He pulled the thin inner curtain aside and looked out. Not much of a view:
concrete parking lot, gleaming wetly from an earlier sprinkling of rain,
streetlamps dripping gloomy pools of yellow light at far intervals. There were
only a few other cars in the lot—it was a small motel, off the highway, too
far from the airport for business travelers, too far from anything else for
vacationers. Just one tired-looking clerk at the front desk, who seemed to find
the effort of opening the book for him to sign with yet another false name and
taking his cash almost too much to bear. Would she still be at the front desk?
Perhaps he could sit with her for a little while, and just talk. Lose himself
for a brief time in someone else's mundane life: the quiet details of her
existence, the soap operas she watched, the friends with whom she gossiped, the
husband she tried to care for, the children they'd had, or didn't have, or
lost. But no. If you talked to people, they remembered you, and that left
trails.
He rubbed his left shoulder, where flesh met plastic, ran his fingers under
the straps. Take it off for a little while, to ease the soreness? He sighed.
Better not—it was another disadvantage, to be caught without his arm, and he
didn't want to risk it, not even for a little while. Chances were high he was
safe enough here, for the time being—no one knew he was here except his new
patron, and he seemed to find Krycek useful, at least for now, so he would not
want to lose him. But 'seemed' was not quite good enough—no one was really
what he seemed. And the damned arm had cost too much; he didn't want to lose
it. He shouldn't really be naked, either, but he hadn't had a change of clothes
in days, and sleeping in them would only make them worse. Tomorrow perhaps he'd
find an hour to buy some clean underwear, at least.
Meanwhile, he ought to be sleeping. Staying sharp meant staying alive, and
he couldn't afford to be wandering around at four in the morning, worrying
about things he couldn't help, like Mulder did.
Mulder. He smiled to himself, a cold and bitter smile. What were the chances
Mulder was awake right now? After their meeting earlier . . . how long had it
been since their last meeting? Over a year this time. You'd think the effect
would fade in time, but no, it was as strong as ever—the sight of Mulder hit
him hard, right in the gut. The physical blows were nearly irrelevant. It was
those eyes of his, so deep and sad, as if they'd seen all the pain in the
world, and were busily suffering it, bit by bit, greedily sucking up every last
particle. And that mouth, soft and full and always on the verge of trembling.
The whiskey voice, sultry and inviting, that always seemed to have a caress in
it, even when it was shouting hate. And the body—
Krycek's right hand strayed down over his belly, fingers combed through the
hair over his crotch. Just scratching, he told himself. He wasn't even hard.
Although the first small tingles of arousal had begun to shiver in his groin.
His lips had pressed against Mulder's cheek. Stupid thing to do, really. It
wasn't likely to improve Mulder's attitude towards him, just make him angrier.
(But had that really been anger on Mulder's face as he drew away? Shock, more
like. Confusion. Like the breath had been knocked out of him.) But he just
hadn't been able to resist it, having the upper hand for once, and Mulder so
kissable on the floor, helpless, fear showing through his bravado, in the
bright spark in his eyes, in the way his voice cracked as he spit out his
insults. God, he'd been beautiful.
The tingle in his groin had turned into a throb, a dark pulse of blood. His
hand moved down to stroke, just one openhanded slide down the length of his
cock. Not with Mulder, he told himself, pulling his hand away, a familiar
warning. There was too much danger where Mulder was concerned. And too many
other attractive men in the world.
And who did Mulder think about when he masturbated? Not Krycek, he knew. Did
he think of men at all? Or women? Perhaps his wet dreams were full of demons
and mutants and aliens. It wasn't far from his mind, though. Isn't that how
you like to beat yourself? he'd taunted, when Krycek had told him he was
slipping, he could beat him with one hand.
I don't have any choice these days, Mulder. But fortunately, one's
enough. He held his cock in his hand, gave it a brief stroke with his
thumb, then moved to cup his balls. He squeezed them, rolling them in his hand,
twisting them a little to give himself just a little taste of pain. He felt his
cock jump and rise. Touching his balls was allowed. He squeezed them harder,
and bent over slightly, leaning his prosthetic arm against the windowsill, so
he could reach behind his balls to press one finger into his anus. Dry, he
couldn't get it in very far, and it hurt a little, but that was all right. Pain
and Mulder seemed to go together. He worked his hips, thrusting his finger
roughly into himself, his cock jerking with his thrusts, growing harder with
every motion. He kept on until his heart was pounding, and his rough gasps made
fog bloom on the window.
He paused a moment, letting his hand fall free, staring at the empty parking
lot, which felt a lot like his soul these days. His hand moved around his
throbbing cock. Not with Mulder, he warned himself again, but the
subversive voice answered, in whiskey tones, Just this once. It will help
you sleep. And god, he needed to sleep, and this night there was no chance
in hell of replacing that face with another.
So he closed his eyes and let the image take him, almost as forcefully as
the real man. Mulder. Passionate and full of pain; stubborn and willful and
angry, heat rising from him in waves, spitting out insults that felt like
caresses, sitting with Krycek's gun cradled in his lap, watching him with eyes
like a wounded animal as he left. Tovarish, he'd called him, when what
he wanted to say was—
His orgasm was sudden and hard, and over in a few quick pulses. Krycek took
one shuddering breath, then straightened up, a little wobbly, his knees already
turning to jelly. His semen had splattered the wall below the window. He stared
at it dully, as it gleamed in the faint light of the room. Sighing, he pulled
the curtain shut, then went to the bathroom to get a towel to clean it up.
That was stupid, he told himself. And this time the other voice agreed.
end...
One
Hand
by Cody Nelson
Alex Krycek flung the blanket off in frustration and sat up on the edge of the
bed, rubbing his eyes. The bedside clock glowed 3:46 a.m. in painfully large
red numerals. Growling under his breath, he turned the clock to the wall, and
stood up, walking naked in the near-dark to the partially-shaded window. He
never closed the outer drapes all the way—one always had to be ready to move,
to jump up and run, to grab for a weapon, and precious seconds spent fumbling
for a light switch, especially in successions of one generic but not quite
familiar motel room after another, could be seconds in which one's life slipped
away. Near dark was best: his own eyes accustomed to it, his gun under the
pillow, the room's arrangement of bed and dresser and chair memorized as best
he could in the hours before sleep. It was a small advantage, but sometimes a
small advantage was enough. You took what you could. Krycek had stayed alive so
far by taking small advantages and playing them for all he was worth.
