Title: Quicksand
Authors: Imajiru and Rachel
Paring: M/K, NC-17
Archive: Yes to Archive X and Gossamer, anyone else please ask 
first. NO Geocities archiving.
Feedback: Please. To unicorn-x@unicorn-x.net AND 
raechiclet@earthlink.net
Disclaimer: The boys belong to CC, but we love them so much more 
than he ever will... This has some schmoop content, so
stay away if you don't like that sort of thing.


Quicksand (M/K, NC-17)
by Imajiru and Rachel 


Imajiru: been waiting for me? 
Rae756: Yup!
Imajiru: Sorry you've been feeling lousy. :(
Imajiru: I was thinking about your story. A couple 
different ways we could go with it.
Rae756: Oooooh. Very nice. I'm actually feeling a bit 
better now, though. I drank tea and took a nap.
Imajiru: With all the being-sick going on around here, 
somebody needs to be sick. Who do you want to 
be sick?
Rae756: Hmmmmmm. Decisions, decisions. But I think I'd 
like to see Mulder take care of Alex.
Imajiru: Okay.
Imajiru: ...So maybe Mulder was off investigating 
something-or-other. And who should turn up like 
a bad penny but Alex Krycek? Fulfilling his 
role as law-enforcement personnel, Mulder slaps 
him around a bit, and decides to haul him back 
to D.C.
Rae756: Works for me...
Imajiru: Okay. Let's go.


Mulder walked into the motel room first, alone -- and sighed. 
Sure, he'd managed to capture his longtime nemesis, and there 
was a certain vindictive pleasure in that. But now he was 
faced with the logistical difficulties of getting said 
nemesis back to D.C. to bring him to justice... and all he'd 
really wanted was to get home, crawl back into the dark 
little hole of his apartment, and try to forget the 
humiliation of this gfdsgfdlast investigation.

He'd been so certain that it was a case of alien abduction. 
So completely convinced that he'd expounded upon his theory, 
liberally and at length. And when it had all turned out to 
be a prank, perpetrated by a couple of thirteen-year-olds... 
He could only hope that Scully never found out; he'd never 
live it down.

Then, just as he'd been ready to slink back to D.C. with his 
tail between his legs, Alex Krycek had stumbled across his 
path. There was no way, of course, that he could let the rat
get away scot-free, and it had been a long exhausting chase 
through the woods, through underbrush comprised mostly of 
thornbushes, ruining an expensive suit in the process. By 
the time he'd finally caught up with Krycek, he'd been too 
tired to manage more than a single half-hearted punch to the 
jaw.

And of course, when he'd tried to book airline tickets, his 
charge card had been declined... //knew I should have filed 
the damned expense reports,//but it was too late now; and the
only course of action was to drive back, fourteen hours up 
I-95, with the bane of his existence occupying the other half
of the front seat.

//Tunguska,// he'd realized belatedly, watching Krycek bend 
nearly double trying to scratch his nose with the hand cuffed 
to the car's door handle. It hadn't occurred to him that the
other man might have fallen prey to the same fate he'd 
narrowly avoided, and in the chase, he hadn't noticed... 
Covert examination from the corner of his eyes while
driving had confirmed the fact of the prosthesis, and to his 
extreme surprise, he'd found himself feeling -- 

//pity,// he'd told himself, ruthlessly, denying any tendency
toward sympathy, empathy, anything more compassionate than 
condescension.

But even a one-armed Krycek was dangerous; so now he was 
checking out the motel room, making sure there was a place to
cuff him. The headboards were bolted to the walls, 
ornamental, carved, with apertures that would accommodate a 
handcuff: Mulder tested the material, decided it was sturdy 
enough, and set about clearing the immediate area of anything
Krycek might use as a weapon.

After satisfying himself that the room was secure, he went 
back outside. At first glance, the car seemed empty -- //son
of a bitch! How the hell did he get away?!// -- but then he 
caught a glimpse of a leather-clad back, hunched over in the 
front seat, shaking slightly...

Closer to the car, he heard it: coughing. Hoarse, harsh, 
racking coughs. //Not my problem,// he told himself firmly.

A touch of pure sadism made Mulder yank the door open 
sharply; the sudden sideways force pulled Krycek off-balance,
causing him to fall out of the car, ass-first onto the gravel
surface of the parking lot, still coughing.

"Fucking bastard," Krycek growled, when he'd regained enough 
breath to speak; and Mulder worked very hard to keep his face
impassive, to not reveal the small surge of triumph he felt 
at having gained the upper hand in some minor way.

He unfastened the cuff from the car door, wrenched the other
man to his feet. "Come on," he said shortly, leading Krycek 
into the motel room.

Once there, he shoved Krycek down onto one of the beds, 
leaned over him to fasten the cuff to the headboard. "Why, 
Mulder, I didn't know you cared," the other man murmured -- 
but the sardonic effect was marred by another spasm of coughing.

"You're going to keep me up all night, aren't you?" Mulder 
grumbled.

"I would, but I feel too lousy." 

About to snap back at him, Mulder found himself looking more 
closely at his captive. //He really *is* sick...// Flushed,
eyes too bright, and the coughing sounded like heavy chest 
congestion -- //I don't care,// Mulder told himself, then 
repeated it again: //I don't care,// because he was having 
trouble believing it.

//What do you care if he's sick, damn it? He killed your 
father, he was at least partially responsible for Scully's 
abduction, why the *hell* should you care if he's caught a 
goddamn cold?// It should have felt good to see him 
suffering. To watch Krycek twisting uncomfortably on the 
bed, struggling to wipe his runny nose with his one good -- 
now immobilized -- hand. It should have felt like a victory.

Somehow, it didn't.

//He'll keep me up all night, coughing,// Mulder told 
himself, so reasonably and rationally that he almost believed
it. "I'm going out," he said coolly. "Don't go anywhere," 
with just a hint of a smirk in his voice.

"Funny, Mulder," Krycek spat back at him, before he was hit 
with another spasm of coughing. "Do you think you could let
me have the kleenex while you're gone?"

Mulder tossed the box of tissues at him, resisting the urge 
to apologize for his bad aim when the corner of the box hit 
the other man in the face, and headed out.

//What am I doing?// he found himself wondering, as he 
perused the limited selection of cold medicines at the 
Stop'n'Shop. //He's a murderer, a traitor; I should just gag
him and cover his face with a pillow to keep him quiet...// 
But the vengeful thoughts didn't keep him from selecting four
different products that might ease Krycek's symptoms, or from
traveling next door to the Chinese takeout place for soup 
and hot tea and dinner for himself.

Back at the motel, he could tell that Krycek hadn't escaped 
while still in the parking lot -- the sound of his captive's 
coughing was audible through the closed door. Inside, he 
found Krycek huddled over the edge of the bed, fighting for 
breath through the harsh paroxysms. No doubt about it: he 
was in bad shape.

//I don't care,// Mulder told himself firmly, juggling bags 
of medicine and food. //It doesn't matter to me,// as he dug
through the bags searching for the cough syrup. //He can 
choke to death, for all I care,// as he fumbled the child-
proof cap open, waited for the spasms to subside, placed
the bottle against his captive's lips. 

Krycek tilted his head back, and Mulder tipped the bottle, 
and watched the other man chug the cough syrup with the 
practiced ease of a college sophomore ingesting beer. "Ugh," 
Krycek said approximately, afterwards -- more a strangled 
sound of disgust than anything coherent. "Why does medicine 
have to taste so damned bad?"

"You're lucky I'm bothering. I could just leave you out in 
the car all night, save myself the effort," Mulder growled.

"So why don't you?" Krycek persisted.

"Didn't you hear? It's Be Kind To Animals Day." 

A one-armed shrug. "Hey, I'll take what I can get."

On his way to the bathroom to fetch a glass of water, Mulder 
found himself considering Krycek's comment. //Something's 
wrong...// Okay, sure, the man was nursing a vicious cold. 
But still, the tone had been... off, somehow. Neither as 
careless nor as sardonic as he would have expected.

As if the man was genuinely touched to have someone caring 
for him. As if his actions *meant* something to Krycek.

//I don't care!// Mulder insisted to himself vehemently. //I
don't...//

He popped two cold pills from their plastic bubbles, brought 
the medication and water to Krycek, who was coughing again, 
though not quite with the same ferocity as before. Silently,
he held out the pills, and Krycek opened his mouth. Mulder 
placed them on the other man's tongue and held the glass to 
his mouth so that he could swallow them.

//I don't care,// he reminded himself. "You hungry?" he 
asked, making a special effort to render his voice harsh and 
brusque.

Krycek eyed him warily. "Some," he allowed, as if the 
admission of hunger was a vulnerability, a thing Mulder might
use as a weapon.

//Drag him outside, lock him in the car, cuff him to the door
and leave him there. Let him sleep out there in the cold, 
let him go hungry... it would be so easy. Why don't I?// 
Mulder wondered.

//...I don't care,// he repeated to himself, as if the three 
words were a mantra with which he could banish such restless 
queries.

"I got you some soup," he said, realizing as he spoke that 
his tone held the same caution, the same defensiveness as 
Krycek's had. //As if my feeding him is a weakness... and 
maybe it is.//

Immediately, Krycek perked up. "Hot and sour?"

"Egg drop," Mulder replied, feeling absurdly as if he should 
apologize as the other man's face fell.

"Did you get hot mustard?" his captive queried, less 
hopefully.

Mulder checked the bag. "Yeah," he said, pulling out a 
couple of the little packets.

Another one-armed shrug. "It'll do, I guess."

"It had better," Mulder growled.

"Like I said, I'll take what I can get." The melancholy in 
Krycek's voice was all the more apparent, now, for his 
attempts to conceal it. "So. Are you going to take off the 
cuffs, or are you going to feed me?"

//Damn.// Those *were* his only two choices, and uncuffing 
Krycek was out of the question.

With a heavy sigh, Mulder dipped the plastic spoon into the 
take-out container and began to feed his prisoner.

It was slow going, because Krycek was still coughing 
intermittently -- once or twice, sudden spasms caught him 
mid-swallow, causing him to nearly choke. Try as he might, 
Mulder couldn't quite repress a certain sympathy -- because 
it was painfully obvious that Krycek was more than slightly
hungry, and because the force of his coughing had to be 
making his ribs ache...

//It's pity,// he told himself, //Krycek's a pitiful 
creature,// while another part of his mind, less deluded and 
more impatient, struggled to attract his conscious attention.

After a seeming eternity, the soup container was empty.
Feeling his stomach growl, Mulder turned to the bag of take-
out food, intending to begin his own meal. 

"Hey, Mulder," Krycek spoke up, "even dogs get walked once a 
day, y'know?" with a faint gesture toward the bathroom; and 
grumbling, Mulder unfastened the handcuff from the headboard.

The tiny motel bathroom was windowless -- nowhere for Krycek 
to go, and safe enough to allow him his privacy. Mulder let 
him into the bathroom with a sharp warning not to try 
anything funny, waited outside the closed door with gun in 
hand... after a lengthy interval, banged on the door.
"Hurry it up," he demanded.

"I've got *one* hand," came the exasperated reply, "these 
things take some time, all right?"

Somehow, the casual statement hit Mulder with an impact he 
hadn't felt before. //One hand,// he thought, involuntarily 
envisioning the myriad logistical difficulties of such a 
thing. From taking a leak to opening a jar of peanut 
butter... everything would change, become difficult or
impossible. And Krycek was still Krycek, living a life on 
the run, in the shadows... how did he manage?

//I don't care,// Mulder thought; but overwhelming that 
insistent mantra came another thought: //It could have 
been me.//

Finally, Krycek emerged, coughing again, pale and rumpled. 
Wearily, the other man extended his single arm, handcuffs 
still dangling from the wrist, and for just a moment, Mulder 
felt guilty... //Idiot! Are you insane?// But the shadow of
guilt persisted, as he refastened the cuff to the headboard.

//With that cough, it's better for him to sleep sitting up 
anyway,// he told himself ruthlessly -- and found himself 
tucking pillows behind Krycek's back, propping him up, making 
him comfortable.

A slight twitch of the other man's shoulder drew Mulder's 
attention to the prosthetic arm -- knowing now what to look 
for, he could just make out the outlines of the straps 
fastening it in place beneath the snug thermal shirt. 
"Would you, uh... would you be more comfortable without, 
uh..."

"No. Leave it alone." Flat voice, tone expressionless -- 
but there was a swift flickering of anguish in Krycek's eyes: 
pain and embarrassment and humiliation and more pain,
before his face arranged itself into bland non-emotion.

//I don't care, I don't care, I don't care,// over and over 
in Mulder's mind; but he had to say it, he *had* to. "I'm 
sorry."

Eyelids snapped shut over troubled green eyes, hiding any 
revelations he might have found there. "Shut up, Mulder."

"Krycek..."

"Just shut up."

And Mulder turned away fast, lest Krycek look up and see the 
sparkle of the tears suddenly stinging his eyes.

//How did it happen?// he found himself wondering, as he 
absently picked at his chicken lo mein. //Not a clean 
amputation, not there. Was it the way it would have been, if
it had happened to me? Did they -- whoever 'they' were -- 
give him anything to dull the pain? Did they even give him
anything to bite down on, while they were cutting his arm 
off?//

//What a useless, senseless loss. What a waste. To lose a 
limb, for nothing...// Mulder sighed. //I don't care,// he 
told himself, and knew it was a lie.

"You want some of this?" he found himself asking Krycek, 
indicating his dinner.

A forlorn sigh was his answer. "I'd love some. But I don't 
think my stomach could handle it."

And as if to underscore the remark, another coughing fit 
began, fierce and exhausting; it left Krycek doubled over, 
sideways on the bed with the false arm twisted behind 
himself, facing Mulder, as he struggled to draw breath past 
the deep congestion in his chest.

//I don't care,// Mulder thought, purely from habit, as he 
set the remains of his dinner aside.

"No," came the feeble protest as he unlocked the handcuff on 
the other man's wrist and began to remove Krycek's shirt.

"Shut up," Mulder said absently, finishing the job. He'd 
imagined what it would look like, the prosthesis and the 
amputation, had steeled himself for the image, but the 
reality of it... the straps were so heavy and thick, so 
constricting, and for a moment he couldn't help but envision 
what it would
be like to walk around with a weight strapped to his body...
and Krycek looked so damn vulnerable, with his eyes closed 
and his head turned away so as not to have to deal with 
Mulder's reaction.

//I don't care,// he told himself; but it seemed kinder not 
to waste time staring, not to emphasize the man's handicap 
with silence or stillness. So he busied himself with 
unfastening the straps that held the false arm in place, 
fingertips occasionally brushing against a body so taut and
unyielding that it seemed the tension might break Krycek in 
two.

The remains of the arm itself, once fully revealed, drove 
home to Mulder the full horror he'd avoided in Tunguska. 
This was no clean,hospital-sanitized amputation; this had 
been the sawing-off of a limb, cruel and callous -- and 
again, tears stung at his eyes. He couldn't stop staring... 

But he *made* himself stop, because Krycek was trembling, 
ever so slightly, and he realized that it had to be terrible
for him, to be stared at that way.

He fetched the package of muscle rub, squeezed out a line of 
the white cream and began to apply it -- he had to be 
careful, since there were friction burns where the straps had
been, little abraded patches of flesh that would sting like 
hell if he was careless. With firm, gentle strokes, he 
spread the mentholated cream over Krycek's chest and neck, 
avoiding the sore spots as best he could, murmuring "Sorry," 
at the sudden hiss of indrawn breath that told him he'd 
missed... and little by little, very slowly, felt Krycek 
relax.

"That shit's going to ruin my shirt," Krycek objected, as 
Mulder attempted to draw the garment back over him.

"Well, you're not ruining one of mine," Mulder shot back. 
Yet it occurred to him, as he glanced at his suitcase, that 
he did at least *have* another shirt. Krycek didn't, at 
least not with him. It seemed needlessly cruel... and 
grumbling, Mulder rummaged through his luggage until he found
a sweatshirt he could resign himself to sacrificing to the 
greasy menthol cream.

Afterwards, he got the other man settled against the pillows 
before refastening the handcuff, tucked the blankets around 
him warmly. "I forgot," he muttered, "there's tea, if you 
want it. Probably cold by now..."

"Yeah." Krycek hesitated. "Yes. Please," his voice almost 
embarrassed, as if it humiliated him to have to beg.

//Well, why shouldn't it?// Mulder found himself thinking. 
//No one should have to... I don't *care*!// he amended the 
thought angrily. //He's a lying scumbag bastard, and I don't
care how he feels. I don't care, I *don't*...//

But he brought the tea, and held the lukewarm liquid to the 
other man's lips so that he could drink it.

By the time he returned to his lo mein, it was cold and 
unappealing; with a grimace, Mulder set the dish aside. 
Seeking something else to fill his stomach, he cracked open 
a fortune cookie and ate it, half-heartedly scanning the 
little slip of paper inside. 'Unexpected kindness brings joy
to the giver as well as the receiver,' it said, in tiny 
letters.

//But it won't fill your stomach,// Mulder thought sourly, 
and tossed the scrap aside.

"I have to go to the bathroom again," the other man said.

"Dogs only get walked once a day," Mulder retorted.

Krycek just *looked* at him; and Mulder sighed, and took him 
to the bathroom, waiting wearily outside for the duration.

"I'm going to sleep," he said grumpily, when it was all over 
and Krycek was secured to the headboard again. "Don't wake 
me," and turned out the bedside lamp. Darkness settled 
around him, reminding him of how tired he was; slumber moved 
in to take him...

"Mulder," he heard a faint voice rising from the fathomless 
blackness to his left.

"What?" he muttered.

Silence, so lengthy that he nearly fell asleep in the 
interim. "Thanks," Krycek said finally, very softly.

//I don't care,// Mulder insisted to himself, as his mind 
rearranged itself into patterns of sleep. //I don't care.//

But he was tired, and consciousness was slipping away, 
revealing the underlying truth he didn't want to admit to 
himself: //I do care. Yes, I do.//

It almost kept him awake, this revelation; but in the end, he
was just too exhausted, and slept.

-------

Coughing.

Harsh, racking coughs. Strained, wheezing attempts at 
breath. Persistent, endless, weary, as if he'd been coughing
so long that he'd forgotten how to do anything else...

Mulder was on his feet before he was even awake, fumbling for
the handcuff key before he really knew what he was doing, 
freeing Krycek from the restraint and tugging him to his 
feet. "C'mon," he murmured sleepily, operating on blind 
instinct, sliding one arm around Krycek's back to support 
him as they stumbled toward the bathroom.

Shower faucet. Hot water, steaming hot, clouds of steam 
rising to fill the tiny room. "Breathe," he urged Krycek, 
easing him to the floor as the paroxysms caused the other 
man's legs to crumple beneath him, "try to breathe," rubbing 
his back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "Easy,
easy, it'll be all right," even though Krycek was too 
absorbed in his own misery to hear him. A momentary flash 
of awareness drove him into the other room, for the cough 
syrup; he waited for the coughing to subside enough to allow 
Krycek to breathe, then tipped the bottle to the other man's 
lips.

Krycek drank, swallowed -- gagged, as another coughing spasm
hit him mid-swallow -- then scrambled blindly, frantically, 
toward the toilet and began to vomit.

The sound of it made Mulder's own gag reflex twitch, but he 
fought back the reaction, crawled to Krycek's side. Behind 
the retching, there were little moans, whimpering sounds of 
abject misery -- it hurt to listen to him, to watch him 
hunched over the bowl shuddering; it hurt as badly as if the 
illness were Mulder's own, so much that he forgot to remind 
himself not to care. It hurt, and there was simply nothing 
he could do besides try to ease the hurt: nothing he could 
do but keep rubbing Krycek's back to remind him that he 
wasn't enduring the misery alone, until finally, finally, 
the heaves subsided.

Mulder grabbed a kleenex and wiped the other man's nose and 
mouth for him, while Krycek struggled to breathe. He slid 
one arm around the other man's back -- "Easy," he murmured, 
"it's all right, you're gonna be all right..." Krycek 
crumpled against him, coughing and trembling and making 
those awful little whimpering noises, almost sobbing -- and 
at a loss for what else to do, Mulder held him.

//I don't care, I don't... oh, fuck,// he thought tiredly, 
massaging slow circles against Krycek's back. "Easy," he 
whispered, "take it easy. Relax." And it did seem as though 
the vomiting and the steam had helped to ease the congestion;
Krycek was breathing more easily now, the coughing not as 
harsh as before. "It's all right, you're going to be all 
right," reaching up to stroke the silken hair that rested 
against his shoulder. "I'm here," realizing belatedly that 
*that* fact should be anything but comforting to the man 
slumped against him. Yet Krycek seemed to find it 
reassuring; the last bits of tension in him dissolved.

It felt like a dream: the steam filling the bathroom, 
obscuring everything; the warm solidity of the man huddled 
against him; the satiny smoothness of the hair beneath his 
fingertips. His cheek came to rest against Krycek's
forehead, the blazing heat of the skin notable even in the 
humid air, and he thought he heard Krycek sigh.

How long had it been since there had been such a lack of 
enmity between them? Years -- and back then, the tenuous 
association between them had been built on lies. He'd never 
seen Krycek this vulnerable, so utterly devoid of defenses... 
and it was somehow comforting, the knowledge that this man 
was the *true* Alex Krycek, as honestly himself as 
circumstances might ever allow him to be.

In the dreamlike stillness, he could admit to himself: //I 
*do* care. I've always cared.// Confronted with the other 
man's vulnerability, the admission seemed far less damaging 
than it might have otherwise been. He could care about this 
man, as he couldn't when there was a gun to his head, or a 
lie being tossed at him *again*... he could care about this 
man, about his health and his welfare, could enjoy the feel 
of his body pressed close, of his pliant warmth...

Mulder realized with dismay that he was getting an erection.

More to distract himself than anything else, he reached out 
and grabbed the bottle of medicine. "Let's try this again," 
he said, and Krycek allowed himself to be fed cough syrup 
without moving; he seemed disinclined to remove his head 
from Mulder's shoulder. Which was perfectly fine with 
Mulder, because he didn't really want to let go.

But Krycek's borrowed sweatshirt was wet with sweat, and it 
would be better to get him into bed... a sudden image of 
himself in bed with Krycek assaulted his brain, and Mulder 
shook his head violently to dispel it. //That's taking caring
too far!// he berated himself, doing his best to ignore his 
body's instant reaction to the imagery. "C'mon," he urged 
the other man, and reluctantly Krycek allowed himself to be 
helped to his feet and back to the other room.

Another sweatshirt, one he'd worn jogging, but at least it 
was dry -- more of the menthol rub first; and this time, 
Mulder was even more aware of the contact. His hand against 
Krycek's chest, the texture of the hot skin beneath his palm.
The other man's utter stillness, save for the ragged
breathing that might or might not be a sign of respiratory 
distress. The intimacy of this act: of allowing himself to 
help Krycek, of Krycek allowing the help. The simple 
pleasure of touching him.

He wondered, distantly, if it felt as good to Krycek as it 
did to him... was glad of the room's darkness, and Krycek's 
closed eyes, so that the other man wouldn't notice his hard-
on.

"I can find you something more comfortable than those jeans,"
he offered belatedly.

"No! I... I'm fine," in a slightly panicked voice, and 
Mulder's eyes flickered downward... but it was too dark to 
see whether the other man was experiencing a reaction similar
to his own.

And what if he was? What would *that* mean?

Mulder didn't, couldn't, let himself think about that.

He went back to the bathroom, to turn off the now-cold shower
and flush the toilet and wait for his arousal to subside 
enough to allow him to take a long-needed piss, and by the 
time he returned, Krycek was apparently asleep. Traces of 
moonlight slipping through gaps in the curtains revealed
just enough of his face to show a placid innocence, utterly 
incongruous with what he knew of the man. //But then, 
tonight...// The events of the night had been a 
discontinuity; everything he'd thought he'd known, about
Krycek and about their relationship, had been ruptured by 
those moments of quiet comfort.

//How can I hate him now?//

//How can I *not* care?//

//Damn it.//

With the disturbing feeling of sinking into quicksand way 
over his head, he sat down carefully on the edge of Krycek's 
bed -- and eyelids flickered open to gaze steadily back at 
him. //I forgot to cuff him,// Mulder realized -- but Krycek
made no move, just looked up at him.

"You think I can get some sleep now?" Mulder wondered aloud.

Trace of a sheepish expression. "Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it." And for no reason he could name, 
Mulder found himself reaching out, placing his hand flat on 
Krycek's chest.

Krycek's arm -- his right arm, his only arm, the one Mulder 
should have cuffed -- moved; and Mulder felt the warmth of 
Krycek's hand covering his own. And still their gaze held, 
eyes locked, neither with hostility nor resentment nor anger,
only...

...quicksand. Closing fast overhead, and trapping them both.

//This is insane. This is so fucking endlessly insane, and 
I *don't* care, I can't care, and what the fuck am I doing?//

And without letting himself think about it any longer, Mulder
leaned over, down, until his lips brushed against Krycek's.

//This is insane, this is... oh, fuck...//

...as the lips captured his, parting, welcoming, wanting...

//...this is *wonderful*...//

...hint of sourness beneath the sharp sweet-bitter taste of 
cough syrup and neither mattering, only the sudden ferocity 
of lips and tongue, hard and hungry...

...and then Krycek wrenched away, just before the spasm of 
coughing hit him again.

"*Shit*," a furious mutter gasped between coughs, and Mulder
understood intuitively that the anger wasn't at the kiss, but
at the renewal of illness that had ended it.

And the burst of humor and empathy he felt toward the other 
man was so sudden and so pure, and so very far from any 
emotional reaction he'd ever expected to have for Krycek, 
that Mulder could only marvel at the utter bizarreness of 
the universe.

He got up and fetched cold pills, glass of water, cough syrup
-- the bottle was almost empty, now -- sat back down on the 
edge of the bed and waited for the coughing to subside, then 
dispensed medication accordingly. "Get some rest," he said,
not even bothering to rue the tenderness in his voice,
or assemble any mental pretense of uncaring.

Krycek was staring at him, surprised and amazed and maybe a 
little confused; studying him, as if Mulder were some complex
puzzle he was trying to decipher. "What..."

"Shh." Too much was happening, all at once. "We'll figure 
it out later, okay? Just get some rest," his hand reaching 
out to Krycek's face, palm sliding along cheekbone and jaw in
a caress that felt unbelievably natural.

The other man blinked up at him. "Sure," he said, "sure, 
Mulder," in a voice that sounded as if it were on the edge of
breaking.

And it felt so right, to lean over and kiss the too-hot 
forehead, as tenderly as if they'd been lovers instead of 
bitter enemies for all those years... and when Krycek's arm 
slid around his waist and clung to him tightly, it was the 
most natural thing in the world to embrace him and hold
him. So natural, so right, that it would have been perfectly
normal to simply slide into bed beside him...

...but it was late, and both of them were tired, and too much
had happened all at once to be resolved in such a brief 
interval. "Rest," Mulder repeated, letting the embrace 
slacken -- and Krycek's arm tightened around him convulsively
for the briefest moment before releasing him.

Even in the loneliness of his own bed, he could feel it, the 
strange new connection between them -- like a tangible force,
electric, humming, setting the air between them afire. There
was just enough light to see Krycek, turned onto his side 
now, gazing at him... 

Involuntarily, Mulder felt himself smile. And after a 
moment's hesitation, Krycek -- Alex -- smiled back.

Quicksand, indeed.

Fatigue overwhelmed him; Mulder closed his eyes and slept.

-------

"Mulder. *Mulder*."

Sleepily, Mulder blinked his eyes open, turning toward the 
source of the sound.

Alex... no, Krycek. Fully dressed, prosthesis in place, 
standing at the foot of the bed. Holding Mulder's gun. 
Pointing it at Mulder.

"Stupid," he muttered, as the awareness sank in. "Stupid, 
stupid... I can't believe it. I can't believe I actually 
*trusted* you."

It seemed to him that Krycek flinched at that.

"You don't understand," the other man said, in a peculiarly 
low voice. "If I let you take me..." and had to stop, as 
the coughing began again; with an effort, he suppressed the 
spasm, and continued. "...take me back with you, I'll never 
make it to trial. They'll get to me, they'll kill me. And 
I can't let that happen. I can't."

Mulder settled himself back against the pillows and studied 
Krycek. Face flushed, hand just slightly unsteady as it 
aimed the gun in his direction, eyes fever-bright, and... 
different. Not the eyes of the assassin. There was too much
else there.

"I can't let you do that, no matter how much I..." Krycek 
broke off the sentence abruptly, began anew. "I didn't have
to wake you, you know. I just... I..." His eyes closed 
briefly, as if from pain. "I wanted to thank you. For 
everything." More softly: "And to tell you... I'm sorry." 
More softly still: "For everything."

And in that moment, Mulder *did* understand.

"So what are you going to do, huh? Where are you going to 
go?" he wondered aloud, in a conversational tone. "You're 
still sick, you know. You're not going to get any better, 
running around in the cold; you're only going to get worse, 
and who'll take care of you then?"

"I don't have a *choice*!" Such bitterness in the angry 
retort. Such bitterness, and such loneliness, and such pain.

"Yes, you do." The gun pointed at him didn't worry him, now;
he had no fear of this man anymore. "You can take off your 
clothes, and get back into bed, and let me take care of you. 
And when you're feeling well again..." //I can't really be 
saying this, can I?// "...I'll let you go."

Krycek stared at him as if he'd never seen him before; and 
Mulder met the gaze steadily, wondering what the hell he was 
doing and not really caring. The quicksand was all around 
them, too thick and cloying to permit escape -- and there was
a warmth that made him not want to struggle free.

The other man shook his head slightly; and sadness swept 
through Mulder. And then, very slowly, Krycek set the gun 
down on the dresser.

Mulder stayed very still as Krycek -- Alex again, now -- 
moved back to his own bed, sat down on the edge of the 
mattress. The moment was too precarious, too fragile; any 
sudden moves, and Alex might bolt and run. "I can't believe 
I'm doing this," the other man muttered.

"Then that makes two of us," Mulder offered.

Alex glanced at him then, with a tentative smile; and Mulder 
knew that everything would be all right.

He slid out of bed and began to undress Alex: jacket and 
shirt and prosthesis, to begin with. Retrieving the 
sweatshirt Alex had been wearing, it touched Mulder to 
realize that even in the midst of flight, the other man had 
been thoughtful enough to fold the borrowed garment neatly. 

Alex was still, passive, allowed himself to be undressed, 
not moving to help -- trembling slightly, a tremor that grew 
more intense as Mulder knelt to remove the boots. His socks 
had holes in them; Mulder tossed the pair into the nearest 
trash can, intending to replace them with some of his own. 

It occurred to Mulder that Alex could probably take off his 
own jeans. But there was no way he was going to let that 
happen. "Stand up," he murmured, and Alex stood -- shaking 
like a leaf, now; as badly as Mulder's hands shook as they 
fumbled with the button at his waist. No mistaking the 
effect this was having on Alex: and Mulder ached with wanting
to let his hands drift downward, to explore that impressive 
bulge -- and he didn't quite dare; not now, not yet.

But even the slight pressure of his hands unzipping the fly 
caused a sharp gasp of indrawn breath, a quick shudder that 
raced through Alex's body -- and he was too close, and it was
too tempting; Mulder pulled down jeans and underwear at once,
and wrapped his hand around the evidence of the other
man's desire.

A trembling, whimpering moan, such a plaintive, vulnerable 
sound; Alex swayed and nearly fell, and Mulder abandoned 
other pursuits to move quickly and catch him before he could.

Standing, now, holding Alex close, and the only option that 
made sense was to pull him even closer and kiss him. Kiss 
him, feel his body pressed close, hard-on rubbing against his
own, the single arm clutching at him with enough strength for
two; and being kissed, deeply and thoroughly with more hunger 
and desperation than he would have thought possible.

And then Alex started coughing again, coughing and swearing 
between coughs, and Mulder couldn't help but laugh.

"It's okay," he whispered into the other man's ear, holding 
him and steadying him against the spasms, "it's okay, we have
time."

"Do we?" between paroxysms, spoken in that same bitter, 
lonely voice. "I don't think we do."

"We'll *make* time," Mulder insisted, aware that he was 
making a promise -- and that his words would have 
repercussions far beyond a few days of sharing a motel room 
-- and feeling the utter *rightness* of it so strongly
that he couldn't bring himself to regret a word of it.

He kissed Alex's cheek, marveling at the tenderness he was 
feeling. "We'll make time," he repeated, willing Alex to 
believe it; and as the coughs subsided, he felt the other man
relax in his arms, in silent surrender.

It seemed more important than anything else to get Alex 
comfortable and warm; forcing himself to ignore temptation,
he helped the other man into borrowed sweatpants and socks, 
and got him settled into bed. Of course, it would have been 
wonderful to crawl in there with him -- but Alex was
coughing again, and there was no medicine left. "I'm going 
to get dressed, go out and get cough syrup and something to 
eat... and you'll be here when I get back, right?"

Sudden shift in the other man's expression: warmth, 
affection, something very like trust, open and honest and 
radiant and *gorgeous* -- and it left Mulder breathless. 
"Right," Alex said, managing to make the single word
convey so much...

It was so natural to reach for him, to kiss him tenderly and 
passionately.

Quick trip to the bathroom, then he was stripping off 
sweatpants and t-shirt in favor of street clothes, acutely 
aware of Alex's eyes devouring the brief glimpses of nudity, 
fingers twitching as if longing to touch. Reveling in that 
scrutiny, while trying to think neutral thoughts so as 
to be able to zip up his jeans without pain. Trip to the 
store, food and medicine, and then...

Mulder still couldn't quite bring himself to think about 
that; but the thought of what 'and then' might bring warmed 
him all through, and in some places more than others.

Despite Alex's reassurance, he still couldn't quite believe 
that the room wouldn't be empty when he returned -- so he 
raced through the errands quickly, opening the motel door 
almost fearfully, and breathing a surreptitious sigh of 
relief to find Alex still in bed where he'd left him. 
Asleep, snoring lightly, wearing that expression of childlike
innocence that was at once so ludicrous and so touching... 
he sat down on the edge of the bed, and Alex stirred; touched
the other man's face with gentle fingertips, and was rewarded
by the fluttering of eyelids. "Sorry. Must've drifted 
off..."

"You need your rest," Mulder told him apologetically. "But 
I thought you might want to eat breakfast before it gets 
cold."

He'd debated for a few difficult moments over the relative 
merits of different items on the Denny's menu -- had 
remembered the comments from the night before, and decided 
on a western-style omelet for Alex, resplendent in spicy 
salsa. From the grin on the other man's face, it seemed that
this had been a good choice. "Thanks," Alex said, reaching 
for the plastic fork.

Mulder deflected his hand. "Are you forgetting how this 
works?" he chided gently.

Alex looked down at his wrist pointedly. "I'm not handcuffed
now."

"And this matters because...?" Mulder cut away a portion of 
omelet, piled it onto the fork.

A shrug. "No reason," Alex said, and opened his mouth to be 
fed.

Strange. So strange, to be feeding him: so inexplicable, the
combination of passivity and... *was* it trust? that Alex 
was displaying. As if, having placed his future in Mulder's 
hands, he was willing to take whatever was dealt to him from 
that point forward. Or as if... there was simply no more 
will to fight.

Quicksand, again, sucking them both under -- //but damn it, 
it feels so good!//

"*Your* food is going to get cold," Alex pointed out, halfway
through the omelet.

Mulder shrugged in response. "Doesn't matter."

Firmly, Alex pried the fork out of his hand. "If you die of 
hunger, who's going to take care of me?" It was said with a 
small, shy smile that didn't at all fit the persona Mulder 
knew best, but which he liked. Very much. "Eat, Mulder. 
I'll be fine."

He grinned and acquiesced, seating himself cross-legged on 
the other half of Alex's bed with his scrambled eggs and 
bacon, eating and watching Alex eat -- with admirable 
finesse, he thought, despite the wobbling of the foil
take-out tray on his lap. //It could have been me,// raced 
through his head, and again the unbearable wave of sympathy 
and regret... //If I'd known, I would have searched for you
and found you and taken you with me; I would have done my 
best to prevent this, no matter how much I hated you.
And would it be better or worse for you to hear that?//

//You hurt me, you hurt me so much, and I wanted to hurt you 
back -- but not like this. Never like this. And now... now 
all I want is to *not* hurt you, to take away the pain. What
the hell is happening to me? To both of us?//

//Or was it happening all along, and I just never noticed? 
Never wanted to know?//

"I need to take a shower," Alex announced, after he'd 
finished his meal. "I *itch*."

Mulder considered this for a moment. "I could help," he 
offered, trying to keep his body from reacting to the image 
his mind presented.

Alex hesitated. "I, uh... I'd rather do this alone."

//It's not rejection,// Mulder told himself firmly. "Sure," 
he said, "just save some hot water for me, okay?" and Alex 
nodded, got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.

The bed smelled faintly of menthol; he opened the door, 
flagged down a maid doing rounds, and procured a change of 
sheets. It would have been far easier to let the maid do 
her job, but, Mulder realized, as he stripped the bed, even 
that small interruption felt like an invasion of privacy. 
Besides, it was probably better if no one knew Alex Krycek 
had been here... Pawing through the nightstand drawer, he 
found a slip of paper which informed him that the motel 
offered laundry service at a hefty premium. One call to the 
front office and a knock at the door later, the bundle of 
clothing was on its way to being cleaned.

And Alex was still in the damned shower, and there was 
nothing for Mulder to do except watch daytime TV restlessly 
and wait for him to finish... and think. Too much thinking 
was dangerous, he recognized; too much time to poke holes in 
the fabric of what was transpiring between them... so he
immersed himself determinedly in the antics of game show 
contestants, and tried like hell to think of nothing else.

He managed so well that it caught him by surprise when the 
door opened, and a dripping Krycek stepped out, towel wrapped
haphazardly around his waist. "Your turn," he said.

Mulder barely noticed; he was too preoccupied with looking at
Alex. Sheer beauty, all of him, and even the stump of the 
missing arm with its angry scars couldn't mar the glory of 
the rest of him...

...and Alex reddened and turned away: a half-turn, just 
enough to hide the deficiency from view. "Your turn," 
repeated through gritted teeth, a tone that held seething 
anger.

Driven by an instinct he didn't bother to question, Mulder 
rose to his feet and headed for the bathroom. He paused, 
when he was close enough to touch the other man, reached out
and pulled him close, bent to place his lips against 
scarred skin.

He could feel Alex trembling in his arms. "Don't do that!" 
spoken harshly, angrily; and Mulder picked a different spot, 
just as damaged, and kissed that, too.

"Stop it!" with even more fury; and yet Alex didn't pull away
as Mulder let his fingertips glide over the scars and knotted
flesh.

"Does it hurt?" Mulder inquired, as the tremors grew 
stronger.

"You have no idea how it hurts," in a way that made him 
certain Alex wasn't talking about physical pain. 

//It could have been me...// "I'm sorry," said Mulder, 
knowing how pitifully inadequate the words were, unable to 
find anything more suitable. "But it doesn't..." //how do I 
phrase it?// "It doesn't change who you are."

"It changes who I am. To *me*." Alex *did* pull away then,
moving across the room with quick, angry strides. "Go 
shower," he said, his voice tight and cold.

The bitterness, the pain emanating from the man made Mulder 
want to go to him, embrace him, reassure him -- but something
in his stance (go away, go *away*) made it clear that this 
wouldn't be a good move. For lack of anything better to do, 
he headed into the bathroom.

//It could have been me.//

Over and over again, running through his mind, unceasing: 
//It could have been me.// Washing himself, seeing the agony
only half-veiled behind the anger in Alex's eyes: //It could
have been me.// Staring into the bathroom mirror 
afterwards, trying to picture his own body scarred and 
lacking: 

//It could have been me.// A senseless, stupid waste, and 
//it could have been me,// and //how would I have felt, if 
it had been me? Bitter, yes, and angry, and... and ashamed, 
for anyone else to see the ruined, scarred remnants, to be 
reminded with every gaze of what I'd endured...//

//Shit, what do I do now?//

Emerging from the bathroom, he found Alex in bed, fully 
dressed -- or sweatshirt, at least; impossible to tell what 
else he was or wasn't wearing, because the covers were pulled
up high over his chest. //Hiding,// was Mulder's first 
thought.

Another burst of instinct, and again he didn't pause to 
reflect, just followed it: climbed into bed beside Alex -- 
the left side -- without bothering to dress, stripping away 
the towel as he slid under the covers so that he was naked 
beneath the sheets.

The wave of sudden, all-over tension consuming the man beside
him couldn't have been coincidence.

"Did you take any more cold pills?" Small, negative shake of
the head. "What about the cough syrup?" Again, no. "Well,
why not?" Mulder asked, in his most reasonable voice. 

"Just masochistic, I guess," in that hard, cold voice, 
shutting out Mulder's concern -- the effect was marred by 
another cough, one that Krycek tried hard to stifle.

"You see?" He reached over the other man and snatched up 
the cold pills, fumbling with the childproof cap until it 
was open. //And how would he manage this alone?// Mulder 
wondered -- but that was not a question to ask at this 
moment, if ever. "Take these," he demanded, staring 
pointedly into the eyes that refused to meet his until the 
other man took the pills from his hand, gulped them down 
with a swig of cough syrup. "How am I supposed to take care
of you if you won't let me?"

Sudden, blazing fury. "I don't need anyone to take care of 
me!"

//Then why are you still here?// Mulder wondered; but this,
too, was the wrong thing to say. "I think you do," he said, 
very quietly. "I think you wish you didn't."

"Shut the fuck up, or I'm getting the hell out of here!" But
for all the venom of the words, there was more pain than 
anger in Alex's voice.

//Shame,// Mulder realized. //He's ashamed. Of the arm, and
maybe... maybe there's more conscience than I ever gave him 
credit for. Maybe. Or perhaps it's just the pain...//

He reached out, let one hand creep carefully over Alex's left
shoulder -- and apparently, this was the last straw, because
suddenly the other man was moving, struggling out of bed...

...and Mulder lunged forward before he could complete the 
move, grabbed the other shoulder and pulled him close. 
Krycek drew a deep breath, opened his mouth -- and Mulder 
didn't wait to hear what he might say; just kissed him,
hard and deep and demanding.

Gradually, the tension drained away; gradually, Alex stopped 
fighting him and relaxed into the kiss. When he felt an 
answering hardness rising to nudge him from beneath the 
borrowed sweatpants, he knew that he'd won.

Between kisses, he eased the sweatshirt over the other man's 
head, caressing him -- all of him, healthy and wounded parts 
alike. One hand gliding over smooth skin, the other 
carefully sliding over scars, as if both were perfectly 
normal. //All of you, Alex. Whatever else we've ever had 
between us, this has nothing to do with it...// 

"No," the barest breath of a whisper, as he bent his head to 
apply more kisses to the source of the other's shame -- then 
the faintest hint of a whimper, and another soft "No..." -- 
and then Mulder was shifting position again, to brush his 
lips against closed eyelids and kiss away the tears.

"Don't *do* this to me!" Anguished protest at the soft 
kisses being trailed over his face and neck.

"What am I doing?" Mulder wondered, drawing back a bit to see
his expression, to try to understand.

Eyes dark with pain and tears, eyes like a wounded animal, 
pleading silently. "It *is* possible to kill someone with 
kindness, you know. Or is that the idea? Next minute you'll
be punching me again, blaming me for whatever you can..."

"No."

"Bullshit!"

"I said, no." Mulder leaned forward again, for another taste
of Alex's tears.

"Why?" Alex insisted. "Because I caught a cold? Nothing's 
changed, Mulder. Just this moment; beyond that, nothing's 
changed between us."

"Everything's changed. Everything's different, now."

"Why?" Anger, now, in the demand; and Alex was pulling away 
from him, isolating himself again in his pain.

And Mulder didn't have an answer for him.

"The way I look at you?" he said slowly, feeling his way 
gingerly through the minefield. "The way I see you. That's
changed. *I've* changed." Meeting the pain-filled eyes and 
letting some of his own pain show through. "And by the way, 
has it occurred to you what this is doing to *me*? But I
don't care." //I don't care...// "I just want..." //You. 
I want you.// "I just want you."

"Damn it..." More tears, and Mulder ached for him, for the 
tears that *weren't* being shed: for the pain too deep and 
too strong to ever be released. And oh, could he ever 
identify. "*I* don't even want me anymore."

"Then isn't it a good thing that one of us does?" and he 
couldn't bear it anymore, he *had* to lean in and kiss away 
the tears, licking the saline trails down the other man's 
face -- and finally, the barest glimmering of his reward; a 
small, half-hearted smile gracing Alex's lips.

"You're crazy, Mulder." But there was affection in the 
words.

"People do say that," he agreed, easing Alex back down 
against the sheets.

Alex let himself be moved, falling back into that willing 
pliancy once more. "They're right, you know."

"I know. But when have I ever let that stop me?" Mulder 
moved, settling down on top of Alex, pinning him firmly in 
place to prohibit any more struggles. "Are you going to 
shut up and let me kiss you now?"

And Alex reached up and pulled him down.

Kissing him and kissing him, sinking into the heat and 
passion of the kisses, pausing to let Alex cough and then 
diving in for more. 

The incredible feel of skin against skin -- not enough skin; 
pausing again, to get rid of the sweatpants. Alex, stopping 
him before he could remove the socks as well: "My feet get 
cold," and pausing to laugh about that together, and then 
more kisses, hungry and tender and desperate and gentle
all at once, clinging to each other as if no amount of 
contact could be enough.

Snuggling, settling into a comfortable position -- Alex lying
on his left side, to leave his hand free to wander; "Doesn't 
that hurt?" and reassurances that it didn't -- and more 
kisses, and a few more tears, and finally the certainty that 
it didn't matter, that only the desire mattered. More 
kisses, and wrapping his hand around Alex's cock and stroking, 
amazement at the way that simple contact affected him. 
Touching, and being touched, and nearly exploding at the 
first touch -- it had been so damn *long* since anyone 
had touched him -- so aroused that it was enough, it was more
than enough; and both of them falling into the same rhythm 
until he *did* explode, and Alex with him, moaning and 
shuddering and still kissing until the spasms subsided.

A moment of perfect, blissful, sticky stillness. And then 
Alex began to cough again, turning away fast so as not to 
spit phlegm into his face; and Mulder reached past him and 
snagged a kleenex, and held him until the coughing spell 
eased up.

"My chest hurts," Alex complained, letting his head fall 
sleepily onto Mulder's shoulder.

"Cough syrup," Mulder suggested. "Maybe stronger cough 
syrup," making a mental note to get up and shower and dress
and go back out to the drugstore before it closed that 
evening. Sometime after the afterglow had finished fading.

Alex shifted position, glanced up at him. "You know, 
*you're* going to catch this now, too," he said, making it 
sound like an accusation.

Mulder shrugged. "I'll live."

"Yeah, but who's going to take care of *you*?" And the 
concern in Alex's eyes was a thing of wonder to behold.

No choice but to kiss him. No choice at all.

More cough syrup, and settling back against the sticky sheets
together. "I should rub you down with more of that menthol 
crap," Mulder said thoughtfully, to himself.

"Dangerous," Alex commented. "Too much body contact. If 
that stuff migrates, we're both screwed."

He considered the statement. "If that stuff migrates," 
Mulder amended, "there isn't going to be anything remotely 
resembling screwing going on for a *very* long time."

Alex chuckled sleepily; and Mulder thought: //He's fucking 
gorgeous when he smiles.//

"I think you'll keep me warm enough," Alex decided, and 
Mulder pulled him closer, determined to do exactly that.

A nap seemed like an extraordinarily good idea, and Alex was 
already half-asleep -- Mulder closed his eyes, and let 
himself drift.

-------

"Mulder. *Mulder*."

Blinking sleepily at the ceiling, Mulder thought hazily: 
//Haven't we done this already?//

He glanced at the source of the voice hesitantly, fearful of 
what he might see...

But this time, Alex was merely sitting on the edge of the 
bed, wearing the discarded sweats, nudging Mulder's foot 
impatiently. "I'm *hungry*," he announced.

Mulder allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "Beats 
having a gun pointed at you," he muttered, under his breath.

It took Alex a moment to remember, apparently; then his face 
darkened. "I'm sorry about that," he said, very quietly.

"It's all right. I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yeah... I really think I do." Mulder sat up in bed, 
reached out and took Alex's hand. "Lunch..." glancing at 
the dim light coming through the window, amending it mid-
stream, "dinner sounds good."

"Let's go out," Alex suggested.

Mulder shot him a dubious look. "Breathe deeply."

Looking annoyed, the other man drew a deep, deep breath -- 
and promptly started coughing again; but the sound of it was
nowhere as harsh and ominous as it had been the night 
before.

"All right. If you bundle up warmly."

"Mulder, you sound like someone's mother." Alex inclined 
his head toward the bathroom door. "Do you want to get in 
there before I shower?"

"Maybe we could shower together this time?" making it sound 
like a question, even though it wasn't a question at all.

Another annoyed glance. "You're not going to allow me the 
least bit of modesty about this, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not." //Healing,// Mulder thought, //healing 
is a good thing.//

Alex sighed. "All right. If you insist."

And showering was good. Warm water, warmer skin... "Don't 
look at me," in a small, sullen voice, and, "It's all 
right," punctuated by a long kiss. Soap, slippery suds, 
clinging tightly together, sweet friction -- and so
intense that again, mere touch was enough; a shattering 
shared orgasm that had Mulder grabbing for the shower rail 
to keep them both from falling.

"I think I'm glad you insisted," was Alex's comment 
afterwards, as Mulder rubbed him dry.

Dinner was Chinese again, at his companion's request; and 
Mulder watched him order three of the starred menu items 
("Extra Hot N Spicy!") and douse them with hot mustard, 
wondering absently what his mouth would taste like
afterwards, toying with the idea of leaning over the table 
and catching him between bites of food just to find out. 

He'd grown sufficiently accustomed to seeing Alex without it
that the prosthesis was actually disorienting; he knew very 
well that the apparent left arm was fake, and it bothered 
him somehow to witness the falsehood. Of course, given the 
man's profession, it was probably wisest to conceal the 

disability as much as possible...

//...his profession...//

...and all at once, the reality of the situation crashed in 
on Mulder with numbing force. //Good lord, what am I *doing*?//

He had no idea what alerted the other man to the change; but
suddenly Krycek was staring at him sharply, food forgotten. 
"Mulder?"

And Mulder looked at Krycek -- at Alex -- seeing the concern 
and the fear and the edge of hard coldness beginning to 
slide over his face like a mask -- and didn't know what the 
hell to say.

"Shit. I knew it. I *knew* it," and the openness, the 
vulnerability, was gone as if it had never existed.

Paradoxically, the alteration in the other man's expression 
was all he needed. //That's why. That's what I'm doing.// 
"Don't," Mulder said, reaching across the table to take 
Alex's hand.

But the suspicion lingered. "Why not? Sooner or later, 
you're bound to come to your senses," bitterly; and Krycek 
wrenched his hand from Mulder's grasp, pushed his plate 
away. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Eat, damn it!" Exasperated, Mulder pushed the plate back 
toward him. "You want me to pretend I know what's going on 
between us? I don't. But that doesn't mean I want it to 
stop."

"Yeah. Yeah, right. As if I don't know what you were 
thinking just now. Like I said: sooner or later, you'll come
to your senses." But Alex picked up his fork again, began 
to spear water chestnuts aimlessly.

Mulder sighed. "Just tell me *why*," he said plaintively. 
"Why do you do the things you do?"

"You think I have a choice?" A piercing, penetrating stare.
"Mulder, you were cast into the life you're living now 
before you were born. Your role, your quest, your 
'choices', they were all carefully structured for you. 
You're living exactly the life that *they* meant for you to 
lead." The eyes flickered away. "And so am I. I never had 
a choice either. Not for a single fucking moment. The only 
choice I've ever had is to get myself killed, so that it 
will all finally end -- and I'm not that suicidal; I want to 
live for as long as I can." Twitch of a shoulder, slight 
movement of the abbreviated arm. "Even if it means living 
like this. I do what I have to, to survive. That's all I 
can do."

Mulder contemplated that for a moment, feeling the truth of 
it in his bones.

"But that's not enough for you, is it?" again with that 
terrible bitterness.

He looked up. "Who says it's not?"

"You. The look on your face." And Krycek's mask slipped,
just a little, just for a moment; enough for the pain to 
show through.

//The pain. That's why. Because whoever he is, whatever he
does, he's human enough to feel pain for it. And that makes
all the difference.//

"Look a little closer," Mulder said softly, "tell me what 
else you see."

Alex looked. Saw... something. Sighed. "This can't work."

"We can make it work."

"There's no time..."

"We'll make time."

"How?" Then, more quietly: "Why?"

A million answers chased each other through Mulder's head, 
none of them completely accurate, and finally he settled on 
the one that seemed the most true: "Because this feels *right*."

Another long, long sigh.

"Doesn't it?" Mulder persisted, suddenly afraid. //Doesn't 
it?//

"You *are* crazy," Alex told him. Sighed again. "And so am 
I."

Mulder felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin. "Whatever 
works," he murmured. "Whatever works."

-------

Alex pulled the motel door shut behind himself, and Mulder 
felt himself shiver. All through dinner, during the drive 
back, this had weighed on his mind... previously, it had 
just *happened*, but this was different; this was planned. 
Premeditated. Not just one-thing-leading-to-another, no 
mere burst of sympathy or desire overwhelming common sense 
-- no justifications for this, and no excuses.

He turned, slowly, to look at Alex.

Green eyes met his levelly. Standing straight and tall, 
pride and strength and no small amount of defensiveness 
emanating from the other man. "Well," Alex said softly.

"Well," Mulder echoed, hearing his voice crack, feeling his 
heart pounding in his chest.

The other man studied him -- shook his head slightly, turned 
away. "I guess you probably want to get some sleep."

"Did I say that?" Mulder wondered aloud. "When did I say 
that?"

A small shrug. "This is your last chance to back out," Alex
said, not meeting his eyes. Remote, distant in manner -- 
//afraid,// Mulder realized, in a burst of clarity.

"Come to bed, Alex," he murmured.

For a moment, time stood still; then Alex shrugged again, 
feigning unconcern, and began to undress. Mulder watched, 
marveling at the man's grace and economy of movement despite 
the impairment -- then went to him, and began to help.

Letting fingertips glide over skin, scarred and smooth 
alike, unfastening things until there was nothing *but* 
skin. Feeling that single hand undressing him with 
consummate skill, feeling his own body grow deliciously
tense in response to that touch. Concentrating exclusively 
on the mundane task of undressing and being undressed, not 
letting himself think beyond that, until the task was 
complete.

Then the clothes were gone, no more obstacles, no 
distractions -- and Alex raised his gaze to meet Mulder's, 
and time stood still.

Those eyes, those green eyes -- he was falling into them, 
sinking against the heated skin and falling into Alex's 
gaze, being enfolded in an embrace so tight and strong that 
he barely noticed it was lopsided, clinging to Alex in 
return, skin and skin and more skin, and all the while 
falling into Alex's green, green eyes. //Quicksand...// 
Being sucked under. And wanting only more.

Mulder dipped his head, his lips meeting Alex's -- no 
thought, simply instinct, blind need -- and the kiss 
captivated him, captured him, dispelled the last traces of 
doubt and fear, leaving only desire.

Soft vibration of Alex's moan against his lips. Pliant in 
Mulder's arms, surrendering...

...breaking free to cough, sudden harsh rasping spasms. 
"Sorry," Alex muttered, eyes averted.

And Mulder smiled. Ran his thumb over Alex's lower lip. 
"Don't worry about it," he responded, and bent his head 
lower to fasten his lips against the other man's neck.

Another moan, more urgent, as Alex's hips thrust forward 
with involuntary need -- //need, yes, more,// and Mulder 
pressed back against him, gasping at the feel of it; rubbing
together, friction, sparking flame between them. //Yes.// 
Need, and more, and more, yet Mulder could not bear to let 
go of Alex long enough to maneuver them both toward the bed,
could not relinquish the contact even for those mere 
seconds.

...Alex wrenched away, coughed again, more deeply. "Shit," 
he grumbled, in disgust.

Mulder couldn't help but laugh. "Alex, it's okay."

"No," in a low, intense growl, "it's *not*," and all at once 
Alex was seizing him, kissing him, fingers digging into his 
flesh, a furious whirl of passion, obviously trying to hold 
it back, but the coughing began once more.

So easy, to pull Alex close, hold him snugly as his body 
shuddered. So natural to kiss his forehead, stroke gentle 
fingers over satiny hair. "Cough syrup," Mulder murmured.

Alex managed to still the coughing, shook his head. "The 
taste..."

"We'll cope," Mulder answered. "C'mon," urging Alex toward 
the bed.

A few quick chugs of ruby liquid, an all-over shudder that 
had nothing to do with pleasure. "This had better work," 
Alex said dolefully. "I'm getting sick of these 
interruptions," and Mulder felt himself laugh; he leaned 
over and kissed Alex -- //that *does* taste awful,// he 
found himself thinking, but didn't consider saying aloud.

Then the kiss deepened, and Mulder could taste nothing but 
Alex.

He was pushed backward onto the mattress -- Alex landed atop
him, pressing against him, all strength and body heat; and 
Mulder moaned and arched up into him. Luxuriating in the 
sensation of arousal mingled with submission -- and then 
Alex began to kiss his way down Mulder's body, and just the 
*suggestion* of what would come next was almost enough to 
bring Mulder off.

Nipples, chest, ribs, stomach, finally... and Mulder cried 
out as talented lips drew him inside, tongue drawing 
patterns against oversensitized flesh, sucking... lost 
himself in it for a few breaths, then //but I want to taste
him// flickered across his hazy brain; and he endured the 
agonizing loss of that pleasure long enough to shift 
position, wriggle around until he could reach Alex, too.

Long time since he'd done this. A long, long time; but some 
skills were never forgotten. Amazing, to realize that he'd 
missed the feel of a cock in his mouth -- astonishing, that 
the knowledge of *who* he was sucking made it that much 
sweeter. Delicious, not merely the taste, but the tremors 
and groans of pleasure he was evoking... and then Alex 
reapplied himself to his earlier endeavor, and the ecstasy 
was almost too great to bear.

It could have been over in a few short minutes; instead, 
they settled into a rhythm. Pleasuring each other, without 
striving for that sudden sharp ascent to culmination. Oh so 
sweet to sink down, deeper and deeper, into the comforting 
weight and pressure...

And Mulder stopped thinking altogether. Forgot entirely 
about the Bureau and case files, about his longtime nemesis,
about the conflict being spawned between heart and mind. 
Forgot about everything but the seemingly endless 
pleasure of sucking and being sucked, was so swept up in it 
that he almost forgot to come...

...but suddenly there was that taut pressure in his balls, 
muscles clenching involuntarily, and Alex was whimpering and 
thrusting deeper into his mouth, closer closer closer until 
it happened for them both at once, in such perfect unison 
that their climaxes, their cries, seemed to blend into a 
single orgasm, a single howl.

Gradually, Mulder came back to himself, to find his head 
pillowed comfortably on Alex's thigh; he nuzzled the other 
man's spent cock briefly, then began the arduous process of 
forcing sex-drained limbs to move. It took awhile, but 
finally he was lying in Alex's embrace, snuggling close, 
tasting sweat-dampened skin.

Sleepy eyes flickered open; and Alex regarded him steadily; 
Mulder gazed back silently. Not knowing what to say, only 
that what they'd just shared transcended words.

Then those lips captured his again: taste of his own essence 
on Alex's tongue, intimate and precious.

//I could get used to this,// Mulder thought.

Unwillingly, his eyelids drifted shut, and he slept.

-------

He awoke alone. No sound of water running in the bathroom. 
Bedsheets cold around him. Subliminal feel of emptiness 
permeating the motel room. Most telling of all: Krycek's 
clothes and prosthesis, missing.

//Fuck,// Mulder thought, feeling something hot and fierce
stinging liquid at his eyes.

Glancing around the room, hoping he'd missed something, some 
sign that Alex would return -- heart lurching, wrenching, at
the sight of the cough syrup forlornly abandoned on the 
nightstand. Lurching anew, differently, at the sight of the
folded piece of paper tucked neatly underneath the bottle.

He unfolded it, blinked hard, and read:


You are an enigma. You are a paradox. 
You are a treasure.

These last few days have been incredible. 
I can't tell you how special this time 
has been, or let you know how hard it is 
to end it this way.

You asked if you could take care of me, 
and promised me my freedom in return for 
this 'favor'. Two gifts... but the price 
for the latter would have proven, 
eventually, too much for you to pay. 

Let me give you this one thing: let me 
pay the price for you.

Walking away from you now is the hardest
thing I've ever done. But I *will* see 
you again. And will miss you desperately, 
every moment, until I do.


Mulder blinked hard, again, and re-read the unsigned note.

Set it aside on the nightstand. Reached out for it a moment
later, folding it neatly back along its original lines. 
Then unfolded it again, and read it once more.

//Alex,// he thought, a mournful dirge inside his mind.

His arms ached to hold him, just one more time. His chest 
ached,remembering the feel of that body pressed close...

Come to think of it, he ached all over.

Mulder drew a deep, deep breath...

...and began to cough.

Hoarse, harsh, racking coughs; and he remembered a leather-
jacketed figure huddled painfully in the front seat of his 
car. //Damn it,// he thought, //I caught his cold.//

But it was *Alex's* cold, and somehow, in a twisted sort of 
way, that made it all right.

Wearily, Mulder reached for the bottle of cough syrup and 
chugged it, several long gulps, the way he'd seen Alex do. 
He had a long drive ahead of him, after all. A long, lonely
drive. Alone.

-------

(Epilogue)


It was cold, even with the heat turned up in his apartment 
and the quilt wrapped around himself.

And he was coughing, endlessly coughing, so hard and so 
often that his ribs ached from it.

//I want to die,// Mulder thought dismally.

Scully had paid him a visit, bearing medicine and heating 
pad and her mother's chicken soup; the last had been very 
good, but unfortunately had only stayed down for fifteen 
minutes or so. He was *hungry*, but the coughing kept his 
stomach in turmoil; even tea was a risky thing.

Miserable, Mulder closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

The sound of his door opening and closing roused him from 
his fog. Instinctively, he tried to move, to reach for his 
weapon... but it was too much of an effort; if the 
Consortium had come to off him, he determined wearily, they 
could damn well go ahead and do it. A cool hand settled on 
his forehead, and he forced his eyes to open.

Eyes, gazing back. Green eyes.

"I told you I'd see you again," Alex said; knelt beside the 
couch and kissed Mulder gently. "Who else is going to take 
care of you?"

The world was spinning, he ached all over, couldn't stop 
shivering, felt sicker than he'd ever been.

And Mulder smiled. And couldn't stop smiling.

-------/end