mercy
by Pares

Cloves. The scent of cloves, sweet and dark, in the air, in his mouth... Mulder opens his eyes, jerks his head up-- and promptly bangs his skull against something that makes a stifled, gonglike sound. Metal.

"Shit," he spits. Something against his tongue, tickling his parted lips. He can't move his legs, can't move back, as he's wedged against something cool and unyielding. Gradually he gets a sense of his surroundings. His hands are free, but his left arm is numb and Mulder realizes that he's folded around a body, dense and warm; it's crushing his arm, but slack. Probably unconscious. Where is he?

The trunk of a car: he feels the jolt of the road, the vibration of the engine, hears the road whisper against the tires. A narrow stripe of light bleeds in from an illfitting corner of the trunk, and a few inches over, a small round hole admits the sun as well.

The trunk is roomier than he had imagined one would be; room enough for two bodies, fairly high ceiling, enough for him to raise his head and crane his neck at his companion. Maybe an older model. His right thigh is cramping-- *Jesus!* Struggling, Mulder tries to stretch his legs, but the person he's hunched against is nearly as unyielding as the wall at his back. More room than he had imagined, but not so much as he would like.

Mulder's view of his fellow prisoner is mostly restricted to the back of his head; he realizes that he has had the man's hair in his mouth, and feels vaguely queasy. Why does he smell of cloves? It's strong, but not cloying. Mulder likes it. Better than the stink of cordite, he thinks as his eye finds the hole in the trunk again, and his fingers search for a pulse. Good. Strong and steady. A living body is usually preferable to a dead one-- depending on who his companion is.

His fingers graze a shoulder as he retrieves his hand, and Mulder notices that the body is shirtless-- a quick glancing stroke down to where he judges the leg to be-- also bare. No identifying marks, no fibers. The man that Mulder is quickly become embarrassingly intimate with is no doubt due to be executed very shortly. He can't tell if the man has been drugged; closing his hand on the man's slack shoulder, he shakes him roughly.

There is a low, controlled exhalation, and Mulder feels the muscles under his hand tense, feels the man's spine go rigid against his chest.

"Who are you?" Whispered. Mulder feel's the man's shoulder's flex, and hears the faint jingle of a chain. Guessing that his companion is handcuffed to something, Mulder counts himself lucky. He's been saved an elbow to the gut.

He remains wary, however. The chain must be longer than standard issue; the other man had considerable momentum going before he was jerked short.

"Fox Mulder. I'm a federal agent."

This draws a short bark of laughter from the other man.

"Of course you are."

The voice is pitched low, but it sparks Mulder's memory. Stiffening involuntarily, he pulls back, would have scrambled away had there been any leeway at all. As he cannot retreat, he curls his fingers around Alex Krycek's throat and squeezes-- only to drop his hand. It could be that Krycek knows something.

"Go ahead and kill me, Mulder. I'm already dead." His voice is passionless.

Krycek shifts, driving Mulder's tie pin into his chest, and Mulder tries to drag his arm out from beneath the other man. Krycek hadn't looked so heavy-- or so muscular-- as he seemed now, in this cramped space. Mulder finds himself wondering if Krycek had smelled like cloves when they'd been partners...?

Shoving back against him again, Mulder realizes that Krycek has leaned up on his elbow enough to allow Mulder to stretch his arm over Krycek's head, meeting the far wall of the trunk. He flexes his hand, and the first thudding crowd of blood creeps back into his fingertips and sharpens knives there. Bright sparks of pain make him bite his lip, and the dull taught ache in his thigh ebbs as his attention is focused elsewhere. Massaging his arm through his jacket, he curses under his breath.

Trying to ignore the warmth his thighs are settled against, Mulder reviews the events leading to his waking up in the trunk of a car with a naked man.

He and Scully had flown to Memphis, to follow up on a series of apparent suicides, linked by similar circumstances: all the victims had punctured their own eardrums before adopting more final solutions.

He'd been at the hotel, trying to find the pattern, when he'd-- he'd just-- fallen asleep.

And woken here.

God, where was Scully?

"What's the last thing you remember?" Mulder bites out. He can feel Krycek's head lift, the sweep of his hair against his mouth again. Mulder pulls his head back as far as he can.

"I was in a hotel. I fell asleep-- and here I am. We'll make a pretty picture, won't we? A federal agent's body found clinging to another man's-- what will Scully think?"

"Don't you even speak her name, you son of a bitch." Hot anger and cold fear flop in his gut like a game fish, now one, now the other, and it takes all of his self control not to gouge Krycek's eyes out. For being part of it, for helping Them hurt her, Jesus, Scully, are you okay? Please be okay. Instead, he digs the fingers of his right hand into Krycek's shoulder.

"What do you know?"

"I know that somebody's got a sick fucking sense of humor."

"You wanna lemme in on the joke, Krycek?"

Mulder hardly recognizes his own voice. Slowly, he realizes that he is drooling-- his teeth are bared, saliva dripping hotly on what he has recently learned to be the curiously tender skin at the back of Alex Krycek's neck. His jaws ache; he wonders if he could actually snap the other man's spinal column...

He's frightening himself; when did he become this intimate with the black reflexes of blind hate? He blinks; the light has changed. The sliver of sun says that the light is failing. The sun shining through the bullet hole is still strong, almost tangible, but not enough to see by-- until Krycek rears up and twists his upper body around as far as he can. The pupil of his right eye shrinks like a cat's in the beam. Being color blind, Mulder does not see the shifting sea change of color in that eye; to him it is as gray as a pewter plate, and as expressive.

Mulder feels paralyzed, mute. In his moment of feral longing, he has excited something more than simple bloodlust: a growing erection prods insistently against the small of Krycek's back. Fascinated, Mulder watches the day fade, and Krycek's pupil widen correspondingly. At length, Mulder can no longer see anything, but for the occasional yellow blink of a streetlight glancing through the holes in the trunk door.

The warm graze of lips against his jawline--

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mulder hisses into Krycek's thick hair.

"I don't know." Krycek sounds casual, even bored. Mulder jerks his head back again-- and receives a sharp rap to the back of his head. Another knot to add to his collection.

There is just enough slack in his chain to give Alex Krycek room enough to twist his torso and awkwardly nuzzle Mulder's tensed throat. Krycek can tell that Mulder's clenching his teeth, and probably his eyes as well.

"Jesus, Krycek." Mulder's breath whistles through his teeth, hot and dry.

"They're going to execute me, Mulder. And I'd bet that you're next on the chopping block."

Mulder has already come to this conclusion: both weapons and his phone are gone. No keys. No wallet. He is honestly surprised that he hasn't been stripped. But he supposes his clothes can be burned later.

Krycek's lips move against his skin. "I will take what I can get."

Krycek can taste Mulder's sweat, the alcohol echo of his fading aftershave, his heartbeat... His probing tongue drags across Mulder's frowning chin, the bristles just coming up-- he hears Mulder swallow thickly and hopes that he's licked his lips: Krycek wants to taste him. But he's shaking with strain now from the reaching and the bad angle-- and he wants-- Christ, he just wants--

"Simple human contact, Mulder. You'd deny a dying man his last wish?" He knows it's wrong as soon as he's said it, even as he tastes Mulder's breath on his lips.

"And what was my father's last wish, Krycek?" As if he's asking out of simple curiosity.

"Fuck you. *Fuck* you. I read your file. Estranged relationship' is how they put it. But what they really think is that he beat you. They think he fucked you, too. Just for good measure. Do you really miss him, Mulder? Do you? Or do you just pretend to care because you think you should?" He pushes his tongue against the pulse in Mulder's throat and feels it jump.

"Get the fuck off me, you mercenary piece of shit. I'll kill you." He sounds as if he's trying to convince himself of something.

"Better you than a bullet. Better warm skin than cold steel. These could be your last minutes, Mulder. Just... just let me touch you."

"Why?" His tone is disgusted, but there is real wonder in Mulder's question.

"Because I'm afraid," he answers simply. And Mulder knows it is true, can feel Krycek trembling against him, not just from the strain of holding himself at a bad angle, but terror.

"They're going to shoot me, Mulder. They left me for dead in that Silo and they aren't going to take any chances. Let me have this. Please."

"I don't know what you want from me."

Relaxing against Mulder's body, Krycek turns his cheek to the carpeted floor. The trunk is full of the scent of Krycek's fear, and the smell of cloves, and a musky note of what Mulder recognizes as his own hot arousal. He feels Krycek's thighs spread, then the firm rhythmic pressure of Krycek's ass being ground against his now-aching erection.

"Stop it," Mulder says peevishly. But his own hips belie his command, rocking slightly. Krycek continues to move against Mulder's pelvis, slowly, deliberately.

"Stop it!"

"You want this, too, Mulder. I can feel you." Krycek's voice is dreamy, distant, as if he's talking in his sleep. "Just do it," he whispers. "It won't matter."

"Jesus, no. *No.*"

"Goddamn it, Mulder, do it! I'd jerk you off, but my hands are cuffed and I can't reach you." The ensuing jingle of the chain is loud against the background hum of the car and the hush of pavement beneath them. "Fuck me! Because you can, not because I want you to. I don't care why, but Christ, Jesus, please Mulder--" He trails off brokenly.

Stunned. Mulder is gaping. He never thought he'd live to hear Alex Krycek weep. He was a dry husk of a man, a machine, an elegant weapon with a man's face. No heart beat there, no tears shone in those mink lashed eyes. Even in Mulder's most vengeful fantasies, Krycek had never shed tears. Cool to the last.

Mulder is at least as surprised as Krycek when he finds his left hand grazing the planes of Alex's face. The slick warmth of tears, the flutter of silken lashes against his wrist. His fingers move tentatively on. To the lips-- Krycek is still, breathless. Mulder curls his fingers past Krycek's parted lips, past the hard ridge of teeth, prodding the man's tongue. Krycek's lips close around his knuckles, his tongue slicks Mulder's fingertips, strokes at his nails. Sucking lightly, but unable to seal his lips around the three fingers exploring his oral cavity, Krycek concentrates on laving those fingers, caressing them with tongue and teeth.

Withdrawing his fingers, Mulder strokes them down Krycek's jaw line, to his throat. Krycek's breathing has evened, and Mulder can feel him swallow. With silent, blind fascination, Mulder smooths his right hand down Krycek's muscled chest. He is absorbed by the peaked nipples against his palm, then continues on, until he meets Krycek's knees. He's doubled up, fetal. Krycek exhales shakily and arches back, somehow contriving space enough to allow Mulder's hand lower. Mulder lingers at his belly, at the wiry arrow of hair there, and Krycek's composure fades again.

"Touch me," he pleads.

At this bidding, Mulder drops his hand and closes on Krycek's stiff penis. Krycek feels Mulder's gasp against the back of his neck.

Mulder had never thought another man would be so hot; he changes his grip experimentally and draws a wheeling moan from Krycek. His index finger traces a vein to the mushroom head, strokes at a warm bead of pre-ejaculate.

"God," breathes Krycek. He leans his head back against the agent's shoulder, and the scent of cloves clouds Mulder's senses. Turning his head, his nose grazes Krycek's ear, and he opens his mouth against Krycek's throat. Hearing soft, panting sobs, Mulder surmises that Krycek is crying again. In fear? Gratitude?

Mercy, he thinks bitterly. I am merciful. I am raping him. I am losing my mind. Scully...

He thinks it might be easier if he can pretend that it's her under his hands, beneath his lips, but no amount of imagination will disguise the reality of Alex Krycek.

His own breathing has deepened, he forgets the muscle cramp, the burn of his returning circulation, his tie pin boring into his sternum, and Krycek turns his head, lips moving against Mulder's cheek and jaw. Mulder turns a fraction, allowing Krycek's tongue past his lips, tasting him in turn. His hand closes involuntarily in Krycek's erection, and he feels the dull vibration of Krycek's moan.

Curling the fingers of his left hand under Krycek's chin, he forces the other man's head up, one finger in his mouth, the others splayed against his throat. He kisses the back of Krycek's neck, tugging gently at a lock of black hair with his teeth. Krycek sighs warmly, relaxing under his fingers.

Releasing Krycek's cock, Mulder feels his fingers tremble as he unbuttons his trousers and lowers the zipper, spreads the fabric at the front of his boxers and pulls himself free. All he is aware of now is the closeness: Krycek's soft hair against his cheek, his heaving back pressed to Mulder's chest-- he can do this.

He had never thought that it would be this easy. He had never believed that he could touch a man this way, certainly had never thought he would enjoy it; he can feel a voluptuous rapture swell in his blood. Such lust, such focus; it's as if he's outside of himself, watching himself caress this man. Krycek.

He presses his palm, smeared with his own clear lubricant, to Krycek's lips, so he can taste him, smell him.

"Spit."

Krycek complies readily, and Mulder spits as well, strokes his palm against the head of his erection, works the lubricant down the shaft. Sucking on his middle finger, he prods past the small ring of Alex's anus. Krycek jumps but makes no sound. Mulder retrieves his hand, spits again, and works the saliva into the tight passage with a second finger. He slips them out, mouth against Krycek's ear.

"Are you sure," he begins, but Krycek cuts him off.

"Yes-- yes--" and he falls silent again as Mulder presses into him, a long slow driving glide. Mulder grits his teeth against the pressure, and for a long while, minutes, merely rests there, the car's random jarring grinding him deeper into Alex's ass.

Krycek's breaths come in short harsh gasps. He's as tense as a bowstring, a man carved of iron, but Mulder feels him relax, slowly, slowly-- Mulder's arm circles his waist, pulls him close, his left hand cradling Krycek's jaw. He begins to move against Krycek's body, rocking his hips.

"God," Krycek gasps. "Don't stop. Don't. Stop..."

And for a while, Mulder feels he can go on forever. Until Krycek starts calling his name. A low entreating cry, a keening caress.

"Mulder, Mulder, God, Mulder, please, o please yes Mulder--"

At the base of his spine, Mulder's lust digs its spurs, and he bucks, once, twice-- and finds a frenzy, driving into Krycek, hearing his head ring rhythmically against the wall of the trunk. His left hand closes on Krycek's shoulder, and his other hand finds Krycek's swollen cock, and it's so hot against his hand, and he squeezes at its head just beneath the crown, and convulses--

There is a long drumroll in his brain, he feels a building shudder take him, and he spasms once more, his entire body tensing, tensing-- ahh!

Mulder dissolves. Distantly, he feels Alex twitch in his hand, and his head is filled with white noise. But his ears tell him that Krycek has never ceased crying his name.

* * *

In the deserted parking lot of a gas station long closed, Dana Scully finds her partner handcuffed to Alex Krycek. Even at a distance and in the half light of dawn, she can recognize Mulder's hunched shoulders; she shakes off the disjointed impression that he and Krycek are holding hands.

Mulder looks as if he's been kicked in the stomach, but Krycek... Krycek looks oddly contented. Dropping the tote at Krycek's feet, she understands why Mulder asked her to bring him a change of clothes.

Krycek is apparently wearing Mulder's trousers; he's shirtless, and lean as he is, his muscled hips look pinched by the narrow waist of Mulder's pants. She notes that they are too long for him, covering the tops of his bare feet. Mulder looks incongruous in his jacket and tie and boxer shorts; Krycek looks perfectly natural.

"Mulder? Are you alright? You've been missing for 36 hours. What happened to you?" She expects a smartass reply from one or both of them, but Mulder colors alarmingly. And Krycek smiles.

"I don't know." For some time he can not say more than that, and stares at his shoes.

Feeling her hand on his shoulder, he drops his face into her hair. Her shampoo, clean and light, soothes him, and he is glad that he will not cry, as he had feared he would. She holds him gently, but he can feel her tension, knows she's keeping her eye on Krycek.

"I don't know, Scully. I just don't know. We were in the trunk of a car and-- And he just-- let us go."

Mulder shudders, recalls the face, dead eyed and gray, of the old man who unlocked the trunk--

His wild kick had met nothing but air; he'd seen the dull glint of the man's gun in the streetlight. They were in an impossibly vast parking lot, empty save for the car, an abandoned Fotomat and a gas station with boarded windows.

"Who are you?" To his ears, his voice had sounded raw, craven.

"Get out of the car, Mr. Mulder. And help your companion." The man tossed a key ring at him, and Mulder bent to retrieve it. Between the gloom and his shaking hands, it took him several tries to get the key in the lock. Dropping the handcuffs on the asphalt, Mulder had taken Alex's arm and hauled the younger man from the trunk, looping his arm around the other man's waist when he felt Krycek's knees give.

"Let him go, Mr. Mulder. Alex, come to me." Krycek, regaining his footing, disengaged himself and approached their captor.

Leaning his head back, the gunman had opened his mouth. And Krycek had kissed him. Dropped his head and kissed him, lingeringly, a sweet attention evident in his posture, a yearning that was communicated only by the contact of lips, as the rest of his body stood away, swaying slightly, and he delved into the gray old man's nearly lipless mouth.

The man's free hand had gently pushed Krycek away, and his dead eyes had locked with Mulder's.

"Your mercy has earned you your life, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder fainted then.

And woke to find himself in his underwear, handcuffed to a blandly composed and steadfastly uncommunicative Krycek. Krycek, who had been wearing his trousers and handing him his guns, his wallet, his phone. Krycek, who had been sighing his name in the trunk of a car. Krycek, who had killed his father, and had been party to Scully's abduction. Krycek.

Absently, Mulder feels in his jacket pocket for the key ring. There. Straightening, he turns to Krycek and unlocks the cuffs, throwing the chain into the sparsely weeded turf behind the gas station.

"Let him go, Scully."

The weariness in his tone precludes her automatic question, and in the end, she drops her gun. They both watch as Krycek silently pads away from them, his form blurring and eventually erased by distance.

END