TITLE: 1 Man 2 Many
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. Not suitable for children, Baptists or Republicans.
SUMMARY: This is a rough one, children. Avert your eyes if non con offends you.
ARCHIVE: This story belongs to Ann.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Just after The End
KEYWORDS: story slash angst M Sk NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I personally think Chris Carter, et al, should just give them to me, since they're not using them anymore, and anyway, I treat them much, much better, but there you are.
Author's notes: This story was commissioned by Ann, who made a donation to the Red Cross Katrina Disaster Relief Fund and Noah's Wish. Thank you.
1 Man 2 Many, by Mik
Hot, tired, physically and emotionally exhausted, Mulder jabbed keys at his lock almost blindly, twisted and shoved his way in. He wished he were a drinker. He needed to be drunk tonight. Scully was resigning. His work...burned to hell. He was a joke. A giant, cosmic joke. There was a note on the floor of his hallway, and he glanced down at it, thinking even as he did so that he had fallen for this once before.
Krycek hit him hard, sliding him across the wooden floor, banging his head into the leg of a chair.
With a yelp that was half pain, half exasperation, he said, "Damn it, Krycek, can't you just knock like everyone else?"
"I doubt you'd let me in," he was rubbing that man made hand over Mulder's jaw, "I'm not exactly the Avon Lady."
"You're not exactly light, either," Mulder huffed. "Get off of me." Something cold touched him, colder than the molded plastic of that hand. A silencer? He lifted his eyes to Krycek's in bemused disbelief. A silencer on the end of Krycek's fake forefinger? How absolutely James Bond. But the expression in Krycek's eyes made it clear this was not a campy spy thriller. "Unless you plan to shoot me," he amended, "in which case, please do. I've had a shit of a day."
"Feeling suicidal, Mulder? That'll get you drummed out of the Bureau," Krycek warned with a chuckle.
"Oh, and believing in alien colonization, consortiums and UFOs won't?" Mulder was just tired enough to end with a near hysterical giggle but it was chopped off by the weight pressing him into the floor. "What the hell do you want?"
Krycek rocked back to sit on Mulder's hip. "You know, I don't think you'd believe me."
"I believe everything, remember?" Mulder squirmed, managing to wriggle onto his back so unexpectedly that Krycek dropped, gracelessly, to straddle his groin. "Easy, Krycek, unless it's your intent to turn me into a eunuch?"
To his surprise and immediate consternation, Krycek frowned at him thoughtfully. "That wouldn't suit my purposes, at all."
Mulder shifted uneasily, his discomfort centering not in Krycek's weight on him, but the weight of his expression. "What are you babbling about now?"
"Oh…nothing." Krycek gave him what he must have believed was an innocent smile. It looked garish and obscene on that face.
Mulder grunted in discomfort. "What is it, Krycek? Another truck full of aliens? You know where my sister is? Cancer Man sent you to kill me?"
"Actually, yes and no." Krycek shifted, and it seemed to Mulder that he was deliberately rubbing himself against Mulder's crotch.
Mulder wanted to believe the other man was unaware of his actions. "Yes and no what?" he asked, trying to straighten up, ease away.
Krycek's knees locked around him. "I was sent to destroy you."
If it hadn't been for the expression of deadly earnest on Krycek's face, Mulder would have been certain he was in the middle of a psychotic version of Candid Camera. "Destroy me?" This time the hysterical laughter bubbled out. "How could I be more destroyed? Your black lunged boss has already taken everything that I value. Shooting me would be merciful, at this point."
"Which is why I'm not going to do that," Krycek rubbed that crude fingertip along Mulder's jaw line again, "unless I have to."
Mulder sighed heavily. "I'm in no mood for games, Krycek. Get off me or I'm going to beat the shit out of you."
"Call me Alex."
Mulder's eyes jerked open at the change in Krycek's tone. "What?"
Krycek's eyes were a very bright green now. "No, better yet, call me Lover."
"I'll call you a fucking ambulance, if you don't knock this off." Mulder started to struggle.
Krycek leaned forward, catching Mulder's upper arms, using his weight where he had been robbed of dexterity. "Call me Lover," he repeated.
Mulder looked up, slightly dazed. Krycek's face was inches away from his. "Are you on drugs, Krycek?"
Krycek scowled at him. "Call me Krycek again and I'll beat you senseless."
Mulder still had enough sense to believe he was serious, but there was no way he was going to call that maniac Lover. He squirmed. "What else do you want, Kry-Alex?"
Krycek's dark green eyes narrowed above him. "Here's the plan, Mulder. You've been made a martyr again, and that just makes you more determined than ever. Now, for some reason I do not understand, there are people who don't want you dead, merely discouraged." An impish little grin danced across his face. "I've been sent to…" he paused for effect, "discourage you."
"You think burning my office down didn't discourage me?" Mulder argued. "You think destroying eight years of my work didn't?" The near hysteria was back. "You think driving my partner away didn't?"
Krycek's smile was almost sympathetic. "Not enough, Lover, not enough."
Mulder jerked beneath him. "Stop calling me that."
Krycek leaned forward again, deliberately letting his groin rub against Mulder's. "Ever been fucked by a man, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder went absolutely still beneath him. "You wouldn't dare, you fucking-"
"Shh, shh," Krycek soothed and let his lips brush gently across Mulder's frowning brow. "I dare anything I want, Lover."
Mulder started bucking desperately to get free of the man above him. "Get off me. There's no way I'm going to let you-" he was silenced by Krycek's mouth, slamming against his. Suddenly his stomach began to recoil. He was being kissed by a man. Struggling, he twisted away. "I'm gonna' be-"
"No, you're not, Lover," Krycek promised. "You're going to be fine…hell, maybe even happy. There were always rumors about you. Shhh," he repeated as Mulder started to protest again. "Now, let's see what you've got down here." He scooted back toward Mulder's knees and his good hand went to the zipper of Mulder's trousers. As Mulder tried to pull himself up, he calmly raised the artificial hand and pressed against Mulder's cheek. "Don't try it. Sit still, be a good boy. Better yet, help me out here."
Raised to his elbows, a very non-regulation weapon at his temple, and a sworn enemy working at the zipper of his pants, Mulder did give way to laughter. He slid backward until he was flat on the floor, his hands upraised as if in supplication, his very posture saying, 'Take me now, God'. "Damn it, Krycek, you're priceless. Now get the fuck off-" he didn't finish because Krycek backhanded him with the molded form of that man made arm.
"What did I tell you?" Krycek said coldly. "Didn't I tell you not to call me that anymore? Call me Alex, call me Lover, call me Alexei, call me lioubatchka, but stop calling me Krycek."
For a moment, Mulder was distracted. "What? What did you say? What was that word?"
Krycek was smiling as he looked down at the zipper. "It's Russian. Russian's a very romantic language, Lisachik."
"Sorry, I don't speak it." Mulder shifted.
"What do you speak? Other than Federally regulated Bureaucratese?"
Mulder lifted his head again, saw Krycek still worrying at his fly. "English."
"Barely," Krycek mused. "Anything else? High school Spanish?"
Mulder swallowed, feeling just a hint of pink coming to his cheeks. "French."
"Really?" Krycek lifted his eyes. "Now that's a very romantic language. Speak French to me, Renard, while I get you undressed. Of course, if you were a clever man, you'd help me out here. If I get frustrated, I'm apt to whip out my trusty Spyderco and cut these expensive trousers off your body."
"Go to hell," Mulder said succinctly.
Krycek looked at him reproachfully. "En francais, Agent Mulder."
Mulder thought for a moment. "Allez à enfer."
Krycek grinned at him and tugged an ugly little folding knife out of his pocket. "Et maintenant?"
"Kry-Alex, do you really think I'm going to let you rape me at gunpoint, much less help you undress me?"
Krycek answered by smashing the side of his cheek with the artificial limb, three times, and Mulder was starting to see stars. "How dare you suggest such a thing?" he said coldly, with the tone of someone mortally offended. "I don't believe in rape. I'm going to make you want me."
"Can't be done," Mulder assured him, shifting again. His hip was starting to go numb where Krycek was pushing him into the hardwood floor.
"En francais," Krycek repeated, with all the patience of a monk.
Mulder was anything but patient. "Il ne peut pas être fait," he spat. "Maintenant, écoute, Krycek, si vous pensez je vais m'asseoir encore pour ce qui vous êtes fou."
Krycek beamed at him. "Tres bien, Agent Mulder. I am impressed. But I'd advise you to be careful who you call crazy." He unfolded the little knife and the curved blade's jagged serrations and claw like tip slid along Mulder's hip.
At the first kiss of the blade on his bare skin, Mulder started to struggle again. "You're not doing this, Alex," he insisted hotly, pushing Krycek's chest with both hands. "I'm not going to let you-"
"Let me? My dear ex-partner," Krycek said, sweetly amused, "you 'letting' me has never been in question. You will endure me." He pulled the tip of the knife up to Mulder's cheek and pressed slightly to emphasize his words. "I'll make vous a little fou before I go." He grinned to himself.
"You are one sick, fucking bastard," Mulder hissed.
"Mhmm," Krycek agreed equitably. He sat back and looked around. "But I can see you're going to be difficult. Now, let's see, I heard those cuffs go flying when you fell-ah, there they are. Don't move, pet. I'll just be a minute."
The moment Krycek eased his weight away, Mulder moved, scrambling desperately to get over on his side and to the Sig at his hip. Krycek saw the give-away bracing of muscles and answered with a kick to Mulder's ribs that drove even the memory of oxygen from his lungs, his brain. As he lay on his side, his hands up to protect broken ribs and gasping, Krycek returned, kneeling beside him to gather up his wrists and lock them into the steel handcuffs. "Oh, poor baby. I'll bet that really hurt." He reached to Mulder's hip and pulled the weapon from its holster to run it along Mulder's battered cheek. "Why did you make me do that?"
"Bastard," Mulder spat weakly. He tensed, waiting for Krycek to retaliate. "Well, go on, do what you're going to do and get out of here."
"Shh," Krycek soothed, brushing Mulder's hair back from his face with a caress so gentle it might have been the touch of a treasured lover. "Get your breath. We've got plenty of time."
Mulder jerked away from Krycek's fingers. "Leave me the hell alone, Krycek." He saw the dangerous gleam in Krycek's eyes and he waited, relaxing this time. It was suicide, he knew that, but he was at the point where death might be a welcomed thing; certainly preferable to what he had to look forward to, if he could give any credence to Krycek's ramblings. Everything in him; education, instinct, his Spookiness, told him that he didn't have any idea just how bad it was going to be.
To his surprise, and possibly to his disappointment, Krycek only smiled. "Oh, stop worrying, Fox. I'm not going to do anything to you. I'm just supposed to get you ready."
"Ready?" Mulder croaked. "Ready for what?"
"Your complete destruction." Krycek frowned. "In a way, it's a real shame." The frown evaporated. "Still..." He hitched himself to his knees and began to work Mulder's slashed slacks off his hips. "Stop squirming, will you?" His voice changed. The affected tenderness was gone and in its place was resolution. "This is going to happen, Mulder. Nothing you can do will stop it, so you might as well relax and go with it. Who knows? You might discover something about yourself."
"That I hate your lying guts?" Mulder rasped, trying to twist away from Krycek's hand as he fondled the softness of Mulder's boxers. "I already knew that."
"Shh." Krycek slid his hand over the front of Mulder's shorts, causing Mulder to try scooting the other way. "Now, this is impressive, Mulder," he said, stroking gently. "I always figured you to be a real pencil dick." He grinned down into Mulder's eyes. "Guess I was wrong, huh? I'll bet your precious Agent Scully appreciates this." He rubbed a little harder.
Mulder started to swing at him with both hands, locking them together into one tight fist, but Krycek fended the swing easily with his prosthetic hand. "Don't like talking about dear Dana?" he teased. "Fair enough. We'll be gentlemen and leave her out of this." He forced Mulder's bound hands above his head and leaned in to kiss him again. When Mulder twisted away to avoid his mouth, Krycek dug that plastic pointed finger into his recently wounded ribs. "It's going to happen, Mulder," he whispered hotly.
"Never," Mulder hissed.
"Never is a long time," Krycek mused, easing upward. He considered the knife in his hand and began to snip the buttons of Mulder's shirt off, one by one.
"Can you come up with another cliché, Krycek?" Mulder jeered.
"How about you call me Krycek one more time and you're a dead man?" he answered flatly. He sat back, grinding deliberately against Mulder's groin. "Now, where is that phone?"
"What do you need the phone for? Can't handle me on your own?" Mulder spat.
"Oh, I can handle you, believe me." Krycek started to crawl away, paused and ran the edge of the knife delicately along Mulder's cheek. "Move again and I'll take one of your balls as a souvenir." He kissed Mulder again harshly. "Got that?"
Mulder found that threat oddly compelling, not for what it implied but for the way it was delivered with total sincerity. He didn't think Krycek was threatening or bluffing. He remained still and watched Krycek crawl to the table, collect Mulder's cell and come back to him. "Who are you calling? I don't think Cancer Man is on my speed dial."
"No, but your boss is." Krycek pressed a button.
"Sk-Skinner?" Mulder was embarrassed enough that he actually stammered. What the fuck was Skinner in all this?
"Shh, lisachik." Krycek pressed the silencer against Mulder's lips. "All will be revealed." He listened to the phone ring, humming to himself. "Well, hello, Assistant Director Skinner, Sir. Remember me? Alex Krycek. I used to work for you. You beat me up once, remember that? Oh, go ahead, start tracing the call. In fact, I'll save you the trouble. It's Agent Mulder's cell phone...hmmm? Oh, yes, he's here. We're in his apartment…" Krycek glanced around sneeringly. "…if you want to call it that…What's that? Oh, he's fine-for the moment. Would you like to talk to him?" Krycek grinned as he held the phone down to Mulder. "Say hello to the nice man, Foxy." The grin faded sharply. "Speak, Fox, or I'll force you to make some other sound."
Mulder swallowed. "It's a set-up, Sir. Don't pay any at-oh!" Krycek backhanded him again. "Will you stop hitting me?" he shouted.
Krycek took the phone back. "As you can hear, he's fine. But I should warn you, I have him handcuffed and I have a knife. I'm thinking I might start with this glamour boy profile of his and work my way down to…oh, vital organs…but don't worry. You have at least thirty minutes before he bleeds to death." He punched the END button and set the phone aside with a grin. "We'd better get to work."
Mulder was too dizzy and breathless from assorted blows to put up too much more struggle, so Krycek did manage to get him undressed except for his tie, which he found perversely amusing dangling over Mulder's bare chest. Krycek used Mulder's belt to pull his arms behind his back at a brutal angle before releasing the cuffs and reapplying them before bending Mulder over the low, shallow coffee table.
"What a picture," Krycek purred, kneeling behind him. "You know, the Bureau consensus is pretty accurate, Foxala. You do have a great ass."
Mulder twisted against the coffee table, trying to see what Krycek was doing behind him. He didn't like the feel of Krycek's good hand sliding along the small of his back. He jerked when he felt warm fingers along the cool flesh of his buttocks. "Kry-Alex, what you doing? Why are you doing this? This isn't what you want, is it? What is it…your only comprehension of affection? Your only-"
"Stop trying to analyze me, Dr. Mulder," Krycek murmured, forcing a hand between Mulder's thighs, dragging his fingernails along the underside of Mulder's scrotum. He smiled to himself as Mulder jerked away from his touch. "Sensitive, are we?"
"Krycek, so help me, you lay another finger on me, and I'll hunt you down and kill you," Mulder vowed. He heard the strain of fear in his voice, and he hated himself for being so weak, but at that moment, he was terrified.
"I'm tired of hitting you, Mulder," Krycek said regretfully. "I think I'll try another method of behavior modification." He reached forward until his fist had curled around Mulder's flaccid penis. "You know all about behavior modification, don't you?" He began to stroke. "Let me tell you what's going to happen."
Mulder tried to shift away, but Krycek put the plastic hand down hard in the middle of his back, so all he could do was peer over his shoulder. "What?"
Krycek gave him that angelic smile again. "Nothing."
Mulder almost laughed. "Yeah, right. You just felt like trussing me up like the Christmas turkey for kicks?"
"Oh, no." He was stroking harder now, and he let the other hand slide down slowly, toward the cleft of Mulder's ass. "I'm not doing this for me. I'm just supposed to tie you up and leave you here."
"Uh huh. And then-what the hell?" Mulder yelled, jerking forward. Something cold and blunt and hard was pushing its way inside him. He started to twist frantically, but Krycek leaned down against him, holding him on the table.
"Listen, Lover," Krycek cooed. "This will be a lot easier to cope with if you just sit still." That alien intrusion began to stroke in and out. "I'm going to leave you like this for your boss."
"Sk-Skinner?" Again he stammered on the name. But now relief began to pour over him. Aside from being mortally embarrassed to be found in such a state, all he had to look forward to from A.D. Skinner was rescue.
"Yeah, Walter Skinner, a prince among men." Krycek was starting to chuckle. "Oh, Mulder, what you have to look forward to."
"What?" Mulder felt himself begin to react to Krycek's insistent caresses, and felt himself sinking into a stinking pool of self loathing. He lowered his head and rested his cheek on the cool wood of the table. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You don't know about Walter's...uh...proclivities? Oh, Mulder, and I thought you were an ace profiler."
"Come on, Kry-Alex, quit playing games." Mulder tried yet again to twist away from the warm, skilled fingers and that-that thing sliding in and out of him.
"Walter is the one who likes games, Mulder. Didn't you know that? Walter likes boys, Foxchik, pretty boys. He likes to have rough sex with them. He likes to beat them up and hold them down and fuck them hard. He likes to be the first one, Mulder." Krycek's voice was growing darker, more bitter, his finger thrusting more cruelly. "He likes to hurt them and tear them up and make them bleed." His hand stilled for a moment, then began to move again, more slowly. "I'm doing you a favor, opening you like this."
Mulder shut his eyes and wished he could shut his ears. "Don't feed me this bullshit, Krycek. Skinner is as straight as-"
"As you?" Krycek teased, stroking a little harder. "If you're so straight, why are you right on the verge of coming in my hand, Mulder? You know you are. You're leaking like a bad dam, your legs are trembling, you can't keep from wriggling. You want release, don't you, baby?"
"Stop calling me baby!"
"Come for me, baby," Krycek cooed against his ear. "That's right, come for Uncle Alex."
"You are so-ah!" Mulder screamed as Krycek's fingers tightened on him. "Come on, Krycek, let go. Come on." He was panting and he felt tears burn his eyes. "Let the fuck go."
"At least you know where you stand with me." Krycek was practically purring as he eased his grip and began to stroke again. "You can always count on me to hurt you. But with Walter…" He shook his head, and his hair tickled Mulder's ear. "First he'll be gentle with you; kind, understanding. You'll feel like you've been rescued." Krycek started to laugh and as he did so, his strokes became harder, more intense. "Then, when you let your guard down, feel you're safe, bam!"
Mulder flinched. "You're lying," he insisted weakly. He was going to come, he knew it, and even his utter mortification wouldn't be able to stop it. Even that thing in his ass was starting to not hurt so much.
"Am I?" Krycek released him long enough to lean forward, force Mulder to meet his eyes. "Think about it, ace profiler. If I'm just fucking with you, why did I call him, of all people? To embarrass you? I can think of a dozen people who would cause you more grief; Scully, Spender-"
"Shut up, shut up!" Mulder hissed. Krycek was lying, it had to be. He was just playing with him, getting in his head. Skinner couldn't...Skinner wouldn't...not him.
"Ah, it is true." He backed off, his expression half triumph, half dismay. "There's been much speculation about your not so well disguised hero worship. People have wondered if there wasn't just the tiniest bit of a…" he paused, probing deeper, sharply, "crush."
Mulder responded with a howl. "You're out of your..." he cut himself off, just in time. "No."
"No, of course not. Not you; little, latent old you." Krycek backed off, releasing him, and moved to the window over Mulder's desk. He didn't peer out like a man who feared being seen. He stood there, considering the alley below. A smile slithered over his face. "Ah," he repeated, "it's time for the changing of the guard, I see." He twisted enough to smile over his shoulder. "I wish I could stay and watch, but he doesn't like an audience. Not the first time. And he has been looking forward to this for a very long time." He bent and collected the remnants of Mulder's shirt to wipe what was once his hand, then leaned over Mulder once again. "Au revoire, cherie."
Mulder flinched away from him, but he seemed to vanish.
Literally.
Mulder remained draped over the table, panting, wondering if he'd just experienced some kind of bizarre hallucination, wondered if Krycek had even been there. There was no doubt his hands were bound behind his back. There was no questioning the pain in what was theretofore an area not familiar with that sort of pain, nor could he question the heavy twist of shame that lay over him like a blanket. But there was also no denying the lingering heat of arousal and the altogether different shame it carried.
Something had happened to him. But what?
Men were shortchanged somewhere along the double helix of DNA, in Mulder's opinion. They didn't come wired to faint. Maybe it was a learned thing passed through generations of women, like...eyelash fluttering or the ability to give birth while cooking a five course meal. Some things had been bred out of human society; like the notion that women can't manage a checkbook, smoke or swear with any conviction, but Mulder had never met a woman who hadn't, at some point in her life, used the faint card.
Mulder would have given quite a lot to pull that card out of his sleeve when the door burst open and A.D. W. Skinner marched in. Of course, that would require having a sleeve from which to pull the card, and it was that precise lack of sleevery and the expression on Skinner's usually implacable face that made Mulder wish he could faint. Talk about irony.
Skinner didn't rush to his aid as Mulder expected. He gave him a momentary assessment, which seemed to last an eternity from Mulder's particular perspective, then he backed toward the door, and closed it all but a crack. "He's okay. Search the building," he barked. Then he shut the door and gave the lock a twist.
Of course, Mulder hadn't believed a word of Krycek's spew, but he couldn't help feeling a twinge of something when Skinner moved toward him silently. Almost against his will, Mulder shrank back at the approach. "K-Krycek," he blurted out as if tossing a grenade between the two men. "He was here. He- he-"
"Are you hurt, Agent Mulder?" he asked, holstering his weapon.
Mulder squirmed a little more. "Yes. I mean, no. I'm fine. I'm fine!" He didn't mean to shout the assertion, but Skinner looked as if he intended to touch him. Of course, everything Krycek said was a lie, but why did Skinner send everyone else away and lock the door?
"Your face looks as if it's starting to bruise." Skinner turned away. "I'll get some ice."
"Fuck the ice," Mulder exploded. "Get me out of these cuffs."
"Of course." He reached into his pocket, and his fingers brushed over Mulder's bloodied wrists. "My key doesn't work." His voice sounded maddeningly, almost eerily calm. "Are these yours?"
It was the lack of accusation that hurt. Mulder's humiliation was now complete. "Yes," he muttered, turning his head to face away.
"No wonder I couldn't open them...you use the Smith & Wesson high security cuffs, don't you?" he observed, in a casual, conversational tone. "Where are your keys?"
"I don't know." Mulder twisted his hands against the metal in vain. "Somewhere."
"Probably in your pocket. Er...where exactly are your pockets, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder didn't respond. He had no answer.
"Oh, here they...oh." Mulder could hear him lift the tattered trousers from the floor. "I wondered how he got you to undress," he murmured.
"Did you think I willingly stripped for him?" Mulder retorted, anger starting to burn through the shame.
"I don't know enough to think anything," he responded levelly. "Your keys don't seem to be here." He moved behind Mulder again. "You're definitely bruising."
"You're going to be bruised if you don't get me out of this!"
He chuckled. The bastard chuckled. "It would be interesting to see you try."
In Mulder's opinion, Skinner was displaying a disturbing lack of umbrage that one of his agents had been assaulted, and only the merest concern for that agent's condition, both physical and emotional. Mulder rolled to his side, despite his protesting ribs and glared at his boss. "Look, are you going to help me or not?"
"Yes, yes, of course." He still sounded as he had been invited in for tea. "Come on." He was suddenly leaning over Mulder, arms like I beams locking around his middle.
"What the fu-get off!" Mulder struggled, kicking and twisting despite the stabbing pain in his side. "Let go of me."
"Easy. Easy." Skinner rolled and shifted around Mulder's struggles to lift him from the table. "You might as well be comfortable while I look for the keys."
Mulder went rigid in Skinner's arms as he was lifted. "Put me down," he said, his voice rising to what he would later concede was unmanly panic when Skinner's crotch brushed against his recently violated nether bits. "Put me down!"
"Just calm down, Agent," Skinner instructed with a touch of impatience, "I might have to call someone to open these if we can't find your keys." He walked Mulder toward the bedroom. "Did you really want me to do that while you were on display that way?"
Mulder stopped resisting...a bit. "I've got some running pants in that top drawer."
Skinner eased him down onto the bed and rolled him onto his side. "What did he do exactly?" he tsked, twisting Mulder's face toward him in one meaty hand. "Your face looks as if he beat you with a crowbar."
"Something like that." Mulder tried to shake off his hand, but Skinner was holding fast. "Just get me the pants, will you?"
"What did he do?" Skinner slid his hands down Mulder's torso, lingering in places that made Mulder twist and gasp, almost entirely in pain. "You've been badly beaten and-"
"There is no 'and'! Isn't that enough?" Mulder hissed as Skinner's hand moved to his hip.
"Plenty," Skinner agreed, "but the fact that you were naked and restrained leads me to conclude that he..." he paused, reached up and forced Mulder's face toward his again. "Did he rape you?"
Mulder jerked away, his face flaming. "No."
Skinner pushed him forward, causing Mulder to grunt in pain. When Mulder felt fingers start to pry his legs apart he kicked again. Hard. He wasn't sure where he connected, but wherever it was, it was enough to make Skinner gasp and curse. "Leave me alone!"
"Mulder," Skinner repeated when he regained his breath, "did he-"
"No!" Mulder rolled away from him, despite his pain. "He just...he...he touched me, that's all. And he..." he twisted his face into the pillow, "just give me the pants."
"Not until I assess the damage." Skinner pulled him back gracelessly, forcing him face down on the bed, pulling his legs open, his eyes and then his fingers going places Mulder had never imagined his boss would go. Krycek's words, mocking and promising came back to him and he lost what little control he had left. He flailed, writhed, swore and kicked. "You bastard. Don't you touch me. I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you."
Skinner sat back, still. He looked neither shocked nor dismayed by Mulder's response. He just continued to look at him.
Mulder might have appeared hysterical from Skinner's point of view, but he was as clearheaded as he'd ever been. There was no way that bastard was going to get his kinky kicks off him. "Now," he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, "give me my pants and get someone in here to unlock these cuffs."
Skinner shook his head. "I don't know what he did to you," he said, lifting his hand as if he thought he might touch Mulder's face again and then thought better of it, "but we'll get you all the help you need."
"You're the one who needs help, you sick bastard," Mulder sobbed. "I know all about you." Perhaps he was hysterical, but in a very lucid way. He knew he was moments away from losing consciousness, and he had to make himself perfectly clear. "You aren't going to add me to your list of toys."
Skinner's brow wrinkled all the way back to his neck. "Mulder, what are you talking about?"
"Don't feign innocence with me." Things were starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges of his awareness. "He told me..." Mulder shook his head, trying to cling to consciousness. "He told me all...all about you." If he wanted to add anything else, it was lost when he sank into the roiling grey of the concussion.
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He wasn't surprised to wake up in the hospital. He didn't want to, of course. He wanted to wake up on his futon, alone. He wanted to wake up and find it was just a terrible dream. He wanted to wake up and discover the last three weeks hadn't happened. But there he was.
It was worse than that, of course. Scully was there, in a chair by his bed, holding his hand, looking steadfast, her little brow becoming neat rows of worry, her eyes full of hot knowledge she was trying to hide. She knew. Probably everything.
He closed his eyes almost as quickly as he had opened them. But she'd seen him stir. "Mulder?" Her voice was so soft yet it cut through the screaming in his head. The one word. So much more than his name; a demand for the facts, an accounting. Was it true? Did he really do that to you?
His mouth was like rice paper and sand. He twisted his tongue searching for a drop of moisture. "Scully." His voice was just as dry.
She leaned in, her fingers tightening around his, her other hand reaching to stroke his face. "How are you?" she asked with more pity than concern.
He brushed her hand away impatiently, avoiding her eyes. He tried to speak, swallowed uselessly and tried again. "I want to go home."
"You can't, Mulder." She moved her hand to touch his cheek again and looked wounded when he shied away again. "You were-"
"I know," he cut her off. Damn it, he was blushing. He could feel it.
"-badly beaten," she finished, settling back in the chair. Lower than the bed now, she looked up at him, her eyes still burning and full of questions. "You were incoherent for hours. You fought the admitting physician and nurses. You had to be sedated. You're not going anywhere for a few days."
He didn't remember that part. He didn't remember leaving his apartment. He didn't remember being transported to the hospital, or being examined or admitted. He didn't remember fighting anyone but Krycek and...his eyes jerked open and focused on her face. She looked ready to restrain him if he tried to move. "Krycek," he croaked, "he was there, waiting for me. And he..." the words failed him, the memory seared him.
Scully frowned at him the same way she frowned at a specimen that made no sense to her. "Krycek? That's not what you said before. You accused-" she stopped, her mouth snapping shut as if to chop off a fact. "Are you sure it was Alex Krycek?"
Mulder knew the fact she was mincing between her clenched teeth. "He was there." He pulled his hand free. She released it and her own hands rushed to one another and locked together in her lap. "He...kind of knocked me around."
"Krycek," she repeated. "You're sure."
"Yessssss..." Now he wasn't sure. There were other faces, other voices. One other. The last voice he wanted to hear, the last face he wanted to see. "And then..."
"And then?" Something about her expression alarmed him. As if she were imploring him not to say what he was about to say. Suddenly the truth was an unwelcome entity. She didn't want the answers, after all.
"And then," he swallowed again, tasting blood, "and then Skinner came."
She sagged. Her head drooped.
"Scully, what's happened? What's going on?"
When she lifted her head, her eyes were bright with fear and tears. "They've arrested Assistant Director Skinner."
"Arrested?" Relief and terror began to flood him from opposing angles, to curdle somewhere in the core of his being. "Why?"
Scully gaped. It wasn't an attractive expression on that normally placid face. "You accused him of raping you." She untangled her fingers and gripped his wrist with both hands. "Did he, Mulder? Did he do what you said he did?"
Mulder opened his mouth, wanting to deny it, but there was the memory of pain, the memory of threats, the black, ugly truth which had been revealed. It couldn't have happened any other way.
He didn't need to affirm it. She saw it in his struggle and her hands fell away from his. She shrank back from him, as if he had been the rapist, not the victim. For a moment, he wanted to deny it all the more, but he knew it had to be the truth. Surely they hadn't based their charges on the incoherent ramblings of a man on the verge of hysteria. There had to be evidence. They must have found something that supported his accusations. Not even the Metro PD would arrest an Assistant Director of the FBI without gathering enough evidence to make their case.
"Scully, I..." She was avoiding his eyes, she didn't want to hear his side of things. "I don't feel like talking anymore."
She nodded and made preparations to stand. "Do you want me to call your mother?"
"Oh, God, no."
She nodded again, looking at the floor, at her hands, at her handbag. "I'll...I'll see you later. Feel better." She turned on her heel and hurried out of the room.
Mulder fell back against the pillows with a groan. What the fuck was going on? How could he know that Skinner had done such an unspeakable thing and yet doubt that it was possible? That was the real problem. He knew it. He knew it.
But he didn't want to believe.
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Over the admonishment of his doctor, the threats of his superiors, the advice of the police and the protests of his own body, Mulder went home AMA that night. The yellow crime scene tape on his door was a jarring reminder that a crime had taken place inside his home...and worse, inside himself.
Inside, walls and tabletops were smeared with graphite powder, the bed had been stripped so that the sheets could be bagged and taken to a lab, latex gloves had been abandoned in every trash can, cupboard doors had been left open, drawers had been rifled. There was a disturbing splatter of blood about a foot from the baseboard, and another dribble under the toppled coffee table. All of this on top of the usual detritus of his unlived life.
He wasn't sure which was heavier, the burden of the obvious facts before him, or the burden of doubt that plagued him. But the weight of both drove him to the floor, and he covered his face, hiding from images and words and realities and fears and tears.
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He didn't want to answer the soft, persistent knock at the door. Whoever it was, he didn't want to talk. It wasn't Scully, she'd use her key. It wasn't Krycek, he'd just break in. So it was probably a nosy neighbor, a policeman or possibly a reporter. He had no interest in any of those. Just as he had studiously avoided the chirping of his mobile all night and all morning, he would ignore the knocking at the door.
He needed to get up and move around. He needed to clean the mess left behind by the investigative team. He needed to organize his thoughts and try to sort out memories from nightmares. He needed to make decisions. He needed to plan. But he remained on the futon, arms over his face, cringing when the floor creaked, jumping when the window rattled in the breeze.
"What are you doing out of the hospital?"
He twisted around, painfully, horrified, only just avoiding the need to scrabble backwards like a scared spider. "What are you doing out of jail?" he shot back.
Skinner lowered himself to the chair, not waiting for an invitation. "Why did you say such terrible things about me, Agent Mulder?" He sounded sad and at the same time disappointed...he had the exact same tone Mulder's mother affected when he'd been naughty as a little boy.
"Because you did terrible things to me," he answered, hoping his voice didn't betray his fear.
Skinner moved forward slightly, elbows on knees. "Agent Mulder, you know that's not true. I only tried to help you."
Was that possible? Mulder tried to believe that. He tried very hard. "No. I never needed that kind of help." He shook his head. "You shouldn't have come here, not now."
"Mulder, please," Skinner reached out, to touch Mulder's knee. "Tell me what I've ever done to you that you had to make up such a malicious lie?"
Mulder twitched away from his touch. "It's not a lie. You were here. You...you..." his voice shied away from the words. "It's not a lie." He made himself straighten, face himself, the truth and Skinner all at once. "I know about your 'hobby', Skinner. I know all about your sick, twisted little pleasures. And I know what you did to me." His voice faltered again. "And now everyone's going to know," he whispered.
For the first time, alarm marred Skinner's expression; a queer mix of fear and horror and even a little confusion. "How could you think," he asked in a heavy voice, "that I could ever hurt you?" He looked as if he wanted to say more. His eyes swept over Mulder's face. But he didn't say anything else. He pulled himself to his feet, hands raised in surrender, and backed away. As he reached the foyer, he paused and looked around the room, still in the disarray of violence and its aftermath. "Is there anything I can do? To help?"
Mulder was already hunched back in the futon, elbows on knees, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. "You've helped enough." He didn't look up when the door shut and locked from outside...as if he had a key. Scully gave him her key, he realized, trying to stem the threat of tears with his hands. She believes him, not me. It happened, he insisted, screaming to himself within the solitude of his thoughts. He was here. He did those things to me. No matter what he says. No matter what she believes. No matter...
The screaming went silent abruptly. He lifted his head, blinking hard. Why did Skinner say it that way? 'How could you think that I would ever hurt you,' he had said, with such emphasis on the word 'you'. Almost as if it was possible or even probable that he might hurt someone else that way, but not Mulder. Mulder shook his head, trying to empty his mind of the uncertainty, but it only made his head ache.
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He didn't want to return to work. He hated his joke of a job more than ever, but he couldn't stay away. He knew he would be vilified for his accusations, he knew there would be knowing smirks behind his back, and possibly even to his face. He could already envision the gay jokes spamming his email, and hear the jeers every time he walked toward the lavatory. But he had to go. He had to face all of that, and face it immediately or else he'd spend the rest of his days face down on his futon, drowning in humiliation and self loathing. And while he had been swimming upstream in that river for years, he hadn't drowned yet, and he'd be damned if he'd sink now.
But what awaited him was more than even he could have imagined. Instead of vilifying him, his coworkers seemed to gather round him in a comforting, almost protective silence. Gently spoken enquiries for his health were all that followed him, and the rare gaze that met his was full of compassion and not contempt. Only Scully seemed to look at him with less than concern. She did not overtly avoid him, but her voice was always full of reserve, her words were stilted, her manner distant. No one else would notice it, she was careful how her demeanor might be perceived by others, but Mulder felt the chill of her disdain and disbelief. And worse, he accepted it.
Of course everyone would know what had happened, the extent of his injuries were probably inventoried and analyzed in detail around every water cooler. The bruises on his face were merely the colors of a broken warrior. The real injuries were hidden under an Armani shield and far more intriguing. Word of Skinner's arrest made them all the more salacious.
Skinner's office was empty. The furniture was still there, the imposing desk, the conference table, the shelves of mementos, but he was gone and that left the place hollow and empty. Mulder shouldn't have gone there, he had no reason or right, but he went. He had to see.
"Assistant Director Skinner is not in to...oh, it's you."
Mulder turned and saw the guardian of Skinner's temple; half watchdog, half machine, Kim had barred his way through those doors so many times he felt like strangling her, but at that moment he shrank away, ashamed and embarrassed. She was filling a carton with personal items from her desk. She was being transferred. "I...uh...I'm sorry..." he began helplessly.
She didn't look at him. "So am I." She picked up a small red lacquered box, a box which had been as much a fixture on her desk as she had been. She held it a moment, and put it down again. "If he did those things to you," she began in a whisper, "I'm very sorry." She picked up the box again and put it in the carton. "If he did those things."
Mulder didn't have an answer for her. He didn't want to argue with her. She had her doubts about her boss, he wasn't going to eradicate them or make them worse. He just nodded and turned away.
It was familiar, this feeling of guilt, of being unworthy of kindness. He'd been through this before. His family had been raped once by the abduction of his sister. And while he had surely been the most violated by the act as the lone and helpless witness, those closest to him, those who knew him best had blamed him. Just as Scully was blaming him now. "Damn it," he hissed to no one in particular, "I'm the victim, here."
The biggest trouble with being the victim was the loss of power. He was powerless to change history. He was powerless to change outcomes. He was powerless to change how people perceived him. He wanted to rage at the whole world. He wanted to say 'Look at me, I'm still me. Yes, bad things happened to me, but I'm still me. Love me or hate me, appreciate me or accuse me, help me or hurt me based on who I am, not what happened to me.' But he said nothing. He did nothing. He went through the motions, accepted the kindnesses, followed the instructions, and went home.
It was Scully who suggested he see a therapist. She didn't quite say it that way. She remarked there were counselors available to agents who suffered trauma on the job. It was a very bland observation, but it arrived in his ears laden with indictment, as if to say 'If this really happened to you, as you say, you'd be doing something about it.'
Mulder didn't bother to look at her when she said it. He had stopped looking at her. What he saw was too painful. "I don't suppose you realized, Scully, but it didn't happen on the job."
"Yes, but it was job related," she countered. "I mean, if Assistant Director-"
"Yes," he cut her 'if' off with assibilation. "It was Skinner."
"He was your supervisor," she continued mildly. "That makes it job related, doesn't it?" She continued to study the file before her. "You know, he's in mandatory counseling."
"How would I know that?"
Her answer was to shrug and turn a page. "It's SOP when there's an accusation of sexual predation. You know that."
Mulder pushed himself away from his desk and stood. "Good. I hope it helps."
"It might help-"
"Now get this straight," he leaned over his desk, unintentionally menacing, "I don't need help, Scully. I didn't do anything. I'm not the bad guy."
"No one's suggesting you-"
"I'm the one who was supposed to get my life..." the protest stuttered and died. Mulder stilled, the words banging around in his brain, ricocheting off memories and shadows.
Scully looked up. "Mulder?"
He didn't speak. The words were still clanging and clamoring around inside. He was supposed to be destroyed. He remembered that. Was it Krycek who said he had come to destroy him? It wasn't clear anymore, but he could still hear the words.
"Mulder?" Scully's voice took on a note of alarm.
But he wasn't destroyed. Not really. Not the way...
He jerked back away from the desk. "That son of a bitch."
"Mulder?" she repeated as he twisted away and marched off with determination.
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It took Mulder three days to find him. In those three days his anger did not cool, his resolve did not falter, if anything both grew in strength and intensity, so by the time he was able to kick down the door of the motel room on the Interstate 95 just before Fredericksburg, it afforded him no great satisfaction. However, catching him mid inhale and hauling him up out of his chair, gave him a great deal of satisfaction. Tossing him across the room so that he crashed into a badly built dresser and television stand made him feel immeasurably happy, and calling him a bastard while he clutched his throat and watched his face darken to a dangerous purple lightened his heart to the point where he might have broken into song while he squeezed the life out of the man beneath him. "You bastard. It wasn't me you were after. It was never me." He drove his fist into the face he hated. "You used me. You used me to ruin him."
The purple, battered face beneath his hands smiled placidly and exhaled smoke...the stink whirling up gracefully into Mulder's face, burning his eyes. "You always were a smart boy. No one ever fully appreciated how smart you were. Except me."
"I ought to kill you," Mulder rasped, still squeezing.
"You've said that before. You never do." He put his yellowed fingertips on Mulder's shoulders, pushing slightly. "That's your problem, Fox. You are smart, but you aren't strong. You've never been strong enough."
"This is different, this isn't about me."
"Isn't it?" The fingertips pushed a little more. "It was your body, wasn't it?" The smile turned insolently thoughtful. "It was reported you seemed to like it. I always wondered about that, Fox." He pushed a little harder and Mulder tumbled backward, surprised. "And there were those who weren't entirely convinced you'd turn on your beloved Assistant Director. You've protected him so many other times, haven't you?"
"What are you talking about?" Mulder was feeling sick, and it wasn't just the oppressive stench of cigarettes.
The old man straightened himself with an irritating air of dignity, still bearing that smug, reptilian smile. "There were wagers on whether or not you two were already lovers."
"Now I will kill you." Mulder lunged, ineffectually.
Rising and slithering out of the way, he patted his pockets for another cigarette. "It's common knowledge he's been in love with you for years."
Mulder was face down in what passed for carpet in that room. "Don't try it. Don't you dare."
"You don't have to believe me." Mulder heard the strike and hiss of a match. "But...I have no further agenda. My work is done." He settled on the bed and blew smoke in Mulder's direction. "Why should I lie now?"
Mulder rolled over and looked up at his tormentor. "Because it gives you so much pleasure."
The bastard tipped his head back and laughed. "You know, it does. But, Fox, haven't you ever heard the expression the truth hurts?"
Mulder folded himself up to rest his arms on his knees. "Why did you have to use me?"
He dragged in tar and nicotine. "Oh...a little retribution, I suppose. Maybe it was your turn to be vindicated."
"Vindicated? You call having me raped and then filing charges against the wrong man a vindication?" He rolled up to his knees. "You need a new dictionary."
"He isn't the wrong man. Everything Krycek said is true." He inclined his head toward the table where he'd been sitting. "Take a look in that file."
Mulder stood. He started to take a step and stalled. "I don't believe you."
He waved the cigarette faintly in the direction of the file. "Pictures don't lie."
"Pictures can be altered."
"You're paranoid."
"And you're a black lunged bastard."
His shoulders went up and down in a lazy acknowledgment of the truth. "Just because he didn't rape you, Fox, doesn't mean he's not a rapist. So, yes, it was vindication."
Mulder took lead footed steps toward the table. What if it was true? He jerked his hand away. "I'm going to withdraw the charges."
For the first time, the other man looked disappointed. "And let him get away with it?"
Mulder didn't look at him. "Assuming all you've said is true, which is laughable in itself, then he needs to be punished, but only for the crimes he committed. He committed no crime against me."
"Of course not," he retorted as Mulder marched through the splinters of the door he'd destroyed. "He'd never hurt you."
Mulder's step faltered momentarily. That was exactly the way Skinner had said it.
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He turned his car north in a daze. Too many so called facts assailed him, and he didn't know which ones to accept and which ones to refute. Was it possible that Skinner was some kind of sexual sadist? Should he face criminal charges? And if he was, was it Mulder's place to be his judge and jury? And if he wasn't guilty and was convicted, cui bono?
And what if that other thing was true? That suggestion that he had been protected from all the evils of Skinner's nature because...because...no, it couldn't be possible.
It was these concentric circles going round and round, focusing in and out on the impossibilities and improbabilities that made him completely unaware that he'd missed the exchange to the 495 and found himself on the 395, instead. Damn it, he'd have to double back to get to Alexandria soon, or else he'd have to go all the way in to DC.
His mobile buzzed as he started watching for an exit that would take him right back onto the Interstate. He fished it from his pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Scully. She had called no less than two dozen times in three days and every time he told her he could not tell her what he was doing. He was tired of telling her that. And he feared telling her this time, because he no longer knew what he was doing.
Skinner had said 'How could you think I would ever hurt you'. Cancer Man had said 'He would never hurt you.' Krycek...Krycek had said 'He's been looking forward to this for a very long time.'
Mulder shut his eyes tight. "It's not true. It's just more mind games." A car horn sounded in his ear and he opened his eyes and jerked his car back into the fast lane. It wasn't mind games when he looked at me like that. It wasn't mind games when he touched me. It wasn't mind games when he's come to my rescue physically and professionally. And why does it make me feel good to think it might be true?
Krycek said people wondered if I had a crush on him, he remembered, his cheeks getting hot. Cancer Man said there were wagers whether or not I'd turn him in. And Skinner said he'd never hurt me.
Cancer Man said the truth hurts.
Skinner said he'd never hurt me.
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Mulder hesitated for a moment before he knocked. Inside he could hear music...Chopin's Nocturnes. He lifted his hand, lowered it, lifted it again. This time he knocked. And he waited, dread seeping out of him like sweat, and chilling on the back of his neck.
The music stopped. The door opened. Skinner looked down. "What are you doing here?" he asked. His words were not belligerent or angry or even hurt. They were merely surprised.
Mulder looked down at his shoes. He dragged in air as if he'd been submerged for hours. He looked up. Skinner, standing a step above him at the threshold seemed to tower over him. "Are you in love with me?" he blurted.
He waited. The humiliation was coming. It must be. This was how they would destroy him. They would lead him on this merry dance, believing himself the innocent victim 'til he found himself at this place, revealing his stupidity and gullibility.
Skinner did not laugh. He did not scoff. He did not snort in disdain or mock him. He stepped back from the door. "You'd better come in."
Mulder didn't want to come in. He wanted to go. To run. To hide. But he stepped up and inside. Wordlessly Skinner indicated he should go through. Wordlessly, Mulder went down the corridor to the living room.
There was a piano there. The music Mulder had heard..."You play piano?" This was not a part of his image of Walter Skinner. Of course, a violent sexual predator had never been part of it, either.
Skinner had stopped at a cupboard. "I like to pretend I do." He swung the doors open and revealed a bar. He took down a glass, glanced over his shoulder as if evaluating Mulder's state of mind, and then poured two fingers of Black Label into the glass. He brought the glass to Mulder, pressing it into his fingers. "Are you all right?" He went to the piano bench, the seat farthest from Mulder, and sat.
Mulder looked into the glass for a moment, and then sipped tentatively, wincing as it went down. It wasn't the question that unsettled him so much as the way it was asked. Skinner's voice was like a warm blanket on a cold night, tenderly tucked in around the edges. "I'll never be all right."
Skinner nodded jerkily. "You were pretty badly beaten, but the body can heal and-"
"It's not my body," Mulder argued. "It's my head." He took another sip. "Don't make with the good host crap. Just answer my question."
Skinner slid around so that he could face the keyboard. "How much of an answer do you want?" His fingers spread out and pressed down into a C minor seventh.
"I just want the truth."
"That's a lot of truth." He moved up to an E fourth.
"Is it?"
Skinner began to play again...softly, his big fingers which to Mulder had always seemed clumsy dancing over the keys. "The simple answer is yes."
Mulder swallowed. "Is there a more complex answer?"
Skinner closed his eyes as he played. "Always."
"And that is?"
"I was intrigued by you from the day I transferred to D.C. I actively sought supervision of the X-Files so that I could be close to you. I saw how you repeatedly put yourself in harm's way and I wanted to protect you. It wasn't love then...not the kind of love you're asking about. It was fascination." His fingers tripped up and hit something harsh. "Respect. Maybe a little longing to be something in your life...a protector, a friend. If I could be in your life I could be part of the remarkable thing that is you."
"Remarkable," Mulder snorted.
"Remarkable," he repeated levelly. "And beautiful. The passion of your beliefs, the integrity, the determination, the desire. This was not a romantic love. It was not a sexual love. It was just a deep warm pride and admiration."
Mulder risked a glance his way. "Was?"
Skinner continued to play. "Hmm?"
"You said it was. Past tense. You no longer feel that way?"
Skinner shook his head. He pulled his hands from the keyboard and twisted back to face Mulder. "Now I am in love with you in the way you meant. Romantic, sexual, a deep longing. Actually, it's been that way for a couple of years now."
Mulder swallowed again, this time around an unexpected lump. "I had no idea."
"That was the plan." Skinner stood. "I didn't know how you felt about me, if you would be receptive to my feelings. I had the occasional hope, but not enough to act upon."
The lump was growing, aching in his throat. "I don't know what to say."
Skinner shrugged. "You don't have to say anything, Mulder. If you're not interested, you're not interested." He paused. "But surely you can imagine how painful it was for me when you accused me of doing such despicable things to you."
"Yeah." Mulder lowered his eyes, guiltily. "About that..."
Skinner held up a finger as if shushing a child. "You don't need to say anything. I understand that you had been brutalized and it's hard for you to clearly recall what happened. But I hope someday you'll remember that I-"
"I know you didn't do it," Mulder said quietly. "Mind games." He frowned. "I was a victim of mind games. Krycek accused you of some pretty terrible things."
"Of being a rapist?" Skinner sounded just faintly amused.
Mulder nodded, embarrassed.
"Well," he suspired, "he would know."
Mulder looked up with a jerk, letting the glass slip from his fingers. "You...he...you..."
Skinner put up his hands. "Not what you think." For the first time he looked uncomfortable. "There's a website...for sexual fantasies...sometimes violent sexual fantasies." He glanced away. "Role playing, Agent Mulder. Just role playing. Sometimes people with shared fantasies meet."
"And you met Krycek?" Mulder was uncomfortable for him.
Skinner nodded. "More than once, actually. Of course, when we arranged to meet we didn't realize we were going to be meeting each other. But we kept coming back to each other because I..." he sighed, "we met some needs in one another. However, once, in the heat of things..." his lower jaw stiffened, and he forced himself to meet Mulder's eyes. "I said some things, I said..."
"My name."
Skinner nodded.
Mulder recoiled. "All those things he said you were going to do to me, you wanted to do to me?"
"No!" Skinner moved toward him and pulled back sharply. "Oh, God, no. I could never hurt you." He looked down at those big clumsy looking hands, hands that had coaxed Chopin's Nocturnes from a piano. He reined himself in and sent Mulder an almost wistful sideways glance. "Have you never wanted something so much that when you couldn't have it you wanted to...to..." those big clumsy hands turned into fists, "hit something? I couldn't have you, so I..."
"So you had fantasies about raping people."
"Not so much raping as taking something even though it was forbidden to me." Skinner looked back toward the piano. "So, the complex answer is also yes."
Mulder bit down on his lower lip, and worried at it while he assimilated the information. "What do...what would you want from me?"
"It's all right, Agent. I would never ask anything of you."
"I'd like the complex answer, please."
"To hold you. Kiss you. Talk to you. Say that I love you...oh, not tell the world, not run up to Toronto and get married, just be free to say it to you, alone, in a room like this. To say it and not have you run away in disgust."
Mulder was feeling good again. He even thought he knew why. "And if you said it, what would you want from me?"
"The complex answer?" Skinner smiled. "For you to say it back."
Mulder whistled nervously. "Well, I don't know...I'm not sure..."
Skinner stopped smiling. "It's all right."
"No, no, you're misunderstanding me. I don't know how I feel yet, except that hearing you say it makes me feel good. Thinking that you want to say it makes me feel good."
"Agent Mulder, you've been through a great deal the last few days, you've been hurt and-"
"Calling me Agent sort of spoils the moment, don't you think?" Mulder stood, and approached Skinner cautiously. There had never really been any men in his life. His father had emotionally abandoned him, he had no brothers, no close male friends except the Gunmen, and by the very definition of their existence they could not be close to him. And for a brief time there had been two men in his life; the Skinner he had always thought he knew, and the monster Krycek had created. Somehow they had melded into one man again. Not the Skinner he knew, but not someone to fear, either.
"I don't know what I'm ready for," he said, at last. "I don't know what I'm ready to believe. But I do know one thing is true." He let his hand touch Skinner's shoulder. It wasn't an embrace but it was a soul searing connection. "I know you'd never hurt me."
Skinner grasped his hand and held it against him. "No, Mulder, I'd never hurt you." Mulder could feel a frisson of emotion run through the body beneath his fingers. "And I will not let anyone else ever hurt you again."