swan addendum
by Pares

But Alex didn't leave. He stood so still he could hear his own heartbeat... The zipper of Mulder's trousers and the jingle of his belt, even through the door, were loud in comparison. Alex glanced at the apartment door; yeah, he could see his way out-- he certainly didn't need any help there. Because he wasn't leaving.

He felt like he was going to fly apart. Shakily, he regulated his breathing. He felt almost light headed-- he'd been sure Mulder was going to blow him, or at least give him a hand job. Krycek felt cheated, and it rankled.

And now Mulder was... what *was* Mulder, doing, anyway? No hiss of the shower-- he heard the *thwap* of cloth huff against the wall. The creak of bedsprings... a drawer being opened and shut.

He wasn't.

He *was*.

Krycek skimmed out of his remaining clothes in 1.8 seconds and made for the bedroom. But the knob wouldn't turn. The fucking tease had locked the door.

For a moment, Krycek considered kicking it in... but that seemed a trifle extreme.

Instead, he braced his hands against the door and tried to stare *through* it.

Mulder was in there. Naked. Hard. Dripping. Bringing himself off.

Just an inch or two of cheap woodgrain finish away.

He had almost no trouble hearing the slick slip of Mulder's hand over his cock. The wet sounds of manipulated flesh, and Mulder's near-silence-- Krycek strained to hear a whimper or a low moan, but there was only the odd caught breath and the moist jacking. Which was more than enough to make him want in. Badly.

He scratched a fingernail against the shellacked cherry veneer. It took every ounce of his reserve not to rub his weeping dick against the cool surface of the door and yowl like the cat in heat he felt like.

"Mulder..."

Ha small pause, a gulped breath, then more stroking sounds, faster now. Mulder was holding his breath.

"Mulder. Let me in."

The man behind the door was panting now. Any minute...

"Let me in," Krycek repeated. His voice sounded like it had broken all its bones... and then ground them into powder as fine and murderously sweet as Aspartame.

There was a stuttering exhalation; the bed stopped squeaking.

Weakly, Krycek rested his forehead against the door, squeezing his eyes shut, and pictured Mulder finishing: his head thrown back, grimacing, lips drawn back with the bucking bliss of orgasm, with a look so like pain that it was wonderful to see.

Krycek promised himself he *would* see it.

He forced the door.

Mulder was sprawled on the bed, still wearing his shirt, still gripping his cock. He gave Krycek a smile that was smugly radiant.

"Couldn't get a cab?"

"What the fuck is *wrong* with you?"

"I'm fine, thanks, " Mulder answered, and wiped his hand on a corner of the ivory topsheet.

"I'm right outside and *more* than willing, and you jerk *yourself* off!?"

"That would seem to be the case." He stood up and padded into the bathroom.

Krycek just stood there.

Never. In his *life*. Never had he been refused once he'd kissed them. Could this be the killing blow to his ego every one of his angry ex-lovers had promised him?

Of course not.

He calmly climbed into the bed-- sniffed at the sticky sheetcorner-- borrowed a palmful of lubricant and began what was referred to in more genteel settings as "intimate personal massage".

Mulder came out of the bathroom and walked on out the bedroom door.

Incensed, Krycek began to pump his snubbed erection with quick, efficient strokes. Mulder turned the t.v. on. Rocking his hips slightly, Krycek let out a low, shimmering moan of pure need. The t.v. got a little louder. Was that the farm report?

Determined, Krycek gave a breathy sigh, followed by a gasping sob... His wrist was snapping now and he pried one eye open, half expecting to see a cartoon blur. But it was merely his familiar, well formed hand stripping his well formed cock.

"C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, helpless now, and frustrated. He'd come, clean up, get dressed and get the fuck out of here. Go home and nurse his wounded ego and his hangover in the morning.

He shut his eyes again and concentrated.

"You know what they say," Mulder murmured in his ear, startling him badly and interrupting his rhythm. "Hairy palms."

Soft lips grazed the whorls as he spoke, and his humid breath curled into Krycek's ear and turned his brain into syrup.

Krycek had no idea how Mulder had knelt beside him without his noticing-- admittedly, he'd been distracted.

"Come for me, Alex." Mulder's eyes were feverbright, and his smile was an open invitation.

"Kiss me," whispered Krycek, wincing at the need in his voice.

Mulder complied, and it was molten, consuming, like hot liquor shot through his veins.

A welter of lust shattered like a pane of glass dropped on him from the ceiling and spun like dust devils over his skin. This generalized lust then coalesced into one dizzy Spirographing orgasm and Krycek curled his fingers, squeezed, and spurt.

"Very nice," Mulder complimented. He pecked Krycek's cheek and got to his feet. "See you in the morning."

He went back to his couch, leaving the door open. Krycek covered his face with a pillow that reeked pleasantly of an alcoholic Mulder and groaned into it.

Still berating himself, even with his hunger appeased, Alex replaced the pillow under his head, punched it a few times, sighed, lay his head down and went to sleep.

END