From: trustnoone <trustnoone@mediaone.net>
Date: Thu, 27 Jan 2000 13:52:03 -0800
Subject: xfc: NEW: NickyFish by Mik (1 of 1) M/K NC-17 SLASH
Source: xfc

From: trustnoone <trustnoone@mediaone.net>

TITLE: NickyFish's Birthday Song
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: SRA
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e.
m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP
NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.
SUMMARY: Mik strays ... Krycek plays.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...
ARCHIVE: Anywhere
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU,
very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Krycek Mulder NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Nicholas Lea, and all other
X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen
Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No
copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being
made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine,
but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's Notes: Belated birthday wishes to the best damned
carnival goldfish in history, with a keen appreciation for
bunny head. Only you could make me put those two in the
same bed. And kiss the poppet for me.

If you like this, there's more at
http://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.


NICKYFISH'S BIRTHDAY SONG
by Mik


A IS FOR ALEX

I hate waiting.

I hate not knowing.

I hate uncertainty.

I'm lying.

There is a wonderful thrill to the chase, the belief that
truth will be revealed just around the next corner, the
evidence found on the other side of this hill, that the
answers come with the next ring of the phone, the next
footstep in the hall.

Footsteps.

I turn instinctively, remember that I'm not supposed to
be noticed. Lean back against the cold, damp wall. It
stinks down here between these two buildings, but all I
can smell is my own excitement. My own hopes. My
own sweat.

"You follow instructions well."

Sweat goes cold. Chills against me. I know that voice.
The face ... I can't see the face. It hides under a
ludicrous wig of matted hair. But I know who it is.
Even if I didn't know the voice, I'd know the unnatural
way that arm hangs.

I don't know whether to move or to be still, to believe
he brings me what I've waited for, like a scruffy, skinny
Santa Claus, or believe that I've been set up and prepare
for another Judas kiss. I stand there, tensed, waiting.

He smiles at me. It's all I can see in the shadows. His
lips twist up in a grotesque imitation of pleasure. For a
moment, I am forced back to a night when I actually
felt those lips against my flesh. Involuntarily, I shudder.
His smile widens. Without a word, I hear him say, "You
remember."

I do. Angrily, I do. I also remember one or two tortured
nights of unbidden fantasy. I risk everything and look away.

"Fox." His voice surprises me. It is a caress, with a slap
at the end. He made me turn hungrily toward that hated
name, because it was dipped in honey.

I scowl, trying to school away the unexpected need he
incited. A need for something more tangible than
shadows and insinuations.

He moves.

I tense.

He comes before me. "Fox," he says again, softly.
I have to strain to hear it.

"What do you want?" I ask him, trying to infuse my
voice with impatience instead of that unwelcome,
inappropriate and ... forgive the expression ... alien
longing.

"To give you what you want." His voice is softer, more
ephemeral than cigarette smoke. His breath is a tiny
finger of warmth, stroking my cheek.

For a moment, I am distracted. "You have it?" I ask,
hopefully.

"Oh, yes." A sigh. He shifts. He moves until he is
against me, his body trapping me against brick.

I raise my hands to push him away, and he catches my
wrists, slams them back, above my head, against the
slimy brick. His body rubs against me, obscenely.
"I have everything you want," he promises. His lips
meet mine.

I try to twist away, resisting an invasion more horrific
than the alien one I am desperately trying to prevent.
His mouth surprises me. Rather than being dank and
foul, his breath, his lips, his tongue are sweet, fresh, as
if he ... prepared for me. I have this ludicrous image of
a dirty urchin brushing his teeth in a gas station
bathroom before making his assignation. I almost giggle.

The moment I relax, he claims me. His body, hot and
hard against mine, his mouth plundering mine, his soul ...
oh, God, his soul ...

He pulls away from me. "I have everything you want,"
he repeats and shuffles into the darkness.

I stand there, gob-stopped, trying to remember how to
breathe. I want to cry. I want to ... come.


F IS FOR FOX

It took him a moment to recover, I see. I feel almost
triumphant that I left him robbed of his faculties. He
steps out of the shadows at last. His gait is almost a
drunken stumble. I watch him drag a hand over his lips.
With a nervous, perhaps guilty glance around, he
shudders down into his coat and turns away. At the
corner, he sweeps a look over his shoulder and turns
downtown. Heading for the safety of his apartment.

It's a false sense of safety he seeks. He doesn't know.
I hope he'll never know. I'd even pray it but I've
forgotten how. In this world of secrets and lies, my
most guarded secret is the many nights I've managed to
slip, unseen, unfelt, unknown, into his apartment, just to
look at him, just to watch him sleep.

How many nights have I knelt beside his couch,
watching him twitch and sigh? Watching his fingers
clench, his eyelids flutter as he chases REM sleep. How
many times have I reached out, wanting to touch him,
pulling back at the last possible minute? He mustn't
wake. He mustn't know. If his eyes met mine in that
semi-darkness, in that demi-world, the spell would be
broken. He would no longer be mine.

He is mine. Fox Mulder will always belong to me in the
dark. He is my nightly companion, albeit an unknowing
one. I sleep with him. I hold him against me with the
hand still capable of touching him, feeling him,
brushing away the tears I've caused him to shed. I drink
in his scent and memorize every line and plane of his
sleeping face. I listen to his breath, the faint sigh of a
dream, the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

Even now, having revealed myself, having made my
quarry wise and wary, I follow him, planning another
vigil beside him. Another night of aching need,
blistering passion, ardent love.

No, love's not too strong a word for what I feel. I live
in a world where love is a rare commodity, one not
bought or sold on the black market of men's lives. Love
is a luxury a man like me can't afford, yet I cling to this
one last bit of the humanity I once was. I could love
once, and will love him. Always. No one, nothing can
take that away from me. My heart is mostly rotted away
now, nicotine stained and blood spattered, but that one
clean, pure place left in all of such a wretched shell is a
haven for this love of mine.

When did I first love him? I don't know. I've never
tried to analyze any part of this feeling. I fear if I look
too deeply, I'll find a flaw, a crack, and it will shatter
and be gone. And I'll have nothing left to hold dear.

I have even allowed myself dreams. Dreams of holding
him, caressing him, kissing him, possessing him.
Dreams of feeling his heat, his taut body, his trembling
cry. It was those dreams that drove me to that alley
tonight, to reveal too much, to scrape away a speck of
the grime that covers us, and give him a peek at a truth.
My truth. My only truth. I love him.

His response tonight was revealing, too. He did not go
for his gun, nor put up any more than a token fight. He
relaxed his mouth, allowed me to plunder him; his lips,
his soul, his perception of himself. He accepted me.
Took me in. And in that moment ... I became his.


S IS FOR SEX

What the hell was that all about? I knew that ratbastard
was crazy but ... damn it, what does he want from me?
Do you think you could be a little more obvious,
Krycek? You don't think I don't know you're following
me?

He kissed me. He didn't just press his mouth to my
cheek and whisper something pithy and pointless that
sent me on another hopeless field trip into the void of
my own beliefs. He came to me with promises that had
substance, had body. He pressed his body against ...
against mine ...

What's the matter with me? I didn't like that. I didn't
want that. Why does the memory of it send some kind
of hot chill up my spine? I can't believe it. I'm actually
getting aroused at the memory of him against me. Him
holding my hands over my head, his mouth on mine, in
mine. His erection rubbing against ... against ... mine.

I can almost still feel him, every ridge and vein like a
bas relief against my own flesh. I can feel the muscles
of his thighs holding me in place against that wall. The
chill of those hard bricks against my back, the heat of
his hard body against my front.

I can still taste him. That unexpected sweetness. The
faint bitterness beneath. Bitterness that came from way
down in his soul.

Finally, my own apartment. At least I know he is
behind me, not in front of me. Not waiting inside to
knock me down and ... and what? Don't think too
much, Mulder. I don't think this is a picture you want in
your head.

Why can't I relax? Why can't I sleep? Why do I keep
feeling the heat of his body over mine.

Over? No, not over. Against. Beside. Near.

Over.

That's where he wants to be. It was as if when he kissed
me he passed something on to me. As ridiculous as it
sounds, I saw us. Him. Me. Together. I could feel the
aching in my groin. I could feel the flame of need in his
eyes. For one moment, I saw, felt, tasted, smelled the
sex of two of us, together.

I felt his hands running over my naked body.

I felt his erection gliding along mine.

I felt his tongue invade me. His fingers.

I felt him settle between my legs.

I felt him open me.

I felt him enter me.

I felt him penetrate me.

I felt him ... claim me.

I felt the heat of his breath, ragged and uneven, flowing
over me.

I felt the heat of his body, holding me down.

I felt the heat of his invasion, spreading from one ring
of muscle and nerves through my entire body.

I felt the grasping of his fingers holding me down.

I felt the tremble of his body surrendering to need.

I felt the hardness of his thighs driving against me.

I felt him. Pushing, splitting, filling. Th -- thrusting ...
"Oh, God ... Alex!"


L IS FOR LOCKS

I stand outside the dark, battered door, number forty two,
considering the dents, chips and abrasions of assaults
made by those with less patience, less finesse. I study
the lock I've breached so many times. It is a pathetic
attempt to keep the world outside. He might as well
leave his door open wide, with a sign that says
'trusting soul, abuse within'.

I can still hear him moving around. His steps sound
angry, frustrated. I've spent so many nights out here,
listening for the moment I can come in, that I've come
to know his many states of mind; weariness, defeat,
anger, despair, desperation, and rarely, the odd shuffle
signifying an impromptu outburst of Motown. All too
rare, that sound of unfettered feeling.

It isn't this woefully inadequate Schlage that keeps the
world outside, from him. It is the lock he keeps on his
heart. Fox Mulder gave up joy one year at his own
personal Season of Lent and he has never seen the
sunrise of Easter. Long ago, a young boy was made to
believe the unbelievable happened, and worse, was
nailed to a cross of guilt he didn't deserve.

For years now, I've watched him struggle under the
weight of that cross. Regrettably, a weight made greater
by the death of his father, the death of an innocent
woman, the near death of his partner, and the brutal
demise of his superior and role model's ethics. Not
once. Twice.

And to my discredit, more often than not it has been my
hand driving the hammer that affixes the added burden.

How can I hope to unlock his feelings? I cannot. There
is no hope. Not for me. Not for anyone. Even his
precious Scully will never steal inside to work the
virgin soil where his love should grow.

I want to confess. I want to reveal everything to him.
My duplicity. My secrets. My lies. I would want to
reveal my longing. My love. Yes, most of all, I want to
reveal my love. But, he will never accept love from the
man he sees as the symbol of everything he hates, all
the losses he's known. And he would never accept love
from any man.

I wax poetic on these long nights, trying to remain
invisible while I wait for the sounds inside to cease,
his restlessness still.

He is more restless than usual tonight. I disturbed him.
Excellent. Foolhardy though it was, I wanted him to
have a peek at the potential for devotion to something
other than his myriad lost causes.

I hear the battered leather of his sofa crackle and groan
as he settles down, heavy, fatigued. And I wait. Just a
matter of time now.

Sounds. Soft, impatient shifting. Muttering. A rise of
faint protest. Is he really alone? Has someone usurped
my place and been discovered? More sound. Scuffle,
struggle perhaps? I fumble for my tools, thinking to
break in, rescue him, but a loud moan convinces me I
don't have time for my awkward arts. I drop the picks
and scramble for my gun.

"Oh ... God ..."

I bang my shoulder against the door and it gives way.

"... Alex!"


R IS FOR RAIN

He is standing over me, gun in hand. At this moment,
death would be preferable, even welcome to meeting
his burning gaze in the semi-darkness of my room.

I know what he sees. Hand in my open slacks, a cum
splattered shirt, breath still heaving and burning my
chest. I wonder if he can hear the echo of his name in
the air.

I start to speak, to gasp a protest but he holds that
plastic hand to his lips in an imitation of a hushing
gesture. He glances around the room, turns to the
television and flicks it on. Loud.

"Fool", he mutters harshly. "Don't you realize you're
being monitored?"

I am not nearly so chagrined to know that someone's
been recording my nocturnal adventures as I am that he
caught me jerking off to the memory of his assault.
"What do you want?" I rasp.

His face softens somehow. The threat is still there, but
the intent is different. "Don't you know?" he asks.

I do know. That he wants it frightens me. That I
recognize it terrifies me. I school the fear from my face
and say, "No games, Krycek. What do you want?"

"Krycek?" he repeats, amused. "You called me Alex
easy enough a few moments ago." He looks around
again, puts his gun on the table next to my computer
and comes toward me.

Oh, shit. He did hear me. I try to scoot away, back up,
but there is nowhere to go. I try to hide behind bravado.
"What the hell are you up to, Krycek?"

He smiles, then frowns. "Shhh," he scolds, almost
tenderly. "No more games."

I put my hands up, in no position to defend myself.
"Get the hell away from me."

"No. I've spent too much time away from you." He
looks around the room again. Focuses on my door,
hanging drunkenly on one splintered hinge. He stands,
reaches for his gun and moves toward it. "Get
undressed," he commands, turning away from me.

Those two words went straight to my balls. I don't
know how I could be aroused five minutes after spilling
all over my shirt, but I actually feel as if I could come if
he lifted one finger toward me. "You're out of your
fucking mind," I snarl.

"I plan to be," he agrees equitably, settling the door
back into its frame and dragging a chair to prop under
the doorknob. "I'll get this fixed for you tomorrow,"
he promises. He returns to me. "You're not naked."

"I'm not insane, either," I retort.

"You will be." His confidence is like fingers stroking
my cock. He puts the gun down, far out of my reach
and kneels at my side. With his good hand, he pushes
mine up over my head. Then he lowers his head to my
belly, and begins to lick.

My head goes back, and a groan of pure pain, disgust
and unbelievable pleasure erupts from the very center
of me. He is cleaning away my cum with his tongue.
And I am helpless to stop him. I can only lie there,
feeling that predicted heat against my chest, his hot, wet
tongue on my belly, groin, the head of my waking cock.

I didn't imagine this, the sensation of another man's
mouth taking me. Certainly never expected pleasure
from that lying tongue. Never dreamed I'd lie still and
let my sworn enemy lap at me like a cat with cream.
Never believed I'd struggle with a desire to lift my hips,
thrust at his mouth ... his sweet, loving mouth.

It's raining outside. I'll listen to the rain.


Y IS FOR YEARS

His head is on my shoulder. He has learned not to be
repulsed by my disfigured body. He has learned to find
beauty in my scars. I never expected to make love to
him and release such a tender heart, a devoted lover, a
sweet and loving man.

Last night, after meeting at 'our place': the little motel-
by-the-week-with-kitchenette we rented, after falling
into one another's arms, devouring each other instead
of the Chinese I brought, we were collapsed on the
floor, giggling at shadows and inanities when he
suddenly propped himself up on his elbow and looked
down into my eyes, his aglow with post-coital love.
"Lets run away," he suggested, leaning in to suck my
life out in a kiss. "Let's forget the bad guys and the
good guys and all the guys."

A chilly finger dipped into my heart suddenly, stirred
waters of fear. "Right," I agreed sarcastically. "And do
what? Be hired guns?"

He let a fingertip drag across my chest. "Or teachers. Or
writers. Or ... or ..." a hint of a grin. "Rabbit farmers."

It made me laugh. Sometimes things burst out of him
that could never be predicted. He has a wry, skewed
and totally non sequitur sense of humor. "What?"

"Sure," he continued solemnly. "We could have fifteen
head of bunny."

"What was in that tea you were drinking?"

"Oh, wait ... twenty seven head."

"Mulder, are you drunk?"

"No ... forty three."

I'm laughing now, I can't help it. It is so ludicrous. Fox
Mulder, naked on the floor of a shabby hotel room,
plotting to be a rabbit farmer, and with a perfectly
serious expression.

"Seventy one."

"Stop it." I slap at his shoulder.

"One nineteen."

"Mulder ... I'm warning you ..."

"A hundred and sixty four." He pauses and then finishes
dramatically... "Oh, my God. Three hundred and six
bunnies."

I laugh again and then twist away, struggling to get up.
"There is something seriously wrong with you."

"Uh huh." He rolls back flat and I can feel his eyes,
warm and full of feeling follow me as I stagger into the
kitchen. "I'm in love."

That chilly finger has become an icy fist around my
heart. I know I wanted it, but now that I have it I see the
dangers of him loving me. Of me loving him so much
that he becomes my weakness, my Achilles' heel.
Already there have been hints that he could be
endangered without my cooperation. I fumble for the
vodka and don't even waste time with the niceties of a
glass. I throw it back and savor the burn.

The irony comes home full force when, after supper, I
read my fortune, and it says, 'Be careful what you wish for'.

I love him. He believes he loves me. He has become an
albatross around my neck. He is domesticating me.
How can I be free to do what I do, slip in, slip out,
unnoticed, silent and deadly, if I've got a lover to get
home to in time for dinner? I can't. If I do, I'm dead. If
I don't, he's dead. If I go ... I might as well be dead.

So, a dead man waking, I turn and kiss him. It's time to
start planning goodbyes.


P IS FOR PAIN

There's a package on my desk this morning. I look at it,
a return address in California. I don't recognize it but I
think I know the handwriting.

I haven't seen him in a week. I feel weak. He told me
he had an assignment. Wouldn't discuss it with me. Just
packed, gave me one dizzying desperate kiss and
walked out.

I've tried to go on, pretend it doesn't matter, try not to
focus on the way I betrayed myself, falling for him.
Betrayed myself, my work, my sister, my father,
Scully's sister, every damned thing I believe in. I was
stupid enough to believe that just because he kissed me,
just because he cried when I made him come, that he
was suddenly different, a changed man with a new soul.
A man who wouldn't have to suddenly disappear in the
night to do something he couldn't confess to his lover.

His lover ... what a vague term. What did it mean?
Partner? Spouse? The dreaded high schoolish boyfriend?
Or did it just mean someone he fucked until he was
bored and moved on?

I feel that tightening in my gut again. Grow up, Mulder.
I push the box away.

Scully notices my gesture and she frowns at me.
"Who's that from?" she asks.

I shrug. I know better than to say "I don't know". She'll
have it to the lab to be analyzed. "A friend of mine in
California," I answer vaguely.

"You have friends, Mulder?"

I respond digitally. She arches a brow and returns to her
work. But the box remains there, full of accusation.
Reluctantly, I open it. Pull aside the tissue paper.
Frown.

"Mulder?" Her voice is full of concern. "Mulder, what is it?"

I reach in and pull it out.

A small, ceramic rabbit.

"What in the world ...?"

I smile. Then frown. "It's a joke," I explain and hate the
faint catch in my throat. Then I wonder if she heard it.

"I didn't know you had an affinity for rabbits, Mulder."
She takes it, strokes the long ears with an almost loving
fingertip.

"They ... uh ... grow on you," I answer, reaching for it.

"It has a cute face," she says, returning it to me. "I don't
think I've ever seen a bunny with green eyes."

"It's a Canadian bunny, I think." I move tissue aside to
replace it in the box when I notice something ... a small
scrap of yellow paper, as if torn from the bottom of a
legal pad. I finger it out gingerly, making sure Scully
doesn't notice.

I palm it, and move my hand under my desk, carefully
to unfold it against my thigh.

Instructions. A phone booth. A time. A single
command. Wait.

I glance at the clock. An hour. An eternity.

When I find myself there, at last, I glance around.
Surely the booth must be under observation. How else
would he know that I arrived on time, and alone? But I
can't even sense that he's around. Funny, how I believe
I would know.

The phone rings. Jerked from my reverie, I trot the last
few steps and snatch it up. "Alex?" I blurt, stupidly.

And then I hear the words I've known from the
beginning would kill me. "Mulder, it's time to say
goodbye."


T IS FOR TEARS

He is silent. And in the silence I hear a heart breaking.
His. Mine is already shattered. "Why?" he asks, at last.

"They're watching me," I answer truthfully. "I've
refused to do certain things because it meant hurting
you. Now they're looking for a way to punish me --"

"I'll protect you," he promises wildly. "We'll put you in
a safe house, we'll relocate to --"

I rush on, cruelly. "-- if they see my feelings for you
they'll hurt you."

"I don't care."

"I care."

There is more silence. A slight choking sound. Is he
crying? Oh, God, please take me now. To make him cry
again ... no, please, not that.

"Why did you do it, Alex?" he whispers finally.

"Because I wanted you."

"So ... it was just about sex."

Be strong, Alex, this is what you decided to do. "Of
course. What did you think? That I was going to marry you?"

He is quiet again. "Then why does it matter what they
do to me?"

"Because I have enough blood on my hands. I don't
want the blood of a good, decent man."

"Stupid man," he mutters.

That hurts. "No. Not a stupid man. Just a man who
loved unwisely."

"Yes." I can hear him collecting himself. "Well, thanks
for letting me know. Take care of yourself."

I want to put the phone down. This is all I rehearsed.
I can't bear it. "Did you get the rabbit?"

"Obviously." His voice is almost a sneer now.
"I'm here, aren't I?"

"You know, it's a funny thing about rabbits. They multiply."

"Yes. I know. I'm familiar with the concept. But it
takes more than one dumb bunny to do it."

Oh, the bitterness is ugly in his voice. Makes me want
to retch. "Well, that rabbit's got a soul mate out there
somewhere. Maybe one day you'll find it."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"And when you do ... it will lead you to me."

Silence. Stunned. Incredulous. Hopeful.

"That's a promise, Mulder," I hear myself saying.
"Someday, I'll find you again."

"Yeah ..." I can hear his struggle for dignity over desire.
"But this time, maybe you could knock instead of breaking
my door down?"

I laugh softly. "I won't have to, if you don't lock me out."

Still more silence. "Okay," he says at last. "Well, see you
around, Krycek."

"Alex," I remind him. "See you around, Fox."

I replace the receiver, gently, and step to the window
and look down. He turns from the booth, straightens the
collar of his trench coat, and walks away.

- THE END -