Category: Slash/NC-17 - Krycek/Pendrell Spoilers: None. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Chris Carter does. Summary: Yet another smutty meeting between the RatBoy and the LabBoy. Takes place around Herrenvolk. A plot? You want a plot? Oh, please. Archive: For the Socks Shoppe only. http://members.aol.com/xapen/socks.html Please don't forward to any other list or archive without permission. Thanks! :-) THANKS to Te for her wonderful beta reading and nice comments. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE BEST OF INTENTIONS by DBKate dbkate@yahoo.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I think the word I was looking for was "guileless". Or perhaps not. I knew I was looking for something to describe the face of the man who sat in front of me, with his huge, infant blue eyes and flushed cheeks, but it wasn't coming to mind right off the bat. Innocent? No, not quite innocent. Not naive, exactly...maybe not even guileless, but it was the only word that seemed to come even close. It was a typical Friday night in the local DC bar right down the block from the Bureau's Central Plaza, and that man, the guileless-looking man, had a beer in his hand, an envelope in his pocket and all I had was one, simple mission. To get that envelope from him... By any means necessary. "I'm sorry, but what's your name again?" he asked politely, over the loud din and bad eighties' music that filled the bar. "Krycek," I answered, my best liar's smile firmly in place. "Alex Krycek." "Oh, right," he replied. "Daniel Pendrell. Um, Agent Pendrell, FBI." He fumbled for his badge, but stopped when I held a hand up and produced my own, albeit, fake one. "Same here. Organized Crime," I said, flipping it shut quickly before he noticed any overt signs of forgery. I shook his hand and was surprised at the iron grip that greeted my own. "Sci-Crime Lab," he answered, with the newfound confidence of a comrade. "...a.k.a., *NerdLand*." He smiled when he said it, and I tried to return the grin, but knew I couldn't quite match the sincerity. "Don't put yourself down," I replied, wondering from what corner of the American dream the Bureau grabbed this boy from. "Couldn't get anywhere without you guys. So, what's a nice forensic like you doing in a dump like this?" "Actually, I'm here waiting for a call back from Agent Dana Scully of the X-Files division," he said, waving to the bartender and ordering two beers, one for each of us. "She's very hard to get a hold of, but I'm hoping she'll want these results tonight." He turned toward me with the same innocent expression. "You don't know her, do you?" Agent Dana Scully. Now, do I know her? You might say that I know her, perhaps too well. Or perhaps you could say that she knows me a bit too well. But either way that wasn't something for him to find out about. I shook my head with the most oblivious expression imaginable. "No." "Oh," he replied, and he turned back to his beer, while my brain churned up ideas to relieve him of his burden. Yes, that simple, little, yellow envelope stuffed into the inside pocket of his suit jacket; the one that contained enough marketable information to keep me in the game for another few weeks, maybe even months. Now, I could punch him in the face, grab it, run and hope I'll make it out of there without a problem. I could take a little walk with him, beat him senseless, and leave him to the whim of the streets. I could shoot him in the head, take the envelope and walk away, leaving his body for some poor sap to find. Or I could seduce it out of him. At that thought, I nearly laughed out loud. Seduction for information...wasn't that the oldest game in town? But a good spy will still practice it, for it's a very useful tool. Beating or killing a man leaves too much of a mess and too many people interested in the event. Especially if that man is an FBI agent. Besides, I found that I had absolutely no inclination to hurt this man in front of me, the one with the huge, blue eyes and the innocent mouth. For, as ruthless as I can be, I do try to leave killing as a last resort. Anyway, I could use the practice. For you see, seduction is a lost art. It's about focus. Focusing on the person you're trying to bed, focusing on their every word, every movement, every look. You don't have to flatter or cajole, you simply have to give the person your undivided and sincere attention. And, for the next two hours, that's exactly what I did. When he talked about microbes, I was enthralled. When he joked about safety goggles, I was guffawing. Everything about him was beguiling, riveting...captivating. As far as I was concerned, there wasn't another human being on the planet Earth besides him. Nope, he was it....all there was. The bartender had to tap me on my shoulder twice, even three times, to receive my slightest attention. Like a laser directed on a target, I was on top of him, relentlessly attentive. And did he fall for it? Of course he did. He wouldn't have been human if he didn't. He devoured it hungrily, as if he'd been starved for notice of any type, as if the things he was proudest of, his best accomplishments, had been completely ignored by everyone else except for the spellbound man in front of him. But then, he did something strange. "So," he asked, beaming and flushed with the effects of my unrelenting attention. "What do *you* do?" I blinked once or twice and then shrugged. Most people, when the conversation is about themselves, are loathe to change the subject, least of all transfer the attention to another person. But here was a generous man, happy in his few moments in the spotlight, and was now willing to share, to return the favor. Guileless. How utterly guileless. "Seriously," he repeated. "What do you do?" I merely shrugged in reply. "Nothing that interesting." He snorted with a smile. "In organized crime? Come on, I'll bet you have hundreds of great stories." Well, I did, but none that he was ever going to hear. "I could tell you," was all I said, my face aching from smiling so much. "but then I'd have to kill you." He just laughed in reply. I smiled again, making sure he thought I was joking. "So, why don't you tell me again about..." It was at that moment that his cell phone rang and he reached for it with a delighted expression. "That should be Agent Scully," he said happily, and for a single, horrifying moment I realized that my name might somehow be mentioned in the ensuing conversation and that would end my little charade pretty damn quick. But as I cursed myself for my stupidity and prepared to bolt, it appeared that the conversation was over almost before it had begun. "Agent Scully, I have those results you asked for and I was...oh. Really? Tomorrow morning on your desk? I see. I'm sorry, I just thought that they were...right. I understand. No, no...that's fine, I just was hoping that maybe we could..." he stumbled, but even I heard the sharp, careless click and monotone buzz that terminated the call. And almost immediately after he flipped the phone shut, the change came over him. Slumped shoulders along with a downturned, sour expression of pure misery. He didn't look merely disappointed, or even slightly disgruntled, but truly and sincerely crushed. It almost bothered me to see it. "You seem to like her more than just a co-worker," I said, not envying his taste in women. He nodded unhappily. "Yeah, you could say that." I shrugged at him. "Well, better luck next time, eh?" "Yeah," he sighed and took a long swig from the beer in front of him. "Whenever *next time* is." "Say," I said to him, with affected carelessness. "I know a place, not to far from here, that has great Guinness. I've got my car, so you can drink tonight and I'll play taxi. What do you say? You never finished that last story you were telling me, " I said pleadingly. "You can't leave me hanging." "Oh, it's not that interesting," he replied, the gloomy expression still firmly in place. "And I'm really not that interesting, either." But, glancing once more at that incredibly seductive envelope that was virtually dangling before my eyes, I had to disagree. "Daniel," I replied, quite truthfully. "At this moment, I find you the most fascinating person on Earth." Slowly, a tiny smile curled his lips upward. "Seriously?" he asked, his features lightening. "Without a doubt," I replied softly, and deciding to make a move, I slid my hand slowly, meaningfully, up to his left shoulder, trying to throw the weight of a longing stare behind it. He looked at my hand and then at me, curiously, but said nothing. I could see that he was confused for the briefest of seconds, but as seemed to be his nature, he decided to take my gesture in the nicest, most innocent way. He clasped his hand over mine and squeezed it with a large, bright smile. Yes, I was a buddy, wasn't I? A real compassionate pal, said the look in his eyes. I sighed and took my hand away, shaking my head. Guileless. How utterly guileless. %%%%%% I took him out that night, tried to get him drunk, and succeeded halfway. He was tipsy, but not quite gone, when I led him to my car and placed him in the passenger seat. It had been three more hours of evidence stories and I was left exhausted, and hoping that I could pull this off without making too much of a mess out of the poor guy. Against my better judgement, I was starting to almost enjoy his company. People without agendas are always a such a novelty where I come from. "Agent Krycek," he said giddily, with the most lop-sided smile imaginable, as we pulled up in front of his apartment. "-You- are one helluva of a nice guy. Top-notch, great guy. I just had to say that." Ah, finally. Three hours of dog-like, faux adoration was paying off. Time to move in with the distraction, grab the goods and get going. But, much to my annoyance, he was sliding away from me, innocently sidestepping my caresses and not noticing any of my pleading looks. "Thanks," I said, gently trying to turn his face toward me...to move in for the kill. But he wasn't falling for it. "Now, Alex, I really don't want you to drive back to New York tonight," he said, adamantly, turning my own lie against me. "You've had too much to drink and it's much too late. Stay at my place." Oh, -great-, I thought. "Uh, no, Daniel. Why... why don't you stay here and talk to me while I sober up?" I pleaded, thinking of what a convenient place that would be to finish the job. "No, no. I insist," he maintained tipsily, as he exited the car and motioned for me to follow him into his apartment. "You've had too much to drink. I've had too much to drink. Everyone's had too much to drink, so therefore, you will stay here. And I don't want to hear any arguments, so come on." Okay, guess the front seat of the car was out of the question, I groaned inwardly. Sighing, I got out of the car and followed him up the stairs to his apartment. It was a typical middle class hallway, with paintings of trees and flowers lining the walls. Putting a finger to his lips, he motioned for quiet and bade me to follow him down a narrow flight of stairs, to what was obviously his apartment in the basement. Still ain't paying that much at the Bureau, are they? I thought wryly, as he ushered me into a small, but neat, one-bedroom flat and sliding behind me, he silently shut the door. Well, he may have gotten out of being taken in the car, but I was no longer willing to waste time with any more games. Remember, I had work to do. So, without a word, I spun around, grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket between my fists, shoved him against the apartment door and took his mouth underneath mine. I forced it open with my tongue and felt my way around the velvet of his cheeks, and along the rough edges of his teeth. It only lasted for a few seconds and when I pulled away to gauge his reaction, I heard him gulp for air and then speak. "Oh," he whispered shakily, and his voice only held the smallest hint of surprise. I carefully examined his eyes for any sign of fear or anger, but they were glittering in the dim light, with the pupils slightly dilated and a hidden fire lurking in the back of them. But, just to be sure, I pulled him to me once more, and kissed him again. Hard. "Oh," he repeated when I pulled away, but this time he had a look in his eyes that couldn't be mistaken for naivete, innocence, or anything else besides desire. Encouraged, I rubbed my hands over him, sneaking one between his legs and found that he'd become both hot and hard, much more so than I'd expected. As I caressed him, I noticed that every emotion was shining in his face, from denial to confusion to lust, to acceptance and then back to denial. Breathing hard, he pushed himself against my hand and then jerked away, as if burnt. My own cock hardened in response, a reaction that rarely, if ever, happened when I did this type of *work*. His confusion, his hesitation, then helpless abandonment was exciting, novel -- new. He had to, he couldn't, he wished, he wanted to stay, he wanted to leave, and all of it was showing in his face. But I didn't let him go, instead, I grasped surely between his legs, reaching down even further to caress what lie behind his cock, to feel the heat and weight of his balls in my palm, and squeezed gently. That caused him to moan, and it was such a delicious, desperate sound, that I experimented further; bumping and rubbing my entire body against him, seeing if I could elicit louder moans. I wasn't disappointed. It was becoming oddly enjoyable, strangely enticing to see this very young, very ingenuous-looking man losing himself in my actions, torn between lust and confusion. And while that surprised me, more than I cared to admit, his next action was amazing. He reached up and kissed me. Not the harsh masculine assault that I'd just given him, or some light, accidental brush against my cheek, but a slow, full kiss, brimming with affection, desire, and a strange sweetness. Most straight men, when accepting offers from other men, take them with a testosterone-laden bravado, making a complete disassociation from the dreaded label "homosexuality". "Kiss him? Not me, pal. I just let him jerk/suck/rub me off. And that was it." Unfortunately, no one had ever told this man that kissing was definitely not the macho sort of pose he might want to present during this kind of activity. I was almost shocked at such a passionate display of affection, but when I returned the kiss, I felt, to my great distress, my body respond, my cock harden even more, and my hips start to move involuntarily against him, despite my best intentions not to get too involved in the action taking place. Not to get too close. But, it was proving impossible to simply bring him off and grab the goods. It became obvious that he wanted more. He wanted me: to kiss and to hold and to take, and I was growing used to the idea. Deftly, he backed me into the tiny apartment's bedroom, and soon, I felt my leather jacket coming off and the bedsprings give way beneath our tumble down. Soon, he was everywhere, lying atop me with his hands, his warm lips and his tongue tracing maddening patterns on every exposed part of my body, every piece of skin he could find. "Do you like this?" he whispered between kisses. "Is this all right? I've never done this before; not with a man. Tell me, am I doing it right?" No, I wanted to answer, this is all wrong. You're not supposed to be doing anything, I'm supposed to have left here already, long gone from this place, with the envelope in my hands. His hands were everywhere, but only moving with small, cautious flutters and after a moment, I heard him groan softly with frustration. "Alex, I don't know what to do," I heard him say softly. "Please show me." And that was it. I was hopelessly turned on, more than I'd been in a very long time. Show you? Yes, I'll show you, I thought, as I rolled him over onto his back. I'll show you how it feels to have a hand that's as strong as your own running over your body, one that knows its secret places as well as you do. I'll show you what it's like to have someone strong desperate to kiss you, tilt your neck back and leave you helpless underneath him. I took his mouth with own and he tasted both harsh and sweet, in the way that men sometimes taste, of salt, beer and gum. I removed his shirt, breathed deeply against his skin and noticed that he smelled of good cologne, leather holster and over-laundered shirts. His skin was hot and damp beneath my lips, with the sharp stubble on his chin tapering to a fine grain sandpaper roughness along his neck. I experimented with my tongue along different parts of his neck, then his shoulders, then his chest; finally catching a small, dark pebbled nipple between my teeth, and heard him moan loudly as I did so. I was sweating now, as the room became unrelentingly hot, and his body, very thin, but not unattractively so, flushed against mine, the red blood coloring not only his cheeks, but the pale skin of his neck and upper chest as well, warming me even more. I bent my head to the other nipple and he cried out at the sensation, suddenly trying to push me away; to stop the assault before it became painful. But I knew well the limits between pleasure and pain, and while I occasionally preferred pain; brutal, soaring pain, I didn't want him to know that. Slowly, I reached down between his legs and caressed the hardness I found there, rubbing it softly at first, then squeezing it harshly, pinching the tip through the fabric of his suit trousers, feeling the slight dampness that had already seeped through the thin material. He gasped, and then breathing hard, he shifted, trying to give me greater access, raising his hips up to meet my hand. I pulled it away teasingly, and he whimpered at the loss, trying to initiate further contact, but I refused him. It was exciting, amusing even, to watch him squirm beneath me, to feel him beg for me, not with loud words or threats, but simply through the silent language of his body, with an honest admittance of need. I ignored him for a moment longer, let him writhe helplessly and when he groaned with frustration at my non-action and tried to reach up and force my hands back onto him, I grabbed his wrists and shoved them over his head, pinning them to the mattress below. "Ask," I whispered in his ear, nibbling the lobe, then suckling. "Please," he whispered back, still shifting and struggling beneath me. I bit the lobe...not too hard, but hard enough. "Again." "Ah!" he hissed at the unexpected sharpness. "Please." I looked down at him, and his eyes were squeezed shut; his lips trembling. "Please, who?" I demanded. "Please, Alex." Alex. So few have ever called me Alex. Krycek, bastard, rat, whore...I've heard all those names, but so rarely Alex. I felt my own cock throb to life once more at the sound, and I harshly ground myself and my own need against him, still holding his wrists tightly against the mattress. He sobbed once, tried to raise himself to meet me, but found it impossible to get the leverage he needed to do so. "Who?" I demanded again, feeling the friction heat the fabric between my legs. "Alex," he cried. "Alex...please...Alex." I bit his neck, sucked the skin between my teeth roughly and pulled the blood to the surface, marking him. My hips ground furiously against him, pushing him into the bed, and his hands clenched and unclenched underneath mine as he cried out. Without warning, he bucked up and furiously claimed my mouth, biting on it brutally; pulling on my tongue, then murmured my name over and over again against my lips, with the vibrations of the word buzzing and itching against the raw skin. I was moaning myself by now, lost, and I let his wrists go, using my free hands to reach down and finally undo his belt, and fumbled to remove his pants. There were no formalities when I bent down and took his cock between my lips, just swift long, draws of my mouth upon him, taking him in and devouring the hard flesh, the soft, hot skin and salt. I heard him cry out my first name repeatedly, and it spurred me on for some reason, my own cock now throbbing painfully, with the heat spiraling through my groin and down my legs. I rubbed myself mindlessly against the sheets as I consumed him and then fumbled with my own belt and pants. Soon, I was taking care of us both, in a matching rhythm, with my mouth pulling on him, in time with my hand pulling on myself. I felt the spasms begin, they were small throbs between my lips, and I felt his hands reach down and try to pull me up, or perhaps to simply warn me, but I ignored them and sucked harder, taking him down to the root, and grasping myself brutally at the same time, wanting, for some odd reason, to make sure that we came together. And we did, as the hot, sea-salt liquid spilled both down my throat and onto his bed simultaneously. Slowly, I let him go, let him gently slid from my mouth and I rested for a moment, gasping against his thigh. I felt his fingers wind their way through my hair, tenderly pushing it from my eyes as his thumb traced small, soothing circles against my forehead. I shut my eyes tightly, and for the first time in many years, I felt a twinge of regret... Even a tiny bit of guilt. For I'd come here to rob this man, rob him of that envelope, but I realized that when I did I'd be robbing him of much more. His innocence and trust was now in my hands, as was that sweet, patient look that he'd shown me earlier that evening. If he woke to find that envelope gone, what would happen, I wondered. Would his eyes turn harsh and cold? Would he become paranoid and distrusting, looking at every person twice, every potential lover three times or more? Like me? I crawled up and felt his arms go around me, holding me tightly against his chest and I heard his heart beat with a peaceful rhythm, and his body was completely relaxed, without any tension whatsoever. He put his lips to my forehead, murmured "Alex" once more, and soon, I soon heard the soft, steady breathing that signaled sleep. I lay still for another moment or two, and then gently, I disentangled his arms from around me and got up, looking down to make sure he was truly asleep. And yes, he looked even more innocent and trusting asleep then he did when awake and reaching down into his discarded suit jacket, I slowly pulled out the envelope, and stared at it for a long moment. Then, I pocketed it and walked to the apartment door, slowly, silently, opened it and left. Without a backwards glance. ~~~~~~~ THE END. Comments? I LOVE 'EM! Gimme! Gimme! Pulleezzeee??? dbkate@yahoo.com