One Night In Bangkok

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble:
Not much between despair and ecstasy.
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble.
Can't be too careful with your company.
I can feel the devil walking next to me.
"One Night in Bangkok" by Tim Rice

Mulder finds the envelope on his chest when he wakes up. He turns slightly and it falls onto the floor. What the fuck? he thinks, picking it up. It's addressed to Sleeping Beauty and there's no return address.

He opens the envelope and spills the contents onto his lap. There's an airline ticket to Bangkok, Thailand and a note that says: 'You're it. Catch me if you can. I've got something you want.'

Krycek. He'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, having seen perhaps a dozen of the man's cryptic messages over the years. Krycek has periodically fed him tidbits of information that have usually led him on wild goose chases but have sometimes told him things that he really needed to know. This is probably another snipe hunt, but there's always the possibility that Krycek is going to give him something worthwhile this time.

"He's losing it," Mulder says, tapping the ticket against his nose as if to discern the intentions of its sender by osmosis. "No, he's lost it. He's clearly bat shit." But his mind ticks away relentlessly, thinking of every possible angle, any likely scenarios.

Of course he knows Krycek is playing cat and mouse with him, as usual, but fuck it. Krycek could have documents, photographs, perhaps even video footage. Proof that Skinner and Kersh and the rest of them can't ignore. Proof of something. Hell, anything. Mulder thinks of all the possibilities and nearly salivates. Besides, this is the closest he's gotten to anything that doesn't resemble grunt work in months.

He picks up the phone and dials Scully's number. "What, Mulder?" she asks by way of greeting.

He opens his mouth to say, "We're going to Thailand" and then shuts it. There is only one ticket and it has his name on it. He's meant to go alone. Fine. No problem.

"I'm going to Thailand," he says.

"What?" she asks, her tone clearly stating that she's convinced he's gone insane. Perhaps he has.

"Bangkok. I have a lead on something."

"What?" she asks again, her voice perking up with interest.

Mulder is silent, not wanting to lie, but not about to tell her that he doesn't know.

"And where did you get this lead?" she continues, giving up waiting for him to answer her question. "Or is this another secret I'm not allowed to know?"

Irritation has crept into her voice at the end and Mulder feels guilt prick him. He hates lying to Scully, but he can't imagine telling her that he's following directions left by Alex Krycek. She'd never understand. Hell, he isn't sure he understands. There is just something in his gut that tells him he should go.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he begins, and Scully sighs.

"Don't bother," she replies. "You've made up your mind already, I can tell. God knows I'm not your keeper. Just let me know you're going to be safe."

"I'm going to be safe," he lies. "Don't worry about it."

He finds that he's oddly eager to see Krycek again. He thinks, I'm going to catch him and make him tell me the truth for once in his miserable life and then I'm going to...

He imagines seeing Krycek's traitorous lips smile and a knowing look fill his eyes. 'Come on, Mulder, find me. Find me and hit me and touch me the only way you know how. Catch me if you can.'

Safe? No, this is sure as hell not safe.

"Mulder, are you listening to me?" Scully sounds annoyed.

Mulder gives himself a mental shake, bringing him back to the here and now. "Yeah. I was just distracted for a moment."

"Okay, then let me repeat myself. How are you going to explain this little excursion to Kersh?"

"I've got vacation time up the yin-yang," he says. "It's about time I used some of it, don't you think?"

"What about our assignment? We're supposed to be heading to Kansas tomorrow. And yin-yang?"

"Yin-yang. It's a technical term. I'm sure you're up to going to Kansas by yourself, Scully. You're a big girl now."

Scully huffs into the phone.

"This is important," he says.

"And you have to go now, and alone?"

She sounds skeptical, and she's earned the right to sound that way. She's one smart cookie and she knows how good he is at poking figurative butter knives into metaphorical toasters. She thinks of him, he is sure, as a boy who can't be trusted with matches for fear he will set himself on fire. But he's not her child, and if he wants to set himself on fire, no one, not even she, can stop him. It doesn't help that part of him wants to bathe in gasoline then go dancing at a fireworks display.

"Yes," he says. Krycek's words rage through him like scarlet fever: 'Catch me if you can. You're it. Catch me if you can.' The words repeat themselves into monotony, drilling through his common sense. He shouldn't go alone. Hell, he shouldn't go at all. But there is that promise to think about: 'I have something you want.' And it's interesting. It's something to do, something to get his mind off of that little twerp Jeffrey and the mess he's making of the X-files.

"All right then," she says. "Go. Have a good time. I'll tell Kersh you're taking some time off for personal reasons. He won't be happy."

"He's never happy."

Scully sighs. "Tell me about it. Call me when you get there. Call me if you find out anything."

"Sure," he says. "No problem."

And that's it. He's off to Bangkok.

Catch me if you can.

"I knew you'd come," says Krycek. His lips twist into a grin.

Mulder's hand lashes out, wiping the smile off of the traitor's face. Krycek's lip splits open and begins to bleed. "Give me what you promised," he snarls.

Krycek's tongue comes out to lick away the blood. "Make me."

Mulder reaches out, grabbing Krycek, and begins to shake him. "Give me what I want," he demands.

Krycek's hand comes up and twines in Mulder's hair. The fingers pull cruelly and Mulder cries out in pain. His head bends backward. He sees Krycek's face above his own, hiding behind the spots of pain that cloud his vision.

"What do you want?" asks Krycek, and his mouth fastens over Mulder's. The fingers loosen in his hair but Mulder remains bent over backward. He can taste the blood from Krycek's split lip, and below that, salt and whiskey. Krycek lifts his mouth from Mulder's. "Tell me what you want."

"I want...I want..."

"Tell me!" Krycek demands.

An elbow catches him in the ribs. "Wake up, buddy."

The dream dissolves and Mulder finds himself on an airplane, his neck sore from being bent over at an unnatural angle.

The fight attendant smiles at him. "I'm sorry, sir. Did you want the beef or vegetarian meal?"

Mulder looks over at his seatmate, who is cutting a piece of meat that with imagination could be called beef. "I'm not hungry," he says. "Could I have some water?"

The flight attendant nods towards the back of the plane. "The drink cart will be back by here shortly. Are you sure you don't want anything?"

I'm afraid of what I want, Mulder thinks. "I'm sure," he says, and puts the tiny airplane pillow in his lap. He doesn't want to fall asleep again for fear of what he'd dream of. Also, he needs something to hide his erection.

Jesus, what the fuck is he getting himself into?

Mulder isn't sure what he was expecting to find when he stepped off the plane in Bangkok, but it's not a man holding up a cardboard sign that reads, 'Mulder.'

He walks over to the man and says, "I'm Fox Mulder. Are you here for me?"

The man nods. "Yes, sir. I'm here to drive you to your hotel. Do you have any checked luggage?"

"My hotel?"

"Yes, sir. I was told to give you this." The man hands Mulder a slim envelope.

Mulder opens it and reads the short message inside. 'Just go with the man, you paranoid fuck. Trust me.' There's no signature, but the note doesn't need one. What the hell is Krycek up to?

"No, I don't have any checked luggage," Mulder says. "I guess I'm all set to go."

"Very good, sir." The man speaks crisp English with a slight British accent. He takes Mulder's carry-on bag and begins walking.

Mulder follows him out of the airport until they reach a black limousine. "You've got to be kidding me," he says.

The Asian man smiles. "I was told to tell you that when the Smoker pays, it's first class all the way. Does that make sense?"

Mulder feels a chill spread through him. The Smoker can mean only one person. Is this a trap? Is this Krycek's way of warning him away? Mulder decides that it doesn't matter. Trap or not, he isn't backing down now. Fuck them all. "I think it makes sense," he says, then climbs into the limo's back seat.

Mulder watches the city as it slides by his tinted window. It's an odd mixture of ancient temples and tacky bars, gardens and vacant lots, huge skyscrapers and slums. As they drive on, he catches glimpses of the ocean. Eventually, they pull in front of a massive hotel right by the ocean and the river that flows the city. It's called the Shangri- La Hotel and Mulder doesn't even want to think about how much it must cost per night. But when the Smoker pays, he thinks, it's first class all the way.

The limo stops before the hotel's grand entrance. A man in a burgundy uniform comes down as Mulder's driver gets out of the car. The porter opens Mulder's door. "Welcome, sir, to the Shangri-La."

As Mulder climbs out of the limo, the driver appears at his side, carrying his bag. He hands it to the porter and gives Mulder a little bow. "It was a pleasure, sir," he says. "And good luck to you."

Mulder tips him absently then turns toward the porter. He wonders if he has a reservation. He should have asked the driver. Looking around at the other guests, who are dressed in expensively tailored clothes, he feels out of place in his t- shirt and jeans. Usually meetings with shady informants don't have a dress code. If he'd known, he'd have packed the Armani.

"This way, Mr. Mulder," says the porter. "I'll show you to your room."

Mulder is relieved that the porter seems to know what's going on, but is conversely anxious. He doesn't know what he's walking into. It's nerve wracking, but also exciting. He feels twitchy, and wishes he'd brought something to occupy his nervous fingers. Like maybe a book of matches.

The hotel room is actually a suite, consisting of a living room connected to a bedroom with a king sized bed. Both rooms are tastefully furnished, have massive televisions, and boast ocean views. The bathroom is larger than the kitchen in his apartment.

He thinks of Scully, staying in a motor court in Kansas, and feels a stab of displacement. He doesn't belong here. He should be in a room identical to hers, but maybe closer to the ice dispenser, trying to sleep in preparation for their big day of tracking down missing cow shit. He should be a Do-Bee, but instead, he's about the biggest Don't-Bee there ever was. He's playing with fire, he's coloring on the walls with black crayon, he's running with scissors -- and damn it feels good.

He looks around the suite for a note or any other acknowledgement of Krycek's presence and finds nothing. Fuck it, fuck Krycek. Even with the room's air conditioning, Mulder is hot and sticky from his trip. The air outside was steamy and thick, plastering his shirt to his skin. He decides to take a shower.

After showering, he walks out of the bathroom with a towel swathed around his hips and his wet hair plastered to his head. There he finds Krycek lounging in a chair by the bed, dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks.

Mulder's heart pounds and his fingers tingle. It's the blood being redirected in my body, he thinks. It's the flight or fight response. So which will it be? Flight, or fight?

"Nice towel," says Krycek.

Mulder wants to ignore that, but he feels a blush steal across his cheeks. He tells himself it's a flush of rage. "Why am I here?" he asks. In his mind, he's wet with gasoline, not water, and Krycek is holding a lighter.

"I was curious," Krycek says, then nods head as if satisfied, looking Mulder up and down.

Mulder is goaded by that look to ask, "Curious about what?" He feels more than naked underneath that green stare -- he feels dissected and classified as well. He is an interesting specimen. He is amusing. He longs to rip those vivid eyes right out of their sockets.

"I wanted to know if you'd come if I crooked my finger. Now I know."

Mulder forgets the towel as a red haze fells over his vision. His choice is made -- fight -- and that's just fine with him. Maybe this is what he's been waiting for -- any excuse to run forward and complicate things. And maybe, just maybe, Krycek knows that and this is why he's always pushing, always digging into Mulder with invisible claws.

He rushes forward and pulls Krycek out of his chair. Krycek's smile turns feral and he feels a fist batter at his ribs. He doesn't care. Mulder only wants to smash the face before him, the treacherous face that haunts him during long, sleepless nights. It's the face of his betrayal, the face of his pain, but worst of all, it's the face of his desire.

He wants nothing more than to punish that face for making him travel half way around the world just for a chance of seeing it. He wants to erase that face from his mind. He pushes Krycek against the wall and holds him there with one hand while the other balls itself into a fist and strikes his face. Krycek's lip splits open and blood pours down his chin and drips onto the white shirt. Mulder watches, his fist drawn back for another blow, as Krycek's tongue runs along his bleeding lower lip. The fist that had been beating on his ribs is now a hand that grips him, pulling him closer.

Deja vu flows over Mulder in a gray wave. He sees the broken lips before him and knows what they will taste like -- salt and copper with whiskey underneath. He knows the feel of their softness, the rasp of Krycek's tongue, the heat of his mouth. The hand gripping his ribs draws him closer. Mulder can smell Krycek's aftershave and the heat of his skin.

At the last second, he pulls his hand away from the flame. No, he thinks. No, I can't do this. He steps back.

"Fuck you," he says. He turns away from Krycek and grabs his bag. He unzips it and starts grabbing clothes out of it. "I didn't come here to be dicked around." He starts putting on his clothes, not caring that Krycek watches. Let him watch, he thinks. "I only came because you said you had something I wanted."

"Are you sure that I don't?" asks Krycek. The tongue comes out again to probe at the hurt lip and Mulder looks away.

"Look, if you've got something important for me, give it to me. If you don't, fuck off. Either way, I'm flying home standby tonight."

"Maybe I do have something for you," says Krycek. "Maybe I'm just not ready to give it to you yet."

Mulder hesitates. "What is it?"

Krycek pauses, thinking things over, then says, "I've got some documents and photographs you might be interested in. I found them while I was out here doing business for...certain parties. I'll give them to you for a price."

Mulder stiffens. "How much?"

Krycek laughs. "Not money. You don't have enough. Besides, right now money is the last thing I need."

"What then? Blood? My first born child?"

Krycek looks away from him, but before he does, Mulder thinks he catches a sheepish expression on the man's face. "Nothing. Fuck it." He turns back to Mulder. "Look, I'm bored. You're here, you might as well stay for the night and fly back tomorrow."

Mulder is wary. "Why should I? I don't know whether these documents you're talking about, if they even exist, are useful."

"Fuck the documents," Krycek says. "Use the ticket I bought you and fly home tomorrow afternoon. It's not like you're missing anything important at work. More misplaced manure in Kansas, isn't it?"

Mulder doesn't acknowledge the jab. "And tonight?"

"I don't know about you," says Krycek, "but I'm in a mood to get shit faced."

"You sent someone to break into my apartment and give me an airline ticket so that I could come here and be your drinking buddy? You've got to be kidding me."

"I said I was bored." Krycek sounds defensive. "I also have a large expense account. I thought I'd take advantage of it. If money can't buy me an F.B.I. agent to get drunk with, then what's it good for?"

Against his better judgment, Mulder laughs. His earlier fury has passed, leaving him with that twitchy feeling again. Maybe alcohol in large amounts is the answer. "You know a good bar in this town?"

Krycek laughs in response. "Mulder, this town is nothing but bars, good and otherwise. Welcome to Bangkok."

Twenty minutes later, Mulder finds himself seated in the back of a cab. Krycek sits next to him, dressed in a burgundy red shirt now. It was, he'd said as he'd put it on, more likely to hide a bloodstain.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"I'm starving," Mulder says, which isn't surprising, as he hasn't eaten anything for nearly a day.

Krycek speaks in a language Mulder doesn't understand but assumes is Thai, and the cab pulls away from the hotel.

"I didn't know you spoke Thai," Mulder says.

"There's a lot about me you don't know," says Krycek, looking out of his window.

The cab takes them to an open-air market where numerous venders sell food. Krycek steers Mulder along the complicated paths between booths until he stops before one selling noodles. It looks like all the other places selling noodles, but Mulder supposes Krycek knows what he's doing. Krycek orders for the two of them, then they sit on a bench next to each other and eat in silence.

If someone had told me two days ago, thinks Mulder, that I'd be sitting next to Alex fucking Krycek loading up on carbs before a planned drinking binge in Thailand, I'd have laughed my ass off. The whole situation is insane. But the noodles taste good and Mulder finds that he's enjoying himself.

When they're finished, Krycek hails another cab. "You ready to drink yourself into oblivion?"

"Sure," say Mulder. "Why the hell not?"

"Great," Krycek says then speaks rapidly in Thai to the cab driver. "We're going to the Taurus," he tells Mulder. "They cater to tourists, so we're likely to be the two most dangerous men there." He smiles a wolf's grin. "I like to know the odds are stacked in my favor."

The bar is large and the techno music playing within is loud. There's a huge dance floor crowded with people and surrounded by many small tables. Mulder notices that the average age of the occupants seems to be about ten years younger than him. He suddenly feels old. Krycek, on the other hand, seems right at home.

He leads them to one of the tables and signals to a waitress. She comes over with a large smile. "What can I get you?" she yells over the noise.

"Bottle of Cuervo and two shot glasses," Krycek says. Mulder winces, but there's no way in hell he's going to back down from Krycek's silent challenge. No pretty-boy Russian piece of shit is going to drink him under the table. Not in this lifetime.

The waitress comes back with the tequila and the glasses and the competition begins. By shot three, the room flips pleasantly in Mulder's head. He leans his head to the side, a grin on his face. "I hate to admit it, but you were right," he shouts. "Getting drunk is just what I needed."

Krycek smiles back, but says nothing.

They're on shot five when the girl approaches the table. Her hair's blue, but she's cute, her eyes big and her flat midriff bare. She grabs Krycek's hand (the real one, and wouldn't it have been a surprise for all involved if it had been the other one, Mulder thinks) and tugs on it. "Dance with me, mate," she says, sounding English or Australian.

Krycek throws a look over his shoulder at Mulder, as if asking his permission. Like Mulder's opinion matters at all. Mulder makes shooing gestures with his hands. "Go," he shouts. "She's hot."

The girl shoots Mulder a grin before tugging harder on Krycek's hand. He gets up and follows the girl onto the dance floor. Mulder pours himself another shot and watches.

It's hard to tell that one of Krycek's arms is fake, but he does still have the shoulder, and Mulder supposes he has some control over the prosthesis with that. The girl clings to Krycek as they dance together, her hips brushing his, her hand touching his hair. Just watching them, Mulder feels his groin begin to throb. This isn't right, he thinks. But there's something so sexy about Krycek and the girl that Mulder can't tear his eyes away. Her long legs, bared by her short skirt, wrap around Krycek's. His shirt, wet with sweat, clings to his chest. Mulder feels something stir inside him and wonders what it is for a moment before realizing it's jealousy.

But who are you jealous of? Him or her? It's not a question he's ready to answer, so he pours himself another drink.

Two, or maybe three drinks later, Krycek returns, damp with sweat and panting for breath.

"I've gotten a little ahead of you," says Mulder. He holds up the bottle. It's getting dangerously low.

"I'll make up for lost time, then." Krycek pours himself a shot and waves to the waitress for another bottle. He downs the tequila then regards Mulder. "I saw you looking at me," he says.

"I wasn't looking at you," says Mulder.

"Liar." Krycek shifts and his hand grazes Mulder's thigh. He pours himself another shot. "I like you when you lie, Mulder. Devious is a good look for you."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I wasn't looking at you. I was looking at her."

"You're lying again," says Krycek, and drinks the tequila in his shot glass in one swallow. "Keep it up. You look good enough to eat." He smiles his wolf's grin.

"You are so full of shit," says Mulder. He pours himself a shot from the new bottle that the waitress has brought and tosses it back.

"Then tell me you don't want me to do this," says Krycek, his hand reaching up to curl around the back of Mulder's neck.

He pulls Mulder's head toward his own and Mulder can't find the power to stop it. He closes his eyes, perhaps thinking that if he can't see Krycek then nothing will happen, and the world tilts like he's on a roller coaster. Then he feels Krycek's lips on his and the roller coaster he's riding plummets down the first big hill. The tequila shooting through his blood stream twists him this way and that, making him grab onto Krycek for support. His lips press into Krycek's and their mouths open. He tastes Krycek and tequila, feels Krycek's tongue slide along his, smells Krycek's cologne and sweat. Around them the music pounds in time to the pulse in his heart and his dick. Then Krycek's hand falls on the bulge his erection's making in his slacks and he nearly comes right then.

Heart pounding, Mulder pulls away. "What...what the hell was that?" He glances around, self-conscious, and sees the girl with the blue hair looking at them. Noticing that Mulder and Krycek are entwined, she grins hugely as if this is a big joke that only she knows the punch line to and gives both of them a thumbs-up. A blush heats Mulder's cheeks and he looks away.

Two blushes in one day for an old, jaded G-man. That's got to be some kind of record, Mulder thinks.

Krycek looks unruffled and a little smug as he pours each of them another shot of tequila. "Drink," he says. "You'll feel better."

"I want to go back to the hotel," Mulder says, but tips the liquor down his throat like a good boy. It isn't until the words are out of his mouth that he realizes the meaning that Krycek could construe from them.

"Fine by me," says Krycek, getting money out to pay the bill.

"I didn't mean...that," says Mulder. "I just need to lie down. To think about things."

Krycek nods. "Whatever. Let's get the hell out of here." He has a small smile on his face, a cat- that-got-the-canary kind of smile, which Mulder doesn't trust.

He's up to something, Mulder thinks, but I think that I'm just drunk enough not to give a fuck. Mulder is, in fact, drunk enough to not care about much of anything, which could be why he doesn't flinch when Krycek touches his ass while they're waiting for a cab to take them back to the hotel.

The drive back seems to fly by in a haze. Krycek strokes Mulder's thigh, and he means to tell Krycek to stop it, but it feels good and he keeps forgetting. He hopes no one in the hotel will notice the erection he's sporting. Luckily, it's late, the hotel seems deserted, and they get an elevator all to themselves.

"You're drunk off your ass," says Krycek.

Mulder laughs. For some reason, everything Krycek says seems supremely funny. He still wants to lie down, but he isn't so sure he wants to think about things. "You've got a pretty mouth on you, boy," he says and doubles over with hilarity. "You're evil, did you know that?"

"Flatterer," says Krycek.

"Yeah," says Mulder. "Like a pusher. You push the alcohol and then you push yourself."

Krycek leans close to Mulder. "You think I'm a drug?" he asks, his mouth close to Mulder's ear.

"Maybe," Mulder says, and now he's serious. Krycek is his heroin: glory and ecstasy, pain and longing, addiction and death. He sees a future stretched out before him, one in which he seeks out what will inevitably destroy him. There's a seductive romance to the notion, a sickly sweet beauty wrapped in horror. Mulder's soul warms to the notion.

"Come on, old man," says Krycek, breaking Mulder out of his drunken maudlin reverie. "This is our floor."

"Fuck you," says Mulder, taking offence at the 'old man,' but following Krycek into the room amiably enough.

Mulder flops down onto the couch and lays his head back. He toes his shoes and socks off, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. He's beginning to feel the tequila catch up to him and all his clothing feels too tight and confining.

He hears Krycek go to the room's mini-bar and remove a bottle.

"Hey," says Mulder. "Grab one of those for me."

"Sure thing," says Krycek, and tosses a bottle Mulder's way. Mulder fails to catch it by a wide margin and it lands on the floor.

Mulder leans over, fights a wave of nausea, and grabs the bottle. He peers at the label with eyes that refuse to focus for more than a few seconds at a time. "Stoli," he says, after puzzling it out. "Nice." He stretches out on the couch and holds the cold bottle to his forehead. "Oh, yeah. Just what the doctor ordered."

Krycek snorts. "You're a mess." He takes a long swallow from the small bottle in his hand, then puts it on top of the TV.

"'s your fault," says Mulder. "I blame you and your Russian...something or other. I forget. Competitiveness or something."

"You're a crappy date, Mulder," says Krycek, taking off his clothes.

"So I've been told," Mulder says. He closes his eyes to block out the sight of Krycek undressing then regrets it. The world flips faster with his eyes shut. Not good. So he watches Krycek strip and wishes the room would stop spinning and that his stomach would just settle the fuck down. His buzz is starting to fade but drunkenness has parked its ass and is here to stay. "I wanna die," he says. "Your fault. Blame you."

"If I'd wanted you dead," says Krycek, "I'd have shot you between the eyes long ago. For some reason I keep not killing you. Can't think why."

"Must be my charm and winning personality."

"Yeah," Krycek says. "I just love how you hit me in the face every time we meet. Go to sleep, Mulder."

Mulder closes his eyes. "I feel sick," he moans.

"You know where the bathroom is," says Krycek, and goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Mulder wakes up bathed in sweat and needing to throw up. He'd been dreaming that he was back in the Taurus and dancing with Krycek. The girl with blue hair watched them while sipping huge drinks with fruit and umbrellas. Then everyone was naked except for him and he tried to take his clothes off but they were painted on his body.

He gets up and stumbles to the bathroom, clawing at the buttons on his shirt, just wanting it off his skin. He makes it to the toilet just in the nick of time. After vomiting, he leans his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, feeling his heart thump in his chest. The bathroom light comes on and he winces. "Turn it off," he rasps and merciful darkness floods the room.

Krycek puts a bottle of water in his hand. "Drink this," he commands.

Mulder is too grateful for words. First he rinses out his mouth, then he lets the cold water trickle down his throat. It is the nectar of the gods. "Ah," he says when the bottle is empty. "I almost feel human."

"Good," he hears Krycek say. "You think you can stand up?"

Mulder gets unsteadily to his feet and Krycek takes his arm. He leads him into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Too tired to stand, Mulder sits down on the side of the bed closest to the door.

"You'll be closer to the bathroom in here," says Krycek. "Just don't puke in the bed." He goes over to the other side of the bed and pulls the covers back.

"You sleeping here, too?" asks Mulder.

"It's my bed," Krycek says. "You don't like it, you can sleep on the floor. Or in the bathroom, for all I care."

Mulder gives a mental shrug. He's feeling too blurry to protest. He fumbles with his shirt and manages to pull it over his head, then tugs at his belt and pulls that off as well. Much better. He slides under the bed's covers and closes his eyes. He's relieved that when he does, the world stays properly still. With very little effort, he drifts off into sleep.

The next time Mulder wakes, the room is filled with pale gray light. He looks over at the clock and it reads six a.m. He feels remarkably better, all things considered, just mildly hung over. He stretches and his hand hits Krycek's back. Oh yeah. He'd almost forgotten.

Krycek stirs and turns over. He opens his eyes and they're large and bright in the dingy morning light. "Good morning," he says with a yawn.

Mulder is sober now, and still a little nauseous, but it doesn't stop the desire he feels for the man lying beside him. He doesn't understand it at all. It makes no sense. "Good morning," he replies. His throat is dry. He could use another bottle of water.

The moment feels odd. Mulder wishes he could think of something witty and off hand to say. He needs to break this spell that holds them together with ties like spun glass.

Krycek reaches up and brushes his thumb across Mulder's cheekbone. "I want you," he says, shattering the world around them like cut crystal thrown into a fireplace.

"I can't..." begins Mulder.

"But you want to." The words are sure and confident.

Krycek is the embodiment of worldly sins and he brings them out in Mulder: wrath, envy, gluttony, greed, lust. He's candy stolen from a dime store, a biting taunt screamed across a playground, an apple with a razor blade hidden inside. He is a drug that promises you everything, kicks you in the ass, then leaves you begging for more. There might as well be a card reading: 'Take me' tied to his neck.

"I can't," Mulder repeats, but with no conviction.

"You're already damned, Mulder. I can see it in your eyes." Krycek says. "Learn to enjoy the fall."

Mulder leans closer to Krycek, whose chest is bared, the bed's covers pooled around his waist. Without the prosthesis, his left shoulder ends in an abrupt abbreviation crisscrossed with pearly scar tissue.

"Why are you trying to seduce me?" Mulder asks.

Krycek sits up, leaning in toward Mulder. Their mouths are a breath away from each other. "You said I was the pusher. I'm just doing my job. Fuck me. You know you want to. All the cool kids are doing it. Or are you chicken?"

Mulder says nothing, but doesn't move back. He can feel Krycek's breath puff against his lips.

"Think about my mouth on your cock, sucking hard till you come. Think of how tight my body will feel around yours. Think of me pushing inside you, making you scream for more. Think about it, Mulder."

"Why are you doing this?" It comes out as a half moan, half plea.

A slight shift from either Mulder or Krycek brings their lips together for a bare instant. The touch burns.

"Because I want you, you moron!" comes the exasperated reply. Krycek pulls away from Mulder and flings the covers back, revealing his long legs and the erection that juts out between them. He springs out of the bed and paces in front of it. "Because I'm fucked in the head and thought all those longing looks you've been giving me were foreplay. Because I'm fucking horny and I'm tired of my own hand."

That's when the pieces click into place and Mulder realizes that all the wild goose chases and bits of useful information have led directly to this point. They've come to a nexus and whatever happens today will decide things one way or the other. The choice isn't fight or flight -- the real choice is whether to put up or shut up. It's time to end the half- assed flirting and careful innuendo. It's all or nothing, and Mulder doesn't want to feel the void. There are too many voids in his life already. He gets out of bed and starts walking toward Krycek.

"Because it's all wrong and feels right," Krycek continues. "Because I thought you understood. Because -"

"Shut the fuck up," says Mulder. With one hand he pushes the unresisting Krycek until his back is to the wall. Mulder has decided to surrender to all his baser impulses and this is his reward. A boy with large eyes that have seen too much, sensual lips that sneer at everything Mulder believes in, and a sleek muscled body mangled by a fate that has pissed on them both.

And who is Mulder but Ahab and Hamlet and Don Quixote all rolled into one? He may be doomed by life and circumstances, but if fate has chosen to throw him a broken prize, he has no right to complain.

He leans forward and fastens his teeth on Krycek's neck and bites down hard enough for him to cry out. Then Mulder shifts his head and licks at the hollow of Krycek's neck. "I should rip out your jugular," he says into the hot skin. "I could kill you with my teeth."

"I'd take you with me," says Krycek. Mulder likes the feel of the vibration along his tongue.

"You could try," says Mulder and covers Krycek's lips with his own in a hungry kiss that seems to devour them both.

Krycek's hand fumbles with the fastening on Mulder's slacks until Mulder pushes him away and performs the task himself. He kicks off his pants and shorts, then steps closer to Krycek. He cradles the man's head in his hands and brings those sensual lips to meet his own. He tries to consume Krycek, to assimilate him. Their bodies meld in the heat generated between them.

Krycek starts herding him backward, pushing and shoving and nipping at his shoulder with sharp white teeth. Mulder's legs hit the bed and he falls onto it, his legs hanging over the edge. Krycek kneels between his legs and he knows that one of his secret fantasies is about to come true. Krycek takes Mulder's cock into his mouth and runs his tongue along it as he sucks it greedily. His hand reaches up, rubbing along Mulder's bruised ribs, and Mulder jumps from the pain. Krycek's laughter plays over his sensitive skin. The hand moves down to cup and stroke his balls, which ache pleasantly. The mouth on his cock moves up and down, and he is almost to the point of coming, but he needs more. He senses that Krycek is keeping him in this limbo of anticipation on purpose.

"Please," he whimpers, beyond the point of caring that he's begging.

Krycek stops sucking him and kisses the skin of his abdomen and thighs. "No," he says.

"Fuck you, Krycek." Mulder starts to sit up.

"Alex. Call me by the right goddamned name. And I'll fuck you when I'm good and ready." He bites the inside of Mulder's knee. "If you're a good boy, then you can fuck me. You want that, don't you, Fox?"

Mulder looks down at Krycek and sees him licking his fingers. He knows what is coming but still tenses when a finger is inserted into him. As it slides deeper into his body, Krycek's tongue laps at the skin of his inner thigh. "I hate that fucking name," Mulder says between clenched teeth. The finger pushes against his prostate and it feels so fucking good that he can barely stand it.

"I know," says Krycek. A second finger joins the first one. "Fuck, you're tight. Don't tell me you're a virgin, Fox."

"Stop calling me that!" Krycek makes his name sound like a dirty, shameful thing and he hates it, but part of him likes it, too. The fingers inside him move slowly in and out and he bites down on his lip.

"I will if you tell me the truth. Is this your first time?"

Krycek's thumb joins the party and Mulder feels like he's going to be split in two, but he somehow remains intact and the fingers keep moving in and out and in and out.

"No," he manages to say. "High school. Friend of mine. Never told anyone. Till now."

"How sweet," says Krycek, still fucking him with those talented fingers. "I'm touched." The words drip acid, but the kiss Mulder feels against his knee is soft and the fingers move inside him with care.

Who the fuck is this man? Mulder wonders. He finds himself wanting to know everything, every little nuance that makes Krycek what he is, and feels a sudden pang knowing that this is a futile wish. Still, he has to try. "How about...you?" he asks, then bites his lip as another wave of pleasure rips through him.

"I think we'll save that for another day," says Krycek and then the fingers are gone.

Mulder feels empty without them. He opens his eyes and half sits up. Krycek has risen and is walking toward the bathroom. Mulder reaches down and strokes his dick, sticky with Krycek's saliva. It aches with the need for release. He hears water running in the bathroom and then the sounds of rummaging.

When Krycek comes out from the bathroom, he's wearing the prosthesis. There's a condom stretched tight over his erection and another still in its plastic wrapper held in his teeth. He opens his mouth and the condom drops onto Mulder's stomach. "For later," he says.

Mulder's dick jerks at the thought. He grabs it and sets it on the nightstand. Mulder looks at Krycek's hand, in which he holds a small bottle. He stands between Mulder's legs and Mulder leans back. "Move up. I wanna fuck you on the bed. I'm too old for gymnastics." Mulder scoots upward until he hits the headboard. Krycek follows, kneeling on the bed. He opens the bottle in his hand and begins rubbing the liquid inside over his dick, then Mulder's as well, and finally around and inside Mulder's ass.

It's been so long since he did this, been so many years since he even thought about it, that the memory is hazy. His friend's name was Steve, he remembers that, and how Steve kissed him, his mouth hot and hard. They had snuck around, terrified they'd be caught, and that somehow had made it all the more exciting. It was forbidden; both of them knew it, and that if they'd been found out, there'd have been hell to pay. Mulder knows now that having an adolescent homosexual encounter is normal and fairly common, but nevertheless the memories he has of Steve and what they did together have a wrongness to them that feels wicked and sinful and wanton.

Like the way he feels when Krycek looks at him.

"Showtime," says Krycek, running his slick hand along the inside of Mulder's thigh. "You ready?"

"No," says Mulder, but he opens his legs wider and lifts up his ass a little to facilitate things. It's like he's offering himself, a thought that gives him a simultaneous jolt of humor and lust.

"Too fucking bad," Krycek says in a low growl that is almost a purr.

Krycek pushes his cock slowly into Mulder and it's agony and ecstasy all rolled up together. Oh no. Oh yes. Oh please. Don't stop. Don't ever stop. The words pound in Mulder's head as the blood pulses in his veins. When Krycek is buried all the way in, he pauses for a second, shifting his weight a little as he reaches forward and grabs Mulder's cock, running his hand up and down its length. He leans on the prosthesis, and Mulder thinks he sees a wince of pain flicker across Krycek's face. Then the cock inside him is moving to the same rhythm of Krycek's hand and he just doesn't care. There is too much pleasure flooding through him and all other considerations are washed away. Oh fuck yeah. It's better than any scenario he's concocted in his head to get him through a sleepless night. He was right, this is a drug, and it burns, it burns him right through.

"Good, so good," Krycek mumbles, his eyes closed and his tongue running along the sore place on his lower lip. It's the most erotic thing Mulder has ever seen. Krycek's thrusts speed up and his breath comes in great gasps. The hand on Mulder's cock pumps faster and faster. "Oh, God, Mulder. So fucking good. Knew it would be."

Everything inside Mulder contracts and he comes in a fierce explosion that fires along every nerve in his body. Krycek continues to pound into him and his orgasm somehow keeps going on and on until he thinks he'll go mad with it. Then Krycek stops with one final hard thrust and cries out incoherently, his hand squeezing Mulder's cock to the point of near pain, then loosening and letting go.

He pulls out of Mulder, fumbles with the prosthesis, then eventually removes it and tosses it aside. Then he slumps down and drapes himself over Mulder in apparent exhaustion. Mulder revels in their closeness, the tacky feel of his skin, the smell of sex and sweat, the swipe of Krycek's tongue against his neck.

"My turn," says Mulder.

"Slut," says Krycek. He bites Mulder's shoulder.

"Fuck you."

Krycek's head shifts and he runs his tongue along the whisker-roughened edge of Mulder's jaw. "Jesus," he says. "Give me a chance to catch my breath."

Mulder pushes Krycek off of him. "Lazy ass," he says.

With the edge taken off of their crazed, brittle lust, Mulder is now able to lie next to Krycek, looking at him, and just think. This is serious, what they've just done. It's permanent and forever, even if they never see each other again. Things have a new alignment now, and he's trying to figure out what that means.

Is Krycek his enemy or not? There's that and a million other questions he wants to ask but he knows that there'll be no answers. At least not today. Maybe, with time... But thinking this way is insane. It would mean a relationship of sorts with a man he's always thought of as a monster. It's unthinkable, impossible, but also tempting.

Krycek lies on his back with his eyes closed, his arm curled around his head in a way that looks uncomfortable to Mulder but apparently suits the other man just fine. He glances at the clock and sees that it's nearly seven a.m. It's hours and hours before Mulder's plane leaves, but already he can sense time closing in on him. The old feeling of stolen time and forbidden pleasures surrounds him. He takes the used condom off of Krycek and hooks it right into the wastebasket. Perfect three point shot. The crowd goes wild.

Christ. He hasn't felt this fucking fantastic in years.

Krycek murmurs a drowsy, "C'mere."

Mulder turns back to him and sees Krycek's eyes watching him. "I'm still here," Mulder says.

"I know. I just can't make sense of it yet. We just fucked each other senseless, right? That wasn't a dream."

"Nope," says Mulder. "You were senseless. I was conscious the entire time."

"Asshole." Krycek's hand reaches up to tangle in Mulder's hair. He pulls, but unlike Mulder's dream on the airplane, this doesn't hurt. "I still want you," whispers Krycek before their lips meet. The kiss is surprisingly soft and delicate, almost fragile, and so different from the hard, heavy kisses of just minutes ago.

Mulder deepens the kiss, hungry for more than just this small taste. It isn't enough, and he is afraid it may never be enough. But there's time to worry about that later. For now his policy is shoot up while you still can. He pulls away from Krycek just enough to say, "You'd better, or I'll kick your ass."

"You and what army?" Krycek's fingers dig into Mulder's scalp.

"You think I couldn't take one petty little assassin out? And a handicapped one, to boot?

"That's handicapable, you insensitive prick, and I'd like to point out that I'm still alive and kicking." To demonstrate, Krycek kicks Mulder in the shin.

"Ow. Fuck that hurt. Maybe I keep you alive for a reason." His feet tangle with Krycek's, each of them vying for supremacy.

"Like what?"

"Like this." Mulder's hand curls around Krycek's cock, which is already hard. He squeezes, but not enough to hurt.

"Good reason," breathes Krycek. His hand clenches around the sheet.

"Or it could be that I just want to find out what's going on in that pretty little head of yours."

"You're a regular Mata Hari," Krycek says.

Mulder's hand moves over the velvety skin of Krycek's cock slowly, teasing him. "It just takes me a bit longer to get to the point."

"Yeah. Like four years."

"Something like that." Mulder leans down and kisses the corner of Krycek's mouth. "What do you say we make up for lost time?"

Krycek cranes his neck to see the clock. "What? Four years in four hours? Are you trying to kill me?"

"Maybe. Wanna try me?"

"Fuck, yeah."

Several hours later, Mulder comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed only in a towel. Only there's no Krycek here to impress, and the only evidence that he was ever there at all is the wreck of the bed and the used condoms in the trash.

Well, what the fuck did he expect? Flowers? A tearful good-bye? No. But something more than this...this emptiness. It's like Krycek is trying to tell him that none of what they did matters, but it does, all the same. Or at least it should.

Never mind. It's time for him to go, anyway. He picks up his belongings and stuffs them haphazardly into his bag, then starts looking for the room key- card. He finds it on the TV in the living room, scoops it up, and heads out the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He goes down to the reservations desk and turns in the key. The young woman behind the desk informs him cheerily that the bill has already been taken care of, and that she has something for him, if he'll just give her a minute to get it out of the hotel safe.

Mulder can't think what it could be then realizes that this must be the prize that Krycek dangled before him from the start. It wasn't bullshit after all. Imagine that.

The woman comes back with a large sealed manila envelope and hands it to Mulder. "Here you go, sir. I hope you had a good visit in Bangkok."

Mulder grunts and nods and the woman turns away, her duty to him completed. He makes a detour to the men's bathroom to check out the contents of the envelope in relative privacy. He finds several photographs, the results of a blood test, and a note. There's nothing here that won't pass customs, but Mulder feels like a bomb has been dropped in his lap. He puts the items back in the envelope, stuffs the envelope in his bag, and gets shakily to his feet.

The world he has always taken for granted will never be the same again.

He wonders why Krycek has decided to give him this, and why now. He doesn't want to believe any of it, but part of him knows it to be the truth, has suspected something for a very long time. It could be a trick, the pictures and the document could be fakes, but that doesn't feel like the truth. He is inclined to believe the evidence before him, along with the note that was folded into a tiny lump like a secret message passed during class.

Mulder walks out to hail a taxi and finds the driver from yesterday waiting with what looks like the same limousine. "It's good to see you again, sir," the man says, holding the car door open. Mulder gets in and doesn't bother to look out the window on the return trip to the airport. He has too much to think about to be interested in mere scenery.

Once he's through customs and on the plane, Mulder falls into an exhausted sleep. If he dreams, he doesn't remember any of it upon waking.

Back in his apartment, he realizes belatedly that he never called Scully. Dropping his bag on the floor, he picks up his phone and dials her number.

"Scully," she says.

"It's me," Mulder says, unzipping his bag.

"You didn't call from wherever it was...Bangkok, right?"

"Yep. Sorry. I was busy." Yeah, right. Busy doing things he shouldn't be doing. Mulder pulls the envelope out of his bag and sits down on his floor, his back against his couch.

"Don't worry about it. I figured even you couldn't get into too much trouble in just one day. I wasn't going to get seriously worried until maybe tomorrow or the day after."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Scully. You have no idea how much that means to me."

Scully responds in kind to Mulder's sarcasm. "Any time, Mulder. So, did you find out anything interesting, or was this another dead end? I don't mean to be short, but I've got laundry going."

Mulder takes the contents of the envelope and begins to spread them out in front of him.

"No, Scully. It was a dead end. I was just calling to let you know I'm still alive."

"I'm glad to hear it. And, if you don't mind, the laundry calls."

"Nope. Have a good night. I'll see you in the morning."

"Mm hm," she says. "See you."

After hanging up the phone, Mulder starts arranging the photographs. They span what seem to be many years, going back to the sixties and continuing through what he thinks is probably last year. In each photograph he sees his mother and the man he's come to think of as Cancer Man. The Smoker. The Big Bad Wolf himself. Fuck.

In some they're arguing, in others, embracing.

Next, he picks up the results from a paternity test that ruled out William Mulder as a possible father for Fox Mulder and lays it down beside the photos.

The last thing he examines is a note from Krycek. 'I'm sure you're smart enough to put two and two together. This is something I felt you had the right to know. Things are coming. Keep your eyes open and your head out of your ass, for fuck's sake. Do vstrechi. Alex.'

Mulder stares at the items on his floor for a long time. When his legs go numb, he realizes that staring at the pictures isn't going to change them into something else. Mulder gathers the pictures and papers scattered on his floor and sweeps them into the envelope. At the last minute, he takes out Krycek's note and sets it aside. Then he goes down to the basement of his apartment and throws the envelope into the incinerator. He watches the past, the evidence of what and who he is, burn to ash. It makes him feel better somehow.

He climbs the stairs slowly, not wanting to be trapped in the elevator right now with another resident of the building. He lets himself into his apartment, half hoping Krycek will be there, but it's empty save him and the fish.

He wishes he could resolve the Kryceks in his head: the one that is a cold blooded assassin with the one whose kiss had been a fragile gossamer brush against his lips; the one who handed him a bottle of water after vomiting with the one who has torn apart his notion of family and self with a few pictures and a piece of paper.

In one night, his life has been changed forever.

Before going to sleep, Mulder looks something up on the Internet. He knows a smattering of Russian, but isn't familiar with 'do vstrechi.' What he sees there makes him frown. The meaning is too enigmatic for his taste, could be taken to mean too many things. We will meet again soon. How soon, and under what circumstances?

He lies awake for a long time on his couch, wondering whether the next time he meets Krycek if it will be a kiss or a bullet. Eventually he falls asleep with Krycek's note on his chest. In his dreams, he's still in Bangkok. He walks the streets with Krycek, who is not his enemy or ally, but just his lover. The girl with blue hair sits in a sidewalk cafe, sipping tea. She waves to them as they go by. Just before the dream fades, Krycek whispers, "Soon," in his ear and kisses him.

When Mulder wakes, he remembers nothing of the dream. Finding Krycek's note fallen on the floor, he picks it up, folds it carefully, and puts it in his wallet. "Do vstrechi," he says, and starts to get ready for work.