Rat and Fox

ADULTS ONLY

Contains masturbation, thoughts of male/male sex.

Pairing: Krycek solo

Summary: A meditation on a lonely life. Follows “Patient X”/”The Red and the Black.”

11/98

Disclaimer: X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.

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Alex Krycek flung the blanket off in frustration and sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. The bedside clock glowed 3:46 a.m. in painfully large red numerals. Growling under his breath, he turned the clock to the wall, and stood up, walking naked in the near-dark to the partially-shaded window. He never closed the outer drapes all the way—one always had to be ready to move, to jump up and run, to grab for a weapon, and precious seconds spent fumbling for a light switch, especially in successions of one generic but not quite familiar motel room after another, could be seconds in which one’s life slipped away. Near dark was best: his own eyes accustomed to it, his gun under the pillow, the room’s arrangement of bed and dresser and chair memorized as best he could in the hours before sleep. It was a small advantage, but sometimes a small advantage was enough. You took what you could. Krycek had stayed alive so far by taking small advantages and playing them for all he was worth.

He pulled the thin inner curtain aside and looked out. Not much of a view: concrete parking lot, gleaming wetly from an earlier sprinkling of rain, streetlamps dripping gloomy pools of yellow light at far intervals. There were only a few other cars in the lot—it was a small motel, off the highway, too far from the airport for business travelers, too far from anything else for vacationers. Just one tired-looking clerk at the front desk, who seemed to find the effort of opening the book for him to sign with yet another false name and taking his cash almost too much to bear. Would she still be at the front desk? Perhaps he could sit with her for a little while, and just talk. Lose himself for a brief time in someone else’s mundane life: the quiet details of her existence, the soap operas she watched, the friends with whom she gossiped, the husband she tried to care for, the children they’d had, or didn’t have, or lost. But no. If you talked to people, they remembered you, and that left trails.

He rubbed his left shoulder, where flesh met plastic, ran his fingers under the straps. Take it off for a little while, to ease the soreness? He sighed. Better not—it was another disadvantage, to be caught without his arm, and he didn’t want to risk it, not even for a little while. Chances were high he was safe enough here, for the time being—no one knew he was here except his new patron, and he seemed to find Krycek useful, at least for now, so he would not want to lose him. But ‘seemed’ was not quite good enough—no one was really what he seemed. And the damned arm had cost too much; he didn’t want to lose it. He shouldn’t really be naked, either, but he hadn’t had a change of clothes in days, and sleeping in them would only make them worse. Tomorrow perhaps he’d find an hour to buy some clean underwear, at least.

Meanwhile, he ought to be sleeping. Staying sharp meant staying alive, and he couldn’t afford to be wandering around at four in the morning, worrying about things he couldn’t help, like Mulder did.

Mulder. He smiled to himself, a cold and bitter smile. What were the chances Mulder was awake right now? After their meeting earlier . . . how long had it been since their last meeting? Over a year this time. You’d think the effect would fade in time, but no, it was as strong as ever—the sight of Mulder hit him hard, right in the gut. The physical blows were nearly irrelevant. It was those eyes of his, so deep and sad, as if they’d seen all the pain in the world, and were busily suffering it, bit by bit, greedily sucking up every last particle. And that mouth, soft and full and always on the verge of trembling. The whiskey voice, sultry and inviting, that always seemed to have a caress in it, even when it was shouting hate. And the body—

Krycek’s right hand strayed down over his belly, fingers combed through the hair over his crotch. Just scratching, he told himself. He wasn’t even hard. Although the first small tingles of arousal had begun to shiver in his groin.

His lips had pressed against Mulder’s cheek. Stupid thing to do, really. It wasn’t likely to improve Mulder’s attitude towards him, just make him angrier. (But had that really been anger on Mulder’s face as he drew away? Shock, more like. Confusion. Like the breath had been knocked out of him.) But he just hadn’t been able to resist it, having the upper hand for once, and Mulder so kissable on the floor, helpless, fear showing through his bravado, in the bright spark in his eyes, in the way his voice cracked as he spit out his insults. God, he’d been beautiful.

The tingle in his groin had turned into a throb, a dark pulse of blood. His hand moved down to stroke, just one openhanded slide down the length of his cock. Not with Mulder, he told himself, pulling his hand away, a familiar warning. There was too much danger where Mulder was concerned. And too many other attractive men in the world.

And who did Mulder think about when he masturbated? Not Krycek, he knew. Did he think of men at all? Or women? Perhaps his wet dreams were full of demons and mutants and aliens. It wasn’t far from his mind, though. Isn’t that how you like to beat yourself? he’d taunted, when Krycek had told him he was slipping, he could beat him with one hand.

I don’t have any choice these days, Mulder. But fortunately, one’s enough. He held his cock in his hand, gave it a brief stroke with his thumb, then moved to cup his balls. He squeezed them, rolling them in his hand, twisting them a little to give himself just a little taste of pain. He felt his cock jump and rise. Touching his balls was allowed. He squeezed them harder, and bent over slightly, leaning his prosthetic arm against the windowsill, so he could reach behind his balls to press one finger into his anus. Dry, he couldn’t get it in very far, and it hurt a little, but that was all right. Pain and Mulder seemed to go together. He worked his hips, thrusting his finger roughly into himself, his cock jerking with his thrusts, growing harder with every motion. He kept on until his heart was pounding, and his rough gasps made fog bloom on the window.

He paused a moment, letting his hand fall free, staring at the empty parking lot, which felt a lot like his soul these days. His hand moved around his throbbing cock. Not with Mulder, he warned himself again, but the subversive voice answered, in whiskey tones, Just this once. It will help you sleep. And god, he needed to sleep, and this night there was no chance in hell of replacing that face with another.

So he closed his eyes and let the image take him, almost as forcefully as the real man. Mulder. Passionate and full of pain; stubborn and willful and angry, heat rising from him in waves, spitting out insults that felt like caresses, sitting with Krycek’s gun cradled in his lap, watching him with eyes like a wounded animal as he left. Tovarish, he’d called him, when what he wanted to say was—

His orgasm was sudden and hard, and over in a few quick pulses. Krycek took one shuddering breath, then straightened up, a little wobbly, his knees already turning to jelly. His semen had splattered the wall below the window. He stared at it dully, as it gleamed in the faint light of the room. Sighing, he pulled the curtain shut, then went to the bathroom to get a towel to clean it up. That was stupid, he told himself. And this time the other voice agreed.

end.