Title: Change One Little Word...
Name: Scribe
Fandom: X Files
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Status: Finished. Entry in the Slashing Mulder first anniversary contest, weather division. Also part of the `Poetic' series.
Criticism: Yes poet77665@yahoo.com
Archive: Yes. Let me know where.
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Krycek, Scully, and Mulder belong to Chris Carter. I just borrow them.
Summary: My take on Mulder and Krycek's real first meeting, before `Sleepless'.
Notes: This story occurs long before `Little Cat Feet' and `Summer Redundant'.
Rating: R. Hey, I AM capable of less than NC-17!
Note: Don't shoot me. I didn't see the episode where Mulder and Krycek met, and the synopsis available on the web wasn't all THAT detailed and textured. Here's my take on it. Consider this AU. Part of the `Poetic' series. It occurs long before `Little Cat Feet' or `Summer Redundant'.
Change One Little Word...
By ScribeOne Misty, Moisty Morning
A Nursery RhymeOne misty, moisty morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man
Clothed all in leather.
He began to compliment,
And I began to grin,
How do you do?
And how do you do?
And how do you do, again?*Mulder, you're being childish.* Fox Mulder stood in front of his apartment window, clad only in his boxer shorts, leaning his forehead against the pane. He wasn't worried about being seen. The streets outside were deserted, and he was enjoying the chill of the glass.
Again the thought drifted across his mind. *You're being childish.* How many times had that statement been directed at him? By his father, fairly often. By his mother, less frequently, and usually with a gentle smile. By his partner... Mulder grimaced. *Ex partner. Just get where you can trust someone, and The Powers That Be, in their infinite wisdom, decide it's better for you to split up.* By Dana Scully, more than once.
But he'd never directed the thought at HIMSELF. Not till today. What was it?
Closing the X Files, being cut adrift from Scully...yeah. Those were the obvious things. Nothing like a big dollop of insecurity to make you feel...well, not childISH. ChildLIKE. Vulnerable.
He sighed. His forehead and hair were getting damp. It was cold outside, warm in his apartment. Water was condensing on the glass, dribbling down. He'd have to do something about that, or the wood on the sill would end up with damp rot. But that just seemed far too adult and responsible a thing to be worrying about on a morning like today.
Not removing his forehead from the window, he idly touched a small drop near the top of the pane, drawing it down till it touched another, and merged. With that added weight, gravity proved too much for it, and it started down the glass. It gathered bulk and momentum as it made it's way down, and seemed the size of a raisin by the time it splashed over the window sash.
It wasn't raining outside yet, but it would be at any moment. It was overcast, with not a speck of open sky in view. The clouds were almost purple, but Mulder suspected that was more from the lingering darkness of night than violence of temperament. It was still very early, just barely past dawn by his calculations. Not that there was any sun on display. It looked like twilight outside, and probably wouldn't get much brighter all day. These early spring days could be just as nasty as anything deepest autumn threw at you.
It reminded him of a poem. Almost everything reminded him of a poem, these days. He seemed to have retained almost every one he'd run across since his mother had propped him on her lap and opened that first book of Mother Goose. There were a lot of poems about rain, for adults and children, but it was the nursery rhyme that came to Mulder today, for some reason.
He recited softly to himself. "One misty, moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, I chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather. He began to compliment, and I began to grin. How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do again?"
Mulder smiled slightly, despite his depression. He'd loved that poem. His father, hearing him recite it once, had pointed out that there was no such word as `moisty', and Mulder had replied that there SHOULD be.
The FBI agent sighed gustily, watching his breath fog on the glass, adding to the moisture. With his fingertip, he sketched a heart in the grey film, complete with arrow. Inside it, he wrote `FM + `, and his hand paused. *Plus WHO?*
Not Scully. He cared about her, and was coming to care for her more deeply with every day that passed. But it wasn't the kind of love you scrawled in a valentine. And there weren't any other even REMOTE possibilities. With a grimace, he scrubbed his palm across the glass. It would be streaked when it dried, but the mocking image of the half empty heart was gone.
He moved away from the window, and began pacing. He went and stared for a moment at his rumpled bed. The empty space held no attraction for him whatsoever. He had a day off today, before starting back to work. Figured the insomnia would decide to kick back in at one of the few times he could have slept as late as he wanted.
He found himself pacing again.
*Damn. Haven't even been up an hour, and already I'm getting cabin fever.* He wandered into the kitchen, contemplated making coffee, then realized that caffeine wouldn't help his restlessness. Besides, he really didn't feel up to making it. And no matter what the automated coffee maker claimed, it tasted crappy when you tried to make less than three cups. *It's not fair. Life just wasn't designed for single people.*
Mulder walked back over to the window and peered out consideringly, stretching. There was a donut shop just a few blocks down the street. He should be able to make it down and back with breakfast before the weather broke, if he jogged.
That sounded good. Yeah, he was in the mood for comfort food this morning, and donuts would be perfect. As he pulled on a sweat suit, he thought that maybe he'd even get milk instead of coffee, just REALLY regress.
The wind was picking up when he hit the street, and the mist was just short of rain-spray on his face. He paused, debating whether or not to abort the errand. Then his full lower lip poked out a little farther in a sulky expression his parents would have found very familiar. He wanted donuts, and he was going to have them, rain or no rain.
He started off down the street. The pavement was already glistening with moisture, even in the dim light, and there was just the faintest hint of a squish along with the slap each time the soles of his athletic shoes contacted the damp surface. Funny the way sound acted on days like today. He almost thought someone was pacing him somewhere nearby. There was the faintest echo, just a nanosecond after his soles slapped the pavement.
As he jogged, he repeated the poem again, the words coming in an easy cadence with his gate. "One MIS-ty, MOIS-ty MOR-ning when CLOU-dy WAS the WEATHER, I CHANCED to MEET an OLD man, CLO-thed ALL in LEAH-ther..." He chuckled to himself. *Clo-thed? That's stretching the meter a little far, isn't it, Mulder?*
He argued with himself as he continued. *Yeah, well, antique pronunciation. Fits the rhyme. Never bothered me before, not gonna let it bother me now. Leather. Yeah, leather would make sense on a misty, moisty sort of day back w hen they wrote that. No rain gear then. No plastic, for sure. Leather wasn't just a fashion statement back then, it served a purpose. Protective, warm, and water resistant.*
The sweet, yeasty smell of donuts frying assaulted him as he neared the shop, and he skidded to a halt. For a moment he just stood there, eyes closed, head back, hungrily sniffing the delicious scent. Drifting back to the kitchen of his childhood, where, on rare Saturday mornings, his mother had tended the pot of bubbling fat, doling out the still sizzling pastries after they'd been rolled in a plate of cinnamon-sugar. A slow, sweet smile spread across his face, and anyone who cared to look could see what Mulder had looked like as a youth, just entering the first flush of manhood. For those few moments, years of angst, stress, and growing cynicism were wiped away. He was always an attractive man. For that space, at least, he was beautiful.
Fox had enjoyed the brief sensory nostalgia, but he couldn't resist the allure of the aroma for long. He pushed his way through the smeared glass door, into the almost steamy interior of the shop, and went to the counter. It was a glass fronted case, it's shelves holding trays of donut holes and other pastries, such as croissants, and muffins, or bagels for the more `health conscious'. *Though why anyone who cared a lick about their arteries would even come NEAR a place like this, I don't know. Hardly seems any point. Sort of like going to Kentucky Fried Chicken looking for a salad. They might JUST be able to do it, if they stretched, but what would be the point?*
Fox peered past the counter while the clerk finished pouring a cup of coffee for a customer at the end of the serving counter. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Baked, or fried? Buttermilk, plain glazed, honey-dipped, chocolate honey-dipped, Bavarian creme, custard, coconut, blueberry, chocolate chip, apple cinnamon, maple frosted, raspberry jelly, lemon custard filled, vanilla frosted, powdered sugar, cinnamon sugar, crullers...
No, definitely not crullers. Crullers were NOT part of the whole regression scene. Too sophisticated, with their elegant, fluted shape. He needed something very pure and basic today.
He heard the door hush open behind him, and automatically glanced in the round security mirror mounted on the back wall. A dark haired man, perhaps a few years younger than Mulder was entering. The mist must be getting thicker outside: there were droplets of moisture beaded on the shoulders of his leather jacket.
The new arrival paused just inside the doorway, head cocked as if considering something, perhaps whether or not he really wanted to be here. Then his nostrils flared, very green eyes half closed, and his generous mouth stretched in a pleased smile. *Good. There's someone else who can appreciate the atmosphere around here. Enjoy it, buddy. It's one of the few pleasures no one has figured out how to charge for.*
The stranger came to stand behind, and a little to the side, of Mulder. He lifted slightly, not quite going up on tiptoe, and looked over the special agent's shoulder, scanning the cases in the back wall. Mulder could hear the faint creak of the man's leather jacket as he rubbed his chin, in obvious deep concentration. He could smell the jacket, too. Oh, not that it was RIPE, or anything. No sweat. In fact, there was a light, spicy scent of a good aftershave or cologne. No, leather just had it's own particular aroma.
Mulder found it particularly evocative of...Oh, he wasn't sure. A certain sense of masculinity, perhaps? Sure, women wore leather. But it just seemed more FITTING on a man. And on some men, it seemed down right natural. This was one of those men. Despite his almost too perfect good looks, he seemed very at home in the animal skins.
The clerk, a young girl, bustled up to the register, looked right past Mulder to the other man, and gave a beaming `well, HELLO there!' sort of smile that Mulder had yet to encounter from her, despite the number of times he'd been in. *Well, doesn't THAT just make me feel special?*
He was a little surprised when the mild voice said, "He was here first."
*Courtesy? At THIS time of the morning?* Mulder turned slightly to get a better look at him. The man had a pleasant, bland expression. But Mulder had learned a long time ago that didn't signify squat. Some of his weirdest, hairiest experiences on the X Files had been with people and , well, THINGS that at first glance had seemed almost pathetically ordinary.
*No, this guy might be a lot of things, but NOT ordinary.* The thought passed so quickly that Mulder scarcely noticed it. He nodded at the other customer. "Thanks."
Again that almost sweet smile. "Don't mention it."
"What dya want?" Now patently bored, the girl stared at Mulder, foot tapping. She wanted to get him out of the way so she could focus on the green eyed stranger. Mulder sighed. The state of counter help these days.
After a bit more mental debate, he settled on three chocolate frasted. With sprinkles. Sprinkles were very important. He also got a dozen assorted donut holes. *If I'm gonna plug my arteries, I might as well enjoy it.* "And a pint of milk."
The other man pursed his lips. Mulder found himself tracing the outline of that full, pink mouth, and gave himself a mental shake. What on earth was going on in his head this morning? Maybe he SHOULD have gone for the caffeine. "No coffee? You look like a coffee drinker."
"Usually, yeah. Java junkie." Mulder shrugged. "Just feeling a little kiddish for some reason this morning." The other nodded, as if this made eminent sense.
The clerk filled his order, rang him up, then laid his change on the counter, ignoring his outstretched hand, to turn her attention bact tho the object of her current fascination. Mulder started to scrape up the change, when he suddenly found a hand holding his wrist. Surprised, he looked up to find the dark haired man shaking his head.
His expression was just a touch grim now. "You don't have to put up with that." He looked at the suddenly nervous girl, and suddenly he didn't seem quite so bland anymore. "That was rude. He's your customer, and he deserves more than that. Do it right."
The girl quickly gathered up the coins and pressed them into Mulder's palm. "Sorrraboutthatthankyouforyourbusinessyouhaveanicedayandcomebac ksoon."
She looked warily at the other customer, who nodded. "Much better. Try breathing next time. I'll have a bagel." Mulder groaned. "What? Don't they have good bagels here?"
"They're okay, I guess, but they're BAGELS."
"I could have cream cheese on it."
"Oh, fat on top of tasteless. Yummy."
His lips twitched, but he didn't quite smile. "I LIKE bagels."
Mulder shrugged. "You're choice. Just seems an awful waste of a perfectly good opportunity for junk food."
He left the shop, glancing back over his shoulder through the glass of the door when he hit the street. His hazel eyes met green, and he looked away quickly. *Don't stare, Mulder. Don't live up to the Spooky moniker. Don't creep out the nice man.*
He strolled along, enjoying the stillness. The streets were still deserted. The last of the streetlamps were going off, even though they could probaly have been useful for a little while longer. But the power company had a time table and, by God, according to that schedule it was officially daylight, and the populace could do without illumination.
Suddenly the air was split overhead by a crash of thunder that made Mulder literally jump. It was accompanied almost simultaneously by a flash of lightening that leaped across the sky, from cloud to cloud, and for a moment bathed the land below in incandescence. Then came the Rain.
*And that's with a capital R. Je-sus! And I thought this wasn't going to be a heavy storm. Got me again, God.* Mulder thought this as he scrambled into the recessed doorway of a book store. It was raining too damn hard to even attempt the last few blocks to his apartment.
As it was, he was already pretty damp. He raked a hand through his hair, feeling the dampness, knowing that it was now wildly spiked, and not caring. Who the hell was there to worry about it, anyway?
Leaning back against the door, he gazed out at the rain. It was like there was a waterfall running right over the open space before him. If this lasted very long, the streets would flood for sure. The drainage system couldn't handle such sudden and massive runoff. Oh, well. If he was stuck, at least he was stuck with breakfast.
He pulled a donut out of the only slightly damp paper bag and had just sunk his teeth through the fragile chocolate skim of frosting when another body hurtled into his sanctuary, slamming into the door beside him. Mulder bit the rest of the way through the donut a lot more abruptly than he had planned, but thankfully missed tongue or lip.
"Whoa! Sorry about that," panted the man. "Didn't mean to startle you, but CHRIST! Than came on fast."
Mulder chewed briefly, then swallowed. The guy seemed big on manners, so no speaking with the mouth full. "Yeah, didn't seem like it was gonna be all THAT when I came out."
The stranger nodded agreement. His dark hair was plastered to his well shaped head, seal sleek and shiny, and water dripped down his face. "Just sorta misty...moisty..."
Mulder regarded him in surprise, feeling a smile starting to tug at his lips. "You remember that old nursery rhyme?"
"One misty, moisty morning, all cloudy was the weather..."
"When," Mulder corrected. "When cloudy was the weather. I'll be damned. I would have sworn that I was the only person in D.C,, if not Maryland, thinking of that this morning."
"Swearing can be a very chancy proposition." He offered his hand. "Since we're sharing space, we should introduce ourselves. Alex Krycek."
Hm. Bit of an exotic name to go with those green eyes. Fox swapped the donut to his left hand and shook. "Mulder." Let him make what he would of no first name. Mulder didn't give up his first name easily.
Krycek didn't seem to take offense. "How do you do?"
Mulder's smile broadened, "And how do you do?"
They chorused the final line, "And how do you do, again? Damn, you're good!"
Krycek chuckled. "No, that should be MY line, since I'm the one `clothed all in leather.' I'm the one who's supposed to compliment YOU. You just grin."
"Well, yeah, but it doesn't hold quite true. You're not exactly an old man."
There was an odd glint in the green eyes. "There's different kinds of old. Wonderful things, nursery rhymes. Memorizing poetry disciplines the mind. I think the school system lost something when recitations fell out of favor."
"They wanted to create thinkers, not people who would just mouth someone else's ideas."
Krycek opened the paper bag he'd been carrying. "I'm not entirely sure they didn't do the American people a disservice," he murmured.
"Odd philosophy."
"I'm a little different, yeah." Mulder shook his head when he saw Krycek pull out the bagel and a cup of coffee. "So sue me. I need the calcium from the cream cheese." Fox opened his pint of milk in a decidedly pointed manner. "You know, you can be sarcastic without saying a word."
"One of my many talents." They munched in companionable silence for a few minutes.
Mulder wanted to stare out at the rain, but found his eyes being drawn back to Krycek, watching the way his strong jaw flexed as he worked on the chewy bagel. When Alex looked at him suddenly, meeting his eyes, he hastily took another bite of donut.
The scent of his cologne, and the tang of damp leather filled the little entryway. The space was open fronted, but smaller than a closet, and the men were close together. Fox could feel the sleeve of Krycek's jacket brush his arm every time the man lifted the bagel to his lips.
Krycek finished the bagel quickly, licking a smear of pale cream cheese from one elegantly long finger, and eyeing the bag in Fox's hand. He shifted a little closer, and Mulder could feel his body heat. "You know," Krycek's voice was low. "I really have a hard time resisting sweet stuff."
Mulder twitched, staring at him, trying to decide if there was some sort of double meaning to the words. But then Krycek's expression was open and innocent as a child's when he said, "Trade my last sip of coffee for a donut hole?"
"Oh. Sure." Mulder gulped the last of the thick brew, feeling like a little alertness right now couldn't hurt, and he couldn't count entirely on a sugar rush. Then he held out the open bag.
Again Krycek took hold of his wrist, his grip gentle, but hinting at strength that wasn't readily apparent in his slender build. He slipped his other hand into the sack, the paper rustling. "Let's see, which one do I want?" He paused, looking up at Mulder through dark, spiky lashes. "I really SHOULDN'T be playing with your balls, should I?" Mulder almost choked before he continued. "Don't worry, I won't touch anything I don't intend to eat," and pulled out a powdered sugar donut hole.
Mulder, feeling a little dizzy, took a hefty gulp of milk as Krycek ate the little pastry in two dainty bites. "Delicious. Could I have one more?"
"Help yourself," Mulder croaked. Again his wrist was captured, and Krycek rustled the paper bag while making a leisurely selection. Mulder was shaking by the time he let go.
*What the FUCK is going on here?! I've got to get home. This man is WAY too disturbing.* And yet, there hadn't really been anything said, or done. "It's been nice meeting you, but I need to get on home."
Krycek glanced out at the still teeming rain, then back at Mulder. "You'll get soaked." He paused. "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"
"No,no." *Too quick, too vehement. Methinks he doth protest too much.* "I've just got things I need to do. *And besides, I think a cold shower right now might be just what I need.* "I just have things to do."
"Alright." Krycek offered his hand again. Mulder would have expected it to be cool, with his recent dousing. But it was very warm. "Maybe we'll meet again."
"Um...maybe." Mulder slipped the bag holding the remnants of his breakfast under his shirt and dashed out into the flood. He pounded up the streaming sidewalk, sprays of water flying at each footfall, drenched before he'd gone a yard.
Alex Krycek watched Fox Mulder disappear into the envelop ing rain, and thought, *Oh, you can count on it, Foxy. Tomorrow, in fact."
He hadn't been too interested when he'd gotten this assignment. FBI agents, in his experience, were usually dull, stolid individuals. As he'd studied Mulder's dossier, his opinion had changed. By the time he was ready to begin, he was quite looking forward to meeting Mulder, and so far he wasn't disappointed.
Krycek leaned comfortably back in the doorway, and absently rubbed at the bulge at his crotch. He was glad he'd decided to stake out Mulder's apartment a few hours before he expected him to get up. What a treat he'd had.
The other man, obviously thinking himself unobserved, had appeared at his window in nothing but a thin pair of boxers. He'd stood there, watching the approaching weather for some time. His long, lean body had been relaxed, unconsciously graceful. At his position in the alleyway across the street, with his binoculars, Alex had a good view.
He'd scanned Mulder's body in loving detail, taking in the sleek muscles, the abundant, sable brown hair, the deliciously sulkly mouth. He hadn't really gotten a good impression of the eye color, and had been delighted when he got a closer look in the coffee shop. They were a hazel as unusual as his own shade of green.
Eye color aside, the binoculars had been excellent at picking out details. He'd been able to see that Mulder's nipples were slightly puckered by the chill near the window. That was when he'd started to get hard, and it hadn't gone away yet. Mulder's proximity, touching him, his reactions to the double entendre's...They'd all served to give Krycek an insistent erection. And, since it was far too soon to get the one who'd caused it to do anything about it...
Alex, fairly sure no one would come by, but not really giving a damn, unzipped and began to masturbate, thinking about that pretty, pretty mouth. He whispered, "How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do, again?"
The End
Title: One Way of Looking At a Fox
Name: Scribe
Fandom: X Files
Series: Part of the 'Poetic' series.
Pairing: none
Status: WIP
Criticism: Yes
Archive: Yes, let me know where
Feedback: Yes. poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Krycek and Mulder belong to Chris Carter. They just come over to my house for play dates.
Summary: Somewhere down the line, Alex Krycek reflects on the beginning of his obsession with Fox Mulder.
Notes: For the Slashing Mulder First Anniversary Contest, Snippet division. Sort of a sequel to 'Change One Little Word...'
Rating: R
Warnings: Sorry, no smut. Pre slash.
One Way of Looking At a Fox
from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
By Wallace StevensV
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.Alex
I suppose I started falling in love with him while I was reading his dossier, preparing for my next assignment: him. Special Agent Fox Mulder. Now that I think about it, how could I NOT love someone with a name like that? Fox: sly, wild, beautiful, cunning. All accurate descriptions. Even his nickname, Spooky, was apropros. He's a remarkably skittish man... about certain things.
I'm thorough, so of course the information they provided wasn't enough. I had to do a little digging on my own. I checked out his school records, and discovered that he'd taken a remarkable number of literature courses for someone going into the criminal justice field. They mostly focused on poetry. I liked that, I really did. I feel that I, myself, have a rather poetic soul. Oh, yes, I know that the psychiatrists would relate this to self delusion. I've been diagnosed as a sociopath more than once. Still, one must have a concept of oneself, and this is mine: a poetic soul. There aren't many of us in the >world. I was delighted to find Mulder.
It was clear from the beginning that he had a romantic nature. I mean, really... Can you say 'Don Quixote'? To the world at large, there aren't much bigger windmills to tilt at than the ones he goes after. They simply never see that they actually ARE giants. The picture didn't hurt the infatuation process. That sulky bottom lip... I just wanted to BITE it.
I had decided to do a bit of field observation before the assignment actually started, so I stationed myself across from his apartment the day before our 'official' meeting was to take place, and watched. When he appeared almost naked in the window, it took my breath away. He really is a gorgeous man, and he seems totally unaware of it.
When he left his apartment in the grey drizzle just after dawn, I followed. It isn't easy to tail on an empty, early morning street, but I managed it. He was preoccupied, which helped. WHAT he was preoccupied with endeared him to me almost immediately.
A nursery rhyme, can you believe it? He was chanting one of the old poems that all good little children used to know by heart, back in the dear dead days before video games and half hour commercials masquerading as cartoons. The 'Misty, Moisty Morning' rhymes, one of my personal favorites.
Oh, that was fun: following him into the donut shop, watching him express that secret greed he keeps so well hidden, and making contact (both methaphorically and physically). The first time I laid my hand on him, simply gripping his wrist, I thought he was going >to jump out of his skin. Skittish, like I said. He felt the electricity, too. The few words we exchanged were innocuous enough, but that look he threw back at >me as he was leaving...
Well, I HAD to follow after that, didn't I? It was such a clear invitation, even if he DIDN'T know he was extending it.
He'd taken refuge in a doorway, sheltering from the >sudden deluge that had caught him about halfway back to his apartment. I crashed into his little sanctuary, pretending I hadn't known he was there. I almost ran INTO him, wanting a taste, however brief, of that long, elegant body, but I held off. I wanted to spend a little time with him, and that meant showing a little restraint.
He seemed wary at first, till I brought up the verse. 'Oh, my. Small world, isn't it?' He relaxed a little > then, and we introduced ourselves. We both got a kick out of working the verse into the conversation. Most people would think you were crazy if you said I could be playful. They haven't seen the results of some of my... more difficult assignments. There are all KINDS of ways to be playful. Cats are very playful with smaller, more vulnerable creatures.
We ate breakfast together there in the doorway, watching the rain stream down outside, hitting the sidewalk so hard it threw a spray of mist back at us. I remember deciding then and there that we'd have breakfast together again someday, but in the traditional manner: after a night of hot sex.
It might have gone on longer, but... Well, I couldn't resist teasing him a little. He reacts so beautifully. Perfectly harmless little remarks about... ahem, donut holes. I didn't have to hold his wrist when I fished in the bag those times, but I did. I had him shaking before I let go. So responsive. I had started to get hard while I scoped him out with the binoculars. It quickly developed into a raging hard on.
What can I say? He does it for me.
I guess I pushed just a little too hard. He ran. Literally. Oh, he made a polite excuse about things to do, then he pounded off into the downpour. His clothes were plastered to him before he went two steps. I was left to imagine ripping them off him, then drying him with my tongue. With that image in my mind, I began my first slow hand dance to a fantasy about Fox Mulder.
I've had him since then, many times and many ways: slow and sweet, angry and hard. It's good, but the memory sometimes rivals the reality. It's that first contact my mind goes back to, before I knew him in the flesh. When all I had was the memory of my hand on his wrist, the scent of him, and the excited anticipation of what lay ahead...
Title: As One Shuts an Open Door...
Name: Scribe
Fandom: X Files
Status: Finished
Criticism: yes
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: Chris Carter's. No profit. Blah blah.
Notes: For Slashing Mulder 1st anniversary contest, Weather division. Part of combined 'Weather' and 'Poetic' series. Takes place just after 'Change One Little Word...'
Summary: Rooftop discussion between Mulder and Krycek about their new partnership.
Rating: PG-13. One word.
Warnings: none
May Wind
By Sarah TeasdaleI said, "I have shut my heart
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein
And trouble me no more."But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
"I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free."Krycek found Mulder on the roof of the Bureau building, as far away from his basement cubbyhole as he could get. He paused just outside the roof exit, looking at the FBI agent.
Mulder was at the low wall that ran around the roof's perimiter. He wasn't exactly LEANING on it; he had better since than that. One didn't lean over a great drop, in a lonely place, when they were are paranoid as Mulder. No, he was just resting his hands lightly on the top of the wall.
Krycek moved up behind him quietly. Not stealthily. He wasn't trying to avoid detection, though he had no doubt that he COULD have. He could have had Mulder up and over the safety wall in a heartbeat, if that was what he had wanted. It wasn't.
He didn't want to startle Mulder, or take him too abruptly out of whatever mood he was in. He'd only been partnered with the other man a couple of days, and so far he found observing Mulder fascinating, not at all the boring obligation he'd been expecting.
As he moved up beside Mulder, he was surprised to see that his eyes were closed. His head was back slightly. A brisk, moist wind was blowing across the roof, pushing his heavy brown hair back from it's accustome drape across his forehead.
"They go on and on about April. No one ever seems to mention May, though." He didn't open his eyes, or make any sign that he'd known Krycek was there.
"What about May? April showers bring May floweres."
Mulder slitted hazel eyes at him disdainfully. "C'mon, Krycek. You can do better than that. I like nursery rhymes, too, but there are so many hundreds of other verses."
"Feeling poetic, are we?"
"It keeps me from wanting to strangle certain people."
"Look, I said I was sorry. You KNOW this assignment wasn't my choice, but I'm trying to make the best of it. This can work for us, if you give it a chance."
"It's nothing personal, Krycek. But SCULLY is my partner. I want her back."
"So you're not willing to even TRY?"
"Look, I learned my lesson with Dana. I'm never going to get attached to a partner again. I can't stand... I'm pissed, okay? It just isn't worth the effort."
"I said I have shut my heart, as one shuts an open door, that Love may starve therein, and trouble me no more."
Mulder stared at him. At last he said, "Huh. Sarah Teasdale, Krycek?" He seemed to think. "Not...the same thing."
"No? It isn't abnormal to love a partner. You and Scully relied on each other, trusted each other. Cared for each other. It's not so far from love. You need someone to trust and rely on. To care for, and to care for you. She's gone, Mulder. I'm here."
"She's not GONE. She's down in the autopsy lab."
Krycek sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Willfully obtuse. You cant' let this break you, Mulder. You have to keep going. Form new attachments."
"I don't WANT new attachments." Another gust of wind passed over the roof. Fox watched as Krycek's green eyes squinted slightly against the fine grit that had been whipped up. Watched as one long fingered, well molded hand lazily brushed down his sleeves, his chest... Looked away... and didn't see Krycek smile as he saw his nervousness. Alex Krycek had discovered very early on that he made Mulder edgy in a way the FBI agent didn't understand. Krycek intended to make the reasons clear to him...soon.
Mulder once again turned his face into the breeze. "Your poem may have squat to do with my situation, but it IS more appropritate for today than that month thing. But over the roofs there came, the wet new winds of May. And a tune blew up from the curb, where the street pianos play."
There was a pause. "What about the rest of it?"
Mulder shrugged. "No more appropriate than the first verse."
"My room was white with the sun, and love cried out in me..."
Mulder's face darkened. "I told you, Krycek! It's not the same thing."
"You know, you're going to just keep on being miserable until you admit that you need someone..."
Mulder grabbed him suddenly by the suit front and shook him, his expression fierce. "I don't need anyone! Get that through your head, Krycek. Especially you. I don't need you, and I don't want you. So just stay the fuck out of my way!"
He released the dark haired man with a little shove, turned, and stalked back to the door that led back into the building. Krycek watched him go, a tiny smile curving his full lips. He whispered, "Denial, denial, denail, Fox."
Then he went to the edge of the roof, and turned his face into the breeze, as Mulder had. He felt the moist air move against his face, cooling somewhat the fever that always seemed to arise when Fox Mulder put his hands on him. Again he whispered. "Denial."
He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. "I am strong. I will break your heart, unless you set me free..."
The End
Title: Like A Two Edged Sword
Name: Scribe
Fandom: X Files
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Status: Complete
Sequel/Series: Part of the combined 'Weather' and 'Poetic' series.
Criticism: Yes.
Archive: Yes. Tell me where.
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Fox and Alex belong to Chris Carter. But I love them more.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I don't know if Mulder and Krycek ever shared an office in canon. They do here. After 'As One Shuts An Open Door...'
Summary: Krycek misjudges his timing, but by how much?
Like A Two Edged Sword
Winter Night
by Sarah TeasdaleMy window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite....
My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.The package, flat and slim, landed on the desk in front of Mulder. It was wrapped in shiny white paper, with a blood red ribbon knotted around it and curled into a careless, but somehow elegant bow. He studied it for a moment, then looked up into the bright green eyes of the man who had dropped it before him. "What?"
Alex Krycek pursed his lips. "You know, Mulder, that's a record for verbal stinginess, even for you."
"All right. What's the occasion?"
"Happy birthday."
Mulder scowled. "It isn't my birthday."
Alex crossed his arms. "I didn't think it was. But you won't TELL me when it is, and neither will Scully."
Mulder arched an eyebrow. "And of course you're too ethical to look it up in my dossier."
Krycek shrugged, ignoring the implied suspicion of his ethics. "Anyway, you've been acting particularly surly lately. And given your general level of gruffness, that's pretty bad. So I thought I'd just pick a day and go ahead with your present."
"I haven't been that bad."
"You make Walter Skinner look like Richard Simmons." Mulder gave a startled, half smothered bark of laughter, and Krycek smiled. "I know. It's picturing him bouncing around in tank top and baggy shorts, sweatin' to the oldies."
"Um...yeah. Something like that." Fox picked up the package, and turned it over in his hands. "What is it?"
"I don't tell secrets, Mulder," *Not unless I'm VERY well paid.* "Open it and find out." Mulder held the package to his ear and shook it experimentally. Alex rolled his eyes. "Somehow I knew you'd be a box-shaker."
"Yeah? You don't know me."
Krycek watched as Mulder picked the ribbon loose, and started working his fingers carefully under the folded paper, prying up the tape. *I know you, Fox. I know you better than you know yourself. I'm going to be introducing you to yourself, very, very soon.*
"Hey." Mulder's voice was soft, almost wondering. He looked at the thin book. "Love Songs, by Sarah Teasdale."
"It's not a first edition, but it IS initialed by the author on the fly page."
Mulder flipped to the indicated page, and ran his fingers over the inscribed letters. "I'll be damned. Uh...thanks."
"You're welcome."
Mulder sighed, closing the volume. "No, really thanks. I...have been kind of a shit lately, and now this. People...don't usually put a lot of thought into my gifts. Scully gave me a tie last year. Said she had to do something about the goddawful nooses I picked for myself."
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but since SHE did..."
"I'm feeling kindly toward you. Don't spoil it." Mulder flipped through the pages gently. "Lots of good stuff in this one. 'Barter', 'The Gift', 'The Kiss'..."
"May Wind."
Mulder's flicking paused, but he didn't look up at the man standing before him. "Winter Night. There's an appropriate one, even if it IS not far gone into autumn. My window-pane is starred with frost, the world is bitter cold to-night..."
"The moon is cruel, and the wind is like a two-edged sword to smite." Mulder looked up at him in surprise. "Yes, it is appropriate. We'll have frost tonight."
"So soon? It hardly seems right."
"Nature isn't always logical, and is seldom what we'd call fair, Mulder. All we can do is accept it. Live with it. Ride it out."
Mulder's eyes followed Krycek as he walked back and sat at his own desk. Why did he always feel like Krycek was saying one thing, but TELLING him something else?
Reluctantly he laid aside the slender volume of poetry and got back to work on the pile of reports that needed to be finished. But every now and again, his hand would creep unconsciously over to caress the little book. He didn't even notice he was doing it. Krycek noticed, though. He kept his head bent studiously over his own paperwork, so Mulder wouldn't see the faint, smug smile.
The temperature dropped even further that evening. Mulder's breath fogged before him, even in his car, till he got the heater going sufficiently. When he got home, he cranked the thermostat up, cursing himself for his own economy measures in leaving the heat turned so low. He had to walk around in his coat for awhile, waiting for the apartment to warm.
While he waited for the furnace to take the chill out of the air, he went to look out his window. He'd been late getting off: it was already dusk, deepening into twilight.
He was startled to see the thin white rime that glazed the outside of the window panes. Krycek had been right. Frost. He pressed his palm flat against the glass, fingers outspread. It was cold, very cold, but not wet. The air inside had been close enough to that outside that therea€™d been no condensation.
The new frost was very fragile. After only a few seconds, the heat of Mulder's touch traveled through the plate of glass. The frost dissolve on the other side of the space his hand occupied, leaving a clear space, and letting trickles run down to begin defrosting the rest of the glass.
Gradually, the place warmed. He shrugged out of his coat, then went and got into a comfortable set of sweats, just in case he wanted to turn the heat back down later. Right now he couldn't imagine wanting that, but you never knew when frugality might sneak up and attack you.
By the time he'd changed, the apartment had lost it's chill. It was quite warm, bordering on too warm. Mulder went back to the front window, and watched as the frost gave up fighting the heat that was so close, and melted off the window. If things kept up at this rate, in a week or two the frost would stay. The outside would be cold enough to combat whatever heat was inside his walls.
After a moment more, he drew the curtains tight, shutting out the fast approaching night. He couldn't say if he did this because it was too full of things he didn't feel like dealing with, or because it was too empty.
"My room is like a bit of June, warm and close-curtained fold on fold," he murmured, stroking the curtain lightly. Physical warmth, yes. That, at least.
Mulder frowned, shaking his head. He'd better get away from the window. He seemed to be having too many odd thoughts whenever he looked off into the distance these days.
The knock at the door took him a little by surprise. He put the chain on before he unlocked it, and cracked it open.
Krycek was huddled in the hall, hands stuffed deep in his leather jacket. *Must've taken the time to go home and change. If he got in out of this weather, why in God's name did he go OUT again?*
"Mulder, your landlord keeps it like a freaking meat locker out here. Can I come in?" Fox shut the door, reaching for the chain. He hesitated for a moment. Why was Krycek here? What did he want? Curiosity had always been one of Mulder's defining characteristics, so he took off the chain and opened the door.
Krycek stepped past him into the room, relief clear on his face as Mulder shut and re-locked the door. "Thank you. I was freezing my balls off out there."
"Go stand over the floor vent and thaw out, then."
"I think I'll do that little thing." Alex strode over to the floor vent, and stood astraddle it. He spread his legs slightly, and sighed voluptuously as the heated air blew up under his jeans. "Oh, man that helps!"
Mulder watched him as he rocked back and forth on his heels, swaying slightly. He unzipped his jacket, and fanned the edges for a moment before removing it, showing that he was wearing only a thin black T-shirt beneath it. His nipples were erect from the cold, thrusting against the soft, dark fabric aggressively.
Mulder found himself thinking that the jacket would have two smells to it right now. The exterior would smell of the outside world: dampness and cold, maybe a little smoke from the leaves that were still being burned. The inside would smell of...Alex. Heat, and his cologne, and the personal, elusive scent of his skin, a scent that Mulder had noticed once or twice when Krycek leaned over him at his desk to make a point.
"What do you want, Krycek? Besides recovering your body heat, I mean."
Krycek shrugged. "Well, if I have to have a REASON..." He rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulled out the book of verse, and tossed it to Mulder. "You left your present. Housekeeping has been known to appropriate small items in the past. I know a book of poetry might not be high on the list of 'Items to be Ripped Off at Every Opportunity', buuut..."
Mulder felt embarrassed. So, it was just a nice gesture, after all. Nothing invasive, nothing...personal. "Would you like some coffee?"
"I won't say no." He followed Mulder into the kitchen. It hadn't quite warmed up in there yet, and Mulder was glad he had thought to put on shoes against the chill of the tile floor. As Mulder set the coffee to brew, Krycek went to the sink, peering at the small window in the wall behind it. He leaned forward, touching a fingertip to the pane. "Frost." He looked back over his shoulder at Mulder. "I told you so."
Mulder took in Krycek's stance, bent over a little, legs slightly spread. The jeans were faded, and as tight as a second skin, clearly outlining the cleft of his buttocks. *Damn, you'd never think that body was under those dark suits,* Mulder thought vaguely.
Mulder turned away, pulling two mugs off the row of rings over the microwave. He picked up the carafe too soon, and a thin dribble of liquid hit the hot plate of the coffee maker, hissing and sputtering. He cursed quietly, pouring the brew, and set the glass pot back with a small thump that elicited more hisses and pops from the liquid trapped under it.
Fox turned...
...and nearly sloshed coffee on Krycek, who was suddenly standing very close. *Good GOD, that man is fast! And quiet.* Fox offered the cup silently, and Krycek accepted it with equal quiet. Instead of holding it by the handle, he cradled it in his palms, warming his hands on it, and sipped like a child, tipping his head to keep his eyes on Mulder. Lowering the mug, he licked his upper lip like a cat. "Good brew. Any special blend?"
"It's...Uh, Jamaican and Kona, mixed. I ground it this morning."
"Mm. Very nice." He drank deeply, then sighed. "Enough to melt the chill out of your bones. Aren't you going to drink yours?"
Mulder realized that he'd just been holding his mug. Had, in fact, let it tip so far in his distraction that it was nearly spilling out. He drank, not really noticing the taste. He leaned back against the counter, trying to be casual. This was his home, damn it. He wouldn't let anyone make him nervous in his own home.
Finishing his coffee quickly, he the cup aside and watched to see what Krycek would do. Krycek drained his own mug, and reached past Mulder to set it on the counter...
...and left his hand there, braced so that he was leaning in toward Mulder, looking up into his face. Mulder went very still. Krycek put the other hand flat on the counter, on his other side. Now Fox was between his arms, between him and the counter.
The silence spun out. Krycek shifted, moving closer, studying Mulder, green eyes probing hazel. Mulder could feel his mouth going dry, despite the liquid he'd just consumed. He looked down at the smaller man, taking in the slight flush on his face, the tiny points pressing against his shirtfront (which hadn't receeded with the warmth of the room), and, lower down, another, larger mound beneath his jeans' fly.
When Mulder managed to speak, his voice was hoarse. "What are you doing?"
Kyrcek sighed. "It looks like I'm misjudging my timeing."
The way Fox saw it, there were four possible reactions right now. A, he could hit Krycek as hard and as often as possible. B, he could laugh. C, he could react by not reacting, and hope the problem would go AWAY. Or D, he could push himself against Krycek, and find out just how warm and firm that bulge was. Mulder had followed a system on tests all through school. Multiple choice? If you were absolutely sure, choose. If you kinda-sorta knew, guess. And if you had no fucking clue whatsoever, either choose C or leave it blank.
"I think you'd better go now."
Krycek bit his lip, then slowly pulled away from Mulder. "My mistake."
He went into the living room, and Mulder watched him through the doorway as he slipped on his jacket zipping it up. "Thanks for the coffee..." His smile twisted. "And the warmth." He cocked his head. "You get cold sometimes, don't you, Mulder? Cold, and lonely?"
He walked away. Mulder listened to his steps retreat, then heard the door open, and close. He gripped the counter behind him and waited for his knees to be absolutely steady before he moved.
After locking the door again, he sat on the couch. The 'Love Songs' book was on the cushion beside him, and he picked it up, letting it fall open at random. It came to rest on 'Winter Night'. Fox reread it, shifting on the sofa. The room was feeling cooler now, somehow, but he was aware of an inner warmth that radiated undeniably from his body's core. The apartment suddenly seemed almost hideously quiet.
When he read the final couplet of the poem, he hastily snapped the book shut, and stared at it.
*But somewhere, like a homeless child, my heart is crying in the cold."
Little Cat Feet
By Carl SandburgThe fog comes in
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
back
to crossroads
Little Cat Feet
by Scribe (the story, not the poem)He almost turned around. Almost. But the tip seemed so promising...Surely it was worth a little risk.
Mulder crept along, his speedometer barely quivering over zero, peering through the windshield. It was almost like having a bale of cotton wool pressed against the glass. The radio said that this was the worst fog to hit the area for the last twenty years. Fox could believe that easily. He'd certainly never seen anything even remotely like it.
The radio was also advising anyone who didn't absolutely have to not to drive. In fact, they were recommending staying indoors, period. The disc jockey had used a patently fake Boris Karloff voice. "Nothing toxic in this, but the poor visibility makes any form of travel hazardous, and it's perfect weather for lurking, people."
"No shit." Mulder muttered. He cut the wipers up from slow to fast, but it didn't make much difference. The rubber blades sliced away a film of water with each stroke, and the glass was blurred again before they could make a return pass.
He should be close by now. That was, unless he'd missed a turn in this mess. He didn't THINK he had. Twice he'd stopped in the middle of the road *yeah, dangerous, but fuck. With this pea soup no one would have seen my tail lights no matter what* and gotten out to go check street signs. The beam of his high powered flashlight barely penetrated the few inches needed when he stood right below the signs.
*Why the hell do informants have to choose places like this to meet? Why docks and warehouses and parking garages? What ever happened to diners? Didn't informers used to meet cops in diners? I could do with a cup of coffee right now.*
His right front tire bumped up on a curb, and Mulder swung back into the street, cursing under his breath. *Better ease over some more. Someone may be parked on the side, waiting out the fog. Instead of driving in it, like me. Like an idiot.*
Thank God it was blacktop. If it had been cement, he never would have been able to see the center line. As it was, it was a faintly luminous strip, reflecting the diffused beam of his headlights. He hugged it, trying not to go over into the oncoming lane.
Fox noted that he was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his hands ached. His knuckles were bunched and white with strain. *My fucking blood pressure is probably off the scale right about now. Damn, I don't like not being able to see...*
He leaned forward till his chest was pressed against the steering wheel, his nose only inches from the windshield. It occurred to him that if someone came barreling out of the fog and rear ended him, he'd make a swan dive through the glass.
Finally there seemed to be a break in the curbing to his right. He once again stopped the car, offering up a prayer against fast driving idiots, and got out to check his location. It was the entrance to the dockside parking lot. Hallelujah!
Mulder pulled in carefully, and parked almost immediately. He wasn't going to chance either running into a parked car, or driving off into the water. Much as he hated the idea of walking through this fog, he'd just have to hoof it down to the dock.
Fox climbed out of his car, and immediately his clothes were clinging to him. It was like he'd been sprayed with a fine mist. The fog was so thick it was only a fraction of a percent away from rain. He pulled on his trench coat in a vain attempt at some dryness. He had to leave it open so he could reach his gun, just in case.
Fox had left his head lights on as he got prepared, and now he shut them off. Visibility went from a few yards to approximately a foot. It was surreal. The mist that floated around him was white and wispy. A little farther away it thickened abruptly to a dense gray mass, looking almost solid.
*Well, I know which direction the docks are in, because I was pointing that way when I parked. I think. And I can hear the water lapping. Okay. Slowly now.*
Mulder advanced cautiously. He'd only gone a few steps when he turned back to look at his car. He couldn't see it. He had no doubt it was THERE, but someone might as well have drawn a gray velvet curtain between him and the vehicle.
He paused for a moment, listening. God, it was quiet. Up ahead he could hear the faint slap of water against piers, but that was it. No engines, no radios blasting, no gun shots. None of the noises you'd expect this close to an urban area.
"The fog crept in on little cat feet..." he muttered. Who wrote that? Frost? Whitman? No, Sandburg. Carl Sandburg. Yeah, that was a good analogy. Or was it a metaphor? And why was he worrying about English terms NOW? *Cause I'll grab at anything to keep my mind off how creepy this is.*
He didn't even hear the cries of the sea birds who eternally circled this area. Even they must have been grounded. This was confirmed when he walked past a number of sea gulls huddled on the moist surface of the lot. They regarded him with calm, beady eyes, not even bothering to stroll away.
*Why am I here? I could be home on the couch, eating take out Chinese and watching porn. I still haven't seen `Forest Hump' or `Good Will Cunting'.* He sighed gustily, and answered himself. *I'm here because the email that ended up in my mailbox said they had information that could affect me personally. And they knew things.* The email had contained certain details about Mulder's life that he had been fairly sure no one knew, not even his parents or his partner, Scully. The fact that The Lone Gunmen hadn't been able to trace the source of the email was another argument for it's authenticity.
Mulder started forward again, resisting the urge to stretch his arms out in front to feel his way along. He advanced a step at a time, not wanting to risk falling down a flight of stairs, or off into the harbor.
"It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches," he continued. *I didn't know I knew that. Yeah, I memorized this in high school. We had to have five poems by heart, and this one was short and easy. And kinda cool.*
He'd made it out onto the docks, and walked along the water's edge. Vast ships loomed to his left, vaster warehouses to his right. Now, where was his contact? `I'll find you' the note had said. He didn't like that, but he didn't have much choice in the matter. He paused near a dark gap between two buildings. He only knew it was there because a security lamp on one of the buildings cast a muted, underwater type glow that managed to penetrate almost to the ground.
Then he heard it. It was a footfall, he was certain of that. But the acoustics were distorted by the fog, and he was disoriented by the swirling mists. He couldn't tell where it came from, or how far away it was. It came again, and he turned nervously, trying to pinpoint it, to no avail.
"Hello?" *Fuck, that's stupid. I HATE it when people say `Hello' trying to get someone's attention.* "I'm here. Show yourself." *Huh. For all I know, he could be TRYING to show himself. He could be right behind me...*
A hand fell on his shoulder, and cold steel nudged the back of his neck. A soft, hissing voice said, "Take your gun out very carefully and pass it back."
Mulder obeyed, removing his gun with the tips of his fingers and passing it back over his shoulder. It was taken. He heard the clip ejected, and then it was handed back to him, empty. "Put it away."
Mulder reholstered the gun, and said, as calmly as possible, "You don't need the gun."
"Maybe not, but they're so much fun."
He frowns. "Alex?"
"Well, you finally hit bingo, Mulder, but it took a lot of numbers, didn't it? Step back into my office." A hand grips Mulder's collar, tuning him, and he is guided back into the alley.
*Oh, I don't like this one little bit.* The alley is littered with junk, and Mulder stumbles, would fall if Krycek didn't haul him back up. They go deeper into the cave like space, till the entrance is only a distant, hazy glow.
Fox is shoved up against a humidity sweating metal wall, then turned. The gun muzzle comes to rest under his chin this time.
He can barely see Krycek, even as close as he is. All he can really make out is the pale blur of his face, and the odd, almost luminous green of his eyes. Oh, and his smile. It gleams.
"Fancy meeting you here."
"Cut the bull shit, Krycek. It's too nasty to waste time out here. Tell me what it is you brought me her to tell me."
"Fox, Fox, Fox." His voice is chiding. "No hello? No how have you been? I'm hurt."
"Fuck you."
The smile broadens. "You had that chance. Passed it up, as I recall."
"Why am I here?"
"What did I want to tell you, and why are you here. Those are two separate questions, Fox. I'll answer both, if you ask me nicely."
Fox scowled. Grudgingly he put a veneer of politeness in his voice. "Would you care to give me the information you hinted at in your message?"
"Oh, that's MUCH better. I'd be delighted. That senator you've been looking at? He was more involved in his mistresses' death than he'd like to let on. If you check a little cabin up around Lake Trevor, you'll find enough evidence to hang him. It's in his sister's name."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"That's a third question. I don't owe you an answer for it, but I'm feeling expansive tonight. Because he's a naughty boy who won't follow orders, that's why."
"Alright."
"Now, do you want the answer to the second question?"
"Why I'm here? Yeah, might as well."
"You're here because I want you here." He stepped close, and his hand darted toward Mulder's crotch. Fox squeezed his eyes shut, braced for intense pain. He was sure Krycek was going to punch him in the balls. Instead the hand settled lightly on his fly, and stroked. "You're here because I want you. Here."
Shocked, Mulder opened his eyes. The gun was still tucked under his chin. Krycek was studying him closely. The fog drifted behind him, and around them both, obscuring everything else. It was as if they were floating in a void.
"You're kidding me, right?"
Krycek rubbed firmly. "Does it FEEL like I'm kidding?"
No, it felt damn serious. It felt...It felt...good.
"Get your hands off me." Even Fox recognized the lack of conviction in his tone.
"No." Alex continued rubbing and squeezing. Mulder started to get hard. Krycek felt the thickening, and purred. "Oh, so you ARE happy to see me. I'm so glad."
"I'm not gay."
"You just keep telling yourself that, if it makes it any easier for you. But I'll tell you a secret, Fox." He leaned against the FBI agent, and Mulder could feel his hard on pressing into his thigh. "A stiff cock doesn't care whose mouth it slides into."
The gun was withdrawn, and Alex pushed it up under his leather jacket, tucking it in his waistband at the small of his back. He could get to it easily, but it would be difficult for Mulder to snatch it.
Krycek reached between them, and Fox heard the rasp of a zipper being lowered, then another. Krycek's hand slipped inside his fly, big and warm, and worked his dick out into the moist, chill air.
*If I clip him under the chin, I might be able to knock him down long enough to run. But he could draw down on me. His aim wouldn't be too good in this fog, but even if he just fires randomly, there's a chance...And I could run straight off the pier in this mess...*
The thoughts skittering across his mind stopped abruptly as Krycek's hot, hard cock slid against Mulder's erection. Suddenly his mind was blank, except for the urgent desire for more of that delicious friction.
Alex seemed to read his mind, because he undulated his hips, thrusting against Fox in a slow, rocking motion. "Nothing to get angsty about, Mulder. Just a little frottage. God, I love that word. The French really have a way with language, don't you think?"
"You're crazy."
"I suppose you're right, from a clinical standpoint. But what's more sane than doing what gives you pleasure?" He pushed more strongly, humping against Fox. Fox's head fell back against the slick wall, and he whimpered. "Oh, and I AM enjoying this. But I want a little more."
He took a half step back, and Fox almost whimpered again at the loss of contact. Alex murmured, "God, this ground is scummy. I hope you appreciate this, Fox. I'm probably going to have to burn these jeans." He sank to his knees, gripped Mulder's hips, and took his cock into his mouth.
Fox gasped as he was enveloped what felt like heated wet satin. Alex was talented at this, and he took Mulder's entire length in one long gulp. Mulder felt Krycek's warm breath ruffle his pubic hair, his chin bump his balls. Fox scrabbled frantically at the wall behind him, nails screeching on metal.
Alex bobbed up and down. Occasionally on the backstroke he would pull entirely free of Mulder's prick, lashing the swollen, weeping head with his tongue before swallowing it again. Soon Mulder was trying to shove himself even deeper into the oral embrace, but Krycek was keeping him pinned. He groaned in frustration.
Krycek relented. He let go with one hand, reaching down to begin masturbating, and his grip on the other hip gentled into a caress. Fox buried his hands in Krycek's dark hair, holding him so he could fuck his mouth more strongly. Alex didn't protest or try to pull away. He just sucked harder, his hand moving more quickly.
Alex gave a groan, muffled by the flesh in his mouth, and thick white semen spurted from his cock, coating his hand. Mulder was close now. The sight almost brought him over the edge. What finally did it was when Alex jerked Mulder's his pants and boxers down, reached back, and roughly thrust a cream coated finger up his ass, pumping hard. Fox stiffened at the jolt of pleasure/pain, and came in Alex's mouth, screaming his pleasure. It was oddly muffled, the impassive fog seeming to absorb it.
Now Fox was grateful for the warehouse at his back, leaning against it heavily as his knees shook. Alex turned his head and spat, then got to his feet. Once again he pressed against a trembling Mulder. He pressed his mouth to Mulder's, sliding his tongue past unresisting lips, and Mulder tasted himself. After a moment or two of wet, thorough exploration, Alex pulled away and whispered, "You have a nice, full bodied flavor, Mulder." His hand slid down over Mulder's ass, spreading a film of cooling spunk. "Next time, I'll fuck you. You'll like that."
"Next time?"
Alex stepped back, zipping himself up. "Next time, Mulder." He grinned. "...on silent haunches, and then moves on." He was backing away from Mulder. The fog swirled in, obscuring him. The next time he spoke, he sounded far away, but he hadn't really had time to move that far, had he? "...back to crossroads."
Mulder stayed like that for a moment more, then pulled up his pants and refastened them with shaking fingers. He wiped his face, unable to tell if the beads of moisture were from the fog, or sweat.
Just when he thought he had a handle on Alex Krycek...Just when he thought that he might know how his mind worked, what made him tick...
"Back to crossroads." Fox breathed, and began to make his way back to his car.
After I posted 'Little Cat Feet', someone was kind enough to respond, and even kinder to mention that they hoped there would be a sequel. Well, I hadn't planned on it, but you never SAW such a vicious attack by a plot bunny!
This is my second entry to the Slashing Mulder First Anneversary Contest, Weather Catagory. I dunno, there may even be others, if I can find good quotes. I believe this is going to turn into a Poetry series, anyway.
Ah, my loyal public. You inspire me...Title: Summer Redundant
Name: Scribe
Fandom: X Files
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Status: Complete
Criticism: Sure
Archive: You bet
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, except maybe the hotel clerk, and he doesn't count, does he? The poem `Wanting Is-What?' is one of the great romantic poets, Robert Browning.
Summary: Mulder gets stranded, and Krycek makes good on a promise.
Notes: Best appreciated if you read my previous fic `Little Cat Feet', but can stand alone
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Graphic m/m non consensual sex.
Summer Redundant
Wanting is--what?
By Robert BrowningWanting is--what?
Summer redundant,
Blueness abundant,
Where is the blot?The first indication that Mulder had that anything was wrong was the bang. It sounded like someone hiding under the car's hood had suddenly hit it with a baseball bat. The second indication was the cloud of steam that billowed from the edges to be blown back against his windshield. The third was the sudden, spectacular swoop of the needle on the temperature gage over into the danger zone, and the fourth, and final, was the car shuddering to a halt before he could pull it over onto the should.
Mulder swore quietly to himself, got out and put his shoulder to the doorframe, trying to push the rental off the pavement. After a moment of heaving, he swore again, reached in, and jerked the transmission into neutral. THEN it rolled.
*They had a compact available, but did I take it? Nooo, didn't want to get my legs cramped, 'cause the front seats in those tin cans never seem to move far enough back. No, ol' long legged Fox just HAD to get a big ass sedan.*
Grunting with the effort, he pushed till the car's front tires hit the slight drop off at the edge of the shoulder, and the car rolled with a bit less reluctance. He kept having to lean inside to struggle with the steering wheel, but he finally got the vehicle off the road.
He put it into park and sat back down for a minute, sideways in the driver's seat, legs angled out the door, and glared at the red light on the dash. HOT. "No shit."
With a sigh, he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket and flipped it open, hitting 911 on the speed dial...and got nothing. Fox stared at it for a moment, then shook it, and tried again. Still nothing. No dial tone, no buzz, no beep, no click. "No fucking way." The useless electronic gadget sailed through the air, rustling to the ground somewhere in the bushes.
Well, there was another phone gone, and wasn't it going to be fun explaining THIS one to Skinner. He could picture himself, sitting before the AD's desk, and almost hear Walter's growl as he said, "So what you're telling me is that you jettisoned a piece of Bureau issued electronics because you were PISSED OFF?!" Actually, he was almost looking forward to that encounter. Skinner's office was air conditioned.
He wiped his face, hands coming away filmed with sweat. He'd only been out of the air conditioning for about four, maybe five minutes, and there were already damp patches forming under his pits and around his collar.
Belatedly, he thought to swing his legs back inside the car and shut the door to trap whatever chill remained while he tried to decide what to do.
He'd come out to this remote part of West Texas to investigate a rash of cattle mutilations. Every few years they seemed to crop up. There was usually some sort of prosaic explanation for them, but he had to keep checking. These had been the result of a grudge among ranchers. The trip had been a total waste of time, now this.
Mulder peered through the windshield at the seemingly endless stretch of blacktop before him. Then he turned around and looked out the back window. Pretty much the same view. Nothing in sight but scrub bushes and an occasional distant stand of scraggly looking trees. Not even any power or telephone poles. *Aside from the highway, I'm seeing this land the same way the first settlers saw it.* Mulder thought. *That thought might inspire awe...if I didn't think I might just die of the heat.*
That was a real possibility. The temperature had been 98º at eight o' clock this morning. It had been climbing, and it was almost noon now. The heat index was probably over one hundred.
And it was at least thirty miles in either direction to anything passing for civilization. Might as well be a thousand.
The interior of the car was starting to heat up, and Fox knew he should get out of it. The temperature outside was bad, but he'd read somewhere that the temperature inside a car on a hot summer day could reach 215º in ten minutes, and it only took 220º degrees to boil water.
Reluctant to leave the shade, he got out. *Might as well check to see what happened. Like I don't already know.* He popped the hood, and went around the front to lift it. Sure enough, the underside was dripping with water. A quick inspection revealed a burst water hose.
*Damn. Even if I HAD a roll of duct tape that bastard is so shredded I probably couldn't get a seal.* He leaned in to get a closer look, bracing his hands...
...on the radiator. Pain flared in his hands, and he jerked back with a hiss. His palms were beginning to redden. *Well, isn't that charming? Now I'll waste more of my precious body moisture forming fucking BLISTERS!* Petulantly he kicked the tire, then had a bruised toe to curse about. Wearily he leaned against the side of the car, trying to decide what to do next.
Although he had many things to be worried about at that time, Fox found himself noticing how profoundly STILL it was out here. Silent. No car engines, now electric hums, no dogs barking, no distant natter of voices. Not even wind. The air didn't move. As dry as it was, the air should feel thin, but it didn't. Instead it felt heavy. It was almost a solid weight pressing against his skin. But maybe that was the sun. It lay over everything, thick and achingly bright and hot.
Mulder stared up at the sky, twisting his head to give the horizon a 360º scan, searching for some sign of clouds. Nothing, not even a wisp. It sure would be nice to have a cloud shadow roll over him right about now. But the sky was a clear blue expanse. It was sapphire right over his head, fading out to almost white at the edge of his vision.
This reminded him of something, the sky and the heat. What was it? A poem, maybe. Why the hell was he thinking of a poem right now, when he should be mentally reviewing desert survival tactics? *Because my mind works in weird and wonderful ways. Like a few months ago down at the docks. A fog thick as wool, and I was thinking of Carl Sandburg.*
Mulder shuddered suddenly, despite the heat. He didn't want to think about that night, not even if the reflection on mist and water and night would have been mentally cooling. Something else had happened in that cool, damp fog that had been anything BUT cool.
He closed his eyes briefly, remember the jab of steel under his chin, and the hot mouth on his cock. Alex Krycek had knelt before him on the scummy alleyway pavement and sucked him off, fog swirling around them both in phantasmagorical patterns.
It was Mulder's first, and only, homosexual experience. "No, it wasn't really a gay experience. It was an assault," he told himself firmly. "It's not like it was anything I had a choice in." A tiny, traitorous voice had occasionally whispered *Yeah, but it's not like you never THOUGHT of it, either.* Fox had quashed that little voice without much trouble. It had too much competition from his other obsessions, and he wasn't going to give it a chance to grow.
Krycek had left Fox with a promise that had cost the FBI agent a lot of rest in the past few weeks. And the scary thing was, Fox didn't know WHY he was losing sleep. He wanted to believe it was from apprehension, and delayed trauma. But he wasn't sure.
Mulder shook his head quickly, dispelling the thought. What WAS that poem? Another one that he'd memorized in high school, but this one wasn't coming back to him as easily as Cat Feet had.
"Summer redundant, Blueness abundant." Yep, that fit. As long as you considered that in this case 'redundant' didn't mean repetition, but instead meant more than is needed, desired, or required. And there was sure as hell an abundance of blue.
He heaved a sigh. Well, standing here moping wouldn't get him anything but a sunburn. He was going to have to start walking.
Fox opened the trunk and retrieved the pair of old, battered athletic shoes he'd brought along specifically for exploring cattle pastures. And a good thing it had been, too. He'd saved his new pair of Belvedere Adamos. Suckers had cost him over $185, and he wasn't about to risk them on cow patties. His wisdom was proved by the rather fragrant state of the battered Pumas. Well, ripe they might be, but they were much better suited to the walk ahead of him than the Italian lace ups.
Patrician nose wrinkled in disgust, Mulder changed shoes, locking his prized footwear in the trunk for safekeeping. He wasn't about to haul them along on his trek, but he didn't want to just leave them laying around for anyone who happened by to snatch.
As he started trudging up the road, he thought *Yeah, like I really need to worry about that. I didn't see a single car on the way out here, or back. These people must not go into town more than once a week.*
Mulder didn't hurry. Hurrying in this heat could be killing, he knew that. Of course, LINGERING in this heat couldn't possibly be much healthier, but those were the only two available choices.
After a few dozen yards, Mulder took off his jacket, draping it over his arm, and loosened his tie as he walked. He mentally cursed the Bureau dress code. Of course, he supposed that even the most lenient code wouldn't have allowed nothing but swim trunks, which right now seemed like the only even marginally comfortable choice.
Another few yards, and the tie was jerked off and stuffed in his back pocket. The top of his head felt like he was standing under a broiler, and he decided that he' better get something between it and the sun pronto. The only thing available was his jacket, so he reluctantly draped it over his head. It was almost like wearing a blanket, but if he wanted to avoid heat stroke for any length of time, that was what he had to do.
He walked. And walked. And wondered why the hell they had even bothered to lay a road out here in the wilderness when it seemed that he was the only one who was going to USE the fucker.
He quickly got off the pavement. Not because he was worried about being run over, fuck no. He probably could have left the rental parked astraddle the white line without worrying unduly about someone plowing into it. But it was like walking on a griddle. Heat just BAKED up off it.
The air up ahead seemed to shimmer with the rising thermal waves. And in the distance, the blacktop looked wet, and shiny. *Well, it might be SOFT from the heat, but not WET. No such luck.*
Mulder knew this from road trips he'd taken with his parents when he was a child. He used to love the way water would fountain up on either side when they drove quickly through a puddle. He'd spotted what looked like lovely, great washes of water stretching all the way across the road ahead of them, and had eagerly awaited the moment they would reach them. But that moment never came. As they approached, the shining silver would seem to simply melt away. When he'd finally remarked on this, his father had explained reflection, and optical illusions. It was fascinating, but it wasn't as good as a puddle.
*Huh. High school poetry, sexual ambiguity, and now heat mirages. Keep your mind on the situation at hand, Fox, and maybe you'll make it through.*
He glanced back at his car, and blinked. Damn, it didn't look like he'd gotten that far, and he felt like he'd been walking for an hour. This was going to be bad, very bad.
He kept walking. His shirt was plastered to him, as wet now with sweat as if someone had hit him with a Super Soaker. It DID help, a little. It would have been better if there was some sort of breeze to cool the moisture.
He could feel sweat running in rivulets down his legs, and his underwear was feeling swampy. He wished he dared to take off his shirt, but not under this sun. No point in getting second degree sunburn on any more of his body than he absolutely had to. He expected that his hands were going to end up reddened on the backs as well as the palms, but the suit jacket was sheltering his face.
How far had he gone now? He looked back at the car, and was surprised to see it reduced to not much more than a speck beside the road. So he HAD been making progress. He glanced back in the direction he was heading, and sighed. Yeah, but not NEARLY enough progress.
His legs were feeling heavy now. He scuffled occasionally, raising dry puffs of dust. Those tiny, gritty clouds were the only thing that moved in the air, besides himself. There weren't even any birds passing overhead. *For which I should be grateful, I suppose. At least that means there are no buzzards circling. Yet.*
The car was completely out of sight the next time he looked, and Mulder felt a stab of unease. Now there were no visible signs of man other than the road that ran beside him. And THAT might just have well been some hideously ancient artifact of a long dead civilization for all the good it did him.
One mile, two, three...
Mulder staggered, a sudden wave of light headedness sweeping over him, but he recovered before he could lose his balance. Not good, not good at all. He jerked his shirt open, not removing it, but needing even the faint breeze that would be caused by his forward motion, and continued.
*Okay, I'm still sweating. That's good. If I STOP sweating, then I REALLY worry. Then I could be going into heat stroke.* The body couldn't regulate it's temperature without sweat. Heat stroke victims' temp could rise to as much as 106º, and brain damage could result if it stayed that high for long. Brain damage, and death.
Mulder was tempted to go into the bushes for the little shade they might afford, but he knew that was a lethally stupid idea. By the side of the road, he at least had a CHANCE of being found. If he went off into the scrub, he would most likely die there, and they'd have to bring out the corpse sniffing dogs to locate his body, which would most likely have been visited by coyotes or weasels or gerbils, or whatever the hell else they had out here.
Nausea hit Mulder, and he added vomit to the cow shit streaking his shoes when he didn't quite lean far enough over. Damn. That pie and coffee had tasted a lot better this morning when he first encountered them. He wiped his face with his shirt tale, and wished desperately for water, now as much to rinse the taste from his mouth as to hydrate himself. He spat, before deciding that he'd better hang on to even that much moisture.
Once his belly had settled, he resumed his walk. There was no point in just standing there. He could die as easily down the road as he could next to a puddle of puke.
The dizziness hit him again, and this time he DID fall. He would have yelled at the pain when the gravel dug into his already tender palms, but he just didn't have the energy. He stayed on hands and knees for a moment, breathing heavily. It took him two tries to push up to his feet, but he did it.
Now he was weaving a little. The sun was no longer straight overhead, but it wasn't any weaker. How long had he been walking? Why hadn't he checked his watch when the water hose blew? Why was he worrying about this shit when he was probably going to die?
*Oh, this is sweet. This is SO fucking ironic. I survive extraterrestrial, alien bounty hunters, clones, vampires, werewolves, demons, nameless monsters, international conspiracies, every type of psychopath known to man, and some that are UNKNOWN, and I'm going to be killed by a piece of rubber tubing that wouldn't cost more than ten dollars in any Auto Zone in America.* He glanced up at the searing, empty sky. "You got a weird sense of humor, God. At least make the ground stay fucking STILL, huh? How'm I supposed to walk if it keeps heaving up and down?"
Apparently he wasn't supposed to keep walking, because he fell again. It took him longer to get up this time. He was tempted to just lie there. Things were seeming pretty purposeless, but that was what finally persuaded him to try again. Half way up, and he fell again, knees buckling. But the third try, he managed to struggle upright, and keep walking. He'd almost forgotten why by now.
His skin was starting to dry out again, and he wondered vaguely if that should bother him. It seemed like it should. "Blue in abundance," he sing-songed. "Summer redundant, redundant, redundant."
He heard something.
He thought that maybe he had actually been hearing it for a minute or so, but he really couldn't be sure, and didn't know if it mattered. He turned to look for the sound with vague curiosity.
There was movement in the distance. A speck on the black top was gradually growing larger. Losing interest, he turned and began to stagger on again. He didn't see the speck turn into a dark, late model van. He didn't pay it any more attention till it pulled up beside him, slowing. In fact, he didn't really notice it then. He kept shambling onward. Conscious thought was scrambled, and he was acting on animal survival instinct now. The primitive part of his brain didn't want to die, and was going to keep his body in motion till it was stopped, or collapsed.
It didn't get to the collapse stage. The van pulled over ahead of Mulder, gritting to a stop well off on the shoulder. Motor still running, the driver's side door opened, and a man got out and approached him. He halted right in front of Fox and stood observing the approaching FBI agent, hands on hips.
When Fox started to go around him, he caught his arm. "What the hell are you doing to yourself NOW?"
Mulder regarded him with dull eyes. "Summer redundant," and tried to pull away.
"What?" A cool hand reached under the suit jacket and pressed to Mulder's forehead. Mulder closed his eyes, making a mewling sound, and leaned into the touch, falling against the man. He was caught and held in strong arms. "Oh, fuck. You're burning up."
Mulder was dragged over to the van. The side panel was slid open, and he was heaved halfway inside, unable to mount the steps. The inside was blessedly cool, the air conditioner humming efficiently in the front. Mulder rolled on his belly and crawled the rest of the way into the van. He heard someone follow him, and the van shook lightly on it's shocks as their weight settled in. Then the panel slid closed, and the interior was dim. The windows must have been tinted as dark as the law allowed.
The jacket was removed from his head, and his open shirt was stripped away. He heard a rattling, and rolled his head to see a bright orange plastic cooler being dragged closer. The lid was opened, but he closed his eyes, too tired to be very interested. There was a swishing sound.
The water that hit his back was so cold that it hurt. When the icy wet towel landed on him, he cried out and struggled weakly. Someone cuffed him lightly on the head. "Stop it! I have to get your body temperature down fast. It's only heat exhaustion right now, but it's close to heat stroke."
The frigid wetness moved over his back, his neck, his shoulders. "You're so hot those first drops almost sizzled on your skin." There were more swishing noises, and he was rolled over.
He closed his eyes to avoid the water he knew was coming. This time the chill assaulted his chest, face, throat, and belly. He started to shiver. "Summer redundant," he gasped.
His pants were pulled off, and the towel stroked his legs, wiping away the salt that had begun to crust from his drying sweat. The voice said, "Summer redundant, huh? Blueness abundant. Robert Browning. I like your taste in poetry."
Again and again the towel swabbed his torso. Fox squirmed, his nipples puckering with the cold, whimpering, and whoever it was tsked, straddling his legs to hold him still. "Quit trying to get away from the cold. This is necessary."
"It's enough." Fox reached out blindly, trying to push them away.
His hands were gripped, and something smooth and silky was wrapped around his wrists, binding them together. "If you won't stay still..." It was jerked tight, and he winced at the pressure on the reddened skin. "And it's enough when I SAY it's enough."
The wash continued for a few more minutes, and Fox's agitation slowly faded. His mind was starting to clear a little. Yes, this was necessary. Perhaps his rescuer's tactics were a little aggressive, but they were effective.
Again the cool hand pressed to his forehead, stroking back damp hair. "Okay, your temp is going down. I think you're going to be alright."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome, Fox."
*Fox? He knows my name?* It was the first coherent thought he'd had in a while. Had he been missed? Had someone been sent out to find him? It hardly seemed likely, but what else could it be? In any case, he was grateful. He opened his eyes, and gasped.
"Alex!"
Krycek looked down at him, with almost gentle amusement in his eyes. "Well, who did you THINK it was? A fucking St. Bernard? Man, you WERE out of it. And you're still not entirely out of the woods. You need a little re-hydration."
He moved off of Mulder, and Fox immediately tried to kick him. Krycek dodged the blow easily, catching Mulder's ankle. Mulder noticed, in a peripheral manner, that his shoes and socks had been removed somewhere along the line.
That didn't concern him. What DID concern him was the big ass knife that had appeared in Krycek's hand, and was even now hovering over his crotch. Fox got very, very still.
"That's better. It's terribly bad manners to attack someone who's trying to help you, Fox."
Fox didn't move, but he snarled, "You never did anything in your life that wasn't for your own sake."
Alex shrugged. "I won't deny that. But in this case, you benefit, too. So just stay calm, hm? And I'll put this away." Fox glowered at him. Alex shook his leg. "Well?"
Grudgingly, "Alright."
"Fine." Alex dropped Mulder's foot and slid the knife into a scabbard that was hung on his belt. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. Re-hydration."
He moved into the front of the van and started rummaging in the glove compartment. Fox reached stealthily for the door handle. He should be able to open it, even with his hands bound (*with my own tie* he thought sourly).
Without even looking back, Alex called, "Fox, if you open that door, I'll hamstring you and push you back outside. My patience is NOT infinite." Making a grumbling noise, Mulder settled back onto the floor.
He came back and sat beside Mulder, carrying a bottle of Evian, and several tiny white paper packets. "I don't know where the hell you thought you were going to go in this heat, barefoot and practically starkers."
Alex uncapped the bottle, tore open several of the packs, and poured white grains into the bottle, recapped it, and shook it vigorously. He grabbed Mulder's bound wrists, making the agent wince again as the tie chaffed the already irritated skin, and pulled him up into a sitting position. He uncapped the bottle, and held it toward Fox.
Fox leaned back, eyeing it suspiciously. "What did you put in it?"
Krycek snorted. "You think I'm trying to drug you? Fox, please! Give me more credit. I'd hardly spike it right in front of you." He showed one of the empty packs to Mulder. "It's just salt. You sweated too much out, and you need to replace it, to keep the fluids in. You know, they don't just GIVE you these at the fast food restaurants any more. You have to ASK for them."
"Fucking cost control."
Alex grinned. "Yeah. Fucking corporate America. Little sips, you don't want to bloat."
Fox couldn't hold the bottle with his hands tied, so Alex tipped it up to his mouth. Suddenly realizing how parched he felt, Alex's admonition flew from his mind, and he tried to gulp. Krycek pulled the bottle away. "I said sip!"
When Fox tried to do the same thing the next time the bottle was offered, Alex took a firm grip on his hair and held his head still. Fox quickly stopped trying to pull away when he twisted it painfully, and he quietly allowed the other agent to feed him the water at a leisurely pace.
When it was empty, Krycek tossed the plastic bottle into the back of the van. "I had no idea you were so greedy, Fox." The grip loosened, Alex's fingers sliding through the thick brown hair. Fox jerked back, glaring.
"How did you find me?"
"It didn't take a master tracker, once I passed your car. I mean, it was pretty much a straight shot..." Mulder was giving him a disgusted look, and Krycek snickered. "Oh, alright. I've been shadowing you for days. I'm rather proud of myself that you didn't notice. It isn't easy tailing someone in all this emptiness."
"Why?"
Alex shrugged. "You have your obsessions. I have mine." Alex took hold of Fox's bound wrists and peered at his palms. "What did you do THIS on?"
"Radiator."
Alex shook his head. "For an intelligent man, you sometimes pull the stupidest stunts. Does it hurt?"
"What the fuck do you think?"
"Rude." Alex went to the glove compartment again, and returned carrying a small plastic bottle. "I guess I shouldn't fuss at you about being unprepared. I didn't bring a first aid kit. This hand lotion will have to do, but it has aloe vera in it."
He slathered the pale green, medicinal smelling liquid on Mulder's hands, back and palms, rubbing it in gently. It felt incredibly soothing, but Fox wasn't about to tell HIM that. Alex seemed to know, though, because he said, "You're welcome. Feeling better now?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Alex sat back on his heels, regarding Fox with a bright, green gaze. "Fox...that poem? Do you recall all of it?"
Mulder frowned. What significance was there to the poem? "No, just Summer redundant, Blueness abundant."
"It's from a very short poem by Robert Browning. It goes `Wanting is- what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant. Where is the blot?'"
He reached out, and his hands settled on Fox's chest. Mulder's skin, which had tightened with the cold, had relaxed. But now Krycek's fingers settled on Fox's nipples, stroking, and they began to stiffen again. "Wanting is-what?" he murmured.
"No." Fox tried to scoot out of reach, but Krycek moved over him, straddling his thighs and pushing him back down. "Alex, goddammit, NO!"
"You owe me, Mulder." He tweaked the firm, fleshy buds, and Mulder groaned. "After all, since I saved your ass, it's only fair that I get a turn at it. And besides..." He leaned down and licked Fox's throat. "I promised. Remember?"
Fox trembled. Oh, God, he remembered. He remembered the hot breath in his ear, the feel of sticky cum starting to dry on his softening cock, and the dull ache in his ass from where Alex had finger fucked him during the blow job. And the words. "Next time, I'll fuck you. You'll like that. Next time, Mulder."
"It's next time."
Mulder thrashed wildly, unable to get enough leverage to throw him off, and suddenly the shiny blade of the knife was lying against his face, and again he went still. "Fox, baby," Alex purred. "Please. I REALLY don't want to have to mark up that pretty face. Though..." The blade turned slightly, just enough for the edge to scrape the faint stubble on Mulder's cheek. "...a tiny scar right about here would be tres sexy. Will you be still?" No reply. Mulder just stared at him, wide eyed and silent. "I'll take that as a yes. Now..."
The tip of the blade traced a path down Fox's torso, not quite pressing hard enough to break the skin. It lingered on his flat abdomen, stroking back and forth almost idly. Fox lay back, staring up into Alex eyes. Alex shifted his grip on the knife, holding it gripped in his fist, as if prepared to stab. Then he slid the blade under the waistband of Fox's boxers.
Fox stopped breathing as the tip moved lower. He felt the dull back of the blade sliding through his pubic hair, beside his prick. His prick, which, to his horror, was beginning to harden.
Fox cried out as Alex suddenly jerked his hand. "Shh." The knife split the cotton of the boxers, parting the cloth cleanly, and Alex ripped the slit down the last couple of inches, through that leg's hem. Then he repeated the process on the other side, and removed the ruined garment, leaving Fox naked and shaking on the van floor. Fox was almost absurdly grateful when the weapon was returned to it's sheath.
Hating the pleading tone in his voice, Fox said, "Krycek, don't do this."
"Why not?" Alex glided his hands over the smooth skin of Fox's chest, down his belly. His lips grazed first one straining nipple, then the other. His tongue dabbed at the hardened flesh delicately.
"I don't want it."
Alex chuckled against Mulder's chest, and Fox felt a large, warm hand enclose his semi erect cock and begin stroking. "The hell you say. Then I suppose you're getting hard because you hate this."
"I do!"
Alex nibbled and sucked at the tiny brown peaks, his hand moving lazily. "Mmm, yeah, it sure seems like it. If this is what hate does to you, Fox, I just GOTTA make you hate me some more."
Alex knelt back up, and pulled his T-shirt off, then unsnapped and opened his jeans. He pulled them down a little on his hips, exposing the top of a tangle of dark pubic hair, and the base of a thick cock. For a moment he just knelt there, fingers combing through the curls and teasingly grazing his own swelling flesh. Mulder, trapped between his legs, couldn't help but watch.
Alex licked his lips, and slowly pushed the jeans farther down his hips, revealing more of the pale column. Fox's eyes grew round. It was...big. Finally it sprang free, wavering before him, and Alex pushed his pants the rest of the way down, rocking on first one knee, then the other to remove them, leaving himself as naked as Mulder.
Krycek gripped Mulder's cock with his right hand, and his own with his left, and slowly began to squeeze and stroke. "Mm, you have a beautiful dick, Fox. I'm glad I can finally get a good look at it." He grinned seductively, his thumb spreading clear pre-cum over Mulder's rosy cock head. "I already know how good it tastes."
"You son of a bitch," Fox whispered helplessly.
"Sticks and stones. I've been cursed more creatively, but never more sincerely." He moved off to kneel beside Fox. "Bend your knees, put your feet flat on the floor, and spread your legs." No response. Krycek pinched the tender skin on the inside of his thigh sharply, wringing a yelp from him.
"C'mon, Fox. I want to prepare you. You don't WANT to get ripped up, do you? I'm assuming that this is your first time?" He watched the crimson tide sweep up Mulder's face. "Thought so. Losing your anal cherry can be uncomfortable to start with. If you make me mount you dry, it'll hurt like a bastard, but if you let me get you greased and opened, you might even enjoy it."
The gritting sound of Mulder grinding his teeth was audible even over the engine and air conditioner. Alex sighed. "Don't think of it as co-operating, Fox. Look on it as a survival tactic." Slowly Fox assumed the ordered position. "Good boy."
Alex moved to kneel between his wide open knees, and Fox felt horribly exposed. The other man took the bottle of aloe vera lotion again, and squeezed some into his hand. Then he reached down and smoothed the liquid into the crack of Mulder's ass. Fox shuddered, both from the coolness, and from the intimacy of the touch.
"Lift your ass a little." Again Fox obeyed the direction, miserable. He felt his cheeks spread, and more lotion was worked into the crease of his ass. Alex's fingers rubbed around the ring of Mulder's anus, massaging the tight flesh.
"Gotta get you nice and open." He spoke softly. "Otherwise it would be like trying to fuck my way through a brick wall." He pressed lightly, and Fox stiffened, his spine going rigid. "No! Don't do that. Relax, Fox. It you just relax, it will hardly hurt at all. You may not believe this, but I CAN make it good for you."
"You're a damn liar." But Fox made a conscious effort to relax, making himself go as limp as possible.
"We'll see if you still feel that way when I get to your prostate." Alex pushed, and slid one greased finger into Fox's tight anal passage. Fox whined quietly, "Sh, baby. I'll give you a minute to get used to it."
Alex waited, with what Fox had no way of knowing was amazing patience. When he felt the muscles begin to unclench, he began to work the digit in and out slowly. Fox stared up at the ceiling blankly, his breath coming more rapidly.
God, it felt so weird. It had hurt, at first. But now the pain had faded to a dull ache, and was gradually being replaced by warmth, and a sense of fullness that was not entirely unpleasant. Still, he again made protesting noises when Alex eased a second finger in beside the first and began scissoring them apart.
"Just stop it, you big baby." The words were chiding, but the tone was oddly tender. "Be good, and I'll make you feel nice." He pushed more deeply, crooking his fingers.
Suddenly Krycek's fingers glided over a sensitive spot, a little bump of flesh deep inside, and Fox felt an explosion of pleasure. He jerked, crying out. "Ah." Krycek's tone was triumphant. "There we are." He rubbed again, sending another spasm of almost unbearable ecstacy through Mulder's body.
"Stop it, Alex!" Fox gasped. "Please! I can't stand it." His legs collapsed, and Alex's probing digits were pushed out.
"Oh, no you don't! Not now that I've got you going." Alex moved in closer, hefting Fox's legs up and draping his knees over his shoulders. He reached back down and found the loosened ass hole, and pushed his fingers back inside, three of them now, tightly bunched. He continued to massage Mulder's prostate till the FBI agent was reduced to a quivering, whimpering mass. His swollen cock was twitching against his belly, leaking a generous puddle of pre-seminal fluid.
Alex finally paused, withdrawing his fingers from the clasp of Fox's body. He dragged his jeans closer, and dug in the pocket till he extracted a small foil pack. Ripping it open with his teeth, he got out the condom and rolled it down over his own massive erection. Then he ran is hand through the clear, slick pool on Mulder's belly and smeared the slick liquid generously over his latex sheathed cock.
"You know, I wasn't planning on this, Fox. Oh, I WAS planning on this, but not here and now. I thought I'd probably snatch you out of the parking lot in a day or two. But, well, this was just too good an opportunity to pass up, wasn't it? You wandering along in the hot, hot sun, shirt open, a little dazed, helpless..." He moved suddenly, ramming full length into Fox's ass. Mulder stiffened in shock, shrieking. Alex fucked him with short, hard stabs, "JUST...SO...FUCKING...GORGEOUS!"
After the initial, violent lunge, Alex settled in for a slow, hard, serious fuck. He stared down, watching his prick slide in and out of the tight, puckered opening, relishing the little moans and whimpers that his reluctant lover made.
Fox's erection had flagged a little with the sudden pain, and Alex wasn't going to have that. Making sure his victim's legs were seated firmly, Alex reached down and started stroking Mulder again, working his prick gently. "You're gonna enjoy this, too, Fox. I'm going to make you cum like you never have before."
Fox turned his head away, closing his eyes. He could feel tears of humiliation and pain squeezing out through his lashes. "No." It sounded pathetic.
Alex ignored the denial, continuing his manipulations. "You're so tight, baby. I knew you would be, but, Christ, THIS! And hot...oh, you're better than anything I've ever had. I can hardly wait till you're WILLING. THAT will be a mind numbing experience."
Fox's breath caught on a sob. "Bastard! Never..." Alex grinned, changing the angle of Mulder's hips so that his cock head caressed Mulder's prostate on each stroke, forcing out tiny, reluctant gasps. "No...never will...never..." He stiffened suddenly, legs hooking strongly on Krycek's shoulders, and came with a hot gush.
"Oh, yeah, baby," Alex crooned, his thrusts speeding up. "Yeah, yeah, YEAH!" With a grunt, he buried himself full length in Mulder's bowel, forcing Fox's knees back almost to his shoulders, and went still except for a massive, full body shudder.
The condom caught and held Krycek's sperm, but Fox felt him ejaculate, the solid cock that was splitting him pulsing like a separate, living thing. Alex threw back his head, eyes rolling upward, his handsome face locked in a grimace of fulfilled lust. Finally he sighed, and moved Mulder's legs down off his shoulders, pulling his softening cock free.
Mulder cried out in sudden pain, left leg jerking as a massive cramp struck his left thigh. Alex understood, and immediately began to massage and pummel the knotted flesh till it relaxed again, leaving Fox even more breathless. "Sorry. Though some of that was probably due to the heat exhaustion, too."
Fox stared at him, and said weakly, "You...you're apologizing `cause I got a CRAMP? Kinda got your order of significance screwed, don't you?"
Krycek took the still damp towel and began to clean Fox. "Yeah." He cocked his head. "You don't think I'm sorry I fucked you, do you?"
"RAPED me."
"Yeah, well, semantics. You say potato, I say po-tah-to." He wiped the puddle of cum off Mulder's belly, one eyebrow raised significantly. "Anyway, like the poem says, where's the blot? I wanted you, I took you, we both enjoyed it. You just don't want to admit it. Because if you DO..." He leaned back over Mulder, his sensuous mouth a scant half inch from the other man's lips. "If you DO, then you'll have to admit how much YOU wanted it, too. You shouldn't be ashamed of wanting me, Fox."
Fox opened his mouth to deny it, and found Alex's tongue sweeping in. Again there was the gentle, thorough exploration. This time, before it ended, Fox was sucking on the warm, wet bit of flesh.
Alex pulled away, chuckling. "That's my Fox. I'll get you trained yet."
He rummaged in the plastic cooler and came up with another bottle of water. Helping Mulder sit up, he tipped it to his lips. "Drink, pretty man."
Thirsty, Fox swallowed greedily. He had drunk half of it before he noticed the taste. He jerked his head back, water dribbling down his chin, and gave Krycek and almost wounded look. Alex smiled. "Yes, THAT one was drugged."
It was fast acting, whatever it was. The darkness started to close in quickly. As it swept over him, Fox heard Alex say soothingly, "Now, don't be so outraged. I had to have SOME way to get you back to civilization without you kicking up a fuss..."
***********************************************
Fox drifted back to consciousness under smooth sheets, with cool air moving across his body. In fact, he felt a little chilled: something he had at one point during his ordeal given up hope of ever felling again. He drew the covers up higher on his body, and slitted his eyes open carefully.
It was a motel room, there was no mistaking the bland, generic furnishings and decoration. If nothing else, the chained down television would have alerted him to that fact.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the half closed bathroom door. Fox lay motionless, listening, but he heard no other noise in the room but the hum of the air conditioner. No breathing, no movement. He was alone.
He sat up cautiously, and switched on the bedside lamp. This wasn't the room he'd rented, it was nicer. He moved out of the bed, and winced. His ass ached. It hadn't been a nightmare.
Fox examined himself in the lamp light. He felt refreshed, and there was no dust and crusted sweat or...or bodily fluids. Krycek must have sponged him off. His hands were bandaged, a faint medicinal smell drifting around the clean gauze pads taped to his palms. Iodine had been painted on the other scratches that decorated his knees and forearms from where he had fallen.
Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, surveying the room. His suit, which looked like it had been brushed, was hanging neatly on the clothing rod. A different pair of sneakers, a CLEAN pair, sat underneath it. There was even a pair of boxer shorts, still wrapped in plastic, on the dresser.
On the night stand next to Fox was a small insulated pitcher, a plastic cup, and two sealed envelopes, labeled 1 and 2. Fox was tempted, through sheer spite, to open them in the wrong order, but he didn't.
He ripped open envelope 1, and shook out two aspirins and a piece of paper. The note read, "Fox, thank you for a lovely time. These should help any residual aches. Please note the brand name stamped on them. You don't have to worry that they're anything hinky. Alex"
Fox grunted, poured a cup of water, then hesitated. He set the glass back down and dry swallowed the pills, then opened envelope 2.
This one held only a postcard. It showed a stretch of roadway that looked eerily like the one Mulder had wandered beside. You could almost feel the heat baking up off the black top. He turned it over and read, "...and you could have taken them with water, you sweet little paranoid. The water is clean." Mulder sighed, and sipped the water. The note continued. "Call the desk. Just push the red button. Until next time, my poetic friend. Your lover, Alex."
The piece of pasteboard trembled in Mulder's hand. He set it aside, and lifted the phone receiver to his ear, punching the red button.
"Desk." The voice was polite and cheerful.
"This is room..." Mulder looked at the number scrawled on the label on the phone's dial, "Room 116."
"Oh, yes sir! Triple A delivered your car about a half hour ago, Mr. Mulder. We have the keys at the desk, pick them up any time you like."
"Where am I?"
The voice sounded less sure. "You...you're in the Marfa Holiday Inn, sir. Are you alright? You're friend said you weren't feeling well."
"What did this friend look like?"
"Um," The clerk was clearly confused. "Well, he...he was a rather handsome man. Dark hair, big smile. Really, really green eyes."
"Okay, thanks."
"No problem." The voice was back to cheerful.
Mulder snorted softly as he hung up. "Easy for you to say."
He turned the postcard over in his hands several times, staring at it, then read it again, particularly the last few lines below the signature.
"Wanting is--what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant, Where is the blot?"
He rubbed his face. Propping his elbows on his knees, he rested his chin in his hands, staring at nothing in particular, murmuring, "Where is the blot? Where is the blot?"
The End
Title: like a perhaps hand
Author: Scribe
Status: Finished
Series: Part of 'Poetic'/'Weather' series
Fandom: X Files
Pairing: none, really. No sex, but Alex/Fox shipping.
Archive: Ask, I may say yes.
Criticism: Yes
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not mine. You know the drill.
Warnings: none
Rating: Mm... PG-13, for language.
Notes: Entry in the Slashing Mulder 1st Anniversary Contest, Weather
like a perhaps hand
By ScribeSpring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window, into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)andchanging everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) andwithout breaking anything.
e.e. cummingsAsk me if I believe in Fate, with a capital F, and I'd be hard pressed to answer. I don't really WANT to. I like to think that mankind has some say in what happens to it, some individual choice. Some free will. But about some things... Maybe some things ARE meant to happen. I wouldn't have believed this a few years ago.
But that was before Alex Krycek, AKA Ratboy.
I'm trying to forget him, but he isn't making it easy. After what we've been through... The betrayal, the lying, the violence, the numerous ass kickings I've administered... You'd think he'd avoid me, right? I mean, he KNOWS that just the sight of him makes me want to... to...
I really don't want to think about him right now. It's spring again, I'd like to enjoy it a little. It's one of the first really warm days, and, for a wonder, it's dry.
I take a walk out by the park, enjoying the softness of the air, the rustle of newly leafed trees. There's a place I really like, a bookstore. In the fine weather, they have tables out on the side walk, and you can take a cup of coffee out there, and test drive a book or two before you buy.
The weather is finally decent enough for them to be doing this again, and I drop by. I want to get my mind off the constant irritant of Krycek, and surely this will do it. Sunshine, warm breeze, open air, good coffee, and a good book. That should be enough to sweep out the dark corners of my mind, at least temporarily.
I get my cup of coffee, and pick over the selection of books piled on a stand just in front of the big front window. Mostly 'summer reads' already: big, sexy, glitzy books. Self help books, new age philosophies... I have enough weirdness in my life, thank you very much.
I've almost given up hope when I run across the little volume of e e cummings. I start to smile immediately. That old iconoclast, disdainer of punctuation and capitalization. He had been a fresh breeze in the poetic world. He was just what I needed now.
I sat at the table closest to the window and opened the little volume, flipping pages and greeting familiar verses like old friends. I read about anyone, who lived in a pretty how town, and Buffalo Bill, who rode a watersmooth-silver stallion, and was a handsome man. The warm spring wind moved against me, dry. Not like it had been up on the roof of the J. Edgar Hoover building that time. The time that Alex had talked to me about forming new attachments. "She's gone, Mulder. I'm here."
And I hadn't wanted to think of him, but there he was again. Well, now HE was gone, and Scully was back.
Was THAT Fate?
*Spring is like a perhaps hand, (which comes carefully out of Nowhere), arranging a window.* That was sort of like Fate, I guess. A perhaps hand coming carefully out of Nowhere, arranging things. People don't pay enough attention to poetry. It has a lot to say, something for every situation and occasion in the universe. But sometimes it doesn't tell you what you want to hear, what you are comfortable with.
*arranging and changing placing, carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here)and changing everything carefully.* A known thing. My place in the world. My wants, and desires... I thought I knew them. Then Alex, most DEFINITELY a strange thing, a changing thing. After Krycek, I found myself questioning things I hadn't even been aware were open to question. Things about myself.
*carefully to and from moving New and Old things.* Krycek, and Scully. New, and old. Dangerous but interesting, and safe, familiar.
*carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there.* Yes, it had been tiny things at first. The way I noticed that the scent of leather seemed to hang around him, even when he was in the Bureau's dark suit uniform. The slight smirk that lurked at the back of those remarkable green eyes. The continual AMUSEMENT I seemed to afford him. But, and this was REALLY hard to understand, the sense that, whatever else he felt about me, there was always a kernel of respect hidden somewhere in there. It makes it harder to hate him, even after all he's done.
The spring breezed comes again, and I suddenly freeze despite the warmth. A delicate scent drifts to me, over my shoulder, and I can feel my nostrils flaring, sifting it. Leather, cologne... "Krycek?"
A carnation is tossed over my shoulder, landing on the open book of poetry. A second later Alex Krycek drops into the chair beside me, grinning. "e e cummings, Mulder? I thought Teasdale was your favorite."
"I should just shoot you right now and get it over with. That's where this is heading, anyway."
"Oh, not necessarily, Mulder. Not necessarily. There are three responses in relationships like ours, the three Fs. Fight, Flee, or Fuck. I'd rather not fight you, and neither one of us is a runner." His grin was lascivious. "What choice does that leave us?"
I grit my teeth, hanging on to the table for dear life to keep from knocking him out of his seat. And he knows it. "Why don't you just relax, Mulder? You're not going to fight me today." He glanced around. "Not out here in public, anyway. Not on such a gorgeous day." He closed his eyes briefly, tipping his face up to the sun, and my God, he looks...
I give myself a mental shake. This is Ratboy, the traitor, the killer.
*The one who knows me... NO! He doesn't. It's all his mind games.* "What do you want, Krycek?"
He slits his eyes at me. "Do I have to want anything?" I stare at him, and he responds with a wry grimace. "Well, of course I do. That's ONE thing you've realized about me, Mulder. I always have a reason for what I do. But the reason today is harmless. I just wanted to see you again. I miss you."
"Bull shit."
He shrugs. "Perhaps a touch sentimental, but there it is. I can't help it, Fox." I flinch at the use of my first name. I don't offer the privilege of it's use to many people. And it... does things to me to hear it rolling off Alex Krycek's perfect, pouting lips.
"I can't stay for long, but I needed my Mulder fix. I just had to listen to you growl, and look at that sulky mouth, and think about kissing it till you..."
I slam the book closed, and his smile doesn't falter, but his eyes are shrewd. "Come on, Mulder. It wouldn't disturb you so much if something wasn't there. Why don't you just admit it, and save us some time? I've been awfully patient with you, you know."
"Admit that... that I want to destroy myself? That's what it would be, giving in to you, Krycek. Nothing less than the destruction of my sense of self, if not my fucking SOUL."
He sighed. "Mulder, Mulder. You really should have gone on the stage, you have such drama in your nature. It's only change, Mulder, and it doesn't HAVE to be destructive."
He gets up. Before I can react, he's reached out and brushed the hair up off my forehead in an oddly gentle gesture. I snap my head back, away from his touch. But this time he doesn't leave it at that. Perhaps emboldened by the people seated at the other small tables around us, he touches me again.
His hand snakes around, gripping the back of my skull firmly, he leans down...
And then he's kissing me. And I'm so startled, I can't move. *That's why I'm so still, it has to be.* His lips move on mine, warm and firm. I feel the faint rasp of stubble, where his morning shave is just beginning to grow out, and the scent of him fills me as I feel the wet, delicate dab of his tongue...
And he pulls back, and I'm swaying slightly, and staring. His smile is gentle now. "Read the last line of that poem, Fox." He turns and moves down the street, not hurrying, and I lose sight of him, because I'm facing the sun, and he seems to disappear right into the warm spring glow.
Numbly, I glance down at the book, moving aside the carnation. Unthinkingly, I touch it to my cheek as I read the final line of the verse.
*without breaking anything.*
Title: The Essence That Is You
Name: Scribe
Fandom: X Files
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Status: WIP
Series/Sequel: Part of my 'Poetic' series
Criticism: Yes
Archive: Yes, let me know where
Feedback: Yes. poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Chris Carter. No profit made, no copyright infringement.
Summary: Krycek reflects on his relationship with Mulder as he prepares to leave for a short time.
Notes: This takes place later than the other stories in the series, when Mulder and Krycek have formed a deep bond.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic, but loving, m/m sex
The Essence That Is You
At Your Pleasure
By Frank LabatayYour soft, warm skin responds to the touch of my fingertips;
eyes widen and lips swell in anticipation.
Knowing that you love my touch just as I desire your closeness
is an end in itself, my raison d'etre.
... holding your lithe form close,I am a man.
You look into my eyes and kiss me back ...
I understand the true joy of a couple in love.
Bringing you happiness fills my heart,
increases my need to share our secrets and intimate pleasures.
Together or apart, near or far ...
know that I love the essence that is you.Alex
I told him before that he would come to me, eventually. He didn't believe it. Poor Mulder, so eager to believe some fairy tales, so reluctant to acknowledge some facts of life. He was mine from the moment we met. I think he knows that now...
"Never." How many times has he used that word to me? It was almost a litany in the middle and final time before he succumbed to the inevitable. "Never going to want you, never going to need you, never going to let you..."
He still says "never", but in different context now. "Never knew, never guessed, never let go, never stop..." Much more satisfying invocations of that word.
It took a long time, and the road was not smooth. I had to be stern with him at times. I had to hurt him, in order to bring him to the place where he broke through his doubts and fears. Sometimes we hurt the ones we love, all for their own good.
And it IS love, despite what the others, in his world and mine, might say. I know that Scully and Skinner have tried to pull him away from me: her with clinical analysis of my admittedly twisted psyche, him with simple disgust and moral outrage. They haven't succeeded. They won't succeed. He needs me, as much as I need him.
Like now, as we prepare to make love. He's naked already, on the bed, on his belly. He's pillowed his face on his arms, turned away. In some ways, he's still shy with me, even after all we've been through, all that has been taken, and given.
I sit beside him, shirtless, and stroke the long expanse of his back, running my hand down the shallow groove that marks his spine, and I whisper to him, words from the poem I printed off the Internet this morning. It made me think of him. "Your soft, warm skin responds to the touch of my fingertips."
He shivers slightly. I put my hand in his soft hair, gently but firmly turning his face toward me. The hazel eyes are already darkening with passion. His mouth is slightly bruised, lips tender from the ravenous kisses I bestowed before allowing him to strip. "Eyes widen and lips swell in anticipation." I kiss him again, and his lips part eagerly. I remember when I had to hold a gun to his head to win even this small favor. He hasn't been that reluctant for a long time.
I explore the honey sweet interior of his mouth lazily, licking and probing till his tongue writhes in answer, seeking it's place in my own mouth. I welcome it, sucking and biting the tempting morsel.
When he has to pull away for breath, I again let the poet's words speak for me. "Knowing that you love my touch just as I desire your closeness is an end in itself, my raison d'etre."
He surprises me a little when he speaks the next lines, his voice husky. "Holding your lithe form close, I am a man."
I'm touched, and thrilled. He's overcome another obstacle, because this troubled him. He somehow felt that being with me made him less of a man. The homosexual aspect of it was difficult for him at first, but the idea that he could give himself to someone who had hurt him, and betrayed him... That was nearly impossible for him to beat down.
Yes, I did that. I regret it, but it happened. I was different back then. Well, a little. I was owned by the Consortium, I was their creature. If they said hurt him, that was what I had to do. But those days are gone now. Thank God he realizes this, and has forgiven.
As I lean over him, bemused by this revelation, he continues speaking, paraphrasing the poem, but meaning the words. "I look into your eyes and kiss you back ... I understand the true joy of a couple in love."
He lifts himself, his lips seeking mine, and we kiss again. I feel something press into my palm, and look down to find that he has given me the tube of lubricant. His long fingers work at my belt buckle, draw down my fly. He looks into my eyes and says softly, "Just yourself tonight, Alex. I want to really FEEL you inside me."
I stroke his cheek. "Are you sure? I should open you a little first."
He shakes his head, biting that full lower lip that has always driven me crazy. "No. Just your dick tonight. Please?"
I smile. Now, how on EARTH could any man say no to THAT? I open the tube and squeeze out the cool, clear gel. I'm already hard. I was hard from the moment I stepped out of my car on the way to his apartment. He does that to me.
He watches as I slick the greasy substance on my rigid prick, smiling when he sees how much extra I slather on the he