X-Files - Midnight Snack

[fajrdrako_fic]

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Title: Midnight Snack
Author: fajrdrako
Fandom: X-Files
Characters: Skinner/Krycek
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims.
Notes: With thanks to josanpq.


Midnight Snack

The Chateau Laurier was a hotel in central Ottawa which looked like a French palace. Instead of towering on the banks of the Loire, it overlooked the Ottawa River at the Rideau Canal. Instead of being surrounded by lush French countryside, it was in the middle of a high-tech government city, full of loud voices in two official languages.

Skinner walked back to the Chateau from the soiree at the National Arts Centre feeling pleased with himself. It had been a good day for him: the RCMP had agreed to all his suggestions - no one was so crass as to call them demands - and then he'd had some memorable sex with Krycek afterwards.

The cold buffet, at which he'd then arrived more than an hour late, had turned out to be delicious. The conversation that followed had been interesting, eclectic and much more stimulating that anything he'd encountered recently in similar circles in Washington. Maybe the Smoking Man had subtly put an end to the use of intelligent conversation in public situations.

There had been live jazz and fresh blackberries, and through it all Skinner knew he would be going back to his room at the Chateau to find Alex Krycek waiting in his bed. There, they would find new and different ways to drive each other mad. Then they would sleep a little, and probably do it again, until Krycek went wherever it was he would be going, and Skinner went back to the Conference Centre for tomorrow's round of talks. These talks, more hush-hush than the first set, directly concerned the X-Files and alien activity in Canada.

Skinner didn't know what to expect from the meetings. He did know what to expect from Krycek, the maybe-Russian maybe-American wild card in his life. His lover, who brought him the unexpected, in bed and out of it. Their relationship was in constant flux, with only one thing certain: that their bodies craved each other.

The Chateau Laurier faced the National Arts Centre across Confederation Square, where a War Memorial proclaimed Canada's military glories - what was that again? thought Skinner, amused. The Square was not square but triangular, and seemed to have nothing to do with long-ago Confederation.

The wind from the river was fresh, and the view of the Quebec hills was like a glimpse of another century, of a time of peace when man was not at war with the environment, or each other, or with aliens. Now there were hidden wars everywhere you turned. Perhaps it was a matter of awareness: the wars were always there, but only a few knew it. One you knew what was happening, there was no regaining of lost innocence. Skinner knew too much.

He knew too much, also, about his personal war of the flesh with Krycek. Physical awareness of it filled his life. It was insane, but he'd never felt better, stronger, or more fulfilled. He wasn't feeding FBI secrets to Krycek - what a laugh! Krycek could feed them to him. Krycek knew more about the aliens, the Consortium, and the Russian agenda than he was willing to say, and Skinner took that as a given.

That had nothing to do with what lay between them in bed. They didn't make conversation there. That was a place of sweat and tangled sheets, darness and heavy breathing. This personal war between them had nothing to do with the Smoking Man or anything political. It was something more primal than a world of clones or human experiments, something as old as human sexuality, something that even language was too new for. They communicated like homo australopithecus, by smell and touch and grunt. They had no schedule for meeting, no planned secret rendezvous: they simply met when they could, and fucked when they could. Aalmost daily now.

Skinner knew the cravings which drove him. Was it the same for Krycek? If so, Krycek wouldn't admit it, and Skinner wouldn't ask. For whatever reason, sometimes during the day, sometimes at night, Krycek would simply be there, in his condo, sometimes even in his office, sometimes turning up in other locations where Skinner least expected him. When that happened, they usually found a way to be alone, never pushing the envelope of danger too far, and never letting it cool into something safe. This relationship was not built on safety. It had a margin of danger that kept it alive.

Skinner took the elevator to his floor with a woman and two small children, a Japanese businessman, and a waiter. He went to his room, feeling his pulse quicken at the thought that Krycek was waiting for him inside. He'd followed him to Canada, broken into the hotel room before Skinner had even arrived. What would his mood be now? Antagonistic, aggressive, elusive? Submissive, flirtatious, seductive? He'd seen Krycek in these moods, and more. He didn't know which was the most natural to Krycek, or whether there was any difference at all. He accepted Krycek in any guise. That was the game they played: on Krycek's terms or not at all.

Krycek would probably phrase it another way.

Skinner pushed the door open. There were two lamps lit on either side of the bed. The bathroom door was open, the bathroom dark. There was no one there No Krycek, moodily brooding by the window. No Krycek, sleeping exhausted in the bed. No Krycek, working industriously at the table, or lounging in front of the television. No Krycek at all.

Shit.

He removed his clothes, hanging them neatly in the closet, as he had done since his days in the army. There was no sign Krycek had been here at all. Were it not for his vivid memories of Krycek in that bed, a storm of hands and teeth and body fluids, he'd wonder if Krycek had ever been in this room.

Expert at hiding his tracks, was Alex.

Skinner stepped naked into the shower, and made the water colder. His cock felt heavy and needy and oversensitive, from all they'd done with it earlier. An impossible situation. He washed thoroughly, put on his bathrobe, and watched the evening news. To judge the local colour, he watched “The National” on the CBC. His mind wandered. Where the hell was Krycek?

Back in Vladivostock, maybe, or Bagota, or Kuwait. Who knew where the hell Krycek ever was. Maybe he was sampling the wares at some local brothel - if he could still get it up after this afternoon. Skinner hoped, rather bitterly, that he couldn't. The last thing he needed was to feel possessive about Krycek. Might as well try to possess a shark in the sea.

On the other hand, there was possession and possession. What they had bound them as firmly as shackles, and would do so until the day their obsession with each other broke. Tomorrow? Next week, month, year? Or would it last the rest of their lives?

People generally said that the more extreme passions never lasted; that they burned out, destroying those who indulged them. So far, between Skinner and Krycek, the same bright fire burned each time they met.

Where was he? Not here, and not coming tonight, that was clear.

Skinner snapped off the television, arranged his walk-up call, and slipped into bed. He let the bathrobe fall onto the floor. He felt bad-tempered and dissatisfied. With Krycek, for not coming back tonight. With himself, for wanting Krycek again - this much, this soon. How many hours was it since he'd last tasted Krycek's skin? Five, six, no more.

He wrapped himself in the memory, and fell asleep.

He awoke unable to breathe because Krycek was on his chest, his knees spread to either side of Skinner’s body on the bed. Something was wrapped around his throat: it was the soft belt from his bathrobe, pulled tight, cutting off his oxygen, and the sweet taste on his mouth was the touch of Krycek's mouth. Because it was Krycek, he didn't fight him, not this time. Would Krycek let him lose consciousness? Would Krycek, in fact, kill him? He couldn't be sure he wouldn't. He could never be sure.

He raised his hands, which were like fifty pound weights hanging from his arms, and put them to either side of Krycek's head. Gently, he hoped. Hair. Ears. He could hardly tell what he was touching. All he knew was the sweetness of the kiss and the roaring in his ears and the heavy pressure of Krycek's weight on his body, making him soar.

Then Krycek threw the belt aside and the kiss became a real kiss, sensuous and slow. Skinner felt the air return to his aching lungs, tainted and perfumed with the smell of Krycek. With his own smell, mixed the tincture of beer and drugs and nicotine. He'd been to some bar. Work? Play? For Krycek, what was the difference?

Krycek ground his erection against Skinner, whispering hoarsely in joual, coarse words that Skinner couldn't understand and would not ask his Francophone colleagues to translate tomorrow. There might, perhaps, be some Russian mixed with it. He held Krycek's wrists and licked his ear, and Krycek squirmed, twisting a hand free, reaching behind his back for Skinner's cock and pushing himself against it, oiled already, prepared, anticipating. Skinner had enough leverage to push himself all the way in, enjoying the sound Krycek made in his throat, which involved no language at all.

Krycek must have been thinking about him, sitting in that bar, wherever it was; talking with his contacts, whoever they were. His body must have hummed with memory as Skinner's did. Skinner felt the muscles in Krycek's strong thighs move as he lifted his hips and drove himself down. Skinner used his hands to spread Krycek’s legs further apart, stretching his body, spreading his agile hips, and Krycek's breath caught like a moan.

Skinner could hardly see without his glasses, ever were there light. But he could tell, or thought he could tell, that Krycek's

eyes were closed, his mouth compressed to a circle, his breath erratic and quick. He put his lips and teeth around Krycek's

earlobe and sucked on it.

This was where Krycek belonged, and he knew it, in Skinner's arms. He'd come back, hadn't he? Compelled by his body,

just as Skinner was. Compelled by his mind. Compelled by the need that drove both.

"Touch me," said Krycek, harshly. They were words, but not ones Skinner understood: "touche-moi," spoken in rough

street-French, nothing like the clear, articulate French of the school-teachers who once had drilled Skinner in verbs.

The meaning would have been clear if it had been Swahili.Skinner held off, tormenting him, Krycek hissed in English, "Do it!" Skinner used the strength of his back and legs to lift his hips, driving himself deeper inside Krycek, lifting Krycek higher off the bed. Then and only then did he take Krycek's cock in his hand, squeezing, relishing the heat of it, rubbing the wet head while his fingers encircled the foreskin. Krycek was uncut, which never ceased to fascinate him.

Then he was caught up in a dizzying spiral of orgasm that dropped them at last, gasping, drowsing, in a tangle on the bed. "Tabernac'," whispered Krycek, with something like a laugh, as he kissed Skinner's shoulder weakly. Skinner put his arms around him, and dozed.

A while later, Krycek shook him awake. "Up, Skinner. Up."

Skinner's eyes snapped open. "Why?"

"We have to wash."

Skinner wanted to argue, but Krycek was right. He let Krycek pull him up, lead him unresisting to the bathroom. He wondered what he looked like, but in the brightness of the room, as Krycek snapped on the light, he could see nothing but light and blurring and decided it was probably just as well he couldn't see himself in the mirror. He let Krycek run the water and followed him into the shower, hotter than he liked it, but hell, he could take anything Krycek threw at him. Anything. He relaxed in Krycek's arms.

"Fuck, you're heavy when you're asleep," grumbled Krycek.

Pushing upright, Skinner leaned against the wall. "So wash me."

He didn't expect it to happen, but Krycek did, soaping him, rubbing the body hair into white suds, moving around him to reach him all over, even his head and feet. He touched with his body as well as his hands, and it was warmly erotic, though Skinner's exhausted flesh could not respond. His mind didn't seem to know the difference.

Krycek turned the shower to cool, then cold. The steam in the room billowed, then disappeared. Krycek turned off the water. Skinner accepted a towel thrust into his hands, expressionlessly proud of himself: if Krycek wanted to make him react perceptibly to cold water or hot, he'd have to try harder than that.

He couldn't see much, but he could feel. He wrapped the towel around Krycek's body, and rubbed it sensuously. He let the towel fall and massaged Krycek's shoulders. Krycek stood, unmoving, and then moved into Skinner's arms for a full embrace, a full Hollywood kiss, sharing damp warmth and a communication almost like love.

Not possible, not with Krycek, but a pleasant illusion.

Krycek moved away and went into the other room. He spoke for a moment. Skinner at first thought he was speaking to him, then realized he was on the telephone. His voice sounded strange. He wandered back into the bedroom as Krycek was putting down the receiver. "What was that?"

"I felt hungry."

"You ordered room service?"

Krycek shrugged. "Pretended to be you."

"Well, you'd better hide in the closet when the bellhop turns up." Skinner put his glasses on, and found his lips loosening in appreciation of the sight that greeted them: Krycek in the lamplight. "Otherwise I might have to share you."

Krycek lay on the bed, arms over his head. There was nothing self-conscious about him: his looks and his sensuality as muchas part of him as the brain that drove him. He didn't answer. Skinner sat beside him, touching his chest with gentle fingers. Krycek looked up, without protest. What was he thinking?

A tap on the door. Krycek bared his teeth. "Better put your bathrobe on," he said. "You're a sight too wild for Canadians."

Skinner put on his bathrobe and went to the door. Krycek rolled onto the floor beyond the bed. Skinner thanked and tipped the red-vested gentleman, and by the time he was putting the tray of food onto the table, Krycek was back on the bed, crossed-legged, grinning like a boy, inhaling.

"What is it?" asked Skinner, peering into the bag. The smell of hot potatoes filled the room. He took out a large aluminum container of ... something. Gingerly, he lifted the lid. The aroma intensified. Hot, steamy, satisfying, rich.

"Lie down," commanded Krycek. He got up, taking the container from Skinner's hand. "On your back. Now!"

Skinner waited just long enough to make him doubt that he'd do it, then he lay down, the bathrobe falling open over his legs. Krycek leaned over him. "Close your eyes."

He closed his eyes behind his glasses.

"Open your mouth."

In total trust of the man he trusted least in the world, he opened his mouth.

Krycek put something into it.

Skinner tasted, chewed, swallowed. Potatoes, something meaty, cheese. "What is it?" he asked.

"Want another?"

"Yeah."

Again: hot, almost burning his tongue and throat, the taste richly delicious. Krycek's fingers stayed in his mouth and he sucked the wetness off them - gravy, he thought, andsomething else. Krycek pulled away his fingers, and Skinner chewed slowing, savouring the morsel He swallowed. Above him, he could hear Krycek munching.

He opened his eyes. Krycek offered him a fork. "Have some more."

He propped himself on an elbow and dug in. "What is it?"

"Food of the gods."

"Called?"

"Poutine."

Skinner took a bigger forkfull of the gooey mess. "Does it always look like this?"

"How should I know?"

"Long as it tastes like this."

They ate in contented silence, until Skinner said, "Is that all there is?"

"Can't believe we ate the whole thing."

Skinner lay back. He thought he had something to say, but it must have been a dream.

He awoke to daylight, with Krycek in his arms. He could not recall having slept and wakened with Krycek before, not for so long. Krycek never stayed with him through a whole night. Except... once, perhaps. He struggled with the memory till he found it, held it in his mind. Every memory of Krycek was so brief, none of it must be allowed to be lost.

He thought about it, touching Krycek's hair so lightly that it wouldn't wake him. Silky strands, freshly washed - of course, in their shower a little while ago. Skinner wanted to kiss the top of his head, but was afraid the motion would wake him, or that the unabashed tenderness would frighten him away. Physically, Krycek was shameless and without limits. Emotionally, he was a runaway train.

Light came dimly through the drawn curtains, outlining the shape of Krycek's hip and leg. Skinner felt, fleetingly, like an artist appreciating something rare.

Later, the savage tension that bound them would erupt. Not now. For once, Krycek was at rest.

The sound of the telephone broke the peace. Krycek pulled abruptly away, and Skinner made no attempt to hold him. Nor did he say what he might have said to anyone else, "Good morning," for example. Instead he met Krycek's defiant stare and then watched as Krycek moved off the bed and walked briskly into the bathroom.

The telephone rang again. He picked it up. "Skinner."

"This is your wake-up call, Mr. Skinner. Good morning."

"Good morning," he said. "Thank you."

- end -