May 26, 2000
A post-Requiem vignette for Rachel.

Mulder and Krycek spend a night of reacquaintance.

At the Station

by Kest

He could feel Marita’s eyes on the back of his head, but he was looking at Skinner; after a while, their eyes met, and he wondered how much Skinner knew or could possibly understand. It didn’t matter now. Skinner was a fish out of water, gasping, but with a bemused acceptance in finding himself a part of this strange ensemble, sans Mulder and Scully. She had left the room and Mulder had followed. Not surprising. Mulder without Scully was like a…well, like a man with his arm cut off. And Christ, he knew more than he ever wanted to know about that.

They waited a few minutes, quietly, the silence a dank, nervous presence in the room. Marita smoothed back a lock of hair that had escaped the tight bun; Skinner cleared his throat, but said nothing. Those three odd men shifted, peered, and looked at everything and everyone but him.

His footsteps echoed loudly on the floor, the eyes of the others on him louder still; but he ignored them as he followed the path Scully and Mulder had taken and opened the door. No one followed him. Mulder was alone in the hallway, his back to him and looking altogether unapproachable. But he’d never been one for social niceties.

"We’re done. I’ll give you a ride home," he found himself saying. His voice was too high-pitched, too uncertain. He hated that, hated the way he still came back to Mulder: the man who would have killed him just a few hours earlier. If he could. If he actually would have gone through with it. He preferred to doubt that, though there were times---and that had been one of them---when he just didn’t know.

"I already have my car here." Mulder didn’t turn around; his voice was low, even. What he wouldn’t give to know what they had been talking about out here, Mulder and Scully, what she had been saying to him and how Mulder had looked when she’d said it. How he was looking now, when his eyes refused to see, refused to see *him*, God damn it. He wanted to twist him around, push him a little to see what Mulder would actually do---to find out what would have happened earlier if Skinner hadn’t been there to stop him. He took a deep breath.

"Good. Marita had a car take us over here, so it looks like I need a ride."

Mulder did turn around, then. His eyes were dark and shadowed. Even his mouth had lost its characteristic mocking twist. Alex waited for all kind of things from him: to be told to fuck off, to be bombarded with questions that, strangely enough, hadn’t been asked yet; for Mulder to refuse by just walking away. But then Mulder was reaching into his pocket---he tossed something awkward, shiny, and jangly over.

Alex had to stretch his right hand across his body to grab it from the air---it had been aimed to his left side. Fucking Mulder. He weighed the keys in his hand and gripped them tight. "Let’s go, then."


The road was slick with drizzled rain; silence in the car; the glare of headlights battling the angled shadows on the street; oil, dirt, and water from the pavement gliding over the wheels. Mulder sat hunched in the passenger seat, looking out the window. His suit hung on his frame like wilting greenery. A long day, and Alex could tell that he was beyond thinking, beyond anything but the mechanical drive of action, just going along with what he had to do.

"If you’re lying to me about this ship, I swear I’ll drive a knife through your heart."

Alex was surprised into looking over at him; so Mulder wasn’t entirely out for the count. He lacked the ruthlessness that would have given the words more authority; nonetheless, the chilled vehemence hit home. Alex found himself at a momentary loss for words.

And who knew if he were lying or not? Fuck if he did. Fuck if the smoking man had any clue what he was talking about, or if the ship was just a figment of a deluded, dying mind. But Mulder wasn’t looking for any reassurances; it was a statement, a warning lying between them. A dangerous, dangerous man; and in such a harmless, pretty package. He felt the hot rush of blood to his crotch, pants tightening painfully, as if Mulder held a gun to his head or stood above him with a stake in his hand like a scene from some freakish Lugosi flick. Clutching the steering wheel, he narrowed his eyes. The road was a blur in front of him and he refocused, breathed, shifted in the seat as if readjusting the space between them. He glanced over once, but Mulder was still looking out the window, the reflection of his eyes in the window pane revealing nothing of his expression.

Too much urgency; he took a deeper breath, slowed the car minutely. They were still miles from Mulder’s apartment. But his hand shook on the wheel.


"Oh, God…." He had Mulder pressed against the back of the apartment door, his hand on the base of Mulder’s throat as he claimed that mouth: a cavern of heat, soft and smooth. Mulder stood pliantly, pushed back; he returned the kiss with a slower rhythm, arms straight at his sides, eyes closed. Alex broke the kiss and leaned back on his heels, gasping a little for air. He felt wild, all-too intoxicated. Three months in a Tunisian prison, and this was *heaven*. This was absolute, fucking heaven.

Mulder opened his eyes, but they were half-lidded, waiting. Alex watched him, unable to turn away as Mulder licked his lips experimentally like a cat after a meal, mildly curious as to what would happen next.

"I heard they found you in a prison camp," Mulder said; a murmur, low and measured.

Alex didn’t answer, just leaned forward and kissed him again. It was returned more heatedly this time, a movement of lips and tongues that shifted from urgency to a slow, exploratory pace, as if they were reacquainting themselves with each other. Mulder’s hand was curved around his head, dipping low inside his collar, fingers cool against his skin; not stroking, just spread there between his neck and the line of his shoulders. He shivered, shifting closer to the heat that lay between them; Mulder was hard, aroused, a full participant in whatever it was they were doing, whatever it was that they did. But he hadn’t given in yet.

"Fuck." Alex broke away, but then changed his mind and grabbed Mulder by the front of his dress shirt instead. Mulder stumbled, but caught his balance quickly and didn’t resist as Alex led him, half yanking, over to the couch. "Why do you---"

But he kissed him again instead of finishing the question. There was something about kissing Mulder…he couldn’t describe it. He couldn’t stop, either. And Mulder wasn’t protesting---but when had he ever protested? Mulder’s hands were on his back, pulling up his shirt, pressing against the dip of flesh, rubbing there.

"Why do you think I came to you about the ship?" He asked at last, breathing quickly. Mulder was still caressing his back, the space between them only inches; he could feel Mulder’s breath on his lips, on his cheek.

"Why did you?"

Alex laughed. "Mulder. Oh, God---Mulder." He pushed him down on the couch then followed him; they bumped noses, but he didn’t feel the pain. He reached down to pull impatiently at Mulder’s pants, struggling with the zipper then reaching inside to cup the heat there. He laughed again, but at himself this time. Pressing his lips against the line of Mulder’s groin, he paused just above the tip of his cock, below the navel right where thicker hair began; the skin was softer, less muscle and bone and more pliancy, more give to the flesh. He rubbed his cheek against it.

Mulder made a small sound in the back of his throat; it was desire, of course, but to Alex it was the sound of something breaking through. He could feel the vibration of it on his cheek where it rested on Mulder’s skin. Then Mulder was pulling him up, shifting on the couch to make room for both of them to lie there. It was awkward and crowded, but Alex didn’t notice the discomfort.

"It’s been a long time," Mulder said quietly.

Too long? Alex wondered. There was something comforting about it, about the way they passed in and out of each other’s lives; no connections, no love lost, there…he loved the spike to their desire. Turning Mulder on was easier than a light switch; each time like it was the last, like it had never happened it all. It was how Mulder lived with himself, he supposed. But there was always the danger that what was there was only there in passing; nothing so elusive could be defined, tied down. Sometimes he wanted to crush it in his hand and hold it tight. Yet most times he was happy enough with the infrequent moments, the play of hands, of lips, the satisfying rise of lust and even more satisfying relief of it.

But God, he wanted him. Maybe it was a want of the moment, but the moment was too big; he couldn’t think beyond it.

So he pulled Mulder’s head to the side to kiss those lips; and after a minute---the briefest pause, really---Mulder responded. He couldn’t think, didn’t want to think about the ship, about the smoking man, Marita and Scully…Mulder’s hands were on his body, and it *had* been too long. Way too fucking long. It was like fire in a cornfield, bearing down on the tree line. Mulder was tugging off his shirt, pushing it back from his body. His hand slid over the scars of his arm with a kind of detached interest, free of pity.

Then Mulder was shifting, moving him over onto his stomach; with a startled grunt, he whispered "Mulder…" but Mulder quieted him with a stroking hand on the curve of his shoulder blades.

"This time. Just this time," Mulder said back.

Alex frowned into the leather of the couch. It wasn’t what they normally did---it wasn’t what *he* normally did. But after a momentary struggle he relaxed, let Mulder’s hands soothe the doubts. Those hands were caressing his ass, now, the cloth of his pants scraping down, lower, until he kicked them free of his ankles. He took a deep breath as Mulder reached around to hold his cock, holding it lightly, the tip of his thumb caressing slowly, up the base to the tip.

"Mulder," he said raggedly. It was almost too much; he was too exposed like this, too vulnerable. But Mulder wouldn’t let him up, and his muscles had lost all will to move. He bit his lip and pressed his face deeper into the couch, smelling leather and sweat. Mulder’s fingers were in the crack of his ass now, pushing in---when had he gotten lube? He shivered at the feel of it, arched up as the fingers entered, choking off a cry at the slide of them, gentle and too sweet---Christ, what was Mulder doing to him?

He’d killed a man in prison for trying to do exactly this---plunged a slender, sharpened stick into the base of his throat. But this was something entirely different; the remnants of his identity, the cool reserve, broke free to flap in the wind like shreds of paper. He tried to hold on to them, but they drifted from his fingers. He clenched his fist and dug it into the couch as Mulder entered him, filling him in a way that was almost too much; almost, but not quite. Mulder’s warmth was against his back, and his hand was running down his chest, brushing over nipples and ribs, lower, over his cock again, squeezing in the rhythm of his own thrusts, deeper now, more wild, more frantic. He could tell by Mulder’s breathing that he was on the edge, but then he couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t hear---his body convulsed and he let it, and oh God, what was Mulder doing to him, what had he done….


Alex groaned at the stretch of stiffened muscles as he sat up on edge of the couch, extricating himself from the limbs tangled with his own. Mulder, awake now, shifted to lie back on the warm, sticky leather, spreading out with one arm cradling his head. Alex looked over at him; Mulder looked dazed, sleepy, but the eyes were curiously alive and alert. He wanted to reach over and straighten out the hair that was sticking out in odd tufts along the crown of his forehead. Mulder smiled slightly, as if he could read was Alex was thinking.

"I’ll go with you to Oregon," he found himself saying.

Mulder looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Skinner is going with me."

"Ah, trust," Alex said wryly. He did reach over, then, to smooth back Mulder’s hair; he was mildly surprised that Mulder allowed it. Then he drew away and he reached down to the floor for his pants, pulling them on and standing up to fasten them. "Be careful out there."

Mulder stretched out and stared up at him, his mouth slightly open, content for the moment. He looked lazily serene lying there, bare hips twisted to rest in the crease of the couch, one arm still holding his head as the other sprawled over the edge. "Touching concern, Alex," he said, but it wasn’t said cruelly.

Alex laughed. "Yes." He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it with only minor awkwardness. He enjoyed the feel of Mulder’s eyes on him, following the movement of his hand as flesh was covered up once again. He sat down again to pull on his socks and shoes, then stayed there for a moment more, reluctant to go. But nothing else made sense; however much sense entered into whatever this was. So he stood up.

"I’ll be seeing you, Alex," Mulder called softly from the couch as he made for the door.

Alex paused and turned his head. "Yes, you will." Mulder was only a fuzzy black shape in the shadows of the room, but it was easier that way.

Standing out on the curb waiting for a cab, he wondered. Mulder hadn’t had the look of a man who expected to come back. Not for Scully, and not for him, either. The knowledge was accepted without pain, with only a fleeting twinge. Whatever the man knew, whatever he believed…it was beyond his comprehension. He supposed that was part of the appeal.

It started to rain again, the muted glare of the street lamps reflecting off the drizzled fall of water all around him. He suddenly smiled through the drops as they ran down his cheeks. He tasted rain on his lips. But he’d be seeing him again, soon. Not yet, perhaps, but soon.