Title: Tango

Author: JiM

Category: Slash

Pairing: Mulder/Krycek

Rating: R

Previous story: Lobster Quadrille

Disclaimer: Not my characters; no profit made or infringement intended.

Feedback: Yes, please. My email address is to the left, or again at the bottom of the story. All flames will be giggled over and added to our "Spam-Wrath of God" list.

Archive: Ask first.

Summary: Aftermaths, and new dances

Author's notes: To Kass for argumentative and excellent beta.

JiM :: Tango

Dawn was a sullen gray slab of light outside his window when Mulder woke. He lay on his side and stared at it for a time, thoughts flickering and burning out quickly, leaving no traces behind them. He listened to Krycek's sleeping breath behind him, taking a stupid animal comfort in its simple rhythm. He had no memory of dreaming, yet the very air around him hummed with fading echoes, whether of nightmares or memories, he couldn't say.

Six people had been reduced to blackened husks before his eyes because he couldn't, wouldn't believe what Krycek had told him. Because he had refused to see, even when his gut told him that Krycek was deadly serious this time. Six people. He held his hands up, looking for the ashy streaks that would mark his failure for all to see.

"Mulder. They'd all be dead if you hadn't been there. I couldn't have saved them by myself. I wouldn't have." Krycek's soft voice slipped over his shoulder like morning mist.

Mulder turned onto his back and looked over at Krycek. "Six people," he whispered.

"I know."

There was a bruise staining the pale skin over Krycek's right eye. Mulder let his fingertip trace the edges of the bruise slowly, feeling the heat of the wound. He pressed slightly, until Krycek winced, then he released the pressure and watched the whitened area flush with life again. "What are we going to do?" he asked.

"Stop them."

But Krycek sounded no more certain that he did. Mulder remembered seeing him flowing out of the night, coming up behind the faceless men with their burning rods. His stiletto had glimmered in the starlight and he had taken down the rearmost alien in perfect silence, his movements graceful and sure. Crouching among the bushes at the edge of the rail yards, under the harsh white shadow of the alien craft, Mulder had known what Krycek needed. The first woman had shrieked alight as Mulder began firing at the attackers, distracting them from the menace behind them.

The screams grew worse, the night brighter and more terrible as other people were set afire. Krycek killed yet another alien as the abductees howled and squealed, scattering like petty change thrown into the night. Greasy smoke made Mulder's eyes burn and run with tears. He met Krycek's gaze across the clearing, saw the glitter in his eyes, down his cheeks. Then Mulder began firing at the skirling, lurching flame-driven things that were ripping bright holes in the night. One by one, they fell, silent but for the crackling that coccooned them. Krycek killed another alien. Mulder killed another howling pillar of fire.

Staring across his pillow, Mulder met Krycek's gaze again. His eyes were smoky and grave and Mulder knew then that he didn't want to remember either. But he did. They did.

Krycek was reaching for him even as Mulder lunged across the space between them. Krycek's previous kisses had been gentle, almost delicate. Now, the two men grappled and gnawed at one another. Their hands caressed and left bruises. Despair rose and was transformed into desperate appetite, a wild demand for the tastes and scents of someone living, the craving for the touch of someone, anyone, who would touch back.

Mulder tasted the salt and sweat of Krycek's shoulder and wondered if he were drinking the man's blood. Krycek's hand scored welts down his back and he welcomed the stinging. He was hard and aching and he ground his cock into Krycek's groin, grinning wildly at the ragged moan that tore from both their throats. Krycek's hand caught him by the back of the neck and dragged his head down and he was gasping and gulping air from Krycek's mouth. The younger man's tongue thrust up into his mouth again and again, matching the savage rocking of his hips until the world shattered in frenzied pulsings.

They lay where their madness had dropped them, tangled and slumped together. Mulder's head was pillowed on Krycek's sweat-slick chest, his face turned away from the outrageous reality of Alex Krycek in his bed, covered with his sweat and semen. He drew a deep breath, ready to curse, rage, deny, something, when Krycek gently touched his hair. He was pierced to the core when the fingers of Krycek's remaining hand began to stroke through his soaked hair, soothing him with their mute concern. The breath groaned out of him, stealing his raging despair.

"Oh hell, Alex, now what?" he whispered to the pale skin beneath his cheek.

But he knew. And Krycek did, too. So they lay, silent and dazed, staring in their separate directions, waiting for daylight.

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Background graphic courtesy of
Boogie Jack.