Small HoursSmall Hours by Te and Dawn M. Pares Daddy793@aol.com & SkaLab6066@aol.com NC-17 S R A M/K Summary: Mulder, Krycek and longing in the dead of night. Spoilers: Very mild ones for The Movie and Triangle. Notes: This is about as romantic as you can get without involving double weddings. Many, *many* thanks go to Justin and Spike for the helpful commentary and supercool beta. And thanks go to Alicia just on general principles, though especially because she forgave us for being just a few months late... Disclaimers: Not to belabor the point, but if we *did* own them, chances are they'd have been dead seasons ago, due to sexual exhaustion. These guys belong to Chris Carter, and thus will no doubt continue to live long, sexless lives. *** I can't be near you, Mulder. I want to, and I hope you know that. I think I started to understand you a little better after the last time we were together. I had gotten myself dressed, unwilling to shower just then. Not just because it would have woken you, but because I wanted to smell like you just a little while longer. I like your soap. I like your sweat. And to be branded with the scent of sex with you... I wanted everyone stupid enough to cross my path to know exactly who I'd been with. Who'd taken my cock so far down his throat I thought you'd swallow me whole. Who'd turned me over and taken me again. Slow, painful. Sweet. Maybe that's stupid. I don't know, *are* other people aware of scent and its meanings? I've never really brought it up. I'll talk about it with you next time. I will come to you, and if you're not here... I'll find you. Follow you like a fucking puppy if I have to. You can't say you haven't grown used to it. But I was saying that I thought I'd understood you a bit more. Does that sound strange? Are lovers supposed to know each other perfectly? Or close to perfectly? I really don't know. You can tell me that, too. I like to listen to you. I remember standing over you, moving with you as you shifted in your sleep. When you frowned I brushed my lips over your temple and your face was smooth again... I ached for you then, Mulder. I wanted to say something, wake you. I knew you'd be pissed in the morning to find me gone without a word. I told myself I was being egotistical. I told myself I was being callous. All in all, I had quite the argument while I stood there, trying to catch your breath, watch your dreams. I wonder... is this what it's always like for you? If so, how the fuck do you get anything done? Is there a debate going on about every choice, every minute of the day? Little runners coming out with decisions whenever applicable? I think about that a lot, Mulder. And sometimes I look down to see little doodles of your brain. I think I need to get laid more often. I can't be near you now... but I'll be back soon. *** He can't know how much I hate waking to an empty bed. Why the hell does he think I sleep on the couch? But I've been sleeping in the bed just lately. It smells like us. The sheets are getting pretty fucking rank, but they still smell like him. It bothers me that I can't tell when he leaves. That I don't just *know* when he's slipped out of my apartment. It feels like I should; like I should get some kind of preternatural buzz on when he's around, just *feel* him. But I don't. So I wake up, and the bed is long cold. And I'm always surprised. *** You surprised me, Mulder. Fuck, you shocked the hell outta me to tell the truth. (I have to do that sometimes, otherwise I forget how.) I never thought... No, that's another lie. I thought about it all the time. What it would feel like to wrap my thighs around your hips, around your waist as you pounded into me. What your face would be like... usually angry. But sometimes, in my dreams, your eyes would soften. Your lips would part and you would *moan* my name. Not Krycek. That's never been me, no matter how many documents you can hunt down to swear it in black and white. And I bet you could find a lot. They littered the world with them, should you ever have decided to check up on your new little partner. Did you? Maybe after... But you surprised me. Gun in my ear, hand on my crotch. I swear to Christ I nearly came right there. You asked me why and that question could have so *many* answers.... I don't think I had any clue how to respond. Please believe me, I didn't mean to be so silent. But I think it was all right, wasn't it? See, the shock came in when you bit me on the neck, then lapped at the bruise until I moaned... I remember falling back against you. Was I begging? I think I must have been. I know the only word in my mind was please. Please. I needed you then, Mulder. I need you now. Hurt me, hit me, fuck me, anything. Just be there when I get back. Please. *** Am… Am I dreaming this? It feels like a dream, Alex in my bed, his hand in my hair. I can't be letting this happen. I'd never let him touch me. Maybe I can allow myself to beat the shit out of him, but-- Alex? Alex. Alex, Alex, Alex, fuck, that you'd let me touch you at all... How can you stand it? How can you stand my hands on you, when I... I'm so sorry. "Let me... Yes, shh, relax, it's okay, I won't--" Jesus, Alex, I want to promise you that I'll never hurt you again, but you know I can't do that. There's so much I don't know, so much I can't let you tell me. I can't ask about your arm. No, let me touch it-- How can you think that an amputation could keep me from you? No one's whole, Alex. Least of all me. But Jesus, the scars-- they're hard to look at, Alex, I won't lie. They remind me of my culpability, of my hand in your-- I won't think of it. I dragged you across continents, Alex, but I never really fooled myself into believing you couldn't have slipped away had you wanted to. You had your own reasons for following me to Tunguska. I want to believe that they're good reasons, but that's so... naive. It's so much childish wishful thinking. But I'll cling to it, anyway. Until you tell me otherwise. Don't. Don't tell me that it was anything other than something like love. My ego is fragile, and there are conceits I need. But you know that. God, let me kiss you again. You taste like pain, Alex. You taste like love. *** Sometimes when I'm alone I think to myself -- "If I only had a taste of you on my lips, my tongue, it would be all right." It gets me through the nights. I think my limited imagination is a gift, Mulder. Because when I get back here to your bed, and your hands are all over me, and there's nothing but you in my vision, nothing but your cries in my ears... Well, I look back on those thoughts and I laugh at myself. I wonder if you're bothered by my tendency to giggle during sex. Nothing compares to this feeling, Mulder. I won't lie to you on this, I dreamed of fucking you and being fucked again and again. Rough sketches of rough sex. But I can't tell you how... how *relieved* I am to have been so damned stupid about this. About us. If I had ever dreamed your lips so tender and hot on my own, hoped for the relentless attention of your body to mine, I would never have been able to do the things I did. And I can't ever tell you about them, but I want to. So much, Mulder. Please believe that I want to. I want to tell you all my reasons. Laugh with you about the Great Plans of my youth. I want to hear you laugh, know you understand. I know I'll never have that, and I have learned to be grateful for the blessings life occasionally hands out. I will give you everything you ask for, and I will never presume to offer anything else. I will love you for however long you allow it. But I also know I won't be able to stop. *** I'm daydreaming. I'll be shuffling papers, listening to the comforting murmur of Scully on the phone, or interviewing a witness and suddenly... it's his voice I'll hear. How anybody's voice can be rough and smooth at the same time... It reminds me of when I was a kid, and my mom would take me to the movies, and I was so little I'd sit on her lap, and we'd be in the balcony, just her and me. There were those heavy velvet drapes up there, and I used to rub my face in them and hide from her in between cartoons. His voice is like that. It's dusty, somehow, like he doesn't use it enough. Like he's dry to the bone. Jesus. Scully keeps giving me these questioning looks, and if she keeps it up, I'm going to crack, I swear it. I'm going to cling to her like a fucked up five-year old and tell her how much I want him. How I want to fill him up, so his voice is as smooth as water, so that he's never thirsty again. I don't know what the fuck I'm saying. I grab a chair and put my head between my knees, and I can feel Scully's concern like a warm wet cloth, or maybe it *is* a warm, wet cloth… it's not like I could tell the difference. It's like my hands are numb when he's not around. It's like they wait for him. My hands only want to touch *him.* Hell, *I* only want to touch him. I love the line of his shoulders, I love the way I can *grab* him and how he never flinches, just bucks up against me, and jesus, I want to just fuck him, fuck him unconscious, so I can clutch him to my chest without any resistance, just for *once*. Or let him fuck me. Until all I had in the world was his cock and my ass, and his teeth in my skin, and his taste in my mouth... Fuck, Alex. Where the hell is he? *** I could go to you right now. I could. Leave my so-called post and run to you like I've wanted... I feel like this is the *only* thing I've ever wanted, and I know that's a lie. It's a good lie. Would you understand that? I want to be there right now, and it almost doesn't matter that I can't be sure if you want me half as much. I know what you like, Mulder. I know I can make you moan, and maybe forget everything else for a while. Like why you should hate me. It's hard to hate the man sucking your cock. I know these things, Mulder. I've held on to more hates than meals, and it all just goes spinning away when you're fucking a willing mouth. I'm willing, Mulder. I want you inside me so bad... I'll take what I can get. I'll take *everything*. And I tell myself you already know that about me, and so anything you leave around... It's like using the good silver when the family junkie comes around, right? You know it won't all be there when it's time to put it away, but it's your good deed for the day, so that's all right... And the things you leave for me, so casually and easily... You know I'll take them. Do you think of me with contempt? Those touches. Christ, the way you touch me. So gentle and with so much *need*... that can't possibly be the way it's supposed to go. You're not supposed to touch me like that, Mulder. No one wants a pet junkie. But it's who I am for you... and I'll keep coming back every time the need gets too great to be beaten back with will, every time I can't brush against something without thinking about your hands on that very spot. I could go there right now. But I don't have to. Not yet. *** I've been sitting at the window. I don't know how long it's been. I stopped counting cars at fifty-seven. I'm not actually close enough to see down to the sidewalk itself. Just a wedge of streetlight, and the gleaming domes of passing vehicles. I haven't gotten a phone call, an e-mail, nothing that feels like a promise, or even a hint, but I'm waiting up, anyway. My one o'clock curfew comes and leaves again, and I wait another 15 minutes before I unbuckle my jeans. I close my eyes and card one hand through my hair. He's always doing that, massaging the scalp, letting my hair slide through his fingers. I make a fist, because he does that, too, and the tension on my scalp is close to pain, but it *feels* like him, so I tug a little, unsurprised to feel a few strands come away when I relax my hand. My other hand sidles past the waistband of my boxers, to where the fabric is getting sticky. I've been hard for him for maybe half an hour now, but there's no hand but my own to take care of this. I don't want to pretend it's his mouth, I don't want to think of him that way, as if he's someone subservient, whose needs are second to my own... So I pretend it's his hand, instead. His strong, callused hand, thumb and forefinger tough with triggers and one handed reloading. I tuck one hand underneath my ass, and let my hand, Alex's hand, close around my stiff, leaking cock. If I do it right, I'll forget about my free hand, and when it's over, it'll be numb or painful with lack of circulation. I don't know if it's anything like the phantom pain he experiences, if it's even close to the imagined agony he has to deal with every day, but it feels right, it feels like a sacrifice he'd understand. My hips are rocking a little now, and that hand is burning a little, painful friction. There needs to be some slick to ease the way... Alex always licks me, but he's not here to do that... I spit on my palm and stroke the saliva down my shaft. Not near as good. Alex. *** Two a.m. and I need you so bad, Mulder... Why do they call these the small hours, anyway? When you can't sleep, when you want, when you *ache*... there's nothing more massive than this time. Heavy time, slow time, molasses time... I bet you have some obscure poem you could quote to me right now. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. I'm a fucking junkie. I am. I hate myself for this. Just a few hours ago I was ripping myself apart for the sole purpose of reminding myself how strong I'm supposed to be. That there's no desire stronger than my will. No jones so deep my *bones* ache. It's funny, Mulder. If I just wanted you I'd be right there, on my knees, on my back, perched above you and stuffing myself with your cock... whatever, whatever you asked. I know you want me. I know it. I can see it, I can feel it. And it would be so much easier if I could just make myself believe it was all just some damned game for you... Are you still awake? Are you thinking of me? Would you do me the favor of beating me unconscious and tying me down so I'd never be able to tell myself to leave again? You take this... this *agency* from me, and I'll stay forever. If you'd like. *** I can't come. I'm almost crying I'm so pissed off about it. Frustrated and shaken. It's *not* his hand, and even *my* imagination isn't so good that I can make myself believe it is. I'm calmly sentencing myself to a painful morning of ache, when I hear something in the hallway. I stand up, button the fly and yank my sweatshirt down over my open fly. Reaching for my gun, I've got my shoulder to the door jamb and my breathing *almost* steady by the time I hear-- "Mulder." It even sounds like him. Maybe my imagination is better than I thought, after all. He sounds like he's tired, or maybe hurt. Jesus, what if he's bleeding out there--and I wrench the door open, and he very nearly falls on top of me. "What happened to you," and I can hear hysteria at the back of my words like a little yapping dog, but he just shakes his head, laughs a little, leaning heavily against the door frame. "*You.* You happened to me, you *asshole*." And he laughs again, as if this is one of Letterman's wittiest monologues, and I'm still shaking, and my palm is slippery from my still-aching dick, and my skin is tacky and squishing against the butt of the gun. The gun I put on the table before I knot my hands in Krycek's jacket and haul him into the room, kicking the door shut. I have him on the couch, and I'm kneeling between his slack knees, and the man looks like he left his bones in the fucking hallway. "Are you drunk? Have you been drugged?" I shake him a little to make sure he's listening to me, but he just looks-- hungry. He looks like he's starving. Like he hasn't eaten for weeks. I know he only looks as hungry as I *am*, so when he doesn't answer me, I just tug him towards me and kiss him, open mouthed, the scratch of stubble, stale cigarette smoke in his hair, he's been eating olives, and oh god oh god Alex, Alex-- And I spasm, shooting thick white strands on the leather of the couch and the crotch of his jeans. *** Oh, God... Mulder. Mulder is one of the best fucks I've ever had, the way only a man that spends most of his life pent up and wired shut can be. I wonder sometimes how his exes could've been stupid enough to lose him-- And then I remember that I'm an idiot, too. But this... God, all it took was kissing me. I've still got my hand on his shoulder, but he's panting against my neck, damp and hot and I'm so hard it hurts and I can feel his come on me. I move my hand, slip it between our bodies and I don't know if it's my palm on my slickened crotch or the brush of my knuckles against his still half-hard cock but whatever it is makes me hiss. Aching. Aching. I'll never be able to desexualize pain again. Not that that is necessarily a bad thing. But how could I ever tell him what he does to me? "Mulder." I don't even know why I'm calling his name, but I can feel him close his lips against my throat and that's reason enough... I expect him to apologize. It's what men do in situations like these, after all, but there's no way I'm going to let him catch his breath long enough for that. "Mulder." This time he looks at me, pulls away from my throat long enough to look at me and I'm *cold* there, now. He opens his mouth, wet, spit-shiny in the questionable light from the street. We're both in blues and grays and it's *wrong* for this. We need color and heat and -- I slide my fingers up from the spatters of his come and wipe them along his lip. His eyes flutter closed and I know my hips are bucking because he's moving closer. Pushing me back and down, awkwardly, until I'm lying on the couch, looking up at him. "Alex..." He's so warm on my body. I didn't know I was cold before, but I'm warm now and suddenly that's all that's important. "Kiss me again." And he does, deep and messy. I can taste him so easily this way, all of him, and I can't decide whether to fuck his mouth with my tongue or just clean those plush, ripe lips so I wind up doing both. Or trying to. When he laughs into my mouth I moan and that makes him start to bite me, or maybe it just seemed like a good idea at the time. My lips, my cheeks, my chin, God my throat and all I can do is arch and writhe beneath him, begging for more with my body because I could no longer trust my voice to plead in anything resembling English... There's a hand sliding up my waist, my ribcage... too urgent to tickle and then it crept down my arm until Mulder's fingers were entwined with my own. Holding me there. I stiffened for a moment and he looked up from my nipple just long enough to make me hate myself for letting him doubt... "Please... don't stop..." He pants once, humid against my dampened tee shirt, squeezes my hand gently and continues. It's like I don't have to talk to him at all... He knew how badly I wanted him to keep me here, and it was only my stupid instincts that made him doubt. Mulder, Mulder... I don't ever want you to stop. This want, this need, this temporary captivity is so goddamned good. My cock is pushing against the fly of my jeans, and it hurts but he's got his thigh against my crotch now and I'm rubbing myself on it like a slut. If I could have this... just this forever... *** I don't want him to come. It's stupid, superstitious bullshit-- he always stays the night lately-- but I'm suddenly convinced he'll scrape himself off my couch and stagger back out into the dark. There's still laughter stuck in my throat, behind the tightness that's trying to convince me he'll leave if I suck him off, so I give in to it, bury my face in his hot throat and laugh until I'm sure I'm crazy. Stay Alex, stay, I think, and I feel him nodding as if he understands me. I'm going to unbutton his fly, I'm going to rub the head of his blood stiff cock with the ball of my thumb, I'm going to lick him off my fingers and-- Jesus. There's a key in the lock. Alex and I share one panicked glance and I feel terror blossom in my gut. I have the absurd impulse to drape Alex with a sheet and pretend he's an inanimate object, like a car propped up in a hobbyist's garage, but of course I don't do that. Instead I scramble to my feet and jerk my sweatshirt down, toss a throw pillow at Alex to cover his black jeans, stained and stiffening with my come. Jesus. She's going to shoot us both. I rake a hand through my hair and try to look composed. Wonder if I should try bitching at her for not bothering to knock first. I forget how small she is sometimes; she's always been so much stronger than me. Her pale face floats above her trench coat like a lantern held up in the dark. No, like the moon. Scully catches every available light source and reflects it: the green glow of the fish tank, the blue from the fuzzy, silent screen of my television, the burnished yellow of the streetlamp leaking in the window. She's beautiful, and at that moment I'm sure she's the fucking Angel of Death. I find myself stepping in front of Alex like he's some dainty little debutante who's been dishonored by her escort. I hold my hands up, and God help me, I feel like she's come to rob me. "Scully," I start, but it's little more than a croak. "Mulder, sit down before you fall down." There's something exasperated and kind in her voice, and I stumble backwards a few steps and set myself down on the edge of the couch, as far from Alex as physically possible. She takes the chair across from me, and folds her hands in her lap. I wonder where her gun is. She hasn't even looked at Alex, she just keeps her eyes on me. Leaning forward, she says, so softly it makes me want to beg forgiveness, for anything she deems appropriate, "Are you all right?" I nod. "I thought... I thought it might be this. But I wasn't sure. You're... this isn't coercion, or... This is what you want, Mulder?" And Jesus, God, there's so much disbelief, and so much... pain. I think it's pain. I *know* it's pain. I nod again, stiffly, my hands clenched, white and aching. Alex clears his throat. Her eyes fly to him, and again, I feel the weird compulsion to jump in front of Alex and hide him from her... from her disapproval, from her anger... from her pain. "Scully," I whisper, trying to lure those blue eyes from their target. She holds up one hand, and she licks her lips, eyes never wavering. "I guess I don't know who you are," she says, and I can't be sure if she's talking to me or to him. Maybe to both of us. I don't know how long she stares at him, but she doesn't speak again until she's on her feet again. "I'll accept this. For however long he wants you," and her words are for Alex, and they make me want to slap her and then fall on my knees and kiss the translucent skin at the back of her hand. How can she let me do this? She locks the door behind her. *** Mulder's still not touching me. He's tensed up, body looking like it wishes the couch was 14 feet long. I pull my knees up, but that makes it look like I'm expecting him to pick up where he left off, so I just swing my legs over the edge and sit. He tried to hide me from her eyes. Like she's allowed to sit in judgment of his life, point that pale little finger and frown and everything we -- everything *I* have can just dry up and blow away. And if he really believes that, then it may as well be true. I want to leave, or maybe, really, have him tell me why I shouldn't. But I'm just sitting here, and even though I can't see a damned thing I know -- *know* -- that I'm staring at his face. Waiting for him to give me something to react to. Some excuse to make a move, any move. "Alex--" "Why the fuck are you still here? Why aren't you following her?" I don't want to know how long he'll want me. And pretending it'll be forever will just make me... make it worse when it's over. I'm up and moving, and I'm not coming back. *** I tackle him, and I hear his chin crack on the floorboards. I yank him up, try to catch his jaw in my hand, see if he's bleeding, but he jerks his head back and glares at me. "Last time I checked, I wasn't a recliner, Mulder. Wanna get the fuck *off* me?" He's struggling, trying to throw me off, but I keep my weight on his legs, and eventually he favors me with another look so hot my eyebrows feel singed. He thinks I hate him. "Don't go." I wonder where all my bullshit is now that I could use it. But I can't think of a thing to say beyond that, so I stare back at him, watch his chest stop heaving, feel him squirm beneath me to try and get comfortable rather than escape. "She can think what she wants. It doesn't matter. I-- I couldn't tell her about you, Alex. About us." I want to tell him that I'm sorry, but apologies are just another way to lie to someone, a petty promise that you won't hurt them again. "I love her. And I..." But I don't want it to be an excuse. I don't want to *use* it. I want him to believe it, and I think if I ever *say* it, he'll run. Because it's so easy to say. I want him to let me show him. *** My jaw hurts, dammit. He loves her and he... what? Wants me around? Likes my ass? I know it's more than that, at least, I know he *thinks* it's more than that, but fuck, I can't help but think that this is all... I don't know. He's supposed to be the one so interested in the truth, so why the fuck can't he say it? Because he doesn't want to lie, and, God help us both, he doesn't want to hurt me. Fuck him. I shake off the look I know I'm giving him and just lay there, blank as I can manage. I close my eyes and picture one of my more amorous bosses and that does the trick. By the look in his eyes I know I've succeeded... but he still won't let me up. She conferred her blessing on us and I'm supposed to be grateful and happy and let him make me come, or not, as he chooses. Fuck him. *Fuck* him. I'm not some... some *toy* he can play with until Mommy comes to take him to church. "Alex, please..." No, no, *no*. I'm shaking my head and I can feel everything I want to say clog my throat like bile. Or maybe it is bile, and I can end this fun little interlude by choking on it. "Let me--" "Get the fuck off me, Mulder." He doesn't move. "Fine, then while you're there, why don't you tell me what would have happened if Scully hadn't been kind enough to let you continue fucking me?" *** I take a deep breath. And then I let it out and take another one. There are those weird greenblack splotches in my vision, and I'm going to attribute them to lack of oxygen. "I don't know," I say finally. Conviction. I know I had some once. I wonder where it went, sometimes. I think the whole summer was just a big manufactured sop to my will to believe, some nights. He's tensing again, it's not enough, and I make an effort. "I think... I know I feel something for you. I know it's strong. That's all I can say." *** Well, he wouldn't be Mulder if he wasn't honest. But this... this hurts more than I thought it would, and I am again reminded of the fact that no one pays me to think. I've never been in a relationship where I was the lover, clear and clean in, at least, my own feelings. It's a cold victory to win. I think this must be my punishment for all those years of fucking around, using my looks and charm to get everything I wanted and never mind the consequences. Shit, when did I become the moral of the story? "You 'don't know'? *Fuck* you, Mulder. Let me go." *** I shake my head. I start stripping out of my shirt, and I find the breath to say, "I know you don't want to leave." I'm glad my hands aren't shaking. I want to *look* sure, even if I don't feel that way. "I want you here." I shrug out of the shirt, and then start on my fly. He's looking at me like I'm growing extra heads, and I try not to shiver. I should have turned the heat on. Since I'm already unzipped, it doesn't take long to start rucking them down. I keep my eyes on him, and try to get out of the jeans without ever keeping my weight off him for too long. "This would go faster if you helped," I mutter. *** "I don't want to *help*. I don't want to *be* here." It's almost true. I want him desperately, and this apartment smells like home even more than the stench of my mother's fucking cabbage soup, but... "God damn it, stop! I'm not your cheap thrill. This isn't a fucking game, Mulder." He stops then, naked from the waist up, cock tangled in his boxers and I know just what that stain will taste like. I remember. My *mouth* remembers. "You're right. It isn't." And that's all it takes for him to take my face in his hands. Lean down and start to kiss me, over and over, like I'm something precious to him and he couldn't stop if he wanted to... but if that was true Scully wouldn't have been able to make him pause. I try to shake him off but he holds me steady, and his lips are so soft on mine. Soft feels like the wrong word. It implies pliancy and he's never been that. These kisses are his battle to keep me here, leashed and his. I am, I already am but I don't want this-- "Stop! Stop, dammit--" And his tongue tries to twine itself around mine and my protests are swallowed. I'm still fighting but my hips aren't... God, my hips aren't. I finally manage to close my lips against his but he never stops kissing, pressing closer and I can feel him getting hard again. The thought of how my jeans must feel against his cock is driving me insane and I'm still shaking my head, and I know it's not really rejection anymore... But he still pulls away with a quiet sigh, resting his forehead against my own and breathing hard. "Alex, Alex..." "I don't want this, Mulder, just, God, let me go..." I could throw him if I wanted. He's surrendered some of his leverage. But it's not about that anymore. Love... love is supposed to be stronger than anything, certainly stronger than that red headed bitch's seal of disapproval. But it's not, is it Mulder? "What do you *want* from me, Alex?" *** I'm not sure I really want to know, sometimes. I get these dark hints of who he is, what he's done, and I want to close my eyes and pretend I don't know it, that I don't suspect him. How can you love someone and fear them at the same time? That can't be right. He doesn't answer me. I think he knows I'm not ready to learn that particular truth yet. I sigh and spread my feet, tenting my knees over his sprawled body. I'm careful not to touch him, and I rest my elbows on my knees and let my hands dangle. I feel vaguely ridiculous. "I won't hold you here against your will, Alex." I *focus* on him, hold him with my eyes, and it's a trick I learned, and learned well, from Scully, my lovely bullheaded do- good Scully, who came in and probably fucked this up for good and all. "Even though I still believe you want to be here. "You want the truth, take the good with the bad. I won't let her go for you. I couldn't, even if I wanted to. But that does *not* mean," and he lets me touch him, it's a start, I tell myself it's a good sign, "that I'll blow this off. "This *means* something," I insist, "You can't tell me it doesn't." So I take my hand back and rub my throat, itchy from where I scraped it against the stubble rising on his cheek. "So stay." I hope to God I sound as desperate as I feel. *** "I can't." "Why the hell not?" He sounds tired, sad, like I'm just another obstacle to batter himself against, but I need this. He's searching my face again, looking for an opening and I want to give him one, but it goes against everything I've been trained to do. And I don't want him to say the words if he feels like I've manipulated him into it. I want him to kiss me again. "Mulder..." And I'm reaching for him before I know what I'm doing. Touching his face, and the swollen red of his mouth is almost irresistible, but I know if I press down just the way I want to his eyes will narrow and I'll lose all chance at... whatever this is. "Tell me, Alex." So low and his voice... it creeps inside and takes up residence and however this ends up I'm going to hear it echoing in my head for years, I know it. Even when the words lose their meaning they'll be there. My hand falls from his face and he lets it with only a slight, aborted motion to catch and hold it there. "You say you don't want to blow this off, but you also say that you don't know what you'll do if Scully takes back her... consent. How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel? I'm here by her blessing, and when it's gone... When it's gone, you'll be gone, too." *** I jump at the loophole. "I said I didn't know what I'd have done if she had--" and suddenly I laugh again. Ol' dog Hysteria, gnawing at my shoe. "I would have scrambled. Thrown a fit. She's put up with a lot of shit from me; I'd have given her my best 'passionate guy' speech. And I would have-- I would have said..." "I would have said that I think I love you." And I know I'm saying it too softly, and that I'm a coward and a liar, too. I'd never have told her that. He would have seen her face and she would never have forgiven me that betrayal. If I'd slapped him, he'd have looked less surprised. Punches he's come to expect. And he's almost right to. But this... this is so much weird "inner Mulder" bullshit. I look at him, see him just lining up shitty things to remind me of, and I wonder if, finally, all those blows to the head are turning my into some kind of "in touch with my emotions" guy. I told Scully that I loved her. I lived to say those three words again to someone just as dangerous, and just as fucking *dear*. Obviously, I'm a lunatic. *** Oh, fuck. He said it. "You think you love me." I want to hear it again. "Yes." He looks like he's waiting for something, but I don't know what it is. He's paused above me, hovering. I want him back down here. If he loves me... If he loves me I don't know what. "You were right, I want to stay." "I'm always right." Brief smile, but still shaky. I want him back where I know him. "You're also an asshole." "My gun isn't very far away, you know." I slide my hand between us and catch hold of him. I know he saw it coming but he gasps anyway. Probably the best proof of a benevolent deity is the fact that sex almost always feels better than you remembered it. At least... it does with Mulder. "Kiss me again." "Are you sure?" Even with his dick in my hand, he's taking time to be a smart-ass. "I wouldn't want to *coerce* you or anything." God, he's grinding into my hand and suddenly I can see him humping any part of me he can reach. "Mulder." And I make it as hoarse and needy as I feel. He makes a good smart-ass. I make a good slut. "Kiss me again." And he does, just like I want him to, soft and teasing until I rear up a little to try to suck him down. Messy, noisy... I think I'm the one groaning, but I don't care. I move my hand and he finds a groove, thrusting hard against me and if I don't get these damned pants off soon we're *both* gonna come on them. *** I break away from his ravaging mouth and rest my forehead against his chest, panting, trying to regain some *semblance* of control. "Alex. I swear to you... if it's not love, it's something so close..." And I squeeze my eyes shut and hope for the best. Or at least not a prolonged and painful death. I laugh a little, at myself, at the surreality of this entire night. "I never make it easy when I can take it hard, Alex. *You* know that." I can feel my hands tightening in his hair, try to ease them, I don't want to hurt him, I don't, and yet... I can never really make myself believe that, can I? I want to take it all out on him; he's so solid, and so real, and he bruises so fucking easily... "Alex," I say, and my voice is so thick I don't recognize it. "I want to make you stay. And if I can't make you stay, I want to make you remember." I want to bite him, draw blood, fuck him through the floorboards, mark him as mine, but I won't do that. Not unless he asks for it. Ask for it, Alex. God damn it. I let his hair go, push back until I'm no longer resting on his legs and curl my hands on my thighs. "Don't go," I say, one last time. *** I shut my eyes and turn my head. I have to keep it together. I have to-- His hands are on my face again, and I can't decide which touch to lean into, so I simply arch my neck up a bit to give him more of me to caress. I know I won't be leaving. I don't think I really could anymore. This want, this need, this possible love... Maybe I want to find out what redemption means. One of his thumbs brushes along an eyebrow. There's something purifying in the limitation of sensory input, and now that I can't see I can almost feel the light tension in Mulder's finger. I know he didn't want to touch me again until I'd made my promises, and I'm *glad* he couldn't wait. I open my eyes and say what he wants to hear-- and more importantly, what I want to say. "I won't." He smiles at me then, leans in close like he's going to kiss me. I can feel my eyelids being pulled down by the force of his approach, some odd gravitational anomaly, but he just settles very close. I share his breath and shift beneath him, asking for more. His lips brush mine a few times as he speaks and I try to lean up and catch them. There's something keeping me from just stealing them in a move I know would be too fast to avoid, and he escapes my mouth easily. My breath leaves in a rush, forcing me to realize I'd been holding in too much in a futile attempt to force more contact between us. He's looking in my eyes again. "Thank you," and his voice is so grave it makes me want to grin. *** He's beneath me, and he won't leave now, but is it because he wants to stay, or because he wants to please me? I almost laugh. It's bleakly amusing in some way. The only person I know who's willing to go out of their way to *please* me, not appease me, not humor me, not *help* me... I can't do it. I can't mark him, remind him. I was a fool to think so. He doesn't seem to have any problems forgetting-that one has always been mine. I crawl off of him and stare, take in the arch of his eyebrow, the line of his mouth, the curve of his cock, swelling through his open fly. I swallow, hear my throat click. I lay back, draw my knees up, my feet flat on the cold wood. I can feel his eyes on me, even though mine are staring at the ceiling and dry as paper towels. I relax my knees, let them fall out to the sides a little, the way he does sometimes, when I've blown him and he thinks he knows what I want next. He's never even tried this. He knew his place. He never even hinted that he'd want me this way. And he'd have been right. I would have refused him if he'd ever been stupid enough to ask for it. But Alex isn't stupid. And I guess I'm not such a selfish bastard after all. Even though I'm greedy for this, too. If it doesn't hurt, I'll be disappointed. I shiver; it's cold here, and he's too far away. He moves then, gets to his knees, and he leans over me, trying to gauge me. "You don't really want this," he says, and I screw my eyes shut. "How the fuck will I know unless you do it?" And I give my suddenly wilting penis a few hard strokes, and lift my hips a little. "What are you doing?" And he sounds incredulous. Maybe this is the first time I've ever really surprised him. I reach out and close my hand on his fist. If I wanted to, I could topple him, because he's leaning most of his weight on his one arm... but instead, I just grip him. He seems to get the idea and leans back until he's sitting on his calves, and I bring his hand up and rest it on my chest, so he can feel its frantic crash against my ribs. I won't ask for this. *** He doesn't want me to fuck him. He wants me as far inside as I can go, in the hopes of trapping me there. I don't... I don't want to do this for the wrong reasons, but it's almost as though there's nothing but the thinnest of membranes separating his heart from my hand. I watch my fingers curl a little. If this is some ancient reflex I don't want to know where it comes from. "Mulder. Mulder look at me." He opens his eyes again but there's nothing there but this odd brand of defiant lust. I think Mulder may be the one person on earth who could make "use me" come out like an order. "I want to stay. I want to *stay*. Here. With you." And his legs make motions to curl around my waist. My cock, hard throughout all this fucking *soul searching*, twitches. I don't think I'll be able to resist this for long. "Do it, Alex. Don't make me..." I shake my head helplessly, fall down over his body and kiss him instead. Maybe if I let him steal all the air from my lungs I won't be able to hear myself begging him not to make me do this. He's whispering against my lips again, and I know I don't want to hear the words. "You don't have to do this, Mulder. I'm here. I'm here, and if you want me to go you'll have to beat me unconscious and drag me out--" "I'll beat you unconscious if you don't..." "If you can't even say it what makes you think I'll do it? You don't want this. And I don't want to be your... punishment." *** I shake my head. Fuck. He thinks he's right, and maybe he is. But he won't understand that it doesn't matter. This is my fault, not his. "This isn't about me and my fucked up guilt complex. This is about what I want. What I know you want." I thread my fingers through his, clutch him against my chest. "This has to happen, or we'll never have any fucking balance. It's always me taking something from you, but it can't stay that way, god damn it." I can't look at him; he looks like he wants to pet me and put me to bed like a kid with a fever. I can't stomach a look that soft on a face as hard as his should be. "Alex. *Fuck* me. Because..." I swallow, force the words past my tight throat. "Because it's what we both need. And if it's punishment as well, then we need that, too." And I let his hand go. I'm not the only one shivering. He's working himself out of his clothes and I'm trying not to knot myself up. The usual hail of second and third thoughts is pelting me, small and hard and cold. I ignore them. So I'm bullheaded. So I'm afraid. I also know I'm right. I even my breathing out, relax my hands, set my feet wider. "Mulder," and his voice sounds like it's rusting shut, like he hardly has the breath to spare. "I don't have anything..." I grit my teeth. "I don't fucking *care*." He studies me again, for what feels like minutes, and whatever he sees he approves of, and he works one long finger inside me without so much as spitting on it. Jesus fucking Christ. But it's not painful, not really, just-- just-- and I'm tensing up, and I bite my lip, because I'm not gonna back out of this. I'm sweating, and panting, and he's not moving, just *filling* me, and just one fucking digit feels huge and dangerous and he's trying to scare me off, the bastard. So I glare at him, and through gritted teeth, I tell him to pull out and lube up. "Point taken," I mutter, when he takes his hand back. He looks alien, his face smooth and practical. "But I thought you didn't care." I want to laugh, suddenly. Oh you bastard, you *bastard*, you always have to push... I think I actually do work up a smile of some sort, because when I open my eyes again, his face is almost kind. "I'm sure you have *something*," he prompts. I want to tell him I didn't care what he used to lube me, not that I didn't want lube, but I'm damned sure he knows that, so I just clear my throat and try to ease the muscles in my thighs and say, "End table." I've been fucking him, if you can't say regularly, often enough to acquire a bottle of Wet. And often enough that he'd know where the bottle was. "Bastard," I say, but he smiles at me like it's an endearment, and I want to laugh. He's leaning over me again, and now his face is stern again. "You'd better be sure about this, Mulder. Because I'm not going to let you take it out on me." I focus on him, his hair is sweat dark at the temples, and his mouth is buckled down, but I know he's begging me to let him off the hook. Alex was never one to accept any responsibility. I take the bottle from his hand and squirt some on my palm, then warm the stuff in my hands before I coat Alex's firm, reddened cock with it. He doesn't close his eyes, or tremble, and he never loses that angry look. Until I glob some more goo in my palm and hold my hand up for him. "Masochism isn't always fun." For a moment he looks contrite, and something like an apology softens his mouth. Then he coats his fingers. *** This is moving too fast, and I can't quite figure out why it's happening at all. Mulder has no idea what this is like for me. He can't. I can't help but think I'm going to be graded on my performance, and I just know Mulder has never applied that sort of self-pressure to sex. Too fast. Too goddamned fast. Fuck this. I flip him over on his belly, slide him up on his knees. He doesn't quite resist and I don't quite lose my hold on him from the lube, but it's still awkward. "Alex..." This is where he's going to feel the need to remind me that he'd gotten the point, but he hasn't. At all. "Spread for me." He braces himself clumsily on one shoulder and his face and his thumbs dig in to the smooth curve of his ass and he holds himself open. The edge is slightly reddened from when I entered him before, but I don't let myself look for very long, instead leaning in and tasting him. He jumps at the touch of my tongue, calls my name a few times. Encouragement, then. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it the way *I* want. It doesn't take long for him to start trembling and I shove my tongue deep inside. I know what he's feeling... This act can feel profoundly unnatural, and by the way he's half-writhing, half-trying to escape I can tell that no one has ever done this for him -- to him -- before. I hum against my prize, slide my slick hand over his cock slow and easy. Making him feel it over every centimeter. *** I want to yell. This is weird and invasive and... shocking somehow. I can't decide if I like it. I'm off balance, but I think that's what he wants. He's trying to keep me from thinking too much, and that's probably a good idea. He's wriggling his fucking *tongue* and I want to tense up, but it's not... it's not *hard* enough to close against, and... and... "Alex. Alex." He shoves deep, and I snap my hips, this flexible, wet... thing... "Alex!" And it's starting to scare me. Because I've decided I like it. *** I know I can make him come this way, but seeing that -- *feeling* that -- would drive me over the edge, too. I pull off, and he makes this small, distressed noise. Somewhere between a whimper and a groan. Christ, I have no idea how I kept myself from doing this before... When I slip a finger inside him this time he practically *throws* himself back on it. The stretch of his body is in constant motion, arching and twisting for more of me. I regret stopping, now. I want to dive back in to his willing ass and hear him scream my name like that again, but I fucking hate the taste of lube, so I try to make my finger feel everything for me, instead, working it around and around inside him, listening to him slowly begin to calm down before I rake at his prostate. I see the muscles tense in his long back; I can *feel* him grit his teeth. I can't help but smile. *** I jump. One finger, and it's almost familiar, and then he hit it, he hit it just right, and I saw fucking stars. It's so sensitive it's painful, but I get the idea, I get an idea of how he'll feel, and I want it *yesterday*. I don't want him to take his time. I want it all, and I don't want hints, I don't want prep, I just want him crammed inside and fucking me. I can't wait for this; the strain is too much. I'll crack, I'll lose it, I'll throw him off and lock myself in the bathroom. God damn it, he should know this, he should know it's all or nothing, and he should know that I was lying about the masochism... If it doesn't hurt I'm afraid I won't feel it at all. *** He's practically chanting beneath me, a stream of curse and pleas for me to move faster, fuck him *now*. I tell myself that it isn't only sadism when I work two fingers in. As easily as he's taking this, I want to be *sure* that I won't hurt him when I finally get my cock inside. Finally. I want this. I want this so badly I'm shaking like a goddamned kid. Not continuously, just these brief tremors. I feel like they're gonna break me apart if I don't move faster. If I ask Mulder if he's ready, he'll say yes whether or not it's true. It's just not fair to make me have to be the responsible one. I twist my fingers inside of him, catching that gland again and the way he moves... I can't keep my mouth shut any longer. "Are you ready for me?" *** My forehead is braced against my arms, and my jaw feels locked. "*Fuck* me, " I seethe. God, he can't know, he can't know what I really want-- But he does, and he pushes inside, hard little shoves with his pelvis, and I nearly bite my lip through before I let out a hungry strangled cry; it goads him, he slams the rest of the way in and I let out a sob, and then he's still and-- It *burns*. My breath is shallow and ragged and I'm-- I'm-- oh God, oh God, God-- But it's exactly what I want. The burn fades, eases, but the sheer fucking *bulk* of him, Christ, he's thick, he's going to push my guts up into my throat and-- oh God, *there*, there there there *there* THERE, and I know I'm pushing back on him, taking him deep, taking him, as much as he'll give me, and even now I'm afraid it won't be enough. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, Alex, fuck me, fuck!" And I know I sound like a lunatic, and my hands are fists and they're slipping on the floor, it's slippery with sweat but I push back with every thrust, my arms flexing, my back arched, and I can hear Alex, he's sobbing for breath, and he sounds like he's crying, but it's just me, I'm gone, I'm so far out I may never make it back alive... *** He feels so damned *good*... It's only right, but God God God I can't keep this up for much longer. I pull him up against my chest, wanting desperately to hold him tight and stroke his cock, too. But he uses his new position to work himself even faster and harder on my cock, making it difficult to keep rhythm, making me ache with it. My mouth floods, my body is unsure of what it wants beyond *more*. He throws his head back on my shoulder, and his face is flushed, damp with sweat. His mouth is open. He's never stopped calling and moaning for me. So beautiful and I bend in to nuzzle at his throat, wind up biting him instead. He feels good, he tastes good, and I know I'm crying into his bruising skin and I give up holding him to grab for his bobbing cock. Silken hard, sticky and hot. He reaches back to grab at my ass, demanding and comforting at the same time. I start thrusting harder and he gasps at each one. I stroke him fast, needing him to come right *now* -- *** I turn my head, bury my face in his hair and come. He's irresistible, that practiced hand stroking me, there are laws of biology, laws of physics, and this is flashpoint... I come so hard I think about aneurysms, and throwing up, and passing out, but I don't do any of these things, I just fall forward onto my arms and spasm until I think I'll wring the muscles right off my bones. I feel myself bear down on the hot punishing rod of flesh he's got buried inside me, and I twitch again, and I tighten my thighs and squeeze him. "Come, Alex," I husk, because he's mine now, and he's done this to me, and I'll do this to him... *** Riding Mulder through orgasm is an exercise in exquisite pain. The sort of thing that, if I had known what it would feel like before, I may not have done it. He's pulling on me, squeezing. I'm being jerked off by his ass and I want to laugh at the thought but all I can do is push down a little on one shoulder and try to fuck him harder. Punishment, yes, this is what it is. I want to hurt him for making me need this, for giving me this taste of power and equality that can't possibly last between us, for making me cry out because I can't *stop* myself from trying to avoid coming. I don't ever want to stop this, but he's still squeezing me, still calling on me to -- "Give it up for me, Alex..." -- and his voice is hoarse and low, but the words are steady and meant. He wants me to lose it like I made him do, and I couldn't disappoint him if I tried. I squeeze his shoulder hard and let my hips take over, drinking in the sight of him open and taking me deep for a last few moments of impossible joy. My eyes slip shut and I hold my breath, trying to push my lungs down to press against my guts, feeling that wave of helpless pain and false death slam into my balls, arc into my spine and I know I must be hurting him but I can't can't can't stop and I'm coming, screaming something even I don't understand. And I can almost watch from outside myself as my body collapses over his. *** He's spreading me out and pounding into me, using me for leverage, for fucking *ramming* speed, and I feel dizzy and loose and helpless, and I press my thighs together again, and he *squeezes* my shoulder and I feel a rush of heat. Jesus, he's flooding me, I've never fucked him without a condom, and now I can feel him molten inside me, yelling something wild and broken and then he's plastered against my back and heaving, making soft sputtering sounds, like he's trying to speak. My knees are complaining, and my arms are shaking with the strain. I'm shuddering, still weak from coming, I feel liquid and unstrung. "Alex," I whisper, "Get the hell off me," but it doesn't sound angry, or even peevish. He makes some sound, something almost a chuckle and he slithers to the floor and lands with a *whump*, his head banging against the hardwood, and he lets out a tired grunt. I slide to the floor beside him, close to checking out. My ass feels open and vulnerable, hideously wet and pliant, and it bothers me a little. I rest my cheek on the floor, away from him, but I hear him raise up on his arm, then sit, and his hand is stroking my wet hair. "You knew," I accuse him. "You knew it would be like this." And I don't care that I'm not making sense, but I'm still stinging, sore, and my bones feel loose and untrustworthy. I know I've never feared Alex like I do right now. *** I blink at him stupidly for a long stretch of minutes, and I'm glad he's turned away from me, and I don't know whether to be glad or not that my hand won't stop petting him... It occurs to me through the haze that he might resent it, and I finally pull away. I am infinitely colder without the contact, and I resist the urge to try to hug myself. Few things more pathetic to look at than a one-armed man trying to hug himself. But Mulder is still turned away from me, body still and probably cooling in the dimness. I shake myself to chase the thought away. Maybe he needs to see me needing him when our cocks aren't hard. I reach to touch him again, manhandle him as gently as possible and lean in too close for him to close his eyes against me. "What do you think you do to me?" *** I know my face looks stony, angry. I want to feel that way, but I also know that I can't keep my hands off him any more. I tug him down by the shoulders and clutch him to me, hide my face against his throat. For a long time I can't say anything, I just try not to cry, or swallow my tongue, or hyperventilate. "This is what I do to you, Alex?" And my voice is small and a little awed, and I know he can feel me trembling. "I don't know how-- how you can stand it," I whisper. I'm going to shiver apart, and I crush Alex loser, try to close his mouth with my skin, where's he's pressed against me, and I rock him a little. I can feel him try to pull away from me; he makes a halfhearted grab for his jeans. "Tell me you know it. Tell me." He stiffens in my arms. "You love me," he mutters, like it's rote, like I've reminded him to say "please" or "thank you". "That's right, you asshole. I fucking love you," I say, and I let him roll out of my arms and stare at me. *** He loves me. And if I don't start believing that *right* now he's gonna beat the hell outta me. Just as soon as he can move again. Christ. It would be funny if it wasn't so goddamned true. I have a vision of us a year or so from now... One of us will have decided that it's our "anniversary" and proceed to make the other's life a living hell whether or not he remembers. Probably moreso if he does. There would be pistol-whipping involved, I'm almost sure of it. I smile at the thought of the two of us bleeding on the tablecloths of some fancy restaurant, scowling over our bouillabaisse, and Mulder, of course, scowls at me. I lean over and kiss his petulant, determined-to-make- this-difficult mouth. "I *did* say I was staying." "But you--" I kiss him again and he resists. I knew he would. I press our foreheads together and sigh. "Alex--" "I love you, too." *** There are a lot of advantages to the shabby nomadic existence I lead. Namely, you never have to buy groceries. Of course, that's also a drawback. Because I know I don't have anything in the house besides stale blueberry Poptarts and flat club soda. It won't be light for an hour or so, but I've done my sleeping for the night. For a long time, I just listen to Alex breathe, watch the rise and fall of back and shoulder in the fish tank light, too fluorescent or too green to bring out the gold in his skin. When I finally can't persuade myself to stay horizontal any longer, I drag myself off the floor, stiff and sore but better rested than I've been in some time. Alex has his cheek to the hardwood, but looks surprisingly comfortable, so I make an effort to be quiet. He sleeps anyway. In the shower, I close my eyes and soap as quickly as possible. I don't want to get sidetracked. I'm starving, and I figure Alex will be too, so I plan a bagel run-- the bakery should be open on Downing-- maybe some fresh fruit... I eschew a newspaper. We'll never be anyone's idea of domestic. I dress and stuff my wet hair under my stocking cap and I'm nearly out the door before deciding I need to leave Alex a note. I know that if I'd woken up without him I'd have punched holes in the plaster first and asked questions later. But I've always been the rash one in this relationship. I find a legal pad and a pen and leave him a few lines in my neatest block print. I went out for bagels. We need carbs. Please don't go anywhere. I scratch out the 'please'. The note sounds needy enough without it. I toy with the idea of cuffing him to the couch, but it seems at cross purposes with the whole "trust" issue. When I get home, he's gone. He's folded the letter I've left him in half, and his tight script reads: I won't stay away. I'm superstitious. At least, when it comes to him. Paranormal occurrences aside, he has proven himself ephemeral in the past, and I want him with me. I stay in all day, thinking he might be back. Maybe he's gone out for the paper. Or coffee. Or silk scarves. I should have hogtied the bastard. I don't even have the energy to beat off, and I spend the morning doing the crossword and the afternoon channel surfing and feeling hollowed out. I'd lost my appetite as soon as I'd realized I didn't have anyone to lick cream cheese off of. At dusk, I turn the television off and watch the filmy light fade into a flat gray as blank as my television screen. Alex. I missed you before you were even gone. END We'd dearly love to hear from y'all... Dawn can be reached at SkaLab6066@aol.com Te can be reached at Daddy793@aol.com