by C. M. Decarnin
In the blackness someone brushed against him and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Before the scent penetrated him he recognized the silence. Made up of almost inaudible breath, slow movement, a hand on his leather jacket, a whisper of material, a quiet step, a sense of laughter at his nerves.
The body in the dark brushed across his front, backing him subtly to the wall. His heart was still racing and his breath came hard. Mulder had terrified him for so long, each encounter fraught with the knowledge that Mulder ached to murder him, and the terror of knowing he might not be able to shoot Mulder, even to save his own life. The shaking, sweating reaction to being near him was still there, though Krycek could feel, now, how Mulder needed to fuck him more than he needed to kill him. It just didn't seem less dangerous.
Mulder was breathing against his ear, still saying nothing. Krycek pulled out the envelope he had ready and passed it into the hand that was feeling across his jacket. He felt Mulder stuff the envelope into his inside suit pocket. But he didn't pull away. So slowly that at first Krycek wasn't sure it was happening, Mulder pressed in on him. His chest against Krycek's thudding heart. Krycek's belly shrank back reflexively, and was then trapped under the press of Mulder's abdomen, his crotch opened by slow pressure of legs between his thighs, and Mulder was all there against him, owning him, hips forcing steadily in. He couldn't move, compressed against the brick wall, his whole body taking the impression of Mulder's.
A barely distinguishable whisper into his ear: "Tell me what you want."
"This," all he could manage. Mulder against him was the sexiest thing he had ever felt, it was all he ever wanted to feel again.
Mulder delicately licked his neck.
His whole body shuddered hard, and he had to force his arm to keep still, fearing that if he reached for Mulder, Mulder would be gone. "Angel," all he could think of to express the heaven he felt.
There was a sound, somewhere.
Krycek grabbed in the dark, but Mulder was gone.
He sank down the wall and put his head in his hand.
They had to stop meeting in person.
Or start meeting somewhere with a bed.
Two minutes afterward he got up and left.
Mulder, moving like a ghost, inhabited the spot a moment later. Inhaled the staggering fragrance of Krycek's spermy ejaculate. Touched the wall where he had leaned. Then ghosted away into the darkness.
Krycek laid the manila envelope on Mulder's coffee table.
He'd cut it a little closer than usual. Ideally, some faceless minion should be making these deliveries. But he didn't have any minions anymore. He used every precaution he knew to be sure he wasn't followed, to be sure Mulder's apartment wasn't surveilled. To be seen here...
It really was insane. There were people who would shoot them both down like dogs if it were known they even talked to each other.
But he loved it knowing that Mulder would come home and ...feel him there. Knowing the first place Mulder's eyes went every night was this coffee table. Knowing his hand would be touching where Krycek's hand had been. God he almost creamed thinking that.
Krycek looked around at everything Mulder touched. He drifted into the hall, into the bedroom. Strange about that waterbed... A softside, deluxe...
Drawn to it, Krycek stopped when his knees touched the edge. Memory trembled through him.
The others thought he was a man of power, saw in him the young Turks they had once been, and he played it to the hilt. Wanting that. That safety, from pain and humiliation, from death. Majesty over life. They didn't know how he got most of his information. The ones who did know...
The Smoker made him blow him. Just to teach him his place. He had quickly been able to sort out the most powerful men in the Consortium, the ones who knew, by how they looked at him. They liked to remind him. They knew it hurt. This is what you are, Alex. This is all you are. Our whore-boy, kneeling among the sweepings, with your sex-mouth and your sex-hole all the more ours as you give them to someone else. So he'd leaped on their Covarrubias like a panther when he got the chance, rutting for her power and arrogance. Jackass!
If only he'd known she was Mulder's ally. For some reason choosing Mulder over all the men of power.
What would he have done differently?
It wasn't as if he had known, then, what Mulder really meant to him. Only that tumultuous want whenever he had looked at him. A feeling that drove him crazy. Despite knowing the X-Files investigator was a marked man.
Or was that what had drawn him? The scent of death on him? Or the power implicit in having that many players want you dead...
When he'd come to heel after Kazakhstan... the one the FBI files just referred to as the Well-Manicured Man had met him in a room with a bed. He'd known instantly what was coming but hadn't understood how slender a thread of life he held to.
"Drink, Alex?" They knew he never drank. "Drink it. All." That's when he knew there were a dozen eyes watching. The vodka burned down him. Through him. "Undress, Alex." He'd begun to understand. His blood running colder, he'd taken off his suit. "You tried to fuck us, Alex." He stood shivering. They had the air conditioning set arctic. "Kneel on the edge of the bed. Bend over. On your hands and knees."
A door opened. Heavy steps. He felt a man's suit nestled to bare buttocks, a hand moved between them. Hard, wood-hard, cock drove his hole asunder, splitting him and burying itself in him. He cried out, he couldn't help it. Weight all on his one real arm, he'd almost collapsed.
Calm and cold, the old man's voice said, "Report."
He'd told them everything. Pain shamed and betrayed him as his voice and breath reacted to unlubricated rape. Only one stroke every minute or so, his ass searing as the rod pulled completely out, then reviolated him. "That's all," he choked. Then the man's hand had found him, caressed his shaft, his balls, the cock in him had angled onto his prostate and he had come crying out helplessly. The man had immediately withdrawn, and yanked him to the floor.
He'd reached out with his mouth and blanked his mind. You had to sometimes. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't so bad, he was still alive and that was more than the Well-Manicured Man could say now; after giving it up to aliens for forty years.
They had to know he was theirs and they knew he understood nothing but power. Inside. Where it counted.
He didn't really hold it against them. The fact that they understood him so well made them seem all the more powerful. And he was with them.
What an illusion...
A passing breath of air-thin flames and they were gone.
His whole life-base had crumbled.
There was no power.
Certainly no power on earth that could save anyone.
There was only action and results, romance stripped off. It only worked or didn't work. This time. With no guarantees for the next.
It had destroyed him.
Till Fox had come, a new definition of power in his smile.
And now he would do anything, attain anything, to make Fox smile at him like that.
Let's not sweat the small stuff.
Krycek looked down at Mulder's bed. The fact that it was neatly made meant Mulder probably didn't sleep in it. Odd the way it had just suddenly appeared one day in what, from his earliest excursions into Mulder's privacy, had always been a crammed junkroom. Special Agent Mulder with a high-ticket piece of voluptuary furniture. It did not compute. But even if he preferred to nest on the couch, surely Mulder must have tried out the bed at least once.
He reached down and touched the coverlet.
Alex lay down on the bed and rolled toward the center.
It would have been right here, and, knowing Mulder, the very concept of waterbed would have led him immediately to one idea. He might have even been...
...naked... Krycek's breath caught.
He unfastened his fly, trying not to look up at the mirrored canopy and catch an embarrassing glimpse of himself.
His cock was slowly filling. Still part soft to his touch. He caressed it gently.
It angled up out of his pants and he stroked down along its underside and onto his testicles.
If it were Mulder's hand there...
Or Mulder's tongue.
Krycek seized his cock and jerked off, in instant ecstasy.
"Fox. Fox..." He gasped. "Fox!"
His cum spritzed up over him as he arched and wrenched his body like a landed fish...
...And lay panting out his life on the shore...
He stroked his hand over the bedspread. To get the stickiness off of it, then just to feel. A reality of Fox's, alien to himself. A place where Fox might have lain, a place he might've jerked off ...like me...
Might've had a woman...
Marita in his mouth, on his cock, squirming to him coming -- how he'd actually believed-- that BITCH! --
First. The first one he'd had the balls to come on to after -- after they'd --
Prolonged shudders wracked him. Oh. Yeah. All coming apart. Since they cut -- oh god. Everything after that -- Changing -- Falling -- Faster --
Mulder needs me.
Stop the panic.
And Mulder hadn't had any woman. Covarrubias for example.
What, are you kidding?
Mulder, who before Scully came along hadn't even really quite grokked that women were people?
Whose closest brush with the wild thing had been a newspaper ad starting, "Nurse in uniform..."?
I love it he's so untouched...
For all practical purposes virginal...
Ready as a teenager...
And ohhh, so goddam smart it made Alex almost come on its own, that black intuition all focussed on him, like something penetrating him through the stomach. Making him want to bow over. On his knees, bow till his forehead rested against Mulder's upright dick.
At the shrine of the Blessed Fox Immaculate.
He'd sneaked into church when he was little.
Wanting to see what all the wickedness was about.
If he had believed, it might have been terrifying. But he was only a nerdy little communist boy, with no friends and nothing special about him -- except the one huge thing he kept locked away from everything else, as much as he could -- and he didn't even know what he was seeing. Only later, with his KGB refugee "parents", had he been drilled and indoctrinated, almost -- had they but known it -- to the point of belief, and been taken to church every week. Where eventually he had seduced his priest out of sheer bloody-mindedness, and been strapped so viciously by his handler. Who knew exactly what he was and exactly what it took to incinerate him into submission.
His "parents" had been petrified of him.
Stupid kid games.
Looking for power in all the wrong places.
Early admission to college had let them cut him loose ridiculously young, with only a handler he'd been turned out into the fertile waters of D.C. like a little piranha.
He'd shot straight for the thick, ugly, meat smell of blood, and no one had dared lay a strap on him again.
Except at his own bidding.
And when they did, there came to him the smell of incense... candles... the underside of jewel-encrusted robes. The exact angle of his chin taking Communion. Lick, but don't bite. God.
What had they expected him to do?
It still pissed him off. Like Covarrubias.
He was good at it. Not as good as he'd been with two hands.
Outwhored. He hated it.
How he'd had to keep the turmoil of his mutilation completely inside him. Listen to the doctors talk about how little use he'd get out of it, being hacked off so high -- calmly absorb, evaluate, decide his options while inside he was screaming denial, crying with rage and grief, no, no, no, no, no! The fear had almost killed him. He wouldn't be thrown aside like an ordinary operative into a cop job or a pension. With the people he now worked among, if you were no longer part of their solution, you were most definitely part of their problem. He'd kept his cool, talked as if about a car that was in the shop, getting some strange looks from physical therapists and orthopedists and the contacts who came to see him. The day they let him out of the hospital he'd caught a plane and turned up at his handler's as if nothing had happened, startling the bejeezus out of the man. Cautiously, they fitted him back to his old job. Like a prosthetic on a stump.
No one, after the first agonies, had seen him look anything but business-as-usual.
Inside, that time stood as the most luminous horror of his adult life.
The terror hadn't left him for months.
He'd proved to them it wasn't an arm that kept him in demand. Eventually he'd proved it to himself.
But there were some people, after that, he couldn't seduce.
They couldn't even look at him.
On the other hand -- so to speak -- there were those who became putty to his head trips. He'd perfected a look of brave vulnerability. Another of blue-collar kiss-my-ass. His crazed one-armed thug who'd as soon kill you as fuck you was particularly fine. He really threw his heart into that one. A certain type of suit just ate it up...
It was hard to know how to be with Fox.
What did he really want from Mulder?
If he could have one thing...
...he wanted Fox to speak kindly to him.
To speak to him as if he mattered.
As if he mattered more than anything.
Alex's eyes closed. He tried to hear that voice...
He was so tired.
He couldn't fall asleep here.
If only because he couldn't deal with weeks of Mulder calling him Goldilocks.
He sat up cross-legged on the bed, which slopped under him.
In deserted men's rooms, after Tunguska... he'd cried, places where no one would train their microphones and take it as a sign he was washed up. In midnight-black public parks. Just let go and wept all the shock and pain and fear and loneliness out. Only it never seemed to be enough, brought no cessation to the tides of his grief, or the wish that someone, anyone, cared. Sometimes in the farthest toilet stall his knees would buckle and he'd just curl up and sob. Sometimes behind a bush he'd sit and rock, his right hand holding the stump shoulder as if to comfort it, as he cried and hiccupped and burst through wall after wall of sorrow. One night a mugger had overheard him and decided he would be easy prey.
God that had been good.
But most of the time it just made his eyes hurt, and blowing his nose turned out to be one of the ten thousand little things that were harder with only one hand.
Mulder's apartment would be a great place to cry. But he never felt like it now.
He slid off the waterbed. He decided to leave the wrinkle in the coverlet for Mulder to find.
"Someone's been sleeping in my bed..." Okay, no. He straightened the cover laboriously.
Though if Mulder had any sense of smell at all, that spunk in the air was a pretty dead giveaway.
End Part 5, A Boy And His Rat