But he won't interfere, and he won't
tell the others."
Mulder frowned. "He knows... everything?"
"Well, he doesn't know we were sleeping together." Or so Krycek sincerely
hoped, although it wasn't out of the question. Which brought up another
point"When did you last have your apartment swept?"
Mulder took another sip of beer, then smiled. "Right after you left. It's
clean. I have it done regularly; I haven't found a bug since last spring."
Krycek nodded, returning the smile. It didn't bother him a bit that Mulder
had had his apartment checked for surveillance devices after Krycek had been
there last. In fact, he'd have been disappointed if Mulder hadn't. "Good. Well,
then, I think we can assume that no one knows what went on behind closed doors.
He probably has someone watching your building, though, and I was spotted going
in. Or else I was being followedhe knew I'd been to Russia. He might have
been checking the flights from Russia for me."
"Should I be worried?"
"You should always be worried," Krycek responded promptly. "But no more
than usual, I don't think. I told him it was personal, and to leave it alone. I
think he will. For the most part."
Mulder nodded, slowly. It wasn't good news, but there was a faint, grim
smile on his face. Krycek wondered about it for a moment, then suddenly
realizedhe'd told Mulder something private, something he hadn't expected to
be told, and he liked it. A little curl of pleasure warmed Krycek's belly, and
he fought down a smile. Mulder went on, "I don't suppose you want to tell me
who this patron of yours is?"
The curl of pleasure teased. It felt so good, it was very tempting to go
right on telling Mulder things. Maybe he shouldn't, but damn it, his patron
knew about Mulderit was only fair that Mulder should know about him. "You've
met him, actually. Englishman, very proper. He's told me to call him Smith, but
that's not his real name, of course."
Mulder nodded again. "Yeah, I know who he is. You're working for him now? I
like him better than that cigarette-smoking bastard, anyway."
"I'm working with him," Krycek corrected. Then he smiled. "I like him
better, too."
"So. Do you know how long you'll be staying in D.C. this time?"
Krycek shrugged. "I'm not sure. I hope for a while." He paused a moment.
"Look, I didn't know... if it's a problem for me to call you at work...."
Mulder's face turned pink. "No, it's no problem."
"I didn't want to leave a messageI wanted to make sure you were going to
be around."
"I know. You just caught me by surprise, that's all. I couldn't really
talk."
"Was Scully there?"
"Yeah." Mulder's flush deepened. Krycek felt a sudden urge to lean across
the table and lick Mulder's face. His own cheeks grew hot.
Mulder seemed to consider for a moment, then continued, "She knew it was
you." He smiled as he said it; a small, private smile, gentle and full of
affection. Krycek knew that smile well from the old days, when they were
partners, whenever Mulder had talked about Scully: how she questioned his
theories, insisted on following procedures, rolled her eyes at his wild leaps
of intuition. There would be an undercurrent of: She knows me. She doesn't
let me get away with anything. She takes care of me.
Krycek had been jealous then, and he felt a little pang of jealousy now.
Not sexual jealousyhe knew Mulder didn't sleep with her, although sometimes
it seemed astonishing that he didn't. He was envious of their closeness, their
acceptance of each other's idiosyncrasies, their faith and their trust. Had
Krycek ever had a friend like that? Not since he was a child, anyway. Betrayal
had come early to his world.
"You've told her about us?"
Mulder shrugged, a little defensively. "Not everythingI just told her you
were going to be around, sometimes. I told her we were trying to work things
out."
Trying to work things out: that had a nice sound to it. "I don't mind what
you tell her. She's your friend, tell her whatever you want to." He had to
cringe a little, inwardly, over the unintentionally sharp tone of those last
words.
Mulder nodded, thoughtfully. "It will be okay. She doesn't necessarily like
it, but she'll leave it alone."
Krycek hid in his beer, thankful when the food arrived a few moments later.
They ate a while in silence; both, it seemed, glad for the respite. There was
so much to talk about, so much to work throughand even as they fumbled at the
small, mundane details any new relationship must deal with, the much greater
problems they must inevitably face loomed. Krycek was at once nervously eager
to jump directly to the heart of the matter and get it over withto say,
Look, I killed your father, and I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about it,
will you ever be able to get past that or shall I just leave now?and
reluctant ever to mention what must surely put an end to this beautiful
illusion. After all, if Mulder could bury it so easily and act as if it had
never happened, why should Krycek be so keen on bringing it up? And,
realistically, he knew that it would be better to wait. Let them find a little
peace together first, build the beginnings of something that would be worth
suffering all that pain for. They might as easily find themselves breaking up
over the cap on the toothpaste tube, or late-night television, or some other
completely ordinary bone of contention, and never need to worry about the
deeper, more painful differences.
At last, they pushed back their plates, and faced each other across the
table again. Mulder forced a brief, tight smile, then began to play with his
napkin, and spoke without looking up. "I've been thinking about what you said
last time. About not always being on the bottom."
Krycek shifted, a sudden heat in his groin. "Yeah?"
"I don't want to always... I mean, if you want to switch...."
Krycek sucked in air. Well, of course he wanted to. The very thought of
Mulder on his belly, legs spread, ass in the air and available for the taking
brought a rush to Krycek's groin that nearly had him ready to come on the spot.
"I want to," Krycek said, a little breathlessly. But Mulder looked more nervous
than willing. Obviously offering out of some sense of obligation, not out of
desire. "Not yet. It's too soon, I think. We should wait."
Mulder couldn't help the look of relief on his face, though he tried
valiantly to hide it. "I don't want you feel... that you're not getting what
you want."
Krycek smiled ruefully. It was sweet of Mulder, if foolish, to offer
himself this way. Perhaps it was his way of trying to make things better
between them. Or some sort of macho need to prove he could take it as well as
dish it out. It would be a disaster, of course, Krycek had no doubt. Mulder
couldn't have much experience with receptive anal sexand even if he did, he
was clearly far too nervous about the prospect of taking it up the ass from
someone who'd lately been his worst enemy to be able to relax and enjoy it. He
was much more comfortable being in control, at least for now. Which was just
fine by Krycekhe preferred being fucked, and while he certainly wouldn't mind
trading places now and then, he wasn't going to feel deprived if they didn't.
"It's okay, Mulder, really. I don't want it that badly. I like being
fucked. You know that first time, when I was here before? When you were a
little rough? Called me names and ordered me around? I liked that."
"Yeah?" Mulder was smiling now, biting his lip. His chest rose and fell
under the pale rose cotton of his tee-shirt, and his deep hazel eyes had gone
dark. "You like it rough, huh?"
"Yeah. You could be a lot rougher than that, too, if you wanted to."
Mulder looked as if someone had given him a present. "Did it just get hot
in here?"
Krycek grinned at him. "Let's get the check."
It seemed to take forever, but at last they were at the door to Mulder's
apartment. Mulder stepped aside to usher Krycek in, a hard smile on his face,
hot delight with a sinister hint of cruelty. It made Krycek hesitate for a
moment, a slight shiver of fear trickling down his spine. Warning voices
whispered at the back of his mind: this man's cruelty was not to be taken
lightly. Determinedly, he shut them up. The shiver of fear settled in his cock,
making it jump painfully against the rough denim of his jeans. He stepped past
Mulder through the short hallway into the living room.
The hard muzzle of Mulder's gun jabbed him in the small of his back. Long
fingers dug into the back of his neck. He stopped short, the shiver of fear
turning into a cold splash in his gut. He let his arms fall loosely to his
sides, hands spread, surrendering. His voice caught in his throat. "Mulder...
?"
The gun pressed into him, harder. Then Mulder shifted his weight and
shoved, forcing Krycek to take two heavy steps across the room. He fell against
Mulder's desk, bent over, with Mulder lying heavily on his back, gun now
pressed into the side of his neck. He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady
himself. Sick horror turned his belly to water. He cursed himself viciously.
He'd been caught thinking with his dick, and he'd blown it big time. So Mulder
had been faking it all along, lulling Krycek into a false sense of security,
biding his time until he could take his revenge right when it would hurt the
most. And it had worked just as he'd intendedKrycek had been caught off
guard, his gun uselessly packed away in the other room, and no way to escape.
It was a mistake he was very likely to die for.
Mulder's crotch ground into his butt, and he heard Mulder chuckle wetly in
his ear. "So you like it rough," Mulder whispered. "I'm so glad to hear it."
The muzzle of the gun trailed down Krycek's neck, over his shoulder, to press
into his side. The fingers at the back of his neck scraped roughly through his
hair, then slapped the back of his head.
Krycek let out a little moan. Confusion mingled with his horror, a curl of
hope threading liquidly through his nerve endings. His cock throbbed. Could it
all be a game? Was this Mulder's idea of playing rough? Or if not, could it be
turned to Krycek's advantage?
Mulder showed no sign of relaxing his hold on the weapon. With his other
hand, he reached around to the front of Krycek's jeans. The heel of his hand
pressed into Krycek's stomach, while his fingers worked at the waistband of
Krycek's jeans, and his hot mouth was on the back of Krycek's neck, sucking,
biting his shoulder.
Krycek remained crushed against the desk, braced on his elbows, with Mulder
heavy on his back, hips grinding into his buttocks. His whole body was
throbbing now, dissolving, surrenderingbut he clung desperately to what was
left of his senses and tried to think. Surely Mulder would be distracted, too,
if he kept this up. Just a moment's hesitation, the slightest relaxing of his
guard, and Krycek would make his move....
Mulder had unbuttoned Krycek's jeans, and was now slowly pulling the zipper
down, a tantalizing stroke over the hard bulge of his cock. Krycek swallowed
hard, and leaned back, working his butt against Mulder's crotch. He could feel
the stiff throb of Mulder's cock through both of their jeans. Mulder's breath
was ragged in his ear, his movements sharp and heavy with passion. The pressure
of the gun in Krycek's side was beginning to relax. Soon, Krycek thought. He
began to gather himself for the desperate attempt....
Krycek felt his stomach lurch, heart pounding with adrenaline and the shock
of hope. He glanced over his shoulder. "What?"
Mulder was standing with his arms at his sides, gun hanging loosely in his
hand, a foolish look on his face. "I don't have the lube and condoms."
Krycek laughed, a short, coughing sound, giddy with relief. Suddenly, his
knees went weak, and he lowered his head into his arms on Mulder's desk. It was
a game. Only a game. Not betrayal and death after all, but only the blood haze
of lust.
And now that Krycek knew it was a game, he didn't want it to stop. "Order
me to stay like this while you get the stuff," he urged. "Tell me you'll punish
me if I don't." Even in his own mouth, the words made him hard.
There was a long pause. Krycek remained as he was, waiting. Would Mulder
want to play it this way, with only his orders, and not a gun, to keep Krycek
in his place? The moment stretched out, heady and pure.
At last, Mulder stepped forward and covered Krycek's body with his own,
enveloping him. The gun had been put away; Mulder's two arms slid around him,
one beneath his chest, the other under the waistband of his briefs to cup and
squeeze his aching balls. He nuzzled Krycek's ear, then bit his neck. "Don't
move," he ordered, his voice a slick murmur in Krycek's ear. Then he moved
back, took hold of the waistband of Krycek's jeans and briefs, and with one
sharp motion, pulled them down over his buttocks.
Krycek gasped as the cool currents of air hit his naked butt. His fingers
scrabbled at the edge of the desk. The sudden exposure was shocking,
exhilarating. He let himself shift helplessly, feeling the vulnerability of his
position as a stiff jolt to his cock. He could feel the eager drops oozing from
its tip.
Mulder stood back. "Don't move," he repeated, the smoky delight evident in
his voice. "If you do, you'll be punished." He punctuated his order with a
sharp slap to Krycek's right buttock. Krycek jumped and squealed. He heard
Mulder chuckle. "I may just punish you anyway."
Krycek felt the heat grow in his face. His fingers curled into a fist.
"Yes, Sir," he answered, his voice muffled against his arms. Then he heard
Mulder move away to the bedroom.
At last he heard Mulder come up behind him; quietly, but not so quietly
that Krycek couldn't hear the soft pad of his footsteps, or the hot sighs of
his breath. He felt himself tense up, his buttocks squeeze together, his balls
tighten against his body in anticipation.
Fingers slipped between his buttocks, cool and wet. Krycek moaned and
gripped the desk, hips making small thrusts, desperate for the feel of Mulder's
hands on him. His cock twitched between his legs, responding to every slight
motion of the fingers pressing into him, working him, lubricating him. He
pushed back, trying to impale himself further onto Mulder's fingers. His breath
seemed to burn in his lungs.
"Hold still," Mulder admonished. Krycek forced himself to obey, thigh
muscles tightening in frustration. "Hold still," Mulder said again, his voice
sleek and velvety with pleasure. "Scum-sucking worthless bastard. Hold still
and take what's coming to you."
Krycek's gut tightened. Waves of pleasure crashed over him: the searing
heat in his cock, the fingers deep in his ass, the lube trickling down like
tears over his balls. He managed a deep-throated, "Yeah...," that turned into a
breathless squeak when Mulder slapped his butt with his other hand. "Do it to
me, Mulder."
Mulder fucked him with his fingers, slowly but deeply, the full length of
his long, strong fingers thrusting in and out of Krycek's ass. "Filthy slut,"
Mulder said softly, almost wonderingly, rolling the words around in his mouth
like fine wine. "I'm going to fuck you raw."
Mulder paused for a moment, two fingers shoved all the way into him. Then
he withdrew, slowly, with exquisite deliberation. Krycek could feel the slight
tremble of the fingers inside him. He could hear Mulder's heavy breathing,
almost feel the hot breath on his back. Then Mulder stepped away, and Krycek
could hear the small motions as he prepared himself: jeans unzipping, condom
package opening, more lube being spread over Mulder's cock.
Mulder stepped forward again. One hand gripped Krycek's hip. The other
guided his cock between Krycek's buttocks.
Krycek clenched his teeth, trying hold still as Mulder entered him. He
could not hold back the hot, whimpering noises in his throat. He pounded the
desktop with his fist, nearly mad with need.
Mulder worked his cock into him, inexorably, until his full length filled
Krycek's ass. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, then pulled almost
all the way out and thrust back with a single, demanding stroke. Sobs of
grateful laughter tore at Krycek's throat, as Mulder settled in and fucked him
hard, crushing his thighs against the desk, their balls slapping together.
Krycek knew he would have bruises the next day. It hurt like hell, and it was
sheer heaven.
Finally Mulder leaned over Krycek's back, wrapped his arms around Krycek's
chest and pulled him upright, all the while continuing the hard, deep strokes
of his cock into Krycek's ass. He took Krycek's cock in his hand and began to
pump it. Krycek groaned and squirmed and came with a shout, spurting all over
the front of Mulder's desk. Mulder thrust even harder, faster, until he fell
forward, collapsing with Krycek down onto the desk, and came, laughing in
Krycek's ear.
"What?"
"You came all over my desk." He seemed rather pleased about it.
"You were aiming," Krycek pointed out. Then he sighed. "I'll clean it up."
He pushed himself upright and headed for the kitchen to find a sponge and some
paper towels, pulling up his jeans along the way.
When he returned to the living room, he found Mulder sprawled bonelessly
across the couch, looking lazy and sated, hazel eyes creamy with satisfaction,
languidly pulling on his still half-hard cock. Krycek stopped, staring. God, he
was beautiful. A vision of pure sex. Someone ought to paint a portrait of him,
just like that.
"Don't just stand there," Mulder ordered smoothly, a pleased smile on his
full mouth. "Get to work, boy."
Krycek felt his face go red, as a hot lick of arousal tickled his cock. Not
enough to be ready for more play just yet, but enough to give him a sensual
glow. He took a deep breath, answered, "Yes, Sir," and went to kneel before the
desk. I've created a monster, Krycek thought, grinning to himself. Mulder was
enjoying his little adventure in dominance; let him have his fun.
But when Krycek had finished cleaning up his mess, and turned back to
Mulder, he found his erstwhile master sitting up again, jeans zipped, face pink
with embarrassment. So Krycek smiled, went back to the kitchen to discard the
towels and toss the sponge in the sink, then returned to settle himself at
Mulder's side and give him a solid hug.
"That was fun," Mulder said, a somewhat tentative lilt in his voice.
"Yes, it was," Krycek replied firmly. At least, it ended up being fun. His
nerves were still a little raw from having had a gun shoved in his back. "You
know, you scared the shit out of me at first."
"Yeah?" Mulder grinned.
"I thought you were going to kill me."
There was a pause while Krycek's words sunk in. The grin slowly faded.
"You're serious."
"I wasn't really sure it was a game until you stopped to go get the lube. I
was just getting ready to make a break for it when you backed off."
Mulder shook his head, confusion giving way to distress. "I can't believe
you thought I was really going to hurt you."
Krycek could only stare. That wondrous Mulder denial: it was almost
charming, in a thick-headed sort of way. Krycek could still count the bruises
Mulder had given him, the number of times he'd stared down the barrel of
Mulder's gun. Could Mulder really believe the past all wiped away and
forgotten?
He could see the acknowledgment of those days reluctantly creep into
Mulder's eyes. "Well, all right, but that was before. Things are different
now."
"Are they really, Mulder? The past is still there. We haven't really dealt
with any of it."
Mulder's expression grew hard. "I don't want to talk about that."
"I know," Krycek said softly. He reached out, tentatively, to stroke
Mulder's arm. The muscle was tight and unyielding under his hand. "It's too
soon. But some day we're going to have to."
Mulder shifted, a brief motion of shoulders and knees, with a small noise
of frustration. "Why? What's the point? You can't make what happened go away."
"I know. But we have to find a way to accept it, and get past it."
Mulder shook his head, mouth pressed into a tight line. "Accept it? That
you... ?" He stopped, mouth twisted in barely suppressed fury. "I can't even
think about it. I just want to forget it ever happened."
"Mulder." Krycek shook his head wearily. "Can you honestly tell me you'll
ever be able to forget everything that's happened?"
Mulder was very still. "No. I'll never forget."
"Well, if you can't forget it, and you won't deal with it, what's the
point?" Krycek heard the pain, the desperation, creep into his own voice, and
he hated himself for giving way to it, this helpless need for Mulder's
forgiveness. "Why go on with this, if you already know it's hopeless?"
It was too soon. He knew it was too soon. Krycek cursed himself for a fool
for continuing to push, when he'd already said it was too soon. Just let it be,
let Mulder pretend he'd forgotten all about the past. He was going to push them
past the point of no return, and lose whatever chance they had to work things
out.
Mulder stood up, took two agitated strides across the room, then turned to
Krycek with fists clenched and eyes like chips of flint. The look on Mulder's
face sent a heavy chill down Krycek's spine. He'd seen that look before: after
Mulder had found him in Dmitri's hospital room and brought him here to talk.
Krycek had hoped to enlist Mulder's help in protecting Dmitri from the forces
of the Syndicate, or at least to convince him not to interfere with Krycek's
plan to rescue the boy. But Mulder had stalked around the apartment in a fury,
unable to listen, almost mad with rage. Finally he had thrown himself on
Krycek, kissed him, open-mouthed and hungrybut it had been a cruel hunger,
full of black passion and the need to punish, and when he'd raised his arm to
strike, Krycek had broken away and left, intending never to come back.
Now here was that black passion again, all the anger and pain, never far
away, just temporarily pushed aside. "I don't know!" Mulder's voice rose, and
there was a tremor in it, nearly breaking. "I don't know what else to do. You
make me so... crazy, I just don't know what to do. Sometimes I just want...."
His fists worked, his knuckles gone white as his fingers dug into his palms,
and he spoke in a harsh whisper. "Sometimes I want to rip you to pieces with my
bare hands, every last cell of you, until there's nothing left." He stopped,
drew a deep, ragged breath. "But I can't. So I fuck you. It's the only thing
that makes it at all bearable. It lets me forget, for a little while."
Krycek found himself standing, heart pounding, sick dismay twisting in his
belly. Was that going to be it? Should he give it up and leave? But surely
there was more to Mulder's passion than hate and an unfed need to strike out.
There was tenderness, too. There was Mulder curled contentedly around him after
sex, Mulder rubbing his back when it was sore, Mulder buying him McDonalds' for
breakfast. There was caring, too, and it was this that made the hate and anger
so difficult for him to bear. Surely, in time, there would be a way to work
through it. They wouldn't be here at all if there weren't at least a chance.
Krycek went up to Mulder, close but not quite touching. "I'm sorry." He
said it softly, tentatively, poised to flinch away. But there was no hostile
reaction from Mulder, no anger, no rejection. He only stood there, frozen,
staring at the floor.
"I'm sorry I make you feel that way. I wish there were something I could do
to change things." Mulder looked at him strangely, eyes wide and shot through
with pain, mouth working. It occurred to Krycek that he had never really
apologized to Mulder for anything before. He hadn't thought Mulder was ready to
hear it. Perhaps now he was.
Krycek reached out to touch Mulder's cheek, just a light brush of his
fingertips down the angular jawline. "I'm sorry," he repeated.
Suddenly, Mulder pulled him fiercely into his arms, and buried his face in
Krycek's neck. Major denial, Krycek thought: Put the hate back in its box and
pretend it isn't there. Although, was Krycek himself really any better? So
convinced that everything would be all right, if only they sat down and talked
about it?
Never mind. He wrapped his arms around Mulder and held him tight.
It was madness, Krycek decided, as he shifted onto his back. Mulder rolled
over with him, sliding one knee across Krycek's thighs, and laying his head on
Krycek's chest. Mulder's body was warm and velvety-smooth and satisfying next
to his. He put his arm around Mulder's shoulders and held him close. Madness
to think that this rapturous sexual haze, no matter how glorious, could
overcome the problems between them.
Then perhaps they were both mad: because here he was, and it seemed he
believed it, too. I came back, Krycek thought. And I'm not going away
again.
|
Rated NC17 for explicit m/m
sex.
Sequel to Restitution: After Krycek returns from Russia, he and Mulder struggle with their new relationship. Mulder and Krycek belong to Chris Carter and 1013. No infringement intended. Feedback: codyne@netwizards.net |
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