Way
Station in Shadow, a Due South / X Files crossover by Glacis. Rated NC17 for
adult content. No infringement intended to either CC & Co or
He really shouldn't have
been surprised that the nightmares would come back. Not that he would classify
them as such, even to himself. Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, didn't allow himself
to be upset by such measly things as 'nightmares'.
Not in public, anyway.
He'd returned from his home
in the
Not that that was an
unusual feeling. He knew he was difficult, although God knows he didn't mean to
be. Look at what he attracted! Treachery. Betrayal. Pain. It was much better
that he be left on his own. Ray was trying very hard, and he never actually
said anything, which was unusual in itself, the way the detective usually went
on about things. But perhaps that, in itself, was telling.
Very much like Steve.
And very much like
Fraser stared out the small
window of his apartment into the crowded, noisy, perpetually busy
Too bright. Even in the middle of the night,
even without the candles that he had stowed away in the very back of his
cabinets, even with the Coleman lantern turned off, even with his eyes closed,
it was all simply too bright. He was living in darkness, had been since she
left, had been even before that, when he had first learned that his love bought
only pain. The light was all around him, burning his eyes, searing him, and
none of it ever came inside.
A shuffling noise caught
his ear, pulled it away from the darkness inside his head, and focussed his attention on the street below.
He could always help.
Others, anyway.
It had been a hell of a
month, and it was getting worse rapidly. Alex Krycek
had been running hard and fast for the last twenty six days, and he was nearing
the end of his endurance. Desperation and adrenaline were a fugitive's friend,
but even the most desperate fugitive needed the occasional rest. Dark holes to
hide in had been few and far between.
He'd made decent time the
first week, but then D.C. was his home stomping ground. He'd had bolt holes,
and stashes, and had hit them all in the first three days after his erstwhile
employer had tried to firebomb him into slag. An apartment in Pimmit Hills, a safe deposit box in Cheverly, a bus station
locker in Glenarden. Then he'd hit the back roads and
country trails, gradually losing himself in larger and larger cities, from
Martinsburg to
Now, how
the fuck to get into
Normally, it wouldn't be a problem.
It wasn't like sneaking from Greece into Albania, for god's sake. Canada was
friendly. Well, most of it was, and even the parts that weren't were polite
about it. But cancerstick had eyes, and they were
firmly planted along the border. If they caught sight of him on the way over,
they'd hunt him down. And he didn't think his luck would hold a second time, if
he was caught. No, he had to get into someplace relatively large, like
The days on the run and the
nights without rest betrayed him, and even his natural paranoia wasn't enough
to give him warning in time to respond to the sneak attack. As gangs went, it
was a pretty pathetic one, but they outnumbered him, and they got the drop on
him. Two of them had his arms pinned behind him and a third had slugged him in
the gut before he had time to so much as aim a kick at the leader's head.
Fighting not to lose his dinner as the nausea rose up from the impact of the
punch, he missed the next few minutes. Whatever whirlwind hit the little pack
of muggers was fast and efficient, for he found himself freed, on his knees,
gasping for breath as two bodies dropped and a third made limping tracks into
the alley. Strong hands wrapped gently around his
biceps and a soft, precise voice sounded in his ear.
"Are you all
right?"
Canadian, from the sound of
it.
Holy
shit. He was
wearing a Mountie hat.
He saw a shadow move behind
the broad shoulder, and reacted instinctively, pulling his Avenger out of the
way as a metal pipe crashed through the air right where the Stetson had just
been. The Mountie rolled out of the way, shielding Krycek the entire time, and knocked the pipe away with his
right hand, pushing Krycek flat, out of harm's way,
with his left. The mugger took advantage of the split attention to drop his
pipe and run for it. Sometime during all the fuss the other mugger had also
dragged himself back into the shadows, and Krycek and
the Avenger Mountie were alone, lying tangled
together on the cold concrete, staring at one another, wide eyed. Kryeck opened his mouth to say ... something ... when his
body realized it was finally in a horizontal position and gave up the fight to
stay conscious. His last thought before passing out was to wonder what sort of
glue the Avenger used to keep his hat in place. It hadn't shifted an inch in
the entire fight.
Fraser looked at the
unconscious body in his arms and immediately began checking for injuries. He
couldn't find any obvious bumps or breaks, there was no blood flowing, and the
only immediate signs of injury were the pallor evident even in the low light
and the victim's labored breathing. Feeling the man's skull and neck carefully
for evidence of trauma, he decided that exhaustion and shock had caused the
faint. Hoisting the stranger carefully over his shoulder, he climbed back up
the stairs to his apartment. As usual, none of the neighbors gave any
indication that they were aware anything unusual had occurred. Of course, for
this neighborhood, nothing truly unusual actually had.
The unconscious body was
heavier than he'd expected, and he huffed a little sigh of accomplishment when
he gently laid the man down on his bed. Diefenbaker sniffed questionably at the
hand that hung limply over the side of the bed, licked experimentally at the
forefinger, then returned to his blanket.
"I don't know who he
is, Diefenbaker," Fraser defended himself, unaccountably perturbed by his
wolf's obvious disapproval. "He was mugged, right in front of me. I
couldn't just leave him there. Besides," he busied himself loosening the
man's jacket and removing his boots, "you're just feeling
territorial." He tucked the sock clad feet under the end of his blanket
and moved up to straighten the dark head on his pillow. "Not that I can
blame you." He glanced apologetically at the wolf. Dief
hadn't liked Victoria either, and with good reason. She'd ended up shooting
him. "But you can't close out the world for a few bad apples." Even
when those apples taste like the Garden of Eden and you will never see the
gates again, he thought sadly. The darkness swelled, and for a moment closed
out everything around him.
Then he felt movement
against his knee, and looked down to see that the stranger had wrapped his hand
around his leg. The grip was strong, but the fingers trembled. Bending down to
study the stranger's face, he saw emerald eyes staring up at him through thick
lashes. The eyes were nearly glazed over with exhaustion, but he could clearly
see the apprehension in them. Unthinkingly, his hand covered the hand gripping
his leg, and he smiled as reassuringly as he could.
"It's all right.
You're safe. No one will hurt you." He put as much warmth and certainty
into his voice as possible, and it seemed to work. The apprehension faded,
replaced by the dull fog of fatigue, and the lashes fell to cover the
impossible green of the irises. The grip on his knee faded, and he stepped
away, turning to place his bedroll on the floor alongside his bed. Something
inside urged him to stay close to his unexpected guest.
As he slowly relaxed into
the darkness, Victoria's face flashed before his eyes. His brows drew together,
then the image was replaced by the visage of the man he'd saved that night.
Before he could decode the message his subconscious was sending him, he finally
drifted off to sleep.
The landscape cleared
slowly, and when he finally realized where he was, he shivered. The autumn of his
seventeenth year, asserting a little independence. What a dismal failure it had
been. He and Steve along the shores of Wapawekka
Lake, down south from home in Saskatchewan. Doing some fishing, doing some
hiking ... discovering loving.
He didn't know it was
wrong. Still didn't think so.
But that hadn't stopped
them.
Steve was older than he was
by a whole two years, broad shouldered, black haired, with the tawny skin and
sparkling deep eyes of his Inuit ancestry standing clear against the snowy
background. He had a bright, easy laugh, and he used it often. He didn't talk
much, but then, neither had Benton. Actions always spoke so much louder.
Looking after one another, partnered in every way that mattered. Practically
able to read one another's minds.
Lodged in one another's
hearts.
Of course, the hunters
hadn't seen it like that. They'd just seen an Indian and a white boy doing
perverted things in the woods. Through binoculars, far enough away that neither
young man had been given any warning before they were taken.
A collage of images
tormented Fraser's dream state. Steve, laughing, face lit by firelight; that
same beloved face, contorted by screams of pain as he was beaten senseless by a
ring of animals, he couldn't call them men; the rope burning into his wrists
and his ankles, staking him to the ground, knowing he would be next, screaming
at them to stop, until his throat spasmed and his
cries dried up; wide, impossibly wide India ink eyes staring at him, beyond
question, beyond fear, as they took turns at his body like the pack animals
they were; the blood soaking his ropes as he tore the skin from his wrists,
finally breaking free. Working his ankles free, reaching for the gun, the
trigger under his finger, the fall of the bodies, the frenzy of fear, he could
smell it off the survivors as they ran.
Too late.
Too little, and much too
late.
He'd attended to Steve.
Properly, as properly as he could. Sang the song and chanted the goodbye, then
he'd gone home.
Alone.
He'd left the naked bodies
of the animals who had made him so on the icy ground.
The scavengers were at work
before he left the shelter of the trees behind. Illusory shelter. No justice.
There could be no recompense for what he had lost.
Autumn was a time of loss.
And winter settled in his soul.
Krycek woke to the muffled sounds of
whimpers coming from somewhere off to his left. He stilled instinctively,
listening intently to determine if he was in immediate danger. He heard the
click of nails across a bare floor, then sloppy noises. The whimpers quieted,
and turned to almost silent sobs. Deciding that whatever, or whoever, was
making the noise was too caught up in misery to be much of a threat, he risked
opening his eyes.
The room was bare, and
chilly from a breeze coming through the blocked open window. Who the hell was
nuts enough to leave a window open in this rotten part of Chicago, not to
mention the fact that it was fucking cold? Shifting enough to give the place a
once-over, he wasn't impressed. It was a bare little tenement apartment,
ancient fridge in one corner, even more ancient steamer trunk in another, not
much else but the bed he was lying in.
And the man wrapped in some
sort of blanket on the floor. Who was apparently having a nightmare, and was
getting a tongue bath all over his face from what looked one hell of a lot like
a wolf.
Okay, so he'd tripped in
the alley and landed in the Twilight Zone. Stranger things had happened.
Shaking off the memory of some of those strange things, he concentrated on the
guy lying on the floor. As he watched the pale features twitch under the
influence of the nightmare, images from earlier that night gelled. So, this man
was a Mountie. Who'd saved him from getting the snot
kicked out of him, brought him home and put him to bed.
He could deal with that. He
could even use it. Somehow.
Staring idly at the wolf's
tongue as it lapped at the tears being squeezed out from behind dense lashes,
he was struck with the classical beauty of the Mountie's
face. The guy could be used for a recruiting poster. Square jawed, fine boned,
he even had pretty ears. Probably straight as a die and square, indeed.
Settling his head on one hand, leaning into his bent elbow, he leaned over a
little closer to study his rescuer. The wolf looked up at him, whined once, and
went back to licking. Almost as if the animal was asking him to do something.
Shaking off the fanciful thought, he was surprised to hear the Mountie moan a word. No, not a word. A name.
Steve.
Then some other words.
As he listened intently, Krycek began to re-evaluate some of his earlier
assumptions. Maybe not quite as straight as he'd thought.
Then the words turned ugly.
Anguished, as the man's throat tightened, and he fought in his sleep. Sad, then
wounded, and helpless. Then what sounded like a mumbled chant under his breath,
as the tears flowed faster than the wolf could lap.
Okay. Homosexual, or at
least queer enough to dream about it. In a lot of pain. Pretty lonely, if the
dump was anything to go by. Used to jumping in and rescuing orphans from the
storm, risking himself for strangers, and probably not used to getting anything
back for it, if Krycek knew his average big city
citizen. And he was Canadian.
Krycek leaned back against the pillow,
letting his arm relax and staring up at the ceiling. A lonely, needy, gay
do-gooder Canuck. Ripe for the picking. He could definitely use this.
The next three days passed in
a blur of care-taking and consular duties. For some reason that he couldn't
quite explain to himself but that was an amalgam of Ray being caught up with
his family, the Inspector being determined to turn him into a statue on the
front steps of the Embassy, and the shy, frightened demeanor of his house
guest, Fraser found himself keeping Alex's presence a secret. It wasn't so much
that he didn't tell anyone, as the fact that no one was particularly
interested.
Staring off into the
distance, maintaining textbook perfect posture and composure while standing
sentry, Fraser couldn't help but examine why that particular thought made his
chest ache.
The first afternoon alone,
after faking sleep long enough to get the Mountie out
of the apartment, Alex had made a thorough search of
the place. It hadn't taken long.
Keeping care to not
disarrange anything, he'd found the old diaries, apparently from the Mountie's dad, and the deed to a cabin clear up north in
the Yukon. Now, that was interesting. He'd been looking for a bolt hole just
like that, and now it had fallen into his hands.
Now to get the Mountie to give him the keys.
Fraser's guest hadn't been
particularly forthcoming about himself. He'd introduced himself, hesitantly, as
Alex Neekto, a Ukrainian immigrant who'd fallen on
hard times. Through patient cross examination, Fraser had determined that Mr. Neekto, or Alex, as the young man requested he be called,
was in the United States illegally. He was a political refugee who was
attempting to start over again in a new land, but was not having a great deal
of luck. His mind flashed back to their conversation from the previous evening.
Alex had eaten ravenously,
once convinced that he was welcome to the food. Obviously, it had been some
time since the young man had been regularly fed. In between bites, eating with
impeccable manners, he had offered tidbits of information about himself. Fraser
had found himself mesmerized by the combination of creamy skin and dark curling
hair, bright eyes and full lower lip. In an unusual lapse of concentration,
he'd had to force himself to stop watching that moist mouth move and actually
listen to the words falling from it.
"I have a cousin.
Anton Astrov, he's a doctor." One strong hand
waved vaguely northward. "Up in the snow." His voice bore a vague
accent, hard to place but definitely Slavic.
Fraser blinked, chewed
automatically, and asked into the lengthening silence, "The snow?"
Eyes the color of old
leaves in late autumn stared up at him before thick lashes covered them.
"Where he is, there is snow all the time. It is very far north." Alex
placed his fork carefully on his scraped-clean plate, and sighed softly.
"I would like to go there. One day. I have not seen Anton since ... for a
very long time."
Those fascinating eyes took
on a faraway look, and Fraser wondered what memories could bring such sadness
to them. Before he could ask, Alex made an obvious effort to regain his
composure, and politely gathered the dishes up.
As they were standing side
by side, doing what little washing there was, Fraser ventured another question.
"Might you tell me, just how far north is 'very far north'?"
Alex made that vague waving
motion with his hand again, and smiled. "Up past the towns, where there is
only mountain and ice. The Yukons." Fraser
started to make the instinctive correction, but held it back as Alex continued
to speak. "I could not stay with him, he is a, how is it put? A helicopter
doctor, and he lives with friends when he is in a town. But if I could find a
place to live up there, for a little while at least, I could find a way to ...
make a place for myself. Then I would be with family again." The hand
holding the dish towel gradually slowed, then stilled on the plate it was
polishing. "It has been a long time since I have been with family. I miss
them. And I love the snow. It ... it is like home." Then he turned,
stacked the last of the dishes in the cabinet, and wandered off to stand at the
window, staring off into the darkness.
Fraser stared at the lonely
figure looking into the night, touched by so many similarities to his own
loneliness, and began to work out some way to help.
Wanting to learn more about
his visitor, Fraser ventured to change the subject. "If I may ask, Alex,
why did you leave the Ukraine? Obviously, you have a deep love of your
homeland, and you miss your family." His tone made it clear that he was
not meaning to pry, and Alex took no offense.
Turning from the window, he
hooked his hands into his back pockets. Fraser tore his eyes from the strong
thighs and solidly packed zipper so fetchingly displayed. Recent nightmares
were dredging up old memories, and recent betrayals were bringing back old
longings. It was not proper to subject Alex to the physical ramifications of
those desires--
"I am ... homosexual,
Benton. In my country, that is a serious social crime. Men who are ... who
engage in such ... relationships, they can be put in prison, or locked in
mental hospitals. They are not so ... rigid in this country. I do not want to
be punished for the crime of loving a man."
Fraser's mind went
completely blank. So did his face, and Alex misinterpreted his sudden lack of
expression. Dismay and fear clouded those fine eyes, and his hands came up in a
defensive gesture.
"I am sorry! I did not
mean to offend. I thought ... you seem so kind .. I did not--"
Fraser interrupted the
stumbling apology with his own raised palm. "Alex! Alex, please, it's
perfectly all right. I apologize. You didn't offend me, I assure you."
Relief painted itself
across the expressive face, and Alex relaxed. "Spazeba.
Thank you. It is good." A tiny grin flashed across his face. "One
does not get without one asks, yes?"
Fraser fell into the spark
of light in deep green eyes, and had to concede the truth of that statement.
Unfortunately, while his body was happily agreeing with the concept, his mind
was still struggling with recent wounds, and he couldn't force his mouth to
form the words. Alex gradually lost his smile as he realized that Fraser was,
literally, speechless, and with an embarrassed little cough, he went down the
hall to make his evening ablutions. By the time he had returned, Fraser was
bunked down in his own bedroll. They exchanged subdued 'good night's, then lay
in the darkness, listening to one another breathe.
Remembering the
particularly vivid dreams that had followed made his uniform uncomfortably
constricting, and Fraser exercised iron control to banish the thoughts from his
mind. Beneath the stoic demeanor, the darkness was reaching out to the warmth
he felt coming from his new friend, and a small voice at the back of his mind
whispered 'tonight.'
It was an incredibly long
shift.
Alex stared at the candles
he'd lit, ringing the counter, the small windowsill, lighting the pathetic
little rooms with the best imitation of romance he could create. It'd have to
do. He'd planted all the seeds he could, and time was running short. By
tomorrow he had to be on his way. He'd read enough in the journals to get a
good idea of the lay of the land -- old Robert Fraser had been pretty damned
thorough both in describing the country he tracked outlaws through and in
rhapsodizing about his cabin. Krycek had imprinted
the information in his brain.
Even if he didn't get any
help crossing the border, when he did manage to sneak into Canada, he now knew where
he was going to hole up. He had packed a bag with everything he would need. Now
he just had to distract the Mountie for a few hours,
keep him occupied. In the morning he would be gone. If he stayed any longer,
the cancerstick's eyes would find him. Then they'd
both be dead. And he planned on living a hell of a lot longer than this.
Night fell early as autumn
slipped into winter. Ray had been delayed, other commitments taking his time,
so Fraser walked briskly home through the gradually quieting streets. By the
time he'd made it to his block, dusk had given way to full darkness. He glanced
automatically up at his window from the sidewalk before entering the building.
There was a light glow illuminating the glass, bleeding through the cracked
window into the night. It cheered him, leaving him feeling, for an odd moment,
as if he wasn't alone. He refused to examine the feeling, simply enjoying the
unusual sensation while it lasted.
Unfortunately, it didn't
last long.
The glow wasn't emanating
from his lantern, as he had expected. No, Alex had been busy while he'd been
away. The candles he had so diligently stored, deep in the cabinet, after his
fiasco of an affair with Victoria, had found their way back out. They sat
scattered about the room, creating a dichotomy, pools of light that filled him
with shadows, shadows that gnawed at him. An unaccustomed rage, sparked by
buried anger and unacceptable pain, jolted through him, and without thought, he
swept his arm viciously along the counter, knocking the candles to the tile
floor.
Alex gave one startled
"Shto?" then started stamping on the
flickering wicks, stopping the flame before it could spread. Fraser stared,
appalled at his lack of control, then began to back toward the door. Before he
could make it, not thinking, just reacting with the instinct to flee foremost
in his mind, Alex stamped out the last of the sputtering candles and reached
out to grasp Fraser's wrist.
"Fchyom
dyela? What's the matter? Are you alright?" His
grip remained steady, and Fraser froze, unwilling to risk injuring his new
friend by taking the steps necessary to free himself. The worried look on the
open features gradually calmed him, and he began to relax.
"I'm ... I am sorry,
Alex. Please. It's my fault, I shouldn't have reacted so violently," he
tried to explain, but found that his tongue felt thick, and the words didn't
come out correctly.
"Nyet,
nyet, I did something wrong. The candles? I am
sorry." Releasing Fraser tentatively, as if he expected him to bolt, he
quickly made the rounds of the room extinguishing the remaining candles. With
only the light coming through the window to illuminate the room, the shadows
returned to their proper places, and Fraser finally eased himself back into the
room.
Alex sank down next to him,
placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "I truly am sorry. I didn't mean
for that to happen."
Unwilling to meet those
wide, searching eyes quite yet, Fraser stared down at his own linked hands,
clenching around one another between his knees. "What did you mean to
happen, Alex?"
"I meant ... to see if
there was a chance for us to be close. I did not mean to hurt you, Benton. I
meant to offer companionship."
The soft voice reassured
him, eased some of the trauma associated with the last time he had been in a
candlelit room. "It's not ... there was a woman. Very recently. She ...
hurt me. I allowed her to hurt me. The candles ... brought it back." The
words hurt his throat, the confession coming from deep within in response to
the honesty his friend had shown. He meant to reassure, but it had the opposite
effect.
Alex straightened away from him,
removing his hand, putting distance between them. "I see." The
slightly accented voice was strained. "I misunderstood. It is my fault.
You do not want. I misread."
This time it was Fraser's
turn to reach out and grasp Alex's hand, holding him still when he would have
retreated. "No," he admitted with further painful honesty. "You
didn't misread. You're ... a very attractive man. In some ways, you remind me
of her." Alex stiffened, looking at him with horrified disbelief.
"Not in the bad way," Fraser continued hurriedly, certain that, as
usual, his explanation would not be sufficient. "In a good way. She was beautiful.
And she could be ... breathtaking." He grimaced. He was simply useless at
talking about emotions. Unable to think of the words that would explain his
attraction without making Alex feel even worse, he did something he very seldom
did, and gave into impulse. Leaning sideways, twisting his torso just enough to
bring them into contact along one side, retaining his grip on Alex's arm, he
angled his head and brought their faces together.
For a first kiss, it was
surprisingly intense. Alex's mouth softened immediately, opening slightly,
responding to the gentle buss with a delicate foray of his own. Their tongues
slid along one another, then Alex's followed Fraser's back into its home,
probing deeply, not giving Fraser the chance to back away. Somehow, as the kiss
deepened, their bodies shifted, Fraser's hand sliding up to cup Alex's
shoulder, Alex moving backward, pulling Fraser along with him until they came
to a rest against the bed, Fraser blanketing Alex with his body. By the time
Alex finally allowed him to breathe, Fraser was lightheaded.
The candles were forgotten,
the memory of Victoria's touch burned away by the strong hands restlessly
exploring him. He found himself panting, pulling at Alex's clothing as Alex
pulled at his uniform, until those hands planted themselves against his chest.
A moan rumbled in his throat at the denial of physical sensation, and a
reassuring murmur sounded by his ear.
"No, no, tovarisch, we're not stopping. But the clothes are in the
way, yes? I want to feel your skin against mine. All that fire." As he
spoke, Alex sat up and reached out to him again, busy fingers making short work
of the many fastenings on the uniform. Fraser could feel those eyes burning
into him with an almost feral intensity, devouring every inch of him as the
bulky material was stripped away. With an ease that would be astonishing in
retrospect but seemed perfectly natural at the time, Alex stripped him and
placed the uniform neatly on his single chair, then stripped himself, with less
dispatch and more attention to detail. By the time Alex finished, after
checking regularly throughout his disrobing to ensure he had the other man's
attention, Fraser was in a state of extreme arousal.
The state was matched by
his soon to be lover. Half expecting a hard, fast coupling, Fraser was
completely disarmed by the thorough attention Alex paid to his body. Starved
for touch, lost in the overwhelming sensation of those hands, that mouth,
worshipping him, Fraser gradually felt the loneliness that was so much a part of
him begin to ease. Alex lingered over him, stroking his calves, up around his
thighs, easing around to palm his buttocks, avoiding true intimacy at the
beginning, heightening the anticipation.
Strong, kneading fingers
dug into the long muscles of his back, smoothing over the knots that were then
worked into oblivion. Fraser felt an unnerving combination of utter relaxation
and total arousal by the time Alex had finished his unorthodox massage, the
kneading and stroking interspersed with butterfly kisses, delicate licks, tiny
nibbles until every centimeter of his skin was completely sensitized. Those
hands wrung every iota of tension out of his back, shoulders, neck, up into his
scalp, as Alex used his lips, teeth and tongue from Fraser's navel along his ribs
to his nipples. He lapped, nipped and tugged until they were peaked before
continuing his journey. Fraser found himself paralyzed with sensation, unable
to do anything but lay there and be feasted upon. Then Alex attacked his neck,
gently suckling and biting, and he began to moan in response, unable to keep
from vocalizing his approval.
He was melting into the
bed, he could barely keep his eyes open, and he was so hard he was aching. When
the talented hands and even more talented mouth left his scalp and his throat,
diving with unnerving suddenness directly onto his erection, he yelped and
bucked. The change in tactics brought a whole new level of arousal with it, and
his previous passivity disappeared. His hands threaded themselves through the
thick pelt of dark brown hair, guiding Alex's head, encouraging his efforts.
His hips thrust of their own volition, not deeply enough to choke, but
demanding fulfillment that Alex was more than willing to provide.
As he felt himself draw
nearer to the peak, his left hand wove through Alex's right, and he pulled the
caressing fingers away from his testes, drawing them up to his mouth. Alex
paused in his swallowing massage long enough to look askance at Fraser, but he
ignored the inquiring look and began to suck on the fingertips. Alex moaned
around his erection, and the vibration nearly caused him to explode. He sucked
fiercely at the fingers, and Alex matched his rhythm perfectly. The combination
of flesh in his mouth and mouth on his flesh completed the circuit, and his
mind shut down, buried in a torrent of sensation, color, sound, and release
that rendered him nearly unconscious.
He wasn't truly aware of
Alex's actions at that point; feeling the world shift on its axis, he assumed
it was further evidence of impaired sensory input caused by an incredible
orgasm. He lost the hand from his mouth, and the solid presence of Alex between
his thighs, but the loss was compensated by the warmth lying along his back and
thighs, shifting to his side, bending his upper leg, the weight along his back
pressing him slightly into the thin mattress. He felt moist warmth at his
backside, strong fingers spreading his buttocks, then wet fingers probing at
him.
Still recovering from the
shattering climax moments before, his body was completely relaxed, and the
fingers entered him with little resistance. Reacting to the unusual stimulus,
he groaned and thrust backward slightly, needing more. His unspoken demand was
met by the careful working of a bulkier intruder into his opening, and reality
shifted again. There was no coarse cotton pillowcase beneath his cheek; the
thin woolen blanket rubbing against his skin was transformed to the softest
weaving, the bedroll a buttress beneath it to shield them from the icy ground.
The muttered endearments whispered between his shoulder blades were Inuit, not
Russian; the slight breeze from the opened window was the crisp play of wind
off the lake. The bulk stretching, filling, completing him was not Alex. The
darkness was drowned in pure sensation.
The lovemaking went on for
what felt like forever, but was not nearly long enough, then was repeated with
some variation and a great deal of need throughout the night. As Fraser
convulsed a final time, drawing his lover into the abyss with him, clenching around
his welcomed invader, words tumbled from both men's lips. Neither heard the
other, perhaps for the best, for Alex was not to know who 'Steve' might be, and
Fraser certainly did not know what 'Mulder' meant.
Krycek pretended to sleep until the door
had closed softly behind the Mountie. It had been a
hell of a night, and he stored up the memories, reveling in the sensation,
knowing it would be quite awhile before he got an opportunity like that again.
Giving his benefactor five minutes to get to the front of the building, he rose
and headed to the window. He watched the taillights of a classic green Riviera
disappear from view, then headed to the sink for a quick wash. He'd do a more thorough
job when he was far enough away to take his time. Besides, there was something
... satisfying about feeling Benton's sweat on his skin, the feeling of his
come still washing inside him. A good job well done. Smirking slightly to
himself, he headed for the closet.
Fifteen minutes later he
stood fully dressed in Benton's spare uniform. The close attention the previous
night, before things got totally hot, had paid off, and he had no problem with
what seemed like dozens of fastenings. He placed the hat squarely on his head,
rummaged quickly and neatly through the trunk, removed the .38, the passport,
and the spare ammunition from it, and was on his way.
It had been sweet, and it
had been useful. He felt rested, rejuvenated, and ready to run. Damned good thing,
too, because the race had really just begun.
The border wasn't even a
challenge. He was of the same height and build as Benton, and his coloring and
face were similar enough that he easily passed the cursory inspection. A
uniform was a wonderful thing. The boat took him across Lake Michigan, the bus
took him as far as Sault Ste. Marie, and by week's end he was heading north
from Thompson. As long as the money and the supplies held out, he was safe.
Within a fortnight, checking his six the entire trip, he had made himself at
home in the small cabin. As he relaxed in front of the fire, he raised a cup in
the general direction of Chicago.
"Thanks for the
bolt-hole, Benton." It'd been fun. Too bad it'd had to be so short.
Some minor infraction had
incensed the Inspector, and she made him pay for it in the usual way. Eleven
hours of sentry duty in blowing snow wasn't really standard procedure, but at
least it wasn't the middle of a heat wave. Fraser blanked his mind as
completely as he could, but the memories of the previous night kept intruding.
Eventually, he allowed some of them to seep through. They did have a curiously
warming effect.
Eventually, even Inspector
Thatcher had to relent, and by nineteen hundred he was ready to leave.
Unfortunately for his wayward libido, Ray had finally disentangled himself from
family obligations, and was eager to make up some lost time by taking him out
to dinner. It was less successful than their dinners usually were, but Fraser
found himself loath to share Alex with Ray. For one thing, the relationship was
still very new, and he felt unusually protective. For another, he wasn't quite
sure how his macho, Italian, Roman Catholic detective friend would react to
meeting another of Fraser's lovers, this one being a man.
At least he wasn't a
convicted felon.
After a relatively short
dinner, pleading unfeigned fatigue from an all day sentry shift (following
nearly no sleep the night before), Fraser hopped out of the Riviera and headed
up the steps to his apartment. He was happy to see that Alex hadn't repeated
the candle arrangement from the previous evening. Dief
bounded up the stairs next to him, and directly into the room. As usual, the
door wasn't latched. Unable to contain his anticipatory smile, Fraser called
out a greeting as he entered the small front room.
It echoed.
The smile faded slightly,
replaced by a concerned frown. Diefenbaker whined at him from the bed, and he
moved, slowly, further into the apartment, removing his Stetson and placing it
carefully on the table as he went. He felt as if he were walking underwater,
his footsteps reluctant, his body tensing. With each step, the darkness in his
head grew stronger. The short hair at the nape of his neck was prickling.
The bed had not been made.
He could still see, and smell, the results of their passion on the sheets. In
the indentation from Alex's head on the pillow, a sheet of plain paper lay,
looking incongruously tidy in the mess of the linens. There were very few words
on it.
"Benton. Thank you.
You saved my life. Alex"
He looked blankly around
the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, except the bed. Where had he gone?
Why had he gone? It made no sense. Moving numbly through his evening routine,
he unhooked his tunic and walked to the closet. Opening the door, he reached in
for his customary hanger and froze.
His other uniform was
missing.
He hung up the tunic,
absently, and looked around the apartment again, this time with much greater
attention. Something was out of place, something was ... not quite right. It
clicked on the third sweep, and he headed directly for his father's trunk,
pulled a quarter inch forward from where it was normally placed. It was also
somewhat shinier than it had been, and he swallowed dryly, realizing that it
had been wiped down.
It seemed Alex hadn't
wanted his fingerprints to remain behind, either.
Opening the lid with
restrained violence, he scanned the contents. What he saw, or more aptly what
he didn't see, caused his heart to sink. His weapon, ammunition, and passport
were missing. Sinking to his knees in front of the trunk, his mind raced,
calculating lead time and distance.
He could be anywhere by
now.
His first impulse was to
inform Ray. Bring in the police. Track him down. Get his help stopping Alex
from whatever it was Alex was planning to do. Halfway out the door toward Mr. Mustafi's to borrow the telephone, he stopped. It hit him
like a physical blow, taking his breath, making his head hurt.
He couldn't do that. Ray
was only now recovering from Victoria. Now, here he would be, with another
invisible lover, stealing his clothing, his pistol, for purposes unknown. And
this time the lover was a man.
Fraser tried to take a deep
breath, but his chest was too tight, only allowing shallow pants. The darkness
was threatening to drown him, this time, and he was more than willing to let
it. He couldn't drag Ray into this. He would have to investigate it on his own.
Not again would he allow the only friend he had left to suffer for his own
stupidity.
Sinking back onto the
floor, staring blankly out the window, he wondered, not for the first time, if
the dawn would ever come.
Three months later:
Strapping on snowshoes,
fingering the edge of a computer disk through the layers of insulation
protecting him from the elements, Krycek looked back
over his shoulder at the little cabin that had sheltered him through a fierce
winter. The storms had lightened now, and it was time to go. Somewhere warm.
Somewhere metropolitan, commercial, where his skills and his information would
find a market. It was time to leave his hiding place and re-enter the rat race.
He stopped once on his
journey, at Saskatoon, and posted a package to Benton Fraser. Then he continued
along the length of the country until he reached Vancouver. There, with a
carefully forged Canadian passport, expensive and worth every penny, he boarded
an international flight for Hong Kong.
It was time, again, to
start playing the game.
The winter was as
frustrating as the autumn had been cold. Every spare minute not spent on duty was
spent at the computers, until Ray Vecchio finally
asked him what he, Ray, had done to piss him, Frazier, off. That had broken his
self-imposed silence, and he'd told Ray just enough to interest the detective
in the search. Not all the details, by any means, just that he had helped a man
in need who had repaid that assistance by stealing some items of value from
him, and now he was trying to track the man down, and having little success in
the endeavor. Ray had looked at him, quietly, searchingly, as if he knew that
there was more to the story that Fraser wasn't telling him. Then he had
shrugged, accepted what he was given, and offered his help.
Both of them came up empty
handed. Leads disappeared before they could develop, or turned out to be false
trails. They hit one top level classified barrier after another. It was
intensely frustrating.
Shortly after the new year,
a package wrapped in brown paper arrived at the embassy for Fraser. Carefully
examining it, he found no indication of its origination point. Then it hit him.
He knew the writing.
Alex.
Sinking into the chair, he
pulled the package toward himself and began to open it slowly. Carefully
wrapped, padded for protection, was his .38 revolver, lying atop his passport.
Inside the passport was a key, and tied to the key was a tiny paper with a
number and location on it. A locker at a bus station in Saskatoon. Nothing
else.
He closed his eyes, the
edges of the key digging into his palm as his fist clenched around it. Somehow
he knew that his spare uniform would be in that locker. Probably any ammunition
that was left as well. The unshakable feeling that he had been an idiot struck
him. Of course. If Alex had been thorough enough to find his passport, he'd
certainly had time to read at least some of the journals, and would definitely
know about the cabin. The clues had been right under his nose for months, and
in his blindness he had missed them.
With equal certainty, he
knew that Alex was no longer at the cabin. No longer in Canada. No longer
anywhere that Fraser could reach him. Placing the key with shaking hands into
his pocket, he straightened, tugged at his tunic, and knocked quietly on the
Inspector's door. He would take a short trip to Saskatoon and retrieve his
belongings. And when he returned, he would take Ray out to dinner, and try his
best to explain the darkness.
Perhaps, for once, he would
make the right choice. Light to balance the darkness. If fate was kind.
Fate was seldom kind.
finis