by Pares

"Give me your hand."

"*What?*

Suppressed, husking whispers filter into his head past the sound of hands patting at cloth and the somnolent watery echo of a hundred thousand tons of concrete... God, he hates parking garages.

"I said, give me your hand. I left the damned notepad in the fucking car."

Oh. Mulder sighs internally, as he feels engine oil seep into the knees of his new suit. Of course.

He should have worn his jeans.

//Skulking Gear by Tommy.//

He opens his mouth to tell Alex that a man with a photographic memory doesn't need to write license plate numbers down--

But Krycek has already uncapped his pen with his teeth and spread eagled the older man's hand in his.

Mulder's eyes widen involuntarily at the shockingly sensual press of the smooth ball point nib against his palm. Cool and somehow provocative, it rolls along his skin, leaving a tiny chill trail as the ink dries.

Alex pauses, shoots another glance over his shoulder and turns to write the second plate number. He tenses his grip when Mulder's fingers curl, spasm.

"Hold still, dammit," he mutters tightly, softly. Sound carries in a silent auto mausoleum. The heat of Krycek’s square palm, the pads of fingertips tapping his skin like the flare of miniature spotlights, also carries. Mulder shifts uneasily.

The light is bad, and Krycek has to lean closer to see what he is writing. His warm breath grazes Mulder's relaxing fingers.

Mulder can hear the click of the pen cap against Krycek's teeth as he rolls it pensively from one side of his mouth to the other, the tension curling his mouth down, and giving him a strangely proud DeNiro look. A triangle of golden light highlights a cheekbone, gleaming on the shiny carapace of the pen cap.

The clicking is annoying; it distracts him from the feathery but precise scrapes of the pen against his skin-- who knew his palm was so sensitized to the minute, focused drags of a simple writing implement?- and it made him want to lean over and bite down on the hard plastic, tug the protruding pen cap from between Krycek's even teeth....

"You done yet?" His voice is low, husky, but he tells himself it’s out of necessity. They are crouched in a parking garage, trailing a suspect, after all.

Krycek makes an "Almost." grunt and leans over again; there is something absorbing about the back of his head, how Krycek makes little satisfied nods as he finishes copying the last of the tag numbers.

When his partner finally looks up, Mulder nearly clips his chin.

Green eyes grin at him, guileless, glad.

"Got ‘em. Let's get the fuck out of here."