From: kidd.wolfe@verizon.net   
      
   Title: Sunshine   
      
   Author: Flutesong   
      
   Email: Flutesong@hegalplace.com   
      
   Keywords: M/K Slash   
      
   Spoilers: Anytime after the Sleepless and before Terma and Alex still   
   has 2 arms   
      
   Rating: R - m/m sexual implications and occasional profanity   
      
   Summary: Mulder and Krycek 'find' each other   
      
   Warning: M/K SLASH   
      
   Disclaimer: CC and 1013 own it and all rights therein. I own the   
   lurve.   
      
   Orignally published in the 2003 Zone Zine for information about how   
   to get one, contact Sue Ashworth Sashworth@shaw.ca/   
      
   Sunshine   
      
   High noon, but I'm not the villain in black today. Today I'm in white   
   and I cast no shadows at all.   
      
   Bare feet, white baggie shorts and an old white painter's hat blend   
   me in perfectly with the rest of the Saturday lunchtime crowd hanging   
   around the South Beach Hotel bar.   
      
   Christ! My skin is so pale, but that only enhances the snowbird   
   tourist illusion.   
      
   Only this time, it's for real. Well, almost for real. Alex Krycek   
   never took a vacation in his life, but Alexander Trace does.   
      
   Alexander Trace never harmed a soul in his life. He's an illustrator   
   for the machine tools trade, draws boring rotors and widgets, and   
   makes them look sexy as hell for the salesmen's catalogs.   
      
   There are a few salesmen in the crowd and they think Alexander Trace   
   is sexy as hell, even without his pen and paper. I intend to   
   capitalize on that later. Just now, I want a sloe gin fizz, a plate   
   of fresh fish and to watch the boys go by.   
      
   The mark Nicotine Breath wanted erased made it easy on me and snorted   
   enough coke up his nose to give himself a heart attack. And, he did   
   it hours before I got here. He's one of a dozen bodies any weekend on   
   Miami Beach washes up at the morgue.   
      
   So, I've got time to spare and money to spend and I intend to spare   
   no expense at all.   
      
   I feel a hesitant tap on my shoulder. //You had better be very good-   
   looking to make it worth me turning around// I take a bite of the   
   fish //very, very good-looking// "Eh, Mr. Trace," the voice says   
   tentatively. "I think you should meet this guy. He's an author who   
   needs some advice about harvesters for his murder mystery. Thought   
   you might like to help him out."   
      
   I recognize the voice; it belongs to the pimply pool boy. He picks up   
   the discarded beachwear, empty bottles and used rubbers from the   
   saltwater poolside and sand dunes early in the morning. He's going   
   places someday with his ability to attach names, faces and   
   occupations to the transient guests, but I'm not helping him to get   
   there. I shrug his fingers off my shoulder and take another bite of   
   fish.   
      
   I hear, what must be the author, harrumph "asshole" under his breath   
   and the squeak of his tennis shoes as he turns to walk away.   
      
   The kid sighs, but I don't care. I would recognize that muttered   
   expletive anywhere. I heard it every time a fellow Fibbie walked by   
   our desks in the bull pen and interrupted his private pursuits,   
   whether they be alien hunting or porn, and asked him to hand over   
   some actual work.   
      
   //What the fuck is HE doing here? And posing as a mystery writer? Too   
   delicious to not take the bait// I swivel on my seat and he catches   
   site of my profile before he's completely made his turn and gets his   
   feet tangled as he quickly turns to get back. I jump to my feet and   
   grab his arm, steady him and apply enough pressure to turn his   
   natural golden brown skin tone to an off-greenish shade.   
      
   Neither of us speaks and it comes to me that he is afraid I will   
   blurt out `Mulder' and ruin his cover. I grin at him and he grinds   
   his teeth.   
      
   I look at Poolside Boy and he quickly makes the   
   introductions, "Alexander Trace this is Isaac Foxx. He needs an   
   expert on machine parts to flesh out the murder in his book."   
      
   "Isaac," I say in greeting and palm the kid a ten with the hand   
   that's not bending Mulder's index finger backwards. I wish I could   
   tell the kid to go home, tell the mom, who taught him his manners   
   that he is a fag and get on with his life. But I am not Dear Abby, so   
   I don't.   
      
   "Alexander," Mulder growls.   
      
   "You can call me Alex," I reply, still grinning, "All my friends do."   
   Poolside Boy leaves us and I reach around with my free hand and pat   
   Mulder down. Since he's dressed in shorts and tee shirt too, there's,   
   unfortunately, not too many places I can check for a hidden gun.   
      
   "Now, now Mulder," I whisper in his ear and he quivers, I only wish   
   it weren't with rage, "Stay cool and we'll walk hand in hand to the   
   beach. No one will notice. All the boys are doing it these days."   
      
   Mulder nods and I swear I can hear his teeth grind some more. //Good   
   thing he has dental coverage with the FBI//   
      
   We walk hand in hand down towards the ocean. I never let up on the   
   bent finger and delicious images of Mulder bending over, oh, almost   
   anything, occupy my thoughts.   
      
   He attempts to slug me, of course, as soon as we are halfway hidden   
   behind a dune, but I am not the Alex Krycek who bleeds for Fox Mulder   
   today. So, I twist his arm sharply and he stops, looks at me in   
   surprise and says, "Fuck you." I say, "Maybe later," and he actually   
   gets kind of cross eyed. I'm not sure if it's from the painful grasp   
   I have of his arm or my words, but it looks good on him, regardless.   
      
   I laugh and he goggles some more. The sun feels fine and I can almost   
   taste the salty wind on his lips. //I've got Mulder, the surf and the   
   sun. Life doesn't get much better than this// He tries again to ruin   
   the moment, but I kick his feet out from under him and he lands flat   
   on his back. I am so glad he didn't land on his face and get a   
   mouthful of sand. I want to kiss him, but I don't want to eat sand in   
   order to do so. I cheerfully sit on his chest.   
      
   "So, `Isaac'," I say blandly, as if he weren't mad enough to spit and   
   rigid enough beneath my ass to come if he tries to wriggle enough to   
   dislodge me, "What do you need to know about harvesters? Got a killer   
   out there who isn't content using butcher's knives or something to   
   hack up his victims?"   
      
   //Now there's only one-way to get Mulder's mind off of vengeance when   
   he is anywhere near me and that's to distract him with information.   
   Mulder needs to know things. It's his reason for living and putting   
   up with all the shit he has to wade through every day of his life. If   
   I could get the upper hand like I have so far today, more often, he   
   would actually get more information. But I really hate talking   
   through a bloody nose and a split lip, so usually I shut up and get   
   away//   
      
   "Fuck you," he says again.   
      
   I roll my eyes, "Haven't we already had this part of the   
   conversation?" He tries to buck me off. It's quite lovely, really. I   
   can feel his erection has a mind of its own and doesn't want to stop.   
   The head on his shoulders, however, or maybe its Scully's voice he   
   hears in the gulls' squawks, so he grits his teeth and goes still.   
      
   I am feeling high on the unexpectedness of the encounter and joy that   
   we have time to play or rather I have time to play. I have no idea   
   what kind of case Mulder is on and if catching the bad guy is   
   actually immanent. I don't know if Scully or Skinner are about to pop   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)