"You probably don't want to know. Just don't let go of your gun and
don't let anyone find out where
you keep your money."
The wallpaper was white, cream and gold in broad flowered stripes, the
effect only slightly marred by
signs of a flood that had warped the lowest foot and a half of the
walls and left everything tinted a
sickly green. Thick white velvet curtains that had been pulled closed
over the tall lead-framed
window suffered from the same problem. Both curtains and wallpaper
were old and something about
their glorious decay touched Mulder's heart. He took a step closer
and the floor creaked under his
feet, what had once been gleaming parquet gone dull and cracked with
age and water.
Paintings still hung on the walls; dark landscapes, still lives with
gleaming skulls and many-petaled,
insect-strewn flowers, narrow icons with black-haired madonnas whose
soft eyes seemed resigned
to this fall from grace and elegance. "This stuff should be in a museum."
Krycek shrugged. "It looks better than it is... it's the setting. Third-rate,
most of it. But there are a
couple of original Blake drawings that Tati calls her insurance policy."
Mulder was on the verge of asking if there was any chance he could see
them. Instead he said, "How
long do we have to wait?"
"As long as it takes. What do you want, a queue number? Most of the
people who come to Tati's
have more exotic requirements. We'll wait until she has time to see
us, Mulder." Krycek walked over
to one of the low couches and dropped down on it, running a hand over
the worn white velvet in an
oddly affectionate gesture. The room was quite small, the velvet-lined
nest of a sybaritic hermit crab;
Mulder's mind provided him with the word boudoir. The long mirror over
the fireplace was so
tarnished that he could barely make out his own face, and its gilded
frame looked sad.
"Exotic requirements." His voice was dry. "You've brought me to a whorehouse,
Krycek? All I
wanted was a shower and some clean clothes."
Krycek smiled lazily up at him. "You'll get it. Welcome to the free
market, Mulder." There was
something different about Krycek, something Mulder couldn't quite put
his finger on; the man seemed
more relaxed here, looked quite at home in this unlikely environment.
"You can have anything your
little heart desires here at Tati's. For a price." Krycek wrinkled
his nose. "And you really need that
shower. I can smell you from here."
Trying to choose the best comeback to that, Mulder waited a little too
long and lost his chance as the
door opened and a woman walked inside. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed,
her face as serene
as any madonna's despite the crow's feet around her eyes. When she
moved her gold jewellery
chimed like muted prayer bells. Her eyes swept over him in cool assessment,
then she turned her full
attention on Krycek, who had jumped to his feet. She said something
in a soft, husky voice, and
Krycek laughed and lifted her into an easy, intimate embrace. One of
her high-heeled slippers fell off
and her next words were half amused, half reproving.
Mulder watched, fascinated and a little worried. It had seemed like
an excellent idea to bring Krycek
along as a translator; only now did he begin to admit to himself how
much that put him in Krycek's
power, despite the fact that he was the one who had the gun. He had
no way of telling what they
were saying, what they were laughing at, what that expression on the
woman's face meant. Was this
Tati?
Krycek put her down again and turned more serious, speaking rapidly
and nodding towards Mulder.
The woman raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and got out a keyring, choosing
one key and working
it free. Krycek accepted it with a smile and a few words that made
Tati stare at him and then tilt her
head back and laugh until she was gasping for air. Finally she recovered
and turned away from
Krycek, walking towards Mulder. He was feeling foolish, convinced it
was him they were laughing at,
but stood his ground as she came closer.
"I'll try to find clothes for you," she said. Her English was accented
but flowed easily enough. "Go
with him, get clean. You can pay me tomorrow. And make sure he doesn't
get in trouble here."
"I never get in trouble, Tati," Krycek protested behind her.
She turned around. "No gambling. No playing. You cannot go downstairs,
Alexei, someone will
know you. You will stay in the room and talk to your... friend, you
will read Tolstoy, you will look
out the window and count the raindrops but you will not go downstairs."
Tati nodded briskly, as if
that settled everything, and walked out of the room again.
"We're not staying here overnight," Mulder objected. "We've got to push
on, it's only early evening..."
"Tati's place is the last outpost of civilization," Krycek said mildly.
"This is Rivendell, Mulder. Your
last chance to be comfortable. Tomorrow we're going where no one wants
us to be. Tonight we stay
at Tati's."
"And you don't gamble?"
"And I don't— Come on." Krycek led the way out of the room, and Mulder
looked around with
unrestrained curiosity as they went through the house and up the wide
marble staircase. It was dark
in here; the windows were covered with curtains and the furniture he
saw was swathed in protective
covers, most of them discolored by the flooding. Upstairs everything
looked cleaner, neater, but also
less extravagant as they turned left into a narrow corridor. Servants'
quarters, Mulder reflected,
looking through plain doors into small rooms.
At the end of the corridor Krycek stopped and got out the key Tati had
given him. The lock was well
oiled and the door opened without a sound. Mulder sucked his breath
in through his teeth as he saw
what lay beyond. This was how the whole house must have looked years
ago; the same lush decor,
but shining and perfect, not decayed and dying. The room was blue,
blue-and-silver wallpaper, blue
velvet drapes and curtains, blue rugs on the gleaming floor, plush
blue couches and chairs. He
stepped inside after Krycek. A huge, almost square bed with a blue
bedspread. A painting on the
wall, a pale blue landscape... "Does your friend really need Blake
drawings for insurance?" he asked.
"That looks like a Matisse."
"It's a copy. Bathroom's through there," Krycek pointed with his chin
at a discreet door in one
corner. "Don't touch her Elizabeth Arden stuff."
"Not really my style," Mulder said. "Do you want to go first?" Krycek
shrugged. "You stink worse
than I do."
"Like hell I do."
"Krycek." Mulder made his voice reasonable. "Spineless backstabbing
creeps always stink worse
than honest citizens." He took a step closer to Krycek, and then reached
out swiftly and grabbed him
by the throat.
"What the fuck—" Krycek jerked, and Mulder pressed his thumb down.
"Let go of me, drop the
goddamn macho act, Mulder, it's getting real old—"
Mulder pushed him backwards until they were at the bathroom door; he
got it open and shoved
Krycek inside. Part of him was thinking, with detached amusement, that
this trip was letting him work
out the violent impulses of at least the past three years, possibly
more. The bathroom was more
modern than the room itself, not that that was saying much. There was
a tiled shower area, set four
inches lower than the rest of the floor, with stark metal fixtures.
Pale blue towels, a plant in the one
small window.
Letting go of Krycek's throat, Mulder sat down on the toilet seat and
leaned back, stretching his legs
out. "Get in the shower, then." Krycek stared at him. "You'd better
take your clothes off first."
Krycek shook his head slowly. "You're asking for a strip show?"
"You can try to sue me for sexual harassment if you like," Mulder said
pleasantly. He made a show of
reaching for his gun, just to remind Krycek of who was in charge here.
"I know this isn't your
vacation of choice. You have a number of good reasons to leave the
moment I turn my back, so I'm
not going to turn my back. I thought I'd made that clear. Or were you
hoping I've cuffed you to the
bedframe every night just because I get off on it?"
"You could have fooled me," Krycek muttered and kicked his shoes off.
The jacket fell to the floor,
and he unzipped his jeans with a quick, efficient gesture. "Is it too
much to ask for a chance to be
alone in the bathroom?"
"Last time I let you go to the bathroom alone you picked up a hitch-hiking
alien." Mulder eyed his
captive with mild approval as Krycek took the jeans off and straightened
up only to stretch even
higher as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. A glint of metal turned
out to be a nipple ring, and
Mulder grinned to himself. The years on the run had added more muscle
to Krycek's strong, sleek
body. He looked pretty good, even though the haircut was a disaster.
There was more of him to
punch now.
Krycek stripped off his black briefs with his back to Mulder and moved
to turn on the shower. He
sucked his breath in as cold water splashed on him, then adjusted the
temperature and stepped in
under the spray. After a few moments he turned his head and looked
at Mulder, seemingly intent on
retaliating for the constant steady observation. "Care to join me?"
Mulder's first impulse was to say, 'in your dreams,' and leave it at
that. But Krycek was so clearly
expecting him to refuse that he couldn't help it, he had to get to
his feet and pull his sweater off.
"Sure." Krycek's eyes widened in shock. "Been a long time since anyone
scrubbed my back for me."
"Yeah, but—hey, Mulder—"
He ignored Krycek's disjointed comments and got the rest of his clothes
off as fast as he could. The
truth was, Krycek was right, he did smell. Not enough to clear out
a subway car in rush hour, but
more than enough for it to bother him. He stepped down on the wet tiles
and Krycek backed away
nervously. Mulder grinned, or at least he showed his teeth. "I hate
to break this to you, Krycek, but
you're not irresistible. Your dubious virtue is safe with me. Pass
the shampoo." He closed his eyes
and stepped under the spray for a moment, tilting his head back, letting
the water rinse away grime
and frustration. "So tell me about this place. Who is Tati and how
do you know her? This a gambling
club?"
"No," Krycek said and pressed a plastic bottle into his hand. "It's
a meeting place where people can
talk to each other. The gambling is... a side effect." Mulder squirted
out a dollop of shampoo. "You
know who really runs this country now, don't you?"
"Sure as hell isn't you..." He rubbed at his scalp, then let the foam
wash away with the steady stream
of water. "So you're saying this is where the Russian mafia hangs out.
In a big house on the edge of
nowhere. And you used to come here to play cards."
"Not exactly." Mulder blinked the water out of his eyes just in time
to catch the end of Krycek's
smile. "You don't want to believe, Mulder, that's not my problem and
it doesn't really matter. But Tati
didn't get all that gold she's wearing just through being a night club
hostess." Krycek stepped out of
the shower and wrapped himself in one of the blue towels. He had very
pale skin, smooth and
flawless, inviting touch the way well-carved marble would. Mulder swiped
at his own face, getting the
water out of his eyes, then reached out and trailed a finger along
Krycek's shoulder. The warmth
under his fingertip reassured him. "Will you make up your fucking mind?"
Krycek demanded.
"What?"
"Are you coming on to me or aren't you? I'd just like a little clarity
here, Mulder, a few unmistakable
signs one way or the other." Grabbing another towel, Krycek started
to dry his hair.
Mulder tilted his head back and regarded his prisoner-cum-translator
with a mixture of humor and
contempt. "You really are twisted, aren't you, Krycek. Do you always
think people are making a
pass at you when they hit you, or did I just learn more about your
private life than I really wanted to
know?"
Emerging from the towel again, Krycek shot him a quick grin. "Hey, don't
knock it till you've tried it.
So to speak. And you didn't hit me just now, you hit on me, there's
a difference." He turned away
and headed for the door, towel around his hips, and Mulder followed
swiftly and grabbed him by the
arm. "Changed your mind already?"
"I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"That's really sweet, Mulder."
Mulder sighed, let go and went to find a towel of his own. When he turned
back again Krycek had
left the bathroom. Smiling to himself, Mulder borrowed Tati's Elizabeth
Arden body lotion, her hair
gel and her nail file. He was feeling a lot better as he stepped out
into the room to find Krycek gone.
The man was impossible, Mulder should have cuffed him to the towel
rack. Or a bedpost. Or the
radiator. Or—well, the possibilities were just endless, and if he
was going to get to do any of it he had
to track Krycek down again first. He made a face at having to put on
his old clothes again, but all he
could find in the closets were stylish dresses that were a couple of
sizes too small for him anyway.
Adjusting his jacket to cover the gun, he slipped outside and went back
the way they'd come,
through the corridor and down the marble stairs. He could hear voices
from various directions, and
the chink and clatter of glasses and silverware, and raucous male laughter
blending with feminine
giggles. It seemed Tati's place came alive at night. And Krycek could
be in any one of these
rooms—or Krycek could already be far away from here.
Mulder walked quietly along the hallways, looking in through every half-open
door, testing every
closed one. Most were locked. He saw groups of businessmen eating dinner,
or deep in conversation
surrounded by beefy bodyguards who shot him suspicious looks; saw men
in ill-fitting, expensive
suits pat the legs of young women with bleached hair and Sharon Tate
cheekbones; saw endless
numbers of expensive glasses being filled with clear liquid, and emptied
again. But he didn't see Alex
Krycek.
Although he stuck out like a Chippendale dancer at an Amish family dinner,
no one seemed to pay
him any special attention. At first it bewildered him, then he realized
that it was a measure of how safe
Tati's was judged to be. He felt a rising respect for that slim, dark-eyed
woman. He also wondered
just how well she and Krycek knew each other.
Thinking about her seemed to conjure her up; he rounded a corner and
found his arms gripped by
small, strong hands. "I told you not to let Alexei go downstairs again!"
"Isn't he old enough to make his own decisions?" Mulder asked perversely,
even though he had his
own reasons for wishing he'd kept a steady grip on that slippery rat
bastard.
"No, not here," Tati said with a sudden charming smile. "He is, ah,
reckless. When he is here." She
jerked her head towards another door, and the anxiety returned to her
face. "In there. He is playing
even though I asked him not to. You must make him stop."
"Can't he cover his debts?" Tati gave him a bewildered look. "Doesn't
he have enough money to
gamble with?"
She shrugged impatiently. "I would give him money, that is not important.
Now go, before—" Tati
shoved him towards the closed door, and Mulder opened it, and stepped
inside.
Five men were sitting around a table, eyeing each other, and a sixth
stood on the floor right by them.
There were no lamps in here, just flickering candlelight, and Mulder
saw their smiles and the excited
gleam of their eyes in brief flashes. The room smelled of vodka and
tension, as the heavy door
slipped shut behind him and silenced every sound except that of everyone's
breathing.
The standing man held something in his hand that gleamed, dull metal,
as he lifted it to his head. A
gun. Mulder stared, too taken aback to say or do anything, as the man
pulled the trigger, and the gun
clicked softly. Everyone around the table seemed to exhale, collectively,
a sigh of relief and
disappointment, as the man grabbed a half-full glass and drained it
in a single swallow. Then he
handed the gun to the next man and sat down on the chair that became
free.
The next man was Alex Krycek. He was smiling, a wide cocky grin, and
he said something in a low
voice that had the others laughing. Mulder tried to force his body
into action, as Krycek took a glass
and drank in the same reckless way and then brought the gun up to ready
it for another round of the
game. "Alex." Krycek turned his head. His eyes glittered with unholy
amusement. "Don't."
"Ah, you're just no fun, Mulder," Krycek said, put the gun to his head
and pulled the trigger.
The click that followed, small and silly sound that it was, broke Mulder
free of his paralysis and he
walked up to Krycek with quick angry steps, wrenching the gun out of
his hand and putting it down
on the table. "You're getting out of this right now," he said between
his teeth, fingers digging into
Krycek's arm.
Krycek disregarded that hard grip and leaned sideways to grab his glass
again. "You sure you don't
want to join?" For a moment Mulder saw Modell's face instead. Krycek
drank the rest of the vodka,
swallowed and said something else in Russian that seemed to take the
others at the table aback. "Let
go of my arm, Mulder, you act like we're married. You'd like this game—"
"No. Shut up." Mulder began to drag Krycek towards the door, not even
bothering to nod an
apology to the other players. They seemed to take Krycek's sudden departure
philosophically, and
the next man was already picking the gun up as Mulder and Krycek went
out the door and it closed
behind them. "Don't you ever," he emphasized his words by shaking Krycek,
"do anything like that
again."
"Aww, Mulder, I didn't know you cared." Krycek was laughing at him.
Mulder felt irrationally
furious; he slammed Krycek up against the wall and then paused, unable
to think of what to do next.
Contradictory impulses came and went in his mind too fast for him to
grasp them. Then he heard the
sound of a gunshot from the room they'd just left. "Shit," Krycek said,
one corner of his mouth
twisting. "Tati just hates having to clean up afterwards."
"Shut up." Mulder didn't know if he was about to lose control or if
he'd already lost it. He turned
the man around and started dragging him along the corridor, his arm
locked around Krycek's neck.
When Krycek drew breath to say something else Mulder slapped his hand
over Krycek's mouth.
Krycek didn't struggle too much as Mulder navigated his way back to
the marble staircase; he was
still laughing under his breath.
Tati met them again at the foot of the stairs; she raised an eyebrow,
looked at Alex twisting
half-heartedly in Mulder's grip, and nodded her approval. She started
to say something in Russian,
then switched courteously over to English. "You shouldn't be such a
bad boy, Alexei. Thank you,"
this was directed at Mulder. "Go and use that room upstairs, I will
find clothes for you tomorrow."
Krycek was moving his lips under Mulder's hand as if trying to say something,
and Mulder tightened
his grip. "Thanks," he said to Tati and was about to add something
else when he felt Krycek's tongue
flick against his palm. One swift line, sudden and sharp as a razor
cut, and then another. He shifted
his grip only to have a finger sucked into Krycek's mouth. "Cut that
out. I—"
"Upstairs," Tati said sweetly, swept past them and patted his cheek
as she went by. Krycek's tongue
was playing with Mulder's fingertip, a series of small liquid caresses
that flowed into his veins and
pulled the tide of his blood down to slam in a heavy wave through his
crotch. Involuntarily he
tightened his hold around Krycek's throat, and found his finger sucked
more deeply into the man's
hot and startlingly greedy mouth.
"Krycek, I told you you were wrong," he ground out, pushing his former
partner away from
himself and up the stairs, wrenching his hand away from Krycek's mouth
as he did so. "I wasn't
making a—pass—at you."
"So you said," came Krycek's voice, airy with laughter and excitement,
"so you said." He stumbled
up ahead of Mulder but made no effort to get away from the grip on
his arm. When he turned his
head and looked down over his shoulder, the black glitter of his eyes
shaded into green, a dangerous
dark green like the deepest part of the wild wild woods.
Up the stairs, left through the corridor, Krycek weaving slightly, mad
or drunk or both. Mulder had
forgotten to lock the door to the blue room behind him, but no one
seemed to have been there in
their absence. He pushed Krycek inside and let go of him, turned around
to close the door, and felt a
warm body press up behind him and lean him into the doorframe. Hot
breath danced across the back
of his neck, one hand tugging on his shoulder, the other slipping around
to stroke his chest.
"Give it up, Krycek, I'm not—" A slow wet lick from the collar of his
shirt up to his hairline made the
sentence fall apart in his mouth. Mulder twisted, turned, and sent
Krycek staggering backwards into
the room with a hard slap. "How much did you have time to drink down
there, anyway?"
He started to hunt for the handcuffs, as Krycek kept moving until the
backs of his legs hit the bed and
then fell backwards, bouncing, with his arms flung out. Krycek grinned
and propped himself up on his
elbows as Mulder came to cuff him; he reached up and grabbed hold of
Mulder's shirt and dragged
him down. "Not enough."
"What the fuck—" He sprawled on top of Krycek, dropping the cuffs on
one side, his chin narrowly
avoiding impacting with Krycek's collar bone. The hand that had pulled
him down slid up his arm and
around to his back. With the other hand, Krycek grabbed the handcuffs
and pushed them aside.
"You should have played too," warm breath whispered into his ear. "It's
a great game, you know?"
Krycek wriggled underneath him, rubbing up against Mulder's chest.
"Really gets you going." A
warm, wet, cat-raspy tongue slid over his earlobe, traced the rim,
then the tongue tip started to
wander along every whorl and curve. Mulder jerked abruptly, but not
hard enough to break free of
Krycek's grasp. He was momentarily too stunned, too dazed, too dizzy
and confused to fight. "Like
that, hmmm? Where else do you want me to lick you?"
Krycek shifted and spread his legs, making room for Mulder to lie between
them, securely nestled
into a tight embrace. The hand on Mulder's back started to move up
and down his spine in a long
scratching caress, every scrape of nails a thin magnetic filament that
was drawn irresistibly to the
hardening iron between his legs. He tried to differentiate between
the sudden onslaught of several
separate sensations, the mouth sucking at his earlobe, the hand teasing
places on his back that he
would never have believed to be so responsive, the other hand, cupped
around the back of his
thigh, moving relentlessly higher until the thumb was stroking right
underneath the back pocket of his
jeans.
If he knew what it was that was making him feel this way, he could make
it stop, hit reset, go back to
normal, or whatever passed for normal between him and Krycek. But it
was no use. It was the
cumulative effect that acted like an itch under his skin, that made
him feel as though he'd been rolling
in poison oak, made him want to strip his clothes off and rub himself
against something that would
make that itch go away. Something smooth and soothing, like Alex Krycek's
skin.
"What the hell do you think you're doing," he said, the words slightly
muffled by Krycek's shirt and
more than half perfunctory.
"I'm playing with you, baby. Mmmm...." Krycek arched his back and pushed
his hips up and instead
of objecting forcefully to being called 'baby' Mulder found himself
voicing a stunned sound of instant
desire as hardness pressed against hardness like fire meeting fire
and it was too late for any plausible
denial. "I've always wanted a six foot walking sex toy, and just think
of all the money I'll save not
having to buy batteries."
Mulder struggled to bring a hand up until he could take hold of Krycek's
head, thumb rubbing the
unshaven jaw, fingers curved up behind one delicate ear. "You crazy
son of a bitch," he said and let
gravity pull his own head down until their lips were touching, his
breath fanning out over Krycek's
reddened cheek. "This is what turns you on? I knew it, I knew you were
about to cream in your
pants in the airport in Hong Kong—"
Laughter bubbled up to meet him and then Krycek's lips nibbled at his
own, coaxed him closer still,
drew him into a deep grinding kiss. Krycek tasted of vodka, a sharp
alcohol burn, simple and
overwhelming. His body moved slowly under Mulder's weight, pressing
upwards in half-smothered
caresses. The hand resting on Mulder's ass slid down between his legs
and then up again, direct,
unashamed, leaving a trail of skin-tingling warmth behind.
"Can I," Krycek licked at Mulder's lower lip, "can I ask you something,
'cause I've always
wondered..."
"What?" He twisted his head to one side, avoiding the kiss that was
waiting for him, in order to
investigate the side of Krycek's neck with his tongue. The skin was
a little too clean, he didn't like the
taste of soap that lingered there; it reminded him inappropriately
of things orderly and hygienic and
sane, and was entirely at odds with being sprawled on top of Alex Krycek
in a vast soft bed in a vast
dangerous country.
He bit down just below the ear and felt more than heard the soft vibrating
moan. Another bite to the
jaw—in the spot where he'd hit Krycek a couple of days earlier. Mulder
tongued the place in
acknowledgment if not apology, glad that Krycek hadn't shaved. He liked
the rasp of stubble, liked
to feel it abrade his skin to the point of not-quite-pain.
"What makes you think—" Krycek broke off, straining upwards yet again,
as Mulder twisted his hips
and the buttons on their jeans clicked together. Then he tried again,
the sound of his voice so hoarse
and breathless and sexy that it took a while for Mulder to actually
hear what he was saying. "What
makes you think I killed your father?"
Mulder sank his teeth viciously into Krycek's shoulder until he drew
blood through the cloth. It wasn't
really revenge, or a response to being upset by the question, although
he was. No, it just felt good,
the perfect texture of strong muscled flesh, resisting just enough.
And it wasn't as though a bit of pain
was going to make Krycek come to his senses. The hand on Mulder's back
was scratching and
kneading in motions at once supplicating and seductive, and a moment
later Krycek's tongue flicked
across Mulder's ear again, sending small silvery flashes of arousal
through him. He wanted to stay in
control and downplay his own body's reactions; he wanted to grab Krycek
by the back of the neck
and force him to lick every sensitive point, slowly, thoroughly.
"You were drugging my water supply." Mulder lifted himself up on one
elbow to allow Krycek to pull
the t-shirt over his head. He emerged from the soft cotton in time
to hear Krycek make a sound of
pleased anticipation, and the hand on his back moved around to trail
lazily over his chest instead. A
sudden pinch to one nipple caught him by surprise and his teeth clicked
together and his lips quivered
with the need to bite, suck, taste. He rolled over to one side and
pulled Krycek along, trying to grab
hold of the man's hair and failing. "Driving the whole fucking building
crazy, you know a woman shot
her husband because of what you were doing?"
"Yeah, I always said the American gun laws were too lax," Krycek muttered,
his face rubbing against
Mulder's chest. A swirling tongue moving around his pinched, sensitive
nipple made Mulder arch his
back in welcome, but Krycek moved to the other side and repeated the
same action there, a spiral of
wet warmth that moved inwards only to stop abruptly before it reached
its projected center, leaving
Mulder on the verge of homicide. "What's that got to do with your father?"
The last few words grew
indistinct as Mulder clamped one hand around Krycek's throat. "Ease
up, Mulder, stop trying to
strangle me and don't pretend you're not enjoying this."
Mulder let go, and Krycek pulled away and sat up, discarding his shirt
and kicking off his shoes. The
bite mark on his shoulder stood out like a red brand that stripped
away the flawless marble imagery,
this was flesh, all flesh, the strong arms, the chest that rose and
fell with every fast breath. And
Mulder knew he wanted that living skin against his own, as if the touch
would bring him
understanding by osmosis, would help him assimilate everything there
was to know about Krycek
until he could possess him utterly. The small gold gleam of the nipple
ring caught his attention but
didn't distract him from his thoughts.
"You set me up," he insisted, resisting the impulse to pull Krycek down
into his arms again. "Drugging
me, killing my father, it was a setup, it was supposed to look as if
I'd done it, wasn't it?"
"I just put some stuff in the water, Mulder, it wasn't my plan." Krycek
paused and ran a finger along
the side of Mulder's throat, tapping his fingertip in time with the
pulse beats. "You jump to
conclusions, you always have. Your father's killed on the Vineyard
and then you see me in
Alexandria and you're drugged out of your weird pretty head, your pretty
weird head, so you think I
must have done it. I don't know how you got Scully to believe that
one."
Krycek started to unbutton his jeans, and Mulder slapped his hands away
viciously. "I know you did
it," he muttered, rolling closer and pressing his face against Krycek's
stomach. He licked at the taut
skin, dipped into the navel where a saltier taste lingered, and trailed
his mouth down towards the
waistband. Appreciative hands stroked his hair as he undid the last
fly buttons and pulled the thick
cloth aside. "Christ." He tilted his head back and looked up at Krycek.
"How did you make it
through the metal detector at the airport?"
"Shut up and suck," Krycek said pleasantly, twisting his fingers harder
into Mulder's hair and pressing
his head down again. "There must be a reason God gave you a mouth like
that—ah, fuck yes—"
Mulder ran his tongue around the slick head, tangling with the different
hardness of the ring, painting
smooth flesh with his own wet desire. He mouthed his way down along
the shaft, hands working to
push the jeans out of the way until he had Krycek fully exposed. Nice,
very nice. He exerted slow
pressure along the base, first with lips, then with teeth, forcefully
enough to cause a disturbed
whimper. Mulder smiled to himself; if anything, Krycek was getting
harder.
He let his mouth wander in selfish exploration for a few moments, then
pulled away and started to
peel Krycek's jeans off, accepting the string of half-voiced curses
this caused the way a musician
accepts well-deserved applause after a solo. The jeans landed in a
heap on the floor and he pushed
Krycek's legs apart, kneeling between them and running his hands up
the insides of both thighs in a
slow rubbing motion, thumbs working the tense muscles. As he reached
the juncture of thigh and
torso Krycek's hips jerked up to meet his touch, but Mulder slipped
his hands down and started over
again.
The quivers that made their way from Krycek's straining muscles into
his own fingertips drew forth
another smug smile. He shifted his weight, aware momentarily of discomfort
as the jeans chafed
against his aching cock. Krycek had let his head fall back and lay
there with his eyes closed, arms
flung wide, back tensing into a bow; he spread his legs even wider
as Mulder's wandering hands
reached the groin again and began to play gently over soft, shivering
skin. Shudder after shudder
went through him as Mulder teased and withdrew. A finger that quested
down between the firm twin
globes of his ass was greeted with a helpless moan.
"So tell me, Krycek," Mulder bent forward to whisper the words against
piercing metal, "who killed
my father if it wasn't you?" His fingertip moved in random circles
and spirals, now stroking, now
skidding away. "Tell me." He licked away the drops that were leaking
from the head of Krycek's
cock, one by one. "Tell me."
The sound that rose from Krycek's throat wasn't a moan any more, it
was deeper and angrier and
altogether more desperate, and Mulder wasn't surprised to feel a hand
clenching into his hair again. "I
could always kill you, you—"
"Oh no no," Mulder interrupted him, "trust me, you wouldn't enjoy necrophilia
nearly as much." He
twisted out of Krycek's grip, losing a few hairs, and slid backwards
off the bed. The floor felt
surprisingly stable under his feet after the shifting swells of the
soft bed. While he ripped the button fly
of his jeans open he looked down at Krycek, who still lay with his
legs spread wide, propped up on
his elbows now, his neck a beautiful strained curve. Mulder sighed
with relief as he was rid of the
painful constriction of the jeans, and stood where he was for a moment,
taking in every detail of the
other man's waiting body and planning his next move.
That was his undoing, as Krycek hooked a leg around the backs of his
thighs, pulled him down for
the second time and rolled him over. Mulder had no breath to protest
with, it had been driven from
his lungs at the first sudden impact of skin on skin that made him
discover the full force of his own
need. He squirmed in the enclosing circle of Krycek's arms, a voluptuous
movement that in no way
resembled a struggle. Hard biting kisses on his throat made him tip
his head back and suck his breath
in like a diver preparing to go down. "I'll tell you," Krycek said,
moving lower, grazing sharp teeth
over his nipples, "I'll tell you. Afterwards."
"Yeah," Mulder found himself murmuring incoherent consent, "yeah, that's—do
that again—" He
smoothed a hand down Krycek's chest and tugged at the small gold ring,
then did it again to draw
forth the same gasp, the same sensual tightening of Krycek's grip on
his body. One hand trailed up to
his face, stroked his lips, and he sucked at a finger until it was
withdrawn again. His mouth wanted
more, wanted to eat Krycek alive. "How long have you—had that—the
rings?"
"Years." Krycek rubbed his face against Mulder's chest, his stomach,
rough whiskers peeling the skin
away to expose the quivering nerves. "If I'd known you were interested
I would have shown
you—earlier," he whispered, and Mulder felt the breath that carried
those words wrap hot and full of
promises around the head of his cock. He let his head fall back, shut
his eyes as the first firm tongue
strokes narrowed his world down to simple, exquisite sensation.
Straining upwards into that touch, he felt as though he were floating
an inch or two above the bed,
lifting himself with sheer muscular force into the air, into Krycek's
mouth, into a heightened state of
consciousness. There was nothing else, nothing except wetness and heat
on skin, a swirling spiral
pattern too complex for his dazed mind to untangle. All he knew was
that it was gentle, and
tantalizing, and wonderful, and not nearly enough.
His hands reached out thoughtlessly, tried and failed to grasp the source
of that diabolical torment,
and his own involuntary motion brought him back to himself enough to
say, "Stupid-ass—haircut—"
Mulder drew in a deep breath and lifted himself up enough to see Krycek
leaning over him. As
helpless as a man watching an earthquake via satellite, he saw tongue
meet flesh, feeling the silken
touch slice his mind into tattered rags, and then had to close his
eyes again, unable to take in both the
sight of Alex Krycek's lips around his cock and the riot of sensation
that this engendered. He wanted
to grab the back of Krycek's head and fuck his mouth with rough carelessness,
but deliberate
movement seemed too complex a concept for him to grasp.
"Sharp," Krycek said, lips pressed against a spot just below the crown,
the vibrations of the words
soft and teasing, "sharp like oil, silver, you taste like... licking
a knife made of flesh, like snow and
blood, sharp and bitter like—" And the talking mouth opened without
warning and slid down along
the length of him, took him in deep and held him tight. Mulder responded
with a flat breathless groan,
feeling suction all over his skin, feeling himself swallowed whole—
And then released again. Krycek sat back, straddling Mulder's right
leg, and did nothing. Opening his
eyes, Mulder saw that he was being observed from underneath long dark
lashes. Krycek was
wearing his most innocent face, only slightly spoiled by wet lips and
flushed cheeks. He looked like
the naive young FBI agent who had tried to introduce himself into Mulder's
case and life with a
handshake and a smile years ago, looked as though the time between
then and now had only been a
bad dream, or some crackpot theory Mulder had constructed in an idle
moment. Mulder felt his
upper lip pull back from his teeth and a growl start at the back of
his throat. His reaction to that look
was the same now as it had been then, without any intervening layers
of expected behavior getting in
the way.
He was going to fuck Krycek until the man couldn't even remember how
to look innocent any
more.
Released from the torment of Krycek's touch, he finally rediscovered
muscle coordination and half
sat up, bringing the other man down with a sweep of his arm and turning
himself to get their legs
untangled. His mouth descended on earlobe, neck, shoulder. "Turn over."
Mulder dug his fingers into one of Krycek's arms and pushed him down
flat. He kissed the soft spot
at the back of the neck, then followed the vertebrae down and down,
licking each link in the bone
chain curving gently between columns of muscle. When he reached the
small of the back he had to
stop and press his face into that enticing hollow. He wanted to stay
there, in that warm safe place,
in the comfort he took in touching Krycek... then he shook his head
to clear away that feeling, so at
odds with his body's overriding demands for release.
Shifting down, he wasn't surprised when Krycek spread his legs to make
room; he cupped one hand
around rounded flesh pushing up into his touch, and ran his thumb along
the crease between buttock
and thigh, then followed it with his tongue. The taste here owed nothing
to their previous shower, it
was just right, a little salty, a little oily, human and hot and irresistible.
He paused to savor it.
"Why don't you lick me some more, Mulder." Krycek's voice was huskier
than ever, taut with
excitement. He didn't quite stutter, but the syllables were forced
out seemingly at random with no
thought to where they would land. Mulder smiled and kissed a spot high
up on the inside of Krycek's
thigh. He let his mouth move slowly, lip-reading, learning shape and
texture and taste. Concentrating
on that, he could disassociate himself from his own urgency, until
Krycek moaned and the sound
slammed into his balls and rose up along his cock in heavy pulses of
desire that wanted instant
gratification.
"Does she, do you know if—" Mulder drew in a deep breath, leaned back
a little and started over. "Is
there any lubricant?"
Krycek twisted his neck to look at Mulder over his shoulder, and smiled,
a bit unsteadily. "In my
jacket," he said. "Inside pocket."
"I hope you realize what that says about you," Mulder muttered as he
got off the bed and stumbled
across the floor looking for leather. Under other circumstances he
would have taken the chance to go
through every single pocket and see what else he could learn about
Alex Krycek beside his apparent
readiness for sexual encounters of the wild kind, but right now Mulder
intended to be the next such
encounter and the sooner it happened the better, before he burned out
on this almost unbearable
level of arousal and vanished in a puff of unsatisfied smoke. He got
out condoms and lubricant and
turned back to see Krycek still sprawled on his stomach, still watching
over his shoulder.
"I was just hoping to get lucky." Long lashes dipped down and rose again;
Krycek's eyes gleamed.
There was laughter in there somewhere, and Mulder tossed lube and condoms
on the bed and lay
down on top of Krycek, bringing their bodies into full contact, biting
the neck beneath the short
bristly hair, grinding his cock against Krycek's ass. "Yeah, something
like that—like—mmmm—"
"You want me to fuck you?" Mulder asked, running his hand possessively
down Krycek's side,
raking his nails across the ribs to feel Krycek buck underneath him.
"Or," he couldn't seem to bite
down on the words, "you want to fuck me?"
"Oh, jesus." Krycek arched up again, rubbing himself against Mulder.
"You just really want to make
my life hell, don't you. Do I have to choose?" He shifted his thighs
apart and the next thing out of his
mouth was a low moan, an answer as good as any. Mulder slid down to
one side and got hold of the
lube; he squeezed too hard and ended up with half the contents of the
tube in his hand at once. He
used both hands to transfer the whole slick mess into the deep crease
between Krycek's buttocks,
cooling the burning skin. Then he pressed a fingertip against the tight
muscle and held it there. Krycek
made a sound, then another one, and started to push back against Mulder's
finger. "What the fuck
are you waiting for?" he panted, working his hips in slow twists.
The tightness yielded and Mulder slid his finger inside, pulled back,
pushed in again, smoothing the
lubricant into Krycek's body. Two fingers made it even easier and brought
a groan from Krycek. He
increased the pace of his thrusts until Krycek was muttering what sounded
like threats of
dismemberment under his breath, relishing the control he had over the
other man's pleasure. "You like
this?" he whispered, lips against Krycek's back. "You like what I'm
doing to you?"
"Stop it," it was so soft, he could not distinguish it at first from
the curses, "don't—I want you inside
me when I come—"
It was almost impossible to handle condoms with shaking, lube-slick
fingers, almost painful to touch
himself. He pulled Krycek up until the man was resting on knees and
elbows, and used both thumbs
to stroke his ass, hold him wide open, until he had to steady his cock
with one hand as he pushed
inside. Slowly, so damn slowly. Short gliding thrusts eased him deeper
and deeper, and when he was
sheathed fully in slick hot flesh he paused and let his head fall forward,
struggling to keep his hips still,
to prolong the pleasure by teasing himself and Krycek both.
After a while Krycek began to rock back against him, a twisting grinding
movement that grew more
and more urgent, until Mulder had to grip the working hips to steady
them and himself. That touch
brought him a curious flash of doubled sensation; he could feel himself
at once deep inside Krycek's
ass, and spread open and penetrated, fucking and being fucked, as though
he could not be one
without the other, his body mirroring his lover's that mirrored his,
endlessly. Then it passed as he
started to thrust and lost the ability to think.
Krycek arched up, meeting every deep stroke, driven by his own shameless
hunger. It was easy, it
was so easy and so obscenely beautiful that he wanted it to last forever.
"Sweet," he had no control
over the words either, "so fucking sweet—"
"Harder," Krycek hissed, strained and desperate, breathing in jagged
panting moans that stroked
across Mulder's skin like nettles. Sweet, so sweet and painful. Muscles
pulled tight and moved him
faster, he was blind, mindless, every thrust a streak of lightning
tearing through him, every slap of his
hips against Krycek's ass a thunderclap.
"Now," he couldn't get enough air but he was yelling desperately at
Krycek, "now, damn it,
now—"
And Krycek shuddered, twisting, pressing himself back, sobbing so quietly
that Mulder could barely
hear it through the pounding in his ears, and his body jerked in hard
fierce spasms, as sudden as the
jagged flashes of a strobe light. Mulder threw his head back and let
Krycek's muscles squeeze the
orgasm out of him, taken and possessed and helpless and loving it.
It went on for a long dizzying time until the compulsive motions ceased
and they slumped forward,
falling into an uncomfortable heap, the sound of their breathing loud
in a room that had finally stopped
spinning. Mulder lay where he was, face pressed into Krycek's shoulder,
gasping for air. He could
hear the slow powerful beats of the other man's heart. His mind drifted,
not wanting to land in
post-coital depression.
When Krycek moved, acknowledging a return to reality, Mulder sighed
and pressed a silent farewell
kiss to the skin under his lips. He withdrew cautiously and tried to
find a place to dispose of the
condom. There were no obvious solutions and finally he made himself
get up and go into the
bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror, he was taken aback by what
he saw: the flush, the
dreamy smile. He'd rarely seen himself look so happy.
When he turned back, he met Krycek in the door and had his neck licked
briefly, and then Krycek
was in the bathroom and he was outside. Mulder went to sit on the bed,
then got up again to peel the
bedspread off. The wet spot hadn't soaked through to the blankets and
bolsters. He crawled in, too
tired to do more than pull a pillow underneath his head and lie there
listening to the sound of running
water.
It didn't take long for Krycek to clean up and come back, turning off
the overhead light as he went
past the switch. The room became completely dark, and Mulder fumbled
for the bedside lamp,
managing to turn it on as Krycek bumped into something and cursed mildly.
Krycek got under the
covers and slid into Mulder's arms as though they'd been sleeping together
for years. "Tati will
probably wake us at dawn," he said, burrowing in close.
"We were going to talk," Mulder said, rubbing his cheek against the
top of Krycek's head. "You
were going to tell me something." But he knew from his own reluctance
to name the topic that he
wasn't sure he wanted to go there, not now.
"Tomorrow, okay?" Warm breath against his neck almost made him wonder
if he was quite as sleepy
as he'd thought a moment before. "Tomorrow, Mulder. Tonight it's just..."
"Yeah." And knowing that, he let his lips wander over Krycek's face,
a belatedly gentle voyage of
discovery. "Yeah, it's just..."
Just another night at Tati's. Where you can have anything your heart
desires.
If you're willing to pay the price.
The end
Russian roulette
by Torch
"What kind of place is this?!"
