Road Trip
by Keiko Kirin

Mulder was running late. He grabbed his tie, threw it around his neck, and shrugged into his jacket. He stepped into the dark living room, catching the scent of warm doughnuts. Someone must be in the hallway, he thought. He reached for his coat.

=Click.=

Cold handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

=Srrriipff.=

The safety was released on the gun pressed to his temple.

He froze, fingers still resting on the wool of his coat. The doughnut aroma was very strong now. With another familiar smell. Doughnuts and... leather.

Oh shit. No. It can't be. He glanced back out of the corner of his eyes.

"Krycek," he spat the word out.

Alex Krycek smiled around the doughnut he was chewing, caressed Mulder's temple with the gun barrel and frisked Mulder with his free hand. He confiscated Mulder's Sig Sauer, tucking it into his leather jacket. He grabbed Mulder's coat, removed the cell phone and threw it across the room, and draped the coat over Mulder's arms.

Mulder took his chance. He spun around and knocked against Krycek with his full body weight. Krycek careened backward but regained his footing and shoved his gun into Mulder's stomach.

"Now Mulder," he sighed impatiently. "Behave yourself."

"What do you want?" Mulder ground out, trying to make a grab for Krycek's throat in spite of the handcuffs.

Krycek took hold of the handcuffs' chain and yanked it down roughly. He snapped the safety back on his gun and slid it into its holster, then bent down and picked up Mulder's coat and folded it over Mulder's hands.

"We're going on a road trip."

Like hell we are. I'll kill you, you bastard.

-----

After Mulder's handcuffs had been securely looped around the handle on the passenger-side door, Krycek slid into the driver's seat and graced Mulder with his smuggest grin. Mulder glared at him sourly.

You're so pretty when you're pissed off. He gave Mulder a thorough, critical look. Even with that bad GQ haircut.

Krycek reached into the backseat and produced a plastic grocery bag that rattled. He crammed it into the storage area under the cigarette lighter.

"Don't worry. I brought cassettes."

Mulder jiggled his handcuffs. "Fuck you."

Krycek tsked, reaching back again to get the cardboard container. He opened the lid, mulled over his options, finally settled on the chocolate-creme-filled one and wedged it into Mulder's mouth. Powdered sugar rained down onto Mulder's suit.

"And doughnuts."

Whatever obscenity Mulder hurled at him was muffled by chocolate creme.

-----

If there was one sight Mulder never thought to see, it was Alex Krycek singing along to Sister Sledge's "We Are Family" while sitting in morning rush hour Beltway traffic.

No, not singing, exactly. Mouthing the words, moving his shoulders and tapping the steering wheel to the beat. Mulder stared at him, knowing this image would be forever etched in his memory, his own private hell. He wondered if he could dislocate his thumbs and pull his hands free. He imagined the pain and decided against it. The song had to end sooner or later.

"I always took you for more of a Dead Kennedys fan," he said as the song finished. Krycek shot him an unreadable sidelong glance then rolled the car another two hundred feet as a Sinead O'Connor song started.

"Take the handcuffs off. If you're going to torture me with annoying music until I lose my mind, I'd like to know what's coming. Bee Gees? Abba? Mariah Carey?"

Krycek was too busy muttering curses at the Dodge Intrepid which was trying to change lanes in front of them to respond. Mulder tried to peer into the plastic bag of loose tapes, but couldn't read any of the labels. A slow, cold dread filled him. "Show tunes?"

-----

Sid Vicious was singing "My Way," they were out of Beltway Hell and on the open highway, and the sun was making a cameo appearance between low, milky clouds.

"You can take the handcuffs off now."

Seventy-eight.

Krycek hadn't realized he'd said anything until Mulder asked, "Seventy-eight?"

Krycek shot him an annoyed look. "That's the 78th time you've asked me to take the handcuffs off."

"Oh."

Mulder shifted, jangling the cuffs against the passenger side door. Silence filled the mid-size rental car as the song ended. They'd gone another twelve miles before, "Where are we going?"

Fifty-three.

Krycek drove another five miles. "Arizona."

"But where in Arizona?"

Fifty-four.

-----

Krycek pretended not to notice the stares of the locals as he shepherded Mulder into the 7-Eleven, but the slab of spittle that landed near his boot as the automatic doors swooshed open was harder to ignore. He gritted his teeth, grabbing Mulder's hand to drag him along, the handcuffs linking their wrists dangling, cold, a little heavy. As they stepped into the air-conditioned nirvana of junk food and lottery tickets, Krycek muttered, "You know what they're thinking."

Mulder gave him a sidelong once-over. "The way you're dressed? No wonder."

Fuck them.

So they strolled, hand-in-hand, handcuffs lightly chafing their wrists, grabbing a mishmash of food, drink, a disposable razor for Mulder, a Weekly World News for Mulder, a set of ear-plugs for Mulder ("in case you snore"), a...

"Wait a minute! How much money do you have?"

Mulder fumbled through his pockets with his free hand and pulled out his wallet. He jerked Krycek's wrist as he poked through it.

"Twenty-five dollars and a bunch of quarters."

"Credit cards?"

Mulder glared at him and hissed, "You think I'm going to let you rack up my Visa bill?"

Krycek grabbed the wallet from his hand, giving him his best "I'm-the-one-in-charge-here" look. He tossed the ear-plugs and tabloid aside, shoved the rest in front of the cashier and produced Mulder's Visa card, meeting Mulder's glare with cool smugness.

While he became indebted to Citibank for another $32.75, Mulder's gaze roved around the store. Krycek watched him, expecting Mulder to try something stupid to escape. He wasn't in the least surprised when Mulder faced him with, "I have to go the bathroom."

Krycek gathered the plastic bag of groceries and walked him to the back of the store. As he shouldered the men's room door open, Mulder stopped. "Undo the cuffs."

Eighty.

Krycek shook his head. Mulder gave a repeat performance of the defiant glare. "I'm going in there alone," he growled.

"Unh-uh. I've escaped through many a men's room window, Mulder, and you're..." Krycek gave Mulder a head-to-toe assessment. "... skinnier and wrigglier than I am. We both go in, or we both go back to the car. Besides, I have to go, too."

Mulder scrunched up his nose in distaste but reluctantly headed into the restroom. Krycek smirked as he walked in. There was no window.

One stall and two urinals. It occurred to Krycek then that as much as he was enjoying humiliating Mulder, he hoped all Mulder had to do was take a leak. There were limits. He relaxed a little when Mulder led him to the urinals. Okay, this was easy, except... there really were some things you needed two free hands for.

As they stepped back into the store, they paused, and Krycek could feel them both shuddering off the lingering traces of a shared traumatic experience. Mulder muttered, "So help me God, I am going to kill you."

-----

In the late afternoon, Krycek finally relented and agreed to stop for lunch at a busy interstate intersection filled with strip malls and gas stations. They pulled into the parking lot of an Eat'n'Park and Mulder rattled the handcuffs. "What are you going to do with these?"

Krycek flashed him a grin. All teeth. "I'm an FBI agent, bringing you in to justice." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his old FBI ID, waving it in Mulder's face.

Mulder smirked. "In that outfit?" he said, giving Krycek's leather jacket and tight black jeans a pointed look. Then he deliberately looked at himself, stretching his legs out, showing off his dark blue suit and long coat.

Krycek's grin faded. He cocked his head. "Okay. So you're the FBI agent and I'm the criminal. But don't try anything," he warned, opening his jacket to reveal his gun. "Just remember, I have no problems with killing another member of the Mulder family," he said nastily.

Mulder felt a fireball of fury and lunged at him, hampered by the cuffs, but still managing a respectable head-butt he hoped hurt Krycek as much as it'd hurt him. Krycek drew his gun and rammed it into Mulder's stomach.

"Behave yourself, Mulder," he said quietly. Mulder consoled himself by watching the bruise darken on Krycek's forehead. There wasn't much he could do in the parking lot anyway, but once inside...

They entered the restaurant -- one of those depressing 'family restaurant' chains with a prominent salad bar, obnoxious air conditioning, and a cake display next to the cash register -- handcuffed together, Mulder walking in front but Krycek uncomfortably close behind.

When the perky waitress came to seat them, her cheerful smile froze as Mulder discreetly flashed his ID. He lowered his voice. "Special Agent Mulder, FBI. I'm escorting a dangerous felon and we've stopped to eat. I can assure you I have the situation under control."

I wish.

Then he leaned closer to ask her to make a call for him, but Krycek yanked on the handcuffs and said loudly, "I'm hungry."

The waitress' stare shot across Mulder's shoulders to Krycek, and Mulder watched her wide-eyed horror melt into something more like morbid curiosity. Then she seemed to recover herself -- Mulder could almost hear her reminding herself she was a professional. She straightened, pulled two large plastic menus from a basket and led them to a quiet corner booth, away from the windows.

"Marie will be here to take your order shortly."

Mulder watched her scurry down the aisle with almost breathless excitement, no doubt to break the good news to Marie. "We've got a felon in booth 6!"

The handcuffs pulled on his wrist, slicing another layer of skin, as Krycek slid into the booth. Well, there was no help for it. "Scoot over."

Krycek scooted, giving him just enough room to sit down, smiling benignly at him. Mulder sat, trying to ignore how their thighs touched, and passed him a menu. Krycek leaned close to murmur, "Eat up, Mulder. This may be your last meal."

It took all of Mulder's self-restraint not to body slam him into the wall.

-----

Krycek liked Marie on sight. Dark-haired, sparkling eyes, tall and overweight, she approached the booth, no doubt clued in by her colleague, took them in with one glance, then whipped out her pad and asked in the bored tone of a woman who takes no shit from anyone, "What'll ya have?"

Krycek closed his menu and put on his most charming smile. "What do you recommend?" She met his eyes and he winked at her. She winked back. Krycek grinned, glancing to check if Mulder had seen, but Mulder seemed absorbed in his menu.

"The chicken-fried steak is popular. Comes with fries or mashed potatoes, and candied apples." Krycek hadn't been feeling hungry but as soon as the words left her mouth his stomach growled.

"Mmm-mmm," he said, writhing anxiously, jostling Mulder and poking him with his elbow. Just to be aggravating. "Sounds delicious. I'll take that. With fries, please, Marie."

Marie scribbled it down and looked at Mulder. But Mulder was still intently reviewing his choices, although not too absorbed to return the elbow-poke. Krycek looked at Marie and sighed sympathetically. She tapped her pad with her pen.

"So," she said after a while. "What did you do?"

"Arson," he said, the first thing that popped in his mind, as Mulder simultaneously intoned gravely, "The prisoner is not allowed to speak."

Marie looked skeptical. "Arson? How'd the FBI get involved?"

Krycek was about to quip, "I set fire to an American flag," but Mulder interrupted.

"I'll have a plain cheeseburger, medium-rare, with fries. And a black coffee. And this prisoner is a pathological liar, ma'am, so don't believe anything he says." He shot Krycek a dark look which Krycek supposed was meant to be threatening, but under the circumstances it just lightened his spirits even more.

"Except my order, Marie," Krycek put in. "That was the whole truth and nothing but. And I'll have a Coke with that." He flashed his charming smile again as she wandered off.

He expected Mulder to resume sniping at him, but Mulder surprised him by asking, "So what's with Arizona?"

Krycek sat back, deciding how much to tell him. How much could be bait, without revealing too much about where he'd come by the information.

"There's a man we both know," he began, giving Mulder a meaningful look. The spark of hatred in Mulder's eyes was enough to confirm Mulder knew immediately which man. "He sent a courier to Arizona a couple of weeks ago. To a deserted area no one's ever heard of. Well, as of two days ago, there was suddenly a military presence in this same area. A big military presence."

Mulder started to ask him something but just then Marie showed up with their drinks. When she was out of earshot, Krycek decided to add a little more bait to the hook. "They seem to be mining. Looking for particles of black rocks."

Mulder stared thoughtfully at his coffee. "The deserted area is a meteor crater." It was a statement of certainty, not a question, but Krycek nodded anyway.

That's my bright boy.

"Why?"

Krycek had a theory of his own, but he wasn't going to share it with Mulder yet. He just shrugged and took a drink of his Coke. Mulder was watching him, and his look revealed he suspected Krycek knew more than he was telling.

Of course I do.

-----

"I can't sleep like this. Take the handcuffs off."

He saw Krycek add to his mental tally as he pulled off his jeans. Then Krycek turned part-way, smiling, giving him an oddly appealing flirtatious look. Mulder could swear Krycek batted his eyelashes.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I just like seeing you in handcuffs?"

Krycek grinned wickedly and Mulder forced himself not to attempt another head-butt. Couldn't reach from here anyway.

Just killing him would be too good for him. There had to be an appropriate form of torture. But why did he get the feeling that Krycek would enjoy most forms of torture?

Krycek had stripped completely and was fluffing a pillow.

"Wait a minute. Where's your underwear?"

Krycek carefully tucked his gun holster under the pillow and lifted back the sheets. "I never sleep in my underwear."

"You do when you're sharing a bed with me."

Krycek just gave him a look. Mulder sighed irritably and clanged his handcuffs against the bedframe again. This was really hurting now. His wrist was raw. And like a scene from some bad porn movie, his captor was going to sleep naked with him. There had to be a special place in hell just for Krycek.

Despite himself, he let his eyes follow Krycek's naked body moving around the room, looking for any distinguishing characteristics. Scars. Tattoos. Genital piercings. But no, Krycek was mercifully if disappointingly mark-free. The lack of scars was especially interesting, Mulder mused, wondering how a scum like Krycek had managed to escape permanent physical damage for so long.

Something else to add to the list of things to do to him when I get out of this.

He was looking at Krycek's cock with a detached, automatic comparison ("shorter, heftier, nothing to write home about") running through his head when it suddenly loomed closer and he realized Krycek was climbing into bed. He scooted over to the far edge.

"And you can keep that to yourself," he said warningly.

Krycek settled on his side and looked up at him from underneath those really annoyingly pretty eyelashes. "Spoil sport."

Then Krycek closed his eyes, gave a gruff sigh, and seemed to collapse immediately into sleep in a way that reminded Mulder of meteorites landing. Boom, and you're there. He clenched his jaw, instantly jealous, pulled his knees up to his chin, and stared at the lifeless TV screen, recalling everything he knew about meteor craters in Arizona.

-----

=Crack.=
=Click.=
=Clang.=
=Crack.=
=Click.=
=Clang.=

Who knew eating sunflower seeds could be so noisy?

"Mulder. Go to sleep."

"I can't."

=Crack.=

"Then stop eating sunflower seeds."

=Click.=

"No."

=Clang.=

Krycek cursed under his breath. The handcuffs were clanging against the bedframe. Every time Mulder reached for a seed.

=Crack.=

He twisted around and smacked the sunflower seed out of Mulder's hand before he put it in his mouth, then swept the rest of the bag from the bedside table onto the floor. He started to give Mulder a satisfied sneer but the look in Mulder's eyes stopped him. Weary. Sad. Longing for rest. Unwillingly he thought of Augustus Cole and the soldiers who couldn't sleep, and he fought the nausea associated with that memory.

"Why can't you sleep?" And his voice was softer than he would have liked it.

Mulder shrugged. A muffled clang. "Insomnia." He paused, rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and shook his head. "No. More like dread. Dreams I have I wish would go away."

"What kind of dreams?" He propped up on one elbow, interested now. Mulder's screwed-up psyche had always held that dangerous attraction for him. He'd never wondered what Mulder dreamed about before; now he was insatiably curious.

Mulder rattled them off like a litany of misery. "Samantha is calling me but it's dark and I can't move. I can't get to her. Then there's a bright light and I know she's gone... My father is trying to tell me something but I can't hear him, can only watch his lips move as he dies in my arms..." Krycek avoided the wretched look Mulder gave him. "I'm running. As fast as I can, until my lungs are burning." He paused, took a breath. "But... I'm too late."

Krycek frowned. This was harder than he thought. He hadn't expected Mulder to bare his soul like this.

"Other things," Mulder said quietly. "Flashes of dreams, memories, subconscious demons. All the same. I'm trapped. I'm too late."

Krycek found he had nothing to say. He doubted Mulder would welcome some platitude of comfort, and besides they both knew you couldn't escape your dreams, only hope they'd leave you alone once in a while.

He glanced up and Mulder was watching him. "What do you dream about?"

You don't want to know. Really.

"Big-titted Russian women."

Mulder cracked a genuine smile, and started laughing, a slow, quiet chuckle. Krycek had never heard him laugh, would've thought him incapable of it. But it was infectious and he laughed, too. Then there was silence, made uncomfortable by the now almost palpable presence of Mulder's dreams. Krycek sat up and looked him in the eyes.

"If I undo the handcuffs, will you sleep?"

"No." Mulder looked almost apologetic as he said it.

Even as he reached under his pillow, unclasped his holster, and reached into the spare clip pocket for the key, Krycek cursed himself silently for falling for the oldest trick in the book. Damn Mulder and his lost puppy-dog eyes.

If he makes a run for it I'm going to grab him by the ankles and throw him through that window.

As he awkwardly leaned across Mulder to unlock the cuffs, Mulder said, "I'm not going to make a run for it, you know," and Krycek paused for a second, unnerved by Mulder echoing his own thoughts. The cuffs opened with a soft clink and Mulder pulled his hand free, rubbing his wrist. Krycek put the key back in his holster.

"I mean, you're a piss-poor kidnapper," Mulder continued. "One sob story about nightmares and you release me..." Krycek glared at him and would've slapped the cuffs back on except that Mulder's eyes showed too plainly it wasn't just a sob story. "But I'm not going to run. You have me interested. I want to get there and see for myself."

I know you so well, and that frightens me.

Krycek huffed and settled back into bed, wincing as a sunflower seed shell bit his butt. He squirmed away from it and closed his eyes with a sinking feeling that as long as Mulder was on this trip, he wasn't going to get enough sleep.

-----

"Let me drive."

Twenty-one.

Why had he ever taken the handcuffs off?

"No."

"Oh, come on. I haven't run. I've stopped asking where we're going..." At sixty-six times. "...I'm not going to turn off the road because there is no place to turn off."

Mulder gestured at the flat, featureless landscape outside. America the beautiful, Krycek thought with a snort.

"No."

-----

Mulder slumped in the passenger seat. "If you're not going to let me drive, will you at least drive like a human being? If I'm going to die in a horrible traffic accident, I don't want the last image imprinted on my retinas to be your stupid-ass haircut."

Krycek glanced into the rear-view mirror, leaning and tilting his head. He ran one hand over his hair. Mulder chewed the inside corner of his lips to keep from laughing.

"It's not that bad," Krycek said defensively. Mulder stared at the road straight ahead and nodded. After a few moments Krycek added, "It's growing out."

Mulder nodded again.

He was aware of Krycek's gaze. Then Krycek sniped, "At least I don't wear ties that look like they were designed by some greeting card artist on acid."

'Greeting card artist on acid?' Mulder lifted the end of his tie and looked at it for a moment. It wasn't bad, he liked this one. Yellow spirals and aqua dots on a burnt orange background. He turned it towards Krycek.

"This one's from Hallmark."

Krycek slammed on the breaks. "That's it!" he snarled, parking the car in the middle of the highway. He reached for the glove compartment, opened it and started fumbling inside. Mulder sat back and watched him for a moment.

"If you're looking for the handcuffs..."

"Where are they?" Krycek demanded, shooting him a look of hellbent anger.

"The last time we stopped for gas I was cleaning out the candy wrappers and I must've thrown them away," Mulder said, deliberately keeping his tone neutral.

Krycek slapped him. Hard. His jaw snapped to one side and back before his cheek began to sting. Not a heartbeat later, Mulder slapped him back. He hoped harder.

Krycek's eyes shone with a disturbing gleam. He pulled his gun out and shoved it under Mulder's chin.

Mulder just stared at him. "You're not going to shoot me," he stated confidently.

"Oh yeah?"

Mulder tried to nod but the gun was an obstacle. "Yeah. Cause if you just wanted to kill me, you would've done that two days and twelve-hundred miles ago. Instead you kidnapped me and forced me on this fascinating tour of America, telling me just enough about some plan to cover up Something Big that you knew I wouldn't be able to resist coming along, even though I don't trust you and I despise you. If you shoot me now, whatever role I'm supposed to play in your game is over, and my bet is that then the game is over and you won't be on the winning side."

Krycek's eyes lost the murderous gleam, but he didn't move the gun a millimeter.

"I could just maim you."

Mulder clenched his jaw, exasperated. "Yeah, you could. This has been such a dream of a road trip so far, that I'm sure dragging a bleeding and suffering me along, and keeping me alive for whatever it is you expect me to do, is going to make it that much more of a precious moment for you."

Krycek's look faded to an angry glare. No murder. No maiming. Just pissed off. Mulder had him, he knew it. Krycek lifted the gun away slowly, still trying to be threatening, and slid it into his holster. He turned back to the steering wheel, gripped it as if he were going to rip it out, then put the car in gear.

"I despise you too," he muttered in a low, rough voice.

Mulder leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. "I know that."

He slept for the rest of the day's drive.

-----

He would've almost preferred the sunflower seed noises to this silence. It figured that the one night he would've welcomed the distraction, the TV was busted. He thought of calling the front desk for a new one, but that was such an effort. Everything was an effort, the closer they got.

He was tense. At first the fun of shoving Mulder around was enough to keep his mind off what was happening -- what was going to happen if his gamble failed -- but now, less than a day's drive away, in a depressing roadside motel that looked like it'd been "the scene of the crime" a million times over... Now it was just tiring.

Mulder wasn't asleep. Mulder never slept, except in the car. He wondered if Mulder dreamed in the car, and if those dreams were restful instead of haunting.

Oh hell. Why should I care?

He watched the patterns of non-light on the ceiling for a while. He wanted to fall asleep so badly, a sound, deep sleep with no dreams, no waking up, just a soothing, peaceful unconsciousness. He tried to remember the last sleep he'd had like that. Funny how something most people took for granted could suddenly become like the holy grail.

Ah yes, now he remembered. In the arms of that Las Vegas whore with the big tits, after fucking her so hard he thought his arteries would burst. No such luck now.

Unless he fucked Mulder.

Hmm.

The idea was appealing. He played with it for a while. He'd never denied to himself that he'd wanted to jump Mulder's bones from the minute he set eyes on him. And if it had been possible, then, during the brief window of opportunity when Mulder had almost trusted him, he would've done it in a heartbeat.

He followed that untravelled path for a while, smiling. Imagining how he would have set up the seduction. Poor, green Alex Krycek, the good little FBI agent asking Mulder, the reckless and legendary, for guidance. Tagging along and becoming a de facto friend. Someone Mulder could rely on. Inviting him over--

Nah. Too much work. He never could've waited that long.

He listed a handful of missed opportunities. He could've just grabbed Mulder as he stepped out of that pool and done him at FBI headquarters. He could've gone for him after shooting Mulder's father, just gagged him and bound him and--

Nah. There were limits. And unfortunately his work was always getting in the way. He had things to do, people to kill, and as distracting as Mulder could be, he was also the constant reminder of what had to be done and why.

Still...

He rolled onto his side and propped up on one arm, looking at Mulder's profile, a black silhouette against the grey gloom. So close. He was now totally aware of Mulder's body next to his, the warmth it gave, the weight of it on the mattress, the scent of cheap motel soap and some other smell, Mulder's sweat or breath or essence.

"Essence?" Shit, what's next? Comparing him to a summer's day?

He wondered if Mulder ever did guys. Mulder seemed so loose in some respects. That same open-for-all-possibilities curiosity that landed him in trouble and made him a target could also lead him down some interesting sexual alleys, Krycek decided. He let himself imagine what it would be like, what Mulder's back and shoulders and neck would taste like, what his ass would feel like, how firm it would be, how tight.

Well, that was predictable.

He edged away and let one leg drape the other, keeping his waking cock nestled against his thighs. Suddenly wondering if Mulder was as aware of him as he was of Mulder. He was holding his breath, he realized. He let it out. Mulder didn't move or make a sound.

Maybe he's asleep.

He went back to thinking about sex. He tried to conjure up a clear memory of the Las Vegas whore but he really couldn't remember anything about her other than having a good fuck and a good sleep. Well worth the money.

He wondered what Mulder's cock tasted like. If Mulder would make sounds while it was sucked, if he'd writhe around or buck and fuck. If he liked having it bitten.

"No." Mulder's flat tone filled the room. "We're not going to have sex."

Krycek almost lept from his skin. Was the guy telepathic or what?

"What? No... Mulder, you're crazy--"

"Your hard-on touched my leg," Mulder muttered accusingly. He shifted and Krycek could just imagine the look Mulder was giving him. He was thankful that it was too dark for Mulder to see him flush guiltily.

"You were thinking about it, weren't you? You were thinking about us having sex."

"I was not," he protested weakly.

"Then why are you looking at me?"

Damn.

"Okay. So. Yeah, I was. So what? It's just thinking, Mulder. I haven't done anything. I haven't laid a hand on you."

Mulder thrashed about, sitting up and switching on the light. He flung the covers back.

"That is so what, Krycek," he said, and Krycek glanced down at his cock. There it was, nice and hard, patiently waiting for its reward. "I'm just supposed to lie here next to you while you whack off or what? Listen to you get off through the bathroom wall?"

Krycek propped himself up on his elbows, shaking his head. "I never took you for a prissy virgin, Mulder, jeez."

Mulder crossed his arms. "Insult as foreplay. That's so you."

Krycek almost laughed. Mulder was overreacting, and it was fun. A little arousing, enough to keep him interested. Make him forget his tension.

Mulder was starting to rant. "It's just wrong, Krycek. You're a scum and a murderer and you killed my father and Scully's sister and you kidnapped me. How can you even think of it, you amoral son-of-a-bitch? How??"

Krycek leered over at him, deciding a reply was unnecessary. Didn't Mulder understand that 'how' was irrelevant?

"If you hop up on my lap, I'll give you the best fuck of your life," he promised, and knew it was a promise he could keep, or die trying.

Mulder's glare lowered the temperature just enough to make his skin tingle, which only heightened his excitement. "You're a sick bastard."

-----

"You're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Bastard.

Mulder sat up, cross-legged, and leaned against the headboard. Krycek was sprawled on his back, under the covers, but as far as Mulder could tell, he wasn't jerking off.

He eyed Krycek and murmured sarcastically, "Best fuck of my life, huh?"

Krycek gave him that leer again. Obviously he was unaware of how dorky it looked, Mulder thought. "You better believe it, baby," Krycek replied smoothly.

Mulder snorted. "I don't think so. In fact, I bet you're lousy in bed. More like the worst fuck of my life, baby."

Krycek shifted so he could glare up at him, trying to look tough and arrogant. "And how would you know?"

"Easy. You're amoral, greedy, selfish, and arrogant. And stupid. You're the type of guy-- all that's important is getting there, forget the trip along the way. Get your dick up some hole and hump until you get your rocks off, and leave your partner lying there wondering, 'is that it?' And it is it, cause you've got what you wanted, and that's all you care about."

He paused. Krycek was just staring at him, but he was angry. Krycek's cheeks flushed when he got angry. They were almost crimson right now. Mulder warmed to his topic. "That is, assuming you can even perform. All this sociopathic behavior of yours probably stems from some sexual dysfunction. Premature ejaculation, impotence... Although granted, the current evidence would seem to disprove th--"

Krycek had him by the throat and the first thought that ran through his mind was Oh, you stupid prick. Don't strangle me because I was baiting you.

"Selfish, huh?" Krycek breathed into his face. He'd straddled Mulder's legs, forcing them together at an awkward angle, and the heaviness of his body had Mulder pinned where he was. Mulder tried to gulp air into his lungs, wheezing through his nose.

Krycek let go of his throat to grip his chin, pressing his fingers to either side of Mulder's mouth the way veterinarians checked a dog's teeth. Mulder felt the roughness of his fingertips against his lips. They tasted dry and salty.

"You talk too fucking much," Krycek growled at him, then shoved his lips against Mulder's in an ineffectual kiss, given that the way he held Mulder's mouth made it impossible for Mulder to respond.

Assumptions proved correct.

Mulder wheezed again as Krycek drew back, still holding his jaw painfully. Mulder tried swallowing and was thankful his throat didn't feel bruised or damaged. He stared at Krycek, waiting for the next move, wondering if he was about to be raped, and working out how he was going to stop that from happening.

He stretched his arm out and felt across Krycek's pillow, reaching for the gun. It took Krycek a second, but he spotted the motion and made another rough, angry sound. He had to let go of Mulder's chin to grab his wrist. Then he grabbed Mulder's other wrist and held them up in front of him. Mulder felt his grip loosen slightly.

Krycek looked down at their hands, closed his eyes for a moment, looked back up, shaking his head. "Selfish. This coming from you, of all people."

Mulder blinked. He couldn't believe Krycek was actually accusing him of being just as bad. He opened his mouth to protest, but Krycek silenced him by kissing him. A real kiss this time. An unexpectedly and amazingly gentle kiss. A slow kiss. Mulder felt, from the tension in Krycek's lips, the stillness of his body, that Krycek was making an effort to hold back. He was keeping himself in check. And with that recognition Mulder said goodbye to another pet theory about Alex Krycek and admitted that Krycek never fit in exactly where Mulder wanted him to.

Oh hell.

He relaxed just enough to respond. Cautiously. Not really inviting, but not rebuffing either. Enough of an invitation and Krycek accepted it by gliding his tongue along Mulder's lower lip and lightly teasing at slipping inside but never going further.

He drew back and silently took both of Mulder's wrists into one hand. All the while his eyes met Mulder's, in a look both intense and curiously soft which unnerved Mulder more than anything else.

His free hand slipped down to Mulder's undershorts, fingers just barely skimming. Mulder involuntarily writhed, cursing the male body for its unique talent for betrayal. He watched the look in Krycek's eyes change from disbelief to curiosity to satisfaction as his fingers discovered what Mulder was incapable of hiding. He braced himself for some smug sneer, but Krycek was too intent on exploring the bulging curve inside Mulder's shorts to gloat. Mulder's only consolation was that Krycek couldn't know Mulder's arousal had actually started much earlier. The cerebral instigation of it, anyway.

And I call him sick.

Krycek tugged Mulder's shorts off, exposing the damning evidence. Mulder tried to pull his hands free but Krycek's fingers bit into his wrists in response.

So now what? You're just going to look?

This was the Big Moment, and Krycek was hardly even touching him. Mulder felt a disturbing twinge of disappointment. Maybe Krycek's flirting had been a bluff.

And then, in a swift move more graceful and controlled than Mulder would ever have believed him capable of, Krycek slid down and settled between Mulder's legs, glancing up just once -- there was the gloating smirk -- before touching his lips to Mulder's cock.

Oh god.

Mulder writhed, trying to rub against Krycek's lips. Krycek released his wrists to grab his hips and hold him down. With a squirm of frustration Mulder leaned back, letting his mind go blank of all thoughts save the sensation of Krycek's mouth on his cock.

-----

Oh. My. God. I've got Fox Mulder's prick in my mouth.

How the hell had that happened? Too late to wonder now. Krycek just gave in to it, thinking maybe later he could work out how he'd gone from wanting to strangle the life out of Mulder to wanting to give him a blow job. Mulder didn't deserve this, he thought. The bastard.

But...

It was nice. It was very, very nice. Mulder's cock was long and slender, with a quirky head. Just like Mulder. Nicely solid on his tongue, hot and smooth, smelling and tasting of musky male skin and cheap motel soap. He was having fun with it. Giving it the grand tour of his mouth, tongue acting as guide, constantly reintroducing it to his lips by rubbing and tugging. He'd save the biting for later.

Mulder. Beyond just the simple pleasure of tasting his cock was being treated to Mulder's responses. Little noises and half-uttered words, that languorously writhing torso, and the repeated attempts to thrust despite Krycek's unyielding hold on his hips. Krycek teased him by starting to deep throat him, then drawing back to suck just the head.

Mulder tried another futile thrust and snarled in frustration. Krycek chuckled, rolling his tongue around, laving Mulder's tight, swollen tip.

Ouch.

Mulder was kicking him. He couldn't believe it. He was giving Mulder what by rights should be the blow job to end all blow jobs and Mulder was fucking kicking him?

Krycek let one hip go to reach back and grab a flailing ankle. Mulder squirmed, less hampered now.

All right. I've had it.

He gave Mulder all he had. Shoved his face to Mulder's groin, swallowed the whole damn length of him and sucked and slurped like a man dying of thirst. He released Mulder's other hip and Mulder bucked, thrusting.

That was predictable.

But at least he'd stopped kicking. Krycek let go of Mulder's ankle, pausing in mid-motion while Mulder gave his mouth another hard fuck.

Time for retaliation. He was too preoccupied with devouring Mulder's wonderfully full and throbbing cock to time it perfectly, but he did his best. First the slaps against the sides of Mulder's thighs and buttocks, and Mulder bucked again with a muted whelp of surprise. Krycek wished Mulder's ass were raised high enough to give him more of the spanking he deserved, but this would have to do.

Then the bite.

"Ohh fucking god hell jesus christ again." Mulder had found speech.

For once in his life, Krycek obeyed an order from Mulder.

Ah yes.

There it was. A deluge fast as a river, thick as a swamp, salty as the ocean, sweet as cream.

Not more poetry, Alex.

But he couldn't help it. This was wonderful. Feeling every shudder in his mouth, sucking down every pulse of this life-force that was Mulder, consuming Mulder, quenching a deep and ancient thirst he'd never known he'd had. It both heightened his exhiliration and made him forget the ache of curbed release his body felt.

Mulder was spent but Krycek held him in his mouth for a long moment, giving him up slowly and tenderly. It almost bothered him, the dichotomy between the fierceness of before and the gentleness after. It implied things about the nature of his feelings for Mulder Krycek didn't really want to go into right now.

Damn.

-----

I just got the best blow job of my life from Alex Krycek. I am damned and going to hell.

A hell of good sex, though, apparently.

Mulder pondered that oxymoron for a minute, aware of Krycek sliding up the bed next to him. He waited for Krycek to pounce on him, turn him over and do him, but Krycek shocked him by sitting back, propping against the pillows, and staring off into space.

Mulder glanced over. Krycek was still aroused, but obviously the edge had worn off. A light sheen of sweat made his skin glow, and his face was still flushed. Krycek wasn't looking at him. He seemed to be off in his own little world somewhere. While Mulder watched, Krycek licked his lips thoroughly. Tasting me, he thought, both aroused and disturbed by the thought. He wondered what he tasted like to Krycek. He wondered what Krycek was thinking about.

He was curious, very curious. He shifted and placed a hand on Krycek's neck, a slight pressure to get Krycek to turn to him. Krycek wore a guarded expression that might have worked if his eyes hadn't given so much away. Krycek was afraid.

Not a real fear, not a terror or a panic. But a doubt, a disbelief, an anxiety. It took Mulder a split-second to work it out and when he did he felt like an idiot. We are all slaves to our egos sometimes.

He moved closer, until their bodies touched. Krycek stayed still. He almost kissed him, but something about Krycek's expression he found impossible to get past. Instead he smoothed his hand down Krycek's chest and stomach, noting in passing firmness and bulkiness. And tense, tense muscles. He started thinking of it as a problem to solve. Get Krycek to relax and he'll open up. He didn't let himself think about what might be revealed.

When his fingers finally brushed along the curve of Krycek's half-hard cock, Krycek finally spoke. "No. Don't." His voice was quiet but brittle.

Mulder met his look, tried to decipher it.

"Don't," Krycek repeated as Mulder's fingers encircled the warm column. "You don't want to, I'm not forcing you to."

But he did want to. He knew he did. It was madness to want Krycek.

But sometimes there was more peace in madness than in staying sane.

He fixed his gaze on Krycek's eyes and said quietly, "You're not forcing me to."

A split second to register the implications, and with understanding Krycek relaxed slightly. And there it was, plain to see: craving, unfathomable craving. Sensuous longing. A need more complex than to be touched and wanted. Not a simple matter of ego, no. Something both darker and purer than that. He doubted Krycek was aware of how much he was giving away with just his look, the angle of his legs, the position of his body.

He wondered if Krycek saw how it affected him, though. He felt the pull of response, drawn into that dark well, knowing that reaching the bottom would be either painful or impossible. Now he wanted Krycek with every atom and every breath, to drown every one of his senses in him.

He kissed him, long and hungrily, roughness tempered with the softness of lips, and Krycek grabbed his shoulders to hold him there, drawing the kiss out until Mulder was breathless. All the while, Mulder stroked life back into Krycek's cock. Firm, strong life. Life joyously ready to be sacrificed on the altar of need.

Ready to be devoured. Mulder left Krycek's lips swollen and bruised, bit and licked his way down Krycek's craving skin and wedged himself between Krycek's legs. And then it was so simple. Madness that was not the over-complication of sanity but the unraveling of it. The very simplest of things, to kiss and taste and revel in flesh and hair and musk. To bring Krycek into his mouth and for that briefest of moments know him thoroughly. The strength, the longing, the ferocity, the bitterness that was Alex Krycek.

He consumed it all eagerly. With his mouth drinking and pulling Krycek deeper into his own wet need. With his hands grasping wildly at Krycek's flesh until they found that tempting, round ass to grip. With his ears listening to Krycek gasping, and his eyes watching Krycek writhing and pinching his own nipples.

Something about that image -- Krycek giving himself that pleasure while his cock burned and throbbed in Mulder's mouth -- increased Mulder's hunger, made him ravenous. Sucking and biting and rubbing and tasting, his mind an endless loop of coarse profanities. Fuck me give it to me fuck my throat and give me your come you beautiful bastard.

Krycek tossed his head back and made a strangely quiet, brief, guttural sound as his body pushed up and heaved, shoving his cock down Mulder's throat. Mulder's senses were awash with him then -- his rapturous tremors, the flood of his bitter liquid, the tangy scent of his sweat, and the damp heat of his skin.

Madness. Wonderful madness. Forget sanity.

-----

Oh god.

Krycek couldn't recover. He was falling, then rising, shredded, then made whole. He couldn't understand, didn't want to understand. Incoherence was good. Safer. Unconsciousness was even better.

He fell asleep. A deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

-----

No offense, but...

Mulder drank the rest of an opened can of Coke, now warm and flat, to sweeten the aftertaste. His mind spent a distracted minute thinking about the overrated flavor of male come, briefly trying to imagine it as a variety of ice cream and wondering if it could be worse than Chunky Monkey. He should ask Krycek his opinion in the morning. Krycek appreciated humor like that.

Mulder took the can of Coke and stood by the window and looked out but there was nothing to see. So he turned back and leaned against the cool glass and watched the shadowy blob on the bed that was Krycek sleep.

He knew he should be thinking of things other than revolting ice cream flavors. There were 'issues' here. Things he should be afraid of, should deny to himself, or accept and destroy within himself. But somehow, thinking about bad ice cream seemed more appropriate.

He finished the Coke, knowing Krycek wouldn't mind the implied slur on the taste of his semen. Taste wasn't the point, after all. Then he climbed back into bed, sitting with his knees drawn up and his chin resting on one, and stared at another lifeless TV screen. Thinking about meteor craters. Black rocks. The flared ridge of Krycek's erect cock. The military mining black rocks. Krycek's dazed and dreamlike post-orgasm blink. Wondering what plan Krycek had for getting them into the crater. If he even had a plan. Knowing that Krycek would grin like a naughty boy and christen Mulder's ice cream flavor Spunky Monkey.

Finally, he slept.

-----

Was it morning? It was hard to tell. The room was grey but no sunlight seemed to be creeping in. Krycek lifted his head, blinking, focussing on the blur in front of him. Mulder's back.

Krycek sat up. Mulder was asleep, curled up in fetal position. He couldn't believe it. Mulder sleeping. Sex did the trick, he guessed.

It really happened. It fucking really happened.

He remembered Mulder's lips and skin and taste. The feel of his mouth. His body warmed and started to wake until he told it to cool off.

He propped up on one elbow and watched Mulder sleep for a moment before he finally noticed the time on the clock. 5:11. Carefully, he slid closer and lightly draped an arm around Mulder, resting his forehead against Mulder's back. Closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

-----

When he woke up again, Krycek was alone in the bed, face down in a splay of pillows. He peered over them just enough to read the clock -- 7:59.

"Mulder?" His voice was muffled by pillow. No response. He turned his head to speak clearly. "Mulder?"

Silence. He sat up and scanned the room. Empty. Heart beating, mind berating himself Oh you stupid idiotic moron, you let him escape, you thought with your dick and now look, he reached under his pillow, knowing his gun would be gone.

It wasn't. Blinking in disbelief, he pulled it out and checked it. It hadn't been touched. Then he noticed Mulder's coat hanging on the back of the chair, and on the floor next to it, Mulder's shoes.

"Mulder?" he said tentatively.

Mulder came padding out of the bathroom, clad in his undershorts and t-shirt. His hair was wet and haphazardly slicked back from his face. "I heard you the first time. What's up?" Then he stopped and gave Krycek a hard, questioning look.

Krycek looked down. He was still holding his gun. He set it aside, muttering under his breath, "Then why didn't you answer, you dumb prick?"

"Because I was busy shaving," Mulder answered him, and sat down at the foot of the bed, drawing those lovely long legs of his up and folding them into a cross. Krycek realized he was staring. And probably drooling. Down, boy. He sat back and pretended to be an uninterested observer. Mulder's crooked half-smile told him the pretense wasn't working.

"When are we leaving?" Mulder asked.

Krycek thought about it. "It's another five, six hours from here. We should get there after dark. It's going to be tough to get to the crater from the road as it is."

More like impossible. I hope he hasn't figured that out yet.

Mulder became lost in thought for a moment, and Krycek seized the opportunity to ogle some more. Remembering Mulder's naked body touching his. Those long, strong fingers. That long, strong, cock. Those soft, full lips made to be kissed. That smooth, heavenly curved ass made to be--

"Meteors," Mulder interrupted his thoughts.

Krycek's body took a moment to cool down. He hoped Mulder didn't notice the shivers. The crooked half-smile returned, destroying his hopes.

"Yeah?" he prompted when Mulder didn't elaborate.

Mulder stretched with feline grace, slid down against the bed and propped his feet on Krycek's chest, crossing them at the ankles. Ordinarily, it was the kind of smug gesture Krycek would've growled at and threatened Mulder for, but right then it had a welcome friendliness and a hint of intimacy about it.

Ordinarily, you're not remembering having your cock in Mulder's mouth.

Krycek tested to see if the soles of Mulder's feet were ticklish. Apparently not. He turned his futile tickling into a lazy scritch-scritching, then caressed Mulder's arches and ankles, occasionally smoothing his hands down those long, lightly furred calves. Mulder closed his eyes and looked content. Krycek had all but forgotten there was a half-started conversation between them when Mulder said, "No conclusive evidence of extraterrestrial life has ever been found in meteor debris on Earth." He opened his eyes and looked at Krycek. "Until now."

It was partially a question. Krycek debated answering. He watched his fingers gliding over Mulder's legs, finally saying, "I don't think they've found what they think they have."

Mulder went back into think-mode, absently bending his toes. Krycek noticed Mulder's second toes were longer than his big toes and found that peculiarly sexy. He lightly kissed one second toe as if it had been privy to his thoughts.

Mulder was looking at him, one eyebrow raised slightly, and Krycek almost laughed, the question Are you a toe-sucker? was written so plainly. In reply he merely smiled -- he hoped mysteriously -- and lowered his eyelashes coyly.

I'm not a toe-sucker, but for you... For you, anything.

Now that was a disturbing thought.

"What do you think they think they've found?" Mulder asked in his quiet, deliberate way, that calm, don't-frighten-the-suspect manner they'd taught him so well in FBI school. Krycek was feeling hazardously generous with his answers this morning. Fondling Mulder's feet and legs had given him a nice, warm glow that was only marginally lust.

"They think they've found the alien black oil," he stated simply, and watched Mulder taking it in, almost hearing the synapses clicking, the hum of Mulder's mind processing the information and putting the puzzle pieces into place.

"And why are you so sure they haven't?"

That was hard to answer, since Krycek wasn't at all sure they hadn't. When he didn't say anything, just went on stroking Mulder's calves, Mulder asked quietly, "What was it like? Were you aware of it the whole time? Did you know?"

What was it like? Now there was a question Krycek wanted to forget forever and instead ended up answering every day of his life. How to explain it? How to put into words the utter and total violation not just of one's body but of his mind and memories and his whole connection to the rest of the human race. Had he been aware? Oh yeah. Hideously, terrifyingly, maddeningly aware. Seeing the people of this planet through its visual perception: vessels to be filled. Mobile, warm vessels cursed by gravity and ineffectual physical structures. Easy to take over. Easy to conquer.

How could he describe being aware of it examining him as its new temporary home, flowing through every inch and atom of him, judging him to be adequate for its purpose, discovering the motor controls in his brain, gouging his mind for his memories of how to drive and walk and speak and behave like a normal person.

And how could he ever, ever explain what it gave him -- an awareness like nothing else, of its alienness, emotions humans had no concept of, no names for. Like all good attackers, it gave him enough in return to form an insidious, hateful, but fascinating bond for the period of its attack. Even now, if Krycek thought of the agonizing pain when it left his body to enter its ship, a portion of that pain was the sudden loss of this other consciousness so far beyond anything this world had to offer.

He hadn't realized he'd been saying anything aloud until his mouth went dry and he focussed on Mulder's rapt, horrified, envious expression. He hated himself for telling Mulder. This was too much. Too much for Mulder to know. Just speaking of it seemed like a betrayal of the entire planet.

If he says, "I'm sorry," I'm going to beat him senseless.

Mulder sat up, taking his feet off Krycek's chest, gave him a sympathetic smile and said quietly, "I guess we should get moving." Krycek stared after him as he stood up, shaken by the gentleness, not wanting it at all while at the same time needing it desperately.

Mulder paused by the dresser, back turned to the bed, but looking at Krycek through the mirror's reflection. "You know, I wish it had been inside you when you killed my father and when you tried to kill Scully, because then I might be able to forgive you. But it wasn't."

Mulder gathered his clothes and started getting dressed.

-----

They had time to kill. Breakfast stretched until nearly lunchtime, then an hour later Krycek decided Mulder needed more suitable clothes for sneaking into a crater in the desert and took a long detour to the nearest mall. Mulder hated malls, but after three days he hated his suit even more.

They didn't speak much in the car. Krycek popped in a tape of zydeco music that was so incongruous to their surroundings, their mood, and everything Mulder thought he knew about the man next to him, that it dispelled the uneasiness and foreboding -- for now. By the time they parked in front of the JC Penney at the drab middle-of-nowhere mall, the ice had broken again.

"Hey. Caramel corn," Krycek pointed out as they entered through a side door, blasted by the arctic shock of air conditioning.

"You'll be picking it out of your teeth all day."

Krycek shrugged. Mulder did a quick take of the mall directory and steered them towards The Gap. It was a pretty listless, unpopulated mall, and they stood out among the locals as if outlined in neon. Mulder remembered the spittle-as-editorial-comment at the 7-Eleven and smiled to himself. Okay. Now they can call us damn fags and be closer to the mark.

He wasn't sure why he was amused by it. Post-traumatic stress syndrome? Amusement as denial? His mind scanned through lists of clinical diagnoses, but nothing seemed to match what he felt. A strangely comfortable combo of hatred and desire, fascination and revulsion. He had always been attracted to Krycek on some level, at first because of his suspicions -- which later proved correct -- and then because of his hatred and malformed thoughts of revenge. It had been easy to place Krycek squarely in the 'subhuman' category of lifeforms, despise him, and go on. But here Krycek was -- all too human, with his half-shared secrets and hidden agendas, his passions and anger, his humor and morbid charm, his lusts and his needs.

His great ass in those tight jeans.

Mulder silently chastized his mind for honing in on the shallowest of interesting facts about Alex Krycek. But that didn't stop him from walking a little behind Krycek as they strode through the mall.

As they reached The Gap, Krycek said, "Stop checking out my ass, Mulder." Mulder smiled to himself.

It didn't take long for Mulder to find everything he needed: jeans, socks, t-shirt, sweater. Choosing faded shades of blue over Krycek's disapproval ("black's sexier"). He finally relented at the cash register and let Krycek exchange the sweater for a black one, meeting Krycek's smirk of triumph with a patronizing "Whatever you say, dear," which earned them both a lingering glance from the sales clerk.

In the men's room, Krycek helpfully produced a Swiss army knife... Now why am I not surprised? ...and Mulder cut the tags off and changed.

Damn. My shoes.

"Hey Krycek, we're going to have to stop at The F--"

He was cut off by Krycek suddenly crawling into the stall with him and clapping a hand over his mouth. Mulder wedged back into the corner, staring at him in shocked disbelief.

The look in Krycek's eyes explained away Mulder's theory. Dark and grim, saying plainly, Trouble. He nodded his understanding and Krycek let go of his mouth. They stood perfectly still and listened, waited for what seemed like hours, the only sound a persistent leaky faucet. Then Krycek cautiously opened the stall door and peered outside. His gun was drawn, the muscles in his neck were tensed, his whole body was poised and alert.

This, Mulder thought. This is how he looked when he waited to kill my father. When he waited for Scully to come home, when he waited to kill her.

The professional assassin. Mulder tried to close down that line of thought, tried to stay focussed on the present, staring through Krycek and seeing the ugly green tiled wall beyond. But the image was there now, another jagged edge pressing uncomfortably close to the image of Krycek naked and twisting in pleasure.

Krycek let the door swing wide and stepped out, scanning to and fro. Mulder stayed where he was while Krycek checked out the rest of the empty men's room and peeked into the hall.

"He's gone."

"Who was it?

Krycek shook his head, slipping his gun back into its holster. "Don't know. Someone military. He looked like a bad motherfucker anyway."

Mulder gathered his suit and coat. "Where did he go?"

"This hallway ends in a service exit. He probably went out that way. I don't think he saw me." He didn't sound confident enough for Mulder's comfort. "Let's get out of here." He forgot about new running shoes. His work shoes were just going to have to do.

-----

In the car, Mulder dumped his clothes into the back seat after retrieving his wallet and FBI ID from his coat pocket. Krycek had confiscated everything else back in Maryland.

Krycek switched on the engine just as Mulder noticed the cassette deck. He touched it absently. "Did you take the tape out when you parked? The zydeco tape?"

Krycek looked at him, and Mulder was relieved to see Krycek was taking the question seriously. "No. I left it in and just turned everything off."

Mulder poked a finger at the cassette deck slot. "It's empty now." He glanced around and found the tape on the passenger side floor. He held it up.

Krycek growled something unintelligible and searched the glove compartment and storage area between the seats. "Nothing's missing, but..."

"...but they know we're coming."

Krycek nodded unhappily.

Well, shit.

-----

Krycek was driving faster than before, but Mulder suspected Krycek wasn't aware of it. Krycek was venting his anger through the gas pedal, occasionally peppering the silence with a "fuck" or "damn." Mulder sat back in his seat and refused to think about what awaited them because he didn't know for sure. The military and what else? The alien oil? The cigarette-smoking man? He felt the tingling of curiosity and anticipation, and knowing they were expected, possibly being watched, only lent a kind of relief.

He felt tired and wanted to sleep.

When he closed his eyes, however, he was back in that seedy motel room, with his cock halfway down Krycek's throat, skin prickling from the slaps on his thighs and ass. Much as he kept trying to fold last night away and tuck it into a dusty corner of his memory, it kept unfolding, refusing to be ignored. He finally relented and opened his mind to it, stunned by the tumbling, searing ache it produced. For a moment he felt disembodied, horrified at the hunger his body felt until he realized it wasn't just the physical sensation he wanted, wasn't just the sex. It was Krycek. He wanted Krycek. Wanted whatever it was inside Krycek that craved and desired him, wanted to understand it and hold onto it and make it belong to him. This wasn't just madness, it was a sickness.

He opened his eyes and stole a glance at Krycek, who was scowling at the empty road ahead of them. For a moment a hundred different possibilities paraded through his mind. Hot, rough, needy sex in an alley, a jail cell, on a warehouse floor. Krycek certainly dressed for the part. Walked the walk and talked the talk. Then he thought of Krycek caressing his feet -- such a weird, endearing thing to do -- and had a sudden image of them snuggling in a quilt-covered bed calling each other 'Alex' and 'Fox.' He started to laugh.

The car slowed to 75 mph. "What's so funny?"

Mulder kept smiling, the Brady Bunch version of their relationship refusing to leave his mind's eye now. Images of commitment rings and a hand-in-hand stroll along a beach at sunset bubbled up. He chuckled again. "Nothing."

Krycek narrowed his eyes. "What's so damn funny, Mulder?"

His voice was low and sharp, would have been icy on anyone else. Krycek's voice was always full of heat. It was, Mulder realized, one of the sexiest things about him.

Mulder looked out the side window, sifting through flippant responses before simply stating the truth: "Us."

There was silence and Mulder turned back to watch him. Krycek focussed on the road. The minutes disappeared until Mulder decided Krycek had no comment. Then Krycek said, with a note of humor, "Yeah, we're pretty funny."

It was both sarcasm and comic truth. Mulder smiled, appreciating the fact that Krycek apparently shared the same skewed view of this whole thing between them. It made him curious again.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked before it struck him what a stupid, dangerous question that was. He was about to reclaim it with an apology when Krycek answered simply, "No. You?"

Not in the way I feel I should be, he thought, seeing a softly out-of-focus picture of Scully.

"Yes and no."

Krycek grinned, eyes still on the road. "That's a 'no'."

Mulder conceded mentally. "I've thought about it. Wondered what it's like. Wondered if it exists the way everyone believes it does."

"In other words," Krycek said, "you've made it an X-file."

Mulder laughed softly, pleased with the comparison. "Yeah. I guess I have."

Krycek cocked his head. There was a look in his eyes as he scanned the road, and a tilt to his mouth, that made Mulder anticipate one of Krycek's on-target, darkly humorous statements. But when Krycek spoke, he said quietly, "I always liked you, Mulder. I wanted things to be different... No, that's not true. I only wanted that after they'd changed. It would have been so much easier if you'd just been the crackpot they told me you were. They always underestimated you."

His tone was mildly complaining, but Mulder was listening to the words, uncomfortably touched by them. He let too many minutes go by before saying lamely, "Your bad luck." Then feeling how tense he'd become, because Krycek had just confessed something he hadn't expected to hear, he added, "You were very convincing. Anyone else would've trusted you. I always did feel you believed in some of it."

"I did," Krycek nodded. "Some of it. But then, I knew more about some things than you did."

"You won't tell me about those things, either, will you?"

Krycek flashed him a grin. "Nope."

Mulder felt a stab of the familiar hatred and disgust he was used to associating with Krycek. "Why not?"

"Because right now it's about the only thing keeping me alive."

-----

And about the only thing keeping you alive. That and your sheer dumb luck.

But Mulder was mad again, he could tell. He shouldn't have made that comment about knowing more. It infuriated Mulder, understandably, because Mulder had no way of knowing how much peace could be bought with ignorance. Krycek frowned and concentrated on the deserted road, sorry their surprisingly honest conversation had ended. He had always liked Mulder, much to his annoyance. And now...

Now.

What about now?

Now I could love you, you schmuck. And that scares me more than any alien threat or military secret. That could destroy me more efficiently than any weapon known to man.

When had sex become so complicated, he wondered. Why had exchanging bodily fluids with Fox Mulder taken on epic implications? But he knew the reasons. Mulder wasn't simple. Mulder was dangerous and tempting. Krycek had given in to temptation, and now he was in danger. Put that way, it wasn't a very complex problem after all.

He made up his mind. You don't let life make your choices for you. You take what you want, when you want it. It's the only way to survive.

He drove on, glancing at the clock and estimating how far they were from their destination. Mulder was hunched in the passenger seat, brooding, and didn't seem to notice the change in direction or the sudden bumpiness of the road. Krycek had driven them twelve miles from the main highway before Mulder sat up and looked around. "Where are we going?"

Krycek stopped the car and switched off the ignition. He faced Mulder, heart racing, body now alert with focussed need. He grabbed Mulder by the back of his neck and pulled him into a hard, scraping kiss.

Mulder responded immediately, gratifyingly, then started to resist and pushed him away. "What the hell is this?"

Krycek caught his gaze, held it captive. "Fuck me," he said, hearing the huskiness of his own voice betray the depths of his longing.

Mulder's perturbed and irritated expression quickly, stunningly, changed into one of pure, raw lust. Krycek got hard just watching the transformation. "In the car?" Mulder asked, clearly not liking the idea. Krycek glanced at the backseat and decided that mid-size cars of Japanese manufacture were simply not designed for male fucking.

"Outside. On the ground." The idea thrilled him. They could be watching us, even now. Let them watch. Fuck them.

"On the ground," Mulder repeated uncertainly, but he was already pulling off his sweater and unlacing his shoes.

Krycek got out of the car, grabbing Mulder's coat from the backseat, slamming the door on Mulder's "Hey, not my coat!"

He threw it unceremoniously onto the rough, dry earth, smirking. It was going to be ruined, no matter what. Sacrificed for a good cause. The best cause ever.

Mulder managed to shed most of his clothes inside the car. By the time he got out, in just his undershorts with their telltale bulge, Krycek was naked, feeling completely free. He didn't care. He absolutely did not care about anything other than getting Mulder's cock inside him and devouring Mulder's body with his own until they both burst into flames.

He stretched out over Mulder's coat and leered provocatively. Mulder actually laughed, kneeling down beside him. Krycek wasn't sure what was so funny, but he didn't mind. Why not laugh? Why the hell not?

He hooked a finger into Mulder's undershorts and tugged them down.

Mmm. Nice and hard. Wanting this. He wants this. He wants me.

If mere thoughts could've done it, he would've come on the spot.

He graced Mulder's cock with a few tender kisses and a couple of naughty licks, but he knew he couldn't tease. This couldn't be slow. There was a momentum here, hurling them both into an abyss, a heaven, a hell, whatever it would be.

He grabbed his jacket and reached into one of the inner pockets, produced a well-travelled tube of lubricant and a condom. As he put them into Mulder's palm, Mulder said, half-smiling, "You know what this says about you?"

"That I'm always prepared for cheap sex? Don't pretend to be surprised."

Mulder kept smiling, and Krycek watched him thinking those private thoughts, loving that he was in them. Watched him, with a shiver of anticipation, opening the tube and carefully greasing his fingers.

"Did you..." Mulder started to ask, sliding between Krycek's legs. "... carry these around when you worked for the Bureau? Next to your ID badge and notebook?"

Krycek grinned, but his answer was cut off by those long, cautious fingers entering him artlessly, smoothing the cool gel over the fire-heated skin of his body. When he could speak, his voice shook. "Yes."

Mulder's eyes flickered with amused interest, as well as a smug satisfaction that his caresses were blatantly driving Krycek insane. Krycek fought for the right balance of tension and relaxation, working to keep breathing. His blood pumped so fiercely he felt every gush of it: fingers, toes, arms, legs, cock, balls, stomach, ass, heart, brain, eyelids, lips.

Then Mulder's fingers left him, abruptly, and Krycek raised his head up and watched Mulder fumbling to open the condom packet. And when the metallic paper gave with a short tear, Mulder paused and looked at him. Krycek knew they were thinking the same thoughts. What did it matter? They could die tomorrow. Hell, they could be dead in less than five hours. Precaution had nothing to do with this. It seemed vulgarly out-of-place.

"I don't have any diseases," he offered matter-of-factly.

Mulder shot him a look, not quite a smile. "You sure about that?"

Krycek smirked at him. "Not the kind that thing protects against."

Mulder tossed the condom aside and started settling between his legs, running his fingers lazily over Krycek's thighs, coaxing them higher, fingernails grazing his skin with a hint of scratching.

"And you're sure I don't have any? Is it wise to trust me so much?"

I could ask you the same thing.

Except I already know the answer.

Krycek firmly shoved that thought away, sliding his legs up Mulder's sides, writhing invitingly. "I know enough about your sex life to know I'm safe. There are no documented cases of anyone getting AIDS from his own right hand."

Mulder glared at him, and it was beautiful. Annoyed and amused and angry, and it turned him on far beyond what even Mulder's slick cock, now insistently touching his ass, could do. He held his breath and waited, but the wait was a millisecond before his breath was expelled, his body filled with a great pushing heat. He felt dizzy, giddy, and instinctively pushed back before he lost his hold and started to freefall. A loud "unnnnnpppphhhh" blew into his ear, bringing him back to earth.

Mulder in him. In him. It was too good to be true. It was just too good.

And it was good. The very basics, the mechanics of it. That long, strong cock finding its fitting, its natural rhythm, eagerly showing off its concentrated power. Withdrawing and entering, hard and hot and slick, Mulder's heartbeats felt in each deep throb. Krycek allowed himself the luxury of just enjoying it for now. It felt good to be fucked. Too damned good.

And Mulder. The sight of him could've ripped every breath from Krycek's lungs and stolen them away. The play and strain of muscles under such beautiful skin. Moving... How can he be so graceful? ...rolls and turns and pushes and glides, each one felt and clutched greedily. Mulder's eyes, sometimes seeing him, sometimes not, giving away everything, too much to comprehend so Krycek just basked in it.

Then reached out for it. Reached and pulled Mulder into his arms, controlling the angle of his body and giving it all back.

Here. This is my power, my strength, my rhythm. Take it from me and make it your own.

And Mulder did.

Suddenly they were locked together, violently thrashing and thrusting and pushing together. Throwing everything into the fire: guilt and hatred, desire and suspicion, anger and trust. Krycek felt it all burn brightly, invited the inferno, even as it threatened to devour him alive.

He was maddeningly aware of being very close, and both welcomed and dreaded the end, when Mulder touched his cock, curled his fingers around it and gave just one hard tug. The universe opened and rained down on him. He felt the undertow of incoherence beneath the sea of hyper-awareness and flung himself at both, revelling in his jerking, shattering climax.

When the sea subsided, he felt the next tidal pull as Mulder arched, frenziedly ramming into him, fucking his life away. Krycek held him tightly, wrapping his arms around him to hold him as close as he could, hearing his own thin, breathless whispers as if they were the wind: "Yes, Mulder. Yes. Yes."

Mulder surrendered. A long moment of tense, tight stillness, then Krycek felt every burst of his release, poured into him like molten lead.

Yes, Mulder. Anything for you.

Poured into him like stars going supernova.

Almost anything.

Poured into him like the end of the universe.

I'm damned and going to hell. To a beautiful hell.

The next few decade-long minutes were quiet, warm, wet, and sticky. His body shook from the awkward loss of Mulder's, but he didn't let Mulder get very far. Pulled him down and into a very short, sweaty kiss.

Mulder sank into his embrace, resting his head in the valley of Krycek's shoulder. After a while he trembled. The air was cooling as the sun lowered. Krycek reached over without disturbing him, grabbed his leather jacket and draped it around them. Mulder pressed closer, thoroughly relaxed, seeking the comfort of body heat.

They could have been on the edge of the world. Alone on a hard, unforgiving earth, under an infinite, darkening sky. So peaceful. Krycek wished they could sleep here.

But it was getting late. And cold.

And he had things to do.

-----

He wanted to cry.

I just fucked Alex Krycek.

And it was good. Too good.

This was beyond being damned. Beyond hell. Beyond madness.

He wanted to react in some way -- crying, hitting, retching, screaming -- but he had just shut down. Even thinking about moving gave him a clawing headache.

Krycek's leather jacket felt heavy on his shoulders. Krycek's body beneath him, warm and smooth and soothing. It hummed with life. Heart beating, throat vibrating with words. He had no idea what Krycek was saying to him, just listened to his voice and felt its resonance. He drifted for a while, not sure if he was dozing or not.

"Mulder."

It was like pulling himself out of quicksand to come back to earth. He tilted his head up. "Yeah?"

"We have to get going. The sun's setting."

Mulder focused on the ground beyond their bodies and saw that Krycek was right. He nodded silently and moved an elbow preparatory to standing up.

Krycek held him. "Are you okay?"

"Do you really want an answer to that?" His voice was raw and dry.

Something flickered in Krycek's eyes. It could have been amusement or sorrow. They were too shaded by Krycek's eyelashes for him to tell for sure.

After a while, Krycek said quietly, "Come on then. It can't be too far from here."

Getting up and getting dressed took a shorter time than he imagined it would. Once Krycek was again sheathed in black denim, cotton, and leather, Mulder's mind cleared a little and he breathed in the crisp desert air. His coat was ruined but he wadded it up and threw it into the trunk anyway, for no other reason than that leaving it would be littering. He briefly remembered the discarded condom, winced, but gave it up as lost. Foolish to think he could fuck Alex Krycek and not leave behind some blemish on the landscape.

In the car again. Silence. It was dark now. Krycek concentrated on driving. Every mile passed raised the tension and anticipation of their destination another notch. Mulder thought about black rocks until he was sick of thinking about black rocks, then recalled something, as if finding a memory that had been lost for years.

"Krycek."

"Yeah?"

"What were you saying to me? Back there? You were talking. I wasn't listening. I'm sorry." He knew he didn't sound sorry, although he was regretful. But it was curiosity, and the faint hope that Krycek had been telling him something useful, that had prompted him to ask.

"You weren't listening," Krycek repeated slowly, dully. He didn't take his eyes off the road or change his posture in any way, but Mulder saw something there, a breath held and released, a blink... something... that told him that Krycek was at the very least disappointed. "It wasn't important, Mulder. It was just me... babbling."

Mulder found it hard to imagine Krycek babbling. But he was about to let the subject drop since Krycek was clearly upset about it. On the other hand, since when did he care about Krycek being upset?

"It wasn't-- You weren't--" He paused, embarrassed. "It wasn't a confessional, was it?"

Krycek shook his head. "I told you something, that's all. Something it probably wasn't wise to tell you anyway. It wasn't about me. Or us." He sighed impatiently and spared a glance at Mulder. "I didn't tell you I loved you or anything like that, okay?" Mulder knew his relief was obvious.

He let the silence settle around them again before asking, trying hard not to sound like an FBI interrogator, "Was it about what we're heading into?"

"Not really. Sort of."

Mulder felt his patience fray at the ends. "Why don't you just fucking te--"

"Shit!"

Mulder slumped forward, restrained by the seatbelt, as the car came skidding to a halt. He looked up, bewildered, their edgy conversation immediately forgotten as he saw what Krycek had seen. They were at the crater. They'd been driving off the highway since their... break... and now they were parked less than half a mile from it. If the military had claimed this land, they'd been driving right through a restricted area the whole time.

Krycek switched the engine off and they sat still, breathing hard, waiting for a swarm of soldiers which never appeared. Ahead was the vast bowl of the crater, its walls bathed grey from unseen lights in its belly. On the far side of it were small black shapes Mulder supposed were vehicles or temporary buildings. It was hard to get a bearing on the scale of things.

They sat there for ten minutes before Krycek said, "Well. Here we are."

-----

Mulder silently cursed his work shoes seventeen times during the next hour as they crept across the desert towards the crater. Krycek was wearing ankle-length rubber soled boots (black, of course) and moved as silently and swiftly as a cat stalking prey. Mulder's shoes were tight and hard and made noises whenever they touched a pebble or dried brush. The temptation to go barefoot, or to mug Krycek for his boots, was very strong.

A yard away from the crater, Krycek fell to the ground and crawled up to the lip. Mulder did the same, heart now hammering in his throat. Krycek had produced compact binoculars from his jacket... Just how many pockets does that jacket have? ...and was scanning the scene below as Mulder peered over the edge.

He was disappointed. It wasn't much of a crater. It was huge in size, yes, but shallow. Maybe only twenty-five feet down to the bottom. Mulder automatically thought about the dimensions of the meteorite that would've caused it.

The military -- they were there, all right, if you could call those five guys playing poker in front of a metal shed a "military presence." An irrational urge to strangle Krycek for dragging him here rose up suddenly, but he fought it down. There was more to this than met the eye. Probably.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" he whispered.

"No," Krycek admitted, handing him the binoculars.

"No?" he hissed. "No?!"

He jerked the binoculars from Krycek's hand and looked around. There was not much to see. The shed was closed and small, obviously hastily-erected. Behind it was another, similar shed his unaided eyes hadn't picked out. He lifted the binoculars to focus on the black shapes across from them. It was too dark to make out details, but he saw one long building, four trucks resembling troop transport, and two average cars. Shapes moved between them. Men.

He handed the binoculars back to Krycek, who replaced them into his jacket of neverending pockets. "I want my gun."

Krycek was quiet for so long that Mulder turned to stare at him. "Come on, Krycek. Give me my gun. I'm not going to shoot you. But I'm not going down there unarmed."

Krycek met his look, his expression difficult to read in the weak light from below. "It's too late for that."

"What? Too late for what?"

Then he heard it. The =crunch crunch= of boots over dry ground. He glanced over his shoulder and could just make out a black, amorphous column coming their way. He got to his knees, ready to run, but Krycek grabbed his arm and held him in a crushing grip. The column arrived, six soldiers in anti-terrorist garb holding rifles. And in front of them, a grey-haired man smoking a cigarette.

Krycek stood up, roughly yanking Mulder up with him.

"I've brought him to you," he said, facing the soldiers. Mulder tore his gaze away from the cigarette-smoking man to stare at Krycek, realization and disbelief stripping him of all feeling, leaving only a numb shell.

Three soldiers detached themselves from the group to take Mulder, one on each side and the third behind him, rifle at the ready. As their gloved fingers curled around his arms, anger broke through the shell and Mulder unsuccessfully thrashed to get free. All the while glaring at Krycek, who would not meet his look. Who instead was talking with that black-lunged son-of-a-bitch. The only words he heard, as the soldiers began shoving him away from the crater, were Krycek's: "We had a deal."

Traitor. Bastard. Motherfucking scum.

Killer.

-----

The storage room was exactly nine paces from front to back and five paces from side to side. There was no window, and the only light source was the half-inch gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. One wall was lined with utilitarian metal shelves, all empty. The door was thick metal, no handle on the inside.

Mulder paced until he had the numbers nine and five hammering in his brain, then sat down on the cold metal floor and closed his eyes. All he could think about was Krycek, out there, gloating at how perfectly his plan had gone. How perfectly Mulder had fallen into his trap. "Kidnap him and share orgasms with him and Mulder is quite malleable."

He flattened himself over the floor and peered through the gap in the doorway. He caught glimpses of movement, and listened for any sounds. Someone was talking, but the words were not distinct, and the voice didn't sound like Krycek. He stayed there for a long time, completely frustrated by the lack of information. What was the deal Krycek mentioned? What was Krycek bargaining Mulder for?

He should have known. He had never trusted Krycek. Why had he believed Krycek's vague hints in the first place? Because I wanted to believe.

He recalled all the times he could have escaped, could have called Scully, could have killed Krycek and been done with it. Krycek had counted on his curiosity and manipulated his distrust.

And seduced him. In a way and on a level he'd never expected-- becoming an active participant in his own seduction. It was easy now to curse his hormonal thinking, but the truth was, he knew it had been more than that. He couldn't erase the memory of Krycek's unexpected gentleness, or the look of fear in Krycek's eyes. Or the incredible power of Krycek's body welcoming his. It had been real, while it had existed. What he could curse himself for was his pathetic strategy of "don't think about it seriously and you won't have to deal with it." By not thinking about it, he'd never seen how temporary it really was, and hadn't thought clearly about what would happen next.

His mind went around and around -- anger and hatred, frustration and self-recrimination -- until he felt drained. He had just closed his eyes when there was a brief shout from the other side of the door. He opened his eyes and the light underneath went out. He listened intently, adrenaline waking him up, but could hear nothing. He waited for what seemed like hours, perfectly still, eyes straining to see anything.

He finally heard a faint scuff of shoes. Someone outside the door.

The hinges creaked as the door slowly swung open. Mulder stood against the wall, unable to see anything other than blackness moving in blackness.

"Mulder. Hurry."

You fucking bastard.

Mulder hurled himself at Krycek's voice and a surge of violent satisfaction welled up in him as he felt Krycek fall, heard the thump as his body hit the door. Mulder went down with him, punching blindly, barely registering Krycek's snarls and thrashing beneath him. Warm blood slicked his knuckles and fingers.

Krycek grabbed his hips and pushed him off, onto the floor, simultaneously biting Mulder's hand. He shoved his knee into Mulder's gut. Mulder, winded, tried squirming free but Krycek held his wrists and bent over him.

"Listen to me," Krycek breathed into his face. A drop of blood rained onto Mulder's lips and he tasted salt and metal and sweat. "I've gone to a lot of trouble for this. Don't make me regret it and decide to kill you instead."

Mulder swung his legs up and rammed his knees into Krycek's back. Krycek fell off him, losing his hold. Mulder's fists found his face and battered him until Krycek stopped trying to hit back. Mulder paused. Krycek was a black lump in front of him. He couldn't see his face, anything, but he could hear Krycek's labored breathing. He quickly felt for Krycek's jacket, determinedly ignoring the warmth of Krycek's chest against his hands. He found and claimed a gun, then felt around for the car keys. They weren't in the jacket so he slid his hands down to Krycek's jeans, taking a deep breath as he carefully groped for the pockets.

It was not a pocket he felt. Warm and soft and curved beneath thick denim. For a horrible split second he remembered the taste and heat and heaviness of Krycek's cock, and knew his fingers were lingering too long.

"Mulder," Krycek wheezed, struggling to sit up. Mulder started and lifted his hand, forming a fist. "I'm letting you go, you asshole," Krycek hissed. "Stop hitting me."

"Why?" Mulder asked guardedly.

Krycek moved and seemed to be searching for something in his jacket. Mulder held the gun, finger on the safety. Then his hand was grabbed and something cold and jagged was pressed into the palm. The car keys.

"They didn't keep their end of the bargain, so I'm not keeping mine," Krycek said. "Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind."

Mulder cursed silently. Too many questions. Too many unwelcome feelings. And no time for any of them. He had to go. He couldn't even see the look in Krycek's eyes, and he had to go.

Clutching the keys and the gun, he crawled to the door, then stood up, scanning the darkness for signs of danger. He could just make out the outer door and ran towards it. It was unlocked. There was a dead soldier on the ground next to it, body bent into angles only corpses can achieve. Mulder registered the gunshot wound to the head, already moving on. Knowing Krycek was responsible. Not wanting to know why.

He passed two more bodies on his way to the crater wall, but met no resistance, heard no alarms. Once he glanced back to see if Krycek was following him, but the only thing moving in the crater was himself. It felt very wrong, like another trap. He climbed the crater wall, half expecting the cigarette-smoking man to be waiting for him at the top.

He groped and fumbled in the earth, sweat and blood caking dirt into his fingernails. His fingers ached from holding the gun, but he wasn't about to let it go. He had a deep cut on one knee and a sharp pain in his gut from his fight with Krycek. By the time he reached the top, his knee and nose were bleeding, and he wanted to rip his stomach out to get rid of the pain. He squinted into the pre-dawn night, shocked to see he was alone. No soldiers waiting. No chain-smoking bastard to greet him.

He stopped thinking about how wrong it felt, determined to just get the hell away. He stood up and tried to get his bearings. He was on the right side of the crater, where they'd left the car, but he couldn't see it. He put his trust in his memory and jogged in a straight line, aware of the sky growing lighter around him.

Dawn was washing the desert in pinks and greys when he found the car, sitting deserted on barren ground. Mulder collapsed into the driver's seat, exhausted and barely able to keep his eyes open. Only the adrenaline kept him going, got his hands and feet to function. He drove until he hit the highway, listening for jeeps or helicopters following him.

He drove on, nodding off only twice, until he reached the nearest town. It was only a stretch of highway between a cluster of dusty buildings, but it had a motel. He parked in front and collapsed against the steering wheel.

-----

Krycek heard, rather than saw, Mulder go. He fell back against the floor and tried to breathe. He should get moving, he knew. They would know something was wrong, and come back. Mulder had taken his gun, but he had another one -- Mulder's -- in his jacket. He reached for it and held it ready, deciding on his next move. Although he had delivered Mulder, exactly as he'd offered to do, he hadn't gotten what he'd come here for. It didn't surprise him. His former employer wasn't known for keeping his promises.

He also wasn't known for his brilliance, either, apparently. Krycek still couldn't get over the stupidity of the man in trying a double-cross. As if Krycek could be captured so readily. He imagined the look on the cigarette-smoking man's face when he heard the news. Served the arrogant son-of-a-bitch right for leaving the dirty work to inexperienced recruits.

It wasn't a complete waste of time, though. He had found something he hadn't expected. The samples he'd managed to steal were more important than the rocks they were mining. They were too blind to understand. He wasn't.

The only thing worrying him was Mulder. Why had they left Mulder here, instead of carting him off with them? And why had his ex-superior implied that Mulder was no longer needed for their work? When had the status quo changed, he wondered. More importantly, why? He really needed to know the answer to that, but he knew staying here wouldn't give him one. He finally dragged himself off the floor and headed outside, where dawn was breaking.

Thanks to Mulder's kicks and punches, it was a long and painful climb out of the crater. He asked himself why he'd let Mulder go. Although the satisfying answer was because it would, hopefully, fuck up whatever the smoking man was planning, he knew that wasn't the only reason. He'd done a dumb thing. Okay, several dumb things, going back to the disastrous moment when he'd decided to free Mulder from the handcuffs. And why?

He reached the top and rested a minute, face down in the dirt, panting from the exertion.

Don't think about why. Not now. He's gone. That's all that matters.

He was just blessing his luck in not being followed when he heard the army jeep drive up. He stayed still, feigning death until the soldiers came to look at him. One crouched to feel for the pulse in his neck. Krycek rolled onto his back and shot him through the head. He was too close, and the blood and brains splattered him. He heard the other one prep his rifle at the same instant he raised his aim and fired. Rifle and soldier fell uselessly to the ground.

He stole their rifles and their jeep and drove into the desert, away from the highway. He didn't know what his next move would be, but he had something now. Something valuable. And there were always things to sell.

-----

When Mulder opened his eyes, the light was painfully bright and he couldn't focus. He made a noise of discomfort, blinking until he could register the images. A small, seedy motel room, stuffy and hot. He vaguely recalled checking in and making his way to the room. He wondered how long he'd been there.

His mind cleared, except for the jackhammer headache, as he checked the clock. He grabbed the phone and dialed Scully's number.

"Mulder?" The relief in her voice was rejuvenating, cleansing away the dirt and weariness and confusion of four days. "Where are you? What's happening?"

"I'm on my way home," he said, deciding he didn't want to discuss the details on the phone. And some details he didn't want to discuss at all. "It's a short story, but a long drive. I'll find out where I am and catch the next plane."

There was a pause. He heard the smile and concern in Scully's voice as she said, "Don't disappear on me like that again, Mulder."

He smiled and rubbed his eyes. "Believe me. I won't."

After he'd hung up, he stared at the window for a while. The past few days seemed surreal now. Krycek was gone, to god-knew-where, and he could resume his life. With more unanswered questions to keep him awake at night. More secrets to uncover. More bruises to heal.

He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair.

He had to get home.

(The End)

June 1998
For Lynn
Many thanks to my beta readers: Marie, Kenna, and Gwyneth.