Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/721954.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_X-Files, Pillow_Book_(1996)
  Relationship:
      Alex_Krycek/Jerome
  Additional Tags:
      Anal_Sex, 69_(Sex_Position), Rimming, Crossover, Plot_What_Plot/Porn
      Without_Plot
  Collections:
      The_Basement
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-15 Words: 2063
****** A Night in Tunisia ******
by RembrandtsWife
Summary
     A one-armed man meets an Englishman who speaks multiple languages one
     night in Tunisia.
Notes
     This was originally posted to one or more of the XF mailing lists way
     back in June 2002. There are, I think, vague references to the first
     XF movie and possibly to whatever season was airing at the time.
     There are also gratuitous insults of Star Wars, Tunisia, and camels,
     and overuse of the word "slutty". But I still rather like picturing
     these two together. If you've never seen The Pillow Book, the
     character of Jerome was played by Ewan McGregor, who was then about
     twenty-five.
     The underage warning is for the mention of paid sex with partners
     described as "boys". Feel free to imagine they were actually all
     legal adults under American law, even though they don't live in
     America.
Alex Krycek pointed to his empty glass and then held up two fingers. He was
pretty sure he was ordering a double when he held up two fingers, but it was
possible he was telling the bartender something else, like, "I want two boys
for the night," or, "Your mother has sex with two camels." In any case, the
bartender took away the greasy, fingerprinted glass and brought it back, filled
again with some thick blue stuff. Whatever. Krycek took a slug.
He did want a boy for the night, if he could get one. He hadn't gotten laid in
three weeks, unless you counted sand crawling up his ass. He was sick and tired
of watching corn grow for Strughold, sick and tired of wrapping his head up
like Lawrence of Arabia, sick and tired of the flies, the heat, the stench.
Tunisia was the armpit of the universe, in his opinion, the shittiest excuse
for a country on the face of the earth. Nobody would ever have heard of it if
Lucas hadn't filmed Star Wars in Tataouine, just down the road. If "road" was
what you wanted to call it--Krycek called it a line of camel shit.
But there was one good thing about Tunisia, and that was the boys. You hardly
ever saw a woman except around the town well at daybreak, but the men were all
over each other, hugging, kissing, holding hands as they talked, and that was
just the guys who were next-tent-neighbors. In the touchy-feely men-only public
life of downtown metropolitan Oum Saleem, it was relatively easy to pick up a
pretty young man, somebody doe-eyed and smooth-skinned and eager to make a buck
using his mouth and his ass instead of his hands, his back, his camel. Christ,
he hated camels. Put the camel to bed and give him a pretty Arab boy who
thought lube was Allah's greatest gift.
Krycek downed the blue stuff with a grimace and wiped his mouth with his hand
as he turned away from the bar. Had anybody new come in since he last canvassed
the room? No... no, wait. Over there, close to the door. He was new. Red hair
and white linen and a fine, arrogant profile with just a hint of too much jaw.
But no Arab, with that coloring. The man wore a pith helmet with netting over
it like an English explorer. Dr. Livingston, I presume.
The red head turned his way, and Krycek felt those eyes all the way across the
room. Clear eyes, light eyes, unlike the eyes of the pretty Arab boys. With
studied casualness, Krycek turned back to the bar and tried to order a beer
instead of more blue stuff. He was staring with disbelief at the Michelob his
order had gotten him--Michelob? in Tunisia?--when he felt a slight touch to his
elbow.
His gun fingers twitched, but all he did was slant his head sideways. To see
the stranger in white linen lay his hat on the bartop.
"Recommend anything?" A high, resonant voice with a crisp accent that reminded
him of the old man.
"Not the beer." He plucked the cap off the Mick with his left hand and took a
sour pull.
"I prefer Guinness myself." The bartender appeared and the Englishman said
something in quick, colloquial Arabic. Krycek permitted himself to look
impressed.
"I'm a translator." The Englishman smiled. "But I'm happy to meet a native
speaker of English, under the circumstances." The smile widened. "Even an
American." He put out a hand. "My name's Jerome."
Krycek took Jerome's hand. It was as smooth as a woman's but with heavier
bones. "Alex."
The bartender reappeared with what looked like a Guinness. Judging by the lack
of condensation on the glass, it was room temperature, as warm as than blood
and just about as thick. Krycek watched, fascinated, as Jerome raised the glass
to his lips--full, nicely-shaped lips, pale pink rimmed with fine gold hairs--
and downed half the glass in a series of rhythmic swallows that made his adam's
apple bob sinuously.
He turned to smile at Krycek, and there was a little foam still on his lips.
"That hits the spot, I say."
It certainly did, Krycek thought.
The Englishman's hotel room was no better than Krycek's, but it was cleaner and
smelled of lemon. The Englishman smelled of lemon and linen and boyish sweat,
sweat collected in the fine red-gold hairs under his arms and the fiery red
bush at his crotch.
There was no argument over who was going to top, who was going to bottom.
Jerome shimmied out of his trousers--the wheat-colored linen was crisp despite
the late hour and the heat--and threw himself down on the narrow bed on his
belly, legs spread. Even the Arab boys weren't so obvious, and Krycek snickered
appreciatively as he lowered himself over that naked body, leather and denim
against slick skin and rumpled sheets.
"Ow, ow, buckles--" Jerome tossed his head as Krycek bit into one shoulder.
"Take your bloody jacket off, why don't you? Unh--"
He shut up when Krycek licked his ear. "In a minute."
Ear and shoulder and neck were all delicious, and Jerome writhed cheerfully as
Krycek lapped his way down his back, running his tongue down the groove over
his spine until he reached an ass like a perfect peach, round, ripe, dusted
with golden fuzz. Jerome pulled himself up on his knees and gave a little
wiggle.
"Damn, you're a slut." Krycek nipped one buttock.
Jerome yelped. "Takes one to know one, mate."
Krycek nuzzled the cleft of Jerome's ass, wondering if he should do what he
wanted to do. The Englishman was so *clean* compared to the Arabs he fucked; he
smelled like soap underneath the sweat, like lemons underneath the soap, and
Krycek badly wanted to stick his tongue in that little brown hole, the soft
spot in the fruit, and see if he could suck out the sweetness he smelled on the
Englishman.
Who must have been reading his mind. "Go on," he said, "do it. I'm clean." He
raised his hips and waggled his ass.
Krycek dove in, not caring, hungry for the taste of flesh. The taste of lemons,
tart and sweet, under all the other layers. The smell of earth in the cleft of
the man's ass, the prickly softness of the hairs on his balls against Krycek's
good hand, the smoothness of his inner thigh, smooth as a woman's, and the low
grunts of pleasure as Krycek's tongue went in and out. Jerome pushed his ass
back into Krycek's face, pulled away and ground his cock into the sheets.
"Don't come, slut." Krycek nipped one cheek, hard enough to leave a mark this
time. Panting, Jerome flipped over beneath him and squirmed around, too quick
to catch, so that he was underneath Krycek's crotch, plucking at belt and
zipper with deft fingers. "All right, wait."
Jerome waited, a half-smile on his face, as Krycek swung himself off the bed
and stripped in the middle of the narrow room. Boots, jeans, jacket, briefs,
and finally he pushed up the long sleeves of his thin green shirt, to show
Jerome the plastic arm. Jerome's eyes widened, and he nodded. Then his smile
grew from half to whole, and the light in his eyes was like the moon-glow of a
cat's green eyes in the middle of the night. "Come here, now."
Krycek crawled onto the bed, over the Englishman's head and toward his feet.
Jerome got him in a firm grip with both hands, one on his cock, one around the
base of his balls. Krycek braced himself on the fake arm and wrapped his other
hand around Jerome's cock, which was a lot bigger than he'd expected. Bigger,
and sharply salty, filling up his throat.
He'd never been wild about sixty-nine; it was hard to concentrate on both ends
of it at once, giving it and getting it. Now he was more aware of Jerome's
ferocious tongue finding its way down his meat in little spirals and digging
into the darkness behind his balls; then his awareness shifted to the slickness
of pre-come trickling down the shaft in his mouth, the slide of the head
against his soft palate. Distracted as he was, though, there was no doubt this
bastard was a champion cocksucker. Somebody had taught him well.
Krycek's balls were tight when he finally raised his head and gave Jerome a
light slap on the hip. "Roll over, baby, before I blow down your throat."
Jerome gave a throaty chuckle and squirmed out from under Krycek, turning
around like a cat on a mat so that he was lying on his belly again. Krycek hung
onto the bed with his right hand, leaned over, and snagged his jacket with the
other hand, to rifle its pockets for condoms and lube.
He slipped into the soft wet hole so fast he didn't have time to moan. Jerome
moaned for him, arching his back and bearing down on his cock like a porn star.
Christ, this guy was beautiful. And tight, despite how easily his ass took
Krycek's cock. Krycek rolled in and out, in no hurry, while Jerome made breathy
little noises and slutty little grinds of his hips.
After a minute (or thirty) Krycek realized that Jerome was babbling in half a
dozen different languages, most of which he recognized but didn't speak. Words
and phrases coming in a stream, some of them about the sex, some of them not,
all of them overlaid with that oddly lilting British accent, definitely
cultivated and not natural but awfully pretty nonetheless, and Christ! Krycek
was coming, flooding the condom, it felt like, moaning in Russian while Jerome
squeezed him tight.
He pulled out and flopped down between Jerome and the wall, still gasping.
"Shit." He wiped his face with the wrong hand. "That was good."
Jerome stretched. "Has anyone ever told you that you speak Russian with a
dreadfully American accent?"
Krycek turned over, pushing Jerome deliberately closer to the edge of the bed.
"Has anyone ever told you you speak English with a really weird fake English
accent?"
Jerome rolled off of the bed, laughing.
Krycek realized he'd fallen asleep next to the Englishman only when he awoke to
harsh sunlight searing through gauzy white curtains. He was alone in the bed,
but before he could reach for his jacket, Jerome returned, dressed in the same
linen suit as the night before and carrying a small tray with two squat white
cups. The smell of coffee, harsh as the sunlight but more welcome, made Krycek
swing his legs off the bed.
"You're a heavier sleeper than I thought," Jerome observed. He sat down at a
tiny table which had only one chair and offered Krycek a cup. It occurred to
Krycek that this cup of gritty coffee--he knew it would be gritty without even
tasting it--might be the whole point of this encounter. A friendly fuck setting
him up for an easy poisoning. He smelled the coffee and the faint scent of the
other man still on his skin and decided, What the fuck. And drank up.
"I hate to fuck and run, mate, but I've got a flight to make. A meeting with a
publisher in Hong Kong, and then a visit with Mum." He made a face indicative
of Englishwomen who answer to "Mum" and the kind of hats they wear and how
their rooms smell of lilac or lavender, fresh for an hour fifty years ago.
Krycek nodded. "Use the lavatory if you like--it's down the hall, such as it
is--but I've got to go."
He got up, shouldered a satchel, and grabbed his hat off the windowsill. Krycek
lurched to his feet, just in time for Jerome to loop an arm around his neck,
kiss him, and lick the taste of coffee out of his mouth. It woke him up much
better than caffeine ever did. Then the Englishman was out the door, whistling,
something vaguely familiar that Alex couldn't catch.
He went to the window and looked out into the courtyard, a square of white as
bright as a mirror. He figured he might as well take a shower before meeting up
with Strughold.
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