Author: Grimilkin
Rating: NC-17
Category: S, A, M/K, slash
Spoilers: This occurs in the misty depths of S6
before 2F/1S.
Disclaimer: I know the boys don't belong to me. I
didn't mean to get 'em dirty. Honest. Here -- I
cleaned 'em up all nice and pretty for you.
Archive: Yes, just tell me where it's going.
Website: http://www.geocities.com/grimilkincat
Feedback: Yes, please. grimilkincat@yahoo.com
Summary: One night in Bangkok and Mulder gets drunk,
Krycek dances with a girl with blue hair, Stoli is
used as a cold compress, envelopes are distributed,
incriminating photographs are revealed, and Mulder's
life is changed forever.
Note: Despite the title, this isn't songfic. The
boys do not sing, which is a good thing because
Krycek is always flat and Mulder has a tin ear.
A huge 'thank you' goes out to R. for her beta. I
don't know what I'd do without her assistance.
----------
One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble:
Not much between despair and ecstasy.
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble.
Can't be too careful with your company.
I can feel the devil walking next to me.
"One Night in Bangkok" by Tim Rice
----------
Mulder finds the envelope on his chest when he wakes
up. He turns slightly and it falls onto the floor.
What the fuck? he thinks, picking it up. It's
addressed to Sleeping Beauty and there's no return
address.
He opens the envelope and spills the contents onto
his lap. There's an airline ticket to Bangkok,
Thailand and a note that says: 'You're it. Catch me
if you can. I've got something you want.'
Krycek. He'd recognize that handwriting anywhere,
having seen perhaps a dozen of the man's cryptic
messages over the years. Krycek has periodically
fed him tidbits of information that have usually led
him on wild goose chases but have sometimes told him
things that he really needed to know. This is
probably another snipe hunt, but there's always the
possibility that Krycek is going to give him
something worthwhile this time.
"He's losing it," Mulder says, tapping the ticket
against his nose as if to discern the intentions of
its sender by osmosis. "No, he's lost it. He's
clearly bat shit." But his mind ticks away
relentlessly, thinking of every possible angle, any
likely scenarios.
Of course he knows Krycek is playing cat and mouse
with him, as usual, but fuck it. Krycek could
have documents, photographs, perhaps even video
footage. Proof that Skinner and Kersh and the rest
of them can't ignore. Proof of something. Hell,
anything. Mulder thinks of all the possibilities
and nearly salivates. Besides, this is the closest
he's gotten to anything that doesn't resemble grunt
work in months.
He picks up the phone and dials Scully's number.
"What, Mulder?" she asks by way of greeting.
He opens his mouth to say, "We're going to Thailand"
and then shuts it. There is only one ticket and it
has his name on it. He's meant to go alone. Fine.
No problem.
"I'm going to Thailand," he says.
"What?" she asks, her tone clearly stating that
she's convinced he's gone insane. Perhaps he has.
"Bangkok. I have a lead on something."
"What?" she asks again, her voice perking up with
interest.
Mulder is silent, not wanting to lie, but not about
to tell her that he doesn't know.
"And where did you get this lead?" she continues,
giving up waiting for him to answer her question.
"Or is this another secret I'm not allowed to know?"
Irritation has crept into her voice at the end and
Mulder feels guilt prick him. He hates lying to
Scully, but he can't imagine telling her that he's
following directions left by Alex Krycek. She'd
never understand. Hell, he isn't sure he
understands. There is just something in his gut
that tells him he should go.
"I'm sorry, Scully," he begins, and Scully sighs.
"Don't bother," she replies. "You've made up your
mind already, I can tell. God knows I'm not your
keeper. Just let me know you're going to be safe."
"I'm going to be safe," he lies. "Don't worry about
it."
He finds that he's oddly eager to see Krycek again.
He thinks, I'm going to catch him and make him tell
me the truth for once in his miserable life and then
I'm going to...
He imagines seeing Krycek's traitorous lips smile
and a knowing look fill his eyes. 'Come on, Mulder,
find me. Find me and hit me and touch me the only
way you know how. Catch me if you can.'
Safe? No, this is sure as hell not safe.
"Mulder, are you listening to me?" Scully sounds
annoyed.
Mulder gives himself a mental shake, bringing him
back to the here and now. "Yeah. I was just
distracted for a moment."
"Okay, then let me repeat myself. How are you going
to explain this little excursion to Kersh?"
"I've got vacation time up the yin-yang," he says.
"It's about time I used some of it, don't you
think?"
"What about our assignment? We're supposed to be
heading to Kansas tomorrow. And yin-yang?"
"Yin-yang. It's a technical term. I'm sure you're
up to going to Kansas by yourself, Scully. You're a
big girl now."
Scully huffs into the phone.
"This is important," he says.
"And you have to go now, and alone?"
She sounds skeptical, and she's earned the right to
sound that way. She's one smart cookie and she
knows how good he is at poking figurative butter
knives into metaphorical toasters. She thinks of
him, he is sure, as a boy who can't be trusted with
matches for fear he will set himself on fire. But
he's not her child, and if he wants to set himself
on fire, no one, not even she, can stop him. It
doesn't help that part of him wants to bathe in
gasoline then go dancing at a fireworks display.
"Yes," he says. Krycek's words rage through him
like scarlet fever: 'Catch me if you can. You're
it. Catch me if you can.' The words repeat
themselves into monotony, drilling through his
common sense. He shouldn't go alone. Hell, he
shouldn't go at all. But there is that promise to
think about: 'I have something you want.' And it's
interesting. It's something to do, something to get
his mind off of that little twerp Jeffrey and the
mess he's making of the X-files.
"All right then," she says. "Go. Have a good time.
I'll tell Kersh you're taking some time off for
personal reasons. He won't be happy."
"He's never happy."
Scully sighs. "Tell me about it. Call me when you
get there. Call me if you find out anything."
"Sure," he says. "No problem."
And that's it. He's off to Bangkok.
Catch me if you can.
----------
"I knew you'd come," says Krycek. His lips twist
into a grin.
Mulder's hand lashes out, wiping the smile off of
the traitor's face. Krycek's lip splits open and
begins to bleed. "Give me what you promised," he
snarls.
Krycek's tongue comes out to lick away the blood.
"Make me."
Mulder reaches out, grabbing Krycek, and begins to
shake him. "Give me what I want," he demands.
Krycek's hand comes up and twines in Mulder's hair.
The fingers pull cruelly and Mulder cries out in
pain. His head bends backward. He sees Krycek's
face above his own, hiding behind the spots of pain
that cloud his vision.
"What do you want?" asks Krycek, and his mouth
fastens over Mulder's. The fingers loosen in his
hair but Mulder remains bent over backward. He can
taste the blood from Krycek's split lip, and below
that, salt and whiskey. Krycek lifts his mouth from
Mulder's. "Tell me what you want."
"I want...I want..."
"Tell me!" Krycek demands.
An elbow catches him in the ribs. "Wake up, buddy."
The dream dissolves and Mulder finds himself on an
airplane, his neck sore from being bent over at an
unnatural angle.
The fight attendant smiles at him. "I'm sorry, sir.
Did you want the beef or vegetarian meal?"
Mulder looks over at his seatmate, who is cutting a
piece of meat that with imagination could be called
beef. "I'm not hungry," he says. "Could I have
some water?"
The flight attendant nods towards the back of the
plane. "The drink cart will be back by here
shortly. Are you sure you don't want anything?"
I'm afraid of what I want, Mulder thinks. "I'm
sure," he says, and puts the tiny airplane pillow in
his lap. He doesn't want to fall asleep again for
fear of what he'd dream of. Also, he needs
something to hide his erection.
Jesus, what the fuck is he getting himself into?
----------
Mulder isn't sure what he was expecting to find when
he stepped off the plane in Bangkok, but it's not a
man holding up a cardboard sign that reads,
'Mulder.'
He walks over to the man and says, "I'm Fox Mulder.
Are you here for me?"
The man nods. "Yes, sir. I'm here to drive you to
your hotel. Do you have any checked luggage?"
"My hotel?"
"Yes, sir. I was told to give you this." The man
hands Mulder a slim envelope.
Mulder opens it and reads the short message inside.
'Just go with the man, you paranoid fuck. Trust
me.' There's no signature, but the note doesn't
need one. What the hell is Krycek up to?
"No, I don't have any checked luggage," Mulder says.
"I guess I'm all set to go."
"Very good, sir." The man speaks crisp English with
a slight British accent. He takes Mulder's carry-on
bag and begins walking.
Mulder follows him out of the airport until they
reach a black limousine. "You've got to be kidding
me," he says.
The Asian man smiles. "I was told to tell you that
when the Smoker pays, it's first class all the way.
Does that make sense?"
Mulder feels a chill spread through him. The Smoker
can mean only one person. Is this a trap? Is this
Krycek's way of warning him away? Mulder decides
that it doesn't matter. Trap or not, he isn't
backing down now. Fuck them all. "I think it makes
sense," he says, then climbs into the limo's back
seat.
Mulder watches the city as it slides by his tinted
window. It's an odd mixture of ancient temples and
tacky bars, gardens and vacant lots, huge
skyscrapers and slums. As they drive on, he catches
glimpses of the ocean. Eventually, they pull in
front of a massive hotel right by the ocean and the
river that flows the city. It's called the Shangri-
La Hotel and Mulder doesn't even want to think about
how much it must cost per night. But when the
Smoker pays, he thinks, it's first class all the
way.
The limo stops before the hotel's grand entrance. A
man in a burgundy uniform comes down as Mulder's
driver gets out of the car. The porter opens
Mulder's door. "Welcome, sir, to the Shangri-La."
As Mulder climbs out of the limo, the driver appears
at his side, carrying his bag. He hands it to the
porter and gives Mulder a little bow. "It was a
pleasure, sir," he says. "And good luck to you."
Mulder tips him absently then turns toward the
porter. He wonders if he has a reservation. He
should have asked the driver. Looking around at the
other guests, who are dressed in expensively
tailored clothes, he feels out of place in his t-
shirt and jeans. Usually meetings with shady
informants don't have a dress code. If he'd known,
he'd have packed the Armani.
"This way, Mr. Mulder," says the porter. "I'll show
you to your room."
Mulder is relieved that the porter seems to know
what's going on, but is conversely anxious. He
doesn't know what he's walking into. It's nerve
wracking, but also exciting. He feels twitchy, and
wishes he'd brought something to occupy his nervous
fingers. Like maybe a book of matches.
----------
The hotel room is actually a suite, consisting of a
living room connected to a bedroom with a king sized
bed. Both rooms are tastefully furnished, have
massive televisions, and boast ocean views. The
bathroom is larger than the kitchen in his
apartment.
He thinks of Scully, staying in a motor court in
Kansas, and feels a stab of displacement. He
doesn't belong here. He should be in a room
identical to hers, but maybe closer to the ice
dispenser, trying to sleep in preparation for their
big day of tracking down missing cow shit. He
should be a Do-Bee, but instead, he's about the
biggest Don't-Bee there ever was. He's playing with
fire, he's coloring on the walls with black crayon,
he's running with scissors -- and damn it feels
good.
He looks around the suite for a note or any other
acknowledgement of Krycek's presence and finds
nothing. Fuck it, fuck Krycek. Even with the
room's air conditioning, Mulder is hot and sticky
from his trip. The air outside was steamy and
thick, plastering his shirt to his skin. He decides
to take a shower.
After showering, he walks out of the bathroom with a
towel swathed around his hips and his wet hair
plastered to his head. There he finds Krycek
lounging in a chair by the bed, dressed in a white
dress shirt and black slacks.
Mulder's heart pounds and his fingers tingle. It's
the blood being redirected in my body, he thinks.
It's the flight or fight response. So which will it
be? Flight, or fight?
"Nice towel," says Krycek.
Mulder wants to ignore that, but he feels a blush
steal across his cheeks. He tells himself it's a
flush of rage. "Why am I here?" he asks. In his
mind, he's wet with gasoline, not water, and Krycek
is holding a lighter.
"I was curious," Krycek says, then nods head as if
satisfied, looking Mulder up and down.
Mulder is goaded by that look to ask, "Curious about
what?" He feels more than naked underneath that
green stare -- he feels dissected and classified as
well. He is an interesting specimen. He is
amusing. He longs to rip those vivid eyes right out
of their sockets.
"I wanted to know if you'd come if I crooked my
finger. Now I know."
Mulder forgets the towel as a red haze fells over
his vision. His choice is made -- fight -- and
that's just fine with him. Maybe this is what he's
been waiting for -- any excuse to run forward and
complicate things. And maybe, just maybe, Krycek
knows that and this is why he's always pushing,
always digging into Mulder with invisible claws.
He rushes forward and pulls Krycek out of his chair.
Krycek's smile turns feral and he feels a fist
batter at his ribs. He doesn't care. Mulder only
wants to smash the face before him, the treacherous
face that haunts him during long, sleepless nights.
It's the face of his betrayal, the face of his pain,
but worst of all, it's the face of his desire.
He wants nothing more than to punish that face for
making him travel half way around the world just for
a chance of seeing it. He wants to erase that face
from his mind. He pushes Krycek against the wall
and holds him there with one hand while the other
balls itself into a fist and strikes his face.
Krycek's lip splits open and blood pours down his
chin and drips onto the white shirt. Mulder
watches, his fist drawn back for another blow, as
Krycek's tongue runs along his bleeding lower lip.
The fist that had been beating on his ribs is now a
hand that grips him, pulling him closer.
Deja vu flows over Mulder in a gray wave. He sees
the broken lips before him and knows what they will
taste like -- salt and copper with whiskey
underneath. He knows the feel of their softness,
the rasp of Krycek's tongue, the heat of his mouth.
The hand gripping his ribs draws him closer. Mulder
can smell Krycek's aftershave and the heat of his
skin.
At the last second, he pulls his hand away from the
flame. No, he thinks. No, I can't do this. He
steps back.
"Fuck you," he says. He turns away from Krycek and
grabs his bag. He unzips it and starts grabbing
clothes out of it. "I didn't come here to be dicked
around." He starts putting on his clothes, not
caring that Krycek watches. Let him watch, he
thinks. "I only came because you said you had
something I wanted."
"Are you sure that I don't?" asks Krycek. The
tongue comes out again to probe at the hurt lip and
Mulder looks away.
"Look, if you've got something important for me,
give it to me. If you don't, fuck off. Either way,
I'm flying home standby tonight."
"Maybe I do have something for you," says Krycek.
"Maybe I'm just not ready to give it to you yet."
Mulder hesitates. "What is it?"
Krycek pauses, thinking things over, then says,
"I've got some documents and photographs you might
be interested in. I found them while I was out here
doing business for...certain parties. I'll give
them to you for a price."
Mulder stiffens. "How much?"
Krycek laughs. "Not money. You don't have enough.
Besides, right now money is the last thing I need."
"What then? Blood? My first born child?"
Krycek looks away from him, but before he does,
Mulder thinks he catches a sheepish expression on
the man's face. "Nothing. Fuck it." He turns back
to Mulder. "Look, I'm bored. You're here, you
might as well stay for the night and fly back
tomorrow."
Mulder is wary. "Why should I? I don't know
whether these documents you're talking about, if
they even exist, are useful."
"Fuck the documents," Krycek says. "Use the ticket
I bought you and fly home tomorrow afternoon. It's
not like you're missing anything important at work.
More misplaced manure in Kansas, isn't it?"
Mulder doesn't acknowledge the jab. "And tonight?"
"I don't know about you," says Krycek, "but I'm in a
mood to get shit faced."
"You sent someone to break into my apartment and
give me an airline ticket so that I could come here
and be your drinking buddy? You've got to be
kidding me."
"I said I was bored." Krycek sounds defensive. "I
also have a large expense account. I thought I'd
take advantage of it. If money can't buy me an
F.B.I. agent to get drunk with, then what's it good
for?"
Against his better judgment, Mulder laughs. His
earlier fury has passed, leaving him with that
twitchy feeling again. Maybe alcohol in large
amounts is the answer. "You know a good bar in this
town?"
Krycek laughs in response. "Mulder, this town is
nothing but bars, good and otherwise. Welcome to
Bangkok."
-----------
Twenty minutes later, Mulder finds himself seated in
the back of a cab. Krycek sits next to him, dressed
in a burgundy red shirt now. It was, he'd said as
he'd put it on, more likely to hide a bloodstain.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"I'm starving," Mulder says, which isn't surprising,
as he hasn't eaten anything for nearly a day.
Krycek speaks in a language Mulder doesn't
understand but assumes is Thai, and the cab pulls
away from the hotel.
"I didn't know you spoke Thai," Mulder says.
"There's a lot about me you don't know," says
Krycek, looking out of his window.
The cab takes them to an open-air market where
numerous venders sell food. Krycek steers Mulder
along the complicated paths between booths until he
stops before one selling noodles. It looks like all
the other places selling noodles, but Mulder
supposes Krycek knows what he's doing. Krycek
orders for the two of them, then they sit on a bench
next to each other and eat in silence.
If someone had told me two days ago, thinks Mulder,
that I'd be sitting next to Alex fucking Krycek
loading up on carbs before a planned drinking binge
in Thailand, I'd have laughed my ass off. The whole
situation is insane. But the noodles taste good and
Mulder finds that he's enjoying himself.
When they're finished, Krycek hails another cab.
"You ready to drink yourself into oblivion?"
"Sure," say Mulder. "Why the hell not?"
"Great," Krycek says then speaks rapidly in Thai to
the cab driver. "We're going to the Taurus," he
tells Mulder. "They cater to tourists, so we're
likely to be the two most dangerous men there." He
smiles a wolf's grin. "I like to know the odds are
stacked in my favor."
The bar is large and the techno music playing within
is loud. There's a huge dance floor crowded with
people and surrounded by many small tables. Mulder
notices that the average age of the occupants seems
to be about ten years younger than him. He suddenly
feels old. Krycek, on the other hand, seems right
at home.
He leads them to one of the tables and signals to a
waitress. She comes over with a large smile. "What
can I get you?" she yells over the noise.
"Bottle of Cuervo and two shot glasses," Krycek
says. Mulder winces, but there's no way in hell
he's going to back down from Krycek's silent
challenge. No pretty-boy Russian piece of shit is
going to drink him under the table. Not in this
lifetime.
The waitress comes back with the tequila and the
glasses and the competition begins. By shot three,
the room flips pleasantly in Mulder's head. He
leans his head to the side, a grin on his face. "I
hate to admit it, but you were right," he shouts.
"Getting drunk is just what I needed."
Krycek smiles back, but says nothing.
They're on shot five when the girl approaches the
table. Her hair's blue, but she's cute, her eyes
big and her flat midriff bare. She grabs Krycek's
hand (the real one, and wouldn't it have been a
surprise for all involved if it had been the other
one, Mulder thinks) and tugs on it. "Dance with me,
mate," she says, sounding English or Australian.
Krycek throws a look over his shoulder at Mulder, as
if asking his permission. Like Mulder's opinion
matters at all. Mulder makes shooing gestures with
his hands. "Go," he shouts. "She's hot."
The girl shoots Mulder a grin before tugging harder
on Krycek's hand. He gets up and follows the girl
onto the dance floor. Mulder pours himself another
shot and watches.
It's hard to tell that one of Krycek's arms is fake,
but he does still have the shoulder, and Mulder
supposes he has some control over the prosthesis
with that. The girl clings to Krycek as they dance
together, her hips brushing his, her hand touching
his hair. Just watching them, Mulder feels his
groin begin to throb. This isn't right, he thinks.
But there's something so sexy about Krycek and the
girl that Mulder can't tear his eyes away. Her long
legs, bared by her short skirt, wrap around
Krycek's. His shirt, wet with sweat, clings to his
chest. Mulder feels something stir inside him and
wonders what it is for a moment before realizing
it's jealousy.
But who are you jealous of? Him or her? It's not a
question he's ready to answer, so he pours himself
another drink.
Two, or maybe three drinks later, Krycek returns,
damp with sweat and panting for breath.
"I've gotten a little ahead of you," says Mulder.
He holds up the bottle. It's getting dangerously
low.
"I'll make up for lost time, then." Krycek pours
himself a shot and waves to the waitress for another
bottle. He downs the tequila then regards Mulder.
"I saw you looking at me," he says.
"I wasn't looking at you," says Mulder.
"Liar." Krycek shifts and his hand grazes Mulder's
thigh. He pours himself another shot. "I like you
when you lie, Mulder. Devious is a good look for
you."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I wasn't
looking at you. I was looking at her."
"You're lying again," says Krycek, and drinks the
tequila in his shot glass in one swallow. "Keep it
up. You look good enough to eat." He smiles his
wolf's grin.
"You are so full of shit," says Mulder. He pours
himself a shot from the new bottle that the waitress
has brought and tosses it back.
"Then tell me you don't want me to do this," says
Krycek, his hand reaching up to curl around the back
of Mulder's neck.
He pulls Mulder's head toward his own and Mulder
can't find the power to stop it. He closes his
eyes, perhaps thinking that if he can't see Krycek
then nothing will happen, and the world tilts like
he's on a roller coaster. Then he feels Krycek's
lips on his and the roller coaster he's riding
plummets down the first big hill. The tequila
shooting through his blood stream twists him this
way and that, making him grab onto Krycek for
support. His lips press into Krycek's and their
mouths open. He tastes Krycek and tequila, feels
Krycek's tongue slide along his, smells Krycek's
cologne and sweat. Around them the music pounds in
time to the pulse in his heart and his dick. Then
Krycek's hand falls on the bulge his erection's
making in his slacks and he nearly comes right then.
Heart pounding, Mulder pulls away. "What...what the
hell was that?" He glances around, self-conscious,
and sees the girl with the blue hair looking at
them. Noticing that Mulder and Krycek are entwined,
she grins hugely as if this is a big joke that only
she knows the punch line to and gives both of them a
thumbs-up. A blush heats Mulder's cheeks and he
looks away.
Two blushes in one day for an old, jaded G-man.
That's got to be some kind of record, Mulder thinks.
Krycek looks unruffled and a little smug as he pours
each of them another shot of tequila. "Drink," he
says. "You'll feel better."
"I want to go back to the hotel," Mulder says, but
tips the liquor down his throat like a good boy. It
isn't until the words are out of his mouth that he
realizes the meaning that Krycek could construe from
them.
"Fine by me," says Krycek, getting money out to pay
the bill.
"I didn't mean...that," says Mulder. "I just need
to lie down. To think about things."
Krycek nods. "Whatever. Let's get the hell out of
here." He has a small smile on his face, a cat-
that-got-the-canary kind of smile, which Mulder
doesn't trust.
He's up to something, Mulder thinks, but I think
that I'm just drunk enough not to give a fuck.
Mulder is, in fact, drunk enough to not care about
much of anything, which could be why he doesn't
flinch when Krycek touches his ass while they're
waiting for a cab to take them back to the hotel.
End part 1/2
=====
----------
The drive back seems to fly by in a haze. Krycek
strokes Mulder's thigh, and he means to tell Krycek
to stop it, but it feels good and he keeps
forgetting. He hopes no one in the hotel will
notice the erection he's sporting. Luckily, it's
late, the hotel seems deserted, and they get an
elevator all to themselves.
"You're drunk off your ass," says Krycek.
Mulder laughs. For some reason, everything Krycek
says seems supremely funny. He still wants to lie
down, but he isn't so sure he wants to think about
things. "You've got a pretty mouth on you, boy," he
says and doubles over with hilarity. "You're evil,
did you know that?"
"Flatterer," says Krycek.
"Yeah," says Mulder. "Like a pusher. You push the
alcohol and then you push yourself."
Krycek leans close to Mulder. "You think I'm a
drug?" he asks, his mouth close to Mulder's ear.
"Maybe," Mulder says, and now he's serious. Krycek
is his heroin: glory and ecstasy, pain and longing,
addiction and death. He sees a future stretched out
before him, one in which he seeks out what will
inevitably destroy him. There's a seductive romance
to the notion, a sickly sweet beauty wrapped in
horror. Mulder's soul warms to the notion.
"Come on, old man," says Krycek, breaking Mulder out
of his drunken maudlin reverie. "This is our
floor."
"Fuck you," says Mulder, taking offence at the 'old
man,' but following Krycek into the room amiably
enough.
Mulder flops down onto the couch and lays his head
back. He toes his shoes and socks off, then starts
unbuttoning his shirt. He's beginning to feel the
tequila catch up to him and all his clothing feels
too tight and confining.
He hears Krycek go to the room's mini-bar and remove
a bottle.
"Hey," says Mulder. "Grab one of those for me."
"Sure thing," says Krycek, and tosses a bottle
Mulder's way. Mulder fails to catch it by a wide
margin and it lands on the floor.
Mulder leans over, fights a wave of nausea, and
grabs the bottle. He peers at the label with eyes
that refuse to focus for more than a few seconds at
a time. "Stoli," he says, after puzzling it out.
"Nice." He stretches out on the couch and holds the
cold bottle to his forehead. "Oh, yeah. Just what
the doctor ordered."
Krycek snorts. "You're a mess." He takes a long
swallow from the small bottle in his hand, then puts
it on top of the TV.
"'s your fault," says Mulder. "I blame you and your
Russian...something or other. I forget.
Competitiveness or something."
"You're a crappy date, Mulder," says Krycek, taking
off his clothes.
"So I've been told," Mulder says. He closes his
eyes to block out the sight of Krycek undressing
then regrets it. The world flips faster with his
eyes shut. Not good. So he watches Krycek strip
and wishes the room would stop spinning and that his
stomach would just settle the fuck down. His buzz
is starting to fade but drunkenness has parked its
ass and is here to stay. "I wanna die," he says.
"Your fault. Blame you."
"If I'd wanted you dead," says Krycek, "I'd have
shot you between the eyes long ago. For some reason
I keep not killing you. Can't think why."
"Must be my charm and winning personality."
"Yeah," Krycek says. "I just love how you hit me in
the face every time we meet. Go to sleep, Mulder."
Mulder closes his eyes. "I feel sick," he moans.
"You know where the bathroom is," says Krycek, and
goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
----------
Mulder wakes up bathed in sweat and needing to throw
up. He'd been dreaming that he was back in the
Taurus and dancing with Krycek. The girl with blue
hair watched them while sipping huge drinks with
fruit and umbrellas. Then everyone was naked except
for him and he tried to take his clothes off but
they were painted on his body.
He gets up and stumbles to the bathroom, clawing at
the buttons on his shirt, just wanting it off his
skin. He makes it to the toilet just in the nick of
time. After vomiting, he leans his head against the
cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, feeling his heart
thump in his chest. The bathroom light comes on and
he winces. "Turn it off," he rasps and merciful
darkness floods the room.
Krycek puts a bottle of water in his hand. "Drink
this," he commands.
Mulder is too grateful for words. First he rinses
out his mouth, then he lets the cold water trickle
down his throat. It is the nectar of the gods.
"Ah," he says when the bottle is empty. "I almost
feel human."
"Good," he hears Krycek say. "You think you can
stand up?"
Mulder gets unsteadily to his feet and Krycek takes
his arm. He leads him into the bedroom, leaving the
door open. Too tired to stand, Mulder sits down on
the side of the bed closest to the door.
"You'll be closer to the bathroom in here," says
Krycek. "Just don't puke in the bed." He goes over
to the other side of the bed and pulls the covers
back.
"You sleeping here, too?" asks Mulder.
"It's my bed," Krycek says. "You don't like it, you
can sleep on the floor. Or in the bathroom, for all
I care."
Mulder gives a mental shrug. He's feeling too
blurry to protest. He fumbles with his shirt and
manages to pull it over his head, then tugs at his
belt and pulls that off as well. Much better. He
slides under the bed's covers and closes his eyes.
He's relieved that when he does, the world stays
properly still. With very little effort, he drifts
off into sleep.
----------
The next time Mulder wakes, the room is filled with
pale gray light. He looks over at the clock and it
reads six a.m. He feels remarkably better, all
things considered, just mildly hung over. He
stretches and his hand hits Krycek's back. Oh yeah.
He'd almost forgotten.
Krycek stirs and turns over. He opens his eyes and
they're large and bright in the dingy morning light.
"Good morning," he says with a yawn.
Mulder is sober now, and still a little nauseous,
but it doesn't stop the desire he feels for the man
lying beside him. He doesn't understand it at all.
It makes no sense. "Good morning," he replies. His
throat is dry. He could use another bottle of
water.
The moment feels odd. Mulder wishes he could think
of something witty and off hand to say. He needs to
break this spell that holds them together with ties
like spun glass.
Krycek reaches up and brushes his thumb across
Mulder's cheekbone. "I want you," he says,
shattering the world around them like cut crystal
thrown into a fireplace.
"I can't..." begins Mulder.
"But you want to." The words are sure and
confident.
Krycek is the embodiment of worldly sins and he
brings them out in Mulder: wrath, envy, gluttony,
greed, lust. He's candy stolen from a dime store, a
biting taunt screamed across a playground, an apple
with a razor blade hidden inside. He is a drug that
promises you everything, kicks you in the ass, then
leaves you begging for more. There might as well be
a card reading: 'Take me' tied to his neck.
"I can't," Mulder repeats, but with no conviction.
"You're already damned, Mulder. I can see it in
your eyes." Krycek says. "Learn to enjoy the
fall."
Mulder leans closer to Krycek, whose chest is bared,
the bed's covers pooled around his waist. Without
the prosthesis, his left shoulder ends in an abrupt
abbreviation crisscrossed with pearly scar tissue.
"Why are you trying to seduce me?" Mulder asks.
Krycek sits up, leaning in toward Mulder. Their
mouths are a breath away from each other. "You said
I was the pusher. I'm just doing my job. Fuck me.
You know you want to. All the cool kids are doing
it. Or are you chicken?"
Mulder says nothing, but doesn't move back. He can
feel Krycek's breath puff against his lips.
"Think about my mouth on your cock, sucking hard
till you come. Think of how tight my body will feel
around yours. Think of me pushing inside you,
making you scream for more. Think about it,
Mulder."
"Why are you doing this?" It comes out as a half
moan, half plea.
A slight shift from either Mulder or Krycek brings
their lips together for a bare instant. The touch
burns.
"Because I want you, you moron!" comes the
exasperated reply. Krycek pulls away from Mulder
and flings the covers back, revealing his long legs
and the erection that juts out between them. He
springs out of the bed and paces in front of it.
"Because I'm fucked in the head and thought all
those longing looks you've been giving me were
foreplay. Because I'm fucking horny and I'm tired
of my own hand."
That's when the pieces click into place and Mulder
realizes that all the wild goose chases and bits of
useful information have led directly to this point.
They've come to a nexus and whatever happens today
will decide things one way or the other. The choice
isn't fight or flight -- the real choice is whether
to put up or shut up. It's time to end the half-
assed flirting and careful innuendo. It's all or
nothing, and Mulder doesn't want to feel the void.
There are too many voids in his life already. He
gets out of bed and starts walking toward Krycek.
"Because it's all wrong and feels right," Krycek
continues. "Because I thought you understood.
Because -"
"Shut the fuck up," says Mulder. With one hand he
pushes the unresisting Krycek until his back is to
the wall. Mulder has decided to surrender to all
his baser impulses and this is his reward. A boy
with large eyes that have seen too much, sensual
lips that sneer at everything Mulder believes in,
and a sleek muscled body mangled by a fate that has
pissed on them both.
And who is Mulder but Ahab and Hamlet and Don
Quixote all rolled into one? He may be doomed by
life and circumstances, but if fate has chosen to
throw him a broken prize, he has no right to
complain.
He leans forward and fastens his teeth on Krycek's
neck and bites down hard enough for him to cry out.
Then Mulder shifts his head and licks at the hollow
of Krycek's neck. "I should rip out your jugular,"
he says into the hot skin. "I could kill you with
my teeth."
"I'd take you with me," says Krycek. Mulder likes
the feel of the vibration along his tongue.
"You could try," says Mulder and covers Krycek's
lips with his own in a hungry kiss that seems to
devour them both.
Krycek's hand fumbles with the fastening on Mulder's
slacks until Mulder pushes him away and performs the
task himself. He kicks off his pants and shorts,
then steps closer to Krycek. He cradles the man's
head in his hands and brings those sensual lips to
meet his own. He tries to consume Krycek, to
assimilate him. Their bodies meld in the heat
generated between them.
Krycek starts herding him backward, pushing and
shoving and nipping at his shoulder with sharp white
teeth. Mulder's legs hit the bed and he falls onto
it, his legs hanging over the edge. Krycek kneels
between his legs and he knows that one of his secret
fantasies is about to come true. Krycek takes
Mulder's cock into his mouth and runs his tongue
along it as he sucks it greedily. His hand reaches
up, rubbing along Mulder's bruised ribs, and Mulder
jumps from the pain. Krycek's laughter plays over
his sensitive skin. The hand moves down to cup and
stroke his balls, which ache pleasantly. The mouth
on his cock moves up and down, and he is almost to
the point of coming, but he needs more. He senses
that Krycek is keeping him in this limbo of
anticipation on purpose.
"Please," he whimpers, beyond the point of caring
that he's begging.
Krycek stops sucking him and kisses the skin of his
abdomen and thighs. "No," he says.
"Fuck you, Krycek." Mulder starts to sit up.
"Alex. Call me by the right goddamned name. And
I'll fuck you when I'm good and ready." He bites
the inside of Mulder's knee. "If you're a good boy,
then you can fuck me. You want that, don't you,
Fox?"
Mulder looks down at Krycek and sees him licking his
fingers. He knows what is coming but still tenses
when a finger is inserted into him. As it slides
deeper into his body, Krycek's tongue laps at the
skin of his inner thigh. "I hate that fucking
name," Mulder says between clenched teeth. The
finger pushes against his prostate and it feels so
fucking good that he can barely stand it.
"I know," says Krycek. A second finger joins the
first one. "Fuck, you're tight. Don't tell me
you're a virgin, Fox."
"Stop calling me that!" Krycek makes his name sound
like a dirty, shameful thing and he hates it, but
part of him likes it, too. The fingers inside him
move slowly in and out and he bites down on his lip.
"I will if you tell me the truth. Is this your
first time?"
Krycek's thumb joins the party and Mulder feels like
he's going to be split in two, but he somehow
remains intact and the fingers keep moving in and
out and in and out.
"No," he manages to say. "High school. Friend of
mine. Never told anyone. Till now."
"How sweet," says Krycek, still fucking him with
those talented fingers. "I'm touched." The words
drip acid, but the kiss Mulder feels against his
knee is soft and the fingers move inside him with
care.
Who the fuck is this man? Mulder wonders. He finds
himself wanting to know everything, every little
nuance that makes Krycek what he is, and feels a
sudden pang knowing that this is a futile wish.
Still, he has to try. "How about...you?" he asks,
then bites his lip as another wave of pleasure rips
through him.
"I think we'll save that for another day," says
Krycek and then the fingers are gone.
Mulder feels empty without them. He opens his eyes
and half sits up. Krycek has risen and is walking
toward the bathroom. Mulder reaches down and
strokes his dick, sticky with Krycek's saliva. It
aches with the need for release. He hears water
running in the bathroom and then the sounds of
rummaging.
When Krycek comes out from the bathroom, he's
wearing the prosthesis. There's a condom stretched
tight over his erection and another still in its
plastic wrapper held in his teeth. He opens his
mouth and the condom drops onto Mulder's stomach.
"For later," he says.
Mulder's dick jerks at the thought. He grabs it and
sets it on the nightstand. Mulder looks at Krycek's
hand, in which he holds a small bottle. He stands
between Mulder's legs and Mulder leans back. "Move
up. I wanna fuck you on the bed. I'm too old for
gymnastics." Mulder scoots upward until he hits the
headboard. Krycek follows, kneeling on the bed. He
opens the bottle in his hand and begins rubbing the
liquid inside over his dick, then Mulder's as well,
and finally around and inside Mulder's ass.
It's been so long since he did this, been so many
years since he even thought about it, that the
memory is hazy. His friend's name was Steve, he
remembers that, and how Steve kissed him, his mouth
hot and hard. They had snuck around, terrified
they'd be caught, and that somehow had made it all
the more exciting. It was forbidden; both of them
knew it, and that if they'd been found out, there'd
have been hell to pay. Mulder knows now that having
an adolescent homosexual encounter is normal and
fairly common, but nevertheless the memories he has
of Steve and what they did together have a wrongness
to them that feels wicked and sinful and wanton.
Like the way he feels when Krycek looks at him.
"Showtime," says Krycek, running his slick hand
along the inside of Mulder's thigh. "You ready?"
"No," says Mulder, but he opens his legs wider and
lifts up his ass a little to facilitate things.
It's like he's offering himself, a thought that
gives him a simultaneous jolt of humor and lust.
"Too fucking bad," Krycek says in a low growl that
is almost a purr.
Krycek pushes his cock slowly into Mulder and it's
agony and ecstasy all rolled up together. Oh no.
Oh yes. Oh please. Don't stop. Don't ever stop.
The words pound in Mulder's head as the blood pulses
in his veins. When Krycek is buried all the way in,
he pauses for a second, shifting his weight a little
as he reaches forward and grabs Mulder's cock,
running his hand up and down its length. He leans
on the prosthesis, and Mulder thinks he sees a wince
of pain flicker across Krycek's face. Then the cock
inside him is moving to the same rhythm of Krycek's
hand and he just doesn't care. There is too much
pleasure flooding through him and all other
considerations are washed away. Oh fuck yeah. It's
better than any scenario he's concocted in his head
to get him through a sleepless night. He was right,
this is a drug, and it burns, it burns him right
through.
"Good, so good," Krycek mumbles, his eyes closed and
his tongue running along the sore place on his lower
lip. It's the most erotic thing Mulder has ever
seen. Krycek's thrusts speed up and his breath
comes in great gasps. The hand on Mulder's cock
pumps faster and faster. "Oh, God, Mulder. So
fucking good. Knew it would be."
Everything inside Mulder contracts and he comes in a
fierce explosion that fires along every nerve in his
body. Krycek continues to pound into him and his
orgasm somehow keeps going on and on until he thinks
he'll go mad with it. Then Krycek stops with one
final hard thrust and cries out incoherently, his
hand squeezing Mulder's cock to the point of near
pain, then loosening and letting go.
He pulls out of Mulder, fumbles with the prosthesis,
then eventually removes it and tosses it aside.
Then he slumps down and drapes himself over Mulder
in apparent exhaustion. Mulder revels in their
closeness, the tacky feel of his skin, the smell of
sex and sweat, the swipe of Krycek's tongue against
his neck.
"My turn," says Mulder.
"Slut," says Krycek. He bites Mulder's shoulder.
"Fuck you."
Krycek's head shifts and he runs his tongue along
the whisker-roughened edge of Mulder's jaw.
"Jesus," he says. "Give me a chance to catch my
breath."
Mulder pushes Krycek off of him. "Lazy ass," he
says.
With the edge taken off of their crazed, brittle
lust, Mulder is now able to lie next to Krycek,
looking at him, and just think. This is serious,
what they've just done. It's permanent and forever,
even if they never see each other again. Things
have a new alignment now, and he's trying to figure
out what that means.
Is Krycek his enemy or not? There's that and a
million other questions he wants to ask but he knows
that there'll be no answers. At least not today.
Maybe, with time... But thinking this way is insane.
It would mean a relationship of sorts with a man
he's always thought of as a monster. It's
unthinkable, impossible, but also tempting.
Krycek lies on his back with his eyes closed, his
arm curled around his head in a way that looks
uncomfortable to Mulder but apparently suits the
other man just fine. He glances at the clock and
sees that it's nearly seven a.m. It's hours and
hours before Mulder's plane leaves, but already he
can sense time closing in on him. The old feeling
of stolen time and forbidden pleasures surrounds
him. He takes the used condom off of Krycek and
hooks it right into the wastebasket. Perfect three
point shot. The crowd goes wild.
Christ. He hasn't felt this fucking fantastic in
years.
Krycek murmurs a drowsy, "C'mere."
Mulder turns back to him and sees Krycek's eyes
watching him. "I'm still here," Mulder says.
"I know. I just can't make sense of it yet. We
just fucked each other senseless, right? That
wasn't a dream."
"Nope," says Mulder. "You were senseless. I was
conscious the entire time."
"Asshole." Krycek's hand reaches up to tangle in
Mulder's hair. He pulls, but unlike Mulder's dream
on the airplane, this doesn't hurt. "I still want
you," whispers Krycek before their lips meet. The
kiss is surprisingly soft and delicate, almost
fragile, and so different from the hard, heavy
kisses of just minutes ago.
Mulder deepens the kiss, hungry for more than just
this small taste. It isn't enough, and he is afraid
it may never be enough. But there's time to worry
about that later. For now his policy is shoot up
while you still can. He pulls away from Krycek just
enough to say, "You'd better, or I'll kick your
ass."
"You and what army?" Krycek's fingers dig into
Mulder's scalp.
"You think I couldn't take one petty little assassin
out? And a handicapped one, to boot?
"That's handicapable, you insensitive prick, and I'd
like to point out that I'm still alive and kicking."
To demonstrate, Krycek kicks Mulder in the shin.
"Ow. Fuck that hurt. Maybe I keep you alive for a
reason." His feet tangle with Krycek's, each of
them vying for supremacy.
"Like what?"
"Like this." Mulder's hand curls around Krycek's
cock, which is already hard. He squeezes, but not
enough to hurt.
"Good reason," breathes Krycek. His hand clenches
around the sheet.
"Or it could be that I just want to find out what's
going on in that pretty little head of yours."
"You're a regular Mata Hari," Krycek says.
Mulder's hand moves over the velvety skin of
Krycek's cock slowly, teasing him. "It just takes
me a bit longer to get to the point."
"Yeah. Like four years."
"Something like that." Mulder leans down and kisses
the corner of Krycek's mouth. "What do you say we
make up for lost time?"
Krycek cranes his neck to see the clock. "What?
Four years in four hours? Are you trying to kill
me?"
"Maybe. Wanna try me?"
"Fuck, yeah."
----------
Several hours later, Mulder comes out of the
bathroom, freshly showered and dressed only in a
towel. Only there's no Krycek here to impress, and
the only evidence that he was ever there at all is
the wreck of the bed and the used condoms in the
trash.
Well, what the fuck did he expect? Flowers? A
tearful good-bye? No. But something more than
this...this emptiness. It's like Krycek is trying
to tell him that none of what they did matters, but
it does, all the same. Or at least it should.
Never mind. It's time for him to go, anyway. He
picks up his belongings and stuffs them haphazardly
into his bag, then starts looking for the room key-
card. He finds it on the TV in the living room,
scoops it up, and heads out the room, shutting the
door firmly behind him.
He goes down to the reservations desk and turns in
the key. The young woman behind the desk informs
him cheerily that the bill has already been taken
care of, and that she has something for him, if
he'll just give her a minute to get it out of the
hotel safe.
Mulder can't think what it could be then realizes
that this must be the prize that Krycek dangled
before him from the start. It wasn't bullshit after
all. Imagine that.
The woman comes back with a large sealed manila
envelope and hands it to Mulder. "Here you go, sir.
I hope you had a good visit in Bangkok."
Mulder grunts and nods and the woman turns away, her
duty to him completed. He makes a detour to the
men's bathroom to check out the contents of the
envelope in relative privacy. He finds several
photographs, the results of a blood test, and a
note. There's nothing here that won't pass customs,
but Mulder feels like a bomb has been dropped in his
lap. He puts the items back in the envelope, stuffs
the envelope in his bag, and gets shakily to his
feet.
The world he has always taken for granted will never
be the same again.
He wonders why Krycek has decided to give him this,
and why now. He doesn't want to believe any of it,
but part of him knows it to be the truth, has
suspected something for a very long time. It could
be a trick, the pictures and the document could be
fakes, but that doesn't feel like the truth. He is
inclined to believe the evidence before him, along
with the note that was folded into a tiny lump like
a secret message passed during class.
Mulder walks out to hail a taxi and finds the driver
from yesterday waiting with what looks like the same
limousine. "It's good to see you again, sir," the
man says, holding the car door open. Mulder gets in
and doesn't bother to look out the window on the
return trip to the airport. He has too much to think
about to be interested in mere scenery.
Once he's through customs and on the plane, Mulder
falls into an exhausted sleep. If he dreams, he
doesn't remember any of it upon waking.
-----------
Back in his apartment, he realizes belatedly that he
never called Scully. Dropping his bag on the floor,
he picks up his phone and dials her number.
"Scully," she says.
"It's me," Mulder says, unzipping his bag.
"You didn't call from wherever it was...Bangkok,
right?"
"Yep. Sorry. I was busy." Yeah, right. Busy
doing things he shouldn't be doing. Mulder pulls
the envelope out of his bag and sits down on his
floor, his back against his couch.
"Don't worry about it. I figured even you couldn't
get into too much trouble in just one day. I wasn't
going to get seriously worried until maybe tomorrow
or the day after."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Scully. You
have no idea how much that means to me."
Scully responds in kind to Mulder's sarcasm. "Any
time, Mulder. So, did you find out anything
interesting, or was this another dead end? I don't
mean to be short, but I've got laundry going."
Mulder takes the contents of the envelope and begins
to spread them out in front of him.
"No, Scully. It was a dead end. I was just calling
to let you know I'm still alive."
"I'm glad to hear it. And, if you don't mind, the
laundry calls."
"Nope. Have a good night. I'll see you in the
morning."
"Mm hm," she says. "See you."
After hanging up the phone, Mulder starts arranging
the photographs. They span what seem to be many
years, going back to the sixties and continuing
through what he thinks is probably last year. In
each photograph he sees his mother and the man he's
come to think of as Cancer Man. The Smoker. The
Big Bad Wolf himself. Fuck.
In some they're arguing, in others, embracing.
Next, he picks up the results from a paternity test
that ruled out William Mulder as a possible father
for Fox Mulder and lays it down beside the photos.
The last thing he examines is a note from Krycek.
'I'm sure you're smart enough to put two and two
together. This is something I felt you had the
right to know. Things are coming. Keep your eyes
open and your head out of your ass, for fuck's sake.
Do vstrechi. Alex.'
Mulder stares at the items on his floor for a long
time. When his legs go numb, he realizes that
staring at the pictures isn't going to change them
into something else. Mulder gathers the pictures
and papers scattered on his floor and sweeps them
into the envelope. At the last minute, he takes out
Krycek's note and sets it aside. Then he goes down
to the basement of his apartment and throws the
envelope into the incinerator. He watches the past,
the evidence of what and who he is, burn to ash. It
makes him feel better somehow.
He climbs the stairs slowly, not wanting to be
trapped in the elevator right now with another
resident of the building. He lets himself into his
apartment, half hoping Krycek will be there, but
it's empty save him and the fish.
He wishes he could resolve the Kryceks in his head:
the one that is a cold blooded assassin with the one
whose kiss had been a fragile gossamer brush against
his lips; the one who handed him a bottle of water
after vomiting with the one who has torn apart his
notion of family and self with a few pictures and a
piece of paper.
In one night, his life has been changed forever.
Before going to sleep, Mulder looks something up on
the Internet. He knows a smattering of Russian, but
isn't familiar with 'do vstrechi.' What he sees
there makes him frown. The meaning is too enigmatic
for his taste, could be taken to mean too many
things. We will meet again soon. How soon, and
under what circumstances?
He lies awake for a long time on his couch,
wondering whether the next time he meets Krycek if
it will be a kiss or a bullet. Eventually he falls
asleep with Krycek's note on his chest. In his
dreams, he's still in Bangkok. He walks the streets
with Krycek, who is not his enemy or ally, but just
his lover. The girl with blue hair sits in a
sidewalk cafe, sipping tea. She waves to them as
they go by. Just before the dream fades, Krycek
whispers, "Soon," in his ear and kisses him.
When Mulder wakes, he remembers nothing of the
dream. Finding Krycek's note fallen on the floor,
he picks it up, folds it carefully, and puts it in
his wallet. "Do vstrechi," he says, and starts to
get ready for work.
----------
Feedback, questions, etc. can be sent to
grimilkincat@yahoo.com. I hope you enjoyed
reading this as much as I did writing it.
=====
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