Title: "Great Men"
Spoilers: "Two Fathers"
Keywords: K/Sp, Slash, PWP
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Pyrephox18@aol.com

Disclaimer: Take my apologizes, oh great Carter! I've been naughty with your
creations.
Summary: Missing scene from Two Fathers.

Author's Note: This was just dying to be written. I can see the audience turning
green already at the thought of NC-17 with Spender, but hey, *I* think the
fellow's about to redeem himself, and knowing Carter, bite the bullet soon
afterward. So ... consider this a particularly smutty dirge for the
not-yet-fallen. Oh, and it's not healthy sex. Not at all.

***************

"I'll be my own great man," Spender muttered, and went to brush past the
"baby-sitter" his father had assigned. A baby-sitter that had to do *his* job
for him. The fact that he found himself increasingly more reluctant to do that
job meant nothing. The failure was just another flash in the glare of his own
incompetence. His shoulder struck Krycek's, and he pushed stubbornly,
reluctant to give ground, even though no one gave a damn anyway. The slick
leather-clad shoulder gave way, and Spender couldn't resist a brief surge of
satisfaction. That was before the one-armed man moved, a lightning-quick
strike reminiscent of an enraged cobra.

Before he could do more than draw a startled breath, Spender found himself
kissing the cool fabric of the sofa, one arm wrenched high behind his back, the
other pinned by the impossibly heavy weight of Krycek's prothesis. The
"baby-sitter's" lean body was flush against his bent back, his breathing slow
and steady at Spender's ear. He pressed closer still, until they were touching
from ankle to shoulder; Spender felt his breath catch and hiss in his throat, as
his chest protested the force with which he was held against the sofa's upper
edge. The constriction made it hard to get the breath for speaking, which must
have been why his voice, striving for anger and authority, came out like a
plea, "Get... *off*... of me, you son of a bitch!"

"Not until you've learned the lesson, Junior." Krycek's voice was a silken
whisper, mocking in it's easy grasp of the control Spender had reached for.

"Lesson?" Spender demanded, or made a brave attempt to demand, "What the
fuck are you talking about? Get off of me or..." His breath was cut off with
abrupt and painful certainty as the man above him leaned heavily into him.

With no noticeable change in tone, Krycek continued, "Lesson number one:
great men do not react in anger. Anger invites exposure ... exploitation..." As
he spoke, his arm released Spender's own, and slithered out from between
their bodies. Easily suppressing Spender's off-balance attempt to free his
arms, Krycek's free hand wandered languidly from his prisoner's shoulder,
beneath the jacket, along the sleek lines of Spender's surprisingly well-toned
body. "...violation..." Krycek whispered, as the hand wandered boldly near,
then below, his waistline.

Spender heard himself gasp in a ragged intake of air, and his whole body
flushed. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?" His voice was given
strength by sick fear. They couldn't know ... no one knew ... his blood seemed to
freeze, as Krycek's hand dipped low ... he heard the sharp sound of a snap
giving way, then his gun was torn from his belt, and nudged gently against his
sweat-slick temple.

"...and ultimately, defeat." Spender sagged bonelessly for a moment, relief
flooding his muscles. "What did you *think* I was doing, Junior?" The
whisper against his ear was amused, all smug superiority. Unable to help it,
Spender bristled, reuniting the line of their bodies that had disintegrated in
his slump of relief. Only this time, there was something different.

Krycek pressed into him again, making the change in contour all the more
apparent, as the fabric-blunted bulge of his erection scraped against
Spender's buttocks. "Is this what you thought I was doing?" Krycek purred,
and the warm gust of air sent signals to Spender's body that the man's mind
tried desperately to ignore.

"I don't... know... what you're talking about. Now, *get off*!" Spender gasped,
his voice rising in near panic on the last two words. He could still smell the
copper-and-sulfur of the dissolving thing not ten feet away. Not here, he
prayed, oh God, not here.

God was either busy, or had abandoned his darker children, for the only
answer was a barely audible chuckle, "Oh, Junior, I will ... if you're good, I
might even take you along with me..."

The gun at his temple wavered, and Spender heard the *snick* of the safety.
A moment later, the gun sailed past his head, to land a tantalizingly short
distance away. He stared at it with barely seeing eyes, most of his mind
busily processing Krycek's last words. I'm screwed, he thought, and
wondered how long before the phrase could be applied in a fuller sense of
the word. And then he wondered why he wasn't fighting back.

After throwing the gun away, Krycek paused. He seemed to be waiting for
something. Spender could see the man's one hand out of the corner of his
eye, resting easily on the sofa. Only the raging hard-on pressed insistently
against Spender's back betrayed the facade of indifference that had replaced
the teasing. "What the fuck? Having second thoughts?" Spender growled the
words, refusing to analyze the irrational surge of anger that prompted
them.

Above him, he could *feel* Krycek's smile, a hot and dangerous baring of
teeth near his throat. "Just waiting on you to have your first ones."

Yet again, Spender realized, someone was talking to him like a teacher to a
not-particularly-bright child. Well, fuck *that*. He may not be the most
competent FBI agent, or conspirator, and he sure as hell wasn't any
insane-golden-boy like Fox Fucking Genius Mulder, but *this* he could do.
He arched against his captor, wincing at the pangs from his arm, and
rubbed his body along the one above in a slow, graceful movement that
would barely have been believed from those that thought they knew him.

He felt the whistle of air past his ear as Krycek sucked in a hasty breath.
Krycek's hand dropped in an almost startled movement to the sharp bones of
his hips, but Spender couldn't tell if it was to steady him, or urge him on.
Not that it mattered, at this point in the game. The hand slid around his
waist, almost like before, but instead of stopping at the empty holster, this
time it continued down to his inner thigh, then crept upwards to the crotch.
Spender's own erection was in full bloom, and the hand hovering so close
was the sweetest kind of torture.

Spender strained his hips closer without shame, and tried once again to
twist his arm free of the prosthesis that trapped it, failing. Krycek's voice
rasped out of sight, "Lesson number two: great men know when to let
others take the lead..." Any reply Spender might have mustered was
whipped away, as Krycek began exploring the distended contours of
Spender's pants. He lingered with amazing attention over each blurred
curve, stroking here and there with a casual possessiveness that seemed to
leave scorch marks wherever he touched.

By the time Krycek had worked his way up to Spender's belt buckle, they
were both panting in harsh asyncronisation, the touch of each other's
masked bodies leaping between like black lightning. The belt came off
considerably faster than it had gone on that morning, Spender noted in a
bemused and detached part of his mind as his pants and briefs pooled around
his ankles, one of the advantages of a lover with only one arm, he supposed.
Then that one hand slipped around his newly freed cock, and all pretense of
rational thought exploded.

The hand, rough and cool against Spender's heated flesh, made a few lazy
circles around the tip, sampling the fluid that gathered there and spreading
it in a thin glaze over palm and fingers. The shaft jumped beneath his hand
as Krycek stroked downward, encircling it completely. Spender cried out at
the first stroke, the sound rung involuntarily from his lips. As the stroke
was followed by another, then a rhythm, falling in and out of time with his
racing heartbeat, Spender could feel the desert wind rush of some plateau,
scouring his soul to the whispered, meaningless words that filled his ears.

Seconds, minutes, or hours later, Spender began to shake, to beg, his voice
harsh and loud; he heard that mocking, soft laughter, and didn't care. His
hips were grinding mindlessly into his hand, his ass slapping back into the
cradle of Krycek's crotch. Every muscle in his body froze, and reality
shattered into a million screaming pieces.

When up and down rearranged themselves, Spender found himself leaning
with both hands braced on the arm of the chair, his pants and underwear
around his ankles, and a creeping sense of just how stupid he had just been.
He straightened with the audible snap of a popping joint, then flushed
darkly as he hurriedly bent to pick up his clothes. When he'd replaced the
briefs, he looked around, and looked in confusion to Krycek.

The other man smirked, his eyes blank and dark. "Lesson number three:
great men know how to manage time. And time is running out."

Spender's eyes flew wide, and the flush returned, this time for an entirely
different reason. "Mom! That bastard's going to murder her!" He fumbled on
the pants, and raced for the door of the house. Krycek followed after a
second, glancing first at the puddle of goo that used to be alive, then at the
snakelike length of Spender's belt, curled near the foot of the couch. He left,
sparing not another glance for either of them.

The End.
***********

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