Turbulence [X-Files]
He didn't like to place blame on innocent people; he'd spent enough of his life facing down the business ends of false accusations to get off on doing it to anyone else. So he blamed God a lot, and it got him through the day, even though he was pretty sure He never even given a rat's ass what he thought about Him from the start. Old habits died hard.
"I have to use the little punching bag's room," he said, feeling the muscles at the side of his mouth ache with the effort of speaking. He kept his voice low, not because he was afraid anyone would overhear, but because the plane had darkened with the night somewhere over the Pacific, and the quiet was nice.
Mulder closed the airport copy of Primary Colors he'd picked up while waiting for the flight and tucked it in the pocket of the seat in front of him; travelling on a diplomatic visa apparently wasn't good enough to land you better than coach. Nor was it good enough to get the fuckwit FBI agent with the gun on you to ask if there was anything in the newsstand you wanted to read. "Great. I was just thinking I could feel my toes going numb."
Krycek looked at him, then at the long legs that had him pinned inside the cramped row of seats, then back at him. "I have to take a shit," he said. It was a lie -- he hadn't eaten more than a couple packages of pretzels some thirty hours previous, there was nothing in him -- but it would hopefully get him a minute's worth of privacy, and anyway, lying to Mulder was like comfort food at this point.
"So why be shy? We're all friends here." Mulder gave him a big grin, then unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, gesturing toward the rear of the plane. Krycek refrained from giving him the satisfaction of a dirty look, then stood and headed back.
The plane was half-empty -- who would've guessed Siberia in November wasn't exactly a top vacation destination? -- and most of the bodies in the seats had sleep masks pulled over their eyes and blankets tucked around their chests. Businessmen, he guessed, off to spread the gospel of American capitalism to all corners of the globe, napping to ward off the jet lag so they could meet their former Soviet enemies with bright eyes and firm handshakes. Even the lone flight attendant in the back row appeared to be dozing, though she stirred and blinked as Mulder first opened the door to the empty bathroom, then began to wedge them both inside. "Ah, sir, you can't--"
"It's okay," said Mulder, giving her that cocky fucking smile of his. "He's mentally retarded, IQ of 50, parents were first cousins, you know the type. If I let him go in there alone, he'll get it all over the seat." Whatever her response, Krycek didn't see it, because a helping had on the back of his jacket gave him a shove, and then he was inside, crammed in the tiny bathroom. Standing room only at these types of engagements. At least Mulder hadn't bothered putting the cuffs back on after they'd passed through security. Krycek guessed he figured that by now, there was nowhere to run.
They stood there for a moment, Krycek facing the toilet, hands braced against the slanted wall to keep him from falling forward, Mulder breathing down his neck. "You don't know the meaning of 'privacy', do you?" he asked through gritted teeth.
Mulder laughed low enough not to be heard beyond the flimsy plastic door. "Last time I left you alone in a bathroom, you ended up with an oil change and I nearly got a bullet in my brain for my troubles. So, no. I don't." His fingers drummed audibly on the counter.
"For fuck's sake, I'm not planning anything! If I were planning anything, don't you think I'd have done it by now, before getting stuck on this fucking plane to fucking nowhere with you?" He could have raised his voice, Krycek knew, could have shouted and let the flight attendant chastise them back to their seats, but he never let his volume rise above a rough whisper. Maybe it was some sort of impulse left over from kindergarden -- don't call the teacher over when the bully's pushing you around on the playground, the teacher only ever makes things worse.
Besides, why make more trouble when you were in a world of it already?
There was a sharp pain at the back of his head, and he caught himself half an inch before his forehead struck the wall from the blow. "Jesus Christ, will you stop hitting me?" he hissed, rubbing the back of his head. At least Mulder hit like a girl. Skinner punched like a Marine; he was going to feel that fist in his gut for days.
"Come on, Krycek, do your business." Mulder caught him on the back of his shoulder with the point of his knuckles. "Unless you do need a hand."
There was no good reason in the world that statement should have elicited any response from him, except maybe some crack about how he wasn't some damn dog either, and definitely no good reason that it should have turned him on suddenly as a shot going off. More times than he could count, he'd cursed how the one item they'd left out of his initial briefing two years ago was exactly how immediately and inconveniently hard this cheap-suited bastard was going to make him, time and time again. "Go fuck yourself," he grunted, unzipping his fly and pulling out his dick.
Nearly a full minute passed in silence before Mulder said, "Cat got your bladder?"
"I can't fucking go while you're watching." Krycek turned his head as far as the cramped quarters would allow, giving Mulder a full-blown scowl. "Can't you go spy on someone else's dick?"
That earned him another hit to the head, though he supposed he'd had that one coming. "I'm getting tired of this."
"Yeah, well, you're not the one whose head's sporting several exciting new lumps."
"You're a curiosity to phrenologists everywhere. Hurry up," Mulder said, pressing closer, which wasn't helping the hurrying up process in the slightest. Krycek willed his dick to soften up enough to let him pee, even a few drops, but nothing budged. "You're real useful thus far, you know. I should've just left you back in DC."
"I would've pissed in your car," Krycek spat, and it was the truth.
A hand reached around from behind him and grabbed the collar of his shirt hard, nearly enough to choke, pulling his head back so that Mulder's mouth was right next to his ear. "You know, I could dump your body anywhere we're going, and nobody'd give a rat's ass, even if they did find you before the wolves picked your skinny corpse clean."
The absurdity of it all caught Krycek off-guard, and he did about the stupidest thing he could've thought to do under the circumstances, which was to laugh. "Was that supposed to be a threat? From your new-age, environmentally friendly threat book?"
The fingers clenched in his shirt held him quite securely in place as Mulder's free hand punched him again, with all the awkwardness of a right-handed man aiming with his left. Krycek winced like it hurt, though, lest Mulder get any ideas about punching him until it actually did. "Just give me a reason."
"You can't kill me, Mulder." Krycek grinned at him over his shoulder. "Right now, I'm all you've got."
Not only had he seen this coming, too, he'd essentially been baiting for it from the moment they'd met, practically begging for it, pushing and pushing until he finally got pushed back against. There hadn't even been any doubt in his mind that it was not only possible, but somewhat inevitable. Even so, the tug of Mulder's big hands against the waistband of his jeans caught him off-guard, and by the time he regained his footing again, his pants were down around his knees. "Shut the fuck up," Mulder growled at him, pressing him forward so far he had to turn his head to keep from having his nose smashed against the wall.
In the room's small mirror, lit greenish by old fluorescents, he could see Mulder undo his own jeans and shove them downward, then spit into his palm. Well, of all the places this could have come to a head, he supposed an airplane bathroom was as good as any. And he wasn't going to lie and pretend he hadn't fantasised about similar situations on more than one occasion. He'd been fucked by rougher men in naster places before, after all. "You're a real romant--"
His running commentary was abruptly cut short as Mulder's cock -- thicker than he'd expected, that swimming pool must've been cold -- slammed into him with such poorly-lubricated force that the world went a little white around the edges. He bit his own lip to keep from crying out, turning one hand into a tight fist, and taking the other to his own straining cock. Can't expect a reacharound from a guy who won't even buy you a fucking paperback in an airport newsstand.
Mulder bent over his back now, breathing hard against the exposed skin just above Krycek's shirt collar. Krycek had to hand it to him, the guy fucked ass like a professional -- like someone who'd done it before, and not just a straight guy presented with a convenient hole. Even so, there was no situation that couldn't be improved by a little judicious negativity. "You in yet?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
The fist that connected with his head had him seeing stars for a minute, but by the time they faded Mulder was in fact fucking him harder, driving into him deep. Krycek liked it rough, after all, or at least had learned to like it rough, because the alternative -- enduring it rough -- was no fun at all. Precum dripped out of his own cock, and he slicked his hand up and down its length, jerking fast. No time to make it last; if he didn't get himself off first, he probably wouldn't get the chance.
A soft ding sounded and the fasten seatbelt light went on mere seconds before the plane began to lurch. "Come on," he hissed to Mulder, his voice a murmur from deep in the back of his throat, as he spread his legs wide as his half-divested jeans would allow. "Come on, fuck me, fuck me you son of a bitch--"
"Sir?" A polite knock sounded against the airplane door as the flight attendant made her presence known. "I need you to return to your seats, sir."
"We're almost done," Mulder reassured her, though his voice had a knife's edge to it Krycek would sure could cut through the door. At least he was good to his word -- a few more deep thrusts, and he was coming hot and wet in Krycek's ass. His heart dropped into his stomach as the plane fell a few feet through the air, and then he was coming too, splattering white and sticky all over the toilet seat. This was the reason he tried never actually to sit on the damn things unless he had to.
It occurred to him only as Mulder as wadding up a ball of toilet paper and jamming it into the crack of his ass that Krycek couldn't remember the last time he'd been ridden bareback like that, didn't know if anyone had ever actually come inside him before. Either Mulder trusted him on some weird level or didn't think he'd live long enough for some STD to make a difference. Safe money was on the latter.
"Clean that up," said Mulder, shoving another wad of toilet paper into Krycek's hand. Krycek complied, wiping down the splash zone -- though not before sqeezing a small stream of urine out, just to spite Mulder. By the time he was zipping up, Mulder had turned the lock on the bathroom door and stepped out into the comparatively cool cabin. Krycek followed, only to be met by the concerned gaze of the flight attendant. He looked her in the eye and tried to give her an idiot's smile. It turned out it wasn't that different from his own.
The pilot came over the tinny speaker as they took their seats again, apologising for the patch of rough air, explaining it was the far edge of a thunderstorm over the Pacific that they could expect to feel the remnants of until nearly morning. God was probably listening with no more interest than He ever did, but Krycek closed his eyes and prayed anyway for the plane to crash before settling down to his first -- and last -- good night's sleep in a long time.
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