Summary:
Krycek takes Mulder out of the hospital to the beach
house he bought for him. They both learn that dealing with
Mulder's new ultra-sensitivity is no simple matter.
Archive: Yes
to any list it's posted to, any others just ask.
Notes: This
is a sequel to the IM fic, Sacred. You have to read that
first or you are gonna be SOOOO lost.
Krycek:
I pull into a parking
space, close, my hand sweaty on the wheel.
It's a gorgeous day. Almost fake it's so good. It
scares
me...this train of thought. That something so very here and
now
and exquisite could be nothing more than pixels on a screen, motion of
light through my mind. Cones and rods and upsidedown pictures wavering
to nothing. To black.
I want him to be
real. I want to be real for him.
As I open the door and
step out into the too-delicate breeze and the
sun filtering through my dark shades, I wonder if Mulder can walk this
far. I parked as close as I could. I wonder where
his room
is. I know it's on the second floor. Which window is
it? Is
he looking out at me? I scan the rectangles of glass, the
morning
sun relfecting off their tinted, empty faces, hiding what's inside from
view. Then I realize he has a view of a courtyard, with a
fountain. These are not his windows. But I imagine he's
there.
Seeing me. Maybe feeling me. And that changes my
thoughts. I visualize the house, the surf, cooking dinner,
making
love... As best I can, I see these things, or a caricature of
these things, as I'm sure I must have it all wrong. But I
focus
on what I think is important to him: how I feel. How he makes
me
feel. And I walk briskly toward the front door.
"Andrew Baker for Fox
Mulder, please," I tell the receptionist. I
don't take off my glasses. I look around the foyer.
Potted
plants, more glinting glass on tables with magazines.
Inoffensive
art. A fish tank.
Elevator.
Second floor. Another desk. Warmer
furnishings. Soft wood. Another fishtank.
I'm told to
wait.
I can't
wait. I think I feel him. There's something
happening to my blood. A concoction shooting through me,
purely
animal and sickening and wonderful. Like stagefright.
I'm relieved when I
get to speak with some administrative fuck who puts
up a little resistance. I pocket my shades, smile coldly, and
flash my papers. A concise nod and he gets a nurse, a pretty
one,
maybe Alyson, who leads me through a door...another...buzzed
in.
Down a hall. Wide carpeted hall. No
artwork. Nothing
to use as a weapon. We stop at a door. I stop breathing.
She knocks.
"Fox, you have a visitor," she calls. Then she
smiles at me, looks me up and down, friendliness covering for her
protectiveness. She nods and backs away. I wait
until she's
halfway down the hall again. Then I reach for the knob and
turn
it.
I don't see him at
first. I see a large room with off-white
walls. And I see huge, beautiful pictures of the
ocean. One
staring at me boldly straight ahead. The surf breaking on the
cliff-face and rocks. It's me. My eyes fill with
tears.
And that's when I see
him. He slowly swings his legs over the
side of a bed that's in the far corner. He's dressed, but he
was
lying down. God, he's pale. He's thin.
He's looking
at me. I let myself find his eyes, and I'm burning.
I gasp. I
have enough presence of mind to close the door behind
me as he slides off the bed, the small action taking three times as
long as it should. He stands before me. He blinks
red-rimmed eyes at me. Tired or blood-shot or crying, I can't
tell. But it feels like sorrow broken with hope, like welcome
and
succor and need. I take the steps necessary to cross the room
to
him. I don't think about it; I just pull him in, wrapping my
arm
around him and feeling his own arms come up to embrace me with not half
the strength of my one. I hold him tight, probably too
tight. I'm fierce with him, like the long-lost brother I'm
supposed to be. Nothing to betray the cover.
He's the only one who
can tell I have an erection, and I'm the only one who knows about his.
GOD, it's
magic. I've never felt magic before. But I know
it now, like you'd know a mountain lion if it was sinking its teeth
into your jugular. The tears can't stay in my eyes or on my
lashes. They freefall onto his bony shoulder, and I'm so
affected, so unbelievably awed, that he's trembling from my own shaking
against him.
"Mulder..." I manage
to say into his neck. He's cold and a little clammy.
"Di-zzy," he whispers,
and it's only then that I realize what I'm doing
to him. Really doing to him. I'm freaking out. And
it hurts
him.
"I'm sorry," I murmur,
leaning back to look into his ashen face.
I hold him up and his hands clutch at my biceps through the silk and
wool of my suit.
"Sit," he says.
I help him back to the
bed and make sure he's safely leaned against the
pillows piled against the wall. "You okay?" I ask, frowning
into
his tired face.
His smile is tremulous
and sweet. "Yeah...Andy..." He looks
at me. Eyes of pale gold and fire. "Better
than." He
swallows thickly. "Get me. Outta here."
I nod back, hardly
able to take my hands off of him long enough to even
begin to pack his things. He feels somehow both hearty and
frail. He'd gained some much needed weight before they put
him in
here, but what there was has dwindled, and though he seems about the
same weight maybe as when we were partners, his muscle tone is
gone. I want to hold him until my own muscles seize. And then
I
want to hold him some more.
But I don't.
I back off and turn, seeing that he's attempted to
help out, even though I told him not to. He's got a suitcase
packed and waiting behind the door.
Everything fits nicely
in the back of the SUV. And after about
three trips, it's time for Mulder himself. He leans on me as
we
cross the threshold of his room. I feel him trembling as I
help
him down the hall and wonder how I'm ever going to fuck him, no matter
how gentle, no matter how slow. It doesn't matter.
Getting
him home matters. Devoting my *breath* to him matters.
There's nothing I've
seen in my life as beautiful as his face when
we're finally through the front door. Beautiful and horribly
tragic as at first he sighs, smiling and closing his eyes to the
sun. And then as his lips tremble and the lines appear at the
corners of his eyes...
"C'mon," I tell him,
arm tight around his ribs.
He shuffles with me
until I have him at the car. I have to let
him lean against the warm metal as I fish out my keys to let him
in. My own eyes tear up again as he sits back into the
buttery
leather and sighs again...long and frought with held tears. I
close the door on the sobering vision of his slack form, hurry to my
side, get in quickly, donning my sunglasses, and start the engine.
Mulder:
Sun on my face. So
warm. I've felt it on the days I sat at the
fountain. But now it feels like it belongs to me, rather than being
borrowed from them.
But it's scary, too. I
step out of the safe confines of the hospital
and back out into the world, a world that for me is like a television
turned up full-blast in a room that's turning in circles. I stumble a
little as Alex leads me to the car. Beautiful black SUV. I close my
eyes and lean against the warm metal, focusing on my breath, holding
off the tears of release, ticking off every second until I can sink
into the beckoning seat. He helps me get in, the frown never leaving
his face, then hurries around and jumps into the driver's seat with an
agility and strength I can't help but envy. He starts the motor with a
sideways glance at me --sunglasses hiding his eyes -- then pulls out
onto the street.
Alex. Krycek. And he's
so beautiful I can't believe I didn't fall in
love with him a long time ago. But of course, he never let me. Never
even let me like him, really. Never tried to be worthy of anything but
my hate. Until he realized how much he was hurting me by denying me
him. But now he sees. He sees and he cares and he's giving himself to
me. It's astounding.
I felt him every
second between the IM and his entry into my room. Felt
his emotions tumble like an agate dashing against a beach, never
knowing quite where to find purchase. Felt them barely skate along the
sand, ready to rest, then get hit by another wave that washed them
completely off course again. Then I felt him purposely steady himself
for me and suddenly fill his head with images of home and comfort, love
and joy, though I felt how very foreign to him these things were. My
eyes filled with tears of gratitude and relief, and I could breathe
again.
I tried to get off the
bed before he came in but just couldn't pull
together enough energy to even open my eyes until the knock on my door.
I forced myself up as he came in, though, and met his eyes as soon as I
dared, embarassed by my tears but unable to do a damned thing about
them.
And then I saw that
his own eyes were gleaming wet, too. Like always.
And spearing me to the heart. Like always. I felt the bolt of love come
from him almost violently and it nearly took me off my feet, though I
tried to hide it. Then, awestruck, I watched him come to me and I
simply let him pull me in as if it were the hundredth time and not the
first.
And he felt...it seems
so trite to say it but that's just the way it
is...he felt right. Strong and hard and so very protective that I began
to feel safer than I had in...as long as I could remember. I didn't let
my mind tamper with how good that felt, just sinking into what my heart
knew as truth. Plus he smelled so incredibly good. Clean skin with a
light musky aftershave. I was gearing up for a deep inhale when his arm
tightened and I suddenly couldn't breathe anymore. I sustained myself
on his waves of love and desire for me instead, knowing he would
realize he needed to release me sooner or later. I knew it wouldn't
kill me. I'm used to breathlessness. It doesn't panic me anymore. Our
erections mashed together and my mouth dropped open, but I still
couldn't draw in any oxygen. I was so dizzy I began to truly think I
might pass out, but I knew that even then, I had nothing to fear
because if I fell, he would catch me.
Just as I felt the
black stars swirl in to take me, he let me go,
though I could feel how he had to fight himself to do that, and my own
body missed his as soon as it was taken away. I sat on my bed and
watched his strong, hard body efficiently pack up my things, the silken
drape of his suit completely mesmerizing when coupled with the vision
of him doing manual labor. I had to hover just barely on the edge of
consciousness, keeping a gentle smile on my face so that he wouldn't
worry, arms shaking as I held myself upright on the bed, waiting.
I didn't think I'd be
able to walk the distance out to the car, but his
arm when he offered it was so strong and steady that I simply took it.
I reluctantly put almost all my weight on it and felt that it didn't
budge a single inch. He truly was strong enough to support me. It
seemed a sign, and I put one foot in front of the other and just
concentrated on the goal of getting the fuck out of there.
Now, with the soft
leather cushioning my exhausted body, almost outside
myself I feel my lips part on short, shallow breaths, my eyes forced
closed on wet lashes. I'm nauseated and dizzy, and I try not to grip
the seat too tightly and worry him (or damage the leather), willing
myself to just fall asleep and recuperate during the drive. We can't
get out of the city fast enough for me, and I have a last hope that I
don't drool all over myself as I feel my consciousness finally letting
go, the soft sounds of Sacred by Depeche Mode almost enough to make my
tired lips smile as I un-tether my mind and peacefully begin to drift.
Krycek:
He's out right
away. At least he appears to be. I'd turn
down the music, but I'm afraid any change in his surroundings will
startle and wake him.
I'm driving fast,
rushing to get out of this place that I know bombards
him with things I'm only beginning to comprehend. I can't
help
stealing looks at him. I buckled him in at the first
stoplight,
leaning over his lap carefully, prosthetic braced on the
wheel.
Now his head rests on the shoulder strap and I'm flying down the
highway.
I have him.
He's mine. And even though there's a little
guilty twinge at the language going on in my head, it feels
inevitable. If I think of him as mine, at least for right
now, I
won't hurt him. I won't suffer him hurt. I'll
remember to
take care of him. And I so want to. As I peek at
him every
few moments, I realize the feeling in my chest goes beyond anything
I've ever felt for anyone. I've never been protective of
anybody
but myself. Lookin' out for number one. All that's
changed. Like my organs are all flipped upsidedown.
I'm
this photo negative of myself. He's more mine right now than
ever
my left arm was.
I truck on out of the
city limits to the sound of the CD starting
over. I check the rearview and watch for cops. I
feel like
I'm stealing him. Like I have something truly precious in my
custody. The fierceness of this instinct to keep him safe
outweighs all other thoughts.
He stirs. He
groans...smacks his lips. Then, though he doesn't open his
eyes, he murmurs, "Gotta...pee."
"Okay," I
tell him, trying to sound calm and reassuring. "Next exit."
He shifts as the car
slows on the offramp. I'm not sure if the
fairly deserted Shell station is going to send him into a fit of horror
or what. My heart begins to race. "It's okay," I
say when
he whimpers a little, even though I have no idea if it is going to be
okay for him.
"All right," I tell
him, turning and parking the car. I grab my
duffel from the backseat and go around for Mulder, intending to help
him into the bathroom and change clothes there myself.
We get looks from a
family man pumping gas into his minivan as Mulder
leans on me, eyes barely open to slits. "It's okay. Good," I
assure him, hoping he doesn't think I'm being condescending.
I'm
actually unspeakably impressed at how good he's doing. I know
what they took from him and what he's going through because of
it. And he still has the resources to trust the likes of
me. To lean on me and wade through untold waves of those
feelings
and thoughts that plague him so. I have no way to tell him, I
don't think, that just because I'm feeling fiercely protective of him
doesn't mean I don't admire the shit out of him, too.
I hope he
knows. In that way that he has.
I lean him awkwardly
against the counter as the cashier hands me a key
attached to what might as well be a two- by-four. I take
Mulder
around the waist again and get him around the side of the building, key
hitting his leg with every weak step . "Alex..." he murmurs beside me
as I manage the door with my prosthetic.
"Yeah?" I husk,
concentrating more on just getting him, my bag, my arm, and the
two-by-four into the tiny room.
One toilet.
No stall.
"Tired," Mulder says,
and I know it cost him so very much to admit it.
"Pee sitting," I tell
him, already putting the seat down for him while he leans against the
closed door, sagging.
"Huh?"
"Tuck it down between
your legs and pee sitting, all right?" Then
because he needs it from me and it's the truth, "I had to after the
arm."
I see him want to
protest, his eyes coming open finally. But there's
kinship in that gaze as well. And he hardly hesitates as he
starts to take down his pants and shorts. I turn away and dig
in
my bag for my change of clothes.
I toe off my dress
shoes and strip off my jacket to his silence.
When I rustle overly loudly with my pants, belt buckle and all, I
finally hear him start to piss.
"I stink," I say by
way of insipid conversation. "Wool makes me sweat."
"Smell...good," he
says behind me as I tug on my jeans. That simple
assertion starts to get me hard. I sigh under my breath and
zip
the jeans over my enlarged dick.
By the time I'm
fitting my feet into my boots, he's flushing, and when
I turn, he's zipping up his own jeans. I take him around the
waist, foregoing good hygeine and getting him back to the car as
quickly as possible, concentrating on my mission rather than how good
he feels pressed tight into my side.
I hand a wayward
attendant the key with the two-by-four attached to it,
not caring about his stupified fascination at Mulder and my one
arm. With Mulder situated and Depeche Mode back on, we're on
the
road once more.
Mulder:
After several weeks of
having nurses sometimes help me use the
bathroom, I was surprisingly calm about having to do it in front of
Krycek.
Alex. He's Alex, now.
I still see Krycek glinting back at me from
behind the Ray-Bans, the sun pinking up the skin on the left side of
his neck. Not pinking up the plastic material of his left arm.
I awakened a few
minutes ago, feeling the car slow and the music
seeming to get louder, and I've been stealing glances sideways at him
ever since, trying not to let the slit of my closed eyes betray my
alertness. I just want to observe him without his noticing. Like I can
see a part of him I've never seen before. And I can, his prosthetic
resting across his thigh and loosely holding the bottom of the wheel.
But that's not what I'm really looking at. And I'm not thinking about
how he lost it or what we were to each other back then or anything else
work-related. My thoughts are much more...plebian.
He's absolutely
beautiful. Faded blue jeans, crisp white (clean!)
t-shirt, and black RayBan sunglasses hiding his preternatural eyes. He
looks strong and solid and confident and territorial sitting there,
legs spread, thigh just barely bopping to the Depeche Mode. His arm is
pale, and I notice a few freckles. They add the hint of vulnerability
that I need in order to feel truly safe. The humanity. He's not
perfect. My Alex. He's flawed in many ways, both psychological and
physical, but my newly heightened abilities tell me in no uncertain
terms that no matter what else might be damaged in this man, his love
for me is fierce like a desert wind that completely shapes and reshapes
its landscape, covering entire cities in sand or resurrecting them in a
matter of hours. Ceaseless. Even a little scary. I wonder, if I did try
to leave, if he would actually let me go.
The arm. You would
think that the prosthetic would be his
vulnerability, but to me, there's something very powerful about it.
Proof that he's seen hell and even given it a piece of himself and he's
still here and ready for more. I hear the slightest motorized sound as
he takes hold of the wheel with it and the fingers grip, and his hand
reaches between us and shifts. I watch his thigh muscles bunch under
the denim and want to feel them.
I wasn't aware that I
had given myself away, but his voice comes out
hoarse and deep as he settles back into his seat and the car
accelerates.
"How are you doing?"
I smack my dry lips
and blink my heavy eyes open, realizing that for
the time I was taking inventory of Alex, I wasn't aware of the voices.
I felt like my head...my mind...was my own. Following only my train of
thought, not distracted by random dark interruptions.
"Good," I croak,
swallowing with a grimace.
"Thirsty?" he asks me,
reaching between his legs for the water bottle
tucked there. "It's not cold anymore, but..." he trails off, and I lift
my left hand to curl it around the warm bottle. I screw off the lid and
take a drink and I'm grateful it's not cold, because in a few seconds,
I've drained it. I let it fall in my hand to my lap with a deep,
satisfied sigh.
"Thanks." I have to
let my eyes close for a moment, to let the water revitalize my cells.
"You're welcome," he
replies very softly, all seriousness.
And that, too, makes
me feel safe. That he takes everything here so
very seriously. That I am, indeed, his mission, and he's attending to
every detail, including having water ready for me upon waking. For just
an instant, I'm overwhelmed with vertigo and tears, utter terror at
being so dependent on him. On anyone. It's like that now: my emotions
blowing through my heart and mind like a mini- tornado, immediately
sweeping me up helpless and spinning. But I quickly surrender utterly
and chant in my head, 'Come what may. Come what may,' while breathing
in four and out seven.
It's the only way I
can deal with things now. What is it they say in
church? Not my will but thine be done? I'm at the mercy of something
greater than myself, here. Without help, I'm like a wet kitten on a
dark freeway. In a way, it's such a relief. It's out of my hands. If he
hurts me, I get hurt. If he kills me, I die. I don't have any choice
but to lean on someone right now. And he's the someone that has offered
me his arm, as surreal as my mind keeps trying to remind me that is.
But my heart beats more calmly when I let myself tune into the strength
radiating from the seat beside me, and so I tell my mind to take a
vacation and swallow back the onslought of fear, letting out a sigh and
bending my lips in a wan smile, focusing on injecting a note of
playfulness into my voice.
"Are we there yet?"
He turns to look at
me, and I turn my head to face him, still smiling.
There's no trace of smile on his face. I can't see his eyes through the
lenses of his sunglasses. He has faint lines around his pretty mouth. I
wonder how old he is.
"Another thirty
minutes, maybe," he says, then adds, his brows arching
slightly and pulling the glasses up with them a bit, "Do you need
anything?"
And because I've
gotten used to people really needing to know if I need
anything, I take an inventory of my physical and mental state in order
to give him an honest answer instead of giving out the cursory 'no
thanks' that used to be my mantra.
"No, thank you," I end
up telling him anyway. But it's the truth. I
feel good. Dizzy, yes, and tired, but the voices are a low, manageable
hum, and I'm steadied by his solidity next to me. Even though the
tension he's trying to hide from me is a tightening in my gut and a
pain across my shoulders. But it, like the hum, is manageable.
"Okay, well, we're
almost there," he says, turning his attention back
to the road. He looks at me sideways from behind the glasses, though,
every few seconds, squinting. There are lines around his eyes, too. I
wish he wasn't wearing the sunglasses, even though they're incredibly
sexy and necessary on a day as bright as this one. He seems cold and
impersonal now, all business, not warm and intimate like he was when he
grabbed me in that startling embrace at the hospital.
But I focus on how he
feels, not how he looks, and am immediately
comforted by his strength and determination to keep me safe. I nod and
let my eyes close again, noticing the last strains of Sacred fading out
over the speakers. I let out a sigh and allow myself to bask in the
feeling of being taken care of. Behind the Wheel starts to play, and I
feel myself smiling again.
My little girl
Drive
anywhere
Do what you want
I don’t care
Tonight
I’m
in the hands of fate
I hand myself
Over on a plate
Now
Oh little girl
There
are times when I feel
I'd rather not be
The one behind the wheel
Come
Pull my strings
Watch me move
I do anything
Please
Sweet little girl
I
prefer
You behind the wheel
And me the passenger
Drive
I’m
yours to keep
Do what you want
I’m going cheap
Tonight
You’re
behind the wheel
Tonight
Krycek:
Mulder wakes from a
doze when I pull off the freeway again and take the
two-lane highway that will wind us east toward the water until we're
home. He blinks and peers around, yawning.
"Hi," I say, glancing
over at him as I drive.
"Hi, Alex," he
replies, the hint of a small smile finding its way into his warm words.
"Not long," I
say. "Ten minutes, maybe."
"Beautiful here," he
says, stretching his legs carefully.
Relief soothes away
some of my nervousness. I want him to like
the house, like the beach and the view. And me. This first
note
of approval does a little to ease my mind. It is beautiful
here. Out of the way without feeling utterly rural.
When I
saw the ad for the place, my mind was awash with feelings of
well-being, something I don't have a lot of experience with and
couldn't even place correctly for several minutes. Now I'm
excited, seeing the landscape with Mulder in the seat next to
me.
Knowing that whether or not it suits him, he already likes this
part. And he trusts me to have made a good, if not perfect,
choice.
"Are you hungry yet?"
I ask.
He turns his head on
the seat-back. "Fish and chips?"
"If you want."
As I glance at him and
then back to the road and then to him again, I
realize he's checking me out. His eyes, though tired and
hooded,
are making a nice, slow trip over my body. It raises the fine
hairs on the back of my arm, along the nape of my neck. He
seems
to linger over my thighs, and I want to squirm in my seat, his gaze is
so thick with meaning. Not just desire, but wonder and
trepidation and...surrender. Like I'm not really here, but if
I
am here, maybe he should be afraid of me...but he's not and instead
wants this thing his eyes have lit on.
"Mulder?" I
try. I don't want him to allow me not to take care of
him by virtue of his non-answer. And I don't want to get so
caught up in his presence beside me and the attention he's giving to me
that I don't meet his needs. "Do you want me to get food
first?
On the way to the house?"
He sighs again and now
closes his eyes. "No. House first. Please."
With his eyes closed,
the connection muted, it's easier for me to
think. Easier to breathe and drive and focus. Although I
notice
that after a minute or two, he opens his eyes and just gazes out the
window at the passing trees and hills.
"It doesn't hurt you?"
I ask.
He takes a long, deep
breath. "Voices low. Blurry painting. But
pretty painting."
I'm not entirely sure
what he means by that, but it sounds like he's
all right, and I don't want to push him to talk too much. I
hope
it just means he likes what he sees, even if the motion of the car is
maring it for him somewhat.
It's not long before
it's time to take the turn onto the shady, unpaved
drive. I hold my breath as I pull onto the
property. "This
is it," I manage to sort of gasp in his direction. My hand is
gripping the wheel. We crest a small hill, and then I feel
him
see it, the moderately sized one story beach house, the rolling ocean
beyond sparkling with the mid-day sun. He tries to sit up
straighter, his arms trembling. His eyes are more open
now.
I take it slow up the drive, letting him get used to the
view. I
feel tears catching in my throat as Mulder takes it in with shallow,
labored breaths beside me.
"Alex..." he whispers,
looking out the windshield.
"Is that...good?" I
ask.
He swallows.
Then he nods. And he looks at me as I park the
car at the side of the house with a clear view of the ocean.
"Yes."
I blink, seeing the
view instead of him. I close my eyes and turn
my head to face him, opening them again and finally really looking at
him.
He smiles.
"Very, very good," he tells me.
I let my breath out in
a shaky rush...a low, disbelieving laugh.
His tired smile widens. I nod, unable to speak. I
cut the
engine and can already hear the surf in the new quiet. I feel
that he wants to sit with it for a minute. He closes his eyes.
"Mulder...?"
"Take me home...Alex,"
he breathes.
I can't get out of the
car fast enough.
Mulder:
I hate to repeat
myself. Hate to explain myself. So when Alex accepts
my tired response to his inquiry about whether or not I like what I
see, the gratitude washes warm over me like Caribbean waves.
The energy is the
first thing I notice. The feeling to the east, from
the seaside, is one of absorption, not intrusion. Taking from me, but
in a wonderful way, like chamois cloth picking up a spill. It clears my
head and opens my lungs, and I breathe it in, salt and fish and
negative ions. The landscape comes into sharper focus as he turns onto
a long private drive and rolls slowly up a small hill, cresting with a
breathtaking view of the ocean and the house.
I feel his anxiety. It
builds like a storm on the horizon, riding the
current like the car rides over the small hill that leads onto the
property. He slows the car and indeed, it slows the anxious build-up so
that I can ride it, too, breathing deeply of the negative-ion-charged
air and focusing on the beauty, rather than the fear-ball coming from
Alex in the car beside me. I want to reassure him, to express to him
that I already love it and I haven't even really seen it. I don't have
to. I feel it. And his intent is enough.
"Alex," I whisper,
fighting through his anxiety to reach him.
"Is that...good?" he
asks, his voice sounding like he's afraid to even ask me a question.
I'm so sorry I've made
him so afraid, but it's true that I'm
overwhelmed by his fear and my own tsunami of emotion in response to
finally being here. "Yes," I reply, trying to smile and let the
positive show, trying to hide the tension. He pulls up beside the house
and puts the car in park. Just that little bit of finality releases
some of the built-up energy and gives me a window through which to
speak to him. "Very, very good," I say, smiling for real now. And a
relieved, tear-stained laugh barks out of him, releasing a huge load of
tension with it, and as I feel it lift from both of us, my smile widens.
He turns off the
engine, and the sound of the surf comes into clear
focus. Like my recordings but in surround sound and with an amazing
energetic component that feels so healing it nearly has me in tears. I
breathe them back and am deeply grateful that he doesn't rush me,
letting me soak in all that the sea has to offer me. I feel myself
drifting away on a sea breeze, almost leaving my body with how good it
feels to be here. His voice brings me back instantly, soft and
tentative at my side.
"Mulder?"
I want to take his
face in my hands and run my fingers over it, stroke
them into his hair and kiss away the wrinkle over his nose. I vow to do
all of these things and more just as soon as my energy system calms and
comes back into equilibrium again.
"Take me home, Alex,"
I whisper, opening my eyes. And before I can turn
to look at him he's opening his door and leaping out, and I hear his
boots hit the sand and crunch sea grass as he runs around to my side of
the vehicle. He pulls open the door and leans in to help me climb out.
I reach up my hand, going for the bridge of his glasses, and he
flinches badly. My smile fades but I continue to slowly, carefully
reach for the glasses, and though he jerks back again, he lets me slide
them off his face, revealing a deep frown and quick, shallow breaths
puffing out from between parted lips. "Want to see your...eyes..." I
gasp out, nauseated from the fear that welled up in him when my hand
rose. I don't fear him. But he has plenty of reason to fear me. I'm not
the only one healing, here. I let my hand fall into my lap, holding the
glasses loosely, and breathe in four, out seven, closing my eyes to
regain balance.
"Sssorry," he breathes
out, and I feel him there beside me, waiting for me to take his arm and
go into our house.
"Beautiful," I whisper
very softly, all I can string together of how
his gaze affects me. How it holds me in place, anchors me to him, makes
me gasp and hardens my cock. I reach up with my right hand and lay it
firmly on his, still- outstretched in offering. I let the sea sounds
and air charge and calm me and open my eyes, sliding my feet to the
sand. He balances me to my left as I find my footing, and I already
feel stronger just having this earth beneath my feet, this arm under my
hand. I turn my face to the house, really beginning to see it for the
first time, and we both start toward it, the damp salt air blowing the
sea grasses into chaotic patterns around our feet.
Krycek:
I lead him up the deck
stairs and Mulder takes the railing as well as
me for support, looking at the house to his left then the ocean to his
right then to the house again. I see him take deep breaths in
through his nose.
"I've always liked the
smell," I say to him, helping him up onto the deck finally.
"Fish.
Seaweed. Wind," he says. But though his speech
is stilted, his eyes are smiling and he feels more calm in the steady
hold of my arm.
I unlock the back
sliding door as he turns and breathes in the smell
and sound of the ocean once more. I step halfway into the
house
and hold out my arm to him. He turns and takes it and
together we
go inside.
He looks everywhere,
at the ceiling, the living room we're walking
into, the open kitchen and cozy dining space off to our left.
"How'd you...furnish so fast?" he asks.
"If you don't like any
of it..."
"Like it," he
interrupts quietly. Then his eyes light on my
latest purchase. "Big...chocolate...chair," he gasps, and I
feel
the emotion of it in my own chest.
"Want to sit?" I offer.
He takes a deep
breath...sniffs... "No." He shakes his
head. He squeezes my waist with a hand that has seemed to gain
strength. "See it all. Sit later." Then
he flashes
wet eyes up at me. "Love it."
I can see myself in
the reflection in his eyes and I'm wearing an
unfamiliar look on my face. I look different in his
eyes. I
look...hopeful.
We walk slowly through
the house. I show him the big kitchen with
its view out onto the deck and beyond to the sea. I apologize
for
how small the living room is and he cuts me off. "Perfect."
I show him the
unfurnished guest room and would-be office. He
seems antsy. I ask him if he'd like to see the master suite.
He nods assertively,
so I lead him down the hall to the door. Our
door. I open it and he extracts his arm from my
waist. I
let him wander in ahead of me slowly. I watch him take in the
space -- the large bed covered in plum and purple bedclothes, satin and
velvet, soft and sensuous and sleepy. He runs his hand over
the
bed almost reverently. Then he turns his attention to the dressers, one
for each of us, the entry to the bathroom. I watch him peek
in
and think I hear him whisper, "Wow..."
I bite my lip, so
ready to grab him up if he starts to weaken that I'm
only half paying attention to his reactions. He makes his way
past a set of big, soft chairs and a small table to the huge sliding
door and the flowing drapes filtering the foggy light. I
follow
him, stepping in behind as he pulls open the curtains. He
holds
them open with a hand resting on the glass, and he sighs. I
stand
as close behind him as I dare, looking not at the amazing view but at
the reflection of his face taking it in, changing with each moment as
the waves seem to splash over his cheeks in delight.
I rest my hand on the
glass next to his, my chest just barely brushing his
shoulder. He shivers.
"I'm fucking terrified
to ask if you like it," I admit to him breathlessly.
He smiles.
"I know, Alex."
Then he turns and I
start to back away to give him space, to offer an
arm of support. But he takes my face in his hands, making me
flinch again like I did when he was just going to remove my
sunglasses. He smirks, and then he tilts his head, fluttering
his
eyes closed, and I hold my breath as he leans in and presses sweet,
open lips to the corner of my mouth. I do nothing.
I stand
there, lips parted, not kissing him back as my dick goes stiff in my
jeans and my eyes tear up, not with sadness or fear but with an arousal
so overwhelming it blinds me.
Mulder slips one hand
around to the back of my head and I feel the warm
touch of his tongue trying to slip into my mouth. I act on
pure
instinct. Which means I actually snarl as I grab him in,
press
him tight against the glass, and push my tongue into his opening mouth
forcefully.
He startles, whining,
but then he tilts his head more and licks over my
tongue with his, tasting our kiss while I pin him safely to the glass
door. My primary thought is that I could eat him
up. But
paired with that is the worry that I'm hurting him, both physically and
psychically. He seems to understand this right away, because
he
moans into my mouth and wraps his arms around me, going up on the balls
of his feet and opening his legs, pulling me deeper, up against him so
that I can feel that long, steel, trapped cock of his pressing hotly
into my hip.
And even as I'm
licking and eating at his wet, fat mouth, and I know he
wants this as badly as I do, I know it will probably knock him out for
a day just to keep doing this for another minute. And I don't
want that. I don't want to hurt him just because he'd let
me. And because, fuck, it feels good.
I tear my mouth away
on a deep growl and look into his eyes.
"Mulder," I say. Then I lose my voice...any breath at all,
seeing
the plump red wound of his well-kissed mouth. I kissed
Mulder. I
don't kiss. I don't like kissing. But
Mulder... With
him, this one glorious thing was better than any sex I've ever
had. I look into his dark eyes and shiver, my body still
holding
his up against the glass, my arm still anchoring him up against me.
"Can'tfuck," he says,
reading my frustration and desire off of
me. I nod. He exhales carefully. "But
Alex...
Doesn't hurt."
I frown at
him. How could that not have severely fucked with that
fragile hold he has on peace?
"Good for me," he
says, smiling. "Want more."
I raise my eyebrows,
my dick hearing him loud and clear but my brain
warning me off just going for his mouth again mindlessly. I'm
still reeling, though, that a kiss could feel as good as a fuck, as
coming...as it did.
"Need rest, though,"
he tells me frowning, and it has the immediate effect of loosening my
arm from around his body.
"I'm sorry," I tell
him, trying to help him to the bed.
"Not ready...for
bed...dammit," he says, pulling a little. I stop
trying to strong-arm him that way and frown at him. "Living room," he
says tightly. I don't know if he's exhausted or frustrated or
even maybe angry.
"Sure," I say, letting
him take my offered arm rather than sweeping him
up off his feet like I want. I take a deep breath, willing my
cock to deflate some, and I start to help Mulder back out of the
bedroom.
Mulder:
He walks me out of our
bedroom and into the living room, helping me
sink into my brand-new, chocolate-brown velvet chair. God it feels
good. But it's still not enough to quell the anger building up inside
me.
That kiss. GOD that
kiss. The only thing holding me up anymore was Alex
and the chilly glass at my back. He *took* my mouth. Claimed it like
property. Devoured it with animal grunts, his cock grinding into my
hip, his arm like a piece of oak encircling my waist, tolerating no
resistance.
Not that I put up any.
Surrender never felt so good. So complete and
liquid and totally natural. I just let myself melt against his hard,
hot body and be taken. And everything else went away. All I could
sense, on any level, was *him*.
But I'm fucking
exhausted and I can't even offer him anything but a
willing lump of flesh. Can't grab him and scratch him and eat his mouth
back the way I want to. The way I *will*, goddammit, as soon as I have
a little more of my strength back. I squint at the incredible view of
the ocean out the plate-glass window and try not to seethe with
frustration. It just makes me more tired, which just pisses me off
more, which just makes me more tired...
"Um...Mulder? Can
I...get you anything? Are you hungry?" he asks from
beside me, his voice worried and low, still rough with the unspent
passion of a few moments ago. And he's afraid I'm mad at him. For the
kiss. For taking control. Fuck, this is irritating. 'Come what may,
come what may, come what may...'
"Yes," I practically
growl, feeling my hunger on all levels and knowing
that eating is the first step toward gaining enough strength to do what
I want to do with him.
"O-okay," he says,
taken aback with my vehement response. "I think I
can get it delivered. Let me...I'll just...go make a call." And his
voice, his words, the uncertainty in them recalls the day we met, and
his eager joy at being sent to fetch us a car. I close my eyes and do
my breathing, not wanting to give him any reason to think I'm upset
with *him*.
"That sounds great," I
reply, keeping my voice as steady as I can. I
lift my lips in a slight smile to reassure him, and I feel it work as
he steps into the kitchen and picks up the phone. I close my eyes and
work on balance.
Krycek:
Shit, I'm already
fucking up. Something's upset him and it really
can't be anything other than the kiss. Even though he said he
wanted more, even though he had an erection from it. He looks
pissed. I'm on hold with Bertrand's, phone to my ear,
stalking
the kitchen, and Mulder's gripping the arms of the chair I got him,
eyes shut and jaw tight.
"Yeah," I say when the
girl comes back with my total. "Cash," I tell
her when she prompts me, but my eyes are on the man in the living
room. The beautiful man in his brown chair with a lock of
silken
hair falling over his forehead. I want to sweep it
away. I
want to make it up to him somehow.
I hang up after I'm
finished placing our dinner order. I sigh and
make my way back into the living room. The sun is starting to
slant in from the front, west-facing window next to the door.
The
light is butter-gold across the rug and Mulder's body. I go
to
drop the drapes into place.
"No," Mulder
says. "It's nice, Alex."
And his voice is
softer, now more sad than angry.
"I'm sorry," I
say. For the drapes, for the kiss, for not knowing
what he needs. For not being able to read him like he can me.
"No," he grits.
I frown and come to
stand awkwardly in front of him. "What do you mean, Mulder?" I ask,
hushed.
"I mean..." he
begins. Then I watch him do his breathing exercise
and it reminds me to try to stay calm, too. I think of taking
him
out on the deck later with our food. Lighting a fire in the firepit and
watching the rays of sun flashing on the waves. His lips part
and
he relaxes a little more. "Thank you," he tells me.
"Good
feeling..."
I take a chance and
sit on the coffee table near his legs, facing him.
"Mad 'cause I wanna
fuck you," he blurts, eyes still closed.
I take a moment for
those intense words to rush through me. The
realization that I didn't do something he didn't want but something
that he *did*. But his still-closed eyes make me
frown.
"Mulder..." I start.
"Needtogainstrength,"
he exhales. "Hate how weak..."
I wait for him to go
on, knowing any assertion I could make that it
doesn't matter, that he's not that weak, that it's okay would ring
hollow.
He breathes
slowly. Then he opens his eyes and finds me. "*Loved*
how you felt." He stares at me while I process
that. While
I reassure myself that the kiss wasn't somehow both my first and last
experience of touching him, having this with him.
"FoodOceanRest," he goes on. I nod, but his hand reaches out and lands
on my knee, just the fingers touching, trying to hold on.
"Then
sex, Alex." His hand slides off my leg, but I take it up again, moving
closer. I lay it on my knee more securely. He
smiles a
little, tightly. "Sexsexsex..." Then his eyes shut
in tired
resignation.
"Take your time," I
tell him quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."
A slight pain settles
at the corners of his closed eyes, but it's
washed away in a moment. He sighs, "I know. Just
impatient. Stubborn." He squeezes my leg.
"Fucking
horny."
I'm careful not to do
something stupid like pat his hand...like they
did. Though I can see why they wanted to...can see this
vulernability and know my own protectiveness and my own desire to act
in such a way that would be utterly demeaning to him. I feel
it
even as I know him, remember the feel of his fist slamming into my
face, his anger, his arrogance, his passion and obsession. And I can
know it and still hear those words and see the sexual animal in him,
feel it seeking that same in me, and I want to protect him and fuck him
and show him with every slide of my body over his that in no way do I
see him as less-than. He's always been more than I could ever
fathom, take in, or keep up with. Now's my chance to make up
for
all the times he was too much for me, too good, too right, too harmed
by my malignant presence in his life.
I'm here to heal
that. And he's here to heal.
And so that I don't
press him back into the chair, pull his cock out of
his fly, and blow his mind...I stand and get plates and silverware
ready in the kitchen while he sinks farther back into his chair with a
regretful sigh and rests.
Mulder:
The food is fantastic,
and it's only now that I realize how blandly
salty everything at the hospital was, and how grateful I am to be
eating real food again. I moan a little, licking grease and vinegar off
my fingers, my belly stretched past full and my mind quieted by carbs,
protein, and salt. "Good..." I sigh, making every effort to keep Alex
aware of what a great job he's doing at making me feel better. I feel
my strength and my focus returning, my energy able to pool for use
rather than constantly bleeding out, repairing damage done by and even
*to* all the total strangers I'm somehow connected with.
"Fucking great," he
says through a full mouth, and him taking relaxed
pleasure in the meal makes me smile and feel even better. "Even better
than I hoped," he says, swallowing, and taking a swig of his soda.
"Yeah, I didn't
realize how much I missed real food," I tell him, aware
that my usage of a complete sentence will surprise and please him. I
watch it light him up as his own lips stretch into a smile in response
to mine. God. His smile. It's so. Fucking. Beautiful. I sigh and
absently lick at my lip, spying a grain of salt at the corner of his
mouth and feeling my tongue try to lick it away by proxy.
"Um, so...rest?" he
says, his voice deepening slightly, and I know he's
talking about the final step in getting me ready for the sex.
"Just a little," I
tell him, feeling stronger and more focused, ready
to exert myself but too bloated right now to enjoy it. Much.
"I'll just clean up,"
he tells me, gathering up the refuse from our
meal and then running the water, washing the dishes in front of the
window that looks out on our gorgeous view.
Ours. Not his, not
mine, but ours. He has given us this. Given it to
both of us. And I watch it seep into him and loosen his limbs as it
calms the 'voices' and steadies my own nerves. I turn a little in my
chair and just watch him work.
He moves a bit more
slowly and carefully with the prosthetic than he
does with his right arm, but he's graceful and sure and doesn't slip or
drop anything, holding the plate in the gripping fingers and running
the scrubber over it thoroughly. His shoes and socks are off, his feet
bare on the worn hardwood floor, and he runs one up the opposite calf,
absently scratching an itch as he works. He turns off the water and
grabs up a dish towel, drying his prosthetic quickly and then folding
it over the faucet carefully. He's either a very precise, neat person
by habit, or stalling for time out of nervousness. I reach out to gauge
the tension level, realizing it hasn't invaded my energy, and feel it
there, but banked, submerged below restrained feelings of arousal and
need. I imagine if I *could* read actual thoughts, his would be
something along the lines of my earlier mutterings, "Sexsexsex..."
I push myself up out
of the chair as my own cock fills and pushes against my jeans. I feel
great. And I wanna feel *him* now.
He turns as he sees me
moving out of the corner of his eye, and his
lips part, his eyes widening a bit in what I know to be concern. It
pisses me off for a second, because all I want him to be thinking about
is how much he wants me, not how goddamned frail I am, but when I feel
the anger start to sap my strength I breathe it back and take several
long, strong strides across our living/dining area and into the kitchen.
I stop just in front
of where he's standing, his back to the kitchen
sink, and raise my hand to his face. Once again, he flinches, and I
sigh softly, accepting that it will take time before that doesn't
happen, and just lay my palm against his cheek, stroking his cheekbone
with my thumb.
His eyes flutter
closed on a shuddering sigh, and I smirk slightly,
eyes narrowing when I see his hand start to rise, stop, then curl into
a fist. He's afraid to touch me. Afraid he'll hurt me. If I don't put a
stop to this shit now, I'm gonna be treated like a damned invalid for
the rest of my life. I'd rather die of an aneurism. One fucked into my
brain. I slide my hand around to the back of his head and suddenly grip
his hair firmly, giving his head a brutal shake. Then I dive in with a
tilt of my head and shove my tongue between his shock-and-pain parted
lips.
Ohhhhhhfuck...yeah...I
moan deeply and step in closer, pushing my body
up against his, brushing my hips back and forth until I feel the bulge
of my erection scrape over his, and I groan into his mouth and then
mash our cocks together, wrapping my arm around his back to hold us
both firmly together. His arm still isn't coming up around me. He still
isn't touching me, even though I feel him trembling against me, trying
to hold back. In fact, I feel him pulling his mouth away from mine.
"Mulder," he growls
into my mouth wetly, and I feel him bare his teeth
against my mouth before I feel him sink them firmly into my bottom lip
on a moan and feel myself propelled backward into the middle of the
kitchen. His arm finally locks around me in a breath-stealing grip as
his tongue brutally shoves mine back into my own mouth and begins
deeply fucking it, grunting. The first flash of fear thrills through
me, and I gasp, my cock going so hard it aches.
Krycek:
Provocative little
shit...
He's got me kissing
him again. A kiss so intense it barely qualifies as
that tiny, innocuous sounding word...kiss. Mouth-fuck.
Tongue-fellatio. Throat-rape. That's more what this
is. What his body is begging me for and what I'm too weak not
to
give. To take.
I've got him hauled
against me in a kitchen barely ours, the ocean at
my back and Mulder's prodding erection at my front. And my
own. OhhhhhYEAHmyown. It's gonna batter right
though my
jeans to get at this juicy piece I've got trapped in my hold...
Jesus... He
brings out the absolute worst in me, I'm convinced of
it. I rip my mouth away and take him by the hair, trying not
to
pull it out in my lust.
"What are you doing?"
I grit.
He's breathless,
swaying against me. "What are you doing,
Alex?" Another whole sentence, when I felt sure this would
have
him hardly able to speak at all. I frown. "What.
You too
pussy to fuck a psycho?"
My frown
deepens. I see the heady, drunken, lit-up mischief in
his amber eyes. He's...goading me! And he's
coherent and
sparkling and sexy and...he's okay.
"Don't fuck with me,
Mulder," I say softly. "This is your chance...your only
chance...just to back off."
He grins lopsided at
me. Then he worms a hand between our bodies and cups my hard
length of cock. "Duly noted."
I sip in my breath
between gritted teeth. Then I slap his hand
away, back him hard against the refrigerator, and attack his mouth
again.
Never knew it could be
this way... Never knew I could feel this
good. I'm owning his mouth, thrusting my hips against
his... I'd take him on the kitchen floor but he's so bony the
hardwood would undoubtedly leave him with bruises on top of
bruises. I bite his lips again, first one, then the other,
and
then I stick my tongue back inside his mouth and pull him roughly up
against me. I start to back out of the kitchen with him
off-balance against my chest, when he whimpers. I release his
abused lips and let him slide down my body the couple of inches I'd
hauled him up.
He looks sex-drunk,
and he licks his lips as I take his hand and start to lead him back
down the hall to the bedroom.
And as forceful as I
feel, as protective and goaded and hard and fierce
and fucking mad with want...I'm nervous. And a part of me
knows
full well what this is: me...making love to Mulder...in a
home I
intend to be ours, his and mine, for many years to come.
Years. I hadn't thought it before. It had been too
scary. It still is. But it's the truth.
I turn to Mulder,
having dragged him in after me, and I pull him in
close, breathing hard. "Can you take this?" I ask, already
taking
the button of his jeans in my fingers and working it loose, as my
hooded gaze demands the truth from him. "Mulder?"
I start to tug down
his zipper slowly and he moans, so I stop, fingers
still against the bulge that's trying valiantly to free itself into my
waiting hand. "Mulder."
"Do it, Krycek," he
breathes, and I have to fight not to groan at those words coming on
that voice. "Deflower me."
His smirk and the
twinge of fear still in his eyes beat at the walls of
my will, already crumbling for him. He looks great.
Better
than he's looked all day. He sounds great, talking shit and
egging me on. He *smells* great. Breath of ocean,
musky
arousal, and salty fingers.
And he feels
great. I could yank his pants down, bury myself to
the hilt, and undeniably die from the pleasure of it, I know.
It's not even what I'd intended to do with him...maybe ever.
But
it's what he wants. And God, so do I.
Deflower
me... My lips curl in a predatory smile as I finish the
journey my fingers started, pulling his zipper down and then reaching
inside his underwear, finding the hot shaft of his cock and making a
nice, secure fist around him.
"Ohffuuh," he moans,
swaying. I immediately catch him, afraid
just that has done him in. But he smiles, grabbing onto
me.
And he sighs, "Good dizzy. Definitely fucking good.
But let
me lie down before you pull that trick again, Krycek."
Still
Krycek. Far from illiciting the pain of the past, it
produces a little thrill of excitement. I lead Mulder, pink
cockhead peeking out, to the bed, pulling down the covers and watching
him climb up onto it, lying on his back in the middle. I lick
my
lips. "Undress," I tell him, and watch him start to work his
way
out of his clothes, trembling slightly, as I stand by the bed and start
to shed mine.
I crawl up over him,
all his bared skin spread out under me like some
kind of Mulder buffet. I want to lower my mouth to him and
leave
no body part untouched by my tongue. He's looking down at my
cock...my hard, red, bouncing cock...and he looks unequal parts turned
on and scared. Little more scared right now. I'm
not huge,
but I'm not small. And he's never done this at all, so I'm
sure
it looks like a surface-to-air-missile coming at him right about
now. So instead of once again attacking, I just lay myself
out on
top of him, my nakedness covering his, and I start to softly nuzzle his
neck.
But shit if just that
isn't almost enough to make me come. Man, he's
this fucking sweet thing under me. I can *taste* how good
this
fuck is gonna be. He moans and shifts, spreading his legs and
giving me more of his neck. His hands come up and touch my
back
and my body jerks on his, that simple gesture so hot and
real. I
bite down gently on the tendon he's baring. I hear his feet
slide
up and down the sheets on the oustide of my legs. Something
warm
and wet spreads between us...his pre-cum. I slide my cock
through
it...along his hip, clenching my ass to press myself harder down into
him. He gasps. I groan.
"Roll onto your side,"
I instruct through my mounting pleasure. I
look down at him and he's flushed, panting, edible. "Still
with
me?" I ask him, afraid I've fried his circuits. He
nods. I
see that it's not psychic back-lash or those 'feelings' or anything
bad. Nothing more spooky than first-time fear and readily
apparent lust. "Roll over," I urge, lifting up onto my hands
and
knees over him.
He rolls, curling up
on his left side, and I take a moment to fish a
condom and bottle of lube out of the drawer by the bed.
Accoutrements I'd set there for him to use on me. I lay them
close and then move in behind him, pressing my hard cock against his
butt and my chest to his back. I take a deep breath and then
wrap
my right hand around his dick again. His breath shudders out
of
him at my touch. My eyes flutter closed as I start to gently
work
him, squeezing and milking his gorgeous cock. In fact, I have
to
open my eyes to peer over his shoulder and watch. He's longer
than I am by a couple of inches, and his penis curves up just a touch
toward his belly. I'm salivating looking at it.
Next time.
I play with his cock
for about ten minutes, making sure he's good and
hard, breathless with wanting even more. He's even bucking his slim
hips, working himself against my palm in an effort to bring himself off
prematurely. I almost let him, because I want him loose for
what's next. I haven't done this in a long time...fucked a
man. I find I'm not exactly nervous, because I'm doing it for
him.
I let go of Mulder's
cock to slick up my fingers with lube. "You okay?" I ask, as I rub the
stuff over all of them.
"You gonna fuck me or
what?" he asks with a trembling voice. I
smile at how far he's willing to take the goad. I smile
because I
know he does want it...might even be better for him that he doesn't
have to call the shots or take the lead. He has it, at all
times. The power is his. I'm just acting on his
desire.
I ease my index finger
into the crack of his ass and slide it over his
anus. I rub him there, that hot little shut-tight
hole. I
massage him gently, breathing on the back of his neck, hard as
hell. And after a few minutes and some more lube, I work the
tip
of my finger inside him. He stills and holds his breath and I
let
him relax before I start to circle it, barely inside.
"Kkkk..." he
lets out, and I push a little deeper. I start
to fuck him, going in a little ways and pulling almost all the way
out. His next moan is changed...deeper...less
scared...invested. I smile and start to slide deeper.
It's not long before
it's my whole finger, working in and out of him
quickly, nicely lubed, and Mulder's slamming himself back into my hand
and purring. GOD, it's the hottest thing I've ever
seen...felt...caused. It almost hurts to stop. But
one
finger isn't enough.
Two is harder for him
and it takes more lube and some time, but
eventually he's lifting his right knee, pulling it up so he's more open
to me, his cheeks spread apart, letting me finger fuck his hole easily
while he moans.
I'm so hard now, it's
fuck or die. So I put on the condom and
grease up my cock, resituating behind Mulder. He jumps a
little
when the next thing he feels is my cockhead nudging his loosened
asshole. I mouth the back of his neck and murmur something
completely unintelligible, even to me. Something meant to
soothe
him, excite him, let him know I won't hurt him but I *will* have him
and the time is now.
I want to tell him to
try to relax. I want to tell him I love
him...that I feel it so much, and that his body is lighting me on
fire. I want to tell him I won't put it all the way in, that
the
whole thing won't fit in this position, that he's safe. But I
can't speak. I can only hold my breath and force the head of
my
cock past the resisting ring of muscle while he tenses. And
it's
too good for a moment. My balls coil and I see
stars. I
squeeze around the base of my cock, waiting, still feeling him grip me
tightly while I throb inside him.
I open my eyes to see
him gripping his pillow mightily. I let go
of my dick, staying just inside him, and stroke my hand over his hip
reassuringly. I'm not sure who I'm reassuring, though, him or
me. His skin is soft under my hand. It just makes
me want
to fuck him more.
He's starting to
breathe easier, now, and one of his long exhales holds
a word, my name. So I take my cock again to steady the
thrust,
and start to part the way of his hole, pushing slowly inside until I've
got most of my cock up his ass. I'm shaking with the power of
it,
with the intensity of his grip on me, this impossibly smooth, sweet
channel embracing me. I let go of the base of my cock, not
going
any deeper and not needing to. I reach around and stroke his
cock
again, licking the back of his neck and nearly crying.
He's whispering
something. Over and over again. I didn't
hear him...the rushing of blood in my ears nearly deafening.
But
I hear him now. "Alexalexalexalexalex..." Breathless little
sobs.
I'm about to pull
out...ask if he's all right, when he adds, moaning,
"Yespleasefuckmeyes..."
"Jesus," I groan,
sliding my dick a little way out of his ass and then
thrusting it back inside. The intimacy of Mulder's slick, hot
ass
closing around my cock as it leaves and then opening back up again when
I push forward has the tears falling down my face. I start to
rock into him, easy. Deep, slow undulations of my body
against
his. And he's pushing back against me while I jack him off to
the
rhythm of my fuck.
I keep it slow and
smooth, spooned in tight to him, feeling his muscles
shifting and working while I move inside him. I could stay joined with
him for hours...days...I don't want it to end. But his whines
are
making me want to give it to him harder...to see him lose
control. To give him that. I start taking harder,
quicker
stabs into his hot, wet ass. I'm silently grateful when he
starts
meeting them, pushing back into me with the power of his own arousal
and need.
"Mulder...
God, Mulder," I groan, working his dick faster,
knowing I'm going to come soon and needing him to have his first.
His cries become
louder. He turns his head, opening up his ass for me,
stilling and burying his face in the pillow. Five more fast
grunting thrusts and Mulder comes. I feel the hot juice
erupting
from his cock over my knuckles as he moans long and loud into a fistful
of pillow. And now he's bucking against me, striving for more
and
more. It's too much for me to take. I grit my teeth
and
yank him hard back onto my cock, pressing my forehead to his shoulder
as I feel it loose from my body in an explosion so fierce it can't be
real. But it is. I'm coming inside Mulder, thrusting into him
hard while I chant his name.
It lasts for probably
a minute. Easily the hardest I've ever come
in my life. Tears squeeze past my closed eyes as I moan with
the
last shot of cum into the rubber. I pant against Mulder's
back,
exhausted and overwhelmed. It takes me several moments to be
able
to lift my head and look down at him, cock still warm inside him and
swimming in my own juice.
"Mulder?" I try,
looking down at his closed eyes and still body.
I take myself around the base, pulling out and stripping the condom
off, dropping it into the wastebasket next to the bed before rolling
back to him, lightly slapping his face. "Mulder!"
Nothing. "Oh, shit," I hiss, turning him over onto his
back. I killed him. I killed him, my mind
shrieks.
"Mulder!" I call out again, this time giving his face a
healthier
slap.
He groans, frowning,
but there's a dawning smile on his face as he blinks his eyes open.
"Mulder?!" I gasp,
straddling him and staring down into his wakening face.
"You're alive!"
I let all my breath
out, hanging my head, my whole body feeling the
sick relief that he's alive and he's here and it doesn't appear I've
done much real damage.
"'mfine," he tells me,
grinning tiredly. "Did ya have ta slap me, Alex?"
"I thought you
were..." I growl.
"Calm down," he says
now, smile fading. "Don't ruin my...fuck-high."
"Don't...?"
I begin. "Mulder, I thought I'd..."
He lifts his hand and
touches my face, palming my cheek and looking up
at me. "I know," he says. "You didn't.
Alex... So
good..."
I finally let myself
breathe as I look down at him and see that he's
truly all right. I fall to my side next to him, exhausted,
but
relieved, and so, so sated. Now that he's not dead, I start
to
allow myself to feel my own feelings of intense pleasure, the
overwhelming realization that that was damned near perfect.
"Yeah..." Mulder
purrs, turning and curling into me, pressing into the
prosthetic as though its a flesh and blood arm and throwing his own
over my chest. "Just need a lil' rest before more."
Mulder:
I sigh and snuggle in
against him, body still buzzing and sensitized,
languorous and warm, and I feel my cum squelch between us on his hip
where my half-hard cock is pressed against it. It hurts a little, not
nearly as much as my ass, but I wriggle it in harder, relishing both as
signs that I'm truly alive.
Alex's body tenses
under me slightly and he shifts his shoulder against
my chin, which is trying to rest there. I frown and reposition. "D'ya
need to move?" I murmur, lips still lazy and swollen fat from brutal
kisses.
"Um...just..." he
says, and firms his lips, shifting his arm again.
It's only then that I really 'get' that I'm pressed against his
prosthetic, trapping it against the side of his body.
"Mm," I grunt, and
scoot back enough that he can pull it free if he
wants, waiting and holding myself away in a position that makes it
clear this is a temporary allowance and I'm impatient to get back to my
spot.
"Is it...do you want
me to...take it off?" he asks in a small voice, all seriousness.
It shakes me out of my
fuckdrunk stupor and I open my eyes almost all
the way. "No," I tell him with a shake of my head. I purse my lips.
"Not unless you want to. Would that be more comfortable?" My hand still
rests on his chest, and to remind him of our continued connection, I
play in the sparse hair there with my fingers. I feel my cock wilt,
semen cooling rapidly and beginning to feel clammy.
"No," he answers. "I
just...didn't know if it was comfortable for
*you*." His voice trails off, and his prosthetic fingers twitch
slightly between us.
I snuggle in once
again, conscious of the hard plastic against my chest
and belly, but more conscious of the warm, hard hip against my soft
cock and the rising and falling chest beneath my hand. "Don't worry," I
tell him, resting my lips against his strong, rounded shoulder. "I'll
let ya know."
I rest there, feeling
the amazing effect Alex's lovemaking has had on
my body and mind, still too shocked and stunned by the intensity of the
experience to do much more than keep breathing.
Damn.
DAMN.
I mean, I had a
feeling we'd be good together, but...damn if that
didn't rearrange some of my DNA it was so good! I still don't have
words, though the 'voices' have all been stunned into silence, too, so
I just snuggle in tight and breathe in the smell of Alex, latex, cum,
and sweat. And *this* is my life now. Content doesn't begin to cover
it. I'm not sure I ever wanna move again.
But dammit, that
king-sized Sprite I had with lunch just decided it needs to vacate my
bladder. Now.
"Fuck," I murmur into
his shoulder through mashed lips.
"What is it?" he asks,
concern making his voice clear, burning away the
bliss he's feeling and transmitting to me, augmenting my own, the two
of us wrapped in this awesome cocoon of *feels good*.
"Gotta piss," I whine,
then gather enough strength to push myself away from him and start to
roll off the bed.
"Do you..." he starts
to ask, then snaps his mouth shut, frowning.
"No, I can piss by
myself most of the time, Alex," I tell him,
incredibly happy and relieved that, due to the phenomenal orgasm, this
is definitely going to be one of those times. The vitality is returning
to me so rapidly I can even see myself wanting to take a jog on my new
beach.
"I...I didn't mean..."
he replies, pulling himself into a seated position against the
headboard.
"Yeah ya did," I tell
him, stepping into the bathroom, my voice lazy
and without rancor. "Just shut up, Alex. Oh," I say, turning with my
hand on the doorknob. "Get me some water, wouldja?"
"Yeah, sure," he says,
scampering off the bed. Yes, he's scampering. I
think he really likes it when I give him something concrete to do for
me. I let out a yawn and pull the door shut behind me, then step over
to the toilet to let loose with my very first piss into the new bowl.
My ass aches. And
stings, too, raw in places, still feeling stretched
and wet. I've been fucked. Alex fucked me. I've been fucked up the ass
and it was *awesome*. I feel the stream start and let my head fall back
on my shoulders, lips parting on a happy sigh.
I come out of the
bathroom, having inspected the gorgeous slate jacuzzi
tub with an eye toward many wonderful salt baths, to find Alex standing
by the bed, uncapped water bottle in hand. I can still see traces of my
cum on his hip. He could have wiped that off in the kitchen. But he
didn't. I smile and take the bottle from his hand, taking a long,
gulping drink and then wiping my mouth sloppily.
"Nice bed," I tell
him, letting the bottle dangle at my side. I let my
eyes roam over his body from head to toe and back again. I feel fucking
great.
"Oh, yeah, glad you
like it," he replies, his voice hoarse. He clears
his throat and his eyes dart over me, his one hand curling and
uncurling into a nervous fist at his side. "Um, so," he starts, but I
cut him off, going over to my jeans and setting my bottle on the
dresser while I pull them on, sans underwear and without wiping myself
off. I like the feel of it. Even when it pulls at my short hairs. And I
like the smell wafting up from myself. I feel my ass cheeks sliding
against each other, slippery with lube. I grin at just how filthy these
jeans are gonna be.
"Let's check out the
beach," I tell him, starting out the bedroom door,
shirtless, picking up my water bottle and drinking half of it down. I
don't wait for him and walk down the hall, thrilling at being able to
call on my own strength and balance only for myself, uninterrupted by
random thoughts, physical sensations, or overwhelming outside emotions.
Orgasms always help me
ground into my body and focus better, but I've
never come that hard in my life, and what it's done to my system is
nothing short of amazing. Wonderful. Fan-fucking-tastic. I hear him
right behind me, and glance back to see that he's put on jeans and his
t-shirt. I turn back and head out into the living/dining area and pull
open the sliding glass door that leads out onto the deck that runs the
length of the house.
The sound of surf and
wind and gulls assails me and I gasp, feeling
just slightly dizzied by the awesomeness of it, but still totally in
balance and strong. I step out onto the weathered deck boards and walk
out to the railing, taking hold of it and balancing my almost-empty
bottle so I can hold on with both hands and just bask.
It's absolutely
magical. Private, soft sand beach as far as I can see
in both directions, scrubs of small trees, grasses, and bushes
providing complete privacy and seclusion from any neighbors which may
or may not be down the shore from us.
Us. Me 'n Alex. The
guys who just moved into the three-bedroom with the long deck. The gay
couple.
Alex steps in behind
me, nearly silent in his bare feet, and though he
doesn't touch me, he stops just behind me rather than taking a position
next to me at the rail.
"You seem...well..."
he trails off, and his low voice that close to my ear makes me shiver.
"It seems spectacular
sex is even better for me than a good jerk-off
session under hospital blankets," I tell him, smirking and leaning
backward, trying to find him with my bare back. I do, feeling it
collide with soft cotton and hard chest, and I sigh and let my eyes
close. "Thank you, Alex. You healed me."
He lets out his breath
in my ear, and his hand finally comes up
haltingly around me, landing gently on my stomach, big and warm and
barely pressing on me at all. I smile bigger, thinking of how
aggressive he was in bed and contrasting it with how gentle he is when
he's just trying to love me. I like it both ways. I put my hand on his
and pull it in tighter, pressing us together more firmly. I feel him
let out his breath against my neck in a halting sigh and then finally
feel his body relax against me. We just stand that way for a few
minutes, basking in the view and each other, letting the salty wind
ruffle our sweat-damp hair.
"This is amazing,
Alex," I tell him turning my head so I can see his
face where it's resting gently on my right shoulder. "I can't believe
you had this in you."
"Me neither," he says
softly, and once again, that voice so close to my
ear wracks my body with a shiver. "Are you cold?" he asks, pulling away
slightly.
"No, stupid, you make
me shiver with that phonesex voice of yours," I
tell him. "Just makes me wanna bend over this railing and let you have
me again." I'm kidding, of course. Sex right now would have to hurt
like a motherfucker. I wonder how long it will take me to heal before I
can do that again...
"Don't say that,
Mulder," he says, his voice dropping lower,
threatening, and that does nothing to make me want to stop provoking
him. His arm tightens and he thrusts against my recently-fucked ass
once in warning. He lets out the softest, lowest growl in my ear and I
feel my cock starting to come to life again. We wouldn't have to fuck,
or at least he wouldn't have to fuck me. Maybe he could be the one bent
over the railing...
Suddenly, I'm hit with
a wave of vertigo so bad it knocks my legs out
from under me and I start to collapse like a sack of rocks. I'm aware
that I don't hit the ground, and I hear Alex's concerned voice as
though through a wind tunnel. My gut spasms and I wonder if I'm about
to be sick all over myself, but it's mostly just pain, and I gasp and
double over, finding Alex's arm tight around me, holding me on all
fours, keeping me from being facedown on the deck.
"Mulder! Mulder, what
is it? Oh God, what's wrong?!" he yells, as I
slump sideways and fall on my side against him, curling into a ball.
"Sssssscully..." I
manage to whisper, feeling my chest tighten, cutting off my breaths by
half.
"Scully?" he asks, his
hand running over me as if searching for wounds.
I feel it brush my hair away from my face and try to smile to let him
know how good that feels.
"Knows..." I gasp.
"Thinkssss...kidnap....gotta...call..." and I
struggle to do my breathing, focus on the surf sounds, on the warm,
solid body behind me, holding me.
"What, now?" he asks,
and his hand continues brushing my hair back, though it's no longer
anywhere near my eyes.
"Only...way...to
ssstop thissss..." I whisper. "Phone...Alex..."
"Okay, okay," he says,
pulling away from me. "I'll get my cell, hold
on." And for a few moments, I'm without his warm and grounding presence
and I'm totally awash in her fear and and shock and anger. "Here," he
says, and I feel something hard get pressed into my hand. "Do you need
me to dial? What's her number?"
I gasp it out and feel
him take the phone a moment then give it back to
me. I clasp it loosely and bring it to my ear, eyes closed as I wait
for her to answer.
Her voice is
breathless and high. "Scully."
I pull together every
reserve of strength I have, imagining myself at
the bottom of the ocean, the water protecting me from any and all
psychic disturbance.
"Scully, it's me," I
say as clearly as I can. I feel Alex kneeling next to me, his hand on
my waist, warm and reassuring.
"Mulder! Where are
you! What number are you calling from? Are you all
right?" Her voice and concern both cut through me, forcing me to take a
moment to regather myself before answering.
"I'm with a friend,
Scully, it's his number," I tell her, trying to be
as succinct as possible. "I'm doing great." I force a smile onto my
face, hoping she can hear it over the phone.
"A friend? Who,
Mulder? Mulder, what's going on? Where are you?" I'm
feeling nauseated again, and I close my mouth and breathe through my
nose, gripping the phone tightly now.
"A friend," I grit
out. "You don't know him." That's true. Scully's
never met this Alex. Not sure anyone has. He's only mine. "I'll be in
touch, Scully. I started feeling better and wanted to leave. I'm at his
beachhouse."
"Where?" she
practically screeches. "Who's Andrew Baker, Mulder? You don't have a
step-brother...do you? What's going on here?"
"Twice...removed," I
tell her, feeling my control ebbing away.
"Cares...about me." I feel Krycek's hand tense against my waist and rub
my bare skin. It brings me back somewhat. "I just want some time away,
Scully," I'm able to tell her. Then, with as much careless playfulness
as I can manage, "Don't worry about me, Scully. He's got a great place,
and I'm meeting lots of hot babes."
"Babes? Mulder, what
are you talking about? Mulder, you're not well! He
doesn't know how to take care of you! Just tell me where you are so I
can check up on you!"
"Need some time to
myself," I tell her, frowning. "If you're my friend, give it to me,
Scully."
"I am your friend,
Mulder. I care about you. I need to know where you
are." Her voice is calmer. I'm using the right language. I let out a
controlled sigh.
"Promise me you won't
come looking, Scully, and I promise to call you
tomorrow, okay?" I swallow, heartened by the silence. "Please," I add,
making it a statement and not a question.
She sighs. She's quiet
a moment, then finally, "Tomorrow, Mulder. If
you don't call me tomorrow, I'm sending out a search party first thing
the next morning."
"Deal," I tell her,
smiling for real now and hoping she can hear that, too. "Talk to you
tomorrow, Scully."
"Talk to you tomorrow,
Mulder," she answers, and I feel for the End
button with my thumb and press it, ending the call. I let my hand slide
toward the deck, but it's caught and held before it hits, the phone
taken gently from my grasp. Then I feel Alex lie down, holding me from
behind in a sweet parody of our position during our fuck. He snuggles
in close, and I hear his prosthetic scrape against the wood.
"You did good," he
murmurs against my shoulder, and I feel his lips
press against my bare flesh, now chilled, even though it's easily still
in the mid-seventies out here. And I'm really, really glad I didn't put
a shirt on as he continues to press soft kisses into my shoulder and
back, holding me out on the deck of our brand new house on the beach.
I did, I think, then
feel my consciousness slip away and embrace my mind in peaceful
darkness.
Krycek:
God, that scared the
shit out of me. And sobered me quite a
bit. I see now that, even though I still do have to watch my
thoughts around him and not let myself sink into intense anger or
anything else toxic, I'm his shield from a WORLD of toxicity.
Poison that comes in the form of psychic attack and evil, but also in
the form of his partner's legitimate worry. Even those who
intend
well for him can hurt him. That includes me, so even now I'm
changing my thoughts for him. Here, pressed against his
delicious
backside, holding him close as he sighs.
I think about the
fuck. How perfectly his ass fit around my
cock. How slick and warm he was. How hard I made
him come
and how good that made me feel. I watch the ocean over his
shoulder, stroking my hand over his chest, and I let myself float on
those recent memories for him.
Soon, he stirs and
shivers. "Alex?" he asks.
"Yeah," I tell him,
pulling him close.
"In now?"
"Yeah," I say
again. Then I help him to his feet. I offer
him my arm, but he shakes his head and takes my hand instead, so I lead
him back into the bedroom like that, slowly.
He crawls up onto the
bed and sighs. "Smells like your cock coming in my ass," he
smiles.
I feel good that this
place means sex for him first and foremost,
rather than sick bed or invalid room or something otherwise disturbing
and harmful. He starts to take his jeans off again, and I
stand
there for a moment wondering if an offer of help would be entirely
inappropriate now. Before I can make up my mind, he calls to
me.
"Can you pull these
off for me?" They're shoved halfway
down his thighs and it's both a painfully erotic tableau and preciously
amusing. I see that he might have been able to handle it, but
this kind of nurse-maid he could stand to have a little more
of.
The tired yet lecherous look on his face makes me smile.
But I'm good,
reasonably, and merely admire the equipment without
touching as I pull his jeans off his legs. "Do you want clothes?" I ask.
"Boxer-briefs," he
requests. "Green ones."
And once I've handed
them over and made sure he could secure them
properly in place, I decide I'll unpack his things while he gets some
rest. To my comfort, he falls asleep quickly and he looks
peaceful. I set to work on hanging up and folding his clothes
into a dresser and then bringing in the artwork and trying to decide
where best they'd be hung. I don't want to hammer while he's
sleeping, so I try to busy myself with other things.
When I check on him,
though, he's waking, and I find I'm glad. I
like his company, above and beyond the amazing sex. Still,
without the computer screen or my cock inside him between us, I find
myself unsure how to be with him. "Hi," I say, and I sound intensely
awkward even to myself.
"Did I sleep long?" he
asks, rolling over onto his side, facing me.
"Half an hour," I
speculate. Thirty-three minutes, I correct in my head.
"Could use a bath," he
tells me, sitting up. His hair is sticking up on one side.
"Okay. I'll
run it."
"Got bath salts?" he
asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
"Think so," I tell him.
Then he smiles at me,
and it makes my body feel crazy. I've never felt
anything like it. I frown simply because I don't understand
the
strange reaction. I get busy running his bath and finding the
salts I packed in my own things. Once I've helped him into the steaming
water, he leans back and groans happily.
"Shit yeah...."
I stand at the side of
the tub, feeling clothed and weird and
unnecessary. I look around the room for some way to make
myself
useful to him. I want to be. I want to take care of
him. But I can't find anything but the cup with the new
toothbrushes in it and I'm pretty sure he can handle brushing his own
teeth and wouldn't want to do it in the bathtub anyway.
"You can go," he says
lowly. "If you want."
It brings my attention
back to him. His eyes are shut and he's frowning
slightly. Does he think I *want* to go?
I summon my courage
and ask, "Is it all right if I...stay?"
He grins before he
opens his eyes and looks at me. "I'd like
that," he says. Then he pats the side of the tub, which
luckily,
is big and wide enough to seat my ass comfortably.
He puts a damp hand on
my thigh, getting my jeans wet. I love how it feels.
"How's your...butt?" I
blurt, realizing I haven't checked yet to make sure I didn't hurt him.
He laughs and squeezes
my thigh. "How do you *think* it
is?" He shrugs. "I got fucked. It's a
little
sore." Then, "Hand me that towel?"
"Sorry," I say,
handing him the hand towel which he makes a roll out of and puts behind
his head.
"I'm not," he
sighs. "Best sex I ever had."
I gasp. Then
I take a deep breath. "It was," I agree, voice
changed with my low-grade arousal. "For me, too, I mean."
I didn't intend to
tell him that, but I feel pretty sure he already
knows, as connected as he probably was to me. And then we just sit
together, not speaking, Mulder splashing every few moments when he
resituates. His voice breaks the quiet, though, when he says
softly, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For how much you
helped me...on the phone."
It feels good and
strange to do it when I place my hand over his on my leg.
"You're welcome."
"Can you just...touch
me like that again when I call tomorrow?" he asks.
I nod, feeling how
warm it makes me feel in my chest to know he gets so
much out of just that from me. I wish I could do more.
"Might be hard for a
while," he tells me, frowning a little. "Can you do it, Alex?"
I'm about to reply
when I realize I can't really even know the answer.
"I'm sorry, that was
unfair," he says. "And after today I'm
pretty convinced you're the man for the job. At least the one
I
want. A lot."
I look into his eyes
and see the toll the phone call took on him, but
also the...love there...for me...and the spark that ignites behind the
exhaustion.
"I want you, too," I
say.
"Then dry me and drag
me off to bed, Alex."
I help him
stand...help him get dry. He holds onto me for
support. It feels right...holding him up. He runs
his hand
through my hair while I dry his legs. I notice his cock is
swollen...rising.
"Do you...want me to
get clean?" I ask, standing again and realizing he
smells like cedarwood and honey when I smell like old jizz.
He leans in and takes
a deep whiff of my neck. "No fucking way," he whispers.
I go through the house
and lock everything up, turning off lights,
feeling my own body slow with tiredness. All except for my
cock
which knows Mulder is waiting for me, shiny-clean and naked in our bed.
I turn off the bedroom
light and undress, this time taking off my
prosthetic, then I climb in with him, the ocean battering the sand not
too far from our backdoor. I slip under the sheet and then
realize I'm on the wrong side if I'm going to touch him.
"Can we...switch?" I
ask.
He nods at me and
scoots under as I crawl over. Then I wordlessly
fit myself to his side while he lies on his back, and I slip my hand
between his legs.
"This okay?" I ask.
He looks at me in the
dark. "Jack me off, Krycek," he whispers, and his cock rises
up into my palm.
I'm gentle with it,
knowing it's probably sore. Which makes me
think it might be better if I use my mouth. I quirk a smile
at
him. "Sometimes," I say. "I disobey direct
orders."
And then I scoot down the bed, pulling on his hip to roll him onto his
side. His heavy cock smacks my face as he rolls and I groan
with
how good it feels before I take him in hand and bring him to my open
mouth.
"Awfuck," Mulder
whines as I take him deeply into me, just bathing him with my spit and
barely sucking.
He stretches my lips
as I work to fit his whole length. I run my
hand around behind him and just stroke my palm and fingers over his
tender asscheeks while I start to move on him. His taste is
somewhere between sweet and musky as his bowed cock slides back and
forth on my tongue like music.
He moans again, taking
my head in both hands between his legs and kind
of rocking back and forth, into and out of me. I growl, liking how it
feels, how the ocean sounds like it's rolling over us and moving
him. I peer up at him while I suck his hungry cock, and he
shudders, his eyes rolling back in his head and closing. He
seems
transported, deep in my mouth and gripping my head in his
hands.
I haven't had nearly enough of him when he comes. I had no
idea
it was going to happen so fast, especially after already coming once
and having the day...hell, the LIFE he's had! The spurt of semen in my
mouth surprises me, but it's a good one and I eat him up, grunting
while he thrashes and groans loudly, loosing slick spunk into me as I
suck voraciously.
When he's done, he's
shaking and his hands still hold my head strongly
to his crotch. His eyes are closed. I pull away and
he
reliquishes his hold with a, "Sorry," rolling onto his back.
I
roll with him and rest my head on his hip. His right hand takes new,
tender residence sifting through my hair.
"Jesus..." he breathes.
I smile, closing my
eyes. "Yeah," I add. And it's not long before I
know he's sleeping and I'm soon to be, too.
Mulder:
"Thanks,
guys." I let my eyes close as I hand the phone off to
Alex. I wait, doing my breathing, while he hangs it up, then
smile tiredly as his hand comes back to clasp my own.
"That sounded like it
went well," he says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
"Yeah," I sigh, still
tired from the phone. "They've really done a great
job. The records are impeccable."
"Do you need some
water?" he asks. "Or something to eat?"
I take inventory of my
body, knowing that's more important than
maintaining some kind of strong front. It's been a week, but
I
still have to remind myself not to pretend in front of him.
"Water," I decide,
nodding, and he gets up, sliding his warm hand out
of mine, and goes to the fridge to get me a bottle. He comes
back
with it already uncapped. I take it as thoughtfulness rather
than
feeling coddled, and smile and raise it to my lips. After a
long
drink, during which time Alex has settled in a crouch to the left of my
chair, I wipe my mouth and sigh, feeling my strength and sense of focus
return. "Scully will research Dr. Andrew Baker and find that
he's
a highly respected psychologist from New Haven, Connecticut.
That
should lay to rest any further reservations she might have about me
staying with my twice-removed step-brother."
"That's still kinky,"
Alex says in that soft, intimate voice that
always makes me a little hard, even when he's asking if I want waffles
or eggs. Of course he's often nuzzling my ear when he's
saying
that, so...
"Yeah, nice, huh?" I
return in what I hope is a similarly seductive
tone. It gets the wanted response, his low, deep
chuckle.
The one he must have been trying to convey when he typed LOL.
It's *much* nicer in person. Much. "Yeah, well,
anyway,
that should alleviate the low-grade current of anxiety I pick up from
Scully any time she thinks about me. Professional accolades
are
something she doesn't question. We should be covered for a
little
while longer before we have to come all the way out." I feel
the
spike of fear that rises up in Alex at the thought of telling Scully
the truth about who's taking care of me, then I feel him immediately
shift his thoughts to something better. Oh.
Infinitely
better. His face in my crotch, if I'm to judge by the way his
gaze goes dark and wanders down between my legs.
"Need some grounding?"
he asks in that same 'waffles or eggs'
voice. He looks up at me from his position at my feet and
licks
the corner of his mouth just the slightest bit. My cock
tingles
and nudges against my jeans.
"Mmmm...grounding," I
answer, letting my legs fall open further, tilting my hips up to
reposition my rapidly filling dick.
His beautiful lips
stretch into that smile that almost brings tears to
my eyes, and his hand leaves my hand to begin unzipping my
fly.
His voice is quiet, like he's talking to himself, but I hear every
word, even as I sink my head into the back of my chair and sigh.
"Little snack for me,
then I'll fix a little snack for Mulder."
And his big, warm hand closes around my shaft and drags it out over the
top of my underwear. I whimper, and I'm embarassed about that
for
a half-second until I hear his cut-off gasp in response, then I feel
him shift up onto his knees and lean in.
Krycek:
A week. One
whole week. And I'm still here.
Probably because of
the sex. I seem to be good at it. And the
fact that we're good together seems to be the biggest healing of
all. Mulder is never so energetic, independent, and happy as
when
he's had a good come. I almost can't believe that something so simple,
something so very much in my power to give, something so really fucking
great for *me* is what he seems to need most to get better.
I'm not at all certain
I'm good at the rest of it, though he does seem
to enjoy my cooking, and I think I like doing it. Especially
in
such a nice kitchen. And it keeps my ability with the prosthetic up to
par. (So does the sex, as I learned on the third night that Mulder
wanted to be touched with it. Touched, finger-fucked, jacked
off... Not to mention I've been using it to hold myself up
when
I'm on top of him.)
But yeah.
Sex and food. These are my chief
contributions. And for now, I'm grateful. Because I
haven't
figured out what else I could possibly give him, beyond buying him
anything and everything he asks for and being there at his beck and
call. I'm so far from figuring myself out and that's
daunting. All I know is I've changed. I don't know
how much
and I'm only beginning to understand in what ways. I'm taking
my
cues from Mulder's needs. And right now...that feels
fine.
Really fine.
He took his first walk
today. I insisted on going with him.
He did great being that close to the water. Whatever entities might
have tried to attach to him, that much oceanic goodness just washed
them away. I've agreed to let him take a fifteen minute walk alone
tomorrow.
He called the guys
when we got back, and then he needed 'grounding'
which has very quickly become code for blow-job. Or
chocolate.
Sometimes both.
He sits looking out
the huge glass door at the big waves today as I
slurp up and down on his sweaty cock. The combination of the water and
my mouth seems to take him to realms so far from psychic attack such a
thing might as well not exist for him. He always comes back
to
me, though. Always watches me and touches me and calls my
name
when the orgasm hits.
This time, he's got
his hand on the top of my head, resting, but when
he crests that energy wave, his fingers curl into a fist and he whines
as I let his semen coat and then run out of my mouth and over his cock
while I slowly take him all the way in and then slip it almost all the
way out, over and over, making it last as long as I can. When
he's done, I lick him clean, and then sigh into his lap. I
look
up at him, striving for perfect innocence, even while his half-hard
cock kisses my cheek.
"Lunch?" I ask, all
wide eyes and blinking lashes.
He looks down at me
with a crooked smile, something I'm still not used
to from him. He palms my cheek. "Wow," is all he says, and it
makes me smile as I get up from my kneeling position between his legs
and go into the kitchen to make sandwiches.
Mulder likes tuna on
toast and Cheetos. It's simple for me and
makes him almost deliriously happy. He says it's the
salt.
I just love to watch him eat. After he's done, I take the plates to the
kitchen. When I'm finished getting them washed, I come back out into
the living room. Mulder is watching the waves again, but his
eyes
are drowsy. He's still not at all the same as he was
before. Sometimes I forget and think I just need to get him
well
physically. But his body is just a mirror, and not really
even
that anymore, for the war going on inside him. They ripped a
hole
in his mind, and nothing will ever heal it closed. We can
only
find ways to make the open wound not hurt so much.
Sometimes I feel
guilty. Because I like this Mulder. I love this
Mulder. It's not that I don't want him fully functional, and
he
often is for at least a little while, especially after sex.
It's
that...he's not beautiful because of his intellect. He's
interesting because of it, but not beautiful. He's not
wonderful
because of his determination and drive. He's useful. He's
intriguing. He's powerful. But the wonderful in
him...its
home is nearer his heart. I've always wanted him. I've always
admired him. But now I love him. And I wouldn't
have let
myself fall like that if he'd had the energy to be anything other than
vulnerable and open and scared and honest with me. It's these
things I treasure, even as I appreciate the things he's trying to get
back to.
"Do you wanna...head
that way?" I ask, careful not to say the word nap
after he about bit my head off when I said it the first time.
Mulder hates sleeping, but right now he needs it, especially when he's
peaceful enough that he can rest without the nightmares.
He makes a face but
it's not for me. "All right," he pouts, and I
give him a grateful look as he trudges back to the bedroom. I
follow so that I can tuck him in. I've made it very clear
that I
like to do it for myself and that it's certainly not because of some
bullshit idea that he can't do it for himself. It's my own
vulnerabilty.
The computer is set up
in the office now, so I decide while he's
resting I'll go buy some new shit for the place. I'm looking
at
office furniture with Depeche Mode on at a low volume when it occurs to
me that Mulder might like a really nice stereo for the
bedroom.
Even though the ocean itself provides great accompaniment for sleep,
it'd be cool to have music when he felt like it.
I'm clicking on the
Circuit City site when my cell phone rings. I
pick it up, frowning. I recognize the number
immediately. I
almost don't answer. But I know I'll just continue to get
calls
unless I pick it up and make sure they know not to call
anymore.
I exhale measuredly and hit talk.
"What is it?" I begin
darkly.
"We're losing our
window, where *are* you?"
It's
Michaels. He always was a dramatic fuck. "I told
you, it's on hold," I say.
"You're going to lose
him. I thought this was important to you, man!"
I feel that old
churning in my gut, both from the mention of a man I
loathe and from the knowledge that the opportunity to take him down, my
best opportunity yet, is indeed slipping away. I hadn't
thought
about it. I'd made sure I didn't, making my first and only
priority taking care of Mulder. And that had felt so good.
Now this.
"I have other
engagements. This isn't something I can pursue
right now. You've already been compensated for your time, now
let
it go like I said and don't call me again."
I'm taking the phone
away from my ear when he calls out, "Krycek,
dammit, this isn't just about you. Spender's number is up, and we have
a chance to remove him permanently. What could be more
important
than that?"
I sigh forcefully,
eyes closed. Everything in me is
screaming. Why the fuck did he have to call? I've
been
okay! I've been...living. My guts clench on the
knowledge
that while I've been playing house, the man who did this to Mulder
walks free, committing horror after horror, unjudged.
Unpunished. There are a myriad of wrongs done by this man, to
me,
to the world... To Mulder.
God, to
Mulder. And that's what brings on the rage inside me,
full force, out of nowhere. I'd been living in a fantasy,
when
here is my chance to do something real for Mulder. To get
vengence for him, to make things right, and in the process take the
reins from that cruel son of a bitch and finally come into the kind of
power I've sought from the beginning.
I grit my teeth,
opening my eyes, the decision made when I think about
what he's taken from the man I now love. "Take him
out. Do
it." My prosthetic hand balls into a fist. I feel
the
intensity of my hatred for Spender pool in my chest,
smouldering.
And I'll have his withered old body burned for Mulder. He
won't
have to worry about being hurt by him ever again.
"When?"
Michaels asks, breathless.
I take a deep breath
myself, the stench of the Smoker's blood already
in my nostrils. "Tomorrow night. Burn it
all." I hear
a sound behind me and turn, teeth gritted painfully, to see Mulder fall
against the side of the hallway, his color somewhere between green and
ash-gray.
"Ah..." he gasps,
then his eyes roll back in his head and he slides down the wall.
Mulder:
I wake to a feeling of
such intense nausea I'm sure that if I don't
roll to the side immediately I'm going to puke all over
myself.
As I roll, I realize I have no equilibrium, no idea how or where or
when to stop the roll, the room spinning crazily like a carnival
ride. I fall to the floor, at least I think that's what it
is,
and gasp for breath, my chest shot through with pain, my lungs unable
to draw more than short, sharp, painful breaths. I moan and
curl
into a ball, not remembering how to center myself, regressing back to
just trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
The words, 'come what
may' begin chanting themselves in my head and I
pick up the litany, breathing as slowly as I can, until I'm able to
uncurl a bit. And I put out terrified feelers to try and
discern
the source of the psychic tsunami. I pick it up quickly, and
gasp
out all my breath.
It's Alex.
Something's wrong with him. I have to get to him.
I drag myself to my
hands and knees, visualizing myself at the bottom
of a deep blue ocean, surrounded by cushioning, absorbent water, and
double over on another stab of pain in my gut, nearly but not quite
losing the wonderful lunch he made for me.
Have to get out
there. This is BAD.
I crawl into the hall,
concentrating on one thing and one thing only,
getting to the living room. I pull myself together through
sheer
will, choking on bile and closing my eyes, just feeling my way along
the floor with my hands and knees. I realize that if
someone's
there, maybe Scully? that I can't let them see me like this, so I veer
to the side enough to push myself up onto my feet, using my shoulder
against the wall for leverage. I take a few steps, coming
into
view of the living room, and see him, his back turned, holding the
phone to his ear. He turns, and a flashwave of shock and fear
rockets out from him and hits me like a sonic blast, and I feel the
world fall out from under me.
Krycek:
I throw the phone
down, not even hitting end; I think it breaks
into pieces behind me as I run to Mulder and skid to a stop, falling to
my knees beside him.
"Mulder!" I say,
taking him by the shoulders and then turning his face
up to me. I don't want to shake him, but it's the first
instinct
I have. "Mulder!"
I feel his
pulse; it's fast. There are tears in my
eyes. And as I'm about to call his name in a panic again, I
realize my fear is going to make this worse, whatever the hell is
happening to him. I stroke his head with a hand that trembles
and
focus all my power on thinking soothing thoughts. Us
sleeping,
curled up in our bed as the ocean laps at the shore...
Licking
his cock while he sits in his chair like a king... Standing on the deck
and watching the sunrise, my arm around him...
"Mulder..."
I croak, because he's still not back with me.
He's still there. Wherever he is. Wherever they
sent him...
Who? I think, nearly
unable to control the rage I feel at someone
sending him whatever kind of poisonous energy that could do this to
him. Who would do this?!
And even as I think
the words, I start to understand... I *feel*
it. The same rage I'm feeling now...is the very answer I'm
seeking.
It was me.
The phone call I was
on. The rage I felt. The hate and the
need for revenge...it had made me feel powerful and right and seething
with new energy. But it had also made me feel sick, and my
insides are made of steel. I look down at his bloodless face,
his
lifeless limbs.
My fault.
*I* did this to him.
I push myself back
away from him fast, my hands splayed, empty, deathly
afraid of touching him, of hurting him more. My eyes are
wide, no
breath in my lungs. Mulder lies on the floor, in a hell of my
making, slumped and broken and in horrendous pain. Because of me.
I feel like I'm going
to throw up. My eyes fill with tears and my
face crumbles. I start to sob. Not
happening... Not
me... Oh GOD!
Yet even as I want to
die...even as I want and deserve to sink into a
new kind of bitter hatred, one with me at its sick, dark heart...the
only thing that keeps me from damning myself into my own vicious
hell...is Mulder.
It has to stop
somewhere. And there's no one here to help him but me.
I swallow, unable to
stop my tears, but I try to. I try so
hard. I crawl back in toward him, breathing as best I
can.
I hold the simplest, most loving picture I can hold in my
mind.
It takes my every effort. And in every moment, I have to
fight
just plummeting down into the bottomless evil of
self-destruction. For every sneered epithet I spit at myself
in
my mind, I re-enforce the thought-picture of love. It's a
battle
with the darkest part of myself. And the warrior is my
fledgling
love...a virgin to war and so very fragile. I concentrate on
the
picture -- myself holding Mulder in that hospital room, my very first
act of love. I hold onto it like a lifeline, and it
is. For
me and for Mulder.
I lift his head and
lay it in my lap. I sob silently, stroking his hair, and I
think of holding him.
*Evil*
*Disgusting*
*Vile*
*Worthless*
I squeeze my eyes shut
tight and hold my breath. Mulder whines in my
lap, twitching. And that only makes me want to hurt
myself.
'Stop it,' I think, trying to halt the horrible spiral of
self-loathing, knowing it's killing him.
I suddenly remember
Mulder...letting it flow. I don't know what
that means, but I release my breath and I relax my eyes, even though
the voice inside wants me to punish myself, hate myself, kill
myself. I go back to the room...holding him tight...and I
start
to repeat, first in my head and then aloud, over...and over...and
over...
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
"I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you."
And I rock
him...gently...so gently. I rock him in my lap, tears
continuing to fall, and I say it. I say it until
there's
nothing left.
Mulder:
Up...down...up...down...almost
swamped but not quite...riding the waves
of a storm-churned sea, tossed from wave to wave like so much weathered
driftwood, unable to do anything but just SURRENDER.
UTTERLY. Let it take me where it will. I might make
it out
and I might not, but I can't afford to have fear about that, and
besides, there's nothing left for me to feel it with. I'm a
hollow, screaming channel, and there's no room for anything that's me.
Warmth is the first
thing I become aware of that's me. And a
slight rocking motion that seems to stilt the other movement, seems to
somehow tame it, moderate it, limit its ability to throw me around like
a dog playing with a knot-rope.
Then sound.
Not words, not exactly, but the sounds themselves
feel soft and wet and seem to wrap around me like a fuzzy pink blanket
or a puffy white cloud or the gentle waves of a warm salt bath.
Then I realize it's
his voice. Alex's. Only not like I've
ever heard it before. Choked and garbled and wet and
incessant,
like a chant, or even a drone. On and on and on it buzzes,
wrapping around and around me like cotton, dulling the 'noise'.
I try to speak, to
tell him I hear him, to tell him it's working,
whatever he's doing, but I can't command my throat to work, my lips to
form words, so I just concentrate on breathing and sinking into the
safety net he's building around me, feeling things trying to get
through it, hitting up against it like debris in a storm, but bouncing
off, jarring me only a little, the strength of the net growing with
every breath.
And I'm
breathing. In four, out seven. In four, out
seven. And my limbs are tingling, all pins and needles, and I
feel them move, though I'm not in conscious control of them yet.
"Mulder!" I hear, and
it's the first intelligible thing I've gotten
from him and it's thick and hoarse and more than half breath.
"Ahh..." I breathe,
and that effort alone has taken more than I have to
give, and I have to let the upswell of frustration that causes to just
flow through me and out, not allowing it to claim a foothold and take
what tiny bits of energy I'm hanging onto. In four, out
seven. In four, out seven. No hurry. Just
center. Come to center. I picture the sea calm,
like Alex
and I have seen it off our deck, barely a wave to lap at the beach, no
wind to blow the gulls around. I try again.
"Alehhh..."
"Mulder, oh God
Mulder, I love you I love you I love you," he says down
to me, and I realize that's what I'd heard before, only a bit slower
now and more distinct. I make my lips twitch in what I hope
he
can see wants to be a smile.
I feel his hand now,
brushing my hair back over and over, and I'm aware
that it's him rocking me, ever-so-gently, as he cradles my head in his
lap. I still feel like I'm spinning, but I can breathe, and
the
nausea is mild. I send a command down to my hand and feel it
lift, but only enough to flop down on my own stomach and then slide off
again.
"Don't move," he rasps
out, and he sounds like he's been gargling glass
or rocks. He sniffs loudly and swallows, and I realize those
are
tears clogging his throat. I try to lift my hand again,
because
it seems easier than trying to speak right now, but he's not in a
position to give me anything to touch anyway, and it flops to the floor
again, useless. "I'm sorry," he squeezes out past more
tears. "I'm sor-I love you I love you I love you I love you,"
he
chants, interrupting his apology just as another wave was about to
knock me over again. I don't know how he figured it out, but
it
really seems to work, him saying those words. I let them work
their magic, and just lie in his lap and breathe them in.
Feel
them heal the torn open wounds in my energy, return strength to my
limbs.
The dizziness subsides
after an indeterminate amount of time, and all I
feel is bone-deep exhaustion, like I'm suddenly on a planet with five
times the gravity of Earth.
"Ssssleeeep..." I
breathe out, and then it takes me.
The next time I wake,
my neck hurts and my face feels wet and
cool. I start to try to get up, and I find my limbs are only
somewhat under my command, still feeling like each has a fifty-pound
weight secretly attached.
"Mulder!" his voice
croaks out above me, and it's so broken and hoarse
that I force my eyes open, still putting effort into pushing myself up
with my hands.
"Neck..." I whisper,
feeling sharp, shooting pains knife through it at my attempts to move.
"Sorry!" he replies,
his voice hardly recognizable or audible.
"Do you want a pillow? A blanket? I didn't wanna
leave
you. I'll get you a pillow," and he begins to slide out from
under me, his hand and prosthetic supporting my head so that there is
no impact at all as it comes to rest on the floor. "Be right
back," he says, and I see him stand over me, then look down, and the
bloodshot eyes, blotchy swollen face, and pale, pale skin have me
gasping in shock. Which sends me under a wave of dizziness,
so I
let the reaction just wash on through, not claiming it, not allowing it
to get purchase, just detaching from any feelings about why Alex looks
so incredibly shattered.
While he's getting the
pillow and blanket, I think about it and realize
he's never seen me this bad. Well, not since the time he
stepped
over me on the stairway. Yes...guilt...I can feel it...I think...mayabe he
feels guilty that he wasn't there for me last time. But he's
working very hard to overcome that. I can feel him replacing every
negative thought with a love one.
"Here," he croaks, his
voice little more than a cracked whisper as he
returns. And he crouches next to me and lifts my head,
aggravating my sore neck, but I control the grimace of pain so as not
to worry him and allow him to slide a pillow under my head.
Then
I feel our purple comforter being laid over my body, and I have to sigh
at the feeling of comfort and warmth. I don't know how long
I've
slept, but my limbs feel stiff and sore, and I shift them around,
stretching and trying to get totally back into my body again.
I'm sick of lying
down, and I leverage myself up on my arms, Alex
grabbing me around the chest and helping me reach a sitting position,
his strong, solid arm supporting my back.
"Thanks," I whisper,
trying to smile for him. His eyes fill with
tears, and he squints and blinks, sending them coursing down already
wet cheeks. "Feel...better...Alex..." I manage, trying to
keep
the smile on my face to reassure him. I swallow and realize
my
throat is dry and sore. "Water?" I ask him, happy to have
something to give him to do. I know how much he likes to take
care of me.
"Yes, um," he says,
uncertain what to do since his arm is holding most of my weight.
I lean forward, taking
my own weight over my pelvis, and drag my legs into a crossed position
for more balance. I place my hands palm-down, making a pyramid of
my body. I've discovered that I feel more grounded in this
position than any other.
His arm leaves my
back. "Okay, be right back," he says again, and
because it makes me dizzy when I nod, I breathe out a, "'k," and watch
him leave the room without raising my bowed head.
He brings me room
temperature water, always so incredibly thoughtful
and knowing I can't drink as much as I need if it's cold, and I down
the whole thing, gasping for breath when done, and handing him back the
empty bottle. I feel the water revitalize my cells and clear
my
head further, and I finally raise it and look at him, kneeling next to
me.
"You...look
worse...than I feel..." I whisper, smiling again.
He doesn't smile in
return. He looks like he's going to throw up. His
hands are shaking where they grip the bottle.
"What...happened?" I
ask him, hoping he realizes I don't want any
details, nothing that will carry emotional charge, but I need to know
what I'm dealing with.
His eyes close
tightly, his lips trembling, then he shakes his head,
bows it, then raises his face to me, looking ten years older and like
he hasn't slept in days. "Can we talk about it later?" he
rasps
out, his voice dead and nearly inaudible.
"Yes," I say, because
there's no energy for argument, curiosity, or any
kind of disagreement. I just have to let it flow.
"Help
me...chair?" I ask, starting to get to my feet.
He scrambles to help
me, and I feel him still trembling slightly as we
make our way down the hall and into the living room. The view
out
the window tells me several hours have gone by. The sun is
setting, the lapping waves going purple-indigo. As I sink into my chocolate
chair, I release a sigh of exhaustion and appreciation of the stunning
view.
"Beautiful," I
breathe, and I pat the chair arm weakly, my sign that I
want him to join me in his usual position on the floor by my
side. I've suggested he get his own chair that he can push
right
up next to mine, since he's not content with sitting on the couch at a
right angle to me, but he says this is fine for now. I think
he
likes sitting at my feet. Truthfully, I like it too.
I absently lay my hand
on his head and stroke through his naturally
wavy, coarse hair. He lets out a sigh so deep and shuddering
that
I'm afraid he's going to simply collapse on the floor.
This was hard on
him. More than I expected. I tried to warn
him, when we were IMing, that this wouldn't be easy. The last
week has been a sweet reprieve, broken only by Scully's ongoing anxiety
over where her partner has gone off to and who with, but mostly it's
been a lovely blur of sex, ocean, Alex's cooking, and soothing music,
with touch being such a part of our lives that I'm already taking it
for granted that whenever I want to put my hands on him, he'll be
there. And affection displayed so openly you'd think we'd
been
lovers for years instead of days. I just can't waste energy
on
pretending I don't love him.
I stroke through his
hair, and he leans his head against my leg and
sighs again. We watch the sun go down together, and though I
feel
extremely weak and wouldn't trust myself to walk across the floor
without help, I'm starting to feel more like myself. Well, my
new
self, anyway. Buffeted by emotional waves, but still in
control
and functioning.
"Hungry," I tell him,
gripping his hair a little in playful emphasis,
only just now realizing how incredibly starving I really am, feeling
like if I don't eat RIGHT NOW I'm gonna tear into the arm of my chair
with my teeth.
"What do you want?" he
whispers, his voice now nothing but. Is
that from the crying? The chanting? Did he yell or
scream
or something? I don't remember, and worrying about it makes
me
light-headed and sick, so I let it flow through me.
"Whatever," I tell
him. "Starved."
And he gets up, my
hand sliding off his head, and goes into the kitchen to make dinner.
To Be Continued...?
We need your
help. We'd like to continue this one, but it's been
awhile and our muse has fallen into coma. If you want to see
more, we're gonna need some feedback to kickstart her up
again.
:-) Please send it here!
