Another Fine Mess

This guy...I mean...*yeesh.* He's wearing a strange red hat on top of his shaved head and as I understand it, it's a privilege and not some sort of punishment. Doesn't really go with the purple robes, but hey, I haven't been properly *Entitled* yet. That comes later. Or so the brochures say.

He's looking at me, thinking...eyeing me. I don't think I'd normally be this nervous, but there is a huge smiling oil portrait of him covering the wall, and frankly, it's weirding me out. He's suspicious, but hopeful. He *wants* to believe. I know the feeling.

I've been here two hours, answering countless stupid questions. Everything from what brand of peanut butter I buy (Peter Pan) to which talk show host I find most attractive. (Not telling.) I've given them a urine sample and a blood sample, and two children clipped a lock of my hair, for what purpose I'm not sure. (Okay, it's a tie between Ricki Lake and Oprah Winfrey.)

"So, Mr. Mulder," he finally breathes. "You are an F.B.I. agent." He looks at me, raising his eyebrows. A sardonic, distrusting half-grin creeps across his face.

"Yes?" I ask, as if I don't know where he's going with this.

He reclines back in his comfy-looking chair and makes a temple out of his hands. "Waco," he intones in a hushed whisper.

My eyebrows go up, as I try out my perplexed face.

"Ruby Ridge," he spits.

I gesture emptily in the air, open my mouth to offer up a defense, then shut it thinking better of it.

"Ja-net Ree-no," he drones angrily, his finger temple squeezing into two clenched hands.

"Please, uh, listen to me, Mr., uh, what was it again?"

"I have seven names, six of which are beyond your comprehension," he snaps. "You may call me Flan. If you were one of the Sect, you could call me Brother Flan."

I nod slowly. "Ah. That's very helpful."

"But you're not," he says with a sneer. "Are you?"

"No, I'm not..." I pause trying to get the word out. "I'm not...Flan." How the fuck do I get into these situations? I'd laugh my ass off if it wasn't me in this situation. Scully warned me not to do it. Which meant that I *had* to. I swallow and focus back on Flan. "But I'd like to be. If you would just give me the chance."

"Let me explain my reticence, Mr. Mulder," Flan says, calming down. "I am a highly prominent member of The Sect. I have experienced the spiritual awakening of The Entitlement. I have been *appointed* by *GOD* to deliver His message. And I've been interviewed by Diane Sawyer." He pauses.

"You, on the other hand, are a member of the Federal Bureau of Instigation."

"I think that's in*vest*-"

He talks over the top of me, oblivious to my clarification.

"You persecute the religions that do not meet your agenda. You would like to see me arrested. I dare say, you would like to see me destroyed."

I nod in sad agreement. "Yes. Yes, there are some men who would destroy you. The very men that I work with." My voice gets edgy. "This is abhorrent to me. You may not understand this, but I want to walk your path. I want the religious certainty and peace that you feel." I bring my tone back to a carefully controlled sotto voce. "*I* want to be Entitled." Pause for effect as I go for the kill. "Like you."

He stares at me for a full minute, his eyes locked onto mine. I try desperately not to let my eyes drift to that *funky* looking hat. He closes his eyes and exhales loudly. Ugh. You, my friend, are entitled to a Certs.

"Dear Heavenly Father," Flan booms, scaring the shit out of me. "Sitting here before me is one Fox Mulder. He claims to want to be Entitled. Which, as you know, in your infinite wisdom is hard to do for some one so out of touch with his higher self. He is one of the Unwashed. And I am not certain he can be cleansed."

Flan opens one eye to check on me. I get the feeling he's making sure I don't steal his pen. It is a nice pen. He spots his pen and moves his hand just a little bit closer to it, nonchalantly, then shuts his eye again.

"Please guide us, oh Infinite One. Let us meditate on if this poor, pathetic wretch can be saved. If this dull, poorly dressed heathen has a place in your glorious kingdom." Two seconds of meditatation later, Flan's eyes jerk open. "Well, guess you're not Sect material. God has spoken through me and in His infinite wisdom has deemed you unworthy. Them's the breaks. Nothing I can do."

"But--" I protest, leaning forward.

He gets up out of his chair, a man in a hurry. "Yes, yes, you'll get over it. Have you ever read L. Ron Hubbard?"

"That's not what---"

"If it's good enough for John Travolta..." He walks past me, presumably to open the door and kick my ass through it. Then the phone rings, causing this man of peace and light to get a distinctly cranky look on his face. He exhales sharply, annoyed that he has to spend any more time with my Unwashed bad self.

Momentarily defeated, he stomps back to the desk, ungracefully, and picks up the phone, silencing its shrill ring.

"Yes?" he answers in an insulting tone. His face falls and his eyes turn to me. "Yes, he's still here."

My eyebrow goes up and I lean back in my chair. Something's going down. And Flan doesn't really seemed thrilled about whatever it is.

"I don't think that's best, Brother Shadow--" He snaps his mouth shut and listens. Somebody is pulling rank. Somebody that isn't in my files.

"He's an F.B.I. agent," he whines. "But--" he protests, his voice getting panicky. He's silent for a few seconds, then he utters a low, defeated, "Yes, sir. I understand. I'll...I'll fill out the necessary papers." He lowers the phone down solemnly.

"It seems..." Flan starts, as if in pain, "that someone sees potential in you, Agent Mulder."

Yes. Skinner must have pulled some strings. I'm in. "All I ask for, Flan, is a chance." A chance to find the codes that is. Then I am outta here.

He reaches into a filing cabinet and pulls out a manila envelope filled with papers. "There's something you must understand, Mulder. Once you become one of us, there is no going back. You turn your back on the evils of the secular world and embrace our way of life."

"That sounds great," I say, longing for my collection of porn.

"One of the ways that we help you is to relieve you of some of the temptations that separate you from God."

My throat is suddenly dry. "Such as?"

"Such as all your worldly possessions. Do you own a car, Mulder?"

Oh shit. He wants my *car*. I nod, assenting that I do own a car.

Flan smiles. "Oh, good. We'll need that. Plus any other assets you may own. Savings. Stocks. Bonds. What's your CD collection look like?"

"Mine!" I spit. "It looks like *mine*!" Fuck, gotta remain cool. I can always get my stuff back. Gotta give it up now if I want those codes.

"Now, now, Mulder. We're trying to help you. Only by freeing yourself of possessions can you truly know God. And I'll have you know that we will take care of all your needs. Food, shelter, and the warmth that comes from serving others."

I deliberate for a precious minute, mentally saying my goodbyes to my CD collection. Goodbye Clash. Goodbye Elvis gospel albums. Goodbye Morris Day and the--- "You can't have my Time CD," I blurt out.

"I think you can keep that one," Flan says with a wink. There is an audible thump as he drops a stack of papers rivaling the size of the Old Testament in front of me. This plan of mine is seeming stupider by the second. *Join a cult.* Greeeat idea, Mulder.

"Sign, initial, and date. Press hard. The pink copy is yours."

Yeesh.

We walk into what is essentially a compound, surrounded with the finest security systems that kooky cult money can buy. There are as many cameras as there are day-glo posters of the Leader and there a a lot of those. Barbed- wired fences to keep the heathens out. Or to keep *us* in.

The hallway is strewn with strange posters and signs with bizarre philosophical messages such as "The Leader Will Lead You" and "Cheese: Tool of the Devil."

I'm memorizing the layout of this place. Wonder where the files are. The sooner I find them, the sooner I can leave. If my informant isn't fucking with me, they'll lead me to her. My sister.

"They're waiting for you," Flan says, impatiently, pulling me along. "It's time for your Arrival." He motions to a couple of doors at the end of the hallway. There are two beaming ushers with their hands on the doors, staring at me. They're wearing green robes. They must be in Stage 2 of their training, if I'm remembering the file correctly. You can tell everyone's level of enlightment based on what color of robes they're allowed to wear. Ugh. That means they're going to give me---

"Your robe," the left usher says, grinning, handing me a prison orange garment.

"Thanks," I say. "This'll be great when we go hunting."

"Put it on," Flan commands.

I pull it on with great reluctance.

"This is part of God's plan," Flan says, knowingly, as if he has just told me the secret of the universe.

"To wear really ugly clothes and be humiliated?" I respond.

"Ah, but to be humiliated is to become *humble.* And only a humble man can truly approach God."

Thank you, Oral Roberts. I could get this shit for free watching the weird bible show that comes on at three in the morning.

"Come on," he says and the two ushers open the doors and I step into what looks like their gymnasium. The sight nearly takes my breath away. The bleachers are filled to the brim with men in green robes. There must be hundreds of them. And they're all looking at me.

"WELCOME!" they boom in unison as Flan pushes me forward. Unsure what to do, I wave, carefully, like a shy beauty pageant contestant.

In the middle of the basketball court there are risers, filled with twenty black robes and ten purple ones. Behind a podium is a white robe. The Leader. He looks a little like James Brolin.

Flan leads me up to the phalanx of men, then scurries away as if they might start throwing pies at me or something.

"Welcome," the Leader says into the microphone. "We have before us a new supplicant. A man who wants to serve me and serve God."

"GREAT!" the crowd yells in unison.

I feel like I'm at a pep rally for insane people. Or a Bill O'Reilly fan club meeting.

"Now is the time when I choose your new name," The Leader intones gravely.

"NAME! NAME! NAME!" the crowd chants.

"This name will shape you, youngling. It will *humiliate* you to bring you closer to God."

Oh shit. I'm joining a cult and I don't even get to indulge in one of the few pleasures of doing so: getting to choose a cult name. This does not sound good.

The Leader closes his eyes and purses his lips together like he's just tasted something sour. His eyes flick open. "You are now Toadling."

He can't be serious. Who in their right mind...

"WELCOME TOADLING!" the crowd shouts in jubilee.

First my CDs, now I have to live with being called Toadling for the foreseeable future. This can't get any worse.

"Now, Toadling. Now is the time when we choose the Master that you will serve. The teacher who will show you our ways and shape you into a true child of God." The Leader lifts his head to the crowd. "Who wants a Toadling?" he said with a cackle.

Look, they're doing the wave. That's so weird. Oh. Ohhhhh. A sea of hands jerking up and down. They all want me. They all *want* me.

"ME! PICK ME!" came the shouts from the crowd.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! What a lucky Toadling!" The Leader squeals with glee. "So many people would like to guide you. But who will it be?"

The crowd is suddenly hushed, their eyes closed. They begin to hum a steady monotone. I really, really need a drink.

Then the silence is broken, a solitary voice low, but commanding. "It will be me." That voice. I've heard it before. Like the distant rumble of thunder, it repeats. "It will be me."

Hundreds of eyes open and a murmur travels through the crowd. From the group of black robes a man steps forward, claiming me. I blink in disbelief. This *really* isn't happening. Not him. Not now.

"Ah, Brother Shadow!" The Leader says, pleased. "I cannot think of a better teacher. So shall it be said, so shall it be done!"

"GREAT!" the crowd roars and suddenly I feel sick.

*Brother Shadow* walks toward me with confidence and purpose. My eyes dart across the gym, looking for the exits. The urge to run is overwhelming. It's him. And he's got me right where he wants me.

He strides up and stares me in the face, betraying nothing. Of course he's a black robe. Couldn't expect him to look like a dork, even in a strange cult. I'd recognize him anywhere.

"Krycek," I mutter, trying to hold it together.

"Toadling," he responds, a hint of a smug smile sneaking through.

"Don't..." I warn, knowing full well that here, he can say and do as he pleases. Every bone in my body is screaming to tackle him and pound him into submission. But he knows I can't without blowing my cover, the fuck!

"TOADLING!" the Leader bellows. "Brother Shadow will escort you to your quarters so you can settle in. Then he will begin your instruction in our ways. I think you'll find you are in capable hands."

"GOODBYE, TOADLING!" the crowd cheers good-naturedly.

Krycek walks away from me, stops, then looks back over his shoulder, waiting in silence. I will my legs to walk after him, despite every reasonable notion to do otherwise.

"You know where she is, don't you?" I whisper as we walk down the corridor. He says nothing, smiling and nodding to two green robes guarding an exit. "My sister," I hiss. "Somewhere in The Sect's files lies the locations of all of their labs. The fact that you're here means I'm on the right track."

"You'll like it here, Toadling. There's always plenty to do, as I'm sure you'll learn."

I'm gonna kill him. "What I can't figure out is why you vouched for me. Why you overrode your buddy Flan when he was interviewing me. Unless you just wanted to humiliate me."

Krycek stops and peers into a window. "In there is the pool. It's a privilege, though. You have to earn your way."

"You're enjoying every second of this, aren't you *Brother Shadow*? And how come you get a *cool* cult name, anyways?"

"You don't like yours?" Krycek flashes a grin. "This way." He pulls out a key card and swipes it into a bare, unmarked door. The box flashes green and Krycek pulls on the handle, opening it.

I follow. I don't have a choice. He knows where the files are. Somehow the cult is connected to the conspiracy. I have to find them. I have to find her. And naturally, like anything worth having, Krycek seems to know exactly where it is.

We walk for a good ten minutes, going down stairs, further and further into the ground. Finally, we reach the bottom and he swipes a different key card to open the door.

"Our room is down here. Curfew is 10:00," he informs me.

I start to chuckle. "Oh, I'm sorry," I say, putting my hand to cover my mouth. "I thought you said *our* room."

"I did." He walks down two doors, then stops in front of a door. "Here we are." He opens it and holds it for me. "Listen, there are Level One rules, then there are my rules. You'll learn them soon enough."

"Fuck you, Krycek. I don't play by your rules." I stand there, in defiance.

He shakes his head, and begins to laugh. I don't think I've ever seen him laugh before. This is *not* part of the Krycek tough-guy repertoire. He's actually got a beautiful laugh. If it wasn't at my expense, I might feel differently about it. Instead, it's only pissing me off.

"You think this is *funny*?" I say, my voice rising.

Krycek wipes away a tear, his laughter dying. "Mmmm, yeah," he agrees, confirming my suspicions.

"I don't think you know what's at stake here, Krycek."

The laughter is gone, replaced by a dangerous looking smirk.

"Don't you have anything to say to that, Krycek?!" I yell, finally losing it.

He steps away from the door and locks his eyes squarely on mine. "My boots..." he says, lifting his robe up slightly to reveal them. "Are dirty." He walks toward me, his gaze unrelenting. His voice is slow, deliberate, and careful. "You are going to get down on your hands and knees and lick them. Until I tell you to stop."

A flash of rage spreads through my body and I feel my temperature rise. I'm sweating. "Fuck you," I manage, my voice softer and weaker than I would like. My throat is dry, but the roof of my mouth seems wetter, as if my body is obeying his command.

"Well, it's a shame, Mulder," he says lazily. "But you can't do this without me. Which means you *do* play by my rules. You're a smart man. You do the math."

I dig my fingernails into the center of my palms. "What are you talking about, Krycek?"

"I thought you already knew, Mulder. Your sister. I know *exactly* where those files are and I have the means to get them. You don't. In fact, if I snapped my fingers, I could have ten orange robes throw your ass out of here."

For a second I imagine myself bent before him and a jolt of pleasure travels through my body. My dick swells and for one brief, traitorous second, I picture his hands on my head, shoving me down.

"So...*whose* rules are we going to play by, Mulder?"

"I..."

"Just how bad do you really want this information? Just how bad do you want your sister?"

Motherfucker! I grit my teeth and the only thing that keeps me from beating him bloody is the image of the last time I saw Samantha.

I won't do it. The conspiracy isn't worth it. The truth isn't worth it. Samantha...

He crosses his arms. "I'm waiting," he growls. He knows what I'm thinking. My obsessiveness. My relentless pursuit of the truth. He knows I'll do *anything* to achieve those goals. I'm way too predictable. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His eyes, a dark, murky jade, slowly explore my body and I *know* he's looking for any evidence of my weakness. Thank God I'm wearing a robe.

And I realize...I can't do this. And...I can't *not* do this. I've already made my decision. There was never any choice to make, really.

I close the distance between us and the air seems thicker somehow. Never once does he not claim me with his eyes. They bore into me, the strength of ownership underneath his gaze. We're face to face. I can feel his breath. My heart is pounding. I'm trying not to breathe hard, but I can't help it. Fuck, I can't help--

He grits his teeth and grabs me by the shoulders, pushing me down to the ground. I resist slightly, but not enough to keep my pride from being spanked. I blink, staring at the floor. Krycek's dull black boots are inches away from my head. He nuzzles the top of my head with the tip of his right boot.

I raise my head and look up at him, trying to kill him with my Death- stare. He smiles pleasantly and pushes my head back down. My dick twinges and I curse myself. What the hell is wrong with me?

I sit there in front of his boots, on my hands and knees, trying to talk my tongue into extending. I open my mouth. Go. Go. It's for her. Do it. I hold his boot with both hands, even though it is completely unnecessary. I try and tell myself that it's because I'm stalling. Well, that sounds good anyways.

My tongue reaches out, tentatively, and touches the leather. My cock hardens and I decide then and there to get this over with as quickly as possible.

I hear a door open and voices coming our way. I start to look up and Krycek leans down, shoving my head back to where it was. "You're not done," he says matter-of- factly.

I close my eyes, my fingers gripping his boot. I can almost feel the foot underneath. My tongue presses hard upon his boot and I feel the line of his toes. They're so soft. It tastes like black leather and feels like butter underneath my tongue. It tastes, well, it tastes like Krycek. For a fleeting few seconds I feel overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment as I realize that we've never been this close before. Funny, the thoughts that will go through your head at times like these.

"Other one," he utters and I switch sides.

"Excellent, Brother Shadow," a voice says. From the corner of my eye, I see a group of green robes watching the show. I fucking hate you, Krycek. Still, as my cock rubs between my legs, I feel like I might come at anytime if not careful.

Someone swats me on the ass, which is conveniently pointed heavenward, and the crowd laughs. My face reddens. I lick faster.

We walk into his (our) room and Krycek nods to a duffel bag resting on the bed. The one, single, solitary, twin-sized bed.

"There's your things. The last of your things, to be more accurate," he says, shedding his robe and tossing it very irreverently upon the floor.

I stand there, speechless. He can't expect us to share this pathetic excuse for a bed. Where would I fit? My mind offers up a variety of solutions on how such an accommodation *could* work and I swallow and chase them out of my mind.

"You can't expect me to..." I point to the bed.

He shakes his head, grinning. "I don't know, Toadling. What can't I expect you to?" He folds his arms and waits for a response. I wouldn't mind any of this except that he's so fucking enjoying every humiliating minute of this.

"We're not both going to fit on there, you know," I explain.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised at how easily two people could fit on that bed. More than two on special occasions." He smiles, thinking about it.

I laugh, trying to get the image out of my head before my arousal becomes obvious to those perceptive, invading green eyes of his. "If you think--"

"You sleep on the floor," he says coldly, unfolding his arms and walking away. "Get me a bucket of water."

"What?!"

"You sleep on the floor. Get me a bucket of water." He sits on the edge of the bed and begins to unlace his extremely shiny-clean boots. My eyes dart to them and a damnable surge of lust goes through my body.

"You've really lost yourself here, haven't you Krycek?" I spit, walking around the edge of the bed so I can look him in the face. "I've thought many things about you Krycek, but I never would have figured you to get off so easily on all of this 'master-servant' bullshit." I examine his face, looking for any breaks in that impenetrable facade of his. "You love it. Makes a little man like you feel important."

I pause, waiting for some response, any response. I get none. Just a blank look that makes me want to smash his face in.

"We can play this game if you want, Krycek."

"I do," he says quickly.

"But make no mistake. It *is* a game. It's temporary. I'll jump through your hoops. But don't kid yourself in thinking that you are anything but a means to an end."

"I know," he says quietly. "A game."

"You've surrounded yourself with easily manipulated fools who I'm sure just fall all over themselves trying to win your favor. But you and me? We're different. You can order me around all you want. Your boots. Anyone's boots. It doesn't matter. If it means my sister, I'll do it. But it won't mean shit. You know that, don't you? You're nothing to me. "

He remains silent, his face granite. Only when he swallows do I see a tiny crack of weakness.

"I'm waiting," he says. "For my *bucket* of *water.*"

I kneel before him, bringing him his fourth bucket of water. The first was too cold. The second I brought to him too hot just to be a shit. The third was just right, but he rejected it to punish me for my shitty attitude.

"You're never going to get into heaven that way," he deadpanned, then made me empty it out and start over again.

Finally. Let's hope this will do and we can all move on. He dips his big toe into the water and stares into the air, judging if the temperature is conducive to his spiritual needs. Or something.

"Well, Toadling," he sighs. "This bucket of water..."

I raise my eyebrows. Spit it out, Krycek.

"Will do. That'll do, pig." He starts laughing at his zinger, then sticks both feet into the bucket.

I crumple onto a chair, thankful to be off my feet. Bastard made me walk down the hall just to get him his water from the ceremonial tap, because, as he put it, "It's holier, Toadling."

"What do you think you're doing?" he says, annoyed.

"You said..." I trail. "The water..."

He looks over to the end table, drawing my own line of vision to it. On top of it is a big, spongy loofa and a bottle of some sort of soap.

I snap back to him, looking, knowing what he wants, but not wanting to admit it.

He leans back a bit and raises his toes just up out of the water making them do a happy dance.

Fuck.

"They're waiting, Mulder."

I think I prefer Toadling, at this point. He seems to get a perverse jolt of joy in ordering *Mulder* around. *Naturally.*

In my head I've already agreed to it...quickly enough to freak me out, actually, but I don't want him to know that. I wait about ten seconds before getting out of my chair. I grab the loofa and soap and go to him.

He chuckles delightedly as I pour a dollop of rain-scented gel on the loofa.

"You know," I say. "When this is all over--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get to work."

I give him a final, hateful look, then I grab a foot and begin to scrub. The soap lathers up instantly, making his rough foot rather soft to the touch. Still, as pleasant as it is, I want this over with. I scrub harder and faster.

He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. I look up. "Slower," he says, drawing the word out.

Gritting my teeth, I steel myself for the task at hand. It's becoming more and more unpleasant and that's what scares me. I squeeze the loofa around the back of his foot, feeling the Achilles tendon underneath.

He exhales softly, but in the stillness of the room, it's deafening. "That's nice," he says, trying to be authoritative and not quite succeeding. "Keep on doing that."

I massage his foot, slowly, but firmly, working from the bottom of the ankle down to his toes. He squeezes his toes together, then releases them.

The loofa falls away somehow, but I keep my hands on his foot, using fingers and thumbs to knead systematically up and down the front. I think I hear another Krycek-breath, this one sounding more like a gasp, and it triggers my dick, causing it to harden, anticipating, wanting more than what I'm currently doing.

"Good," he growls, again trying to sound more in control than he actually is. A line of heat, palpable in the air, jerks my head up slightly so my eyes follow his inseam up and I'm looking at his crotch, now bulging uncomfortably.

A random thought presents itself, the realization that I've heard this deep rumble of a voice before, usually when I'm hitting him.

The thought dissipates as quickly as it was formed, replaced by the electricity of the heat between us.

He looks down at me, his eyes half-closed, but fully aware. He says and does nothing, content to let what is happening present itself on its own timetable.

I wet my lips...because they are dry and for no other reason...and look back down at his feet. I let go of one and start to rub the other, memorizing every inch of his foot, how every toenail is perfectly clipped, how he seems to shiver when I flick the tiny web of skin between his big toe and the next littler toe.

I fill my head with this image in a desperate bid to keep myself from thinking of something else. Something far more dangerous. His dick in my mouth.

I want it as much as I hate him.

And he wants it, too, but knows that to demand it now would make him into something that he doesn't want to be: weak.

It would be so easy to lean in, undo those jeans and pull it into my mouth. To feel it get harder underneath my tongue. To feel the mutual submission between us.

I look up at him and he looks back, reading my mind. "Mulder," he utters, more of a groan than anything.

I blink my eyes, hiding out in the stillness of the moment between us.

Then I hear the sound of a cell phone ringing. It pierces the delicate silence and Krycek jerks his head around as if waking from a dream and begins looking for the culprit.

He looks to the end table. "Over there," he snaps. "Get it."

I shake the water off of my hands with no regard as to where the droplets land.

"Watch it!" he growls, wiping the water that's landed on his face. "And hurry!"

I grab his phone and retrieve it for him, my dick getting much more manageable by the second. He snatches it away and quickly answers it.

"Brother Shadow," he says, perturbed. He takes his feet out of the water, grabs the bucket, and hands it to me.

I take it, looking at the ceiling in disgust.

"Towel," he says to me before going back to his phone. "No, not you. I was talking to my new disciple," he boasts.

I take the bucket into the bathroom and dump it into the sink, unable to keep from listening to Krycek's conversation. He talks loudly enough so I won't miss a word. Isn't that nice?

"Yes, he's doing quite well." I walk back into the room with a towel and hand it to him. He stares at me until I get on my knees and rub his feet dry. "He knows his place," he says pointedly, looking at me.

"And yes, he does have a fine ass. Maybe I'll lend him out to you."

My lips become a thin, terse line of disapproval, despite the fact that part of me feels good that he likes my ass. I run the towel vigorously over his feet.

"Shut up," I stammer, stopping to point at him. "Just...shut up."

He sniffs and chuckles lowly. "It's time for dinner, I think. Get me my robe, Toadling," he says, putting down the phone.

I hand him the tray, full of the foods that Krycek has instructed me to get. A chicken fried steak, surrounded by mashed potatoes and slathered in gravy, a salad with ranch dressing --no croutons please--, and *two* jellos, one cherry and one lime. I had to fight another orange robe for the last cherry one, too.

Krycek takes the tray without looking at it, keeping his gaze smugly locked on mine. "Smells good," he says, and my stomach growls, responding to the bounty of foods laid out before me. "But you forgot my spoon."

D'oh! You little fucker. I swivel on my heels and head back. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe...that...guy...is taking the last spoon! The same orange robe that tried to bogart the cherry jello!

His hand is reaching for it as I power-walk right into him, bumping him aside, quite brusquely. I wrap my fingers around my prize, grinning triumphantly. "Ha- hah," I say to the spoon, ignoring the hateful stare behind me.

"You better watch it, Toadling," the young man in the orange robe growls. His face is cherubic, like that of an angel. Well, an extremely pissed off angel with no flatware. Yeah. Read about *them* all the time in Sunday School. The Parable of the Coveted Spoon. Copernicus 35:17.

"Sorry," I say, not really meaning it. "Didn't see you standing there, um, reaching for that, uhhh." Shit. I'm an asshole. I've never denied it. "Say! Maybe there's still some sporks left?"

"Yeah. Whatever. You may be the flavor of the month right now, Toadling. But when he's done with you, he'll come back to me."

"Pfft. He's all yours, cowboy," I say, scoffing at the idea of me being Krycek's favorite flavor. The guy lives to hate me. And I live to hate him. Hey, it's worked so far. "You can ride that train all you like," I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder towards Krycek.

"Don't forget it," he says cockily.

"I'll put in a word for you," I deadpan. "But quite honestly, I think he likes me better." A cruel, delicious smile spreads across my face, mostly because this guy is fun to taunt. But partially because I think it's true. What *does* this bozo have that I don't have? I mean me and Krycek... we've got *history*, man. We go *back*.

Before angel boy has a chance to call me something not-very-nice, I see Krycek waving at me and holding his jello up. Shit. I almost forgot.

"I gotta go," I tell the poor guy, who's trying to get something out, a retort that could very well wound me to the core. Instead he stutters a bit while I talk over the top of him. "Brother Shadow *wants* me." I turn and go, tossing the spoon from one hand to the other.

"About. Damn. Time," Krycek hisses, obviously displeased, but snatching the spoon from my hand all the same.

"That was the last one, Krycek. You're lucky to have one at all. I had to take it from the President of your fan club over there." I nod towards the orange robe, who is still glancing towards us over his shoulder from time to time.

Krycek squints towards him, then smiles. "Ah. Tadpole. He's quite good with his hands."

A twinge of jealousy shoots through me and I swallow, dismissing it, ordering it away. I am *not* going there. Then I realize it as I'm looking at all the men here. Masters... slaves. Teachers...students.

"I thought this was a cult, Krycek. It's more like a gay Club Med for people who are really into robes."

"When in Rome," he says, smiling. "Now go get your food. I don't want you to watch me eat with those puppy-dog eyes."

In my life, I've made it my work to explain the unexplainable. To define what no dictionary or college textbook would even dream of defining. I think I've done a pretty good job of it so far. But sometimes... sometimes it just gets a little too weird for even my tastes.

For instance, I never could imagine Krycek saying: "Hurry up, Mulder. We don't want to be late for the sing-a-long."

He's walking quickly down the hall and I'm practically sprinting trying to keep up with him. Guess he likes to sing. Who knew?

"You're creeping me out. Can't you say something...Krycekian? Make me feel more secure of my place in the universe?"

He says nothing, his pace quick and sure. Must be too focused on rounds of Kumbaya and Spirit in the Sky to fulfill his bantering responsibilities.

He stops abruptly in front of a door, peering into the window. I can hear the muffled sounds of people making a not-so-joyous sound unto God. I mean, devout faith is one thing. I can respect that. But let's face it. No one but the Doobies should sing "Jesus is Just Alright." No matter *how* much the spirit moves them.

"Um, Krycek, I think I'd rather lick your boots again than go in there." Actually, there's part of me that hopes I can do it again.

Krycek looks at me, silent. Then he smiles and starts snapping his fingers to the muted music coming through the walls.

"C'mon Mulder," he slips, calling me by my real name. "You and me. 'Jesus is just all right with me...' Your turn. You know the words."

I hang my head and purse my lips. Find my happy place. Find my happy place. "I want to talk to *Krycek.* Krrrryceeek."

"Just kidding," he says, giving me a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Everybody in this building is at the sing-a-long. Which means *we* are going to be somewhere else."

I jerk my head up. Now we're talking. "With the files?"

He nods. "With the files."

"Well, praise Jesus. Or Ted Turner. Or whoever it is you guys worship."

Krycek stands there, shaking his head and biting his lip trying valiantly not to smile, but like all good, true, and memorable smiles, it creeps onto his face despite his best efforts. Then *I* feel a smile coming on and *I* attempt the same sort of concealing. We're pathetic. Standing here in a poorly lit hallway of a cult compound, cracking one- liners and trying desperately to pretend that we don't have it within ourselves to make each other smile. Big macho fucks. It's a hallmark of our relationship.

After about ten-seconds of non-smiling, he turns and walks away, stopping short of the wall. He looks up at the ceiling. He motions me over with his hand, not bothering (or trying hard not to?) to look at me. "Over here," he whispers. I wait a few customary seconds to let him know that he's not as cool as he thinks he is, then walk over. Sometimes I think our lives are like two guys struggling in a car for supremacy of the steering wheel. We're both willing to die to keep the other from driving.

"On your knees," he says lowly, looking up at the ceiling. With those three words, a familiar zing of electricity shoots through me, stirring my cock to life. O traitorous member. I quickly comply, more quickly than is emotionally safe for me to do so, but is very much necessary to conceal the bulge emerging from my waist.

He turns and looks down at me, surprised that I have obeyed him so quickly. I look up, searching for that self-satisfied smug leer. That arrogant smirk that lets me know what he thinks of me. My eyes meet his and for an instant I can't find my breath. And I see a surprise waiting for me. There's a stranger looking back at me.

I see a man I have never seen before. A man who is uncertain about what he sees instead of sure and all-knowing. A man who doesn't look arrogant at all. He looks... soft. His face, relaxed, almost incapable of hardness. His mouth slightly open, his eyes, glimmering, doe-like. No, this man isn't Krycek. This is somebody else. This is... Alex?

I love looking at this beautiful, stunned face that is drawn and locked onto mine, but there's a heat, a line of energy that is drawing my eyes down. I can feel it. And I can't resist it. Who could? I can *feel* him getting hard in front of me, inches away from my face. I look down and stare at the bulge in his robe. My mouth waters.

"Th-there's a vent," he stammers, lamely pointing up at the ceiling, hoping to steer the car back onto the road instead of over the fast- approaching cliff. "That leads to, the, uh..."

I nod, slowly, not taking my eyes away from his waist. "A vent," I whisper, reaching out with my index finger, circling the visible protrusion of his robe. My finger brushes him and as I feel the hardness of his shaft, my own cock throbs in response. I push on the gas pedal and I hear the tires screech.

He shudders, blinking his eyes rapidly, trying to hold it all together. "The fuh-files are in..."

I wrap my fingers around the bulge and carefully squeeze. Alex lets out a whimper and his fingers ball up into fists. As I let go, his fists relax back into loose hands. I squeeze again and he gasps, his fists, back again, tightly and I realize that he's mimicking my actions, unknowingly. Squeeze. Fists.

"You tell me," I say, my mouth still watering, "all about your plan."

His eyelashes flutter and I see a flicker of control on his face, trying so hard to get things back to where he had them. No. I won't let you. I want this. You want this. I won't have you ruin this because you're an asshole, asshole. I grab the bottom of his robe and begin to unbutton it. I raise up slightly to reach the top few buttons, my face getting closer to his. I don't think I've ever seen him so weak before. It's a good look on him.

"This...is the way...it's going to be... Mulder," he valiantly tries to explain while not pushing me away. "I'm going to climb...up..."

The robe is now unbuttoned and I lower myself back down to the floor. I nod distractedly at his words and reach through his robe. My fingers find the buttons of his 501's and start undoing them. "Excellent idea...Master," I say, causing him to breathe in sharply and quite audibly. "Tell me more."

"I don't want you to do this," he breathes, almost pleadingly.

I grab the waist of his white BVDs and jerk him around, pivoting and slamming his body up against the wall. He gasps, but offers no resistance.

"I'm sorry, Master," I whisper and pull down his underwear, springing his stiff cock free into the air. "I just want to please you." If I were to *give* him the steering wheel, would he still want it? Let's find out.

"Uhhhhno!" He jerks his head to the side as if in pain. I know better.

I grab his dick and squeeze it roughly. You're all mine, Alex. So much so that I'm giving you myself. What do you think of that?

"Fuck..." he whimpers, his strong hands clawing ineffectually against the wall. Somewhere, in the distance, the sound of a hundred men singing rounds of "Spirit in the Sky" can be heard.

I take one long, glorious look at his dick, standing obediently upright for me. I never thought I'd see it. Well, naked anyways. I've caught glimpses of his hard-on for me before, but I've always wanted more confirmation. This...this is confirmation.

Words, I'm guessing. Words about files and vents and how we shouldn't be doing this start to come out of his mouth. I'm guessing that's what he means to say anyways, because it all turns into mewling the instant I take his cock into my mouth. One hand on his cock, to keep it steady, and one hand around his waist, possessively.

"Ah. Ah. Ah," he grunts with every bobbing motion I make with my head. Every sound of pleasure is a cue to my own dick, throbbing and wanting so much to come out and play. But still, despite this betrayal of his body against his will to remain stoic and disinterested, he remains not completely mine.

There's nothing like it: the feel of his hot, pulsing cock in my mouth, my tongue licking and claiming every inch of him. Still, it's not enough.

I stop, retreating and letting his dick out into the cool, climate- controlled air of the hallway. Gotta breathe anyways. I don't *want* to let it go completely, though. My tongue has other ideas and I can't help but bring it back and lick a trail up and down his shaft, slowly, as much as to savor him as to tease him.

"Don't...you...like," I manage to say between the flicks of my tongue. "What...I'm...doing...Master?" I reach up with both hands, grab his, and place them on the sides of my head. "Maybe." Another taste. "You." So good. "Can show me."

His hands...his fingers rest there, as stiff and as unwilling as a mannequin's. But I can *feel* it. He wants to do it. The latent energy coursing through him could light up the night. I grab his cock, now slightly chilled, but no less hard into my warm, eager, mouth. "Guhhhhhhhahhhhhh!!" His body jerks, and as a low rumble rolls out from his throat, his fingers intertwine themselves with my hair and he grips my head.

"Mmm-hmm," I moan, as he guides my head up and down his shaft, fucking my mouth. He goes in deep and I gag a bit, but the feeling recedes and there's really only one thing I can concentrate on. Some might call this a blow-job, but I know the truth: he's fucking me.

"Muhhhhhllll--" he utters, his eyes firmly shut, his hands wrapped tightly through my hair. I moan again and I wish I could tell him, no, fucking order him to come down my throat, that the little shit *owes* me that. He owes me his essence shooting through me. I've worked for it goddammnit, it belongs to me.

In lieu of talking, I swirl my tongue around the one spot on the underneath that seems to make him the most pleading and incomprehensible. I think he gets the idea. Come, motherfucker.

Maybe he needs just a little bit more help. I raise my one free hand and place it over his right hand, which is tenderly gripping my hair. I put my hand over his and give it a push. Do it. You want this. Don't play dumb with me. Fuck my mouth.

One solid push. It's enough. He goes with the rhythm and I think *I'm* going to come when he grips my hair violently and shoves my head up and down on his dick with the passion that I've been waiting for.

Tiny drops form at the corners of his eyes and he gives himself to me. His sex. His voice. Everything.

"Ohgodohgodohjesusohmulderfuckfuckfuck!" A litany of words, holy and profane, escape his mouth, a strange poetry to them. But they all seem to mean one thing: I'm yours, Mulder.

And as I moan and suck, the only response I can have in this meaningful conversation, his dick twitches and I can feel it. Fill me, Alex. Fill me.

"Uhhhhhhhmmmulllhhhh!" he screams and grips the sides of my head with one final thrust before coming. My head hurts, but I don't really give a fuck when everything else feels so good. He empties into me and I swallow it quickly. Claiming it.

In the stillness of the hallway, I let his dick slide out of my mouth. He's still holding me by the hair. I feel him move and I think he's going to let go, but he doesn't. Instead, he wraps his arms around my head and holds me, hugging me.

Moments. Hours. Weeks. Days. Years. A lifetime. We connect in that time and I know that this case was no cosmic anomaly. Maybe I wasn't supposed to find my sister here. Maybe I was supposed to find the love that would help me continue to keep looking.

When he lets go, he tenderly caresses my face, bringing it up to look at him. His wet, green eyes are looking at me for the first time ever. I had always been here, but he had never *really* seen me. The me I could be. The *us* that could be. It's insane. Most truly brilliant things are, I guess.

He raises me up and we go to kiss. Our lips brush up against each other, softly.

"Well, well, well!" a voice booms. We both spin around. The Leader, flanked by ten black robes stands there. His eyes immediately go down to Alex's dick, hanging freely in the air. Alex quietly pulls up his underwear and begins to button his pants, never taking his eyes off the Leader.

"I was, uh, just serving my Master," I explain, hoping to get us both out of this without being sent to the Arts and Crafts room.

"Heh. I see." The Leader snorts and gives a not so subtle leer towards Alex.

A wave of jealousy shoots through me at the thought of this disgusting old coot making the moves on my guy.

"What's the problem," Krycek growls, his stare growing dark.

The Leader closes the gap between us and the black robes follow closely behind. Something *is* up. "The *problem*," he sneers, "is that *you* are not who you say you are, Alex Krycek!" A bit of spittle lands on my nose. Oh, this guy is gonna get it.

"You and your little Toadling are going to be humiliated! You will be brought to the courtyard square, stripped naked and beaten to death!"

"What's the downside?" I say, smirking. "I mean, I didn't even get to come here. Sounds like fun. Throw in a few margaritas and I'm so there."

"You're making a big mistake," Alex says coolly, his eyes locked onto the Leader's.

"You shouldn't have lied to us, Krycek," the Leader whispers, rage in his eyes. "Now we have to destroy you and your boyfriend. The pain will be exquisite!"

"Well, here's another fine mess you've gotten us into," I say, trying to sound peeved. I stand and shake my head. "I guess there's only one thing left to do."

They both look at me. The Leader gets in my face. "What's that, Toadling?" he snarls. I look at Alex and he looks back at me. We both smile as the same thought goes through our heads. Hey, nothing like sex to make two people simpatico.

In unison, we each swing a fist up and meet directly with the Leader's face. Blood spills from his nose and he goes stumbling backwards. There are a few droplets of blood on me. Good thing I'm wearing a robe.

The rest of them stand there dumbly, not sure what to do when someone's not ordering them around. "Sonofabitch!" a black robe yells. "Motherfucker!" another one adds, a distinctive point that deserved to be made, all things considered.

"Ged dem!" the Leader yells. The spell of confusion is swept away and we turn and start to run down the hall. The sound of footfalls follow us.

I always like to follow sex by being chased by guys in robes. Just weird, I guess. We round a corner, skidding on the smooth tile. Alex stops at a door and I run into him, pushing us both against the wall.

"Oof!" I grin, laughter threatening to overtake me. He smiles back and opens the door.

"Quick, through here." He runs into the dark room and I follow. A motion- detection system turns on the light. We're in some sort of meeting room. He leans over a table, his hands on the edges. "Help me out here Mulder."

"Uh, shouldn't you be naked for that?" I walk up behind him and slap his ass, now facing me. He jerks and looks over his shoulder. "Maybe later," he grins.

I sigh, and roll my eyes in fake exasperation. "Oh, all right." I circle around to the other side of the table and we pull it up against the door. Just in time, too. The sounds of the black robes trying to push the door open fill the room.

"We know you're in there!" someone shouts. Sounds like Flan.

"We know you're out there!" I shout back. "Senor Ass-monkey! So leave! Before I have to get rough with you. With all...ten...of you." I raise my eyebrows questioningly at Alex. He shakes his head and begins to circle the room looking for another exit.

He leans up against the wall, catching his breath. He looks at me, all serious. "Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"What the hell happened back there, anyways?"

"You're asking questions you already know the answers to, Alex."

His jade eyes are glistening now, with tears. The best kind of tears.

I cross to him, torn by equal urges to kiss him and rip off his clothes and fuck him. Time enough for everything, Mulder. But not here. The tears roll silently down his cheeks, but I don't kiss them away. They belong there. They complete him...give me that last piece of him I feel I've always been denied, and I don't want to take them away. Besides, my lips want to be on his. So soft.

We meet and I take his face in my hands. His lips part for mine and we kiss, deep and strong, my tongue taking him, dominating him. The rest of the world shimmers, then vanishes, unable to compete with this kiss, a kiss that's been too long in coming.

We part, gasping.

"I-" he chokes, trying to get the words out. "I thought you didn't...that you couldn't and never would--"

He cries and these tears I do wipe away. "You think too much. I wanted you to take me. I wanted to give that to you." I pull back and smile. "I just had to force you to take me. It was the only way that you would. Too proud to do it on your own. I mean, think about it. You've had me at your command the whole time, Alex. But you were scared of having me do anything beyond washing your feet and getting you jello."

"I love you, Mulder," he whispers, looking deep into me.

"I know." I breathe, slowly, thinking about that meeting between us, how I wanted him and how I hated him because of it. And how quickly that changed. In a short amount of time I learned to trust him and perhaps love him. And even a betrayal could not stop this. Could not stop us. "And now that you know how I feel, I won't have to *make* you take me, now will I?" I smirk.

He smiles. "'S nice, tho'."

"We'll work something out. But for now, let's find a way out of here."

He points to the vents above us. I look at him, tilting my head. "Again with the vents."

"Think like a rat, Mulder. That one in particular should lead to the back doors. Of course, then we have to face the guard dogs and the electric fence."

"Well, of course. I wouldn't have it any other way. It'd be too easy. But I want you to know this. I will be back for those files."

"No. Mulder. You won't."

"What?"

"We will."

I feel the tears watering the corners of my eyes and it's my turn to cry.

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"One more question."

"Yes?"

He's silent for a second, trying to find the words.

"Senor Ass-Monkey?"