Title: Vibrato
Author: Amatia
Email: violinst@pitnet.net
Category: A, slash (K/Sp)
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: none
Archiving: Gossamer, Archive-X, The Ferret Cage. All others, please ask first.
Feedback: Please!
Summary:Set before the final scene in "One Son", Krycek returns a beloved
posession to a melancholy Jeff Spender, and gets some satisfaction in
return.


"Vibrato"
by Amatia


	I used to play the cello, when I was a teenager. When I was young,
and gullible, and I thought music could fill that empty part of me that
grew larger every time my mom disappeared. I used to sit out on the front
porch, when she was gone, and play for hours, unconsciously hoping that the
music would bring her home. I'm sure I was a bother to the neighbors, a
scrawny kid in shorts and a t-shirt playing Bach in the middle of the
night. For the first few years of my ritual, I always played Bach on the
nights I stayed up on the porch. The constant strive for perfection
appealed to me. As I got older, I switched to Shostakovich, the deep chords
of the Second Cello Concerto striking something that was buried deeper
within me than the Bach could ever touch.

	My first lover told me once that I touched him the way a person
would touch a four-hundred year old instrument, reverently, whisper-light.
He said I played his body the way I played my cello, with movement that
seemed to be instinctual. We were young then, and he was as gullible as I,
and when he died from carbon monoxide poisoning, I didn't touch my cello
for almost a year.

	When I did pick it up again, I gave up on Bach and Shostakovich,
and played nothing but etudes for months, strengthening my fingers and
building up my defenses. I didn't want to fall in love with anyone, I
didn't want to be in love with anyone or anything except my cello. The
full-sized, 1856 German hand-made cello that my father had bought before he
left us, and had put in storage for my sixteenth birthday.

	I haven't seen my cello in years, it was stolen from my dorm room
while I was studying for my master's in criminal justice. I never bought a
new one, I never wanted a new cello. I loved that instrument so much, I
didn't want to play anymore. It was a part of me, like Luke had been, and
when my cello was stolen it was like losing Luke all over again.

	I'm sitting in my apartment tonight, alone with nothing but my
thoughts and Walton's Cello Concerto on the stereo.  I'm afraid to play the
recording of Shostakovich that I'm holding in my hand.

	There's knocking on the door.

	I stood up, and went to open it. A man, clad all in black, stood
there. I didn't blink when I saw him, after all, this man was one of the
few who had seen all of me. In the back seat of the car that he'd been
driving me in upon orders from my father. And I don't just mean that he'd
seen my body. He'd seen my soul. He knew my conflict.

	"Alex," I said.

	"Jeff," he replied. "I brought you something."

	There was a box beside him. My heart knew the height, and the
width, but I was afraid to place it. I opened the door wider, allowing him
entrance. He laid the box on the sofa. "Open it."

	My hands were trembling as I pulled the lid off the box, and the
smell of rosin hit me like the smell of an old lover's cologne. I felt his
arms slide around my waist as I parted the blanket that cushioned the
cello. I ran my fingers over the satiny finish, awed, then turned to look
at him. "How..?"

	Alex smiled at me, and said. "I found it in a Syndicate storeroom,
Jeff."

	When I opened my mouth to ask more, he laid a finger over my lips.
"Don't ask it. It'll be better if you don't."

	I nodded, and he kissed me. "Thank you," I whispered against his
lips as we parted.

	"Play something for me," he replied.

	"What do you want to hear?" I asked.

	"How about Bach?" he whispered against my cheek.

	I looked over my shoulder at the cello. "I don't know if I can,
Alex. It...it's been years."

	He let go of me. "Try."

	I watched as he went outside the door, and got abother box. From it
he pulled a folding music stand, and the sheet music for the Bach Sonatas.
As I unwrapped the cello, he set up the music.

	Gently, I lifted the instrument from the box. "Get that chair over
there," I told him, seeking the bow under the blanket. He got the chair,
and I sat down in it, settling the cello between my legs, then tightening
the bow. "Sit," I said as he hovered, gesturing with my bow. He took a seat
on the couch as I brought the bow down on the top string, and carefully
manipulated it into tune, then did the same to the others. Carefully, I
played a scale, feeling the strings vibrate underneath my fingertips as I
relearned what I'd been missing all these years.

	I looked up, over the music, and met Alex's eyes. Ice green, like
the turqouise sno-cones I used to get when I was a kid. He smiled, and the
ice seemed to melt, and pool around the darkness of his pupils in a
different manner than the ice's crystallization. I flexed the fingers of my
left hand for a moment, then positioned them on the fingerboard. "Ready?" I
asked him.

	He nodded. I let the bow hover above the strings for a moment, my
mind absorbing the first few bars of the Second Sonata off the page. Then I
struck, and it was like I'd never stopped playing. The music flowed through
me, and I stopped watching the music, closing my eyes, and started playing
by heart.

	I was halfway through the third movement when I felt Alex's hand
fall on my shoulder. I stopped, startled. "Jeff," he said softly. "You're
crying."

	He brushed my cheek with his thumb, and I felt the wetness there.
"Oh. I didn't notice."

	Alex leaned down and kissed me gently. I tipped my head back to
allow him better access to my mouth, reaching my left hand up to cup around
the back of his neck. He moaned, and I pulled him closer for a moment, then
released my hold on his neck. He took the cello and the bow from me, and
laid them back in the box, then turned at looked at me. I stood up and went
into his arms. "Thank you," I whispered against his neck.

	His breath was warm against my temple. "You're welcome."

	I pushed his leather jacket off his shoulders, pressing close to
him. He dropped the jacket to the floor, and then attacked my loosened tie.
"Don't you ever change after work?" he asked, nuzzling my neck.

	"When I can have you undress me?" I chuckled.

	He threw back his head in laughter, allowing me the opportunity to
press kisses along his neck. "Jeff," he chuckled. "I'm never going to get
your tie off if you do that."

	I paused in my ministrations and let him remove my tie and unbutton
my shirt. They fell to the floor, pooling at my feet. He ran his hand over
my cotton undershirt, then pulled me close for a kiss. I responded with
equal fervor, grasping his black sweatshirt with both hands. "Bedroom," I
gasped.

	"In a hurry?" Alex asked, still laughing. "God, Jeff, didn't anyone
ever show you how to take it slow?"

	"If I remember correctly, our last encounter lasted twenty minutes
at the most, in the backseat of a car that was probably bugged."

	"I checked beforehand," he murmured, nuzzling my neck. "It was clean."

	I arched against him. His hand slipped down and found my belt
buckle. He slid his fingers through it, and pulled me into the bedroom. I
went willingly, of course, feeling as if I couldn't get close enough to
him.

	Deftly, Alex unbuckled my belt. "Don't you think you're wearing too
many clothes?" I asked.

	"I suppose you're right," he replied, pausing to unzip the
sweatshirt and shrug out of it. It made a dark spot of midnight against the
light color of the carpet. "Better?"

	"Somewhat," I said, and he pushed me back onto the softness of the
bed. I ran my hands over his firm chest, then found the buttons of his
jeans. He pressed against my touch as I unbuttoned them, and I felt his
growing erection against my palm.

	Groaning, he kicked the jeans off. "I don't think I had this in
mind when I decided to come here."

	"I think you did, Alex," I replied, wiggling out of my dress pants.

	Alex grinned as he slid his hand underneath my t-shirt. "Ok, so
maybe in the back of my mind I wanted to fuck you." His fingertips found my
nipple, and brushed roughly over it. I moaned, and pushed my hips up until
my cock came into contact with his. He dropped his hips, pressing me back
down into the mattress, and increasing the friction. I arched up and licked
the underside of his jaw, and he groaned. I felt the sound vibrate against
my mouth for a moment.  "Shorts," he whispered. "Off. I can only take so
much."

	I nipped his shoulder in reply, then slid my shorts down over my
hips. My erection bounced free, and bumbed against the cotton of his
briefs. "Want yours off, too?" I whispered in his ear.

	"What do you think?" he growled, reaching down to run his thumb
over the head of my cock. I moaned in pleasure as he teased me for a
moment, then stopped. I opened one eye and looked at him. He grinned at me,
and I sighed in mock exasperation and slid a finger under the waistband of
his briefs, then slowly tugged them down. He moved restlessly, and kicked
them off all the way.

	"You were the one who wanted to go slow," I chuckled as I planted
kisses down his chest, then took him into my mouth. His flesh was hot and
hard against my tongue, and I could taste the salty pre-cum. I moved back,
and he groaned as the cool air hit his saliva-slicked erection.

	His liquid green eyes met mine, and held as he ran a finger along
the cleft of my ass. "Turn over."

	I did, and looked over my shoulder at him. His skin was dark
against the white of his undershirt. "Got any lube, Jeff?" he asked.

	"In the nightstand," I groaned as he rubbed the tip of my cock
again before reaching to open the drawer and take out the AstroGlide. I
watched him coat three of his fingers with it, then I felt one slide
carefully into me. The gel was cool for a moment, but heated almost
instantly. I moaned, and pushed back against his hand. "More."

	Alex pressed a kiss to my lower back as he slid a second finger in,
scissoring, stretching me. The pain was hot, more arousing than really
painful, and I wrapped my hand around my cock. He added a third finger, and
I bucked against him. "Now," I panted.

	I felt his fingers withdraw, and heard the sound of a condom packet
being ripped open. Then I felt the head of his cock against the entrance to
my body. "Ready?" he growled against my shoulderblade.

	"Do it," I moaned in reply, and he pushed into me.

	I cried out as he did, and he paused. "Jeff?"

	"Don't stop," I begged, wanting more, more of that hot sparkling
pain-pleasure.

	He slid, inch by heated inch, into me. A long moan filled the room,
and I didn't even recognize that it was mine until I sucked in a deep
breath of air when he stopped pushing, his balls resting against mine.

	The pain was soon overtaken by a heady pleasure, and I pushed
backwards against him as he started to pump. His hand on my back burned
like a branding iron, and I dropped my head, sweat dripping from my brow
into the pristine white sheets. His cock hit my prostate, and I bucked,
almost making him lose his balance. "Sorry," I moaned as he slid his hand
around to caress my straining erection.

	Alex's chest was pressed against my back now, and his balls hit
mine as he thrust into me, hitting my prostate each time. His fingers
danced over my cock like a pianist's on a keyboard playing Rachmaninoff. Or
Tchaikovsky? I was too aroused to care, and too close to the edge to care
about caring. All that mattered was this man fucking me, and the steady
thrusts that grew in frequency.  "Oh, God," I heard him murmur against the
back of my neck, and then something in Russian that I couldn't translate. I
felt like I was on fire, every nerve ending in my body somehow connected to
my ass.

	In my mind, I heard music, the same tempo as his thrusts, the sound
crescendoing as he thrust harder, his hand pumping my cock faster, until
the music reached a deafening climax, and we cried out together - me his
name, and he something unintelligable. Through the haze of my orgasm I felt
heat pour from him into me, and his thrusts slowed, and he collapsed
against my back. My arms and legs gave out, and we slid down into a tangled
heap in the sheets.

	"I feel like I should say something prophetic," he murmured against
my neck. "But I don't have the strength."

	I grinned at him, tiredly. "You don't need to speak at all."

	I pulled him close, our bodies sticking together with sweat and
semen, but neither of us cared. He wound his legs through mine, and fell
asleep only seconds before I did.

	When I awoke, Alex was gone. I was alone in the bed, tangled in the
sheets. The smells of his cologne and sweat were mixed with the scents of
rosin and sex on my fingers.

	And the deep sounds of Shostakovich filled my apartment.

	<end>

	I hope it's not too weird! Let me know what you think. :-))

violinst@pitnet.net
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