Gone Too Far (To Turn Back Now)

He glares at me with hate filled eyes, slightly red rimmed with the pain. I nudge the dial, using my good hand, better control that way, don't want to go too far. The readout sparkles on the edge of building another block. Just enough for him to feel it.

"What do you want, Krycek?"

"In good time. Don't, Skinner," I warn him as he gathers himself. "You're not that fast. Just don't. Besides, what will it gain you? Even if you take it away from me you'll never figure out the codes in time. I've set the timer on five second intervals."

Right on time, my palm pilot beeps. The beep was something I added for Skinner's comfort, otherwise it'll start the cycle and I won't notice. Skinner's such a macho guy he won't say anything, won't admit to the pain until it's so bad he can't hide it any more. Just in case I'm doing it deliberately. Okay, sometimes I am.

I look down. Another block appears on the screen. Two, where just a moment ago there was one. Twice as much pain. How much is that, I wonder?

Hates bleeds from his eyes. He clenches his fists. How hard is he fighting to hide the pain from me? How badly am I hurting him? It's a sick question, and I acknowledge the fact even as I press forward, seeking the answer.

It seems like such a waste of energy, hiding the pain. I never do. No point. If they're the good guys they'll stop because they're hurting you and if they're the bad guys they'll stop when they've gotten their satisfaction. Either way it works out the same. The hurting doesn't stop until you scream a little.

Another block. That's three. Ten and he's dead. We've already established that fact. I lay the palm pilot down on the table between us, so that he can see the readout, see that the manual dial is not being used.

"You've made your point, Krycek. I don't dare beat the shit out of you because then your little toy would kill me. Fine." His words are clipped. Anger or pain?

How much can he take? It's one of those questions that keeps me awake at night. One is uncomfortable. Ten is dead. What lies between the two extremes?

Suddenly, I have to know. I reach for the palm pilot. The relief that flashes through his eyes almost makes me feel...ashamed. It sends a strange craving through me, hot and sweet and sharp, like the hot gush of blood after the slice of the knife. I want more. I want to hurt him and then stop hurting him. It's not just about the power I have over him. Yeah. I have a few quirks. Who doesn't?

I enter the code to interrupt the cycle, then for the restart. My programming is a marvel. Really. I'm not just being modest. Skinner doesn't have any idea what I could make him do if I was really the sadistic bastard he thinks me. The nanos are responsive little pets, obedient and effective, and I can make them stand up and beg with a few choice codes. I wish I knew more about physiology but, hey, I can't be an expert at everything.

I can make them do anything, but I can never really be sure what the effect will be until it happens. Damn Spender anyway, for making me kill the doc before I was ready. The best I could do was steal his special experimental palm pilot, leaving the Consortium with the two standard models. Also the programming notes. They've never seen those either. The old bastards think I'm an obedient little stooge on a leash, and they send me in to ring Skinner's bells every now and then. Remind him, they say. Remind him that we are in control. Skinner isn't the only one they're reminding, of course.

Spender keeps the Consortium's units under lock and key, except when they give me one for a while. They don't know about the special unit. The one I've programmed myself. Thank god for emulators. I built one of those myself. Helps me figure out things when I'm writing new code. I even gave it a name. Marvin. If you don't know the reference you don't need to. Poor guy. The things I've done to him in the name of scientific progress. Skinner thinks he's got it bad...

Skinner was supposed to have stayed dead. Roll up the slider, nanos kill him, walk away. Clean up the evidence. Make it all disappear. Those were my orders.

Funny how easy it is for experimental technology to malfunction. Somehow, he survived.

They didn't believe me. Tried again a week later. In his house, as he lay in bed. Probably whacking off thinking about Mulder. Sorry, not fair. I'm probably projecting. I'm sure he blames me for the incident but I didn't even find out about it until it was almost too late. I keep a closer watch, now.

They've checked the unit's programming, and are mystified.

The renewal of pain catches him off-guard. The betrayal in his face cuts me. He'd thought he had more time. I put the palm pilot on the table between us.

"You bastard," he hisses.

"One time offer, Skinner." I have to know. I have to know how much he hates me. How sick is that? "You tell me when to turn it off. I'll do it whenever you say. Presuming that I'm conscious, that is, so don't get carried away. Carte blanche, Skinner."

Got to give the man credit. He comprehends instantly, and a rapid staccato of emotions possess his features; bewilderment, disbelief, acceptance, then rage takes over as he launches himself at me.

I thought I was braced. I thought I was ready for the pain, the physical sensations of the blows, the feel of his fists striking me over and over. He's hit me before. Once in this very apartment, in front of Mulder. Twice afterwards, before he learned the cost. I'm no slouch when it comes to pain, though I'm good at faking it. Father always said I was a throwback, that my pain receptors must be underdeveloped. He never found as much satisfaction in punishing me as he did with my brothers. It made him try harder, and that's when I learned to fake it.

I know why women fake orgasm. It's to give the sadistic bastard slamming into her the satisfaction he needs, to make him stop. To make him happy. To get his approval.

I scream as he crushes my balls. That's Skinner all over. Takes a lot to push him over the edge but when you do he doesn't fuck around. A hard one to the gut and another and another and I'm curled up on the floor retching.

I thought I was ready. I thought I'd have to fake it, but I don't. I should have known I'd never have to fake it with Skinner.

I can't see the palm pilot but it's probably up to at least three by now, maybe four. I spend some time vomiting. He wrenches my arm behind my back and slams me to the floor, crushing me beneath his weight, his hand in my hair pulling my head back until the strain on my throat begins to choke me.

I feel his hot breath on my ear and he whispers "I'm going to give you something to remember me by" and I think oh, god, he's going to bite off my ear but he slams my head down onto the polished wood and while I'm seeing stars, hovering on the edge of consciousness he flips me over and unzips my fly. By the time I realize his intentions he has my jeans and briefs down around my knees and then I'm face down again. There is a moment when my brain simply freezes. This isn't happening.

I thought I was ready for anything, but not this. Not this.

The pain is incredible, unendurable, more than just physical as he splits me open, violates me. I scream in waves, each thrust making my lungs spasm, again and again until I can't breathe. My vision darkens. Then he pulls out of me and relief is so great I can only whimper and gasp for air as I feel his cum spatter against my back. My abused asshole burns, and there's a molten rod of pain radiating up into me. It hurts more than I would have expected.

I hurt so much I can't move. Something hits the ground by my twitching hand. The palm pilot. I try to reach it but the effort is more than I can make.

"In my hand..." I gasp but Skinner is no longer looming over me. He's on the ground too, black veins crawling like evil snakes across his face. All I want to do is curl up and sob but I promised him, whenever you want it and I think he wants it and somehow I manage to close my hand around the palm pilot and drag it to me.

Nine. That's how much he hates me.

His eyes are open, and the agony in them overpowers my own. My finger twitches. Three. Four. Two. Two...

"Remember...me," he rasps. "Krycek." There's something almost like regret in the way he says it.

He slumps and the lines of agony relax.

Six. Two. Why the fuck did I use so many digits..?

I lose consciousness.

Awareness returns. Floor beneath my slack, drooling lips. Pain. Pain everywhere. I almost abandon myself again but something is screaming at me, something bad is happening or about to happen. I've learned not to ignore my instincts so I struggle up.

My pants are still around my knees, and that's when it all comes back to me. Skinner. The palm pilot. I go to enter the last two digits but the device has timed out so I have to reenter it all from the beginning. It takes me two tries to get it right.

The bars collapse. Nothing left on the screen but a flat line.

The black snakes slither back into the depths of Skinner's body, leaving his face still and frozen. Not peaceful, no matter what they say about death.

How long? How long has he been dead?

His flesh is still very warm, his open eyes still moist. I close them, nearly shaking with relief. I tap another command into the palm pilot.

Nothing happens. He's still not breathing.

//No!// I struggle to draw my pants back up and crawl to Skinner's body. Heart stopped. Not breathing. What comes first?

911. Gotta call 911.

I stagger to my feet, pain pushed to the background by the wave of sheer terror that crashes over me. Skinner! Youmotherfuckingbastard don't you die on me...

"Send an ambulance!" I nearly choke on the words. "He's not breathing. His heart has stopped. Send it now!"

Without waiting for a reply I drop the phone and stagger back to Skinner.

Why aren't the nanos working?

Brain damage. Can't let there be brain damage. I put my hand under Skinner's neck, tilting his head back, pinch his nose, bring my face down onto Skinner's and blow. Hey, I watch a lot of Baywatch. His lips are warm and taste of coffee and blood. I wish I had the leisure to enjoy this.

Unseal. Warm air flows out. He needs to gargle. Seal and blow. Again.

I stop for a moment to press a thumb to his carotid. Heartbeat. Faint, but present. Relief sweeps through me...I feel dizzy. He's alive. Once again, I bend to force air into his mouth. Seal, breathe, release. Seal, breathe, release.

I sit back. So tired. Skinner's chest is rising and falling by itself, now. Something rises in my throat, tunneling painfully up my throat until it bursts, forcing its way out of me. I double over. I want to hit him. "You bastard. you bastard. You utter fucking bastard," I gasp, over and over, a mantra that comforts me as I rock.

And then I notice that he's not breathing any more. "Fuck...no..." This shouldn't be happening. I force air into his lungs. Breathe, Skinner. You utter bastard. Breathe.

I hear the distant wail of an ambulance and I dare to hope it's for Skinner. Got to get out. Can't let myself be seen here.

If I stay, there may be police. Questions. If I leave there will be no one to breathe for him. If I stay they may get the palm pilot. If I go, it won't matter. Not to Skinner, anyway, but the Consortium would know about my ace in the hole.

I weigh my chances. Timing may be important. And what's the probability that there will be a cop, let alone a competent one?

Seal, breathe, release. Seal, breathe, release.

Skinner's fly is open, his limp cock stained with blood. It would serve him right to be found like this. Exposed for what he was. Why does it hurt so much? It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. I pull Skinner's boxers closed, wrestle the zipper up and button him.

Seal, breathe, release. Seal, breathe, release.

Voices in the hall. Loud. Someone tries the door.

"Assistant Director Skinner? Sir, can you unlock the door?"

Mulder. //Sonofafuckingbitch!// I scramble to my feet, nearly forgetting to take the palm pilot. I pelt down the hall and duck into a random room as the sound of splintering wood heralds the arrival of my nemesis.

Ironically, it's the bedroom. Hide...where? There is a walk-in closet, thick with cover. A row of suits, and boxes of junk. I move a couple to make for a more secure hiding place, turn the light off and collapse to the floor, listening, the closet door cracked open.

"...get him on oxygen..."

"...name is Walter Skinner. He's an Assistant Director with the F.B.I..."

"...Blue Cross. No, I don't know his fucking group ID number. You should have it on record somewhere, if not call his fucking secretary..."

The voices get quieter after that and I huddle in the half dark, listening intently. Ride with him. Get out getoutgetout..."

As if on cue, I hear Scully's voice. "...ride with him, Mulder?"

There is a pause. I hold my breath. "No." He was closer now, probably in the hall. "I'm going to have a look around."

"But why, Mulder?"

"Scully, who called the ambulance?"

Fucking Mulder I snarl silently. He never could just leave anything alone. Damn you, Mulder. I'll fucking kill you...

Their voices fade again, presumably as they go into another room. Got to get out. Were the paramedics gone? I haven't heard anything from that direction in a long time. If I can make a run for it...

It hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much?

Scully's voice, getting louder. "What are expecting to find, Mulder? Even assuming that there was someone else here who caused the AD's collapse why would he call an ambulance? And why would he still be here?"

I carefully pull the door shut and crawl back behind the boxes and the neat line of pressed suits. Sharp pain stabs through me, a knife blade in my gut. Oh, fuck. Going to be pissing blood again. My balls ache from being crushed and my ass burns. I resist the urge to pull down my jeans and see if I'm still bleeding. Imagine the horror if Mulder catches me like this. Escape first, then triage. It's important to have your priorities straight. One of Spender's favorite sayings.

"...another of your hunches, Mulder? Not that I'm questioning the validity of your instincts..."

There is a click and a squeak. I hold my breath. not here not here And then, just because I'm on a first name basis with Murphy I quietly slip the palm pilot into the pocket of one of Skinner's coats.

"Not instincts. Observation. The floor was warm, Scully."

"The floor?"

"Someone was keeping him alive, right up until the ambulance arrived. You told me yourself that he wasn't oxygen deprived. That person wouldn't have had time to flee."

"He might have stopped breathing just before the ambulance arrived."

"The floor beside Skinner was warm. Someone was there.'

Fuckfuckfuck. No place to run. Why the fuck was I so arrogant as to leave my gun in the car, just to prove that I wasn't afraid of Skinner?

The suits are shoved aside and I find myself blinking up into Mulder's face.

"Krycek. You son of a bitch. I knew it was you."

Deja fucking vu. Sometimes it sucks to be me. He grabs my shirt, hauls me over the boxes and out into the light of the bedroom. It hurts. It fucking hurts so bad. I can't do anything but curl up and try to keep him from hurting me more.

"Krycek? Mulder, what did you do?" She doesn't sound concerned, she sounds fascinated. //Hit him again, Mulder. I want to hear him squeal.//

"I didn't do anything." He sounds a little petulant. "Skinner probably put up a fight before this rat bastard...what did you do to him, Krycek?"

Sometimes I don't think Mulder even looks at me any more. I'm just a knee-jerk reaction, a symbol of everything that he hates. He doesn't see me. He just sees all the times he's been so close to getting what he wants only to have it taken away.

"Talk, Krycek!" He shakes me a little and I slide on the floor. "What are you doing here?"

Knives and fire. Skinner can't have injured me that badly. I'm good at judging that sort of thing. So why does it hurt so fucking much?

"Mulder. Stop." Dana Scully's voice is like ice crystals. Cool. Ordered. It sooths the fire that is burning me, burning me... "Mulder, there's blood."

"Of course there's going to be blood." Exasperated. "Skinner's not one to go down without a...oh."

Oh Nothing that he said could have broken me. No accusations, no curses, no insults. That word, the way he said it...it means nothing.

"We can't jump to any conclusions." Coming from Mulder that is the biggest irony of the century. The fucking shame of it is that he can jump and he always seems to land in exactly the right spot. Except when it comes to me, of course.

"We aren't, Mulder. We won't."

I hate it when they talk about me like I'm not part of the conversation. Like I'm not sitting here, forced to hear every word.

"How can you be defending him like this? You saw Skinner..."

"I'm not denying what we saw. But Mulder, ask yourself this. If it was a complete stranger we found in Skinner's closet, hurt, bleeding like...that, what would you be doing right now?"

Don't do me any favors, Scully. I like Mulder better when he's hitting me.

There is a long silence. I feel a cool hand on my face. A delicate hand, though I know that what lies beneath it is pure steel. It's one of the things that always made me wish that things could have been different.

"Krycek? Nobody's going to hurt you. I need to have a look at your injuries."

Something snaps. "No!" I strike out in blind panic. Not sure who I hit. //can't let them see..// I feel sick, so sick I want to die. I don't understand what I'm feeling. I lunge for the closet. //hide in the dark// Mulder grabs my legs but he's no match for hysterical strength. I make it to the closet, yank the door shut behind me. With my fist I shatter the light bulb so they can't force the light on me. There's glass in my hair. I shake it out and the motion makes me dizzy.

Somewhere in the back of my own head I know that something is wrong. I've been hurt before, much worse than this. What's wrong with me? I can't identify this sickness that twists my guts into knots.

I hear their voices but I'm not listening. As long as I can't hear them I won't know what they're saying about me. Isn't that nice? I'll tell Scully that she can have her little peep show as long as Mulder's not present. He won't let her be alone with me so that will be the end of it. I don't know how the hell I'll be able to keep them from taking me into custody, especially now that Skinner's not around to keep them on a leash, but I'll think of something. It's what I do.

The door opens. I don't want him near me. Inspiration strikes. "Back off, Mulder. I've got a gun." I try to sound menacing, but only manage desperate. Maybe that will be enough.

A pause. "I don't believe you, Krycek. If you had a gun you'd have had it out the first time we did this." He moves closer. I'm going to puke, so help me. And then I do. The stink of vomit fills the enclosed space. Shit. The smell of it sets me off again. "S...stay away from me, Mulder."

"I wish I could. This is not a smell I'm fond of. Come out of the closet, Krycek, or I'll drag you out again. If you make me come into that vomit hole after you I'm going to be really pissed."

"Fuck you, Mulder. If you get near me I'll put my foot down your throat." I draw my secret backup weapon. Switchblade. Ankle sheath. It opens with an audible snikt. "You hear that, Mulder?" The pain is eating me from the inside. I hurt so bad.

"Sounded like a switchblade."

"Good ear, Mulder."

"What's the point, Krycek? I could just shoot you. You aren't going anywhere. Whatever possessed you to hide in a closet instead of running for the door? Stupid ass rat. You don't even have a hostage, so the blade won't do you any good."

"You volunteering?"

"No thanks."

It hurts so bad. If I did have a gun the barrel would be in my mouth. I think about using the knife but I don't have the nerve.

Scully's voice. Mulder's voice. The closet door is closed again. They're arguing about something.

Click.

"I'm not bluffing, Mulder. Stay back."

"I'm not Mulder."

Oh. Scully. She must have won the argument, and the idea tickles me so much I let her come closer. Just to piss Mulder off. He's got to be hoping I'll chase her out the way I did him. He's got to be hating the fact that she's in here, in the dark, alone with me. He's got to be sweating blood right now. He knows I have a knife.

Scully's got balls of steel. It's why I've never been able to hate her. I'd worship at her alter if she'd let me.

Goddess of rats. Sounds like a best seller.

There's a rustle. Movement. Scully's face, indistinct in the dark. "Hand me the knife, Krycek." Balls of steel.

"No. I need it. P...protection." I hate the way that sounded. Like I'm pleading, not telling.

"You're not going to cut anyone." Her voice is soothing, comforting, not a command.

"M...Mulder." It was meant to be a curse but didn't come out quite right.

"You won't cut Mulder, Krycek. He doesn't know it, but I do. Now, give me the knife. I don't want either of us getting hurt by accident."

"Don't tell him." I'm not sure what I don't want her to tell, but I let her pry the knife out of my hand. My fingers just don't want to let go.

"I need to know how badly you're hurt. I'm going to turn on the light."

"S'broken. I broke it. Don't look at me, Scully." Mulder doesn't. I don't want you to, either.

Another long pause. I feel her fingers on my wrist, my heartbeat battering at her from just beneath skin that suddenly feels as fragile as rice paper.

"Your heartbeat is accelerated. Are you frightened, Krycek?"

Anyone who knew me would know better than to say shit like that to me. Good way to catch a bullet in a dark alley. Balls of steel, my Scully.

What the hell am I saying? As I think that, I suddenly realize that it's true. I've been watching them for so long. When did observation turn into this sense of possession? My Scully. My Mulder. My... Something shatters inside me, like a glass bulb beneath my heel. They're mine. My world. I define myself by their hatred, see myself in the fire of their eyes. Mulder's fists and Skinner's grim frustration and Scully's cool, calculating contempt. That's why I had to know how much. They all see what I let them see, not really me, but now Scully wants to turn on the light and look at me, really look at me and I can't bear it. As long as they don't know it doesn't matter what they think.

I'm shaking now, trying to hold on to my self control and Scully can feel it. Damn her. I could grab her, take the knife back and use her as a hostage. Mulder would let me go. He'd never risk her. The worst of it is that I think she'd understand. She'd even let me get away with it. Maybe.

"Scully! You okay?" Mulder's voice, a little on the high side. Can't blame him, really. I wouldn't let Scully be alone in here with me if I had a choice.

"I'm fine, Mulder." She really thinks she is. Her composure is unfailing. While Mulder flies off in fifteen different directions at once //he's so damned easy to get a rise out of// Scully stands firm and anchors him. I've never seen her lose it.

I could shatter her. I say that without a trace of doubt or pride. She's only human. A little pain, a little blood. Well, maybe more than a little. But you get the idea.

I won't, though. I'd no more want to hurt her than I'd take a blowtorch to a Monet. She's a masterpiece. Balls and brains and beauty and...a softness that you don't see unless you watch her in private moments. I watch her sometimes, when I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on Mulder.

Jesus, will you listen to me? I *must* have a brain fever, spouting shit like this. It's Skinner's fault. Fucking bastard, didn't even use a condom, probably didn't even spit, probably gave me a disease and now I'm dying of it.

Her fingers again. Reminding me. "Can you tell me what happened, Krycek?"

"Ask Mulder. He's got it figured." I hate sounding whiny but it's the truth. Mulder does have it figured.

"I'd like to hear your side of it."

"I don't have a side. It's my fault." I must be brain dead, admitting to that. For some reason I just can't get the fucking condom out of my mind. It just goes round and round. What's the big deal? It's not likely that squeaky clean Skinner has any STD's. Scully's waiting, so I tell her. "F...fucking bastard. He didn't even use a condom. He didn't care if..." Realization comes crashing over me like a huge wave, the undertow sweeping me into a new level of understanding and pain. "Son of a bitch. He wasn't planning on surviving. That's why he said...something to remember him by. That's what he meant. He let me kill him, but he wanted me to know how much he hated me." It wasn't a nine. It was a ten. He hates me all the way to a ten.

I start to whimper. I hate the sound.

Another realization. Funny how you can see things so much more clearly in the dark. This sickness inside me, this unfamiliar nausea...it has a name. An old name. Something I haven't admitted to in so long I almost don't recognize it.

Shame. I'm ashamed. "I've been raped before. It was no big deal. They were bad people, Scully. It doesn't hurt when bad people hurt you. Skinner's not bad, though." It hurts. It hurts so fucking much that I can't breathe.

"Nobody deserves to be raped."

"I made him do it."

"You're spouting nonsense, Krycek. Nobody can make somebody commit rape."

"I pushed him too far. I didn't mean to. I just wanted...I had to know. I wanted to know how much." I'm babbling. "I was killing him, Scully. With this." I fumble at the suit pocket, pulling out the palm pilot. It is suddenly important that I make her understand what really happened. I lead her hand, let her explore the outlines of the device. "I use this to control the nanocytes in his blood."

I can't see her face, but I hear the horror in her voice. "That was you? You did that to him? Oh my god. No wonder..."

She breaks off, but I can finish the sentence for her. No wonder he hates you. No wonder he hurt you in the most violent way he could think of. No shit, Scully. I slip the pocket pilot back into its hiding place.

She's torn, I can tell. She was there, she stood guard over Skinner through the worst of his pain and fear. She watched death grow on his face, and then she watched them pull the cloth over his face. What I've told her changes everything.

My cheeks are wet. That's the end of this ride. It was nice, not being hated. Just for a little while. I'm not going to whine about it, though. That's one thing I promised myself when this all began, that I wouldn't blame anyone else for the choices that I've made. I can blame fucking Spender for forcing me to make those choices, but I made them.

"Why? Why would you do something like that to him?"

I shrug, an unheard gesture. "Orders."

"I just don't understand." Her voice sounded lost.

Don't sound like that, Scully. Not because of me...

"He was supposed to have died, but he didn't. Three times. They've tabled the issue until they can figure out what went wrong." She's not expecting it and I strike; suddenly our positions are reversed. My hand grips her wrist. "Don't tell anyone about this device. Not anyone. If they knew they'd figure out why Skinner's still alive."

"Does Skinner know?"

"Fuck no!" My eyes blaze in the dark and my hand clamps down cruelly, feeling the bones of her wrist grate.

Any other woman would be crying, trying to escape. Scully just says, quietly "Krycek. You're hurting me" and the trust she is showing me in admitting to that takes my breath away.

I release her. "Sorry." Sorry? What is this sorry shit? I'm never sorry. I kill people for a living. I steal things. I poke my little electronic snoopers into their most private moments and give them to other people to watch. There's just no room for sorry when you've made a career choice like mine.

She raises her voice and calls out "I'm still okay, Mulder."

Oh, who am I kidding, anyway? I'm a mass of contradictions. Maybe that's what fascinates Mulder, what fixates him on me. He likes things to be complicated, though he would never admit it.

"I'm sorry, too, Krycek."

What the hell's she sorry for? I don't need her pity and I tell her so on no uncertain terms.

"I'm not sorry for you, Krycek. I'm sorry for me. From all appearances, Assistant Director Skinner is guilty of rape. Mulder can ignore the evidence if he doesn't like what it leads him to, but I can't. I can't just walk away from this. I respect A.D. Skinner. A lot. I know he had to have been pushed beyond all reasonable limits for him to...react like this, but I cannot in all conscience ignore what has happened."

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Of course I heard. I said it, didn't I? You pushed him too far. The why doesn't change the fact of what he did."

Oh, hell. How is it that Mulder describes this? Her 'saint Scully' routine? "You don't have a choice. I'm not talking. Skinner probably won't. Mulder doesn't give a shit. You're all alone here, Scully."

"It doesn't matter if nothing official takes place. I'll still know. Every time I look at him I'll remember what he was capable of. It isn't about justice, Krycek. It's about...me."

Fuck. I understand what it feels like when idols fall. "Sorry, Scully." Believe me, I know. "If there was anything I could do to change it I would." Is that really true, though? It feels like a lie. I think I'm not really sorry. I wanted him to fall. My life was just getting too fucking painful.

She sighs. "I still want to get a look at your injuries, Krycek. If I send Mulder out of the room will you come out and let me examine you?"

The image is just too precious for words. "If he won't go will you smack him on the ass with a rolled up newspaper?"

I imagine that the short pause which follows is Scully trying not to laugh. "I'm sure that won't be necessary." She's trying to sound severe, but doesn't quite manage. "He isn't usually this unreasonable. You just bring out the worst in him."

That isn't completely true, Scully. I've seen some of the shit he's pulled on you. He's brilliant and obnoxious and driven and self centered and fearless and almost impossible to keep up with. Even for me, and that's saying a lot.

Too bad I can't bring that up. I'd have to admit how much time I spend watching them. Sometimes I get paid for it. Sometimes not. I always enjoy it, though. Except when it almost gets me killed.

"Make you a deal. Hide this for me, even from Mulder and I'll surrender into your custody." I nudge the palm pilot into her hand.

Another hard decision for her. Assuming that she believes what I've told her about it.

Apparently she does. "Okay, Krycek. I'll hold onto it and I'll keep it a secret."

"Deal, then." It takes me a while to stagger to my feet. Everything still hurts, but it's just pain now, nothing more. Like a festering wound with the poison all squeezed out. Something in me still flinches at the thought of dealing with Mulder, or being so exposed before him, but we have a deal, Scully and I, and I know she'll keep her end as long as she thinks I'm keeping mine.

They fall silent as I half-walk, half-crawl out of the closet. A look passes between them, the silent shorthand between two people who have been together for so long that words are hardly necessary. When they're in sync, that is, and it looks like they are. I really hate it when they get like that. Makes it pure hell for ballistic surveillance.

Mulder walks out without a backward glance. I didn't expect that. It leaves me feeling shaken and a little lost, that unexpected courtesy. Yeah, I'm a pathetic fuck, aren't I?

"Go sit on the bed, Krycek. Take off your shirt and jeans."

She strips me down. My prosthetic is just another tool to her, my mutilated stump just an interesting feature. Her fingers examine it with professional interest. Press here, press there, does this hurt? This? She explores my arm, my chest, my abdomen, my throat, even my balls.

//Jesus, Scully, you'll never know how good this feels.// If it had been any other woman it might have been an erotic experience, but this is Scully and I know she could shrivel my balls with a look so I am on my best behavior. Besides, it hurts like hell and erotic is the farthest thing from my mind.

There are bruises forming over my kidneys, probably on my throat as well.

Scully frowns. "You should be in the hospital."

"I heal fast. I've had worse."

She doesn't argue with me, and I can see that it shames her. I'd have to answer hard questions about whose purple handprints are decorating my thighs.

I brush my fingers over the back of her hand and give her an out. "If I go to the hospital they'll ask questions that will probably get me killed. Me and Skinner. Nobody can know about this, Scully." I hold her eyes until they soften.

See, I'm not a complete bastard all the time. Except around Skinner. I guess he just brings out the worst in me. I don't want to think about it.

She pokes and prods and makes me yelp like a beaten cur. I don't hold back for her. Nothing broken. Huh, I could have told her that. It feels strange to have someone touching me with such...kindness. It awakens a strange ache and I thrust it away, taking refuge in humiliation as Scully makes me turn over and starts poking around my ass.

I didn't mind her handling my balls, but this is embarrassing, for some reason. Go figure.

The antiseptic stings as she washes away the blood, and then I feel her cleaning my back. I squirm in pleasure beneath her hand as she scrubs away the itchy substance. For a fleeting moment I wish Skinner had hurt me more badly so that there would be reason to prolong the experience. I imagine her setting a broken arm, stitching up a gash or two. How sick is that?

"Drink lots of fluids. Take an over the counter stool softener for a few days."

"I know the drill," I mutter. I'm a little testy because I know that prescriptions always come just before they shove you out the door and give you the bill. When I turn back over, Scully is looking down at me with an odd look on her face.

"Does this happen to you often?"

She's getting too personal. Not that I'm offended, mind you, but I can't afford to let it go any farther. I have to walk out of here and go back to doing my job and if the next time they tell me to distract Mulder while they're kidnapping Scully I balk, that will be the end of my career.

Careers like mine don't have retirement plans.

"Can I put my clothes back on, now? It's been real, but I've got to get back to doing what I do best."

Her eyes narrow. "You're making some big assumptions, Krycek. Our deal didn't include letting you go. You're still in my custody, and I haven't decided what to do with you yet."

"You can't keep me, Scully."

"I will if I decide it's necessary."

"It would be like dragging a hunk of fresh meat around in the jungle. Bad for everybody."

She gives me the eyebrow. Okay, it's a humiliating example, but valid all the same.

"Necessary for what?" I press. "What's the objective, here?"

Her mouth tightens into a hard line.

That's what I figured. Nobody's got a plan but me.

"I'm going out to discuss this with Mulder."

I catch her eye with a hard look. "Not a word to Mulder. We have a deal."

"Not a word about this." She pats her pocket. "That's our deal." Fuck, I wish she'd put that someplace more secure. She's carrying my whole life around in her pocket, though I can hardly admit that to her. She knows too much already. "You may as well lie back and relax, Krycek. This may take a while."

She's got to be fucking kidding. Relax? While the two of them have a nice lengthy discussion about what to do with me, like I don't get a say in my own life? I guess I don't. I let her tuck me in between Skinner's sheets. He's going to be pissed. The thought puts a smile on my face, but it doesn't last long. "What about Skinner?"

"What about him? There's not much chance that he'll be needing his bed for a while."

"I mean..." The last time I saw the man he wasn't breathing. "...is he dead, or what?" Why aren't they more worried? I mean, you'd think the guy didn't mean anything to either of them.

"He's fine. Under observation. He regained consciousness briefly and there doesn't seem to be any brain damage."

Fuck them. They didn't even think to tell me? On second thought, fuck that. Why the hell should I care?

She regards me for another long moment, and I wonder what she's thinking.

"Fine. I'll just sit here like a good little fucking patient until you talk some sense into Mulder." I keep up the pretense of being irritated and bored until she leaves the room, but then I realize that I can barely keep my eyes open so I think the most un-sleep- facilitating thoughts I can scrounge up and just when I'm thinking about getting out of bed naked and doing one armed pushups on the cold floor I fall asleep.