MJ

1. Early Morning Rain

Bohze moi. Alex Krycek turned up the collar on his leather jacket against the wind that accompanied the fine drizzle. This was all he needed—curse him for a fool for travelling too light this time. Ditching the gun had been sensible enough; after all, no point smuggling it into the airport and risking trying to get it on the plane when other pistols were so easy to come by. Unlike some hit men he'd met, he'd never become attached to a specific weapon. A bullet was a bullet; what you needed was a little nerve and good aim. But no luggage meant no change of clothes, and not only had there been a vague chance of his being identified, but he was getting wet standing out here.

Why WAS he standing out here, across from the airport? Just because he'd been stupid enough to go out drinking last night, and winding up in that poker game with that crew near the docks? Not only had he lost his shirt—he never should have agreed to play cards after that many vodkas; now he had what, maybe five dollars left—but the resulting hangover had made him late for his flight. Which was, even now, taxiing down the runway across the service road from him.

Did he still have those stolen ID cards on him? Maybe—just maybe—he'd be able to talk the airline into a ticket exchange for poor, late David Bradford. If not—well, mugging someone for their American Express card and a decent enough dry outfit to go into a ticket office wasn't the hardest thing he'd ever done, but it was a nuisance. It was sloppy and inefficient, and it increased the chances of getting caught.

The plane was taking off now. Headed for Washington. Hell, if he had any sense, he'd head down to the freight yards, find a boxcar—Krycek shuddered at the thought of boxcars; they usually meant trouble in his experience—and jump a ride East. Only that took a few days, you didn't get food or booze with it, and once again, the longer you took, the easier you were to be found. Heading back into the city and mugging someone in a pair of Bruno Maglis sounded better as he deliberated.

If he played his cards right, he could still make it to Fox Mulder's apartment before midnight.

Why the hell was it that important? He didn't live there, he just broke in intermittently, used the bathroom, borrowed and never returned sweatshirts and sweatpants, ate whatever Chinese leftovers Mulder had in his kitchen, and spent the night in bed with the apartment's legal occupant. Maybe for three days at a time, then out the door for six weeks. Hell, if he was Mulder, he wouldn't put up with him for a minute.

That was as close to a home as he got, when he thought about it. A home with a man who'd taken three years to decide that he didn't have to kill Alex Krycek himself, but who sure as hell still thought about it sometimes when they weren't in bed.

Well, he'd worked for a man who'd hired him on after trying to blow him up with a car bomb, right? It wasn't any stupider than that. At least maybe this business, as opposed to working for the smoker, might have an explicable reason. Alex shoved the thought aside as too frightening. It wasn't a thought a paid killer needed to have.

There had to be an AmEx card on some poor slob. He zipped up the jacket, jammed his hand in his pocket, and headed back towards town.

2. Diamonds and Rust

Fox Mulder looked out of his apartment window into the blackness of a late and cold Friday evening. November already; where had this year gone? And to what end? He powered down his computer, wadded up an e-mail from Frohike suggesting that he convert his computer to a new Linux operating system variation that Langly had just developed as a practice exercise in program development, threw it away.

A few bedraggled leaves shed from a tree across the street, falling on a thin crust of snow from the first snowfall of the season. Fall was nearly dead. And he hadn't heard from Alex in six weeks at best. He rose, padded into the kitchen in stocking feet, and forced himself to scrounge for a beer in the back of the refrigerator.

Shit, the telephone. He headed back to the living room, longneck in hand, cap still on the bottle. Sat on the edge of the couch, reached across for the receiver. "If you're an informant, I'm not at home."

"Not even for this informant, Mulder?"

"Fuck you, Alex."

"I wish."

"Well, I'll be damned," Mulder drawled, wedging the receiver firmly under his chin so he could uncap the beer. He flipped the cap into the ashtray on his coffee table. Although he hadn't smoked in years, and the smoking bastard, thank God, never came to call, it was still an occasionally useful device. "I was beginning to wonder if you were alive."

"Do I sound like a ghost?" A faint chuckle, as distant as the rest of the sound on the other end.

"You sound terrible, that's all. Where the hell are you? This connection sucks."

"I'm at a pay phone. The weather here is miserable. Look, this probably isn't a secure connection…let's just say I'm in the midwest; is that specific enough for you?"

"Could you be any vaguer, Alex?"

"Only for you, Mulder. If you insist."

"Bastard. When are you back here?" A swig from the beer bottle.

"I—I don't know. I'm still…on assignment, if you like. Don't ask."

"I won't. I don't want to know. I've quit asking; don't tell."

"I didn't kill your father. You know that."

"That's not what I meant. I just don't want to know what I ought to bust you for when I see you." Another swig. The clouds were moving; there was a full moon behind them, shining silver on the snow along the sidewalk now. Two people were outside talking under a street light; he could see their breath hanging in the air in front of them, the white clouds of steam like leftover memories of their words.

"You won't do that."

"No. I won't. I couldn't. But I still don't want to think about it. It's…easier if I don't."

"You mean, it's hard for a law enforcement officer to be screwing a professional assassin? Really? I'd never have guessed."

"That's not where I'd put the word 'hard,' Alex…" Another drag at the bottle. More leaves shedding from the trees, blowing past the window. Mulder shifted his weight, suddenly acutely aware of the erection he'd had since hearing Alex's voice. "But screwing…just get your ass back here, huh?"

"When I can. Whenever that is. I just wanted to let you know I'm alive."

"Thanks. I needed that. I've been—um—worrying."

"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself, I always have." Quietly, through the static on line. At least it wasn't the sound of someone else listening in; Mulder had heard that often enough to recognize it.

"You couldn't in Tunguska. And it's a lot harder for you since then." Equally quiet. The night Alex had returned to Mulder's apartment, one arm missing, was a vivid and painful memory. The time in the gulag had paid for any number of real or imagined sins on both of their sides.

"We both could have died there, Mulder. Neither of us did. We're both survivors. And don't you forget it. Just think of me when you watch those reruns of 'The Fugitive' on cable, huh."

"Funny, you don't look like David Janssen." The bottle was empty. Check for another, or not? He set the empty on the coffee table, curled up on the couch.

"You're a lousy comedian, Mulder."

"Aw, thanks. You're such a romantic."

"I'm Russian; would you expect less?"

"And modest, too." Mulder had to smile. Modesty never had been Alex's strong suit, though he'd played at it well when he'd been Mulder's partner. Alex had burst into his office unannounced, worked with him on a few cases, and charmed his way directly into Mulder's bed. Then disappeared, along with Scully's abduction. Ridiculous to have ever fallen for Alex, let alone to still tolerate him at all after what had happened. Absurd to still be sleeping with the enemy, tame though the enemy might be at this point.

"Look, I've gotta go. The last thing I need right now is to leave a trail, even being on the phone too long. I'll call you as soon as I can. Unless I can get back east first."

"I—look, all right, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Mulder…Look, I—I love you, you know…" Hesitantly, as if expecting the worst. As if Mulder would consider rejecting him for that, as opposed to any of the logical reasons that he'd never chosen.

"Yeah. Here, too." He heard the click on the other end, then, slowly, placed the receiver back on the phone. Picked up the beer bottle; hauled it, equally slowly, back to the kitchen. The couple outside was still talking. Clouds of memory, of words spoken and unspoken, hung between them.

3. The Altar Boy and the Thief

It was, as usual, fairly dark in Caliban's. Not quite the old Mafia-run dive of Fifties and Sixties fame, it had nonetheless staunchly resisted going upscale, as most gay bars around DC with halfway respectable clientele had, if in fact they hadn't opened as relatively posh establishments. Of course, no one accused most of Caliban's regulars of being halfway respectable.

The place was a dive when you got right down to it, it just wasn't Mafia-run. Three pool tables, darts, a DJ with portable equipment that he was lucky never got lifted. A few gay couples, and one or two lesbian pairings, that entertained the other customers with their mixtures of petty bickering and open jealousy on occasion. A few married guys, like the trucker over there, who showed up occasionally hoping for a quick blowjob between bouts with the wife.

A tacky, rundown queer bar that wasn't even really in the Virginia suburbs, but pushing out into the small-town borderlands. Fox Mulder had to admit it, he liked the place. No disco, no "dance club" theatrics. A vague sense of adventure or danger; you could count on a rumble out in the parking lot with some straight kids from the local high school every few weeks. Slumming. This was definitely slumming. Besides, he could grab a few beers here and be left alone if he felt like it, and it wasn't a place his contacts would dream of pestering him at. Even Byers wouldn't set foot in the place. It was great. Peace, quiet, and a few really good-looking guys when you were lucky.

Normally, he just looked. Especially these days. But where the hell had Alex been? One lousy phone call over an eight-week period, one e-mail last week sent through an anonymous remailer; at least Alex was probably alive. That, at any rate, was something.

And he'd told Mulder that he loved him. That was a lot.

But it wasn't here. Mulder had thrown on a henley and jeans, grabbed a jacket, and headed over to Caliban's about an hour earlier. He needed a night out. He didn't necessarily need to go home with anyone tonight, although that one guy shooting pool with the truck driver, the one with the great arms and the long hair, looked worth the effort. But he needed to quit sitting in his damned apartment, staring at his telephone, waiting to see if Alex was going to call him this weekend.

Serious, serious reek of CK One. God, was everyone wearing that now? Ten years ago it was Aramis, then Polo. You could date the eras of gay bars by the cologne everyone wore. At least you could count on "no Brut allowed."

The DJ was spinning something a little more upbeat—what was this, disco oldies night? It sounded like Gloria Gaynor. All right, it was going to be one of those nights where someone who'd just had a breakup and a few drinks too many was going to be singing along with "All right now, go —get out the door; just turn around now, 'Cause you're not welcome any more" at the top of his lungs shortly. Several couples, one or two clusters, and a few lone dancers, making their way on the floor One, dancing by himself—young, looked Hispanic, great body, great skin, beautiful hair…but way too obviously stoned. Skip that; the kid would wind up pulling a one-night stand with some guy he'd never seen before and wasn't likely to see again, probably for enough cash to make a score out in the parking lot or back in downtown before the night was over.

Mulder kept a chokehold on his beer as he swiveled around on his bar stool to watch the dancers. One younger couple over near the DJ. They'd been dancing when he'd come in. Gorgeous, both of them. Living art there on the dance floor, practically making out in the corner they'd claimed for the moment. Tempting to move across the room, to watch the two of them going at it there in front of the crowd, hands running along each other's chests, dry humping through their jeans; tempting to watch the two of them, imagining that he was out there on the floor himself, doing the same with Alex.

The bartender, a matronly woman of about fifty, in a pink polo shirt and khakis, nudged Mulder from over the bar. He turned, saw her plunking another beer down at his side. "For you," she announced.

He shook his head. "I didn't order this."

"No, it's from the guy who—where is he?" She pointed to the other end of the bar. "He was standing there a minute ago, when he ordered it for you. He could be outside smoking, or back in the men's room." She shrugged. "The way he was eyeing you, I don't think you have to worry he left with anyone else."

"What's he look like?"

"What's anyone look like, hon? Tall, dark, and handsome. But that's half of you boys here, you know?" She picked up an arm of empties sitting on the bar, and went for a rag to mop it down again. Mulder eyed the bottle, then returned to watching the dancers. If Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome wanted to make any time with him, he could move his tall, dark, handsome ass over to Mulder and say hello.

A hand on his shoulder. "So this is what you do when I'm away."

Mulder turned to the side. "Alex." He grinned broadly. "What the hell? When did you get here?"

"I'm out of town, and I get back and find you hanging in a bar, cruising the pretty boys and picking up drinks from strangers?"

"Alex, I don't even know who sent that drink over," he sighed.

Krycek's eyes flashed green as he laughed at Mulder. "That was me, idiot." He bent down slightly, kissed Mulder's hair. He reached for the beer, picked it up, downed part of it. "My beer, I can drink it."

"Did you know I was here? What are you doing here?"

"I got in tonight and I saw you leaving your place, so I followed you over. I've been here as long as you have."

"I didn't see you," Mulder protested.

"You weren't supposed to. I'm good at my job, Mulder." His brow furrowed at the mention of his work. What was his occupation? Double agent? Professional killer? Whatever it was called, not being noticed was a key part of the job description. Mulder winced as well at the reminder and decided to change the topic.

He tugged at Krycek's leather jacket. "Well, I can think of a few other things you're just as good at."

"Like what?" Krycek preened visibly at his lover's compliment.

"Turning me on, for starters." He ran his hand down the back of Krycek's jacket and along the curve of Krycek's denim-clad ass, enjoying the feel of Krycek's wriggle against his hand.

"Oh, yeah? How about those pretty boys over there? They don't get you going?" Krycek indicated the couple Mulder had been watching.

"Okay, yeah…yeah, they do," Mulder conceded. He could feel his own arousal—but it was Alex doing that, not the couple in the corner, he decided.

Krycek tugged at Mulder's shirt. "Come on."

"What?" He raised an eyebrow at his lover's insistent gesture.

"Get out on the floor with me," Krycek ordered. "You think they're such a big deal going at it over there? I don't think they're the only ones who can dance like that."

Mulder slid off the bar stool obligingly to follow his lover to the floor as the bartender came back over to his end of the bar. "Oh, good, you found him," she called cheerfully. "Tall, dark, and handsome. I didn't lie, hon." It was true; she hadn't lied. ut neither of them heard her. "They're cute, huh?" she said to no one in particular as she cleared away the beer.

4. Lucifer's Eyes

Fox Mulder followed Alex Krycek out on the dance floor at Caliban's, the worst gay dive in Northern Virginia. He grabbed onto a corner of his lover's leather jacket as he tried avoiding being separated by the crowd on the floor on their way to a corner. Now he had a chance to get a good look at Krycek; he hadn't been able to before, in the press at the bar. Under his black leather, a plain white cotton T-shirt. Black button-fly jeans, tight enough to mold themselves against his ass and his visible partial erection.

Something fast playing; Mulder didn't recognize it. Didn't care, either; didn't care, as long as Alex was grinding into him like that, working up against him, thigh pressed directly into his own hard-on. Staring at him, green eyes glittering hard, sparkling not so much like gems but like green fire straight from a cold place in hell.

The devil's red in the picture books. Mulder knew better. The devil had red lips, green eyes, an incredible body, and a black leather jacket. He had one good arm, one synthetic prosthetic, and he gave head like it was going out of fashion any minute. And he still might have killed Mulder's father; Mulder knew that he was probably telling the truth, but damned if he could be sure. No point thinking about it right now anyway, no point but giving himself up to the sensation of Alex running his hand under Mulder's shirt, gently tweaking his nipples; to the feeling of Alex biting his neck, rubbing up against him…he had the faintest sensation that they were giving that pair in the other corner of the dance floor a run for the money for the audience's attention, but he didn't really care.

Alex, on the other hand, was clearly getting off on the attention. His grinding, his sinking to his knees and burying his face against Mulder's aching cock through the denim of his jeans was apparently geared to the amount of staring that was heading their way. He'd told Mulder only minutes before that he thought they could give the other couple a lesson, and he seemed to be determined to prove it. Preferably a public lesson.

Alex was nothing if not trouble, that was a given. But oh, this kind of trouble…this was an infinitely better kind of trouble than the other kind he could make, left to his own devices or to his work. For a man who'd prided himself only minutes before on people not noticing him, he was doing nothing to prove it; rather, he was accomplishing the opposite, and quite deliberately. Mulder wasn't sure that the attention was all that desirable…but what Alex was doing to him—his face there, just against his neck, biting…his hand groping Mulder's ass, his hips grinding directly into him again—that attention, on the other hand…damn.

"Alex…are you trying to make me come here on the floor?" Breathlessly.

"Would it bother you if I did?" Grinning, those red lips parting, smile flashing at him under burning green eyes.

Burning; now, there was a word for you. Running across hot coals, being shot through flaming hoops, both were less dangerous than Alex's hand snaking back under his shirt, less likely to sear him, mind or body, than the kiss Alex was pressing against his mouth there on the floor. Arms around Alex, pulling Alex against him—was he doing that himself? Was he dreaming—had Alex drugged Mulder's beer the way he'd once drugged Mulder's water supply?

"Not here, Alex…"

"Men's room's across the floor; your car's in the lot…one, the other, or the dance floor, Mulder…"

"I don't DO public sex, Alex."

"Why not?"

"Because one of us has to not be into living dangerously."

"And which of us would that be?" Good point, Mulder conceded. It certainly hadn't been him so far, had it?

A moment's deliberation. "Men's room, Alex. Now." The fact that Alex was rubbing his thigh slowly against Mulder's engorged cock, pressing it into the zipper of his jeans, provided the last bit of encouragement Mulder needed in changing his opinion. Mulder followed Alex, to their viewers' disappointment, off of the floor and into the small men's room. Alex pulled Mulder into one of the two stalls and barred the metal stall door. With his good hand, he began working at Mulder's belt. Mulder assisted him in pushing down the denims and braced himself, standing, against a wall of the stall as Alex sank to his knees before him. "Hurry up. Aaah, yeah, Alex…"

Alex snaked his good hand around Mulder's ass as he brought his mouth as far down his lover's erect shaft as possible. Mulder shifted and groaned again as Alex laved the head of Mulder's cock with his tongue, swirling it over the head and spiraling down, then sucking in deeply. In Mulder's current state of arousal, not much more was needed to push him well over the edge.

Mulder slumped against the metal divider, panting, as Alex pulled himself up from his knees with a satisfied grin, watching Mulder attempt to rearrange his clothing. "Don't bother getting too neat," Alex smirked. "They'll all be jealous of you."

"Alex, you're demented."

"Of course," the Russian replied matter-of-factly. "That's why you love me."

"Bastard."

"Exactly." Alex licked a trace of Mulder's ejaculation off of his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "Let's get out of here and go home."

Mulder blinked. Home. It was the first time Alex had ever called Mulder's apartment that.

5. It Ain't Me, Babe

"I can't help you." Alex pulled the sheet back up over himself. Mulder was walking into the bedroom with two mugs of coffee, putting one down on the nightstand beside Alex's good arm. "I couldn't if I wanted to."

"I don't get it." Mulder slid back onto the rumpled sheets, cursing softly as he realized that the fitted bottom sheet had come totally unanchored on his side of the bed either while they'd been making love the night before or from their sitting up and arguing this morning. "You pass me information, you come in and save my ass a couple of times, you stole the fucking vaccine, but you can't give me one name."

"Tough luck," Alex sighed. Mulder was beautiful, brilliant, incredible in bed, and the biggest moron in history. "You could find out yourself easily enough; you found out about Spender on your own, didn't you? I can't make it that much easier for you than it already is, and if I did, all the protective custody the government has wouldn't help me. You know what happens to everyone you've taken into custody on it. You want me alive or dead? I like alive myself."

"One name, Alex. That's all I'm asking for. I know you know it."

"Yeah, and your Gunmen buds would know it too if you let them dig for a couple of days. Look, it's bad enough I'm sleeping with the enemy, don't expect me to sell out. I don't think anyone'll buy that I talked in my sleep."

Mulder looked startled. "Bad enough you're…Christ, Alex, don't tell me you told them about us…"

"Nah. And they haven't said anything to me. But I don't think they're fooled, either. They know everything you fucking do, Mulder. They know everything their fucking hirelings do. If they haven't let me know they know about us, it's only because they think they'll be able to do something with it one of these days." He looked up at the ceiling. "Right, Spender?"

"Oh, Jesus, Alex, you don't mean…"

"Don't know for sure, but they usually have you under surveillance, you know that."

Mulder sat up on the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees. "Why do we even bother?"

Alex shrugged, sipped at the coffee. "You know as well as I do. We have great sex. We're in love, I think. And for Spender, that and a dime won't even get you a cup of coffee. This is pretty good, by the way —you buy Starbucks these days?" Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I love you. And yeah, I've pulled your ass out of the fire. Skyland Mountain, whether you believe it or not, too. But I'm not gonna die for your work, Mulder. I'm not some goddamn fucking Sir Galahad, get it? Go off on your damn grail quest, kill yourself some dragons, and I'll be here when you get back. I promise. As much as I can promise you anything. But it's your fucking Holy Grail, not mine, and I'm not gonna get my ass fried for your dream. I'll be here for you when you wake up from it."

"How do I know you'll be here?"

"You don't, do you? I can tell you to trust me, but you know what that's worth. The only thing you can do to know that is to ask yourself if I'll be here."

A pause. "You've always come back."

"There's your answer, then." Another pause, more coffee. "What's really ironic, you know, is we're all on the same damn side in the long run. You, me, Spender, Skinner, everyone in this damn game is really on the same side, only they don't know it. And they don't know which side it is that they're all on, either. And the only reason I know is I'm the only one who's actually played for every team."

"Whose team are you on now?"

"Mine. Resist or serve. I've told you that."

Mulder nodded. "We shouldn't even have gotten into this first thing in the morning. I haven't even asked how long you can stay this time."

Alex ruminated briefly. "Last time I was anyplace more than three days in a row, someone wired the car I was driving. I don't want you to get hurt. I'll stay until I hear what I'm doing next or until I see trouble. With any luck, I won't have to clear out without telling you first." He stared at Mulder. "Fibbie and wanted felon. Some pair, huh?"

"Opposites attract." Mulder slid back under the sheet, working an arm under Alex and pulling him over. "Let's go back to sleep for a while."