Plus, it's cold and wet outside, the Seine smells funktastic, his French sucks rocks, and this is supposed to be Vaughn's fucking assignment, only Mike lost it after Sydney disappeared and now Weiss is in fucking Paris all by himself. Paris means his best friend deciding to move across the country to outrun the bad memories, leaving Weiss to deal with stone cold Jack Bristow, Marshall the chatterbox, and Dixon, who—Weiss is just saying—has some pretty severe anger management issues these days. At least Marshall said he'd stop by and feed his dog, so Weiss isn't a total friendless loser.
So, yeah. Weiss really fucking resents Paris, and with good reason.
He also really fucking resents the bartender, and he'd tell the guy so in his really crappy French, except the bartender disappeared into the back room, like, an hour ago and Weiss no longer cares what kind of beer he gets as long as there's alcohol in it.
Weiss is supposed to meet an informant here tonight—actually, was supposed to meet, because the guy is eleven minutes late—but Weiss really needs a beer, and so he's going to have one. Fuck procedure.
Oh yeah, Weiss thinks. I'm a rebel.
He's about ready to go after the bartender when the back door opens and a tall guy walks in, his body backlit from the street lamps. The guy looks around the room for a minute, like he's supposed to be meeting somebody, and then walks toward the bar where Weiss is standing. Weiss feels adrenaline spike up his spine, into his gut, in the back of his throat—he's a desk jockey, not a field agent. He should not be here.
God, he's not supposed to be here.
But he is, and as the tall guy comes closer, Weiss can see that the guy is probably a few years older than he is, wearing an expensive suit that definitely costs more than what Weiss makes in a month. And he's not just good looking, he's really fucking good looking. Almost pretty, even. But not soft-pretty. Pretty like a snake, maybe, and he walks like he owns the place. Who knows? Maybe he does.
Weiss eyes him as casually as he can, which even he admits isn't very suave. Guys like this only walk up to Weiss when they need to, like, ask the time or borrow his extra chair. Or kill him. Killing could be in this picture.
The guy passes by Weiss, but doesn't say a word even though he's close enough for Weiss to see that his eyes are green. The color reminds him of his grandmother's glass bottle collection, lined up in a hutch in the dining room of his grandparents' old house. He hasn't been there in years, not since his grandparents sold the house and moved to a nice trailer in Florida.
The tall guy turns a corner and walks into the hallway leading to the bathrooms. A minute later, Weiss follows him. The things he does for his country.
The hallway is dark, and Weiss isn't in it for more than a few seconds before his head slams into the concrete wall. He sees white sparks behind his eyes, and for a moment it doesn't hurt, until it does , nausea crawling up behind his tongue and his skull feeling like a crushed beetle. Blunt nose of a gun poking into his gut, a hard body holding him against the wall, and Weiss is never doing anything for Mike or Syd ever again.
His attacker's hair is dark and short, sleek and shiny from the rain. "You aren't Agent Vaughn," he says.
Weiss thinks the guy's voice sounds all raspy like a cat's tongue, and right after that thought, he thinks that maybe he has a concussion. "I'm Agent Weiss," he chokes out. "Vaughn, he—he couldn't make it."
"Why?" the guy asks.
When Weiss doesn't answer right away, he shoves the gun harder into Weiss' gut. It hurts, but Weiss is more concerned with the expression in this guy's eyes. Namely, that this guy is a serious player, has been for a while, and that he looks very, very grumpy.
Weiss normally deals with 'I haven't had my coffee yet' grumpy. This guy is 'I won't even bother to conceal your body' grumpy.
Well, he's pretty sure that he doesn't know any of the really important national secrets.
"Agent Vaughn is no longer with the Agency," Weiss blurts. "He, um..." he trails off, and then makes a cuckoo gesture by his ear.
"Really," the guy says. He tilts his head, and Weiss can see the skin crinkling a little around his green eyes. It's so good that Weiss is amusing him.
Weiss flaps his hand uselessly. "Yeah, um, you know, it messed him up, the disappearance..."
"Of Sydney Bristow," the guy says, as if he's not used to saying her name and it feels funny in his mouth.
Weiss nods warily. "She leaves an impression on a guy."
The guy stares at him for a moment longer, and then he backs off a step, his gun no longer crunching against Weiss' ribs. "Come with me."
"What? That's it?" Weiss says, startled. "How do you know I'm on the level? And who the hell are you?"
"Call me Krycek," the guy says. "And if you're not on the level, I'll kill you."
"Oh, that's comforting," Weiss says.
Red emergency lighting slides over Krycek's face as he walks away. It looks like he's smiling again, and Weiss steps away from the wall.
He seriously is beginning to wonder if he has a death wish. If he ever sees Vaughn again, Weiss is so taking back the 'balls of steel' honorific for himself.
"Where are we going?" Weiss asks when he catches up to Krycek, staying a half-step behind the guy's right shoulder.
"Hotel," Krycek says, jerking his head at Weiss to open the back door of the bar.
Weiss squeezes past him. "Please tell me this hotel doesn't have plastic carpeting."
Krycek's laugh is warm and raspy in his ear, and Weiss shivers as he shoulders open the door.
"Maybe plastic sheets," Krycek says. He steps outside and turns left, street lamps throwing his features into a rough outline of charcoals.
Cars are honking a block away. It's a stupid honk, high and tinny. It's still raining a little, cold droplets trickling down the back of his collar.
Weiss thinks that dying in Paris would really suck.
They go through alley after alley until Weiss has no clue what area of Paris they're in anymore, except that it's dark and the air still smells funny, and that Krycek hasn't put away his gun.
He's cold, wet, and probably about to shuffle off this mortal coil in a few minutes. Not to mention the fact that his dick keeps mentioning to the rest of his body parts that Krycek is hot. In the way that boiling water isn't exactly tepid. Normally, Weiss ignores most of the things his dick likes about guys because it makes life so much easier, but for some reason he can't ignore this guy.
He should be happy to ignore Krycek. Absolutely delighted, even, because this guy is going to be trouble with a capital 't'. And maybe he can't ignore Krycek because he doesn't want to, so maybe Weiss has that concussion after all, because this is insane.
Oh yeah. Weiss is totally comfy with this situation. He's going to make Vaughn grovel for this if he ever sees him again, because Weiss wasn't an adrenaline junkie before Vaughn met Sydney Bristow.
Krycek slides his gun inside his jacket and crosses the street. Weiss steps in a pothole caused by some sunken cobblestones, and the puddle soaks the hem of his pants. He mutters a curse under his breath, and when he looks up, Krycek is waiting for him in front of a skinny, wedge-shaped building.
Inside, the hotel is gray and skanky. Weiss stands in the tiny lobby and tries not to touch anything while Krycek gets the key from the front desk. The old man behind the counter barely looks up, like two extremely non-French guys in nice suits and no visible luggage is no big deal.
Weiss figures that the least the old guy could do is leer, or something.
"This way," Krycek says. Weiss follows him up a narrow staircase. He nudges the blistering paint with his thumbnail, and it flakes into beige dust on his hand. He wipes it on his jacket. The staircase gets narrower as they climb until his shoulders nearly brush the walls, and Weiss breathes deeply in relief when they push through a sticky door on the third floor. The air up here is stuffy and too warm, and it smells like old carpet left out in the rain. The key squeaks in the lock, and once Weiss steps through the doorway, he's back against a wall with a muzzle buried in his gut.
Weiss isn't panicking at all. See? This is him not panicking. After all, he's got the weight advantage here, doesn't he?
He grunts and raises his hands when Krycek nudges him with the gun. "You like doing that, don't you?"
"You should try it sometime." Krycek grins, his teeth shining in the dark of the room. It's like there's some private joke Weiss just tapped into, but which Krycek isn't going to share, and Weiss hates that, the excluding thing. Vaughn and Syd are the king and queen of that. Shit. Were the king and queen.
"I'll take your word for it," Weiss says.
Krycek leans in closer. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the shape of obtuse triangles. "Here's what we're going to do, Agent Weiss. We're going to engage in a little information sharing."
"Hey, I thought you were supposed to be my informant," Weiss protests.
Krycek shifts quickly, pinning Weiss to the wall with his hips and shifting the gun to the soft flesh under Weiss' jaw. "I think it's obvious by now, Agent Weiss, that all we have are pieces of the puzzle on both sides."
"So, what," Weiss finds himself saying, even thought he should probably be pissing himself right about now. "You show me yours, I show you mine, and together we connect the dots, tra la la? Why should I trust you?"
Krycek's eyes are hooded, and Weiss can't stop staring at his mouth. Krycek's bottom lip is full and pink, and it's making Weiss think about getting his dick sucked. And god, he should not be thinking about that with Krycek's gun at his throat, but he can't help it.
He's gonna need therapy for this. Lots and lots of therapy. Maybe Doctor Barnett could recommend somebody.
"I represent Derevko," Krycek says, finally answering his question.
It isn't an answer Weiss wants to hear, but there are a lot of worse ones out there lurking in dark corners, waiting to jump him now that Mike's not around to watch his back.
Weiss clenches his jaw. "Irina Derevko?"
"I'm sure you realize that she has a vested interest in Sydney's continued well-being," Krycek says.
"Yeah, well, I'm not so fond of the lady."
Krycek cocks his head, his eyes narrowing. "So?"
"She shot me, okay?" Weiss snaps.
Krycek's smile is lazy. "She shoots a lot of people."
"I take it a little personally when it's me she's shooting," Weiss says. "It's a thing."
Krycek's smile slips from lazy to dangerous. "You get used to it," Krycek says, and god, his eyes are dark enough to make Weiss wonder exactly who has been shooting at him, and how long they lived after they did.
Nervously, Weiss says, "Yeah, well, I don't ever wanna be that blasé about getting shot, okay? It doesn't really fit with my lifestyle."
The joke makes like a pancake.
"Listen to me, Agent Weiss," Krycek says, leather glove creaking as he shifts his grip on his gun. "We pool our information, or there's no deal. But if there's no deal, Derevko won't be pleased, and when she's not pleased, she shoots people." The glove creaks again. "I guarantee you, Agent Weiss, that Derevko will not be shooting me."
"Okay," Weiss chokes, raising his hands higher. He can barely swallow with the gun pushing into his neck, and when Krycek lets up on the pressure a little bit, Weiss repeats, "Okay."
Weiss takes a deep breath, and it's a bad move, because now all he smells is leather and cordite. He can feel his pulse in his neck, a dull throb-throb-throb against the nose of Krycek's gun.
"Tell me what you know," Krycek says into Weiss' ear, and then pulls back to watch him carefully.
"We figured out that Allison Doren replaced Francie Calfo, but we don't know when the switch occurred, or what happened to the real Ms. Calfo."
Krycek is matter of fact. "Ms. Calfo is dead."
"Jesus," Weiss blurts, and looks off to the side for a moment. He isn't surprised, because that's what they'd assumed all along. Only Weiss is remembering the hopeful expression on Will Tippin's face as he asked what the chances were that Francie was alive, how small he looked in that hospital bed, and how Weiss had just done a magic trick instead of answering his question. "We know that Will Tippin discovered that his girlfriend was an imposter, and that Allison Doren attempted to murder him to protect her identity. We know that Doren and Sydney fought. I mean, Sydney's apartment was a total war zone. Tippin survived. Doren didn't."
"Go on," Krycek says, continuing to watch Weiss intently.
"When we got there, Sydney was just... gone," Weiss says. "So what we've got is this: no idea where the hell Irina Derevko is, but hey, thanks to you now we know she's still alive. Sark hasn't given us jack shit since he led us to Mexico City, so either he doesn't know, or there's no way he's gonna tell us. No clue where Sloane is either, but he's got one of Rambaldi's machines running. Agent Bristow—the other one—said Sloane was calling it 'Il Dire'."
"Saying? Saying what?" Krycek mutters to himself.
"Hell if I know what it means," Weiss volunteers. "We've been looking in Rambaldi's journal for clues—"
"You have the book?" Krycek interrupts, eyes narrowing.
Weiss nods before he remembers the gun, and he nearly takes out his Adam's apple. "We have a copy of it, yeah."
"Irina will want to see it," Krycek says.
Weiss snorts. "Oh, I'm sure she would."
Krycek leans in until his face is about an inch away, their breath mingling. "You misunderstand me, Agent Weiss. Irina will want to see it."
The implied threat is like a two-by-four to the head. "We'll make a copy for her," Weiss says.
"Good," Krycek says, but his eyes are wandering down to where the nose of his gun is tracing a path on Weiss' neck. Weiss feels the drag on his collar and tie, and his head thumps against the wall as he lifts his chin. Weiss' breath catches as Krycek draws his gun over the pink scar tissue on his neck, and Krycek looks up, locking eyes with Weiss.
It's something between two seconds and two years, the time Weiss spends staring back at Krycek.
And then this grin just spreads over Krycek's face like an oil field fire, and he replaces his gun with his mouth.
"Jesus!" Weiss gasps, thumping his head against the wall again while Krycek does wet, nasty things to his neck. Lips and teeth biting at his skin, and for a minute, Weiss wonders if this is some kind of fucked-up sex dream he's having, except he knows he's not imaginative enough to come up with this scenario on his own.
Weiss has no idea what to do with his hands. He grabs onto Krycek's arm, only something's off, because nobody is that buff. So Weiss is wondering what the hell, plastic, fake, what?
But then Krycek kisses him, and it tastes like gunmetal.
Krycek kisses like an armed assault in a back alley—short, hard, and dirty. Weiss makes a moaning noise around Krycek's tongue. He's making out with a one-armed guy, and he doesn't care . Vive le difference. His mom'll be so proud.
Krycek's moving against him, his arm brushing against Weiss' chest, and he realizes that Krycek's holstering his gun. He could try to get the upper hand now, shove Krycek back and make a break for it. Turn the situation to his advantage. Something like that.
Yeah. He'll get right on that.
Weiss grabs onto Krycek's jacket and tugs him closer, and Krycek must like that, because his teeth gleam in the darkness.
"I'll bet nobody touches you," Krycek murmurs into Weiss' mouth, his hand tugging at Weiss' belt. "Nobody gets on her knees to suck you off with a smile. Nobody calls you in the middle of the day and tells you he wants to fuck you on your desk."
"Oh god," Weiss says. The air is cool on his belly. Krycek's hand is in his boxers now, and he pushes off the wall with his shoulders without thinking, rolling his hips forward so he can press his dick against the warm leather.
"I'd fuck you over your desk," Krycek says. He kisses Weiss hard. "I'd make you come all over it."
Weiss makes a sound high in his throat that should be embarrassing, only right now he really doesn't care. Krycek brings his hand to his mouth and licks the palm of his leather glove, and Weiss forgets to breathe when it closes around his dick again, soft, warm and wet.
Weiss has never been this hard in his life .
Krycek's eyes are hooded, hot, his grip tight. "I'd love to watch you jerk off just to see what name you say when you come. Are you loud? I'll bet you're loud."
Weiss responds with a garbled noise, and his clumsy hands scrabble at Krycek's clothes, desperately trying to get the man's pants open.
"Clean cut, baby face," Krycek says, voice growing darker as Weiss gets his zipper undone. "I'll bet nobody looks at you and sees a cocksucker, sees someone who likes the feel of a hard dick in his mouth."
Krycek's eyes close when Weiss gets his hands on him. Weiss' palm is sweaty, which is just perfect for once, and Krycek is hard and thick in his hand. Krycek makes a low, humming noise of approval when Weiss squeezes his hand tighter and starts jerking him off. Krycek's cut, and Weiss wishes he could see the warm, wet flesh in his hand, but it's too dark and they're too close. Krycek's kissing him again, wet and sloppy, lips and tongue sliding against Weiss' mouth. He tastes a little like leather, a little like copper, and a faint, bitter trace of spunk.
It's too hot inside his clothes, his shirt sticking to the small of his back, lungs working like crazy to keep him from passing out from oxygen deprivation. He hasn't touched anyone like this in so long, and Weiss is so turned on that it's scaring him. Right now, his entire nervous system consists of his mouth, his hands, and his dick. There could be an apocalypse in the hotel room, and he wouldn't notice. Anybody could be watching and he wouldn't care.
Okay, so maybe he'd care if his parents were watching. That would be bad.
Krycek opens his eyes. His face is flushed, pupils wide. "I'll bet no one's ever held you down and made you scream." He bats Weiss' hand away and shoves his thigh between Weiss' legs, tugging his hips away from the wall. Weiss opens his mouth to protest, but then their cocks are slipping and rubbing together in a hard, tight circle. He puts his hands on Krycek's ass and holds on, trying not to get in the way. Zippers biting a little, clothes pulling and catching in all the wrong places. Awkward and hot, and god, Weiss wants to come so bad he thinks it's going to kill him.
Krycek's voice is rough and thin. "Hold you down, put my tongue in your ass until you beg me to fuck you."
Weiss whimpers loudly, legs trembling. "God—"
"Fuck you, make you come so hard it hurts."
His head goes back and clunks against the wall, his teeth clacking together painfully. It hurts a lot, but he's more distracted by Krycek's hand moving from his hip, down the back of his pants, Krycek's leather-gloved fingertips stroking the soft skin behind his balls.
"You'd like to fuck my mouth, wouldn't you?" Krycek asks, hoarse and breathy. His lips are red and swollen a little from all the kissing. "Deep throat you, suck your brains out, let you come on my face—"
"Fuck!" Weiss yells, and then makes a wordless noise as Krycek unerringly presses a finger into that spot behind his balls. Pleasure, pain, need—it bursts wide open and spreads in tingling waves to his toes and fingertips. He can feel Krycek jerking himself off as he comes, and Weiss so wants to be doing that for him, but he doesn't have any coordination right now. Thank god his knees are locked.
Weiss starts coming down off his high a little when Krycek bites down on his shoulder. He can barely feel the grip of Krycek's teeth through the fabric of his jacket. Weiss puts his hand on the nape of Krycek's neck and squeezes, and then works up enough brainpower to rub his thumb hard over the slick head of Krycek's cock. Krycek's body stiffens, and he comes silently all over Weiss' hand.
When he lifts his head a moment later, Krycek's smile is lazy and smug, and his voice sounds like he smoked an entire pack of Reds in an hour. "You're loud when you come. I like it."
"Good to know," Weiss wheezes, and slumps back against the wall. He has spunk all over his shirt. He's gonna smell like a total slut on the way home. Because he just had sex with a one-armed guy he met about an hour ago, and he's not exactly sure how it happened.
Weiss finds this mind-boggling. Is it mind control? Pheromones? Freakishly bad decision-making?
Okay, definitely a yes on that last one.
Krycek's already tucking in and zipping up, and moving toward the door. Looking at him, Weiss can hardly tell that they've just fucked against the wall. Krycek's suit is a little rumpled if you know where to look, his mouth is red, eyes bright, hair damp at the temples. Krycek does up his belt with one hand.
"Nice meeting you, Agent Weiss," Krycek says. "We'll have to do it again sometime."
Information sharing, his ass. Krycek hasn't told him anything , and the man's smiling like he knows it.
Weiss scowls in annoyance. "Hey, wait—"
"I'll be in touch," Krycek says, and then he's out the door before Weiss can blink.
And Weiss is still against the wall, pants open, dick out, come everywhere, and his nerve ends buzzing. There might even be a hickey on his neck.
"Oh, this is just fantastic," he says to the empty room. "Carpe fucking diem. I am an idiot."
Resenting Paris
by Shrift
Weiss hates Paris. Or, okay, maybe it's not that he hates Paris, it's just that Paris makes him feel even more like a schlubb than normal, like everybody in the place is looking at him like he's got toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Sure, the buildings are pretty and they've got the Mona Lisa, but Weiss is a pizza and beer kind of guy, and Paris is not the city for guys like him. In fact, Paris actively mocks guys like him. He's an analyst; he doesn't have to appreciate aesthetics, he just has to understand them.
