Chapter Seven
It was the work of a moment to dress and then they were out the door,
heading for the back stairs.
As they raced down the stairwell a man in a dark coat barred their
way. Krycek smiled an open smile and moved easily towards him, hands
held at shoulder height. Mulder barely had time for a moment of
betrayed panic before the man crumpled at Krycek's feet, a small
shining blade embedded deep in his throat. Krycek turned to urge
Mulder along and faltered only momentarily at his expression.
"I knew him," said Mulder "from the Agency."
"Look," Krycek shrugged "you want out of this alive, don't you? That
was
the price, and it wasn't your lily-white hands that paid it, was it
now? What
else should I have done?" and Mulder had to admit that he didn't know.
They kept moving frenetically throughout the rest of the day. Mulder
had
stared at Krycek as he steered them through the door to a cheap
department
store. "What the hell? People are trying to kill us and we're going
shopping?"
"Anything in your apartment could have been marked with a tracker,"
snapped
Krycek as he led them quickly through the aisles "including your
clothes." He
tossed Mulder underwear, jeans, a dark bomber jacket, then paid in
cash and
kept watch by the bathroom door as he changed.
Mulder caught sight of himself in the mirror as he went to leave and
stopped short. He looked different, somehow, and it wasn't just the
clothes. His face
... there was new focus and determination in his eyes, a look that
hadn't been there when he shaved yesterday.
They doubled back on their tracks then, and headed into the Russian
area of
the city. "They don't take kindly to official questions here," Krycek
explained "We're probably more secure than in most Agency safe-
houses."
They spent that first night in some aged paranoid's crumbling bomb-
shelter, led there by an old woman who didn't smile when they knocked
on her door, but guided them without question to the shed outside
where the floor lifted on a crumbling flight of stairs. Huddled in
a
pile of slightly musty sleeping bags they explored each other's
bodies more slowly this time, more carefully, undeterred by the damp
dimness and mysterious rustlings that surrounded them. Head resting
in the bowl of Krycek's hip, his first taste of him still strong in
his mouth, Mulder felt the other man trace the whorls of his ear with
a touch so light it was barely perceptible. Looking up he had seen
Krycek's eyes gone deep and velvet with something like wonder, then
hands had pulled him up and they had kissed, simply kissed, as time
expanded endlessly around them...
It was a strange shadow world they moved through now. The first day
set the pattern for the ones that followed, a ceaseless oblique
movement through the city, fleeting contact with allies, bursts of
intense adrenaline-soaked activity followed by hours and hours of
waiting, waiting for their contacts to show, for information to come
through the pipeline, for news of the next safe place that awaited
them. Mulder didn't know what he had expected from being a fugitive,
but it certainly hadn't been this monotony, the hours of suspended
inaction, the frustration of chipping away at a question bit by
grudging bit, with no Agency to back him up now, just the scattered
and tenuous network of this quicksilver twilit world where he never
knew what the next move would be.
An anxious young man with a drug-company logo on the pen in his
pocket gave them a few scraps of information; they bought a moment
of
convenient blindness from a security guard at an aircraft salvage
company; they pieced together a trail from bits of trivial
information, way-bills, shipping manifests, property transfers,
searching always for a little more proof, the next connection, the
next reluctant promise of isolated cooperation. It became
increasingly clear that they needed solid proof, something that
couldn't be denied, dismissed, or explained away, even to obtain
cooperation. People simply didn't *want* to believe what they were
telling them.
One afternoon Krycek went out alone to a meet and didn't come back.
For two days an increasingly frantic Mulder paced their latest
incongruous bolt-hole, the lush apartment of Tobias Wechsler, a
hatchet-faced man in a beautiful suit who seemed to spend most of his
time on the phone, arguing in sing-song swiss german. "They haven't
captured him," he reassured Mulder "I would have heard. You're better
off waiting here."
In the middle of the night Krycek finally burst in and shook Mulder
awake. "Come on - we have to get out of here. Tobias can take care
of
himself but we have to go!"
They went out the service entrance and raced away, heading back
towards little Russia. Mulder spotted him first, the man who came too
fast from the alley, moved too directly towards them. A flicker of
steel at Krycek's back and Mulder grabbed the man from behind,
knocking the knife from his hand and wrapping an arm around his
throat. The man's neck felt stalk-like and delicate to him, so very
fragile, and he suddenly understood how easy it could be, how right
it could *feel*, to tighten his arm just that little bit more and
solve this problem permanently. He squeezed a little tighter and then
Krycek knocked the man on the temple with the butt of his gun, deftly
removing the unconscious body from Mulder's grasp and settling it in
a doorway like another sleeping derelict. Mulder was suddenly shaky,
palms sweating.
"I could have killed him!" he said
"So could I," shrugged Krycek
"But you didn't."
"Neither did you."
And Krycek grabbed him by the belt and dragged him into the meager
shelter
of a parking-garage entrance, dropped to his knees and unzipped his
pants
and swallowed him so quick and deep that Mulder couldn't restrain his
cry,
knees buckling as Krycek's tongue brought him to hardness, to
helplessness and
then to release in what felt like the blink of an eye. When the other
man rose
to kiss him with still-slick lips, Mulder saw that Krycek's pants were
torn, his knees cut and bleeding, and he looked down to see the ground
around them strewn with gravel and broken glass.
"Jesus, Krycek!" he breathed, but the other man just smiled and said,
"I wanted you," and Mulder felt the just-sated heat slam though him
again.
Krycek grabbed him by the wrist and led him on, through streets and
buildings and alleyways, up stairs and fire escapes and across
rooftops until
they came to one whose rickety emergency exit led them into a narrow
hallway
and a small attic room, a low-ceilinged space with a bed and a wobbly
table, lit sporadically by the flicker of neon signs and traffic from
the nearby overpass.
"It's not exactly the honeymoon suite," Krycek said, "but it should
serve our purpo-" and Mulder was on him before he could finish the
sentence, pressing him against the wall and prying his mouth open
with his tongue.
"Mulder!" Krycek had gasped, "I'm filthy!" and he was, unshaven,
wearing the same clothes he had left in two days ago, knees still
bleeding. Mulder didn't care, though, he wanted him in all his sweat
and grime, all his blood and stubble and heady redolent flesh, his
sweet spit-slick mouth and the alkaline aftertaste of his semen as
it
slid down his throat, he wanted it all, there was no end to what he
wanted.
He licked a long stroke up Krycek's neck, breathing in his smell,
following it where it darkened behind his ear into the musk of hair
and scalp, and with one hand he caught the other man's balls in a
gentle but implacable grip. "Oh God," Krycek had half laughed, half
moaned, "I've created a monster!" and Mulder let out a mock roar and
seized the soft flesh of Krycek's throat between his teeth, amazed
at
himself as he did so.
He felt giddy these days, strange and mercurial, as if he were
overflowing his own boundaries and didn't know what new shape he
might settle in. He found himself doing things he would never have
done before, crying at nothing, laughing helplessly, raising his
voice in sudden fury like the kind of adolescent he had never had a
chance to be.
Tonight Krycek had come back frustrated and Mulder had found himself
yelling at him for reasons even he didn't understand, for working too
slowly, for taking it too fast, for risks taken and chances passed
up, for no reason, really, except that swells of feeling kept rising
uncontrollably in him and he had lost the trick of ignoring or
subverting them. Krycek had snarled back at him, fists clenched at
his sides, but then a confused montage of expressions had swept
across his face and he had thrown his arms around Mulder, holding him
tight, stilling his gesticulating arms. Somehow they had both fallen
to their knees, arms about each other, and rocked there gently for
a
long time in the flickering light/dark/light/dark of the neon signs
outside their window.
And now the signs had been switched off and the traffic had thinned
and moonlight shone in through the window, a silver beam of light
that fell across Krycek as he lay sleeping. It gave his pale flesh
a
marble shine, shaded the modeling of his chest in soft and inky
shadow, and hid his deep-set eyes entirely from view. He looked
carved from cool stone like this, some scarred forgotten statue
toppled to the ground in their small attic space. When Mulder lightly
traced the shadows on his body he was almost surprised to find him
warm flesh.
Mulder couldn't sleep. So much had happened over the past weeks that
every time he tried to close his eyes images tumbled chaotically
through his mind, and he was wondering again if he had been right to
trust the man who now lay naked beside him.
Krycek had been increasingly elusive about the source of his
information, and Mulder was starting to feel trapped by the other
man's recent insistence that Mulder stay cloistered here as much as
possible.
"They've stepped up the search for you," Krycek argued "and you
don't know this world like I do!"
True enough, but he had caught Krycek's eyes on him with a strange
anxious intensity once or twice, and it made him wonder what was
being kept from him.
Restless, Mulder shifted his position and stretched, feeling the
muscles flex throughout his body. This was one thing he couldn't
question - the awareness of his body that Krycek had brought him, the
resurrection of desires he had submerged for years in his work. Like
an adolescent in this way too, he was always half-hard, and when
Krycek touched him he believed anything he said, persuaded by his
skin, his voice, his shadow-smudged eyes.
At moments like this, though, with Krycek locked away unknowable in
sleep, it didn't seem so simple. Over the last year he had lost all
the familiar things that had defined his world - his father, his
place at the agency, Scully's steadying presence, even his own notion
of who he was and what he wanted. All his certainties were gone and
the half-answers, partial truths, and shifting plans offered in their
place hardly seemed adequate replacement. Now his growing belief that
there were things Krycek wasn't telling him undermined the fragile
trust he had been forced to place in the man.
He shifted again, the worn and much-washed sheets sliding soft
against his
skin, doubts and desires shifting and colliding in him. As filled with
misgiving as he sometimes was, as stripped of as much as he had been,
he still
couldn't ignore the way he felt most truly and completely himself when
he was locked with Krycek's body.
He stroked the other man's chest again, brushing his nipple, watching
it draw tight as Krycek shivered in his sleep at the touch. He
touched it again, more firmly, drawing a path down to his navel. A
flicker in Krycek's darkened eye sockets told him that he was awake,
and he touched his lips, feeling breath warm against his fingers.
Wordlessly, Krycek rolled against him and they began to kiss.
Krycek had been a willing teacher and over the past weeks Mulder's
initial hesitancy had ripened into skill, his own pleasure growing
as
he discovered the pleasure he could give. Now he could sense that
something was worrying Krycek, and he pulled away, giving him a
chance to stop this. Krycek only moved closer and kissed him harder
and more urgently, molding himself tight to Mulder's body. His
tongue traced Mulder's jaw-line, the tendons in his neck, the arc of
his collarbone, hand warm on his chest and shoulder. His mouth
dropped to Mulder's nipple, drawing it to a point, raising goosebumps
on his skin. Mulder let the excitement building in him sweep his
worried thoughts away. There was an intensity to Krycek tonight, a
heightened presence, and Mulder couldn't help but respond to it,
pressure mounting in his cock already.
Krycek was licking his stomach now and Mulder halted him for a
moment, swivelling his body so that he too could take his lover's
cock in his mouth. There was no teasing in Krycek tonight, nothing
playful, and his mouth was hot and demanding on Mulder already,
throat silky against the head of his cock. Mulder played with
Krycek's balls, rolling them in his hand, licking the skin, then
sucking one gently into his mouth. Krycek shuddered and his throat
vibrated with a muffled noise.
The planes of their bodies pressed against each other and Mulder
could taste
Krycek's arousal as he swiped his tongue over the head of his cock,
darting its tip into the slit there. He took it in deeper but Krycek
only allowed himself a few thrusts before he pulled away and, taking
Mulder by surprise, pushed him onto his back, then straddled his
chest, facing away from him. He lowered his mouth to Mulder's
erection again, let it rub along his lip. Then he slung his arms
behind Mulder's knees, bending him up and back, their bodies folding
together like a hand curled in upon itself. His tongue dropped to
Mulder's balls, cupped in his hand, and then to the sensitive strip
of skin behind them, stroking it, teasing it. He could feel Mulder's
chest rise and fall rapidly beneath his thighs, felt tremors start
to
quake through his torso and legs. Leaning in further he ran his
tongue between Mulder's buttocks, ignoring the sudden tension in his
partner's body, burrowing and probing until his tongue circled
Mulder's asshole.
Mulder's whole body stiffened and he drew his breath in sharply,
resisting
with difficulty the urge to jerk away, to cry out. It felt dangerous,
too
vulnerable, this warm tongue touching him so intimately where he had
been
abused years before. But it felt good, too, the skin unbelievably
sensitive,
and he whimpered at the sensation of it. He still hadn't told Krycek
about
what had happened with Matthew, and he had sensed the other man's
growing
puzzlement and frustration with the way he would tense up and draw
away whenever
too much attention was paid to his ass. Krycek had never tried this
before
though, never surprised him with tongue and lips.
His body, bent double, was near-immobilized and Krycek's tongue was
working
deeper in him now, making pleasure and panic careen through him
simultaneously. He panted, heard his own voice stutter wordlessly,
small white starbursts going off in his vision as his heart raced and
his body shook, and then he couldn't take it anymore, Krycek's body
pinning him down, holding him open. He panicked and reared upwards,
throwing Krycek off. Suddenly off-balance, Krycek tumbled from the
bed and Mulder heard his head thunk solidly against the floor.
Shaken and disoriented Mulder reached for him but Krycek pulled away,
anger and that peculiar haunted inwardness chasing each other across
his dazed features. They stared at each other for a moment. "I'm
sorry" Mulder said "I - I couldn't breathe."
Krycek looked at him carefully but whatever was in his face seemed to
satisfy him and he moved towards the older man again, making calming
noises, stroking his thighs. Still on the floor, he tugged Mulder
towards the edge of the bed. Mulder's cock was still painfully
hard
and he sagged back as Krycek urged him down, as he took his cock in
his hand and sent him spiralling once more into sensation. He was
better prepared this time when Krycek pushed his legs back and
stroked his tongue down his perineum. Oh god it did feel good, so
good, and the hand that stroked his cock helped to dispel his
remaining hesitations. The force of Krycek's concentration on him was
like a physical touch in itself, and he let it shudder through him,
taking him higher, building heat at the base of his spine, a fire
that climbed higher and higher until he was arching his body off the
bed towards the other man's mouth, feeling his balls draw tight,
almost there now.
The explosion began and suddenly Krycek's mouth was back on his cock,
eagerly swallowing those first spurts. Then wet fingers were sliding
into his ass, invading him. Shocks of pleasure were still shooting
through him, but they were joined by sudden cold and the room
darkened around him. He was back in the wash-house, so cold, he could
hear his father's voice, pain and panic were wracking his body.
Instinctively he brought his legs down and together, his whole body
spasming with a cry so harsh it tore at his throat, and then he
curled fetally on his side, struggling to breathe through tremors of
chill distress.
Vaguely he could hear Krycek saying "What's wrong? It's OK, Mulder,
it's OK". A blanket was draped over him and he clutched at it,
drawing it tight around him until, with an effort, he managed to take
a deep breath and open his eyes.
"What the hell just happened?!" demanded Krycek. The words sounded
angry, but his face was tight with worry and there was a hurt in his
eyes that looked genuine.
"My father - " began Mulder "- my friend Matthew - we were just
teenagers-" it was the first time he had ever told anyone about this
and the story spilled from him in broken fragments. Gradually he
moved until he lay against Krycek, then into the circle of his arms,
and they lay twined together beneath the blanket, Mulder drawing
comfort from the warmth of the other man's body. Krycek listened
without comment, wincing sometimes, hands occasionally stroking
Mulder softly. His teeth flashed in that joyless grimace as Mulder
recounted what his father had done to him.
"And you're sorry that he's dead?" was all he could ask.
"Yes," Mulder said quietly. "It all seemed so unreal, and I managed
to, well, almost forget about it for years. And he was my father,
after all". Silence fell and Mulder closed his eyes.
Neither of them slept for a long time. Krycek's face was creased with
thought as he lay still, hand resting on the base of Mulder's spine.
Silently he watched the moon's slow progress across the sky until it
passed beyond their window and the room was cast once more into
darkness.
=====================================
Continued in next chapter.