Hidden Passages
By Anna Otto
Email: annaotto1@aol.com

Classification: VRA
Rating: NC-17
Keywords: M/K
Warning: If m/m interaction is not your cup of tea, 
please don't read any further.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except for Troy and Tanya.
You know who the others belong to.
Archive: With my permission.
Summary: Of love beyond death and promises unkempt. The 
missing scene from the Searchlights universe. You may find 
the main story at

http://www.geocities.com/annaotto.geo/searchlights.html


Hidden Passages

"The currents have their say,
The time is drawing near,
Washes me away,
Makes me disappear.
And I descend from grace
In arms of undertow,
I will take my place 
In the great below."

	Nine Inch Nails, "The Great Below"

There had been no improvements in the interior since he'd last 
been here, except for the thin mattress thrown on the floor. 
The walls are still dank, their uneven surface covered with 
moisture that would sometimes turn to ice during the winter. 
The heavy doors are still locked with chains, creating an 
ultimate impression of cages, in which humans are locked as 
animals. He can understand the rebels' sentiment in creating 
this atrocity. His own kind, he cannot, will not, forgive.

The torch left outside will not last very long. Krycek is 
surprised to have this much light, almost grateful for it. Old 
habits are difficult to overpower, and in the few months that 
he spent here, he learned to appreciate any favors coming his 
way. 

Light had never been one of them.

It caresses the pale skin of the man who lies beside him. He 
could be sleeping peacefully, but the blood staining his hair 
destroys the impression. Krycek tears away a piece of his shirt 
and reaches to wipe the offending red streaks away. He is 
hesitant to wake him, wary of altering anything about this 
strange half-dream. Perhaps, he never had been outside, in the 
world that is too bright for his eyes that grew accustomed to 
constant darkness. Perhaps, the last four months had been a 
long nightmare, a walk through the purgatory. 

Strange, but hell seems a better place now.

"How long have we been here?"

It is only a whisper of breath, and Alex has to lean in closer to 
hear it. "About three hours." The twenty-seven 
hours until death clause remains unspoken. If he doesn't say it 
out loud it needs not be remembered.

Hazel eyes are unseeing, clouded with pain, and Krycek is 
afraid briefly that Mulder has lost sight - a fear that has 
haunted him for too long a time and has become a constant 
phobia. No matter that he might benefit from this 
development, he could never wish it on this man. His worry is 
alleviated when Mulder's eyes focus on his face with an 
ephemeral flash of horror. 

Silently, he moves away and desperately wishes to have his 
mask back. As if incarceration hadn't been humiliating 
enough, the guards had to take away even that last protective 
layer that stood between him and the rest of the race that he 
had long since learned to despise. And now, he knows that the 
initial euphoria painted on Mulder's expressive face upon 
seeing him had been nothing more than relief - a burden of 
unnecessary guilt lifted from his shoulders. 

Mulder is the one who suggested the possibility of him 
infiltrating the rebels' ranks. But, he isn't the one who betrayed 
him - isn't the one who effectively terminated his existence. In 
retrospect, he is mortified to have believed it. The lie so 
conveniently presented to him, the lie that he disregarded 
initially, had taken root within him and, aided by the rotten 
atmosphere, had grown to obscure his memories. It is a poor 
excuse, but perhaps the only one he has. 

"I've been ill," Krycek whispers. And now that I'm well again, 
he adds silently, it's too late for me. Too late for us.

"Ill?" Mulder sounds concerned, obviously misunderstanding.

He smiles thinly, amused despite himself. "Just ignore me."

Mulder tries to raise his head and groans as a new wave of 
blinding pain assaults him. "Oh yes, the fatal collision with the 
door, I remember," he mutters as he waits for it to subside. 

Krycek's hand moves as if of its own volition to smooth back 
the strands of dark hair, but he withdraws it quickly as he feels 
Mulder stiffening upon his touch. "Get some rest," he 
suggests instead and knows that he couldn't follow his own 
advice.

"Alex."

He twitches when Mulder's fingers find his face in the 
dawning darkness and run lightly over the damaged skin. The 
scar tissue can't possibly be this sensitive, the mauled nerve 
endings can never perceive so much, and he wonders if he is 
drawing on his memories or if, indeed, he can feel again.

"What?" his voice splinters. 

Two hands draw him down insistently, towards the hungry 
lips that claim him fiercely, and Krycek responds with 
desperation and intensity that frighten him. His tongue 
explores the familiar contours of this mouth, reacquaints itself 
with each little detail that he's forgotten. He isn't sure whether 
he is drowning or being saved, and for a moment, he doesn't 
care.

The agonized gasp of the other man makes him stop abruptly, 
and he realizes that he is pushing too hard on the broken ribs. 
Guiltily, he shifts positions, waits for Mulder's breathing to 
resume a more normal rhythm. The pain of loss assaults him 
sharply, and he marvels that he should feel it now, near the 
one that he longed for. 

"I love you," Krycek says with a start. A freak, an invalid, he 
has no right to utter these words. Even Tanya's childish 
infatuation with him is a whim that will pass quickly enough, 
and she will laugh remembering her own emotions. There is 
no love in what she feels, could never be. 

Three ruining words, so often misused, so often 
misunderstood, now hang between them, and he can't 
remember if he's ever spoken them before, and he isn't quite 
sure what they're supposed to change.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you," Mulder says. "Your 
face..."

And Krycek doesn't listen to the rest of the sentiment, 
suddenly quite certain that it is not something he ever 
wanted to hear. "It doesn't matter," he interrupts emotionlessly. 
"For a dead man, I don't look half bad."

"Don't you dare," Mulder interrupts him angrily. "We're not 
going to die."

Krycek chuckles indulgently, so familiar is this eternal faith in 
the better things. In many ways, this man is still an ever-
hopeful kid who believes that his sister will come back, and 
that colonization will not succeed, and that his enemies will 
suddenly gain a sense of honor. 

Maybe he even believed that not one of his friends would ever 
doubt his integrity and honesty.

"Death would actually be an improvement," Krycek voices a 
thought that visited him too many times since he was captured 
the first time. His hunger for life has worked against him all 
too often, and he wants to conquer it. Jumping into the tunnel 
leading back to this hideous place was the first step. Soon 
enough, he will make the last.

Before the torch is extinguished, he catches a brief flash of 
dismay on Mulder's face that disappears into a studied bland 
expression. The ever-changing dark eyes drift shut, and 
Krycek hopes that Mulder knows no suffering in his sleep. 

His own eyes close when the light disappears, out of the old 
habit, and every one of his other senses longs to feel the other 
man's presence. Deliberately, he ignores the sensory input and 
waits for the relief that sleep brings.

* * *

The line between the waking world and the unconsciousness is 
blurry, and Mulder isn't certain whether he is awake or asleep 
at any given moment. The encroaching nausea intensifies 
when he smells a grimy bowl with food that a guard had 
placed on the floor. Vaguely, he wonders whether he would 
find any cockroaches in there, or if the lower species had 
wisely escaped the prison, leaving it to the humans. 

The darkness is an oppressive entity, a heavy monster that 
comes to sit on his chest and prevents him from breathing. A 
more lucid part of his mind disapproves of such a silly notion, 
but the monster is stronger, and he is chagrined to hear his 
own pathetic sob borne of fear and pain.

Mulder gropes for the hand of the other man and is 
disappointed not to find him anywhere near. Had he been 
braver, he would have insisted that Krycek be released along 
with the others. But the thought of losing him again, so soon 
after finding him, was more agonizing than any physical 
blows he might have endured. And now, he regrets this 
mistake more sharply than the ones he's already made. No 
stolen touches or insatiable kisses will fix his ailment, and 
when he stands in front of the indifferent crowd tomorrow, he 
only wishes to face it alone.

Somehow, being so close to Krycek only makes the realization 
of the distance between them more bitter. It is as if all the 
obstacles they've overcome in the past are back between them: 
forgotten betrayals, stinging insults, a slew of accidental 
misunderstandings and intentional blows.

As if the months they'd spent working side by side, for the 
common goal, among common friends, have disappeared like 
so much smoke.

He hears a movement in the other corner of the cell as Krycek 
awakens. "Alex," he calls softly. "How long since you've been 
back?"

"Four months."

Mulder lapses into silence punctuated only by the uneven 
rhythm of his breaths. Four months which he'd spent still 
hoping for his return, the last week during which he'd 
mourned his death. The long days before that, when the link of 
communication between them was broken, when no one 
including himself could fathom what had happened to their 
friend and prized resource. What is love, after all, but the 
desire to be with the other person? What is the true worth of 
Alex's words if he'd spent such an eternity away from the one 
he loved without giving so much as a sign of his return? 

Angrily, he blinks away the bitter tears that gather in his eyes 
against his will, decides that they're just a reaction to the 
putrid air of the prison. 

"I've watched the searchlights every day from my attic, and I 
hoped like a fool that I'd see you," Krycek says, and his voice 
is pure longing. "Some part of me didn't believe that you 
were responsible...but even so, I could not come back."

He would accept any explanation, any lie, only not to feel this 
terrible emptiness. "Why?"

"I've been too damaged."

The answer is excruciatingly simple, and Mulder thinks that 
Alex he'd known in the past would never speak these words 
that reek of failure. Perhaps he did change, somehow 
transforming into this fatalistic, wise beyond years, old young 
man. "I don't believe that," he denies it anyway. He still doesn't 
like admitting the truths that don't suit him.

Krycek laughs, a grating sound that pours invisible salt into 
Mulder's open wounds. "And I see you changed not at all."

It is an impulse stronger than his will, his better judgment, his 
rapidly declining energy, and Mulder is shocked to find 
himself in the opposite corner of the cell, locked into a 
desperate embrace with the other man. 

Krycek pushes him away reluctantly. "You should lie down, 
Mulder. For heaven's sake, you can barely keep your eyes 
open."

And he agrees, but still he fights the terrible dizziness, the mad 
spin of the darkness around him. If he is to believe Alex and 
his own dormant pessimism, then tomorrow they will both be 
out of time, and the sensation of loss pierces him like a poisoned 
needle. "I've missed you every day," he whispers dangerously, 
"every second that you've been gone. Even when I knew that 
you were all right, even when we were still in communication, 
I wanted to tell you to quit and come back. I'm not about to 
sleep now. I'm not planning to lose anymore of you."

Their lips meet again, and this time Mulder doesn't terminate 
the kiss even when his lungs threaten to burst. It is Krycek 
who notices his discomfort and gently lowers him to the 
ground, soothes the burning flesh of the familiar face with the 
touch of cool fingers. Mulder's neck arches, begging for 
attention, and receives a careful kiss in return.

This love is at once a benediction and a curse, a blessing and a
sin, and they've never learned to draw the line between the two.

Skin against skin, it is all the sensation that they need to ignite 
the darkness around them. Krycek explores every inch of the 
body beneath him, memorizing it for the last time, certain that 
he will remember everything about this twenty-hour-long 
night beyond life, beyond death, beyond all that he is. 
Listening to every moan of the other man, stirring clear away 
from the damage caused by the guards' blows and Troy's boots, 
he sinks deeper within his long-ignored emotion. 

Their clothes shed, Krycek pins Mulder's hands to the ground, 
immobilizing his upper body as much as he can before sliding 
inside him. For a moment, he fears that he will faint, unable
to bear the agony of knowing that this is the last 
time, that he's lost four months, that he will never feel this 
again. Each thrust is a nail that hammers this realization closer 
to home. Each tear that traces a path down his cheeks leaves a new 
burning scar.

Each shuddering exhalation is a premature goodbye.

"Touch me," Mulder begs, and Krycek relinquishes the grip on 
his shoulders. Cautious, wary of causing more ache to the 
broken body, he cups the other man's erection and moves his 
fingers in the same rhythm with which he drives his hips. 

Mulder gasps in obvious pain, but only holds on tighter, as if 
releasing his lover would cause him worse agony instead of 
relief. Krycek lifts himself up, then buries his aching cock 
deep inside the hot tightness of the other with a final desperate 
movement, and it is enough to send them both over the edge, 
towards the place where neither darkness nor cold, not even 
death can touch them. 

Still, there is a promise between them of something more than the 
dismal reality, as if by sinking into each other, they can escape 
into the tunnel that leads them out of this claustrophobic cell, 
away from the mortal threats. 

"I will not let you die tomorrow," Mulder promises fervently. 
And he wants to finally return the words that Alex spoke 
previously, but it would be an admission of defeat, of no time 
left. Instead, he says with as much belief as he can summon, 
"And I won't say goodbye."

We will get through this, Krycek hears the unspoken 
pledge. He envelopes the other man loosely, protecting him 
from the dampness of the prison, and knows that he would do 
anything to prevent the termination of the life that he holds. 
Betrayals of other men and the shattered past are only smoke 
and ashes when all is said and done, and the future is only 
dismal when he envisions long years spent in solitude. He 
would have never allowed Mulder to remain here alone. 

Troy's revenge is only a mercy upon a second glance.

Krycek doesn't voice any promises of his own, for his faith is 
still sadly lacking. He can only vow to meet death with an 
open face. It's an enemy no greater than the ones he'd conquered 
before, and he doubts that it can defeat him.

They lie together, treasuring each minute before they see the 
outside world again, while darkness keeps a vigil over them, its 
wings providing a shelter from the harm of searchlights. 


The End.

Author's Notes: Oh my, how the mighty have fallen. Er... I 
mean... lo and behold, I finally wrote M/K slash! Well, I 
suppose it had to happen some time.

The people responsible, in alphabetic order: Ashlea for 
persuading me to ignore the fact that Mulder had broken ribs 
and saying, "but they can be careful," Leigh for 
encouragement, Rachel for beta-reading. 

Poor Tanya, my beloved character, was thankfully freed from 
witnessing this disgusting display of tenderness. Thus, this 
story will remain separate from the main story of Searchlights, 
but we all know now that this happened, there is a written 
record, and no one can deny it.

If you wish to tell me what you think - well, go right ahead 
and do it! 

annaotto1@aol.com