by Pares

Something was poking him in the small of his back.

He dipped a shoulder, and turned his head. Walter Skinner stood behind him, holding a brown grocery bag and a bottle. A bottle of-- Turning around to face his molester, Alex dropped his eyes and read the label.

Captain Morgan Spiced Rum.

Skinner juggled it in his hand until he was gripping the long neck-- it had become a 120 proof glass club.

Krycek wondered if he'd actually use it.

"Ordinarily, I'd pull my gun on a guy in a leather jacket standing in my living room uninvited." Skinner's voice was pitched so low as to be nearly sub-vocal-- it was a vibration Krycek wanted to feel with the skin of his palms.

"It's such a cliché," he agreed. "I've never been threatened with bludgeoning before. Or will you break it first, and cut me?"

Skinner seemed comically broad-- or perhaps the paper bag was so small that it skewed Krycek's perspective.

"I want a drink," Skinner reported brusquely. And spun on his heel. "No ice."

Whether it was a statement of fact or a pre-emptive denial of a question Krycek hadn't planned to ask was unclear.

There was a crystalline tang of lemon zest in the air-- it was so bright it made his eyes tear.

He followed Skinner in to the kitchen and saw him quartering lemons with a slender paring knife.

The older man had removed his glasses, but his eyes had not softened; neither did he have that vulnerable look that people who ordinarily wear glasses often have when divested of them.

"I don't like lemon--" he started, then shut himself up.

Skinner gave him a look that clearly communicated "I don't care" and dropped a quarter in a short glass and filled it with rum. Right to the lip, so that the surface tension trembled with every breath.

Krycek was pissed at himself. Every word he hadn't planned on before hand was dangerous. In fact, every moment he was in Skinner's apartment longer than necessary was a sharp rock building him an avalanche.

He felt ready to slip, himself.

One glass. One quarter of lemon. One man wide as the doorway with shoulders built to crush people. People like him.

Skinner pointed to the glass.

Krycek considered leaving.

Instead, he took two steps forward and ducked his head, slurping the rum from the glass on the counter, slopping it on the Formica, nose flaring with the sheer alcohol, sharpened by the acrid burn of fresh lemon.

He hadn't yet swallowed and Walter's hand was in his hair, jerking him upright.

He held his breath, trying not to panic, to berate himself for his sheer idiot vulnerability-- and Skinner kissed him, drank the numbing burn of liquor away...

Krycek had never been kissed like this-- it was like the murderous hug of a trash compactor, inexorable, bruising, his ribs were creaking... but he opened his mouth and knotted his fingers in Skinner's shirt.

Panting, he struggled briefly, and Skinner released his mouth.

He uncurled one arm and reached for the glass, dipping one thick finger in the liquid and then painting Krycek's lips with the broad pad of his finger.

Cool burn of alcohol on his lips, and then the fury of Skinner's mouth again. Demanding his compliance-- and Krycek, not sure that he'd ever wanted to refuse, gave himself up.

"Whatever you want," he heard himself mewling, over and over when he had breath to speak at all.

There was still enough blood in his brain to give it fuel enough to sneer at his pathetic display-- but his dick, and the rest of his body, ignored it.

Walter paused, nearly smiled.

"If sex always makes you this stupid, I hope, for your sake, that you don't get laid a whole hell of a lot."

Krycek was too shocked to answer-- not only was an assistant director of the FBI *not* arresting him, maiming him, detaining him, pistol whipping him, etc., etc., but.. but expressing interest in his welfare.

"Whatever you came here to tell me, Krycek," the older man murmured, as his wide hands swept over Krycek's body, roaming... "I hope it's still there when I'm done with you." Fingers at his belt buckle. "Because I don't particularly want to know it right now, and," knowing hands tugging his jeans open, down, "I don't think you could tell me even if you wanted to."

Shoving the half empty glass of liquor aside, Skinner's hands molded to the bared curve of Krycek's ass, and hoisted him, setting him on the cold, slick counter. It was slippery with spilled rum, and his skin was sticking to the smooth surface wherever the counter was still dry.

Krycek's promising erection wilted when Skinner fished the lemon out of the rum and emptied the dregs of the glass on his cock.

Krycek gave an inarticulate shout, but shut up again, biting his lip when Skinner bent over and took him in.

That a man with a mouth so stern... o god... so stern... jaw clenching... frowning... it was like fucking cross training for Olympic cocksucking trials...

gold medal gold medal go go go suck me suck me suck me god damn it

Jesus!

Krycek was bucking, all over the place, one ass cheek squeaking, burning from the friction, one chilled and slippy from the rum, his cock enfolded in utter suckling bliss.

He couldn't hold out. He hadn't been prepared for this. He let go.

Skinner's fingers tightened on his hips and he-- he-- o god- he's deepthroating me-- god god GOD! *fffffffuck!*

And he spilled, and Skinner took it all.

Eyes wide and sightless, Krycek hardly noticed when Skinner dragged him off the counter, careful to hold him up and tug his clammy jeans, reeking of rum, up around his narrow hips.

"I'd ask you to return the favor, but you look like you could use a couple hours of sleep."

Nodding vaguely, Krycek tried to focus on the light and shadow of Skinner's face.

"Why--"

Heavy fingers mashed his lips shut.

"I haven't had a drink in over two years."

Skinner poured the bottle out in the sink with his free hand. He kissed Krycek again, searchingly, lingering tongue scouting the rum glazed recesses of Krycek's mouth. "I won't need one tonight." He gave Krycek a last peck, on the cheek, something like gratitude. "Get some sleep."

END

Note: Skinner is not an alcoholic in this universe; he has merely been abstaining. It keeps him sharper. And we all know what happens when he's not alert, when he's dulled by liqour. Escorts meet makers, and wives meet telephone poles the hard way.