by The Spike
//And how have I gotten here?// John wonders. Standing naked in a not-so-cheap room in the Bethesda Hilton, with his arms draped loosely around Alex Krycek's waist. With Alex Krycek naked in his loose embrace. With the two of them swaying together a little—almost like dancing, but not... no, definitely not dancing—and the solid weight of Alex Krycek's head on his shoulder. Barely a word said between them this time. Krycek had buzzed him up from the lobby, had opened the door looking surprisingly normal, ordinary in casual shirt and sweater, slacks, a piece of paper in his hand like he'd been working. And John, still and always shy in the presence of Krycek's... well, presence—had blushed, like he'd caught Alex at something embarrassing.
And Alex liked a blush. Liked his shyness. Liked something, because whatever pleasantry, whatever 'hello, come in, sit down' he might have said had dried up and blown away. John had watched it die, had watched the change come over Krycek's face, mouth fallen open, lower lip slick and shiny where he'd licked it, tongue just behind his teeth and John had wanted to see him lick it again.
And Krycek had grabbed him, one hand fisted just below his collar, sudden grimace of violence, and he'd slammed John up against the wall. Ground against him, leaving John feeling weak-kneed and bullied and still wanting. Air thick in his lungs, hot desert wind of Krycek's breath in his mouth, and Krycek was kissing him, groping him through his suit pants with the door still open. Too much; too fast. He'd struggled, hands pushing away, hips thrusting toward. Managed to turn his head, but Krycek hadn't broken the kiss. Let it smear across his bearded cheek to his ear and a tongue in hard and hot and wet had left John gasping...
"Wait... wait... the door..."
Low chuckle in his ear had made him groan, and Krycek had shifted his weight so that he was pinning John to the wall with his left shoulder, right knee. His mouth sliding down, had fastened onto the side of John's throat. Tongue and suction had caressed the pulse point, dizzy sweetness in the unfamiliar sensation. Somehow frightening and not too far from pain.
"Alex, stop..." But he hadn't stopped. Visceral growl against John's throat, and Krycek's hand had gone to his belt. And John had known then and there that if he allowed it, Alex would take him like this, in the open doorway. And had not known what to do with the rush of heat that followed the thought...or with the thought that followed the heat:
Good God. Had he spoken that aloud?
Even now he isn't sure. Even now, with Alex Krycek nestled like a lover against his shoulder, he's afraid to ask. Ashamed—not so much of his own desire, but of the adolescent quality of it. Do it. Take me. Make me your slut, Alex... Make it all your fault. And when had he started to feel this guilt, anyway?
Not the first time, that was certain. That had been something pure, intense. A liberation for him. That taking and giving—that sense of his own power, somehow; his reality in the world. No. It had been after that. The first time Alex had come back, maybe.
Knocking at John's window one windy October night, pulling John from sleep and stumbling in off the fire escape, bringing in the wind and the cold and a swirl of dying Autumn leaves. Bringing in the high sharp tang of fear and something terrible and bright sheening his eyes.
"I need a place," he'd said, his voice even, despite the manic gleam.
"You can't—" John had begun, but Alex had cut him off.
"Just a couple of hours," he'd said. "Go back to bed, John." And somehow John had. And of course it had been useless. He'd lain there, scared and tingling, fully aware of Alex Krycek sitting silent in his reading chair in the dark; smelling his scent, tasting his cock again, imagining the weight of it on his tongue. And getting hard—his face burning, burning in the dark—he'd finally spoken up:
"Do you want to...get in the bed with me?" John remembers the silence that had followed, and Krycek's tight reply.
"That's not a good idea." And somehow, despite the disappointment, that had been okay.
"Okay," he'd said and resigned himself to it. It was right. It was what he was used to. He'd turned over onto his side, let some of the building tension go. Had almost fallen into sleep when there was a rustle, and the bed dipped and Alex Krycek was sliding in under the covers, spooning up against him. Fully dressed—still-cold denim against his pajama'd thighs and an arm around his waist.
And what to make of that? What to have made of any of it? Feeling aroused but strangely shy. Like any move on his part would break this fragile thing that he wanted. Ask Alex Krycek and he would run. Let him come and he was like a wild coyote, drawn to the sound of man and the scent of flesh and the mesmerizing flicker of the fire. Well maybe not quite so romantic as that, but still... And so John had simply lain there, passive and open, silently willing Krycek to want him again.
And, after a while it had become clear that Alex did want him. Or want something. Krycek obviously hard against John's ass, but making no moves. And John remembers wanting to be touched, the strange wall between them and wondering if it was Mulder.
And has any of that changed since then? God, Mulder. He still wonders if it's Mulder. If he's Mulder-lite. Mulder with the lights off. But in all the times since Alex has never asked him to shave his beard. And he's never had to come up with an answer to whether or not he would do it. He knows he would have done it then.
Oh, yes. Then, that mad night. The state he'd been in. Thinking he'd resigned himself to this unbearable chastity: pretending it was tolerable, maybe even good enough—until that hand spread across his belly, moved. The sensation had been overwhelming. He'd arched uncontrollably into the touch, thrown his head back, wanting it so badly his 'ohh' had come out voiced and sounding like a sob.
But Krycek had shushed him. Turned him over on his back, hot mouth on his throat and that hand roaming his chest, belly, groin—skinning up the pajama top, tugging open the cotton fly. Stripping him naked. Touching him, tender and thorough and relentless.
He's still relentless, John thinks, feeling the solid shift of muscle and bone under his hands. A juggernaut cut loose among the fleets. An inexorable force whose course is plotted against some inner compass no-one else has ever seen. John's come close, he thinks. He's followed Alex's career better than anyone. Better than even Mulder, who only seems to notice Alex's existence as negative space in the circle of light. John has followed Alex everywhere the global net has allowed, seen things Mulder could never have imagined. He wonders how much Alex knows he knows. He wonders if Alex is afraid to ask, or if he just doesn't care. He's never known. Not now, not that night. Writhing under Alex Krycek's solid weight, the wind outside battering against the window, sending silver ghosts and leafy shadows cat-crazy back and forth across the room. He'd tried to take some part in it, something beyond surrender. Krycek was still fully dressed. John tugged at the nylon mock-neck. Ineffectually at first, Alex evading his efforts, maneuvering to pin his arms, washing away his will with that suckling mouth.
But he'd had a will then, hadn't he? He'd managed to come up for air sometime. Had wanted enough for himself to keep trying so that when Alex had finally pushed off him to roll him back onto his belly he'd been able to act, reach up. Draw the other man down for a kiss of his own. And God, how Alex had opened to him. Their mouths had melted together, and he'd felt so strong.
Not triumphant. Strong. Like he could give Alex Krycek something that he actually wanted.
"Alex...?" he says, abruptly, taking himself by surprise. He doesn't even know what he intends to say. But Alex is already shaking his head on the crook of John's neck. Arm and half-arm tightening on his waist.
"Don't talk, John," he says.
"Well, at least you know it's me," John says. Bitter. The sound of it is bitter. The taste of it is vile in his mouth, and he is shaking, suddenly—cold with rising rage. He pulls away from Krycek then, or tries. Krycek holds on to him, exerts what feels like mastery.
"Let me go," John hisses through clenched teeth. And Alex Krycek's head comes up and he looks at John, frowning a little and lets him go, spreading his hands to show his lack of ill intent. But he doesn't stop looking into John's eyes, and something hard and familiar hovers at the corners of his mouth. John knows that smirk. He used to think it was Alex's sharpest weapon—now he knows it's just his shield.
And that was something else that used to belong only to Mulder—since when had Alex needed a shield with him? The realization pulls the plug on his anger, drains him. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.
"Sorry," he says, softly, wanting to erase that look. "Sorry..." Too late.
"Problem, John?" That voice, all lightness and aggression now. None of the growl. And how can he ask what he wants to ask when he knows he won't like the answer? If he doesn't ask, he can just pretend he doesn't know for sure.
"I should go," John says. "I... I probably shouldn't come back." That look. No, not that look. Another, something tightening around Alex's
eyes. Things shifting under the surface, the green malachite crack'd to reveal a tiny vein of fierce green light. Gone in a second and Alex is Alex Krycek again, face bland and smooth as a stone angel. Alex Krycek shrugs.
"Whatever you want, John." Turns away. John feels the sigh hitching at his chest, tugging things around in there. He lets it out too soft to hear.
//What I want...//
He'd thought he had everything he wanted on that strange cold October night. Alex's hungry mouth on his, Alex's solid weight over him— leather and denim chafing his naked skin. Alex, turning him.
But he'd wanted something else even then, hadn't he?
"Wait," he'd said to Alex. "Let me..." And Alex had looked at him— that strange, painful puzzlement in his eyes. Frightened longing that made John want to shake him, tell him for God's sakes—how can you not know this is real?
But of course he hadn't told. Couldn't. Not in words, anyway. His body, though, waxed eloquent. He'd undressed Alex Krycek then. Or tried. Slowly, tentatively, but just as relentless in his own way, the gentle lick of quiet water on stone. Pushed and peeled away the layers to the tender flesh beneath. And what he'd found—Alex's skin as silky as he remembered it—hot velvet over blunt muscle. Trembling at the touch of John's fingers, his lips. Taste and smell intoxicating: salt and sharp sweat—his Alex had been afraid tonight—but even the smell of fear was aphrodisiac.
And Alex had looked so lost. Straps and buckles under the rucked-up shirt and the sudden jerk away.
"Don't..." John had cried out and looked up to see Alex's face gone hard, so hard around the eyes. Everything suddenly crystallizing around them, turning brittle and deadly sharp.
Deadly. Shock had washed him, cut through his lust. And when had he learned to forget there was a killer in the room? Had he ever been able to remember?
"Alex...?" John asks. His voice so soft and dry it feels like powder on his tongue. Alex's back is to him now, bending over papers on the hotel-room table. Muscle, bone and skin. No scars. He doesn't turn around.
"You still here?"
Still here. Always here. It isn't even a place anymore. He just carries it with him. And, heavens, John Fitzgerald, are those tears pricking at the corners of your eyes? John wants to whang his head against something hard.
Here, he thinks at Alex fiercely. Have it all—the keys, the castle, all the alligators in the moat...
"I want to know," he says. Alex gives a snort of not-laughter. He looks back at John over his shoulder //good shoulder whole shoulder// and then turns to face him, leaning back against the table.
"Are you asking if I love you, John?" he says. So flat, so cold, on the razor-edge of mockery. But hell, Camelot is already burning, the fields in flames.
"Yes," says John. Long stare, quick quirk of Alex's jaw and sudden push forward. Adrenaline rush at the aggressive grace of it and John almost breaks for cover. Too slow, too late and Alex's hand catches the back of the neck. Strong fingers dig in hard, pull John to him. Faces touching, nose-to-nose. John's heart is hammering, hammering...
He wants to close his eyes against Alex's searchlight gaze. Those eyes, dark now, flat, a thumbswidth from his own, are terrifying. Still send blood rushing to his cock, which rolls up along his thigh, nudges hot flesh. The pressure on John's neck increases, and Alex's tongue snakes out to part John's lips. So soft. Soft kiss of lip to lip, and John kisses back, suckles on that tongue. Alex pulls his mouth away, presses his forehead to John's.
"Ask me to fuck you instead," he says. Cold shot like ice water drenching just under the skin and John's lazy cock is hard. And is that happiness or despair pooling behind his eyes? He shakes his head, not no but...
"Don't..." John remembers his own voice, so reedy, still echoing on the cold night air. Could it have been something so thin as that kept Alex there, within arms reach? Or had it been only that Alex was just... lost, cut adrift enough to waver?
Waver between what he wanted and what he had.
"I...know," John had said, nearly voiceless, struggling with the awkward words. "What they did to you... I know...this..." He had reached up, run his fingers over the bulky strap. Watched Krycek— Alex Krycek—flinch. Oh, God, he never wanted to see that again. Nor the flash of rage that followed hard.
"You fucking..." Hissed at him and Alex's iron grip on his throat, squeezing, grinding. John had known quite clearly that he was going to die. His own hands scrabbling, heels silently drumming the mattress. Useless. And then let go. John lay there, gasping, watching the not-killer reassemble itself in Alex's shattered expression.
Trying to assemble sense himself from the whispered words Alex had cursed him with as he strangled: "told you fucking told him fucking..."
"Alex..." he'd croaked.
"Shut up," Alex had said, cold and quiet as sod peeled off a grave. And Alex had stared down at him from above—his cock never flagging in the v of his open fly, his eyes utterly opaque—and then swooped down, mouth to his mouth and murmured. "Don't talk, John. Just..." And kissed him and kissed again. And let John kiss him back and touch and opened to him just like that. Like lovers. For a while at least.
And then Alex had pulled away and turned him over, slid a hand under John's belly and lifted John's hips.
"I really want to fuck you now," he'd said. And John had felt another tidal rush and thought: //mygodmygodmygod// and could only moan his yes and rub himself, wanton, against the rough denim of Alex's thighs. His first time, so strange, so deeply aroused and ashamed and thrilled and...and...
Alex had made it so good. Talking to him, bringing out lube and condoms—had he planned this? John remembers wondering and later, the answer had come creeping in draped in all his doubts. No, he'd planned something, but something else, somewhere else, with someone...
Oh, but at the time he'd felt so...cared for. Alex's weight on his back, that one hand gentle and ruthless at the same time. Fingers on him. At him and then //godmygod// inside him. Strange, wormy twist and ache and then stroking lightning.
"Oh my god my god..." Praying. Really praying, because oh god oh god he was going blind, going deaf, going mad. He couldn't feel anything except the parts where he and Alex joined. So good. And unbearably better still when Alex slid his fingers out, replaced them with his cock and thrust...
"John?" Low in the throat and Alex's breath is liquid, warm across his lips. Always sweet, the exhalation richer than air. And:
"I love you, you know..." John says. "I know..." He shakes his head, forehead grinding a little against Alex's. "It doesn't matter if you don't." Well, that's a lie. What he means is, it won't stop me if you don't, but he wants to make this as easy as he can. Alex's eyes close, blink up at him. Close again, stay shut. The hard hand on his neck flexes, flexes again, angling for a better...grip, he guesses.
"Just ask me if I'll fuck you, John," Alex says. He doesn't sound angry really, any more. Mostly tired. All of them are getting tired. John too. And it still makes him blush to say such things, but:
"Fuck me, Alex?"
Alex Krycek opens very pretty eyes indeed, and very bright.
"Yeah," he says softly, shrugging. "Always. Yeah..."
John 1:23 "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness..."
Disclaimer: This story is not actually in the bible, nor is this story intended for any purpose other than the enjoyment of those who enjoy such stories.
Spoilers: Terma, vague for RaTB
Summary: John and Alex talk, and don't talk things out; an angsty follow-up to "John"' companion piece to "Acts 4:6"
Rating: NC-17 for good measure
Thanks: to my favourite wild coyoteluvin' chick, Ladonna, for speed!beta in the face of burning dinners.