Home-->Mom, Don't Go Here
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“Stop.” Fox Mulder’s voice was low, but Alex Krycek froze in his tracks at the single word which held all the force of a shouted command. He didn’t turn around; didn’t have to turn, to know that he would see Mulder still sprawled on the floor, his long legs splayed out in front of him, his lean body propped up against the desk. He didn’t have to look at Mulder to know that while his tie was still knotted, his shirt was untucked from their recent tussle, and one of his shoes was on the other side of the room. For long minutes, neither man moved, neither man spoke. Krycek questioned the sanity of his last gesture, but couldn’t move to test it further, or leave the scene of his folly. Mulder questioned the sanity of delaying Krycek’s departure, but couldn’t find more words while the other man stood frozen in his doorway. With a herculean effort, Krycek forced one leg to take the next step out of the room. “Alex. Please.” As soon as Krycek was in motion, Mulder found his voice. “Dammit,” Krycek muttered as his step forward became a fluid u-turn so that he was looking back at Mulder. Mulder hadn’t moved, as Krycek had foreseen, except for his left hand, which he’d brought up to the cheek Alex had just kissed minutes earlier. As their eyes met, the silence was such that Krycek was sure he could almost hear the rasp of palm meeting five o’clock shadow as Mulder’s hand moved over his face. “You have what you need, Mulder, “said Krycek, indicating the scrap of paper in Mulder’s lap with a nod of his head. “You don’t need me.” “You’re wrong.” Mulder began slowly pulling himself to his feet, using the desk chair for leverage, eyeing Krycek warily as if his movements might spook the other man. “As if things couldn’t get worse, you are *so* wrong.” “You’re delusional,” Krycek scoffed bitterly as the two of them stood facing one another. He let his gaze drop from Mulder’s eyes to his waist, where a pale triangle of bare skin peeked through between shirt and pants. A moment later he was looking Mulder in the eye again. Mulder took a step forward. “I am. A lot,” he agreed, his smile even more bitter than Krycek’s laugh. “But not about this.” Another step, and another. Krycek wanted to back away and found himself unable to do so. “I don’t want you, Alex,” Mulder was still talking, still moving, and Krycek wished he’d kept hold of his gun; dawning horror bloomed on his face as he listened. “I don’t love you--I don’t even like you. And I sure as hell don’t trust you.” Now they were just inches apart and Krycek was shaking his head, as if the movement could negate the words Mulder was hurling at him with soft, deadly force. “But, I need you.” Krycek had watched Mulder’s entire approach, every slow and cautious step, and he could have been out the door and half-way down the block in the time it took Mulder to cross the room. So he could honestly say he had no idea how he was still there when Mulder’s hands came up on either side of his face. And he didn’t know what his response to Mulder’s words was going to be, but he didn’t expect it to be the rough needy sound that issued from his throat as Mulder crushed their mouths together. As soon as their lips met, Krycek found himself struggling, and, as always seemed to be the way with them, passion and aggression became intertwined. Mulder was still kissing him, and holding him and turning him away from the door. He retaliated by biting at Mulder’s lips, slipping his tongue into Mulder’s mouth and tugging the other way. Between the two of them they wound up moving sideways, careening off the wall beside the kitchen and bouncing towards the living room, snarling and snapping and hugging fiercely. “Let me go!” Krycek demanded, pushing hard at Mulder’s chest. “Let *me* go!” Mulder responded, stumbling. The backs of his knees hit the coffee table and he struggled to keep his balance, hands coming away from Krycek’s face as his arms pin wheeled madly. Just as his center of gravity slipped to someplace behind him, he managed to curl one fist into Krycek’s grey Henley shirt so that as he fell, the other man was dragged along with him. Without thinking, Krycek took his hand away from Mulder’s chest, tearing a few buttons as he went, and wrapped his arm around the back of Mulder’s head so that when they both hit the coffee table lengthwise, his skull was protected. Unfortunately, the table wasn’t quite prepared to act as a makeshift bed for two grown men, and it gave with a crash of splintering wood. This effectively trapped Krycek’s arm under Mulder and he found himself wishing again for the hundredth—millionth—billionth time that he’d chosen another path through those Russian woods that day. Without another working arm, he was now pinned face to face with Mulder and unable to pull himself up and away. The prosthetic was still a work-in-progress and it sure wasn’t going to get him out of this. Mulder hardly felt winded by the fall. Fueled by lust and adrenaline and a sense of wonder that had less to do with the aliens and more to do with the man on top of him, he once again took Krycek’s mouth with his own, the kiss no less demanding than before, but with less of the underlying harshness. Mulder could taste vodka and cigarette smoke and tiny scars as he mapped out the wet heat of Krycek’s mouth. Krycek couldn’t get away, and he thought he should want to, but instead he gave himself over to the kiss, letting Mulder push soft curses back down his throat as their tongues curled round each other. When his need for oxygen became nearly overwhelming, he pulled back and surprisingly, Mulder let him. But unable to pull away completely, he had to settle for turning his head, gasping air into hard-working lungs, and then growling, or maybe whimpering when Mulder bit at his neck. Whatever sound he made, it was apparently tacit permission to Mulder, and he felt himself moving, rolling, caught off guard. Mulder tasted the vibration of sound as he bit and licked at Krycek’s throat, and his hips thrust involuntarily. His dick, which had been paying close attention ever since the moment he had recognized Krycek in the dark room, now stepped fully up to the plate, ash-bat hard and ready to go for the home run. As he rolled the other man towards the couch, he discovered that Krycek either had rolls of quarters stashed in his pocket, or he was as ready for this game as Mulder was. They crashed sideways into the couch and Mulder hauled Krycek up to a sitting position, ignoring the prosthetic arm, which waved at him in a cheap imitation of a punch. In contrast, Krycek’s other arm was back around his neck, pulling him close for another round of kissing. Krycek knew that his gun was still on the floor by the desk, where Mulder had left it after he’d turned it over to him. He thought the best course of action would be to get out from under Mulder, get said gun and shoot Mulder, or himself, or both, before this—this—whatever this was—could go any further. How reaching for Mulder’s belt was going to get him closer to the gun was something he chose not to investigate further at this time. And then the belt was open and then the buttons and the zipper and all thoughts of the gun left Krycek’s mind completely. Mulder gasped and shuddered as for the first time in far too long, a hand not his own grasped his hard cock and stroked it almost painfully. A second sweep of that hand and he thrust into it and his own two hands made short work of the button fly on Krycek’s denim pants—he wouldn’t be fastening all the buttons when this was done. “Mulder—shit—“ “Uh-eloquent, Alex-oh!” And then the time for words was over. Two hands overlapped over two throbbing cocks. Two mouths found each other again, tongues thrusting and mimicking the motion of their hips and hands. Two hearts raced. Two men accepted the rough, soft, angry, caring ridiculous truth of the situation. Krycek squeezed a little harder, Mulder pressed a little further forward and then they were shouting into each other’s mouths and creating a slick mess between their bodies. Mulder collapsed forward, burying his face in the juncture between Krycek’s neck and shoulder. He nosed Krycek’s jacket and shirt aside and mouthed softly at the warm damp skin he found there. His hot breath on bare skin made Krycek shiver. He closed his eyes, let himself take Mulder’s weight without complaint and absently wiped his hand on Mulder’s pants. They stayed that way for a long time, and Krycek thought maybe Mulder had fallen asleep on him. His breathing had taken on a regular cadence and he was heavy on his shoulder. He nudged Mulder none-too-gently, laughed bitterly when the other man’s head came up and he made a froggy “huh?” sound and then he kissed the tip of his nose. Before Mulder could respond, Krycek pushed him off of him with a tremendous groan, patting his thigh with plastic as Mulder sat down heavily beside him. “I hate you. Ya tebyA lyublyU. And that tells me that someday I’ll probably marry you.” He grinned at Mulder’s confused frown, knowing the man was trying to translate his words and failing. Then he kissed Mulder once more, softly, lingered long enough to run his tongue over Mulder’s swollen lips, teasing both of them. Thinking about how suddenly desperate he was to stay gave him the strength to finally stand and tuck his limp dick back into his pants. He walked away gingerly but with determination, and made it to the door, And when he turned back, he said, in English, “Go on, Mulder, save us all.” Mulder didn’t stop him as he left; they both knew he didn’t have to stop him, because he’d be back again, one day….
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