on the make
by Pares

The night is sticky and thick around them, like a haze of cellophane tape.

The windows are rolled down, and aside form the regular *crack!* of a sunflower seed between Mulder's teeth, and the softest possible spitting sounds, the street is silent.

Krycek is uncharacteristically nervous. Mulder looks as bland as a news anchor, and two hours of straight silence has him edgy.

"Hey, Mulder." His voice is breathy, a flat smooth rasp like two sheets of paper being rubbed together.

Mulder doesn't look up, or speak, merely continues to bring yet another sunflower seed to his lips, crack it, spit it out the window.

"Dierdich and Ferlenghetti say that this lady likes to vacuum in the buff." Sometimes the yokel act grated, but he figures it's better suited to the crass finesse of appealing to Mulder's baser instincts.

If he has any.

Krycek has read his mark's file, knows about the video library, the subscriptions, but as near as Krycek can tell, the man doesn't actually have a prurient bone in his long body. Women in every room followed Mulder's ass with their eyes, and although quite a few of those women graced him with the same hungry approval, he noted an amazing lack of response on Mulder's part. Unless Mulder wanted something more specific than a night draped across a stranger's bed.

Mulder had given a mega watt smile to one Emily Bernsdale the day he wanted to know where the Ex-Mr. Edward Bernsdale was keeping his second set of books. Krycek had wanted to yank the old girl out of his way by the hair in order to bask more fully in that smile... one of a magnitude he'd not expected from the casually expressionless man

who'd been so careful to point out his obvious disdain for his new partner.

There's a movement at the window of the two story Cape Cod to Krycek's right. Bedroom, second floor. Both he and his partner crane their necks to see the witness they've been babysitting.

"Fuck me." Mulder murmurs.

"Pardon?" sputters Krycek automatically. It's what Special Agent Hero Worshipping -"Ass-Kiss" Krycek *has* to say. Alex, had he been beside Mulder in any other capacity, would not have spoken at all. He would simply have complied.

"She's got a telescope." The other man is leaning across him to better see the yellow moon of a streetlight reflected in the telescope's lens. "She's watching us."

Then he laughs, softly, and Krycek can taste his breath, see that Mulder's lips are parched with salt, nearly cracked, and Alex wants so much just to--

But Mulder draws back into his own bucket seat, and grins at Krycek.

"She *want's* you, Krycek."

"If she's looking at me, it's only because I'm in the way." He tugs peevishly at his hideous paisley silk tie. The bald truth of this statement is nearly painful, and edged with a surprising amount of envy. Krycek has to *work* at being unattractive, and dressing the part was as uncomfortable for his ego as the too-tight tie and the trip-length pants.

Mulder quirks his eyebrows.

Racking his brain, Krycek comes up with a suitably kiss ass response.

"Well, hell, Old Mrs. Bernsdale was practically doing backflips for you. You seem to be a real hit with the ladies."

Mulder's expression is unreadable for a moment. Then he smiles and returns to angling his neck for a better view.

"Tell me when I'm a hit with you, then. I'd be interested in seeing you do a backflip."

Mulder is out the car door and pelting after the escaping suspect before Alex has thought of anything to say.

END