Homecoming,
by Glacis.
An X Files story, rated NC17. No copyright infringement intended.
The pain of
the phantom limb was like white noise for him now, underlying and at times
blanketing out almost everything. Some mornings he would wake up and catch
himself reaching over to massage out the ache of muscles and bone that were
only a memory. Most mornings, he woke himself screaming over how they had been
lost.
He wasn't of
any use to them, not any longer, and so he was cut loose. Nothing in the budget
to pay the able bodied, much less a washed up, used up, empty shell with dead
eyes. A behind-the -scenes pat on the head, a ridiculous excuse for a pension,
and a place on a list somewhere among the rest of the cast-offs for third rate
work on a ruined stump. For this, he served his country. Da.
Right.
He had to get
the hell out of here.
Aleksandr Semyonovich
Krycek carefully locked his front door, one handed,
and walked out into the snowy street.
Time
to call in the last of the markers. Time to leave home ... and
go home.
The
Congressional hearings made just as much difference as he had expected them to
make.
None.
Maybe Krycek was right. They were just too powerful to reach
using the regular channels of law enforcement and the justice system. Wrenching
his mind away from the many failures of "justice" in the last several
years, Special Agent Fox Mulder stopped playing with his engraved name plate
and cracked it down on the desk, hard.
Nobody
noticed.
There was no
one there to notice. His partner was off cutting up what appeared to be the
petrified remains of a very, very old woman down in the morgue. He'd graciously
declined to view the proceedings, manfully ignoring her smirk at the
instinctive grimace he hadn't - quite - been able to hide. It wasn't an X File, anyway, so it wasn't something he needed to see. Just another weird case that VCS couldn't handle on their own.
Skinner would probably be pissed that he hadn't volunteered any help, but he
couldn't find the energy to care. There was nothing pressing on his plate, at
the moment, and he had too many things on his mind to worry about one piddling
case with absolutely no paranormal aspects to it.
Idly tracing
the edges of the avalanche of files on his desk with the tip of his finger, he
watched with absolutely no interest as three of them lost the fight to gravity
and spilled their contents amongst the mess on his desk. Case notes, carefully
written, logically argued, brilliantly analyzed ... and they would never see
the light of day. File photos, each painstakingly logged, annotated, sorted ... a waste of time and energy. Nobody'd
ever believe him, anyway. Even Scully. Well, maybe
Scully. In a weak moment. After exhausting every
scientific argument she could come up with and a few she probably made up,
although he'd never get her to admit it.
God, he was
tired. And he was afraid. For the first time since he'd been injected,
stripped, tied to a table with chicken wire and had that black
whatever-the-hell it was splattered all over his face, he was able to admit it.
He was scared to death. All his big talk about being willing to do anything, go
anywhere, face anyone to get to the truth, and where had it led him? To hell,
in the guise of a Russian slave labor experimentation camp, sold out by the man
he'd been stupid enough to trust even a little bit for reasons he refused to
examine, trussed to a table and force-fed alien contaminants. And he was scared
shitless.
He didn't
know what to do, or who to turn to. He couldn't tell Scully. She had her own
nightmares to deal with, she didn't deserve this. Quite honestly, he wasn't
sure he had the guts to tell her. He didn't know what he'd do if she told him
he'd asked for it, as he deserved to hear her say. It was the truth, after all,
and Scully didn't shy from the truth. Until recently, he hadn't either. Wasn't
sure he still had the nerve. Or the fire, for what good would
it do? The evidence would only be taken, shredded, slaughtered in a cell
before it could ever see the light, leaving nothing behind but the emptiness
and the fear. Was this what she had felt, losing those memories, during the
time she was abducted? Was this the gut-level fear she'd had to fight? All the
while he had been urging her to remember, immersing her in cases with similar
aspects to them, pushing at her to remember, relive. God, he could be an
insensitive bastard at times.
"Yeah,
but we love you anyway."
He snapped
his head up at the soft, warmly humorous words. "Hey," he greeted his
partner, "didn't hear you come in."
Bright blue
eyes stared at him critically, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the still
raw scrapes on his face, the evidence of fatigue in the deep lines alongside
his mouth. "Uhm-hm," she agreed absently,
"you were too busy talking to yourself. Anything you want to tell me,
Mulder?" The teasing tone didn't hide the seriousness of the query. She
was worried about him. He hadn't been quite right since he'd escaped from
"You
mean it?" He looked half hopeful, half joking. She didn't have a clue what
he was talking about. So much for telepathy, she snorted silently.
"Mean
what?" She moved efficiently to her desk, hanging her coat over the back
of the chair and picking up the latest batch of toxicology reports from the
lab. His disgusted sigh brought her attention back to him.
"That
you love me." She stared at him as if he'd grown another head for a long
moment, then abruptly grinned.
"Of
course I love you, Mulder. Like a particularly irritating cocker spaniel, but it's sincere affection."
He couldn't hold
the affronted look for very long, responding to her seldom-seen grin with one
of his own. It faded quickly, but she didn't notice, entrenched in the tox reports again. Something about the venom levels in the
last test didn't match her expectations, under the circumstances of the
victim's--
"Oh,
shit." The vehement curse yanked her attention back to her partner again,
and she glanced over at him. He was staring at his computer screen with a
strange mixture of revulsion and shock, mixed with something else she couldn't
identify. It looked almost like anticipation, but that didn't fit the rest of
his reaction.
"What is
it, Mulder?" She was out of her chair and looking over his shoulder before
he could clear the screen. She noticed the abortive movement he made to hit the
"next" button, but didn't question him on it. She was too busy
staring at the words on the monitor.
TO: Spooky
FROM: The
Frog
SUBJ:
Incoming
Thought you
might like to know an old friend is coming to visit. Looks like a long stay.
Seems the Rat got his paw lopped off and doesn't like the replacement parts in
the old country. Plus he's got a hard-on for an ashtray and he's making like an
extinguisher. Watch your back, Spookster.
It wasn't
signed, and the email addresses were masked, but Scully recognized the name Frohicke had used in email correspondence with Mulder in
the past. She'd always found it appropriate, given the little man's protuberant
eyes and rounded face. But the Rat? A
lopped paw? What on earth was he talking about? "Mulder?"
He continued to stare at the message, and she placed a gentle hand on his
shoulder. "Who's the Rat? What is he talking about?"
"Krycek," he whispered, and her hand clenched
instinctively before she forced herself to relax it.
"And the
... paw?" There was more he wasn't telling her. Maybe this would be the
opening he could use.
"When we
-- I escaped from the prison camp, I took him with me. There were ... You
remember the peasants I told you about, the ones who smuggled me from
She drew a
deep breath to settle her stomach, the thought of an
amputation under such brutal conditions causing unwelcome sympathy even for an
enemy, then focused her thoughts on the rest of the message. "And
the ashtray? Is he saying what I think he's saying?"
Mulder
settled deeper into his chair, slowly closing his eyes as he began to sort
through the possible ramifications of this new development. "He's going
after the Cancerman, Scully."
"Why?"
Her confusion was evident in her voice. "I thought they were on the same
side?" She moved around him and settled herself on the edge of the desk.
He swiveled to face her, and cleared his throat.
"Not any
more." At her cocked brow, he elaborated. "I did a bit of checking.
Seems Cancerman double-crossed him. That's how he got
the DAT tape. Cancerman tried to kill him, and he
escaped."
"Then
the ... silo." She couldn't quite bring herself to say 'oil- alien' even
if that did seem to be the only explanation that fit the evidence.
"Right." He stared at her,
knowing what she wasn't saying, surprising her by not pursuing it. "He was
... persuaded to give the tape to Cancerman. Then he
got out, somehow, and started feeding me the information on the bombs, trying
to enlist me to help him take out Cancerman. I think
he's back to that plan, Scully. He lied to me-" he ignored her muttered
"So, what else is new?" and continued, "about his parents, and
there's more to this whole mess than he told me. This could be our
chance."
"To
do what, exactly?" Her voice, her posture, her stance from her shoes to the
bristling red hair told him exactly what she thought of any contact with Krycek. Aside from a swift ride to the
nearest federal penitentiary -- or a bullet between the eyes.
"To
use him.
Like he used us." He leaned back, and pinned her
with the full force of his stare. "He has information, and he's carrying a
grudge. He has nothing to lose, because he has lost it all. We propose a deal : our help for his information. He has already said the
only thing these men fear is exposure. We offer him that, in exchange for the truth."
He stared earnestly into her unconvinced face. "It's worth a try,
Scully."
"And how
do you propose we set this up, Mulder?" She was willing to go along, to a
point. She wasn't willing to decide, just yet, what that point might be.
"Easy,"
he grinned, practically oozing innocent intent. "I set up a meet with Cancerman."
She stared at
him for a full minute. He held the grin. Eventually, she shook her head.
"Well, if that doesn't draw the rat from the woodwork, I don't know what
will."
It didn't
take long to find a hole to hide in. It took even less time, thanks to the
efforts of the Library of Congress to make internet access available to the
unwashed masses, to contact the shadows he needed to find and get the
information he sought. It surprised him, a little, when he saw the person
involved in the meet. It wasn't like Mulder to seek out meetings in the dark
... his style was to openly confront the enemy. The only people he met in the
dark, usually, were the ones he called friends. Or sources.
Whatever his reasons, the smoking bastard wouldn't pass up
the meeting. He had some sort of vested interest in Mulder. Krycek would use that. He had a time. A
place. Patience, money, and a back alley transaction for the right
weapon would complete the scene.
Then maybe he
could get his damned arm seen to. The itching in the elbow that wasn't there
any more was driving him nuts.
At the same
time Alex Krycek was hacking the net in the Thomas
Jefferson room, eight quiet men gathered in a tastefully appointed office in a
high rise in
Silencing
Mulder would simply be an added, secondary benefit of the operation. He'd been
an irritant for too long. Their primary target was more than an irritant,
however. He was a danger to be eliminated.
The
atmosphere in the office was remarkably clear, and the ashtrays were clean when
the meeting dissolved.
He'd picked a
good spot for it, anyway. Mulder had good instincts, for an officer of the law
and seeker of truth. He'd've made a really good
shadow, if he wasn't a spook. The irony appealed to his sense of humor,
tattered as it was, and his lips stretched into an expression that could be
loosely described as a smile. It had been so long since Krycek
had had anything to smile about that the expression didn't come naturally to
his face.
He eased
further back into the shadows of the parking garage, leaning gingerly against
the concrete pillar, trying to hear every breath the federal agent took. Looked like the Cancerstick was late, not
unusual. The bastard liked to play mind games with people. Even as the
thought crossed his mind, he heard the swish of rubber on pavement, and a late
model dark blue Lexus pulled into view. Mulder straightened from his position
by his own tan Taurus, but didn't move forward to greet his nemesis. Waiting for the other man to come to him. Krycek approved. Mulder was no slouch when it came to power
games himself. Concentrating as he was, the tiny echoing click took his
attention immediately. Peering into the surrounding shadows, he saw the
movement behind and to the right of Mulder at the same moment the cigarette
smoking man opened his door and stood up.
Time seemed
to slow, and he reacted instinctively. He didn't think about the motivation for
his actions until much later.
The glint of
reflected light off the scope was his only focus as he threw himself violently
forward, skidding across the greasy concrete floor, aiming his right shoulder
in a perfect block at Mulder's torso. He heard four
distinct cracks, no attempt at a silencer, why would they need one? No
witnesses, not this late, and everyone at the meeting was
meant to die. As the world tilted, he heard answering fire. Not from Mulder, he
was lying on top of the taller man, blanketing him with his own body. From the shadows to Mulder's left.
A Sig Sauer P228. He looked up, as time crashed back
to its normal tempo, to see what looked like a wounded but still breathing Cancerman drop back into his seat and gesture wildly for
the driver to peel out. In the flurry of sensation, sight and sound, he
registered the solid thump of a body in the far shadows, the clatter of a
rifle, the sharp sound of Dana Scully's voice calling something
indistinguishable, the warmth of Mulder's chest under
the side of his face, the strength of long legs tangled with his, the steady
pump of blood washing along his own abdomen, a fire spreading with startling
suddenness through his side ... and his fucking elbow was itching again. Then
everything went black.
It had all
gone to hell so fast. It had worked, but it had gone to hell, anyway. Now he
had one body to explain, another to tend to, blood all over everything and
Scully barking questions in his ear. This had just not gone right. Mulder's mind went into automatic as his hands flew over Krycek's prone body, trying to shift the sudden dead weight
and determine the extent of the damage. He was wet, a warm viscous sensation of
blood slicking between his fingers as he probed the other man's side, clenching
his fist in the material to try and slow the bleeding.
"Mulder,
are you all right?" The concern in her voice finally penetrated his
abstraction, and he nodded, managing to sit upright and shifting Krycek to a more comfortable position.
"I'm
okay. Not so sure about Krycek. What about the
shooter?" His answer was a little muffled as he bent to try to see the
wound in the dim light.
"Dead,"
she returned succinctly. "And him?" He didn't need to look to know
she was staring at the slumped body sprawled across his lap.
"Not
quite," he returned with an attempt at humor that didn't ring true. He was
worried, and he wasn't willing to examine the depth of that worry yet. More important things to do now. Like make sure his
hoped-for source of information didn't bleed to death all over the floor.
"But he soon will be, if we don't get him out of here."
Scully knelt
down, stripping off her jacket as she did so. Efficiently flipping the material
into a thick pad, she pressed it against the torn flesh and held Mulder's hand firmly against it. "You keep that there,
we'll take him to a clinic--"
"We
can't take him to a hospital, Scully. They'll just finish the job."
Working in tandem, they drew Krycek into an awkward
lift and began to carry him to the car. The body under Mulder's
hands felt like it was all angles and bones, and something was off-kilter, out
of balance. Remembering the reason for the strange feel of the arm pressed next
to his own side, he swallowed hard. Scully threw him an irritated glance and
finished her thought.
"--a
clinic I know where the staff is completely discreet. The doctor's an old
friend of mine."
"Can't
you take care of him, Scully?"
"I will
do a lot of things for you, Mulder, but I won't rob blood banks for anyone, and he's gonna need
some," she said wryly as they shouldered Krycek
into the back seat, Mulder climbing in after him to maintain pressure on the
bullet wound. "Besides, I really don't like digging bullets out of bodies
on my sofa. Plays hell with the cleaning bills."
He stared at
the back of her head for a full minute before he cracked up.
By the time
Doctor Polson finished patching Krycek up, it was
nearly three in the morning. He hadn't needed quite as much blood as Scully had
feared, and the removal of the bullets went very well, both having lodged in
muscle and soft tissue with no organ or bone damage to repair. That wasn't what
had concerned her, however.
"He has
an amazing pain tolerance level, and he heals very well, both a good thing,
given what he has gone through." Her tone matched the tightness of her
face. It had been a rough night, and botched medical procedures made her very
angry. "What do you mean,
"The
hacking job on his arm. What the hell did they use, an ax?"
"What?"
came back at her, in stereo.
"You
mean you didn't notice?" She was incredulous. "I thought you were the
trained observers here?" Muttering something about her tax dollars at
work, she dropped onto the small couch by the wall and leaned her head back.
"Somebody whacked off his left arm. And I use that verb deliberately.
Whoever did it hadn't the faintest idea what they were doing. The stump is
covered in scar tissue, the end of the bone feels jagged and the x-rays show
bone splinters in the surrounding flesh and embedded in the scar tissue. He's
going to need more surgery than I can provide here, and probably several in a
series, to clean up the mess. Some reconstructive work has been done, but the
damage is still extensive. And," she swallowed dryly, eyes closing in
distress at the thought, "from the pattern of the scarring, it looks like
he moved ... a lot ... during the amputation."
"Oh, my
god," Scully breathed.
"Moved?"
Mulder asked, looking somewhat confused. "Wouldn't they, I don't know,
strap him down or sit on him or something ..." His voice trailed off.
"He was awake."
Both women
stared at him. "Yeah," Scully agreed. "When you said peasants,
you weren't kidding, were you, Mulder." It wasn't a question.
Mulder shook
his head, clearing it of a nightmare image of Krycek
writhing in agony as his arm was cut off. It made the bile rise in his throat.
"It'll have to wait," he forced out. "Right now we have a higher
priority -- keeping him alive." Turning to Doctor Polson, he asked
urgently, "When can we move him?" Before she could voice her
automatic protest, he hurried on. "For both his safety
and yours. There are people out to kill him who don't
particularly care who gets in their way. We have to take him to a safe place,
and get him away from here, before they come looking for him."
Scully and
Mulder exchanged glances, then Scully turned to her
friend. "We'll take care of him,
"When
can we take him home?" Mulder pressed, feeling like a kid at the pound
asking about a puppy, pushing down that odd feeling of anticipation again.
"As soon
as he wakes up," she answered, not happy with the situation, but
understanding that there really wasn't any alternative. Nodding at them both,
she pulled herself up from the couch and returned to the recovery room,
determined to make her patient as comfortable as possible for the move.
As the trim
figure disappeared down the hall, Mulder turned to his partner. "I'll take
care of him, Scully. Just tell me what I have to do."
She thought
about it for a moment, then sighed. "Probably
the best idea, Mulder. I can't promise I wouldn't mix a hefty dose of
arsenic in with his chicken broth. If I took care of him it might very well be
permanent."
"You're
a doctor," he half-teased. "You wouldn't harm a patient."
"He
killed my sister," she retorted, deadly serious. "For him, I might
make an exception."
Having no
answer for this, Mulder settled against the wall beside her and waited for Krycek to wake up.
There were
times when having social misfits and near-hermits for best friends came in very
handy. Hame Ill Dai Me was a lovely horse ranch in the
middle of nowhere outside Alexandria, West Virginia ... perfect for a
convalescent who didn't want to be found but still close enough for Mulder to
make the necessary appearances in the office until he could clean up the most
pressing paperwork and take Assistant Director Skinner to a nice, quiet lunch
in an unbugged, seldom frequented restaurant. A quick
synopsis degenerated into a detailed explanation, ranging from alien rocks to
petrified scientists to Siberian work camps to chicken wire and murdered elders
in nursing homes, covering terrified peasants, crawling alien parasites and
wounded turncoats along the way. By the time the second hour stretched into the
third, Walter Skinner was on the team. He and Scully would lead the search for
the Cancerman and try to figure out what had happened
to the Consortium, and who had targeted Cancerman,
if, indeed, the old man had been the target. Knowing the way they operated,
Mulder or even Krycek could have been. Between them,
the AD and Scully would follow up every source they could find for information.
Meanwhile, Mulder would be 'out of the area' on 'official business'.
Translated, he would be keeping out of sight in case he *had* been the target,
and keeping Krycek alive long enough to find out
anything he might happen to know. As plans went, it wasn't the most well-detailed, but it was all they could do. They
didn't have much time, and another hit might very well succeed.
It wasn't the
first time he surfaced, or even the second, but for
once the bed wasn't floating. This was an improvement. He thought.
Of course,
the fact that he had absolutely no idea where the hell he was or how he got
there wasn't doing much for his peace of mind. The last cogent memory he could
dredge up had some really pleasant aspects to it -- namely the sheer tactile
pleasure of having every inch of Mulder's long body
touching his, something he only fantasized about in places where he was very
securely hidden. Those orgasms had a tendency to make him pass out, and he
couldn't indulge himself very often. On the other hand, other parts of the
memory weren't nearly so enjoyable -- like the fact that he felt like someone
was trying to turn his torso inside out with a blow torch, and the cold knot in
his gut that told him he'd been too late, fucked up again, hadn't been up to
the job, and this time Mulder was dead. Unable to face that certainty yet, he
allowed his eyes to drift shut. Maybe this time he'd get lucky and he wouldn't
surface again.
"Give it
up, Krycek. You can't hide forever, and you're not
faking well enough to fool anybody."
His eyes
popped open, widening enough to hurt. He stared at the tall figure slouching in
the door frame, and couldn't stop the grin that stretched his face until his
cheeks hurt almost as much as his eyes. From the distrustful glare Mulder was
sending his way, he had the sneaking suspicion he looked like a complete idiot,
but it wasn't like it was something he could control. Here he was, alive, and
there was Mulder ... alive ... and he wasn't being pounded on ... yet. Things
were definitely looking up. He took a deep breath, then regretted it instantly
as the muscles in his side stretched, the stitches pulled, and his abused body
screamed abuse at him. He must have looked pretty bad -- or at least
non-threatening -- because Mulder abandoned his post at the door and came to
stand at the side of the bed, examining him critically.
"You
look like shit." Well, that answered that question. He didn't have enough
breath to actually answer the question, if there had been one buried in the
comment, so he contented himself with raising his eyebrow. His ex-partner
seemed to take that as encouragement, because he continued.
"I don't
know what you've been doing to yourself over the past year or so, Krycek," and you don't want to, believe me, Mulder, he
thought but kept to himself. "But I will know, eventually." Probably,
he cracked to himself, but again stayed silent. Mulder was on a roll and he
didn't want to stop it prematurely. Who knew what might slip out? "Now
that you're finally awake, I'm going to get some answers. Starting with, why
are you after the cigarette-smoking man? Why did he turn on you? And what the
hell happened at
By the time
he finished the litany of questions Mulder had the younger man by the shoulders
and was shaking him, hard, frustration evident in every line of his body. Krycek really wished that he was better able to appreciate
the contact, but the rough movement was threatening to make both his head and
his side explode, and all he managed was a gasping, "Please!" before
the room started to spin again. As he sank back into unconsciousness he thought
fleetingly that one day Mulder was going to touch him without trying to beat
him to death, and if -- when -- it happened, he'd probably pass out from sheer
expectation and miss all the fun. Then it all went black. Again.
Mulder looked
at the limp form dangling from his hands and felt something he hadn't ever
expected to feel when faced with Alex Krycek. Protectiveness. And no small measure of guilt. Sure, there
was a sense of satisfaction in taking out some of his frustration on such a
worthy target, but then he'd never really considered himself as the kind of
person who beat up on defenseless people, either. And this wasn't the first
time he'd done it to Krycek. Remembering fists
pounding into the stomach of a handcuffed man, and a rifle butt to the gut of a
weaponless man, and overlaying that visual image with the weak, injured man
currently hanging from his hands, he froze. He stared at the wide chest, bulky
from the bandages, his eyes traced the vulnerable line
of his throat to the rounded jawline, shadowed with
four days of beard growth that only accentuated the paleness of the cheeks
beneath the shadow. Long lashes lay swept over the thin skin beneath his eyes,
circles under the closed lids reinforcing the unusual weakness of his enemy.
With surprisingly gentle hands, he settled Krycek
back onto the bed and cupped his hand under the younger man's head,
straightening his neck to lay him more comfortably against the pillows. Pulling
his hands away, he felt his fingertips linger as they brushed across the curls
at the nape of his neck, the soft skin under his jaw, the curve of the edge of
his earlobe. When one long forefinger found its way to the fullness of the
lower lip framed in the scruffy beard, he froze again.
Oh, shit.
Maybe there
was a reason he kept using Krycek for a punching bag.
And it didn't have a damned thing to do with his father's death, or Scully's
abduction, or the DAT tape. Sublimation was a wonderful thing.
It was deep
green eyes, and an endearing grin, covering the true nature of the bastard. It
was wide shoulders and a delectable ass and thighs that made his mouth water.
It was a mouth made for suckling and sucking, and the curve of neck and
shoulder just perfect for him to bury his face in. It was soft dark hair that
his fingers itched to tangle in, and a teasing voice that made the hair on his
arms stand up. For the first time in nearly three years he understood why the
betrayal from this particular man had hurt so very much, and why his hatred for
Krycek had always had that underlying tinge of
anticipation. Why he never wanted to see him again, and looked for every
possible opportunity to see him that he could find.
There was so
much here that finally made sense. He didn't know why, but he knew that Krycek was connected to him. Like the reflection in a deep
pool, somewhere hidden and green and mysterious, Krycek
held a part of him that he couldn't share with anyone else. As he worked to
uncover, so the other man worked to thwart him. He looked at Krycek and saw not only someone he hated, but someone he
could become. The capacity for violence, the ability to push through anything
and anyone to get to his objective, the obsession that could so easily and had
so often taken control of his life ... Krycek was the
dark reflection of himself. And he knew enough of
narcissism, and selfishness, and emotional distance to know that they were a
large part of the fascination Krycek held for him. He
was triply damned with this man ... physically, he was beautiful, recent
mutilation not withstanding. Emotionally, he was too closely attuned to himself
not to be intriguing, with a distance and a talent for manipulation that was
too much like his own for comfort. Mentally, he was complex, duplicitous,
paranoid, and had an amazing instinct for self preservation, all a draw for
someone who saw many of the same qualities in himself. Looking at Krycek was like looking in that pool on a dark night and
seeing both a nightmare and a living fantasy.
He wanted
him. He wanted to kill him. And he wanted to drive himself into him until
neither one of them could remember their own names.
Unaware of
his actions, Mulder sank to the side of the bed,
settling on the carpet and watching Krycek's chest
rise and fall with each breath.
He was in
such deep shit he was never going to come clean.
The ringing
wouldn't go away, and eventually, irritated, he rolled over to answer the
phone. Wrong move. He stilled as the pull in his side
gradually settled from a raging scream to a dull roar, and as he fell back
against the bed he realized three things. One, the phone had stopped ringing.
Two, it wasn't on the bedside table ... in fact, he
didn't have a clue where it was. And three, he'd been reaching for it with the
arm that wasn't there any more.
For a very
long time he pondered these things, not even trying to fight the swell of
depression that was doing its level best to drown him. He didn't feel safe, but
he was used to that. He didn't know where he was, and he was getting used to
that. His last memory now was Mulder manhandling him, and he could get used to
that easily.
And his
phantom elbow was still itching.
Fighting away
that thought, he went back to Mulder and manhandling. He took out the one,
small, fierce emotion that had managed to worm its way into his heart and
survive, and studied it, turning it over in his mind, examining it from every
angle. Deciding that he actually had time to think, since no one was actively
trying to kill him at the moment, he forced himself to look hard at that
emotion, and draw some conclusions. He was feeling very logical, when he
ignored the little voice that was suggesting to him that right about now his
best course of action would be to use his remaining hand to find his gun and
use it to blow the top of his head off. Ignoring the voice, but keeping the
suggestion under advisement, he smiled to himself at his own grim thoughts, and
went back to concluding.
Okay. He was
in love with Mulder. Nothing new there.
Mulder hated
his guts. Wanted to kill him, or at least beat him to a pulp, then keep him
around to use him for a punching bag, THEN kill him.
Nothing new there either.
Next.
He wanted
Mulder. Wanted him in the worst possible way, and the best.
Wanted to make love to him, offer himself to him, hold him down and make him
moan. Nothing new here. Rehash time.
Mulder
wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. True, the file on the agent was pretty
blunt about his bisexuality, and his tastes ran to brunette (or brunet), well
built, slightly shorter than himself, fit, big eyes and pale skin. Phoebe Green
had fit that criteria. So did he,
himself. Once. He'd been chosen as Mulder's
minder for just that reason, well, plus the fact that he was an amoral bastard
who would do anything they ordered him to do. At one time the Consortium had
probably had a plan C or D or double-Z (who knew how many layers they could
think in) for him to seduce Mulder so they could blackmail him. Hadn't happened
-- Duane Barry and related events had overtaken them. His bad luck, he would
have enjoyed that a hell of a lot more than killing that tram operator. But
that was a lifetime ago. Mulder liked 'em healthy. Whole. If there ever had been a trace of attraction, it had
vanished, trampled by hatred and the need for revenge. Given
the final coup de grace by a band of so-helpful serfs in the wilds of
Although ...
in
Not that it
mattered, now. He'd seen himself, seen what those sons of bitches in the forest
had done to him. Seen the muted pity in the doctors' eyes as they informed him
briskly that there was nothing more they could do, that he would just have to
adjust. Yeah. Adjust to being a freak. If he'd had a hope in hell of it
changing for the better, of actually mitigating the disaster that was his
mutilated arm, that hope had died when the sniper had taken aim in the shadows
of the underground garage. He was caught, the Cancerstick
was still alive, he had no way of escape, the FBI had more reasons to kill him
than to get him into reconstructive surgery, Scully was probably waiting for an
excuse to put a bullet in his brain and Mulder hated him.
Still.
The only new
thing in the entire situation was the fact that for the first time in his life,
he was completely unsure of himself, his capabilities ... his attraction. He'd
been maimed, and the knives had cut more than his flesh. He wanted to find a
hole and climb in it, go to sleep and never wake up. He wanted Scully, with a
loaded gun and no witnesses. He wanted anything, anyone, in the world, except
the man he wanted and couldn't have, who looked at him as if he were a monster,
and for the first time, he could not help but agree.
He didn't
even know he was crying.
Mulder
cradled the receiver and stared down at the hand he still rested atop the
telephone. Something was happening, something big. The cigarette smoking man
had gone underground, and it appeared as though a fissure had formed in the
consortium. There was disarray in the ranks of the powerful. And gunmen were
searching for targets. Scully had given him the condensed version of events,
but the upshot was that he and Krycek were in the
safest possible place right now, and the best thing they could do would be to
keep their heads down and their butts covered. A large part of him wanted to be
there, in the middle of the action, wherever the hell that was. This could be
the break he'd been waiting for. Who knew what secrets could come floating to
the top when this explosion was over? It could be the best chance he'd ever
have at finding Samantha.
And it'd be a
damned fine excuse to run away from Krycek.
His fingers
clenched on the plastic under his hand, his knuckles turning white. When had
his search been bumped over to make room for these ... other things in his
life? His worry over Scully, yeah, that was understandable. His
desire to take Cancerman down for what he'd done, not
only to Scully but to his Mom, hell, even his Dad. That was not only
understandable, but probably fitting vengeance for what had happened to Sam. But Krycek? Other than the fact
that he was one of Cancerman's thugs, and that he
should hate him for everything he'd done, where did he--? Oh. Oh, fuck. Where
had that 'should' come from?
He stared at
the telephone for several long moments, trying to empty his mind of everything,
before he heard the noise. The sound of labored breathing, and small snuffling
sounds. He took a deep breath and uncurled his fingers, forcing himself to
leave the room and go find out what the hell Krycek
was doing now. Unaware of the clenching of his fists or the grim set of his
features, he thrust the door to the bedroom open and stepped inside.
And
stopped.
He was ...
crying? Krycek, crying? It didn't fit. But there he
lay, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. His right arm was across his
chest, his hand convulsively squeezing his left shoulder. His mouth was
slightly open, and his nose was clogged with tears,
and the wetness across his cheeks, down his temples and into his hair was a
clear indication that he had been crying for some time.
Damn. He'd
hurt him. Guilt washed through him, taking away much of the confusion that had
been clouding his thoughts since his earlier epiphany, standing beside this
same bed. Whatever Krycek had done, whatever he had
been and still was, Mulder couldn't hurt him. Didn't like to see him in pain. Wanted to
stop the tears that were drowning him. Wanted to hold
him.
He pinched
the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, hard, trying to focus
his thoughts. There was a hitch in the thick breathing coming from the bed, and
he dropped his hand to see Krycek, staring not at the
ceiling but directly at him. For that moment, there were no shields. The anger
and the distrust were washed away, exposing pure misery and heart-deep pain.
Something in Mulder broke, then, with an almost audible crack. He didn't know
he moved, but somehow he was beside the bed, sitting sideways atop the covers,
reaching for Krycek, wanting to ease that pain.
Krycek rolled away from the
reaching arms, flinching as if expecting a blow, but Mulder was too fast for
him. His hands caught at the stump and pulled him backwards, and the injured
man yowled as the fingers tightened over the recently reopened wounds and
pressed on the new stitches. Mulder checked, his clutch easing automatically,
and Krycek continued his interrupted roll, landing
painfully on the floor on the far side of the bed. He curled up into the
tightest ball Mulder had ever seen an adult achieve, and the agent forced
himself to stop, give him some space, let him relax.
He'd hurt him again, goddamnit, even now, trying to
give comfort, he'd managed to hurt him again. Mulder swung his legs up on the
bed and folded them in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees and
staring at the shaking man huddled against the wall.
"I'm
sorry," he offered gently, then repeated it when there was no indication
his apology had been heard. "Krycek.
Alex. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He paused, watching the other
man closely. The shaking was beginning to abate a little, but he hadn't
uncurled at all. "I just wanted to talk to you." He waited patiently
until wet, wide green eyes peeked at him over upraised knees.
"Talk?" Krycek's
voice sounded husky, probably from the tears. That, and the rampant disbelief,
echoed in his eyes. "Not punch?"
Mulder
actually found himself smiling slightly. "No. Not punch. Or handcuff, or
hit with anything large and blunt. Just talk."
The trembling
had almost completely disappeared, and the tensed figure relaxed fractionally.
He maintained his distance, and Mulder made no move to close the gap between
them.
"Yeah. It's past time, don't
you think?" He kept his voice gentle, as if coaxing a frightened animal
out of hiding. In a way, that was exactly what he was doing. "I think if
we stay away from the big questions, the why and the how and the who are you
questions, we might actually be able to talk without both of us getting pissed
off and me beating the crap out of you again."
A square chin
appeared and rested on top the knees. The green eyes stared suspiciously at
him. "Be a nice change."
"For
both of us," Mulder agreed. "If I ask you a question, will you answer
me?"
What could
have been a smile ghosted across Krycek's face, but
was gone before Mulder could tell for certain. "Maybe," he replied
honestly. "Try."
"How'd
you get out of
"Whacked
off my arm?"
Then again, Krycek was pretty direct when he wanted to be. "Yeah."
"I was
still trying to find you. Don't ask me why,"
forestalling exactly that question, at least for the moment. "I
needed to make sure you were okay." The younger man stared at Mulder's intact left arm. "Obviously, you were. Hell
of a lot better shape than I was. As to how I got out of the country, well. Solyony was a fellow officer in the Russian army, and once
he confirmed my identity I was starting to work on him, get him to release you.
Then you broke camp and took me with you. He treated it as an
abduction and did a sweep of the forest. I'm not sure how long it was
after they cut my arm off -- I was drifting in and out a lot -- but soldiers
from the camp swept the area and rescued me. I was choppered
out to
"I'll
take that into consideration," Mulder tried to keep his own rejoinder
light, but knew it didn't come off when Krycek
suddenly glared at him, showing more spirit than he had since the night he'd
saved Mulder's life.
"I don't
want your fucking pity, Mulder," he growled.
"Well,
tough shit, 'cause you have it," the older man shot back. "I'd pity
the devil himself if something like that happened to him. Doesn't mean I have
to like you," he continued, but found his eyes drifting away, unable to
hold the green gaze. "Doesn't mean I don't think you're still a sick, mean
son of a bitch who I wouldn't love to turn over to Cancerman
and his cronies and cheer from the sidelines while they blow you to
pieces!" Abruptly his voice dropped. "But I won't."
"Why
not?"
Krycek's voice could have cut diamonds.
"Because
you have something I want." A flame leapt in those dark eyes, and Mulder
nearly lost his train of thought. "Information," he added hastily.
"You can help me expose them, put them out of business for good. Stop them.
Break them. Take away their power. Get the cure for what they did to
Scully," he swallowed dryly, "what they did to me. Find my
sister." The last words were almost a whisper.
"Why?"
The question was softer, but even more urgent. "Why, when you admit you
can't trust me?"
"Then
why do I?" It was out before he could stop it. Krycek
sat up more fully, wincing at the pain in his side, but ignoring it to
concentrate on Mulder. "I shouldn't. God alone knows why I keep doing it.
But I do. I trusted you about the rock with the alien lifeforms
in it. I trusted you in
Krycek had gradually leaned
forward until his face was nearly on line with the side of the bed.
"Why?" A whisper, now, only the slightest breath.
"Because
I'm a fucking idiot," Mulder gritted out, then bent over and caught Krycek's jaw with his hand, steadying himself with the
other hand clutching the edge of the mattress. Not giving himself
time to think about what he was doing, moving on instinct, he covered the
slightly opened lips with his own. Angling his head, he moved his mouth slowly,
dragging it over Krycek's, thrusting his tongue
gently into the slick warmth within. Part of him expected to get his tongue
bitten, part expected to get slugged, part was wondering when Krycek would pass out from shock. He was completely
unprepared for the response he got.
Long fingers
laced through the thick hair at his crown, drawing him closer still, and the
other man's tongue pushed back against his own, sliding over it to join the
dance. A low moan sounded from somewhere, Mulder wasn't sure it if had come
from himself or Krycek. He pushed harder, almost
attacking now, gentleness giving way to passion. Just as he was beginning to
lose himself in the sensation of lips sucking at lips and tongues pushing
against teeth Krycek ripped himself away from him and
landed with a solid thud back against the wall. Mulder found himself following
automatically, then stopped as if he'd run into a brick wall when he saw the
expression on Krycek's face. It was the weirdest
combination of lust, anger, disgust and pain he had ever seen.
"Wha-" He couldn't get his mouth to work right. He
seemed to have forgotten how to talk. Closing his eyes and concentrating, he
licked his lips and tried again. "What happened?" God, his voice
sounded strangled. "What's wrong?"
"What
isn't?" Krycek spat at him. "What the fuck
is this, Mulder? Some sick way of getting back at me? Some kind of perverted mind game? Get him hot and he won't
think, then you can slip in the knife? What the hell are you trying to pull,
Mulder?" By the time he finished he was screaming. Mulder stared at him as
if he had lost his mind. Before he could formulate any sort of reply, Krycek pulled himself up with unexpected speed and dodged
around the end of the bed, heading for the door. He didn't make it.
Mulder shook
off the shocked paralysis he'd been held by and slung an arm around Krycek's waist, pulling him back, off balance, to land on
the bed. Taking care not to put pressure on either the bandaged side or the
aching stump, he rolled Krycek onto the bed and lay
on top of him, holding him down with his entire body. Krycek
struggled, trying a few exceptionally dirty moves that were not taught in any
standard self defense course, but his own physical weakness and the remnants of
his arousal were against him. Unable to get purchase with his heels or a good
grip with his hand, with no room to maneuver for a kick and with Mulder's solid weight pinning him completely, he finally
stopped moving. He lay, panting, growling incoherently with rage and fear,
trying to ignore his resurgent erection.
Waiting for
the last of the fight to go out of the body beneath his, Mulder sighed into the
soft skin at the side of Krycek's neck, directly
under his mouth. Restraining the urge to bite him, then
lick him, Mulder turned Krycek's earlier question
against him.
"Why?"
he asked softly, enjoying the goosebumps that rose
over the skin under his breath. "What just happened? Why did you try to
run away?" For the longest moment he didn't think the younger man was
going to answer. When it came, it surprised him.
"I tried
to hold you." The words were so low he nearly missed them.
"You
were holding me, you had your hand in my hair."
He didn't understand what Krycek meant.
"With
both arms.
I tried to hold you. And I couldn't." There was another convulsive
movement, and Mulder braced himself for a renewed struggle, but Krycek merely buried his face in the curve of Mulder's shoulder and kept talking, his voice a monotone,
drained of life. "We might have had a chance. We can't now. I'm not worth
it. I fucked up. You hate me. With good reason. I
can't change that. Wouldn't if I could, and I can't explain why to you. You
wouldn't get it. And I can't take your pity, not yours. I want you so much and
you hate my guts and there's never gonna be anything
else and I can't hold you--" The words broke off, and Krycek's
good arm came up over Mulder's back, holding him
tightly, hurting him with the pressure.
"One's
enough," he spoke directly into the ear now under his mouth. "It's
not pity. I don't know what the hell it is. It should probably be hatred, but
it isn't. It should be expediency, but it's not that either." He shifted,
pressing his own erection into Krycek's groin. "Feels a hell of a lot like lust. I don't know what I
feel about you, Alex. A lot of things. Anger, yeah,
and a shitload of confusion. I want to keep you
around. I want to find out what makes you tick. I want to take you apart and
put you back together again. And I want to fuck you until neither one of us can
move."
His hands had
been busy as he'd been talking, wriggling underneath Krycek
to work at his sweatpants, thrusting his hands between the material and the
soft skin of his buttocks, curving his fingers over the warm flesh and hard
muscle there. Krycek writhed under him, loosening his
grip on Mulder's back, allowing him room to move.
The only
sound in the room was the harsh panting now coming from both
men, the rustle of cloth and the slick slide of hands on sweating flesh.
They got in one another's way, each trying to strip the other, until Mulder
finally growled a warning at Krycek, and the younger
man relaxed, allowing himself to be bared and savored. Until Mulder pulled the
tee shirt away from his shoulders, and Krycek froze. Not letting himself be deterred, he ripped
the soft cotton away and threw it off to the side of the bed to join Krycek's sweatpants and his own discarded clothing.
Stopping for a breath, he levered himself up and looked at his prize. Krycek lay completely still, staring at some distant point
over his shoulder, refusing to see Mulder's reaction
to his first sight of the stump. Mulder sighed.
"It's
bandaged, Krycek. It's not going to gross me
out." Wary eyes, dark with expected rejection, slid sideways to meet his
own. "It doesn't matter to me, Alex," he added fiercely. "I've
seen worse." Dark brows rose in disbelief, and he snorted impatiently.
"Fuck it. When did talking ever convince you of anything? You lie too
well. So do I." With that, he leaned down and
traced the tops of the visible scars on the stump of Krycek's
left arm with his tongue. Beneath him, the other man's entire body stiffened,
and a low moan rumbled from his chest. The reddened skin under his mouth
twitched, and he smiled. "Sensitive, huh? It's
okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Not this time, he added to himself, I've
done enough for now. Then he settled his body softly atop Krycek's
and stopped thinking at all.
Tracing his
mouth from the ruined limb up over the damp skin of Krycek's
shoulder, he began to map every inch of the strong neck, lightly furred chest
and hard abdomen. He lingered at the small nipples, licking and nipping lightly
until they beaded into tight peaks. Krycek's hand ran
restlessly over his back, up to cup the nape of his neck, strong fingers
kneading, playing with the short curls there. Small whimpers of encouragement
greeted his efforts, and he closed his eyes, savoring the other man's
responsiveness. By the time he lazily kissed his way down to Krycek's erection, the hips under his hands were thrusting
uncontrollably toward him, and the whimpers had resolved themselves into
mumbled pleas. Mulder wrapped his fist around the base of the cock and squeezed
lightly. Looking past the straining flesh, slick with pre-ejaculate, to Krycek's face, he felt a surge of triumph at the open need
that made his expression both more beautiful and more honest than he had ever
seen it. As he paused, kneeling over Alex's cock, he watched and waited. Not
understanding why he was being denied, Krycek forced
his eyes open and looked beseechingly down. That was Mulder's
cue.
Running his
clenched fist up to the top of the shaft, he dropped his mouth around the head
and sucked hard. Krycek's body jerked and he groaned
at the sensation. Mulder didn't allow him to recover his breath, initiating a
hard milking rhythm with his hand and sucking steadily at the same time.
Nudging the long legs apart with one shoulder, he pressed his other hand up
along the cleft of Krycek's buttocks, searching the
sweat-slicked skin for the small opening. He circled the anus with the tip of
his finger, pressing harder with each suck at the head of Alex's cock, until
the man in his arms was bucking between his two hands. Krycek's
hand was fisted in his hair now as he strained to fuck Mulder's
mouth, but the bigger man was having none of it, determined to maintain his
control over the situation. When the bucking became desperate and the pleas
degenerated into wordless cries, Mulder carefully thrust the finger that had
been teasing Krycek's anus into the tight channel,
sliding his other hand down Krycek's cock to pump his
balls and lowering his head to take as much of the cock down his throat as he
could. That was all it took, and Alex came explosively, with what sounded like
a howl.
Riding the
furious movements until they gentled into stillness, Mulder slipped his finger
from Krycek's body and turned him over in one swift
movement. Using the semen he hadn't swallowed and his own pre-cum, he
lubricated his aching cock. He spread Alex's ass cheeks widely and sank to the
root of his erection into the relaxed hole. Krycek
was so wiped out from his climax he didn't even twitch, and there was no
resistance in his muscles. Mulder draped himself over the other man's back,
relishing the clamping heat around his cock, licking at the sweat on the side
of Krycek's neck, then biting down, needing to mark
him, somehow, to own him, if only for a little while. The small pain roused the
exhausted man, and he nudged upward with his hips, not to dislodge the
intruder, but to encourage him to move. Mulder took the hint, and began to
slowly pump in and out, drawing nearly free before sinking all the way back in.
Krycek moaned with each downstroke,
and began to actively hump backward as his erection was reawakened. Then Mulder
leaned up, changing the angle of penetration slightly, and Krycek
gasped and jerked harder.
"God. Right
there." Oh, yeah, he'd aimed true, Mulder grinned to himself. He
sped up the pace, then, knowing his lover was with him again. With each thrust
the edge of his cock grazed Krycek's gland, and the
stimulation was quickly driving him to fever pitch. Alex tried to snake his
hand down to his groin, but Mulder got there first, batting it away. He fisted Krycek's erection, and began to pound into him in earnest,
short, sharp, hard thrusts countered by the steady gripping pull and slide on
the hard cock in his hand. Krycek was out of control,
writhing, humping, and yelling into the bedsheets,
and his reactions finally broke Mulder's control.
With a final deep thrust, Mulder froze, thighs clenching as he orgasmed, three heavy pulses into the man underneath him. Krycek reacted to the hot flood within him with his own
climax, gripping Mulder's fingers and forcing them to
contract hard around his cock. The constriction of the sphincter muscles around
his shuddering cock pulled the last of his orgasm from him, and Mulder
collapsed onto Krycek's back, barely remembering to
avoid the bandaged side. He slid out and off, coming to rest curled around his
lover's undamaged side, and lay there gasping for air, trying hard not to black
out.
As his heart
rate gradually dropped to something approaching normal, a tentative hand
reached out to him, then drew back, as if unsure of
its reception. Fighting off the sleep that was trying to claim him, Mulder
wrapped both arms around Krycek's waist and pulled
him into the curve of his body, nuzzling his face into the back of Alex's neck,
inching one leg over his hips, pulling him close. Mine, he thought muzzily, then gave up the fight and fell soundly asleep.
They should
have talked. They needed to. They didn't get the chance. The first indication
they had that anything was up was a gasp from the doorway, then a slamming
door. Mulder tried to unwrap himself from Krycek,
grab his gun, find his pants and see who the hell had been at the door all at
the same time. He ended up on his ass beside the bed, stark naked, covered in
dried semen, clutching the pillow, wondering why his gun wasn't there.
Alex dove the other direction, self preservation taking priority
over such things as modesty, the need to hide overriding everything. He landed
with a painful thump on the floor between the bed and the wall, again, then peered cautiously over the top of the mattress in time
to see Walter Skinner's utterly impassive face staring back at him. Oh, shit.
If Skinner was here, then it must have been Scully who'd, er,
caught them in flagrante delicto.
Great. Yet another reason for her to
want to put a bullet between his eyes. He gradually straightened until
he could see the rest of the room. When he saw Mulder, sprawled like a pagan
sacrifice at his boss' feet and frozen in place with mortification, he sighed
and leaned his forehead against the bed. This was not going well.
Skinner
cleared his throat, pushed his glasses unnecessarily back up his nose, then
turned and left the room. Mulder didn't say a word, and as he watched the older
man carefully replace the useless pillow and reach for his jeans, Alex wondered
what the hell he could say that wouldn't be completely out of place. Nothing
suggested itself to him, so he simply sat on the floor and watched Mulder get
dressed. When it looked as though the agent was just going to walk out the
door, he knew he had to try something.
"I'm
sorry." It wasn't what he'd thought he was going to say. Maybe that it had
been incredible, they had to do it again sometime. Or,
gee, no doubt they're wondering what we were doing! Or even, you could tell
them it was fuck me or kill me and you decided you needed me breathing more
than you'd enjoy killing me. But all he could get out was one pathetic little
phrase, and a lie at that. Because he wasn't sorry. He
had wanted it, and he wanted it again as soon as he could get it. Mulder lifted
his head, and he sympathized with the dazed expression in the sleepy hazel
eyes. He wasn't quite thrusting on all cylinders himself.
"Sorry
it happened, or sorry we got caught?" The deep question made him pause.
That was an easy one.
"Sorry
you're going to have to smooth this over with your partner and your boss."
He raised himself from the floor and leaned over the bed for the sweatpants.
"I'm never gonna be sorry it happened." Turning the worn cotton over between his fingers, he added,
"Wanted it to happen too long to ever be sorry." There was the
rustle of denim, and he waited for the response, then
realized he was alone in the room.
Status
quo.
Mulder made
his way into the airy kitchen, following the clinking of cups and the rushing
of tap water. As he stepped through the doorway he was overly conscious of his
scent, a combination of semen and sweat that had dried on his skin, and his
rumpled appearance, complete with little red marks along his neck and chest,
just showing through the thin material of his tee shirt. He should probably
have taken a shower, but he knew the longer he put this off the more difficult
it would be. Besides, he wanted an update on the Consortium.
"Hi,
Scully.
Sir." He swallowed and waited for their
reactions. Scully was measuring coffee into a filter, and she determinedly
finished pouring the grains before she turned to him. Skinner looked at him,
compressed his lips, and carefully placed the mugs in his hand onto the counter
beside Scully. Neither one of them said a word. His partner was looking at him
searchingly, an equal mix of concern and shock in her eyes. Skinner was
impassive, as usual. Yeah. Wasn't going to be easy. He
straightened his shoulders and prepared to 'take his medicine,' years of experience
with his father standing him in good stead for once. At least they weren't
going to knock him on his ass. He hoped. "I'm surprised to see you here.
From the last phone call, I got the impression that things were really moving
in the back room capitols of the world." And the ball is in your court.
"It
is," Scully responded.
Okay, Mulder
thought moodily, if you want to ignore it that's fine by me. So
what if I smell like a whorehouse and have obviously been fucking my brains
out? More important things on the front burner.
He opened his mouth to ask the follow-up question and she beat him to the
punch.
"What
the hell is going on with you and Krycek?" she
blurted out. She shot a glance at their boss then pinned her gaze back on her
partner.
Oh. Then again, maybe not. He could feel his face burning and
knew he was blushing furiously. "It's just sex, Scully. Gotta
find some way to keep him quiet until we can use him." A strangled
cough came from behind him, and he closed his eyes, consternation warring with
disgust at Alex's timing in his expression.
"I take
it that time's here," Krycek said in a hard
voice, pushing past Mulder and reaching into the refrigerator for a can of
orange juice. Instinctively, Scully reached out and steadied the can as he pulled
the tab. He stared at her, stared down at the can, and cleared his throat.
"Thanks." It came out much softer than she'd expected.
"You're
welcome," she replied automatically, then found herself staring at a livid
bitemark at the base of his throat. He flinched
uncomfortably, and she licked her lips, turning back to Mulder. He watched them
from the doorway, warily.
"What's
the situation, sir?" He felt somehow safer directing the question to
Skinner. Trying to put at least the appearance of
professionalism on the situation.
"The
dust is settling. Several members of the inner circle of the Consortium have
been found dead under various circumstances, and the assassinations appear to
have stopped, at least for now. Cancerman is still
alive--"
"Shit,"
Krycek couldn't help hissing. He gulped the orange
juice and then clamped his mouth shut. Skinner looked at him, then nodded slightly in agreement before continuing. One
corner of Krycek's mouth turned up.
"And it
looks as though he has staged some sort of coup. My sources indicate that he
has consolidated his base of power and is directing the operations of the
Consortium now, with little input from any other major players. Of course, we
don't know how many major players are still left after this purge, but I get the
impression there aren't many."
"Damn,"
Mulder cursed softly. His eyes met Krycek's in a
moment of perfect understanding. It was broken by Scully, clearing her throat
to get their attention.
"That
might not be the worst thing, Mulder."
How? She'd
lost him. "In what way, Scully?"
"Cancerman seems to be the one in the Consortium who was
most intent on protecting you."
"That's
true," interjected Krcycek. "More than once
I heard that others in the Group wanted to take care of you permanently. He
argued against it. He told me once that he didn't want to make you a martyr,
but I think there was more to it than that." They all looked at him, and
he shrugged his shoulder. "I never did find out what it was."
"Well,"
Scully continued, leaning against the counter, "there's something else to
consider. Of all the members of the Consortium's inner circle, you worked most
directly with Cancerman, am I right?" The
question was directed at Krycek, and he nodded his
agreement. "So if we're going to expose them, then he would be our most
logical target. We've got the most ammunition to use against him."
"The
deal is still on the table, Krycek," Skinner put
in. He sounded businesslike, but his face reflected his distaste. He obviously
didn't like or trust the double agent, but he had to work with what was at
hand.
"Perhaps
this will help," Alex began softly. Mulder came forward into the room,
needing for some reason he couldn't explain to be closer to him as he spoke.
Bright green eyes flashed brief gratitude at him before Krycek
fixed his gaze on Skinner and began his report. "I am a major in the
Russian Army, intelligence corps. Well, I was. I've been invalided out,"
he waved his stump slightly to underline his statement. "In the course of
my duties, some of which involved paranormal situations and all of which were
political in scope, I was seconded to an international group of policy makers.
This group had no name." For the first time, Mulder could hear the cadence
of a native foreign speaker in Krycek's voice.
"I was
in deep cover, first to the Group, to gather intelligence on their activities
for my superiors in the Army. Then through the Group, to
gather information on the activities of the FBI and specifically on Agent
Mulder. Finally, under the Cancerstick, to
directly involve myself in current investigations and make sure that the
outcome was beneficial to the Group. When it began to unravel, I had no choice.
I went rogue from the Group, and returned to my initial mission, to gather
intelligence directly for my superiors again. They were unable to give me any
support in the field, and my continuing assignment was to keep Agent Mulder alive.
They were convinced that he either knew something or was, for some unknown
reason, highly important to members of the Group, and therefore bore
watching." He paused long enough to glance at Mulder. Then he swallowed
and finished explaining. "After the last of the evidential rocks were
destroyed by an associate, along with possible witnesses--"
"The
people in the nursing home!" Scully was furious, but containing it. Barely. Krycek refused to look at
her, concentrating completely on Skinner.
"-- my
associate returned to
"But you
didn't kill him," Mulder found himself interjecting. "You saved my
life. Why?"
"We're
back to why, again, are we?" Krycek grinned at
him, then lost the grin, staring at nothing, eyes
narrowed. "It appears my need to protect you had been too deeply ingrained
to ignore, even for the opportunity to kill my enemy. I had to, Mulder."
He looked over at the agent. "No choice. Just ...
instinct."
Mulder
swallowed, sure now that there was more here than lust, and just as sure that
he'd completely fucked it up -- again -- with his mouthing off earlier. Before
he had the chance to say a word, Skinner spoke up.
"Your
gut reaction was a lucky one for us, then. Are you willing to work with
us?" There wasn't really a choice in the question, but Krycek
answered it as if there had been.
"Yes. I
want to bring him down." He held up his hand, stilling Skinner's reply.
"I won't say or do anything that will disclose any of my country's
intelligence, and I won't compromise operational details that pertain to my
original mission. But I will help you, to the greatest extent I can, to take
that bastard down as far as he can go."
Mulder
watched Skinner weigh the offer, and accept it, without a word. Scully stared
hard at Krycek, then nodded
herself. Breaking the uncomfortable silence, he asked, "So what's the plan
now?"
Skinner
gestured to a laptop lying on the table. "We get every bit of information
out of Krycek that he can give us and we start
leaking it to anyone with a printing press or a satellite feed."
"The
Gunmen are helping," Scully added. "I took the liberty of stopping by
and talking to them."
"And Frohicke let you escape with your virtue intact?"
Mulder couldn't help but ask.
"You're
not in the best position to be asking about virtue, Mulder," she shot back
dryly, and he shut up, blushing all over again. "And I'm a big girl. I can
handle Froggy. They're doing some ... creative
programming--"
"Which I
know nothing about," Skinner hastened to clarify.
"-- that
should net us some hard evidence to back up Krycek's
information." She gestured to the laptop and Alex nodded.
"Mind if
I take a shower first? I'm a little sticky." His mild comment brought all
action in the kitchen to a halt, and Scully very slowly raked him up and down
with her glare. He withstood the assault with studied patience that Mulder
envied, and she sighed.
"We have
time. Whenever you're ready."
He nodded and
wandered from the room, passing closer than absolutely necessary to Mulder on
the way out, and the agent knew he was going to pay for his earlier remarks.
The clatter of cabinet doors opening brought his attention back to the kitchen
and he turned to see Skinner efficiently setting out the makings for dinner.
Leaving him to it, escaping into the living room for a much-needed break to
sort out his thoughts, he didn't hear Scully following behind him. He dropped
into an armchair and stared out the window, absently plucking at his tee shirt
where it was sticking to the itchy, dried semen caught in his chest hair.
"You
want to talk about it?" She settled easily across from him on the settee,
and he slewed around to look at her directly.
"Don't
know what to say, actually," he admitted.
"Just
a quickie, to pass the time?" She managed a creditable grin, and he smiled
in appreciation for her efforts. Then he shook his head in denial.
"No,"
he stated softly. "I'm afraid not."
"What
are you afraid of?" she asked just as softly.
"Finding
out I've fallen in love with a, what, quadruple agent? Who has betrayed so many
people so many different ways so often he needs a scorecard to keep count? Who
considers he did it all for his country so he'd do it all again, even though he
has hurt just about everybody he has come into contact with? Who keeps showing
up from the shadows and saving my life? Who has some deep seated need to
protect me, and who makes me trust him when I *know* damned well I
shouldn't?" By the time he wound down he was slumped forward in the chair,
confused eyes locked with hers, pleading for some help, some explanation, some
way to deal with the welter of emotions that were turning him inside out. She
reached forward, holding his clenched fists in hers for comfort, for both of
them.
"Maybe
you should trust your instincts, Mulder." He cocked his head to one side,
not sure what she was telling him. She pursed her lips, ordering her thoughts
and trying again. "Krycek said his need to
protect you was instinctive. You've proven over and over again that you're
willing to follow his lead, put your life in his hands. Maybe something in you
recognizes and responds to his instinct, and that same something is what made
you fall in love with him." She blinked, shook her head slightly at what
she'd just said, and forged ahead. "I don't think it's all one sided. And
we're going to be in for a rough ride in the next few months. We're not going
to have time to deal with this when the action starts, and none of us can
afford to have it interfering with our work, which it just might do if you
don't clear the air with him."
"But
what the hell do I say to him?" It was a cry for help, one he would only
ever make to her.
"Tell
him the truth, Mulder." She smiled at him then, a genuine, full blown
Scully special, and he found himself relaxing into its warmth. "You're
good at that, you know. It's your specialty." She squeezed his clenched
hands once, then let them go and stood up. "Now I have to go help Walt
with dinner, and you should follow Krycek's example
and get a shower. You're a little ripe, there."
"Walt?"
He grinned up at her, and was startled by her blush.
"Yeah." She matched his grin,
and he shook his head.
"Been a day
for surprises," he said wryly, and she inclined her head toward the
bathroom.
"And
it's not over yet." She shot him a meaningful look, then turned and went
into the kitchen. He stared at his fingers, wrapped tightly around one another,
then pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the showers. She was so, so
right, and he was not looking forward to explaining himself.
Krycek didn't acknowledge
Mulder as the other man entered the bedroom, fresh from his shower. He was
concentrating on taping fresh gauze over the wound in his side. What there was
of his left arm was unbandaged, the fresh air feeling
good on the newer stitches. For a little while, when Mulder was making love --
having sex with him, he'd actually forgotten just what a god- awful mess his
body was. Then the intrusion of the real world had reminded him. Forcefully. Mulder's own words
were just the death knell he'd been expecting after seeing the others. So much
for actually believing it hadn't made a difference. He wondered what Mulder
felt like, acting the whore himself for once. Alex had done it, when he'd had
to, and even when he'd accepted the need for his actions he'd always felt
dirty. It made him uncomfortable to think of Mulder feeling that way, but he
told himself harshly to deal with it and get past it. Mulder obviously didn't
give a shit about him, and that was no surprise. So why the hell was he was
feeling betrayed?
"I
lied."
The soft
voice beside him shattered his concentration, and the gauze pad slipped from
his fingers. "Goddamnit!" he snarled,
making an abortive attempt to catch the pad -- with his missing arm. He could
have screamed in frustration, but he locked his jaw and reached again for the
pad, this time with his right arm. Before he could get it, Mulder picked it up
from the sheet and laid it gently against his side. He started to jerk back,
and the fingers curved around his ribs.
"Let me.
After all, you took the bullets for me, least I could do is patch you up
afterward."
He closed his
eyes and let Mulder tend to him, taping the bandages securely over the incision
sites. "Yeah," he managed, dully. "Least you could do."
Strong fingers cupped his jaw and forced his head inexorably up. He stubbornly
kept his eyes closed. He knew he was acting like a child, but he just wasn't up
to this, yet. He might never be.
Soft kisses brushed over his eyelashes, startling him. "Ought to be a law against lashes that long on a man. Glad there isn't. I like '