Sunshine

by Flutesong


Title: Sunshine

Author: Flutesong

Email: Flutesong@hegalplace.com

Keywords: M/K Slash

Spoilers: Anytime after the Sleepless and before Terma and Alex still has 2 arms

Rating: R - m/m sexual implications and occasional profanity

Summary: Mulder and Krycek 'find' each other

Warning: M/K SLASH

Disclaimer: CC and 1013 own it and all right therein. I own the lurve.

Orignally published in the 2003 Zone Zine for information about how to get one, contact Sue Ashworth at Sashworth.shaw.ca/

Sunshine

High noon, but I'm not the villain in black today. Today I'm in white and I cast no shadows at all.

Bare feet, white baggie shorts and an old white painter's hat blend me in perfectly with the rest of the Saturday lunchtime crowd hanging around the South Beach Hotel bar.

Christ! My skin is so pale, but that only enhances the snowbird tourist illusion.

Only this time, it's for real. Well, almost for real. Alex Krycek never took a vacation in his life, but Alexander Trace does.

Alexander Trace never harmed a soul in his life. He's an illustrator for the machine tools trade, draws boring rotors and widgets, and makes them look sexy as hell for the salesmen's catalogs.

There are a few salesmen in the crowd and they think Alexander Trace is sexy as hell, even without his pen and paper. I intend to capitalize on that later. Just now, I want a sloe gin fizz, a plate of fresh fish and to watch the boys go by.

The mark Nicotine Breath wanted erased made it easy on me and snorted enough coke up his nose to give himself a heart attack. And, he did it hours before I got here. He's one of a dozen bodies any weekend on Miami Beach washes up at the morgue.

So, I've got time to spare and money to spend and I intend to spare no expense at all.

I feel a hesitant tap on my shoulder. //You had better be very good-looking to make it worth me turning around// I take a bite of the fish //very, very good-looking// "Eh, Mr. Trace," the voice says tentatively. "I think you should meet this guy. He's an author who needs some advice about harvesters for his murder mystery. Thought you might like to help him out."

I recognize the voice; it belongs to the pimply pool boy. He picks up the discarded beachwear, empty bottles and used rubbers from the saltwater poolside and sand dunes early in the morning. He's going places someday with his ability to attach names, faces and occupations to the transient guests, but I'm not helping him to get there. I shrug his fingers off my shoulder and take another bite of fish.

I hear, what must be the author, harrumph "asshole" under his breath and the squeak of his tennis shoes as he turns to walk away.

The kid sighs, but I don't care. I would recognize that muttered expletive anywhere. I heard it every time a fellow Fibbie walked by our desks in the bull pen and interrupted his private pursuits, whether they be alien hunting or porn, and asked him to hand over some actual work.

//What the fuck is HE doing here? And posing as a mystery writer? Too delicious to not take the bait// I swivel on my seat and he catches site of my profile before he's completely made his turn and gets his feet tangled as he quickly turns to get back. I jump to my feet and grab his arm, steady him and apply enough pressure to turn his natural golden brown skin tone to an off-greenish shade.

Neither of us speaks and it comes to me that he is afraid I will blurt out `Mulder' and ruin his cover. I grin at him and he grinds his teeth.

I look at Poolside Boy and he quickly makes the introductions, "Alexander Trace this is Isaac Foxx. He needs an expert on machine parts to flesh out the murder in his book."

"Isaac," I say in greeting and palm the kid a ten with the hand that's not bending Mulder's index finger backwards. I wish I could tell the kid to go home, tell the mom, who taught him his manners that he is a fag and get on with his life. But I am not Dear Abby, so I don't.

"Alexander," Mulder growls.

"You can call me Alex," I reply, still grinning, "All my friends do." Poolside Boy leaves us and I reach around with my free hand and pat Mulder down. Since he's dressed in shorts and tee shirt too, there's, unfortunately, not too many places I can check for a hidden gun.

"Now, now Mulder," I whisper in his ear and he quivers, I only wish it weren't with rage, "Stay cool and we'll walk hand in hand to the beach. No one will notice. All the boys are doing it these days."

Mulder nods and I swear I can hear his teeth grind some more. //Good thing he has dental coverage with the FBI//

We walk hand in hand down towards the ocean. I never let up on the bent finger and delicious images of Mulder bending over, oh, almost anything, occupy my thoughts.

He attempts to slug me, of course, as soon as we are halfway hidden behind a dune, but I am not the Alex Krycek who bleeds for Fox Mulder today. So, I twist his arm sharply and he stops, looks at me in surprise and says, "Fuck you." I say, "Maybe later," and he actually gets kind of cross eyed. I'm not sure if it's from the painful grasp I have of his arm or my words, but it looks good on him, regardless.

I laugh and he goggles some more. The sun feels fine and I can almost taste the salty wind on his lips. //I've got Mulder, the surf and the sun. Life doesn't get much better than this// He tries again to ruin the moment, but I kick his feet out from under him and he lands flat on his back. I am so glad he didn't land on his face and get a mouthful of sand. I want to kiss him, but I don't want to eat sand in order to do so. I cheerfully sit on his chest.

"So, `Isaac'," I say blandly, as if he weren't mad enough to spit and rigid enough beneath my ass to come if he tries to wriggle enough to dislodge me, "What do you need to know about harvesters? Got a killer out there who isn't content using butcher's knives or something to hack up his victims?"

//Now there's only one-way to get Mulder's mind off of vengeance when he is anywhere near me and that's to distract him with information. Mulder needs to know things. It's his reason for living and putting up with all the shit he has to wade through every day of his life. If I could get the upper hand like I have so far today, more often, he would actually get more information. But I really hate talking through a bloody nose and a split lip, so usually I shut up and get away//

"Fuck you," he says again.

I roll my eyes, "Haven't we already had this part of the conversation?" He tries to buck me off. It's quite lovely, really. I can feel his erection has a mind of its own and doesn't want to stop. The head on his shoulders, however, or maybe its Scully's voice he hears in the gulls' squawks, so he grits his teeth and goes still.

I am feeling high on the unexpectedness of the encounter and joy that we have time to play or rather I have time to play. I have no idea what kind of case Mulder is on and if catching the bad guy is actually immanent. I don't know if Scully or Skinner are about to pop up from the other side of the dune and shoot me and I don't care. It's just that my heart is overflowing with its own dubious type of generosity and my ego, as well as my dick, is excited at the chance to show off. So, I begin a lecture on the various and sundry minutiae of the inner workings of harvester machinery. I mean, come on, I can be helpful. I was helpful on those cases we worked on. He has to remember that.

His eyes really cross this time and his mouth opens, but no words come out. Eventually, although I am far from finished, he says, "Uncle." He tosses his head from side to side and gets sand all in his hair.

He continues, and anyone who ever thought he talks in a monotone would have been surprised, "I give up. I don't want to know any more about harvesters. I don't want to know how you know so much about harvesters." His voice is ragged and I can hear he is truly pleading with me. He looks me in the eye, "You're a dork," he says, "a nerd, a dictionary, a thesaurus and an encyclopedia," His voice gets shrill, "You are worse than Frohike, Langley, Byers and Chuck combined over lousy tacos and cheap tequila. Stop!"

"Okay," I say agreeably. I may know a lot about harvesters but it's not like I'm really all that interested in them when I have Mulder under my hips. I hate to think I was so boring he beginning to lose his hard on, so I lean over and kiss him. He's surprised, by this time I don't know why, but he is. He sputters a bit and starts to laugh, "You've been out in the sun too long." He finally manages to say. He laughs as if he's forgotten how, or maybe he is trying to reconcile laughing with me in the bizarre scheme of his life.

I get serious, "You got a killer running around in a John Deere somewhere in South Florida?" I ask.

"No," he says, "I've got a killer sitting on my lap. I'm writing the fourth novel in my Detective series and thought `Harvesting Death' would be a great title for this one."

"It's only a `lap' if you're the one who is sitting," I say it absently though, it's my turn to goggle.

Mulder laughs again, "You really never knew my side job? How the hell else can I afford my suits, the extra airfares, replacement weapons, etcetera, etcetera." He's waving his hands around now. I'd forgotten, while I was describing the inner workings of the machine, to hold him down.

I'm dumbfounded by my own lack of caution and the fact that I have never heard anyone really use `etcetera, etcetera' in a sentence before. I'm amazed and delighted he has forgotten he can use his free hands to hit me.

I have to kiss him again. This time he participates. The kiss goes on and on, he's rubbing his cock unabashedly into my ass, and I'm rocking on his crotch. I look up to catch my breath and the sun is shining, and the surf is rolling in and for the moment there isn't a cloud in sight.

Cloudy (2:15)
P. Simon, 1966
Cloudy
The sky is gray and white and cloudy
Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me And it's a hitchhike a hundred miles
I'm a raga-muffin child
Pointed finger-painted smile
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while Cloudy
My thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy They have no borders, no boundaries
They echo and they swell
From Tolstoi to Tinkerbell
Down from Berkeley to Carmel
Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill Hey sunshine
I haven't seen you in a long time
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind? These clouds stick to the sky
Like a floating question why
And they linger there to die
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I Cloudy
Cloudy
 

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