PG-13,V,H implied m/m
Summary: John Fitzgerald Byers recieves an unexpected visit fom one Alex Krycek.
Disclaimer: Chris who? No, seriously, not mine.

An Uninvited Guest: Saved By The Bell
by Pares

The floor was sticky. There seemed to be an orange-y film coating the floor-- if you squinted, it resembled Australia. The soles of Byers' slippers made appalling little sucking sounds, and he bit back an angry little yelp.

There was a lazing trail of some type of liquid-- from it's pale color, Byers suspected his Dole Pineapple Juice had once again fallen prey to Langly's legendary midnight dry mouth...

He thanked himself for his forethought on Scotch Guarding every surface in the house since Langly had been staying over... but then... Langly hadn't stayed over last night...

He was in Baltimore, at a DragonCon.

Who was that sprawled on the couch then?

Black boots propped on his armchair, and some daredevil hood grabbing a nap on *his* furniture.

Automatically, he reached for the phone, was about to press 911-- but stopped dead.

The figure on his couch rolled its head, and wide green eyes paralyzed him--

"I'd put the phone down if I were you," the man said, in a soft, helpful tone.

John couldn't think, he only knew that his heart was a skipping cha cha in his ears and that his hand was clenched around the receiver. The receiver, which smelled... warm.. human... musky... Male.

He dropped it before he even realized why it was sticky.

"Who the hell *are* you?" he demanded, adjusting his robe indignantly.

"Mulder sent me," the man explained.

John felt a wild laugh build behind his teeth. Sure. Sure he did. Mulder sent some weirdo to break into his house and... and... *goo* all over his phone.

"Comes the time when it's later and onto the table the headwaiter puts the bill", the man said, carefully.

Oh. Damn. Mulder *had* sent him.

"Well. What's your name? Will you be leaving soon?" //I hope.//

"You can call me Al."

"Usually, people call me Byers."

"I'll call you John, then," Al answered, a grin in one corner of his mouth.

Byers squinted accusingly at the supine man taking up his blue couch.

"Did Mulder tell you to do that?"

"If you mean, did he tell me your name, no. There are files on you guys. Thicker than Nabokov novels."

"Al. Alex Krycek," Byers announced, memory catching up with surreality.

"The one and only," Alex agreed, although he sounded tired.

"Can I get a shower?"

Byers nodded, tried not to look pinched and spinsterish in his slippers and robe. He knew he was fussy; somehow the knowledge only made his imminent prissiness worse.

It was galling to be more worked up over the continental spill of juice getting tacky on his linoleum than the arrival of a stranger, and possibly a criminal.

Krycek brushed past him, his boots thumping loudly on the kitchen floor.

Byers jumped when he heard a voice purr in his ear, "Sorry about the spill."

"N-no problem," Byers rabbited.

"I got the juice all over me," Alex reported in a confiding tone. Byers found himself turning his head and eyeing the stain emblazoned on the tight white cotton of Krycek's T-shirt, and the shiny, scaly looking trails that painted stripes down his left arm and to the webs of his fingers.

"Ah." Byers could think of nothing else to say.

Krycek leaned closer, his breath burring in Byers' ear.

"About the phone, " he began.

"Don't worry about it. Don't mention it. Happens all the time," he babbled.

But he could remember the sharp, lingering pungeance... the scent that Krycek wore, reeked of, raw and delightful, like smoke, like dust, like sex...

Good god, what was he thinking!?

"The bathrooms is..." He reached up to point, and could have sworn Krycek moved his body so Byers' hand would brush his stomach.

"Um.. over.. there...."

Alex advanced with each spoken syllable. Until he was nose to nose with the smaller, bearded man.

"I don't think I'm ready for a shower yet. What do you think?" And he shucked his T-shirt before Byers could even begin to form a coherent response, and wadded it in his hands, proffered it to Byers.

John sniffed it delicately, as it seemed only the polite thing to do.

Like engine oil, like stale sweat, like the road, like hunger and strife and blood and too little sleep. It was darkness and sex and too sweet with drying pineapple juice, and Byers didn't think he could exhale it, let it go...

Krycek didn't smile, no mercy blinked in his greenlight eyes. He held up the first two fingers on his left hand.

"Suck them."

Byers moistened his lips nervously. He did his best not to shrink back from the taller man, from the man who looked made for menace, and for getting his way.

Against all good reason, Byers felt his face harden, his spine stiffen.

"You're a guest here. There are fresh towels in the bathroom. Down the hall, on your right." His voice had started fairly strong, but was a faded whisper of bravado by the last sentence.

Byers tried not to flinch, preparing for the blow he figured he could count on.

Instead he felt a gentle hand ruffle his hair.

"Not bad for a desk jockey," Alex murmured.

He did smile then.

He held his hand out again.

"Please... suck them. John."

Byers licked his lips again, tried to remember why he was saying no. Pride? Dignity? Langly?

Langly. Langly was the only reason he could really stand behind.

"I don't think... I don't think... No. Thank you."

Alex showed no sign of being perturbed.

"Are you sure, John?"

Byers nodded fiercely.

Shrugging, Alex put those long, sticky fingers between his own parted lips.

He licked them casually, thoroughly, lingering strokes of a very red tongue. Byers felt a little dizzy.

//Langly.// he thought, desperately. //Ringo Langly, blond, brown eyes, long fingers...//


The things Krycek was doing to two fingers was probably illegal in 48 states, and it was certainly not proper behavior for a guest, but it was definitely... absorbing.

"Please," he heard himself whisper, distantly.

Krycek stopped, a last lingering smack as he popped the damp fingers from his mouth, stroking a pebbling nipple on his own chest and teasing it into a peak.

Byers found himself wondering who Krycek had been on the phone with last night... the boys would have to run a trace, no doubt... but Byers wouldn't be surprised if the line turned out to be Mulder's.

Alex Krycek was a living breathing sex show.

Alex winked, but so briefly that it was entirely possible that Byers had imagined it.

He padded off down the hall.

Just as the shower came on, Byers' phone trilled.

Byers decided it was wiser to take it in his bedroom. He picked up the extension.


"Hey there, cupcake. Guess who I just saw?"

"What are you wearing?" Byers asked, a little wildly. He was trying not to touch himself, but his rising hard on was stubbornly insistent and his hands had always given in too easily.

Langly's laugh was smug. "You just can't get enough of me, huh, Byers?"

"Tell me. What you're wearing." He made his voice breathy in the way that he knew made Langly want to toss him across the nearest horizontal surface. "Ringo."

There was a significant pause on the other end of the line.

"Your favorite jeans, Princess," Langly promised. There was a froggy depth to his voice that made Byers bet he'd already unbuckled his belt.

"The-- the tight ones? Nearly white at the knees...? " //And the crotch.//

"Yeah. Those."

"And.. and I'm.. I've got on.. my uh..." Byers racked his brain trying to think of something, anything, he might own that Langly actually considered somewhat attractive.

"Your jog shorts?" Suggested Langly. "The little blue ones?"

Byers sighed, grateful. "The blue ones," He replied. He lay down on the bed, glad to hear his friend's voice, and suddenly very relieved.

"And I ironed them. Just for you," he murmured seductively.


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