Watched

When the Syndicate man retrieved the tapes from the closet hidden in the bowels of the Hoover building, he was not in a good mood. He saw stretching before him yet another night of perusing endless hours of useless footage.

He couldn't really figure out why his superiors even bothered surveilling the lower parking garage of the FBI's main building. All that was ever captured on the tapes were the coming and going of nondescript sedans, the appearances and reappearances of suited men and women on their way to and from their offices. Nothing spectacular. Hell, nothing in the slightest bit interesting.

And now, here he was with a week's worth of videotapes staring him in the face, almost taunting him with the upcoming crippling boredom. The worst thing was, he never even really knew what his superiors were looking for. 'Anything out of the ordinary'. 'Anything different'. 'Anything that catches your eye'. These were the phases hurled at him.

The man snorted quietly to himself. There was *never* anything different or out of the ordinary. The cars were the same. The people were the same. Their clothes were the same. Hell, even the way they walked and tossed their keys in their hands was always the same. He had never known of a more boring group of people.

So the man sat down with a thump and a dramatic sigh in the little apartment that served as one of the many Syndicate viewing rooms. He'd better get onto it. He popped the first tape into the VCR, and pressed play.

It was well into the fourteenth hour and the sixth tape before anything actually did catch his eye. And that was a first. But when he saw the two men approaching each other in the carpark, his eyes squinted in concentration. It couldn't be. No way. It couldn't.

The man leaned forward, which really did nothing to enhance the footage. Actually the footage was incredibly high in quality; modern technology had banished the days of the grainy black and white surveillance tapes. They had been replaced by the full-color, sharp-resolution format that he now had before him. But the reason he leaned forward was not to question the image before him, but to question his own eyes. That dark-haired man in black with his gun drawn *had* to be Alex Krycek.

He himself hadn't seen Krycek for years; he had just been inducted as a new addition to the Syndicate's workforce around the time that Krycek had first defected from the old men's powerful clutches. But he knew a face when he saw it. That *was* Krycek.

The other man was obviously that permanent thorn in the Syndicate's proverbial paw, Special Agent Fox Mulder. Now, him he knew from personal experience. He had spent many an hour in surveillance of Mulder's apartment, so he wouldn't miss that man anywhere.

He could see the slight sneer on the agent's face as he approached Krycek. Yeah, there was a hell of a lot of animosity between *these* two men all right; the Syndicate man had heard the stories. He knew the details of the deception and betrayal, the history of the fights and beatings. Far more interesting, though, were the whispered rumors that had circulated among the Syndicate workers of sexual interest between the two former partners.

The Syndicate man could see now, though, that any spark between the two men was more than likely long gone, if there ever had been one in the first place. Doubtful. The said sneer on Mulder's face was gaining in altitude, and Krycek's mocking smirk spoke volumes. Then Krycek opened his mouth, and began to address the surly agent before him.

When he saw this on the screen before him, but heard no sound, the Syndicate man lunged forward to hit the volume controls. No way in hell he was gonna miss this. When he could hear the murmurings of the man in black clearly, he jumped to the side, grabbing his ever-waiting but never- used pen and logbook, poised to transcribe anything interesting that was said. His eyes glanced to the date and time display on the corner of the screen. Three days ago, very late at night. No wonder Krycek was willing to risk appearing there. It was unlikely any other agents would be present; only a workaholic with no life whatsoever, like Mulder, would stay at work past midnight on a Friday.

So the man ran the tape back for several seconds, to be sure not to miss anything, and settled back, pen in hand, to take it all in.

Krycek stood silently for a few moments, seeming to wait to see if Mulder would speak first. But as the seconds dragged into minutes, and the agent's raised upper lip soared to new heights, he decided to begin himself.

"So, Mulder, glad you could come."

The agent snorted. "Sure, whatever, Krycek. So glad you have to point a gun on me when you said this was a business meeting. Are you scared I'm gonna *hurt* you Krycek?"

This last sentence positively dripped sarcasm.

"Hardly," Krycek replied, shifting his grip carefully on the Glock he held, pointing it loosely in the direction of Mulder's groin. "This is indeed a business meeting, but I didn't say what kind of business meeting, did I? And, well," he continued, his voice dropping subtly to a low, sensual growl, "it isn't the kind of business you're expecting.

Mulder's eyebrow quirked up slightly, but he didn't respond. Silence reigned. Seconds ticked by. Then Krycek spoke again.

"Take off your pants, Mulder."

The Syndicate man almost jumped in his chair. What the fuck? Well, that was fast... His pen lay in his hand, forgotten, as he stared intently at the two figures on the monitor before him. What on earth was Krycek planning? He waited with baited breath, a strange mix of dread and anticipation warring in his mind.

Mulder scowled. "What the fuck are you talking about, Krycek? You haven't gotten that desperate, have you? I mean, loosing that arm may make it hard to get laid, but it shouldn't prevent you from going out and getting yourself a rentboy. They'll fuck anything, well, if you pay them enough."

The corner of Krycek's lip twitched, the only motion or hint that any emotion whatsoever lurked behind his generally immobile features. Then in a split second the gun was gone, and he was on Mulder, spinning him around, digging out his handcuffs, and clasping the agent's hands together behind his back.

"Fuck, Krycek!" Mulder yelled, and Krycek's fist slammed into the side of his head.

"Shut up," replied the younger man, dragging the hapless agent over to the nearest available car, which happened to be Mulder's own. He bent the man forward over the hood with his body, pushing Mulder's cheek hard against the cool metal with his fingers carded through the thick brown hair.

Krycek held Mulder face down against the car for several moments, appearing to be considering his options. Then the hand on Mulder's head was gone, and his belt was being wrenched open, and his pants pulled down to his knees. His boxers followed shortly thereafter, baring his ass to the cold air.

Mulder gasped as the chill bit into him. "Krycek... Krycek don' t. Don't fucking do this. Don't."

Above him, the man in black grinned lewdly, but this was out of Mulder's line of sight.

"But Mulder," the younger man purred, "you don't even know what I'm going to do!"

The prone man didn't respond, but his panicked gasps could be heard throughout the empty carpark. He was being held against the car by Krycek's body, and his cuffed hands prevented him from getting enough leverage to lift his torso off the hood. He was pinned.

Except for the sound of the air leaving Mulder's lungs over and over, silence reigned. Krycek stood motionless above him. As time stretched on inexorably, and nothing further happened, Mulder began to visibly relax.

One beat, then two, and then a hand flew down on the agent's bare ass, slapping him hard. Mulder yelped despairingly, as the fire spread across his abused flesh.

"What the *fuck*!"

The only answer was another slap, harder than the first, followed by a volley of blows that seemed to go on for hours. Mulder's breath sobbed out of him as he jerked involuntarily at each and every impact. Finally Krycek stopped, and stared down at his handiwork, face carefully neutral.

Mulder's ass was bright red, and the flesh quivered visibly as the agent braced again and again for the next slaps that never came. He was taking long, shuddering breaths, desperately attempting to regain his composure. Suddenly Krycek's hand dove between his legs, and the man grinned at the tight hardness he found there. His hand circled around Mulder's cock, giving one long stroke from root to tip, pausing at the engorged head to smear the drop of precum over the sensitive flesh. The agent gasped, almost sobbed, mentally flailing, almost drowning, in his own humiliation.

"...yeah, Mulder," Krycek growled, almost inaudibly. "I've found something you like, haven't I."

It was said as a statement of fact rather than as a question, and it went unanswered. Krycek brought his hand out from between Mulder's legs again, and quickly worked at his own belt, sighing quietly as he lowered his zipper. Krycek's cock sprang from its confines, ruddy and diamond hard, oozing his own pre-ejaculate from the slit.

Below him Mulder tensed yet again at the zipper's ominous sound, and began to shake. "No, Krycek...fuck..." he whined, his voice trailing off at the end.

Krycek raised a finger to his mouth, sucked on it contemplatively for a short moment, and then reached to spread Mulder's cheeks one-handed. The agent gasped again, tensing all over, clenching his anus tight. Krycek smiled sweetly at the movement of that tiny pucker, and an expression of anticipation painted his pretty features.

He waited a few moments for Mulder to relax minutely, and then without any preliminaries, he gently worked his index finger into the tight hole, clearly enjoying the feel of the agent squirming and clenching around the digit. Mulder began to moan quietly as Krycek started to work the finger in and out of his ass.

By this time, the Syndicate man was positive that he had lost his jawbone somewhere on the floor. He had been shocked as Krycek bared Mulder's ass, and had watched avidly the flurry of blows that rained down on the agent's reddening skin. The detail of the surveillance tapes was really exquisite, he thought.

When Krycek paused, the man stopped breathing, wondering what the assassin would do next. His hand dropped to the hardening bulge in his pants as Krycek sucked on his fingers, and he moaned aloud when that finger was dug into Mulder's ass.

He looked around furtively, as if to reassure himself that no one was there to see him, and then the Syndicate man pulled out his cock and began to stroke.

When the agent relaxed a little more, Krycek leaned over and spat directly onto his finger and the puckered flesh around it. He then inserted a second finger, not so gently this time, and started to pump the fingers vigorously into the tight channel, working it, stretching it open to make way for what was surely to come.

After several moments of this, Krycek retrieved his fingers from within the agent's ass to the sound of the prone man's whimper, and spat in his hand. He lubed up his bare cock with it and his precum, and then moved to place the blunt end of his erection against Mulder's twitching anus. He thrust.

Mulder cried out sharply, and Krycek's eyes moved to the man's face. Mulder 's eyes were squeezed tight shut, his mouth twisted into a grimace. He stopped for a moment, evidently to give the man some time to adjust. Then, unable to wait any longer, he plunged his cock the rest of the way into Fox Mulder's tight rectum, right to the hilt.

"Take it, bitch, yeah..." Krycek growled through the lewd grin that graced his face, and twisted his hips viciously at the apex of the thrust. Mulder cried out again, weaker this time, as his whole form shuddered against the car with the impact of his enemy's body.

Krycek began a blistering pace. He hammered relentlessly into Mulder's still, prone form, milking his own cock with the agent's tight channel. He moved without thought, based purely in instinct, almost mechanically. Suddenly he leaned slightly, and sought out Mulder's cock once more, seeming to delight in its rigor.

He never faltered in his brutal pace, drilling himself continuously into body of his enemy. "You like this, don't you bitch?" he sneered, beginning to pant with exertion as he took up the agent's cock and stroked it in time with his own thrusts. "Yeah, Mulder, you like my cock up your tight FBI ass. You want me to fuck you. You...ah...you've always wanted me to fuck you. I'll rip you open and...unh...lay you bare, bitch."

Below him, Mulder's face was flushed red, his eyes still screwed up tight, and his mouth with its pouting lips open in a silent cry. Three more strokes of Krycek's hand, and Mulder began to convulse, gasping and grunting with both the impact of his attacker's body and that of his own orgasm. Thick ropey steams of semen splattered the hood of his car and his jacketed chest.

Krycek continued to skewer Mulder through the clamping convulsions on his cock. His force increased mightily, to the point where it seemed something would have to be breaking inside the agent's stretched and reddened ass. Then finally his thrusts became erratic, and he arched his back and came with a loud grunt, digging his fingers into Mulder's hips as he shot his cum deep into the prone man's rectum.

Krycek only paused for a moment before straightening and pulling out of Mulder with a slick squelching sound. He quickly and efficiently tucked himself back into his jeans, and, this done, quickly uncuffed Mulder's hands and then slapped his ass lightly, provoking a yelp of pain.

"Get up, Mulder. You don't want to lie around all night like this, do you?"

The man lying in his own cum on the hood of his car shifted slightly, craning his head around to take in the rogue agent with a scowl.

"You son of a bitch."

Krycek smirked anew. "Yeah, yeah, you like it, baby. You know you do."

Mulder slowly stood up, reaching for his pants, which were now puddled about his ankles. Ignoring the trickle of Krycek's cum that was moving slowly out of his anus and down the inside of his thigh, Mulder pulled the cloth up over his softening cock.

"Yeah, whatever buddy."

The two men shared a look, and turned as one to stare at a small dark crack in the ceiling, both grinning ear to ear. Krycek winked before turning back to Mulder.

Then they both turned away, each going to one side of the car; Krycek on the driver's side. Before he got in, Mulder addressed the younger man across the roof.

"Next time, *I'm* on top."

The Syndicate man sat hunched in his chair, softening cock in hand, jacket splattered with his cum. His mouth gaped. What the fuck? It had all been a...

"Son of a *bitch*!"

Well, he guessed the cover for *that* camera was blown...