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Survivors

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Survivors by Griffin Grimes

Survivors (1/1)
by Griffin Grimes
Spoiler Warning: One Son (US6)
Category: S, Slash
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sp/K
Kink: Public places
Distribution: List archives, yes; other adult slash sites, with my permission only, please.
Summary: Spender lives, and is relieved in more ways than one.
Written for Drovar; dedicated with hope.
Feedback is welcome at <>. This is my first non M/Sk, so please...don't be too rough on me. ;^)


*BANG!*

Thrown against the wall by the force of the shot, I stare in shock across the office at the man who is my father, not believing that this could happen. How could he kill me like this, so coldly, after he had tried for months, years even, to hand me his legacy?

He did this because I rejected what he had to offer? Murdered his only son?

I realize I am fighting for breath, my chest in agony, and I slide to the floor, gasping. I look down to see the damage. A dime-sized spot of blood stains my white dress shirt. There should be more blood, shouldn't there?

He strides casually toward me, eyes locked on mine, but vacant, uncaring. Maybe hiding his emotions - he can't be that much of a bastard, not to care at all.

It should hurt more than this, shouldn't it?

He shuffles to a halt where I sit slumped against the wall, his foot barely touching one of my outspread legs. I look up at him, wanting a sneer of disgust to be the last thing he sees on my dying face. I can only manage what must appear more like the expression a hurt child might give a parent who beat them for talking back.

I find the breath to speak. "I'm...your son," I gasp out, wanting to dig in the guilt at his actions before it's too late.

"My son is dead now," he tells me in his same calm, trademark monotone. "Let this be my last lesson to you: if you ever show your face again around here, or around me or any of my associates, I'll be sure to use a *real* bullet."

The shock remains as he leaves the office, closing the door behind him, between us. I'm sure he begins lighting up his next cigarette as the door clicks shut.

"A real bullet?" I ask the empty office, dumbfounded. I look down again, the small dime of blood already beginning to dry. I've never been shot before; how am I to know what a bullet in the chest would feel like? Still, my breath has returned to me, the pain in my sternum ebbed to a dull ache. I quickly open two buttons on my shirt and discover the answer. A rubber bullet lays embedded in my skin, cutting through the first few layers of flesh.

***************

I fly out of there, mind racing with plans of revenge, for my mother and for myself. He won't get away with this. But most important of all, I need to do whatever I can to stop these plans he has worked his whole life to create. He thinks I don't have the nerve to do anything to stop him; that's why he let me live. Scaring me was enough, he must have thought. He doesn't know what I'm capable of doing.

Before I know it, I'm in my car. Still shaking, I manage to get the key into the ignition and steer the conservative sedan out of the parking garage without hitting anything in my haste. My mind flashes on the day I bargained with the dealer for this car, and think how absurd such trivial things are while things like alien takeovers are being plotted in back rooms of men's clubs. My own father being one of the chief players in such a scheme. How naive I've been all my life.

I don't go home. I'm almost afraid to go home, wondering what might be awaiting me there. I drive and drive, thinking and calming my nerves, not even noticing it getting dark until someone honks angrily at me, and I suddenly realize I need to turn on my headlights. Then I become aware of my surroundings, and find myself in front of one of my favorite thinking places: somewhere I've always felt safe.

I walk up the steps of the monument and enter the shell, looking up at the huge man of stone. The place is lit, but no one else is here. Not at first. I lean against the cool outer wall. Only then do I hear footsteps approach on the other side of the seated statue.

"Hi, Jeff," I hear an all-too-familiar voice call from the other side. I stand up straight immediately, nerves still electric from the day's events and now on guard for whatever this man has to offer.

"Alex...what are you doing here?" I demand mistrustfully as he finally comes into view, stopping to stand a few feet in front of me, behind the marble chair that stands higher than his head. He keeps his hands - one flesh, one false - stuffed in the pockets of his black leather jacket as he seems to smirk at me, as if my question is somehow amusing.

"I know what happened...I know that you understand now, more than ever," he explains, staying vague, keeping that slightly patronizing, older brother tone in his voice.

"Do you know that my father said he'd kill me if I ever saw one of you again?"

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "I'm not surprised. That's just like him. I expected him to not do what the others would want him to do, to kill you when you turned on them. Just like he could never kill your mother."

I suddenly don't want to talk to him. I don't want to have anything to do with the whole ugly business he's gotten himself wrapped up in. Ensnared. Trapped like a rat.

"Whatever you followed me to tell me, I don't want to hear it," I say as I begin to move swiftly towards the steps and back to my car.

He reaches out and grabs my sleeve. His clear green stare is unavoidable and I stop to look, wondering what he has to convince me to give him another moment of my life.

"I can help you," is all he says.

"Help me? How?" My anger and annoyance show. "My father said..."

"Your father has had plenty to say about you, about your future," he interrupts. "It's time you learn to stop listening to Daddy all the time."

His hand still gripped in the fabric of my sleeve, he pulls me behind the stone slab and leads me to put my back against it. He is so close I can smell the leather of his jacket. Without a word between us, he leans in and kisses me, sealing my mouth possessively. Why don't I resist?

When he finally breaks away, his piercing eyes seek out my reaction. I am once again breathless.

"You said you could help me," I muster out, the anger I'd had in my voice earlier absent now. My hot breath mixes with his between us, warming us.

"You need to relax, for one," he responds. "You must be a nervous wreck with all that's happened." With that, his good hand releases my sleeve and ventures down to the crotch of my pants. He cups my balls through the fabric. I gasp slightly.

"You're very tense," he says matter-of-factly, a teasing smile coming to his lips and lighting in his eyes.

I don't want to admit how fascinated I'd been with this man since he was first assigned to me, as he tried to help ease my mind around the incredible reality of what has been going on behind the scenes for all those years. Maybe it was the excitement brought on by all the new revelations I've had while he was near, but Alex Krycek's mere presence has set a charge of electricity in the air ever since I first saw him.

Now I finally have to face that fact.

He moves even closer, his hand trapped between my legs and his own body, and I can feel his erection press into my hip. I close my eyes and finally let myself escape from all the stress and fear that has built up over the past few days. I could be lying dead on that office floor right now, or tagged and tucked away in the local morgue. I want to feel life now.

I stop letting him make all the moves, and reach down between us to unzip my own fly...and then his. His hard prick springs free of his jeans and probes into mine. Just as I suspected from the first time I saw that tight confinement, he is without underwear.

Alex is kissing and biting at my neck, passion increasing as he becomes aware of my encouraging actions. The cold of the slab at my back seeps through my jacket and shirt as he presses me harder into it. I moan as I grasp his firm erection and my fledgling one and hold them together with one hand. I hear him moan into my neck, feeling his breath with it, as our pricks find friction together.

I can feel him shaking, barely able to control his own body as he starts rutting forward, pressing me roughly and repeatedly into the stone behind me. The rubbing of our pricks has me as hard as him now, and I want more.

"Suck me, Alex," I gasp. I hardly believe I've said it out loud. I lean back and undo the button at my waistband to give him more access.

His mouth explores mine once more, but briefly, before he stops, smiles, and sinks to his knees on the cold floor. I watch mesmerized as he flashes those breathtaking eyes up at me a moment before he wraps his mouth over my throbbing prick.

He only needs the one hand to mirror the actions of his mouth on his own erection, and he sucks me like a pro. I suspect he was a pro at this at some time in his life. He's a survivor.

He isn't gentle. He's rough and hard and doesn't spare the teeth as he moves me in and out. I feel the back of his throat repeatedly pressing against my dick head with almost every bob forward.

The emotions of tonight are intense, and I come fast and hard. He struggles to swallow all of it, gasping to near choking as the hot cum continues to surge. Finally it slows and he falls back on his haunches, his body leaning back and sitting on his heels, mouth leaving my prick to the cold night air. His eyes close as he keeps his hand still wrapped around his own engorged shaft, brutally pulling and pumping at it, Alex now lost in himself.

I squat down to eye level with him and watch, recuperating from my own orgasm tucking myself back in, my usual modesty returning a bit. I'm fascinated with what I see. Such a beautiful man. He keeps his eyes softly closed, and his face is relaxed and almost angelic as he brings himself off. Finally, his body shudders and jerks forward, a guttural cry leaving the lips that moments ago were wrapped around my prick.

His own cum shoots and falls on the cement between us; I swear I can hear a hiss arising from the ground as the hot, thick fluid burns into the winter-chilled floor of the monument. Eyes still closed, he sits there gasping quietly for a long minute after the last of the spasms hit him. Finally, he opens them slowly and sees me. We stare silently at each other.

Faint footsteps approach, and we both re shaken out of our reverie. It could be a cop on his rounds, it could be someone coming to remind us of our present dangerous entanglements.

Alex zips up deftly and gets to his feet before I do. He looks as calm as ever, while I am still feeling shaky and faint - I fear my legs will betray me and buckle under my weight.

"Let's get out of here," he says in a low but controlled voice, eyes serious, the weight of the world having returned to them. Settling back into his demeanor. "I know a place where you can go," he adds as he turns and heads out from behind the statue, taking up a quick pace and heading down the steps. I follow behind a few paces.

He heads in the opposite direction to where I had parked my car. I see the dark sedan not far in the distance, left safely under a street light. I pause for a moment, then turn and run to catch up.

The end

********************

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Archived: 18:23 03/15/01