sublimation
by Pares

The door, warped by water damage and sagging on its hinges, was open. Standing wide. Special Agent Dana Scully paused in the hall, her heel snagging on the frayed hallway carpet. She heard no movement, and moistened her lips unconsciously. Maybe the kid at the front desk had just not seen him go...

Moving slowly, drawing her gun, Scully peered into the murk of the motel room and froze. There was a body on the bed. Mulder's body. O God.

But then her partner made a smacking sound and shifted under the sheets, and Scully allowed herself an inaudible sigh of relief. Stowing her gun, she crossed to the bed.

"Mulder?" No response.

She shook his shoulder and his head rolled loosely-- after a moment, Fox Mulder blinked, his lashes sticky with sleep, chin flaky with a trail of saliva long evaporated.

"Yeah? Scully? What--" he paused, eyes skipping around the unfamiliar room.

"You didn't answer your phone last night. I thought you might have stayed here. When I got to the front desk, the clerk said you hadn't checked out yet, but that a man matching Krycek's description left here yesterday afternoon. I thought he might have..." She trailed off and crossed her arms across her chest. Tipping her head, she waited for Mulder's knee-jerk apology.

It didn't come. Instead, Mulder merely nodded, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. The sheets were wound around his legs. His bare legs. Scully glanced at the floor and found Mulder's trousers there-- tangled with his boxers. She checked the impulse to raise her eyebrows, but Mulder had already caught her look and colored helplessly.

"What exactly happened here, Mulder?"

"He-- he told me what he knew and I let him go."

"And then you took a nap in this-- hellhole? With the *door* open??" She blinked repeatedly, lashes beating like bird's wings in her irritation.

He smiled sweetly, and rubbed one eye with a loose fist.

"What can I say, Scully? I slept like a baby."

He gathered the sheets around him and got to his feet. Leaning down to snag his pants, he padded toward the bathroom.

"Mulder, you're certifiable."

He glanced at her over his shoulder, one hand hitching the slipping sheets around his narrow hips, the other holding the curtain that served as a door to the bathroom aside.

"Flattery will get you *everywhere*, Scully." He gave her a smile that made her breath catch: lazy, come hither, and quite possibly genuine.

He still had his tie on. He looked sleepy and rumpled and... dangerous. Whetted. Then his smile softened, releasing her, and he stepped into the alcove, the curtain swishing closed behind him.

Scully could see Mulder's unexpectedly handsome feet and ankles below the curtain. The sheets fell to the floor, and Scully caught herself leaning, just a little, to try to see past the gap between the doorjamb and the curtain...

The unaccountably loud sound of Mulder emptying his bladder behind a single thin wall of plastic brought her back to herself. The drumming of Mulder's urine against the surface of the water in the toilet was strangely intimate: shocking but familiar. Scully found herself trying to imagine what Mulder looked like, cock in hand, feet apart, the tails of his shirt brushing his bare buttocks as he aimed the stream towards the bowl.

Well this was lovely, she thought tiredly. //I don't think I've ever felt this... sleazy.// Imagining your partner naked was one thing, imagining what he looked like in the privacy of his routine biological expenditures was quite another.

There was a last splatter of Mulder shaking off; she heard him clear his throat, the unmistakable sound of spitting. She saw his hands as he bent to pick up his boxers, lifting one foot and then the other, and repeating the motions with his pants. The rush of the tap as he rinsed his mouth, gargled briefly and spat again.

He shoved the curtain aside and emerged nicely spruced: shirt tucked, tie straightened.

Sitting on the bed to pull his socks and shoes on, he cocked his head at her. She frowned at him reflexively to cover her guilty flush, and he gave her the apology he had previously withheld.

"I didn't mean to make you worry. And to make it up to you, I'll buy you breakfast."

"I think it'll take more than an order of Eggs Benedict--"

"Eggs Benedict?" Mulder interrupted. "D'ya think I'm made of money? I was thinking maybe we'd get you a Croissainwich on the way to my place." He stood up and made a show of sniffing under his own armpits before shrugging into his suit jacket. "I need to change. I'm pretty ripe."

"Mulder, not to sweep aside the importance of your personal hygiene, but do you think you could fill me in on the details of Krycek's story?"

"Just as soon as I eat something. I wouldn't want to faint in the middle and leave you hanging." Pulling on his overcoat, he swept past her and strode down the hallway. Scully watched him go. It could be said that he had a spring in his step. Just what had Krycek said?

Scully shook her head. Mulder would tell her about the trunk when he was ready to. She didn't doubt that. Until then, she would ignore her own morbid projections concerning those missing hours. And eat a Crossainwich.

***

Mulder stared at the dashboard for the trip back. He had a lot to think about. Finding himself replaying certain elements of the previous day, he was glad of his long coat. His body was still smoldering. Krycek's touch had swept his senses: a firestorm of carnal expertise.

He'd woken himself in the dead of night, in that fetid hotel room, with an erection so stiff it hurt. Stroking himself off, the memory of Krycek's hot, suckling mouth had made him slack-jawed and crazy. Jesus. Even in the car, now, with Scully, he could feel his blood get heavy and slow in his veins, just waiting to run bright again... Waiting for Krycek's mouth. A hot prickle began at the back of his neck and sluiced, a sweltering rush, down his spine, making his cock jump and his balls tighten. I want him, Mulder realized.

As confusing as the thought was, as potentially embarrassing as his overt physical responses to those memories were, Mulder felt-- well, good. Downright cheerful, in point of fact.

Mulder had been in the habit of loneliness; he wore it like he wore his coat. As a psychologist, Mulder knew that human contact could elevate a person's mood. Infants who were not regularly held failed to thrive, elderly people who shared dinner with friends metabolized nutrients more efficiently, and lovers experienced the phenomenon of "afterglow". As precise as his memory was, Mulder found that he could not remember the last time he had been touched so... intimately.

He was able to rouse himself from his thoughts enough to point out a Burger King. Unfolding himself from the car, he gave his petite red-haired partner a fond, lopsided smile. Scully favored him with one of her sweetly affecting "I-Wasn't-Kidding-About-Doubting-Your-Sanity" looks.

His buoyant cheer lasted throughout his breakfast-- two ham and cheese croissants and three cups of black coffee sludgy with sugar-- but muted somewhat when he realized he'd have to tell Scully. Everything.

But not yet. Not when he had so little to go on. He didn't want to approach the topic and then have nothing to tell her, no way to explain himself. Mulder had no idea how Scully might react to his confession... He found himself wondering what she'd be more shocked by: the idea that he'd fraternized with a traitorous criminal, one who had quite possibly had everything to do with the deaths of both Mulder's father and Scully's sister-- or the bald fact that he'd fucked another man.

Mulder had never asked for Scully's opinion of homosexuality. It had never yet been truly relevant to a case. He'd never personally felt any hostility toward gay men... and he had a certain aesthetic appreciation of lesbians fostered by years of rather silly soft porn. No hostility. But no attraction, either. No second glances at urinals, no idle consideration about what another man might feel like, taste like... Polite disinterest. Until Krycek.

Mulder had not been blind to Krycek's longing gazes. A paranoid man is nothing if not observant. But he hadn't really thought about them, about what they meant. It hadn't been the first time he'd been the object of some kid's crush, or even the first time he'd felt another man's eyes rake his body with approval. According to reactions he'd noticed since he'd been fourteen, a large segment of the general populace deemed him passing fair. But the fact didn't interest him, and as such he dismissed it. He rarely gave thought to it: his own long, rangy body, his wide mouth. It was odd to think that Krycek seemed to want him so badly.

Krycek. He'd let Krycek suck him off. Why?

Stupid question. Wrong question. Remembering Krycek's exquisite tongue, Mulder had no trouble answering that one. However, his own willingness to have his dick in Krycek's mouth did not explain Krycek's apparent desire to have it there. It went beyond mere sexual gratification. If it was release Krycek had been after, he would have fucked Mulder while he had the chance. Mulder slurped urgently at his coffee.

What did Krycek want with him? What made Mulder important to Krycek's agenda? Why had Krycek called him from the clinic, and then insisted that he hadn't? Had he truly been in some sort of fugue state, unable to access certain memories? The question that really caught Mulder, even more than the one about the motives of the men who had been behind the abduction, was *Had Krycek truly forgotten what had happened in the trunk?*

Because Mulder didn't think he ever would.

Closing his hands around his styrofoam cup, Mulder stared into the dregs of his coffee and did his best not to think of anything at all.

***

He was thinking about Krycek. Scully could see him processing, lips slightly pursed, dark eyes squinting accusingly into his fourth cup of weak coffee. She made the smallest of interrogative noises, and he blinked, lifting his eyes to hers.

Tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear, Scully let her eyes focus on a spot just beneath his right eye. She let one brow tip up inquiringly. Prepared to communicate her impatience at this point, she fixed him with her best "get-on-with-it" expression.

"Krycek told me that I was questioned during my absence."

"Questioned? By who? About what?"

There was a suggestion of amusement in the lines around his eyes, and he raised a hand to slow her onslaught.

"Give me a chance."

Scully was a little unsettled by the urgency in her own tone, and nodded, pressing her palms against the cool table top to soothe herself.

"Apparently, I was quizzed by our Smoking Friend and a man Krycek called Hinser. As to what they asked me, I can't remember. Krycek claimed that they doped me-- and I guess that makes sense. It was suggested by my blood tests. He wanted to know what they asked me, too."

"How is it that he remembers this interrogation, and not what he told you in the trunk?"

Mulder shrugged briefly, and tapped his empty coffee cup against the table.

"You seem to be taking this rather lightly, Mulder." surprised you're not a seething wreck.>

"Yeah. Well. I really don't know what I should be doing about it. Krycek said I was interrogated-- that doesn't necessarily make it true. I'm still not sure if he was involved in the abduction or simply another victim. And as I don't remember the interrogation or have any idea what it was they wanted to learn from me..." He shrugged again, dismissively.

"You're going to just ignore it?" Scully's tone was incredulous.

Suddenly, Mulder's face was hard.

"They took me and then they brought me back. That's all I'm sure of." And you're in no position to pass judgement on what I do or do not do about it, his eyes informed her. "When and if I remember anything, I may have information enough to investigate further. Until then..." He leaned forward over the table, bringing his face inches from hers, sugared breath glancing against her lips. "I'm just going to ignore it." Dropping his eyes, he crumpled his styrofoam cup and slid out of the booth.

The vigor he'd exhibited earlier that morning had evaporated. His shoulders had hunched again. She stood beside him, and reached out to touch his shoulder. Catching her movement, he stepped out of her reach, and started for the door. Scully fought the impulse to ball her hand into a fist and pound it on the table.

*

The drive to his apartment was tense and silent, almost surly. Until Mulder put his hand on the headrest of the driver's seat and cleared his throat softly.

"I don't want you to think I'm... upset with you. It's not you I'm angry at. Just know that, okay?"

Nodding, Scully felt her hands relax on the wheel. She pulled up to the curb before his apartment building, and watched him get out. He rounded the front of her car, and stooped at her window, reaching in to tug at the fabric of her jacket sleeve.

"Thanks."

For a moment he looked as though he might lean in and kiss her cheek, but instead he gave her jacket a final tug and turned back up the walk to his apartment.

Scully spent the drive to the office trying to decide just what he had thanked her for.

***

Turning the key in the lock, Mulder stepped into the stale murk of his apartment. His living room was a mingled cloud of greasy take-out, unwashed socks and... cloves. Nostrils flaring, Mulder felt the sting of spice assail his senses. Krycek. Krycek was in his apartment. He could smell him.

Drawing his gun, Mulder silently paced his apartment and found no trace of the man. The scent had faded, and Mulder shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose.

"God damn it," he said aloud. Mulder made a final circuit of the rooms to reassure himself, and finding nothing, kicked off his shoes and made his way to his bathroom.

With a sigh, Mulder undid his tie and dropped it on the floor. Next, he unbuttoned his rumpled Oxford and let it drop to the floor. Stripping off his undershirt, Mulder ran his hands down his chest. He shucked his trousers, studying his reflection in the mirror. There were no marks on his body, no signs of his dalliance with a killer. Mulder noted somewhat ruefully that he was hard again. The incense of cloves was so tied to his memory of his time spent fucking Krycek in that trunk... Apparently he owed this pronounced physical response to a phantom aroma. Mulder could swear the fragrance was getting stronger again. Eyes closing, he let his hands wander down his thighs... and felt the cold kiss of metal at the base of his skull.

"Get dressed. We have an appointment to keep."

The velveteen voice was impersonal, cool. Much like the muzzle of the gun pressed against Mulder's hair.

Mulder opened his eyes and saw Krycek standing behind him, eyes burning. He fairly reeked of cloves; the scent was overpowering. How had Mulder missed him?

Dragging the pistol along Mulder's spine, Krycek reached down and grabbed Mulder's discarded clothes, placing them on the sink. His reflection smiled brilliantly at Mulder's. Flushing, Mulder saw Krycek's eyes take in his bobbing cock and flicker back to his face with a nod of approval.

Mulder's thrumming erection had not faded a bit.

Krycek's mirror image straightened up to whisper in Mulder's reflected ear.

"It would have been more efficient to ambush you at the door... But I didn't want to miss an opportunity. You're pretty hung, for a Fed." He gathered a taut inch of skin at Mulder's left buttock and ground it between his thumb and forefinger. Mulder's jaw tightened, but he remained impassive.

"Now why don't you cover up? He's waiting for you."

Climbing into his clothes mechanically, Mulder tried to make sense of his situation. Krycek had him, and was taking him somewhere else. Probably to Hinser. Did Krycek remember their hotel stay? Mulder had seen appraisal in Krycek's eyes-- but he'd seen Mulder bare-assed and hard only the day before...

Krycek had given him room enough to struggle into his pants, but the dizzying scent of cloves was making Mulder's eyes sting. Mulder wondered if the heady aroma had something to do with Hinser. With Krycek's memory lapses.

He caught Krycek stealing a covert glance at his watch, the uneasy look that skipped over his sharp features.

"Let's go, Mulder." There was an undercurrent of fear in Krycek's terse statement.

Mulder was relieved to find he could zip his pants up; his hard-on was finally flagging.

*

He allowed Krycek to cuff his hands behind his back, and was led roughly down the stairs to a sleek black Lexus at the side of his building. Krycek stuffed him in the back seat without ceremony and get behind the wheel.

"Where are you taking me?" It sounded oddly conversational, and Mulder could see Krycek's long-lashed eyes settle on him in the rearview mirror.

"Hinser wants to see you."

"The man who kidnapped me in Memphis?"

"He's not a man." Krycek flinched; apparently he'd said more than he'd meant to. His eyes remained trained on the road for the remainder of the trip, and he did not speak again. *

Krycek pulled the Lexus into a mid-priced motel parking lot and parked, leaving the engine running. Eventually, Mulder saw a figure at the window, and the back door opened noiselessly. Gooseflesh marbled Mulder's arms and chest; Krycek's cryptic statement echoed in his head. Hinser closed the door and settled smoothly on the seat beside Mulder, looking reputably human, and Krycek pulled back out into traffic.

It wasn't yet November, but the man beside Mulder smelled like the very breath of winter: dry and knife keen, faintly metallic. Although Mulder had expected to see him, he was unprepared for Hinser's effect on him-- Mulder's teeth were nearly chattering. Wedging himself against the locked door of the car, Mulder shrank away from Hinser, and tried to swallow his sudden unreasoning panic. In the rearview mirror, Krycek met his eyes again, and Mulder thought he read something-- sympathy?-- there.

The white haired gentleman to his right smiled, thin lips drawing back over even, ivory teeth. "We have much to discuss, Agent Mulder. Alex speaks highly of you. In fact, the word he used was "sublime". Does that surprise you?"

Mulder blinked uncomprehendingly. Hinser's voice was precise, unaccented. The flattened speech of a man who was professionally anonymous. A man who knew secrets. He placed a cool palm on Mulder's knee, and Mulder felt the damp fist of fear close around his heart and squeeze it.

"Answer me, Mulder."

Eyes rolling, Mulder could barely nod.

"I can't hear you." Hinser's yellowish complexion suggested possible liver trouble, but he had the broad, chapped hands of a laborer. He dug the blunt fingers of one of those hands into the muscles of Mulder's thigh.

Mulder thrashed briefly, but managed to calm himself slightly. Better not to provoke him. Mulder trained his eyes on the back of Krycek's head, and noticed that he was double crowned: the thick whorl of hair starting from a point high behind his left ear and again near almost the top of his skull. Very interesting.

"His compliment does you justice, I think." The smile had not slipped. "Elevated or lofty in thought or language. Impressing the mind with a sense of grandeur or power: inspiring awe, veneration. Supreme or outstanding. Of lofty bearing. Haughty." Here, Hinser winked at him, winked and Mulder thought he just might swallow his own tongue. Hinser continued. "Raised high; high up. To make higher, nobler or purer. In the chemical sense, to convert by heat into vapor, without apparent liquefaction." Pausing, Hinser licked his lips delicately. "Well. Synonyms for sublime include exalted... noble... *magnificent*... and superb." He patted Mulder's thigh lightly. "No faint praise, Mr. Mulder. O, I'd say he's *very* taken with you. And I must admit, he has taste." Leering genteelly, Hinser readjusted his suit collar. "However, there is a small matter of business before pleasure."

Mulder felt a chill spasm in the small of his back.

"But perhaps I will indulge myself... After all, we have time now. Tell me, was Alex to your taste?"

Shifting, Mulder stared into the thick pelt at the back of Krycek's head, willing him to ram into a tree, pull into the on-coming lane, anything to distract him from the man who was leaning now to whisper in his ear.

"Describe it. Detail your encounter with my boy in that trunk."

Almost frantic, Mulder deliberately bit his tongue. Even if he'd had the language to relate his experiences, he wouldn't have told Hinser. The metallic tang of blood in his mouth grounded him. He remembered himself, remembered the taste from the day before, from the hotel room where Krycek had hit him with the butt of his own gun.

Closing his eyes, Mulder set his features into a bland mask of disinterest. He swallowed heavily, and turned his gaze on his captor.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

A sound Mulder interpreted as a sigh escaped the other man's nearly lipless mouth.

Mulder's eyes widened as he saw the man produce a tiny vial and a short hypodermic needle from his vest pocket. Without preamble, he filled the syringe and jabbed the metal point into Mulder's thigh. Almost immediately an alarming numbness seeped into his limbs.

"Don't annoy me, Mulder," Hinser reported with some asperity. "I am not a patient man."

Consciousness slipped from Mulder's grasp like a soapy plate and shattered in as many pieces.

END

/sub'li-ma'tion/ 1. [Psycol.] to divert the energy of (a sexual or other biological impulse) from its immediate goal to one of higher social, moral, or aesthetic nature or use; see "Mercy". 2. to make nobler or purer; see "Fugue" 3. [Chem.] the crystals, deposit or material obtained when a substance is sublimated.