wheels
by Pares

He knew the wide flat floorboards were hurtling toward him, intent on mashing his nose, splitting his lip, breaking his wrist-- he flung his hands out, grasping wildly--

Catching the tail of Mulder's jacket. Mulder, who already had an arm extended to catch him, drag him upright, hold him steady. Damn it.

"Easy there, Tex. Why don't you wait for the next rodeo," Mulder intoned blandly, his humor so dry it almost didn't smart Alex's pride.

Alex wobbled, his feet treacherous beneath him in those *fucking* roller skates.

"Mulder--" he exclaimed, a little panicky, a little breathless, certainly humiliated.

"Mulder, " he repeated, swallowing, trying to make his voice normal. "Are you sure the Loerencio kid is the best suspect?"

Mulder's arm held him up, he was half reclining in the other man's arms, this was ridiculous-- but the floor rolled, pitched beneath him and he curled his fingers in Mulder's jacket.

Mulder cocked a brow. "You have inner ear trouble as a kid, Krycek? You sure as hell can't skate."

"This wasn't my *idea*, Mulder," Krycek reminded unnecessarily. He can't believe how foolish he feels-- he feels like the simpleton, the eager puppy he's supposed to be. And it's pissing him off. "You haven't answered the question."

This earned a long, speculative look from the other man, one so direct and so unsettling that Krycek tried to loosen his deathgrip on the Armani.

He was only slightly relieved when Mulder towed him over to a bannister and propped him up against it before turning to follow the Loerencio kid as he made a slapshot into the padded goal.

"He's the only one so far. But, if you're asking, I don't think he did it."

Krycek nodded to the back of Mulder's head, oddly distracted by the way Mulder could stand so still in roller skates, and by the tightness of his pants against his ass when he put his hands in his pockets.

Spinning neatly, the movement of his feet so subtle as to seem he was levitating, Mulder turned to face him again.

"The organ's playing "Close To You". It's Couples Only. Everybody off the ice," he explained.

Krycek nodded curtly, white knuckled the railing.

"Yeah. In... in a minute, okay?"

"Give me your hand." He'd already extended his own, long fingered and somehow... kind looking. Krycek wanted to bite his lip and screw his eyes shut. This crushing courtesy would undo him. He vastly preferred the Mulder Stonewall to this .... this... *decency*.

//He's an asshole about 95% of the time, near as you can tell. You gonna let an isolated incident tip the scales? Sap!//

But he pried one hand loose and made a grab for Mulder's.

Mulder's hand was warm and dry, and he tugged lightly on Krycek's hand, urging him away from the railing.

"Let go, Krycek. Relax. We only have to cross the floor."

Linking his arm with Krycek's, much as he might take an old lady's arm to help her across the street, Mulder drew Krycek gently forward. He kept them close to the railing, should Krycek slip and flail and need something more solid to hold on to.

"You're doing fine," Mulder murmured in his ear, against the gaudy pomp of the ridiculous organ.

"Just like me, they long to be, close to yooooou..." sang the sugary soprano of whatever Muzak bimbo they'd attached to the speakers.

Krycek hoped fervently that his ears weren't as red as he suspected them to be. Hopefully, Mulder would write off his color to his acute embarrassment.
Which, of course, he felt. But there was something about the gentle clasp of Mulder's hand on his elbow, the way his body tucked against the other man's.

It felt right. It felt wrong for it to feel so right. Son of a bitch.

Several ice ages had passed for Krycek by the time they finally made the exit in the corral fence and left the dangerous hardwood for kinder carpet. Gingerly, Krycek set each skate down carefully against the pile, oddly bereft when Mulder let him go.

The hellish gliding scrape of steel wheels against waxed wood rang in his head. Jesus, he hated skating rinks...

Mulder was looking at him again, and it made Krycek want to fasten his gaze to the ridiculous rubber stoppers on the ends of his skates...

Instead, he lifted his chin, tried to smile.

"Well. Yeah. That was a field experience I won't forget. Can we bag the perp now, Mulder?" Hating the whine, but unable to help himself. He wanted out of there, out of the roar, out of the miasma of old hot dogs and cold nacho cheese...

"You don't like to skate because you don't know how," Mulder offered reasonably. "I could teach you. It's a nice place to take dates."

"I'm not 14, Mulder. I don't take my dates to the Skating Rink."

He'd nearly cursed aloud in frustration-- but Special Agent Krycek is a Mormon Boy, a nice boy, he has to kiss his holy old bag mother with this mouth--

"I do," Mulder said. And smiled. A smile that made Krycek forget his own name, his alleged religion, his fucking mother...

He knew his mouth was open, knew he was hearing things, misinterpreting--

But Mulder knelt to unlace his skates. Knelt down, looked up, smiled again.

"Let me help you with these."

Startled, Krycek reached out to steady himself-- and found his hands buried in Mulder's hair.

Gently, gently, Mulder disentangled Krycek's clutching grip on his head.

Mulder shook his head ruefully.

"Maybe you'd better sit down for this." He stood up again and took both of Krycek's hands... and wheeled him over to a bench-- Krycek felt like a mannequin stapled to a skate board, like a piece of office furniture, like a fucking idiot on a float--

"Mulder--" he managed. Those wide glowing eyes.

"That's still my name. And I wish you'd told me you couldn't skate before I rented the damned things." He grinned, and gave Krycek a flat handed shove on the sternum that sent him rolling back until a bench hit him in the back of his knees and compelled him to sit.

"I'll be right back with the shoes. And then we'll bag the perp."

Krycek watched his retreating back, skimming gracefully along the smooth carpet in short frictioned glides...

Wondered if Mulder was worth holding on to.

END