Keep on Running
by Sebastian
Krycek | Rated PG | 2003 | 603 words
The bricks are slick, slimy. The light doesn't allow them a colour but black.
Sheened with moonlight, a narrow-knife-of-silver down the alley black.
Glistening.
The trash foams at the base of the buildings, foul, fungoid, soft. Soft when he kicks at it, when he knows he's not going to catch up: frustrated again; not going to catch him; not going to catch him this time.
Again.
He turns to the wall, puts his hands on the slick, black bricks, pulls his palms down. Down. They'd feel like this on the jacket Krycek wears... damp tonight, a little rain and mist tonight; it gets onto the leather, makes it cold, sticky, horrible to touch.
He knows this.
He's had his hands on that leather on a night like tonight. Other nights too. Hot nights, when the slickness comes from his palms, his sweat, his own sweat; when the leather, the black, suck-in-the-heat leather almost sizzles under his skin. Hot, like the man, like Krycek's body, like the looks, the body, the body language.
Like Mulder's lust. Like the days and hours he can't wait, that he can't fucking wait any more.
Any more.
Pissed, he picks up the pace and dashes to the end of the alley, catches a glimpse as Krycek heels round a corner: the snarl of a motorcycle signals he's gone.
Mulder has had enough.
Alex doesn't come visit for a while. The weeks smear into months, and Mulder's brain sings with need. He calls it speculation, suspicion, but under it all, all the denial, the bluster, he knows what it is. He needs Krycek.
He's met him as a colleague. He's met him as an enemy.
What he is...
Mulder can admit it, on dark nights, dark empty nights. Nights when the job isn't teasing his thoughts like warm, begging fingertips; nights when Scully's doubts, her conditioning, her cool logic - her fragility (thrust aside, but too evident); nights when she beats that; the nights when she doesn't need him come by. They are rare.
Those nights, Krycek comes to him in his dreams.
He's tall.
Broad.
Bulky, under his leathers. He wraps his arms round Mulder to draw him close. No matter how he struggles, Alex is strong, stronger. Tight around his chest so that Mulder is breathless after a brief, gasping struggle. Helpless.
In his dreams Mulder pushes, tries to punch, thrust Krycek away. He fails.
Odd. Even dreaming, it's odd.
Mulder's never failed. Not for real. Every time he's beaten Alex back, pinned him, had him submit, had him tremble, stutter out excuses, scraps of information.
Anything to make Mulder stop.
Pax.
Uncle.
Mercy.
Why?
Krycek's no lightweight. They're matched, he and the spy, the traitor, the puppydog recruit that once he ridiculed, yet warmed to.
Krycek could pound him, punch him, splatter him to kingdom come; he doesn't. Orders? Or is the bastard soft? Underneath, perhaps he can't face the need to put the job first. Perhaps he gets involved. Mulder has seen how Alex looks into his eyes. Oh, that dilation can't be just shock, recgonition.
Krycek wants him. Oh, Krycek wants him like he wants Krycek. To have. To hold. From this day forward.
For better or worse.
The sureness warms him, no matter what lays between them, despite the harshness, the viciousness. It's a game. A dream.
Mulder's thoughts swirl like scarlet leaves in autumn and he looks up at the bright, too-bright starlit sky. The stars are countless, endless.
He is sure now.
His head tilts back, he blinks. He can't believe the boundless stars, but he can believe in Alex.
END
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