I head in to get something to eat the minute I haul my ass out of bed. Lame
attempt to distract myself from waking up in the middle of yet another damn
dream, but better than nothing. Besides, I'm starved. I didn't get a chance to
eat after I got off shift this morning, before Alex got to me.
'Got to me' being the operative phrase.
Bad enough he's convinced me to go along with his Samantha scheme, and not
tell anyone. Risking everything, especially himself. Even worse that his
obsessive approach to the problem steadily erodes all those comfortable
preconceptions and defenses I built up over our history. Not to mention making
me warm up to him much too... warmly. As if all that's not enough—I could
really do without feeling like the soles of my feet are melting when he turns
those damn eyes on me.
Looking me right in the eye, all serious and intense and, worst of all, hopeful.
"You don't mind, do you, Skinner? I had another thought and I'd really like to
bounce it off you..." With just enough stress on the 'you' to remind me I'm
the only one he's talking to about this. About a lot of things these days.
Hell no, Alex. I don't mind. Let's meet for hours—again—and go through all
the details—again—and use up all my mealtime and half of my sleeping time
too. Again.
But somehow, I'm just not saying no.
Got to me indeed.
Right, and I was trying to put a certain dream out of my head? I suppose it
stands to reason the dreams are so vivid, so hard to ignore. After spending so
much time with him, it'd be weirder if I didn't dream about him. Right?
Note to self... distraction does not work when you ask yourself rhetorical
questions about the subject you're attempting to distance yourself from.
Try again. I sigh and attempt to refocus on food. It shouldn't be this hard—I'm hungry enough to eat that whatever-it-is Mulder left molding beside his bed.
I meant to grab something after my session with Alex but by then my head was
too full and I just wanted to shut down and sleep. Happens a lot these days.
It's funny... 'confidante' always sounds like such a coveted position. I think
it's overrated. Being in the know with the man in charge sure as hell hasn't
made my life any easier.
On the other hand, I'm getting more and more convinced that having me in the
know has made his life easier, so maybe it all balances out. As I push open the
door to the kitchens, I find I like the thought. I wonder if it's true. I could
hope so, if I let myself.
I realize my mind just circled back to him yet again, and I give it up as a lost
cause.
There are more people than usual floating around the room we've dubbed the
cafeteria. We're between major strikes. Only emergencies that come up on
reconnaissance are being dealt with at the moment while we gear up for the next
big push. Everyone is getting the lecture on not taking unnecessary risks.
Ostensibly we're waiting on some confirmation of intelligence from the Rebels
concerning vaccine distribution. But I know Alex is also delaying in order to
get the Samantha question cleaned up before he goes on any new major missions.
That realization finally brought home to me how much he actually expects to die
each time we go out. He works with us all so much on survival, and talks like
getting everyone out each time is beyond question. We actually have a fairly
low casualty rate given the missions we're pulling off. Perhaps because we've
all been drilled on self-preservation by the self-acknowledged expert. Or maybe
because it comes so naturally to most of his old acquaintances, given their
prior line of work.
Then again, maybe we've all just reached that understanding, at the gut level,
of what it would mean to lose. Losing isn't an option. And we're all there is.
And we aren't very many, when you get right down to it. So we do what we need
to do to make sure we get the job done, and are still around to do it again.
And again.
Working in the resistance offers a whole new perspective on Alex Krycek's life
from before. And I thought I was a master at doing distasteful things because
I thought they had to be done, back in a consortium-riddled FBI. Hell, I barely
brushed the surface.
Of course I had more limits. I've always had more limits than he does. There
were some things I think they knew I just wouldn't do. I wonder sometimes if
he's ever hit that wall... the thing he won't do, no matter what. I haven't
decided if I really want the answer.
I nod to a few people as I wend between the scattered tables and the lounging
rebels. Coffee cups lift in salute but greetings are low key. People are a
little restless but you'd never know. Most of the teams are used to staying
sharp between bouts of inactivity. Not letting boredom get the better of them.
Old professional patterns again. For all my early reticence at Alex's recruits,
I find them an... interesting bunch to work with.
I'm restless too, and likely not hiding it as well as they are. Of course, I
know what the next mission really is.
And it isn't the only thing keeping me on edge. Making me dream. Distracting
me...
Once I decided to acknowledge that my feelings for our vaunted leader had
definitely crossed over from increasing ambivalence and confusion to admiration,
I got hit in the face with the inevitable "what next?" To tell him or not to
tell him? I want to let him know. I've tried subtle cues... I'm a hell of a
lot nicer in general to him these days. I don't give him half the shit I used
to. I make a sincere effort to ask him where he's coming from when he says
something that strikes me as morally offensive and cold, rather than just
jumping down his throat. I bring him food when he forgets to eat, which is a
little too often for my comfort level. I got him extra cinnamon gum the last
time I was on grocery duty, knowing he'd run out and kept getting too busy or
forgetting to pick it up himself. He never asks anyone to buy it for him,
never puts it on the lists.
Little things. Telling him he needs to go to sleep instead of rereading plans
one more time. Taking an extra guard shift myself so he can get four hours of
uninterrupted sleep.
And there's that little issue of not being able to say no to him lately. I
suppose that could be considered a subtle clue. Although I think he doesn't
realize just how hard it's getting for me. He may think I'm being unusually
agreeable of late, but I don't think he's made the connection that every time he
widens his eyes at me, I... respond. Why would he? Given our past, he's not
about to assume that I enjoy talking with him, listening to him.
Besides, I want more. More than just comfortable conversation, him thinking of
me as a friend. I need to face what the dreams are telling me, what's been
lurking in my mind whenever I interact with him lately—I want to reach out. I
want to know if my growing interest is returned. Maybe it's foxhole attraction,
that's certainly what I was trying to tell myself at first, but I don't think
so. I find myself distracted at the worst times, thinking about what it would
be like to kiss him. Thinking about what it would be like to yank him into my
arms and just hold him for a few minutes, make him shut up and stop talking and
stop thinking and... just give him a place to feel safe once in a while.
And these dreams. Christ. Kissing and holding is the least of what my
subconscious wants to do.
It's confusing to me, and I'm in my head. I'm sure it would be somewhat
surprising to him.
So first things first. Getting more... blunt. I'm an action kind of guy. How
hard can this be? I've been asking myself that every waking hour of every day
for over a week. And obviously way too many of the sleeping hours too. It's
enough to embarrass a guy. I know what I want and I know how to find out if he
wants it too. I can handle it if he doesn't. I've been turned down before.
I'm hardly an inexperienced man. But... him.
How does he do this to me... make me feel like this.
I suppose it doesn't help that every time I'm with him for any extended length
of time, we're talking about Mulder. Indirectly. He tends to avoid discussing
Mulder with me. But Fox Fucking Mulder is omnipresent under every word, every
damn studied conversation about how to waltz into the middle of Colonization
Central and come back out not only alive, but with the crown jewel under our
arm. Whether Alex admits it or not, we've talked of nothing but Mulder ever
since that night four weeks back when he got word about Samantha.
Granted, watching him plan and replan and fuss and obsess and devote himself to
Samantha's rescue has been an experience I wouldn't have missed for the world.
Seeing those devil brows draw in. That little frown line crinkling his nose.
Chewing on a knuckle. Concentrating to the point of distraction. Knowing that
in his own way, no matter what he says, he's still trying to pay a debt, make
amends for his approach to life, his actions. And that warm sensation in my gut
spreads all through me.
Then I'll suddenly remember the underlying implication—his dedication to
Mulder. His doomed little quest for Mulderaffection, whether he admits it or
not, even to himself.
And I feel a little less tender.
Or I catch him watching Mulder with that... look. And I feel a lot less tender.
For all my action-orientation, I'm having a hard time making myself move on
this one. Watching him moon over Mulder, even just watching any of the team
exchange significant looks about how he moons over Mulder, depresses the hell
out of me and makes me chalk up any interesting dreams or notions I'm having to
a lost cause. And it takes me half a day to get myself back to a place where I
remember he knows Mulder is a lost cause too, so maybe my notions aren't as
unlikely as I might think. We could start again, talk through everything,
actually let the past go and think about what might happen... next. In a way
he knows he can't, not with Mulder.
And then I walk in on him fighting with Mulder about some damn fool thing and I
watch the sparks fly and I just... run in circles. Over and over.
And even if I do get myself to the point of acting, how the hell do I get it
through his head. Occasionally, late at night or the middle of the day or
whenever I'm trying to catch some sleep, I amuse myself thinking about his
possible reactions. Somehow I get a strong sense I'm going to have to literally
whack him over the head. For a man who deals in subtleties, he's really thick
sometimes.
Honestly, Walter, about time you stopped thinking. Seems like all I do these
days.
I realize I've long since reached the serving station and I've been standing
here staring at the food. I glance around to see if anyone is giving me odd
looks, but most of them are focused on their own tables. Of course, even if
they were giving me odd looks, I'd probably never catch them at it. Damn
professionals.
I spoon up my usual bowl of oatmeal. They've taken to offering it 'round the
clock, which I appreciate, since I'm never completely sure when "breakfast" will
be these days. I study it objectively and sigh. It'll do, despite the lack of
anything interesting to put in it. One of my favorite past-times, dressing up
oatmeal. Supplies are a little short at the moment, particularly "luxury"
items. Alex has even been conservative on sending anybody out on grocery runs
in the last week, and we've got more drains on our resources since we actually
got a few people out on two of the last raids. I meant to ask him about
supplies yesterday, but I got sidetracked with our latest analysis of risk and
probability ratios for Operation Twinkle Version 57. I always get a grin out of
him actually using that name... I tossed it out as a joke but it's stuck. I'm
seeing his odd sense of humor more and more, ever since a night in outer space
talking about superheroes.
A hand suddenly appears over my shoulder and something drops into my bowl.
Pecans. A smile is stretching my lips before I even realize that I definitely
know there is only one person who could possibly be dropping pecans into my
oatmeal unasked for. "Got brown sugar?" I ask, as if anonymous pecans appear
over my shoulder every day.
"For a price," the husky voice whispers over my shoulder, sending a shiver
straight down my spine. I wonder if he means that as flirtatious as it sounds.
I wonder if he knows what his voice does to me and uses it on purpose. I'd
assume a man of his professional history is well versed in using any and all
weapons in his arsenal, but he never seems to use it consciously. At least not
with me. "Special stash," he continues in a low rasp. "Keep it quiet."
I drop my voice and play along. "My lips are sealed. Where?"
"Meet me in outer space. Make sure nobody follows you."
The hand is gone, and I already know that by the time I turn around, he'll be
nowhere in sight. I turn anyway, can't resist, and catch a flash of black
exiting the doors. Slow today, or perhaps just in a playful mood. The more time
I spend with him, the more flashes I see of the latter. I realize I'm grinning
again when Norman walks by me and gives me a wide berth. I school my face and
head for the door, mixing my pecans into my oatmeal.
I take a circuitous route that keeps me from the more traveled hallways and has
me worrying for the temperature of my cereal when I finally get to eat it. But
eventually I'm at his special room, without running into anyone troublesome. I
knock once on the door and then key in the code I memorized a few weeks back,
when he casually turned to me and told me I should have it. Every time I
activate the touchpad, the memory gives me a little jolt. I slip inside, closing
the door behind me.
He looks up as I walk across the bare room, and smiles.
Fuck.
Why do I get the privilege of seeing what no one else does? When did he make a
decision that he needed to be a real person occasionally, and I was going to be
the recipient?
I don't care when or why or how. I just bask in the sun of that incredible
real smile, and thank the stars on the ceiling that something I said to him at
some point got through the message that he could relax the defenses a little
with me. I'm not even positive he consciously decided to do it, and in a way,
that's an even bigger compliment.
He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, an array of papers spread before him. I
notice a small pile of mussed blankets against one wall. Looks like he's been
sleeping in here again. A small lamp is on; his arm is off. He reaches behind
his back and tosses something to me. No one can fault the boy's aim... I catch
it easily and laugh as I read the small can. Brown sugar.
"Shit. You were serious." I settle on the floor across from him and open the
can, shaking a healthy sprinkle onto my oatmeal and mixing again.
"Would I lie to you?"
The voice is his best butter-wouldn't-melt, and I know what the eyes will look
like without even seeing them. I look up anyway, just to enjoy the show.
Innocence always was delicious on that face, all the more so now because I can
appreciate the irony. "And why are you stockpiling brown sugar, may I ask?"
"Because you like it," he gives a lopsided shrug, already immersed in his papers
again. "I picked it up my last time out. Don't hand that around, I could only
get the one. So, I've got confirmation that I was right. Minor complication,
since we've been expecting it. You know I've been suspicious but now I—"
He's talking but it's a background blur. A pleasant, raspy blur that I could
listen to at length, but still a blur. I'm stuck on his first words. Because
you like it. He not only noticed I like brown sugar in my oatmeal, he got it
for me? Saved it for me?
Don't read too much into it, Walter. He probably knows what kind of socks
Mulder prefers, how he takes his coffee, and the exact shade of ripeness he
likes his bananas. Don't get too excited. Definitely don't tackle him across
the goddamn papers and rip that black turtleneck off him. Even if it is the one
with the hole just under the neck line, right over his collarbone, giving that
teasing glimpse of skin so you just want to hook your fingers into it and yank,
knowing the old cotton would just split right down the chest, peel away—
No. Surefire way to scare him off. If he didn't react with a super-spy
triple-agent self-defense move that would undoubtedly incapacitate me in some
horribly painful way, he'd shoot me outright. And probably be pissed as all
hell if I wrinkle his precious plans. No, not the right way to whack him over
the head at all.
Although it would likely avoid the trap of him thinking I'm mocking him.
"-listening to me? HELLO?"
"Hmm?" Shit. I can't believe the conversations I'm having with myself these
days. I have got to settle this one way or the other, and soon. Before I
can't stand to live with myself. I realize I have no idea what he said after
'because you like it.' Definitely not going to get away with trying to pick up
the thread of the conversation now. Oh well. "Sorry. I drifted." I don't
sound particularly apologetic, even to my own ears.
He gives me a bemused look. "No shit. Where were you?"
Ripping your shirt off and devouring you on top of Operation Twinkle, Variation
58. No one has the right to look that good in a fucking turtleneck. I shake my
head and get refocused. "You don't even want to know," I mutter.
He tilts his head to one side and stares at me for a long moment, eyes narrowed,
trying to read me. He's looking at me like that a lot these days. It's one of
the more honest expressions I see on that face. I stare back lazily without
bothering to edit my expression. Reminding myself I'm trying to be obvious
here. Hoping a little of the heat I'm feeling is showing through my eyes. I
used to be good at the 'passionate gaze' thing, but I'm not exactly in practice.
Clueless boy finally shakes his head and gives me another 'I don't know about
you' eyebrow raise. I'm getting used to those, too. They make me smile. "I'll
take your word for that," he finally settles on. "Ready to pay attention now?"
He taps his papers.
"Just about," I stir my oatmeal and take a slow bite. Swallowing, I sigh
happily and gesture to the bowl. "First, thanks. What's up with supply runs
lately? I've been meaning to ask. Things have been fairly quiet on the
outside. Why so cagey this past week?"
"If you're ready to pay attention, that's what I was just talking about," he
puts on his long-suffering lecture voice, and I recognize the words I've used so
many times in my previous life. Damn, his memory should be a registered weapon.
I narrow my eyes and give him the 'I consented to let you be in charge, boy'
look so common from the early days of our resistance work together. He ducks
his head but not before I see the smirk. When he looks up he's serious again.
"It is a trap. I got a confirmation about six days ago that I didn't come by
the Samantha information by accident."
I bristle, instantly all business. "Your contact set you up?"
"No, I think Reinhold's on the up-and-up. As much as he can be." He rubs his
eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and I wonder how bad the current headache
is. I start eating mechanically as he talks. "I think the information is out
there in all the 'right' places, because they want it to get back to Mulder.
I'm guessing Reinhold came by it, if you'll excuse the expression, honestly
enough. I just think somebody was making sure it got out far enough that it
couldn't help but reach me. But it wasn't me they were really trying to get it
to, surprise surprise. All I can figure is they actually thought I'd tell him."
He shakes his head, as if in awe at somebody's stupidity.
I'm not about to be the one to break it to him that some of his old Syndicate
cronies are bound to know his weakness is Mulder. Most likely the grand dragon
himself. Granted, they may have predicted he'd jump the wrong way, but that's
only because they don't truly understand how he thinks. I might have assumed
the same in their place—that he'd pass the information right on to Mulder.
But in Alex's peculiar little mind, protecting Mulder still overrides getting in
good with him through information. Now that I've been studying him so closely
for the last couple months, I could have told them that. Not that I would, but
I could have. I can't help feeling smug that I've got that much of a leg up on
everybody else where he's concerned.
"Apparently, when nothing was immediately forthcoming, when he didn't jump for
the bait, when nobody tried for her, they decided to go more obvious." He gives
me a tired look.
"You mean... other people—?"
"Yep. I've heard about these 'interesting rumors' from three separate people in
the last six days."
I stop eating, swallowing hard. We've always been planning as if it could be a
trap anyway, so what's disturbing is the fact that this is the first time I've
heard about the confirmation. "What did you do?" And why didn't you tell me.
"Two of them weren't a problem. They're in the group that would only bring
information like that directly to me, and I brushed them off with a line that it
had to be a trap and I wasn't going to be bothered with such obvious bait." His
mouth twists unpleasantly. "Langley, on the other hand, I had to threaten."
"Shit! Alex!"
"It's okay, he expects it from me." He gives me a look I would have called
sheepish on anyone else. "I told him in explicit detail what I'd do to him if
he dared breathe a word of it to Mulder. Then I gave him the same rundown, that
it was obviously a baited trap. I just lied a little more with him and told him
I knew for a fact Samantha was dead, so it was even a poorly baited trap. That
seemed to do the trick."
I groan, and resume eating, still more pissed that he didn't tell me than I am
that he threatened Langley. Langley could do with a little threatening from
time to time. "You really think he won't say anything to Mulder? That he
didn't go to Mulder first?"
The lopsided shrug again, accompanied by a heavy sigh. "I was lucky... I was in
the computer room when he was decoding and realized what he had. I was able to
short circuit any spill of information but... well, I think we'll know the
second he does tell him, if he does. UXB Mulder will shake the ceiling when he
finally goes off. Just to be safe, I've got an extra team on Mulder though,
with direct orders to lock him down if he even looks like he's walking off
course."
It doesn't escape my notice that he said extra team on Mulder. I've suspected
he's had a back-up tailing Mulder for a while now. I let it go because,
frankly, I don't think it's a bad idea. Especially with this new twist. I
scrape the bottom of my bowl and push aside the little voice still nattering on
about how I'm only just hearing about this, when he's had it on his plate for
six days. I guess I've gotten used to being in the know, even if it is a pain
in the ass. But... let it go, Walter. Concentrate on the important stuff. "So
you've been pulling everyone in and stalling everything so it won't spread any
further and get back to him."
He rubs his eyes again, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. Where I
can. Which brings us back to brown sugar." His expression takes on a disgusted
tinge. "Even supplies are a problem right now. The second person who heard the
'rumor' was on a grocery run. Which is why I was saying this complicates
things. We can't do shit now until we pull this off, or we risk Mulder finding
out and bungling the whole thing, likely getting himself taken in the process.
Especially now we know it definitely is a setup and that they're targeting him
specifically." His face darkens. "Obviously, with a Samantha-setup."
Unless they're targeting you, I almost say, but bite my tongue, letting him
continue unimpeded.
"I think it's safe to say that no matter whether we have any idea why they
want him so bad, we really don't want to see them get their hands on him," he
adds sarcastically.
I sigh and shift into my usual problem-solving mode. "Okay, so it's no surprise
they still want him. You've suspected it right along. We've always been
planning for the possibility the Samantha information could be a trap. So,
we've got confirmation. Better now than later. So let's do the detail check
and go with the trap contingencies." I'll just have to factor the possibility
that he's the target into my planning.
An hour later I have a headache to match the one showing in his pained
expression. Given his original intelligence, we're confident they're baiting
this trap with the real thing... that it really is Samantha, and she really is
alive. The new leaks haven't dissuaded him, just made him more positive on that
front. Alex is convinced They know that nothing less than the real thing would
lure Mulder out at this point in the game, especially since he's 'let go' and
given her up for dead. I'm inclined to agree; I think it's her. They're
pulling out the big guns, which could be a good sign or a bad one. Either we've
got them worried, or they're just starting up some new offensive. No way of
knowing for sure. To make matters worse, we're still unclear on her specific
condition, and no amount of beating the proverbial bushes on his part has
brought any further elucidation. So we're not only still planning to pull off
the impossible, we now know for a fact they're lying in wait for us while we
attempt it. But he won't hear of not trying...
Frustration, thy name is Alex Krycek. In more ways than one.
All we know for sure is we need to move sooner rather than later. All told,
knowing it's a trap doesn't change much of our plans, depressing as that may be,
since we've already been thinking that way. We might as well move now, we're as
ready as we're likely to get. We've just been fine-tuning, hoping like hell for
a break from the Rebels. Which doesn't seem to be coming.
I throw myself down onto my back on the floor, staring at his sky. In the light
of the lamp, his stars are almost invisible, and it just looks like a spotty
black ceiling. I find myself wondering what his sky would look like in
candlelight. I bet it would look nice in here. I know there are some candles
down in Supply 2. Wonder if there are any candleholders floating around?
"There's always the tried-and-true laundry truck."
Why in hell would a laundry truck have candleholders? Definitely not an option.
I catch myself before I can voice this conclusion, and find myself perplexed as
to why I'm even trying to picture his room in candlelight. I roll my head
sideways on the floor to blink at him.
He's on his back too, perpendicular to me, and as he speaks he arches his head
all the way back so he's looking at me upside down. It makes his face look
funny.
"You know, in all the old movies. Someone is always sneaking in or out of a
place in the laundry truck." His upside down smile looks even funnier. "It
always works."
Every time he jokes with me, no matter how lame, I chalk up another one on my
mental score sheet that tallies up how he talks to me these days versus how he
interacts with everyone else. It's a quiet thrill. But I give the expected
response. "Alex. Have you been getting enough sleep?"
He gives that weird, choked chortle of his. Always makes me wonder if someone
used to yell at him for laughing when he was a boy, the way he seems to
unconsciously try to cut it off. Maybe he just trained it out of himself.
Figured it was bad for the assassin image. That would be very Alex.
"Okay," he sighs, pushing himself back to a sitting position and swiveling to
face me. "Enough for today. I have to check the latest downloads, make sure I
don't have to threaten any more hackers. And you need to double-check the
roster and make sure that no one has 'reassigned' himself." The put-upon look on
his face reminds me of the expression I used to wear as an AD.
"Oh sure. You get all the fun and I get all the headaches. When do I get to
threaten hackers?" I grouse as I lever myself up and get to my feet.
"You get the next one, promise," he deadpans, rolling to his knees in an awkward
movement made graceful only through uncounted repetition. Picking up our
redlined diagrams of the complex Samantha is reportedly being held in, he lays
them in an unlabeled folder one by one.
"Promises, promises," I snort, heading for the door, waiting for it. Sure
enough, when I'm halfway there, his voice catches me.
"Walt."
I only half-turn, used to his habits by now. He imparts the oddest bits of
information on my way out the door. Usually the best stuff. "Yeah?" Carefully
nonchalant.
"I didn't want to distract you."
Okay, non sequitur anyone? I turn all the way around. "Say again?"
"If you were wondering. Why I didn't mention the Samantha leaks I've been
hearing until now." He finally looks up from his careful stacking, made slow by
virtue of being a one-handed process, face classic Krycek blank. "I was waiting
to see if the leaking was going to be a real problem. I didn't want to distract
you with worrying about what Mulder might hear." This time the shrug looks
vaguely uncomfortable. "I needed at least one of us approaching the problem
with a totally clear head. I needed your best strategy."
I stand for a moment, just looking at the lone figure kneeling on the floor in a
small circle of light. Surrounded by a hopeless plan. So far removed, so
carefully locked away. Juggling all the pieces all the time, trying so hard to
put the whole puzzle together single-handedly. So damn lonely. He's got to be
tired of the place he's in.
I nod slowly. "I understand." I find my feet moving back toward him without a
conscious decision. I stop just in front of him as he looks up expectantly,
obviously wondering why I came back. I usually just take in whatever gem he
tosses me and walk out the door with it. But today... I can feel myself
crumbling, the pressure of what's been building on the inside pressing for
release. He starts to rise from his knees and I hold out my hand before I
realize I'm going to do it. He stares at it for a long moment, an unreadable
expression on his face, and I wince internally. But I can't draw it back now
without looking plain damn clumsy. Then he puts his hand on mine and uses it to
balance as he rises.
I catch my breath. Letting me help him is a far cry beyond just being more
comfortable with me. He looks me in the face once he's standing, and his
expression is still blank but his eyes... there I go melting into my shoes
again.
How do you do it, Alex?
He withdraws even as I watch, pulling back further into himself, his hand starts
to pull away, and my fingers tighten reflexively. He looks momentarily
startled, but he doesn't tug his hand back as I close mine around it and
squeeze, gently. My other hand is lifting to touch his hair, just over his
ear... I watch it as if I'm moving on automatic, and in some ways I am. I can't
seem to stop myself. My fingers stroke the spiky darkness, my thumb coasts
against the warmth of his skin, his cheekbone.
His head turns, just a fraction, into my touch, his eyelashes dipping. My
throat tightens at his reaction, I feel a swell of emotion and... he's
stiffening, his eyes widening. Stepping back and his hand breaks from mine. He
blinks at me and I see confusion. Confusion that gets swept under the rug as my
hands drop to my sides, as he speaks quickly, brusquely. "I... ah, I have to
get to the computer room. I'll be late and what with that being the way the
information 'turned up' last time, I'm concerned. I need to stay right on top
of them, they're probably the most unpredictable link we've got right now
besides Mulder himself." He's talking faster than usual; his hand lifts and
rifles his hair in a gesture I've come to realize is habitual, the closest thing
he has to a nervous tick. "If you'll take care of the roster stuff for me, that
would be great. I—"
I nod and take a step backward, smiling blandly. Giving him his space,
physically and emotionally. Something tears, short and sharp, just behind my
breastbone, but my voice is calm and nothing but friendly when I speak. "I'm on
it. Don't give it a second thought. Go threaten your hackers and make sure
they understand how important this is." With a smile and a nod I turn and make
my way out of the room.
And try to figure out what just happened.
09:55
I'm still pondering when I get off rotation.
I finished my stint on external perimeter without much trouble; I can always
keep myself on track when I'm outside. Apparently old lessons never die, and
Vietnam was a very thorough teacher. But my mind wandered all over hell and
back during my shift at the east wing doors.
And it didn't wander anywhere near another mental review of Operation Twinkle,
which is where it should have been concentrating.
He responded. I made an overture and he responded. Before he took the time to
think, he responded. That has to be a good sign. Think optimistic. I sure
as hell can't just drop it and act like it didn't happen. I can't guess what's
going through his head and walk away and never mention it again because I think
he was trying to 'let me down easy'. I don't work that way.
Of course it took me a good four hours to get to that determination but... I got
there. Here.
On the upside, despite all the distraction, by the time I get off I've made my
firm decision. We need to talk, and we need to talk sooner rather than later.
As in, today. Now. Or as soon as possible anyway. And I'll make another
overture, one that's clear and unmistakable. And try to reach that response
again.
With that in mind, I reshuffled his plans. He'll probably be pissed as hell
that I took it upon myself to clear his schedule but... tough. And it was
surprisingly easy. No one questioned my right to cancel meetings for him, one
of the benefits of the amount of authority he's handed off to me. The ease with
which people took my determination of his schedule makes me doubly convinced we
need to talk. Makes me wonder if everybody else is already talking.
And here I've been thinking 'poor Alex' what with him being so obvious about
Mulder and all. Talk about the blind leading the blind.
But now I've seen everybody I need to see, and I check my watch. Timing looks
good. He should be back by 10:30 from his meet. No one is expecting him
anywhere for a couple hours. Now if I can just count on him actually getting
back when he's scheduled. I don't feel like waiting around forever. Shouldn't
be a problem; he's been unusually prompt returning from his excursions these
days. Now I know why—he's suddenly got more to keep track of inside the
facility. If my calculations are correct following my perusal of the roster,
and I know they are, he'll be coming in the North door today. And you think
you're not predictable, Alex.
Mulder's on North door duty until 13:00.
I feel my grin twist into an involuntary grimace, but I take a deep breath and
exhale slowly. Not going to even think about it today. Let it go. I know the
score, and I'm not going to let it stop me. Concentrate. You want this. Give
it a shot. All you can do is talk to him, get it out in the open, see what the
lay of the land is.
All that's left is the note. I stare at the piece of paper I printed my message
on. 'Meet me in outer space. 11:15. —W.' Considering I've already cancelled
his meetings, it's a little late to have second thoughts now. I stick the note
in a folder and stack the folder with a few others, tuck them under my arm.
Time to go see a man about a surveillance camera.
10:20
"Don't you have somewhere you need to be, Skinner?"
I stack my feet on the table Frohike is trying to work on, and give him an
innocent smile. "Not really, no."
Rolling his eyes, he makes a big production out of moving over far enough so he
can spread his computer printouts across the table without my feet coming
anywhere near them. "Tell me again why you're gracing us with your presence?"
he mumbles directly to the papers.
"Because you guys are information central. Always makes me feel on top of
things to hang out with you techies, watch you keep an eye on everything and
everyone." I cast my hands expansively around to indicate the multiple screens
displaying continuously changing views of the outside perimeter and the internal
hallways.
From her position in front of the central monitor, Eve tosses me an amused
smile. I wink at her. Frohike snorts and grumbles something under his breath
that I graciously ignore. My mind's on other things today. A face tilting into
my touch...
And speak of the devil. A high-pitched chirrup sounds from the distance motion
sensors and Eve smoothly sights in on the movement. As casually as possible I
drop my feet to the floor, rise and wander to her chair to watch over her
shoulder.
Frohike glances at his watch and then at the ever-present palm pilot that hangs
on his belt. "Ought to be Krycek," he tosses over his shoulder to Eve, never
fully straightening up from his study of his printouts.
"Mmmm hmm." She keeps the cameras focused on the moving target and magnifies
the image. Sure enough, that smooth sliding walk is instantly recognizable.
Not to mention the dead giveaway—he's out there alone. Everyone else moves in
pairs or quartets on the outside. Only he wanders around solo. Makes me crazy
but I haven't figured out how to knock some sense into him. "Positive
identification... boss man's back," she confirms to Frohike, who grunts a reply.
"Looks like... North entrance."
Quell surprise. Trying my best to make it sound like I'm just coming to the
conclusion, I sigh, "Well, I suppose I should go give him the latest update,
since I know where he is for once." I stretch nonchalantly. "Nice visiting
with you, Frohike."
He turns his head just enough to give me a speaking look over his glasses and
returns to his work. Eve on the other hand swivels her chair and smiles up at
me. "See you later, Walter."
I nod goodbye, pick up my stack of folders and leave the room. My timing needs
to look nicely accidental now, considering who's going to be present. I cut
through the corridors and by the time I wander up to Mulder and Anthony arguing
amicably over the Yankees, I figure he must be fairly close. I'm not
disappointed. Within a few minutes of my inserting myself into their
conversation, the expected series of beeps sounds, indicating someone is keying
open the far door lock from the outside. Mulder rolls his eyes at me and jerks
his head at the door. "His highness is home. Security confirmed his ident a
little while ago." As Alex appears around the sliding door, Anthony speaks into
his headset to Eve, letting her know Alex is in and the door is being reset.
He walks towards us and I feel my adrenaline kick up just a bit. Nerves?
Christ. Unbelievable. I force the thought aside and tell myself my pulse did
not just speed up. As he gets closer I can see he looks tired. His eyes coast
greedily over Mulder in that familiar way, then swing to me before Mulder can
toss off one of his usual welcomes.
"Hey Skinner... what's up?"
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the way Mulder's face registers
annoyance at being effectively ignored. Honestly... poor Alex. Damned if he
does, damned if he doesn't with Mulder. Which suits me just fine. I meet that
laser beam gaze and let the moment drag, enjoying having his attention focused
on me, enjoying even more the way his face relaxed just a bit when he saw me.
"I was just killing some time," I finally say casually. "But since I'm running
into you anyway..." I make a production out of rifling through the folders under
my arm, selecting the one that carries the only document I want him looking at
right now. Handing it over, I shrug apologetically. "This could use your
attention as soon as you can get to it."
"Okay," he responds, accepting it and flipping it open. His eyes skim rapidly
and I watch him pause. The note staring up at him doesn't take long to read.
He looks up and though his eyes immediately seek mine again, his expression is
unchanged, perfectly blasé. Always the professional. "I'll get right on it,"
he nods, closing the folder firmly. "I just need to check in with Rhodes."
Okay, so he might be a little late. I can deal with that. I nod and turn back
the way I came in. "Later Tony. Mulder." Anthony responds, but Mulder is
already starting in. I walk away to the sound of his voice.
"So what's up with all the restraint, Krycek? I thought you were just playing
your little control games with me again, but looks like you're not letting any
of the teams out of the hole at the moment."
"You know we're waiting on the Rebels, Mulder," his weary rejoinder comes, and I
have to stop myself from going back and dragging him away with me, knowing he'll
stand there and let Mulder pick away until the headache-lines are standing
clearly on either side of his eyes. He's a big boy. If he chooses to stay and
take it... I settle for heaving an irritated sigh.
"Yeah, but—"
I'm around the corner and out of earshot for the rest of Mulder's rebuttal, and
just as glad. Watching them interact is the quickest way to convince myself not
to have this conversation. And that's not happening. Not this time.
My resolve firmed, I take the shortest route to my destination. Once back
inside, I wonder if I should have the lamp on or off. Sometimes he likes
talking in the dark, prefers it, and this could be an easier conversation to
have watching his stars. But since I'm the one that asked to talk, it may seem
weird if I'm sitting here in the dark. If he wants to initiate a conversation
while stargazing that's one thing. From me, after what happened earlier, it
might look a little... premeditated. I walk over to turn on the lamp.
And trip over it. Fuck! How the hell he gets himself around in here by the
light of those stars is beyond me. I manage to keep myself from falling flat by
catching myself on the wall, but wince at the crash and tinkle of glass.
Fucking great. Kneeling on the floor carefully, avoiding shards, I stare at the
mess and try to figure out what to be pissed at... my stubbed toe, sore elbow,
the broken lamp, or the fact that now we really will be talking in the dark,
whether I intended it or not. Besides, I'd actually like to see his face
while I try to talk to him about this.
Sitting back with a huff, trying to figure out where I can grab another lamp and
quick, I realize I've sat on his blankets I noticed earlier. Fabulous... can
this get anymore seduction-like? I swear I—
My brain catches and snags. Seduction-like... I flash on my thoughts from
during our meeting, my mental image of candlelight in the room. My hand rests
on the blankets beneath me.
Well, I did say I thought I might have to be... obvious. Whack him over the
head, if I recall the thought correctly. Maybe I need to do a little more than
talk to get through to him. After all, it was a physical gesture he responded
to. And he did respond.
I'm up and practically running before I realize I've made up my mind. Supply 2
is closer than tracking down another lamp anyway. Keeping an eye on my watch, I
ignore the odd looks I'm getting as I race around, now hoping that he will be
late from his check-in with Rhodes. Breathing hard, I manage to beat him back
to the star room, and catch my breath as I scramble around lighting candles.
None of them match and two are in glasses from the kitchen rather than actual
holders, but who cares. I found enough to have one in each corner and one each
against the side walls, and the flicker through the glasses is kind of pretty.
It's a small room; the six give a healthy glow, with enough shadows left to
allow for atmosphere and to not overpower the stars.
Nice.
The little tin of Vaseline from the medical supplies sitting right next to the
candle bin stays in my pocket. If candles seem a little premeditated, that
could be considered downright insulting. Certainly a long shot. I can hardly
believe I grabbed it. But it was just sitting there and... well, it never
hurts to hope.
I'm lighting the last wick as I hear the sound of booted feet in the hall. As
the keypad beeps, I realize I didn't get rid of the broken glass yet. I walk to
the door to steer him clear of it, when the door swings inward. He walks
straight in without hesitation, momentum carrying him past me, the door closing
behind him with a sharp click. I open my mouth to speak just as my hand lifts
and settles firmly on his left shoulder.
The next moment I'm on the floor, gasping and coughing, trying to get my breath
after a sharp elbow to the gut and a long leg sweeping my feet out from under
me. Never touch a Krycek from behind.
"Fuck! Walter!" He kneels beside me and helps me sit up, rubbing my back, a
look of concern and dismay crossing his face. "I'm sorry! Are you okay? I
didn't... I mean..."
I blink at him in the low light and manage a choked chuckle. "Who the hell did
you think it was?! I'm the one who asked to meet you here."
Flustered, he stammers. "I-I, I know, I'm sorry. I just, I didn't... the room,
it seemed off and—"
Fuck, he's cute like this. I shake my head, letting the wry laughter take over.
"Alex, stop. I know, I know. I should know better than to touch you from
behind, without identifying myself. I just sort of figured you'd be less
hair-triggered coming into your own room when I asked you to meet me here." I
shake my head at him in exasperation. "I suppose it's my fault though..." I
trail off and wave the hand that isn't rubbing my sore stomach, encompassing the
candles.
He freezes, looks up and around. Taking in the room, finally. Looking at each
candle in turn. Startlement and then confusion spread over his face, as rare as
the fluster and just as adorable. I really have to remember not to mention that
to him. I doubt he'd appreciate it.
"Sorry about the dark," I offer. "I knocked over the lamp. I'm sorry. I'll get
you another one."
He glances over at the shattered remains and a bemused half-smile curls his
lips. "You broke my lamp?"
"I didn't mean to. I tripped over it." I pause, take a slow breath and take a
chance. I lift my hand, touching his cheek lightly, stroking my fingers down to
his jaw, catching his chin and gently guiding his face about to look at me.
Huge dark eyes stare at me in wounded bewilderment and my heart aches. Has it
been so long, Alex? So long since anybody gave a damn?
"Alex." Making my voice as low and gentle as I can. "Alex, I know this may
look a little... odd. It's not what it looks like." I stop. It isn't? "Okay,
that's not right either. It sort of is what it looks like. Earlier... what
happened. It was kind of sudden. I think it took you by surprise. Hell, in a
way it took me by surprise, though I have been... thinking about it. I mean in
a general sense. But I asked to meet you here because I wanted to talk about
it. I don't want to just back away and pretend nothing happened." I take
another deep breath and push on, not letting him look away. "I want to talk to
you about... how things are. Now. Get it out on the table so we can work with
it or around it, but so we don't have to ignore it like the invisible elephant
in the room.
"I wasn't trying to push you. Before. I just reacted spontaneously. Some
things that have been building just sort of spilled out. Working with you these
past months... things are... sort of... different. At least they are for me. A
lot different. I thought... maybe... maybe for you too. It's okay if they're
not, I'm not asking for anything you don't want to give, or have, or... well.
I'm just... tired of not talking about it, not trying. What I mean is—" I'm not
expressing myself well, and frustration rises in my throat. Words have never
been my strong suit. Huffing out an irritated sigh, I tighten my grip a
fraction on his chin, and guide his face closer, leaning in and tilting my head
sideways. "What I mean is... this," I breathe against his mouth, then close the
distance. I brush my lips across his once, then fasten on with the hunger he's
been unknowingly sparking in me, pouring all the frustrated 'signals' out into
the most blatant message I can give. I've used up all the subtlety I possess.
I hear a muffled gasp of surprise, and take quick advantage of the parting lips,
not above using any skills at my disposal to sway the answer in my favor.
Letting my tongue sweep his mouth, I get lost in the moist silk feel, the strong
edge of teeth, the hot slick twist of his tongue. My other hand finds the back
of his head and burrows into the soft spiky hair I've been dying to touch for...
for months. One touch earlier was not enough. Just enough to make me want
more. Stroking again and again, brushing against the grain and he shivers. My
hand at his chin caresses down over his throat, feeling out his pulse, running
back up to play fingertips over the plump flesh of an earlobe, tease the ridges
of an ear. He makes a noise against my mouth, and I love it. My tongue
retreats just long enough for my teeth to nip at his lower lip, tugging, trying
to get the sound again. A little voice in my head is screaming something, and
it sounds like 'you said you weren't pushing, give him a chance to say yes or
no!'
Right. Right. I release his lip and pull back, letting both hands stroke once
more before coming to rest, cradling his face. Thoroughly flummoxed Alex
Krycek. Beautiful sight. I smile slowly. "Yes." I nod. "Yes, that's exactly
what I mean."
His mouth opens. Closes. His hand is still on my back, and I suddenly notice
it's fisted in my shirt, hanging on for dear life. I think Superman is feeling
a little uncertain about leaping this particular building, flying this high.
"Skinner," he finally manages, then changes his mind mid-thought. "Walter."
I'm pleased with the shift. "I... I don't understand. Earlier I didn't... it
was so—I just—it seems—I—you... you and... and me?"
"If you want," I answer, ignoring the fact that he hasn't actually asked
anything coherent. I get the idea and I think that's as much as I'm going to
get out of him and I very determinedly do not even crack a smile about it.
"Why?" His voice cracks, and I notice his eyes are looking a bit wild.
"Because I'd like to. Because you're different, you've changed. Or, maybe
you're the same and I'm different, or something. Because I understand better.
Or at least I think I do." I pause, because I'm not sounding much more coherent
than he was. I drop my eyes for a moment, then lift them again, taking a deep
breath. God, he smells like the outdoors still. Alexsmell, tinged with fall
leaves. "I'm tired of thinking all this, and not saying any of it, and
watching you and just... waiting." I don't specify what I'm waiting for. We
both know. The unspoken. The 'ace reporter' always sitting on his shoulder.
"Alex, if you want, if you're interested... and I know it's complicated,
but... I just wanted to make the offer." I trail off. Did that sound weird?
"Make myself clear," I try again, which doesn't sound much better. Make it
clear that I'm putting myself way out there, attempting to leap that tall
building myself and I don't even have the cape, my mind supplies. But I don't
say it because it would just confuse him more. And I wouldn't be able to stop
the words that are backing up right behind it—because I'm more than happy to
leap over the building first, Alex, and I'll hold you close, keep you safe, if
you're afraid of the heights, but I need you to see this place. I need you to
see what we could be. What we could give each other. Give it a chance. I try
to say it with my eyes, since I think it might be a little much for him anyway.
"You're serious," he breathes, incredulously. "But you don't even like me..."
I laugh. I have to. I'm getting all bound up with fucking emotion and he's
still trying to believe this is happening. Ah, the little ironies of life. "I
like who you are these days, Alex," I finally say with a grin. "I like what
you're trying to do. Actions always did speak louder than words with me. I may
not always agree with the way you do it, but like I said, I think, maybe, I
understand better. And as you probably know better than most, I'm particularly
well-suited to understand where you used to be." I lift an eyebrow and give him
a meaningful look. "I'm hardly pure as the driven snow, Clark."
"Walter." His voice is wondering, I can hear it in the way his tongue shapes the
syllables. "I... don't know what—" He pauses. For a long time. I can see the
struggle on his face. "I'm incredibly flattered," he finally whispers, and I
feel a sinking sensation in my chest. That sounds suspiciously like a no. No's
always start with the 'I'm flattered' line. Ouch. Damn, I thought I really was
prepared for the turn-down possibility.
He swallows hard and starts up again. "But I know—I know you know... know
how—" he stumbles to a stop, and suddenly I catch on, realize what's bothering
him. I can see it all through his usually blank countenance. Something warm
bursts in my chest, trickling through me. My hand lifts and settles against the
side of his face again, lightly.
I nod and give him a wry half-smile. "You know I understand. About Lois. It's
just like I said first off, but I think you were still too stunned to hear me.
I'm not asking for anything you don't want to give. I don't say things I
don't mean. Not anymore I don't. Believe me, I've got my eyes wide open."
Something changes, melts, in his face. The shadows playing across it already
make him impossibly beautiful, but now I'm struck dumb. His entire bearing
softens, and his breath catches. His eyes are so huge I don't think I can stand
it, I'm going to fall straight into them and never find my way back out. Which
would be bad, because it will mean I've been lying to him about not wanting more
than he can give. Then he's leaning forward, hesitantly, touching his lips to
mine. I don't move, barely breathe. The warmth of his mouth is fleeting on
mine, then moving, brushing my cheek, then my mouth again. Skimming so softly I
can barely feel it, almost asking permission. I suck in a shaky breath.
"Alex..."
And his mouth settles on mine, lips parting, tongue touching my lips and
retreating. My arms wrap around him before I can remember moving, pulling him
down to me, crushing him to my chest and twisting, bending over him and
sprawling us both on the floor. My tongue enters his mouth and I thrill to
that sound again, that plaintive half-whimper half-moan. Our legs are tangled
and I'm on top of him and I really have to slow down. I tear away and lift my
head. "I can take this as a yes?"
He stares up at me from the floor, panting, and suddenly a smile breaks across
his face. "Yes," he murmurs.
As I start to descend again, his fingers are suddenly there, pressed against my
lips, keeping me at bay. I lift an eyebrow at him, then let my tongue and teeth
play at his fingers, settling on one and sucking it all the way in. He gasps
and his eyes dilate further as they focus on his finger disappearing between my
lips. He swallows hard and manages to pull his gaze back to mine with an
obvious effort. "Walter..." His rough voice teases at my control.
I draw off his finger slowly. "Yes?"
"Thank you. For saying something. And for understanding." His eyes skate away
and return to mine. "About Lois."
The words are so throaty I pause for a moment to check, make sure he's okay. My
ardor is suddenly calmed, leashed by the hesitancy crossing his face. I
suddenly remember that if we ever got to this point, I wanted to make this slow.
And I will. If it kills me. I lower my face to his and kiss him gently,
gently... only lips. "You're welcome," I whisper.
Rolling off him, I reach out a hand and pull him up, smiling at his surprise.
But I have to get off him or I'm not going to be in control and I want to be in
control. I'm not going to use him like a warm body to get my rocks off. Even
if he expects it. Especially since he likely does expect it. We may be two
imperfect men reaching for each other in equally imperfect and extreme
circumstances, but that doesn't mean it can't be real, can't be good. I want to
show him just how good it can be. That it can be better than pining after
someone who does nothing but use him as a whipping boy.
Getting to my feet and helping him to his, I tug him close, slipping my arms
around his waist, under the black jacket. My hands crawl over the softness of
the washed cotton shirt, and he sighs as he leans into me, his good arm resting
on my shoulder. Tucking his face into my neck, he inhales against me, and I
spend long minutes holding him close, stroking his back and enjoying the wet
nuzzles at my throat. Finally I let my hands circle back around him, rising to
slide his coat from his arms. He always wears the arm when he goes out for a
meeting. I'm not entirely sure why, though I have a few guesses.
Tossing his coat to the floor, I lean down and let my tongue press through the
rip in his shirt collar. He makes a soft whuff of laughter as my tongue tickles
his collarbone. I remember my earlier thoughts of ripping the shirt open, but
he probably likes it given how often he wears it, as beat up as it is. Nice way
to ruin a mood, Skinner. Shred his favorite shirt. I coax the bottom of the
shirt up and feel him freeze when it reaches mid-chest, as expected.
"Too much too soon?" I ask, knowing that might not be the issue, but willing to
let it be if he needs it to be.
He pulls back with a little jerk. "Uh..." His head ducks, shaking a quick
negative. "No, it's okay, I just—"
I let him go easily, giving him space. "Whatever makes you comfortable, Alex,"
I stroke his left shoulder lightly. "Whatever you like." He's just thought of
it, but I've been waiting for it, so I already have the response ready and
rehearsed. "And I'd like you to know that I'd be happy with the shirt off, but
do whatever feels better to you."
He blinks at me in the low light for a long moment. He turns to the side,
lifting the turtleneck up and over his head with his right hand. Sliding the
shirt down his prosthesis, he drops it and I hear the muffled sounds of him
working on the straps. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Two
major obstacles down, only... what? Forty-nine or so to go?
He bends down and puts the arm on the pile of his clothing, then straightens,
still turned slightly to keep the left side further away from me. I wonder if
he even realizes it. He looks back up at me, and I catch my breath. He's
gorgeous in the starlight. I look up and see his sky glowing down on us
brightly. I face him and smile; he still looks uncertain. Every pause, every
uncomfortable moment, is another chance for him to stop and think.
Second-guess. Think of reasons this isn't a good idea. The ease I have
guessing his thoughts when his face has gone as shuttered as usual surprises me.
I realize I know him better than even I thought I did, and the thought makes
the pit of my stomach feel warm again.
He's like a shadow standing there in black jeans and boots... his skin paler
than ever before. We're all losing color living down here, but where most of us
just look pasty, it suits him. The ache in my groin grows insistent, and I can
hear my breathing getting uneven. Easy Walter. You're an old man, you can take
your time. The tightness of my jeans begs to differ. "Thank you, Alex," I
murmur, because I can't resist, and I love the way he startles, shaking his head
in automatic negation, his eyes immediately dancing away from mine. "Yes," I
say before he can get a word out, closing in again, letting one hand skim over
his chest, watching his nipples tighten as my thumb circles each one. "Thank
you for the trust."
I draw him close and bury my nose in his hair. Let my hands wander as they
want, stroking and petting, moving around to squeeze the fullness of an ass I
can't get enough of watching on the odd occasion I think I can get away with it.
He makes the best sound and, taking it as encouragement, I settle both hands
under his butt, cupping and massaging. His hips push closer when my fingers
firmly trace the back seam of his jeans up between his cheeks and back down.
I'm gratified to feel the hardness of interest against my thigh... I may
understand about his Mulder-thing, but I really don't want to be a
gratitude-pity-fuck.
His fingers unbutton my shirt and tangle in my chest hair. I like the pulling
sensation, and like it even better when he trails his fingers down lower and
lower until they catch in my waistband. I dip my head to catch his earlobe in
my teeth and nip hard. I feel his cock leap against my thigh and smile,
satisfied. Sucking on his earlobe brings another soft moan and I release it
only to nibble my way down his throat.
I feel like I've finally got my rhythm. Like I can take all the time I need
even if my cock is protesting that plan. I spend a small eternity investigating
every facet of his throat with lips and tongue, using teeth whenever I want his
soft sighs to peak. One arm around his back, my other hand strokes over his hip
and groin, working between our bodies to smooth over tight denim, cross over to
the flesh of his stomach, play teasingly at his navel and under the edge of his
waistband. His hand at my jeans was working to open button and zipper, but I
think it may have forgotten its mission, which is fine with me for the moment.
I give the bulge at his crotch one more teasing pass and then start on his fly.
His hips twitch when my fingers slide inside the opening zipper.
I lead him closer to the blankets with a firm hold in his half-open jeans,
finally drawing away from his neck and meeting his eyes. I jerk my head down at
the blankets and feel a tiny wave of relief when he looks down and nods.
Sinking to the blankets, I tug on his jeans and his legs fold under him until he
sprawls beside me. He's looking at me funny, and I realize he's thinking again.
I rise onto my knees and strip off my shirt. His eyes widen and he stops
thinking. That was more effective than I had even hoped. While I'm up, I finish
the job he started, undoing my jeans and pushing them off my hips. His eyes
fall to the erection straining my briefs and those eyes go even a bit wider, his
mouth falling open.
Typical male I may be, but that's a reaction that definitely does an ego good.
I smile when his eyes lift to mine again, then almost fall over backward when he
licks his lips. Shit Alex, don't do that, I'm trying to be the considerate guy
here. Possibly he didn't even realize he did it. Sitting back down, I push my
jeans the rest of the way off, heeling off my boots as I go. Removing my
glasses, I fold them and drop them into one boot... the room's too dark and
getting another pair if I step on these will be a pain in the ass.
Turning back, I shift closer to him on the blankets. The floor is cold where my
feet rest against it. His eyes are roaming my body and I like the look on his
face. Reaching out, I cup his head and pull him in for another slow kiss,
gently bearing him backward until he rests full length on the floor.
Leaning over him, I play at his lips and tongue until I get the gasp I'm waiting
for, then lick my way down his throat to his chest. I settle over him and run
my tongue across each nipple in turn, thoroughly wetting the flesh. Naked,
exposed, unlike my own shrouded by hair. Blowing across each raises the flesh
in a hard knot and brings another delightful sound. I really hadn't guessed
he'd make such wonderful noises. When both nipples are erect, I lower my mouth
fully and take one in, sucking firm and steady. His arm snaps up and around my
shoulders, hand flattening on the back of my head, chest arching up.
"Fuck!"
Mmm yes, vocal can be good. His voice makes my cock ache, and I settle against
his thigh, rubbing up against the warm denim as I switch to the other nipple,
sucking it in turn. While I linger over it, my hand creeps up over his hip to
work inside his jeans, carefully cupping the warm handful I find. I rest my
palm against his hard-on, feeling the gentle throb through the worn cotton of
his underwear. His hand shifts to my shoulder and digs in, hard. I leave my
hand resting on him, hot and heavy, as I kiss my way to his navel and tongue
down the line of hair below it. His cock jumps against my palm when I set my
teeth lightly in the flesh of his stomach and suck.
I ease back up to a sitting position and slide my hand out of his pants.
Gripping the denim I ease them down and off when he lifts his hips. Down over
long thighs, over knees—I pause to kiss the left—over shins and stop at
boots. Christ, his legs are endless. I want them wrapped around me in the
worst way, but that will be his call and I'm not going to even mention it unless
he does. I work his boots off and then pull the jeans over his feet. Once
bare, I glide my hand back up between his legs as smoothly as the jeans slid
down, resting it on his inner thigh. I look up to find him watching me
intently. Thinking again? Tsk.
"What do you want?"
His breathy voice almost hurts to hear, I'm so aroused. It takes me a moment to
absorb the words. Oh Alex... what do I want? To make you feel good. To make
you forget about Miss Lois, and an impossibly sharp mind with a regrettably
sharp tongue to match. Even for a minute. Or an hour. Or a lifetime or two.
To make you smile at me a little more often. To have you look at me the way you
look at him. To take you to the stars and back, just us.
"To make you stop thinking, just for a little while." I smile to let him know
I'm purposely misunderstanding his question. I stretch out beside him and pull
him to me, sliding a leg between his and shivering at the delicious sensation of
skin on skin, with only barely-there cotton between us. He moves to kiss me and
I let my hand find his ass again, tugging and stretching at the fabric, working
my hand down his underwear. Warm soft flesh filling my hand and bucking against
my thigh and teeth biting at my lips and I'm rolling on top of him before I
remember I wasn't going to do that. I try to roll back off and his arm catches
me, holds me there.
"Skinner... Walter..." That voice again, and it's going to take me apart. "Will
you—" He stops. "Walter, will you fuck me?"
I freeze, trying like hell to figure out if I just heard what I think I heard or
if my overheated imagination dreamed it up. I lift my head and stare down at
him, unsure how to ask without sounding like a complete asshole.
He lays on his back beneath me, breathing hard, eyes glittering in the
candlelight, and meets my stare full on. "You don't have to," he says calmly,
between pants. "If that's not what you want."
I blink stupidly at him until I realize he's actually waiting for a response.
Like I'd say no? He can't honestly think... well, maybe he does. I grope for
words, finally managing to rasp, "I'd love to" in lieu of anything more
intelligent.
His face relaxes and his eyes slide shut, his mouth tilting in a small smile as
he bucks his hips against mine then rubs his ass back into my hand. I work his
underwear down off his hips, his squirming against me making it challenging.
Before I can get them any further down, his eyes open and his hand reaches for
my briefs, pulling them down in the front to release my erection. His sound of
appreciation makes me dizzy... or maybe it's his hand on my cock, circling and
stroking firmly.
"Alex... wait. Don't..." It'll be over before it starts. I catch his wrist to
stop him, then roll back and sit up, reaching for my pants. Digging out the
little Vaseline tin I turn to find him blinking at it, then turning his laser
beams on me.
"Optimistic?" he offers dryly.
I open my mouth to give some rational reason for carrying Vaseline around, and
realize there just isn't one. My lips twitch. "Optimistic," I finally agree.
I shrug, refusing to let myself get embarrassed. "Besides, would you want me
around if I wasn't prepared for every eventuality?" I push my briefs off and
reach for his before he can answer, stripping them down those impossible legs.
His knees bend and his thighs part and suddenly he's spread out before me, cock
and balls on display. I try to remember to breathe.
"Mmmm," he demurs, brows arching. Finally he relents, his eyes sparkling.
"Optimism can be good. It can be nice to have an optimist around."
My breath catches and I let the smile itching at my lips take over. How can I
not with a response like that? I flip open the Vaseline with my thumb. Setting
the little tub on his stomach, I trail one finger through it then use my thumb
to smear the jelly across all my fingertips. I glance up and see his eyes
focused on my fingers, his tongue just touching his upper lip. I waggle my
fingers at him and his eyes narrow before lifting to mine, giving me a 'get the
fuck on with it, smartass' glare that I recognize. I love that the quirky humor
we've fallen into carries into the sex. I'd have been disappointed if it
didn't.
Slipping my greased hand down between his thighs, I work my fingers under his
balls and probe firmly. His legs spread wider, relaxing outward and the sighs
start up again. I move my free hand to pet his cock then cup his balls. The
sighs move to groans. Soft mutters start reaching my ears as my fingers slip
inside him, spreading the lube around. I massage his balls and his prostate,
and get a deity invocation. That sounds about right. I shift to my knees and
move closer to his ass, easing my fingers out and sliding my slippery hand over
my cock. "You comfortable?"
His eyes open and focus on me with some difficulty, a hazy expression on that
normally closed face. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, and his voice is breathy
again, making me shiver. His hand fists in the blankets at his side. I move
closer again until my cock is flush with his ass, pressing for entry. Releasing
his balls reluctantly I shift my hands to his thighs, lifting them as I rock my
hips forward. A deep groan tears free of my throat as I feel his body open to
me, my cock inching inside his ass. I'm trying to take it slow but with a toss
of his head he rocks his hips up to meet me and I finish the thrust with an
uncontrolled jerk.
"Yes!" His voice is unmistakably triumphant.
Alright, so maybe slow wasn't exactly what he was after. I stare down at him
stretched before me, body wriggling, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open and panting
in a coyote grin. The feel of his ass tightening and relaxing around me is
better than I ever could have imagined. I don't ever want to move, I want to
keep this moment, but the urge to thrust slowly turns into an imperative. As
his body adjusts to me, his legs suddenly snap up around me, muscles contracting
to pull me in tighter, and that's it. With a groan I'm moving, riding into that
ass again and again, his moans accompanying every thrust.
After the first rush of heady sensation, I jerk back on the reins again. Dammit,
I will control this... I will control myself. The writhe and yelp I get when I
slow down are gratifying enough to reinforce the idea. Hands freed, I shift
until I can wrap my right hand around his cock, coaxing him back to full
erection with easy strokes ending in a gentle squeeze. He bucks into my hand
and moans his approval. Forcing back my rising need, I concentrate on making
him lose it, thrusting steadily, settling my thumb just under the head of his
cock, stimulating the knot of nerves on the underside repeatedly. Before long
his body arches and stiffens, his legs contracting around me like vices, and
then he's coming over my hand, hot fluid spilling over my fingers and onto his
stomach.
The sight, the scent, the sheer feeling of power, rush through me and my hips
pick up speed. I release his spent cock as his body collapses, his eyes staring
up at me dazed and sated. I lean over him, shifting my position and balancing
on my elbows. His legs relax and loll on either side of me but his hips tilt
upward, his arm reaching up to circle my shoulders, pull me closer. The look on
his face is too much for me, and whatever control I had is burning up fast as
his gaze holds mine. His eyes devour me as I fight to last, hold on for just a
minute more, make this last, keep this feeling, this flying...
And I'm tipping over the edge and I'm coming and his voice is whispering
"Walter" in that voice... bliss rockets through me and I fall into it, fall
into him. Him.
Better than I ever knew.
I come back to earth with my face pressed against his throat, my body relaxed on
his, which can't be comfortable. I shift and roll off, onto my side facing him,
arms settling him close, next to me. He draws back, gentle but insistent, and I
let him go, stifling my disappointment. He stills on his back a few inches
away, rolls his head back and stares up at his night sky.
"You know," his whisper strokes me like the second hand he doesn't have, "I
think I know what they mean about that lack of oxygen in outer space now." I
don't know that I've ever seen the look that's on his face. "For awhile there I
was definitely having trouble breathing." I try hard not to feel too
self-satisfied, but that expression... it's a losing battle. I watch him watch
his stars and feel incredibly content with my world. Even as I see his
expression shift back to that odd surprised look, see him stiffen suddenly, and
guess what's going through his mind.
"Fuck... what time—I was supposed to—"
"Relax." I don't move, except to touch his chest lightly, withdrawing my hand.
"I canceled the rest of your day. At least for the next couple hours."
His head whips back around and he stares at me, looking for all the world like
he can't decide whether to laugh or get mad. Finally he raises an eyebrow and
says, "Optimistic?"
I grin, unapologetic. "Optimistic."
"Blind optimism can get you in trouble," he warns, but his silky tone is light.
"So can lack of oxygen," I tease back, and love the way his cheeks flush.
His hand lifts as if he might touch my face, but then it sinks again. His eyes
drift over my shoulder and to his ceiling once more, then return to me. His
voice when it comes is a velvet brush. "Walter Skinner," he breathes, "you
are... stellar."
The catch in my throat won't let me respond. I hear the words; I also hear the
meaning. It's more than I ever expected. But he's not looking for a response
anyway... his eyes slide closed and he settles with a small sigh. I lay next to
him and stare at his stars.
end
Next up in "Resist and Serve", OXYGEN. Alex's
version of the events in OPTIMISM. Given such amazing lyrics, I'm getting two
stories out of them.
Optimism
by Ratadder
22:10
