Down Here
Fandom: The X-Files
Category/Rated: M Slash.
Year/Length: ~1800 words
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Horrid story.
Author's Notes: Poem courtesy of the lovely Kashmir, attached at the end of the story. It inspired me, but I'm beginning to wonder about the state of my psyche.
I'm down here.
Yeah, you heard me, Mulder. I'm just down here.
I knew you'd come back to Brown Mountain again some day. It was inevitable. I'm the only one that can give you back what you've lost and kiss your booboos better.
You're hesitating.
I don't know why you're dragging your feet, Mulder. You know that I have what you want. You know, none better, that I can give you the peace you're looking for, but, first, you must come a little closer.
That's right. Come on. You love to walk. You're a fit man. There's plenty of meat on those bones of yours. Shake a leg, Mulder, and get yourself over here where I can reach you. You know you want to.
I can hear you, Mulder. I hear your thoughts, and I understand - believe me, I understand you better than Scully ever did. I know your deepest, innermost longings. I know the things you've never expressed, even to yourself.
I know what you want.
I *know* what you want.
I can feel your footfalls now, Mulder, feet approaching across the wind-dried tussocks. I'm here for you. You know I've got it - the fix you need. Let yourself sink into me and I'll make him live again, and this time for you.
This time he won't hurt you, won't betray you. This time, he'll be yours, the way you always wanted him to be; imagine that. Yours for the rest of your life.
This time, it will be forever, 'til death does you unite.
Mulder was getting away from it all.
The X-Files were closed to him; the FBI a thing of the past. Scully was doing her own thing, and it looked as though she would soon be married to -of all things - the veterinarian that lived in her apartment block. He was free.
He was empty.
It seemed that his life had suddenly become futile. His purpose, so long cherished, had come to a close. Samantha was dead and gone, his family with it. The alien invasion might still happen, but it was in other hands now, and the Consortium no longer held sway over the unsuspecting population.
There was nothing left for him to do.
So many people had died for his quest- good and evil. He couldn't even remember them all, although their voices cried to him when he tried to sleep - his father, weak and flawed, his mother, grown cold and hard because of the hand she'd been dealt, Cassandra Spender, fey innocent that she was, used, manipulated by cynics and then left to burn, Samantha, X, the Englishman, and the man he'd known only as Deep Throat, all of them dead.
And then there was Alex Krycek.
Mulder almost couldn't bear to think about Alex Krycek. The gawky agent with the bad suit had captivated him, and even after morphing into the killer queer that was his true persona, Mulder had wanted him - loved him, even.
He'd watched Krycek die, and that's where the game had finally gone sour for him. His life lost and empty, his heart sore, he'd walked away.
Going through the motions afterwards, he'd seen things that would once have made him angrily triumphant, but which now seemed to mean nothing. Less than nothing. He'd finally decided to take a trip, go walking and get himself away from DC, the FBI, and all the memories that were holding him back.
Now, out in the cool, fall air, striding over the rough terrain that would take him through to the North Carolina hills, he paused for a moment to look around himself. There was the tang of autumn in the air, crisp ground underfoot, and the dried stalks of meadow grass crackled in the cold of the morning as he went.
The world was a place he'd wanted to protect, longed to serve, but now, vivid as his surroundings were, he felt somehow removed from them, as if he were viewing them through gauze. Somehow, life had lost meaning for him, and he did not know how to recover that meaning.
He set out again, adjusting the straps of his backpack as he went forward and wondered whether he should stop soon to make his evening meal and pitch his tent.
As he went, he brooded on Krycek, and those last few moments. Krycek had been trying to tell him something, and he - fool that he was - had played one game too many, and failed to hear what the man was saying. He'd wondered since then just what it was that Alex had needed to say to him so badly that he'd stayed put to let Skinner put the final bullet through his head. He wished he could go back and ask what it might have been.
He wished he could go back and stop Krycek's death from happening.
He wished he'd listened.
It was getting dark now, and finally, he unslung his pack to set it down and began to erect his tent. Before long, he had the tent up and a little fire burning merrily while he set to, preparing minestrone soup for his evening meal.
Much later, he was sitting, watching the first of the stars come out, musing on the vagaries of fate. He was not prepared for the voice that suddenly invaded his thoughts.
"Getting back to your roots, as it were, Mulder?"
He jumped, the mug of cocoa he was cradling slopped over onto his sweater, and he swore.
"What are you doing here, Krycek?" He scrambled for a cloth with which to wipe away the sticky, sweet wetness.
"I figured I'd get away from it all. Funny how we always seem to end up finding each other, even when we try not to."
The soft voice made Mulder's skin prickle with desires he didn't want to admit, even to himself. He noticed, incuriously, that Krycek was dressed in the blue jeans and leather jacket that had been his habitual uniform during the middle period of their association and frowned a little as he wondered what had happened to the sartorially elegant Krycek of their more recent meetings. Finally he concluded that jeans were the more practical attire for fell-walking and abandoned the train of thought in favor of studying Krycek himself.
The man had aged well. There were laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, but otherwise he was just as he always had been, wide green eyes separated by the pert nose that seemed too small to be truly masculine, and mobile, beautifully molded lips that were set in that familiar half-smile which suggested he knew things nobody else did.
"Looking good for a dead man, Krycek. Do you think you should maybe go haunt someone else? Skinner for example? He's the one who killed you." Mulder checked the pan in which he'd made the cocoa, and finding a little more, handed it to Krycek. "I don't have another mug, but here you go."
Reaching to take the pan, Krycek raised it to his lips and paused, his smile widening. "There are jokes to be made about this kind of situation, but, for the life of me, I can't think of any."
Mulder watched him drink, his eyes on the other man's left hand. "I thought you lost that arm; what happened?" he asked, after a minute.
"The rebels grew it back for me. That's why I stayed and helped them in the end." Krycek lowered the pan and smiled at Mulder. "Okay, I did want to save the world too, but you know me. People don't believe in altruism but they always go for enlightened self interest."
Nodding, Mulder finished his drink and laid his mug down in the bowl where he would wash up. "I always wished I'd found out what you wanted to tell me back there in the parking lot, Alex."
"I don't suppose it matters now," said Alex, moving closer to the fire and in the process pressing himself up against Mulder's side. "I always loved you, you know," he said, inconsequentially.
The words took a moment to percolate through Mulder's brain. As the sense of it sank in, he turned to face Krycek, suddenly conscious of the warmth of the body pressed against him. "We never stood a chance, did we?" he said, softly.
Krycek didn't say anything. He merely leant forward and pressed his parted lips to Mulder's as his hand came up to cup one rough cheek.
Heat leapt to Mulder's face. His world narrowed down to the focus of those two warm lips, and the sweet, moist mystery that was contained within. He gave a small gasp and reached for the solid, hard body that was sitting next to him, finding himself suddenly rolled to lie flat on his back beside the fire while Krycek covered him, pressing against him. Kisses and caresses clouded his brain, rendering him incapable of any thought other than that he wanted this, wanted it now, and would never again let Alex Krycek go.
The wind was cold on his exposed flesh, and when Alex suggested that they extinguish the fire and move inside the tent, Mulder was eager to comply
Inside the tent, cocooned in down and polar fleece, Fox Mulder and Alex Krycek were warm at last, their minds and bodies in perfect accord for possibly the first time in their lives.
Mulder had always thought that Alex Krycek would be rough and brutal in his lovemaking. He was wrong. The tenderness and delicacy of every caress, every touch of Krycek's hands, and lips and tongue rocked his world. He could feel his body melting, his nerve endings turning to jelly, and coalescing to pool somewhere south of his navel. Mouth locked to mouth, bodies twined together in a never ending dance of courtship.
He would have spoken, told Krycek at last all the things he'd felt for so long, but Alex placed fingers on his lips, dragging them down until he seized the hand and sucked on the marauding digits. After that, their mouths collided once more, and tongue spoke to tongue in the silken language of pleasure.
Their frantic progress towards completion sent Mulder soaring, and he heard himself beg as Krycek moved down to suckle at his groin.
"Your mouth...so hot..." he gasped.
"You taste so good, Mulder," was the husky reply.
Mulder felt the burst of pleasure flood him like sunshine, like moonrise, as the solar winds took him at last to follow Krycek.
I hope that you found what you were looking for, Mulder. You're a part of me, now, and I am growing. Your fear of aliens and syndicates doesn't worry me. They will all come to me in the end.
Yes, Mulder, you did taste good.
The End
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