It started out as a quiet little foray into a deserted warehouse. Somehow it
transformed into a miniature staging of world war three, complete with smoke
and fireworks. Special Agent Fox Mulder hid in the shadows and watched in
sheer unadulterated shock.
His sources had told him, via encrypted email that had been a bitch to
crack, that some documents he was searching for to support yet another
theory of alien involvement in human affairs were hidden in a crate in a
shed off G street, just east of the M line. So he'd gone hunting, of course.
But he hadn't been alone.
There'd been an army in there.
Well, maybe not a whole army. But a platoon at least. All wearing black
pants and black shirts and black baseball caps, most of them holding
semi-automatic rifles in a way that proclaimed they were both willing and
able to use them. Nine of them were loitering around a collection of crates
in the center of the drafty little building. Several more were in the
shadows, talking quietly to one another, appearing to be waiting for
something to happen.
They weren't disappointed.
Out of nowhere, just as Mulder got comfortable behind a stack of broken
pallets to the rear of the building, all hell broke loose. Two men, one
blond, one brunet, dressed in lightweight black kevlar, threw themselves
through the window with a crash of glass and gunfire. What was with all the
black, anyway? Terrorists funeral or something? Mulder wondered, but the
horrendous noise broke into his abstraction. The black clad guards, or
soldiers, or whatever the hell they were, threw themselves in all directions
and began to fire back at the intruders. Two against sixteen or so. Didn't
seem like much of a fair fight. But perhaps it wouldn't be a total bloodbath
—no one seemed to be falling. God, these guys had even worse aim than he
did, Mulder grinned, before ducking down again and covering his ears with
his arms. Flash grenades? What the fuck—?
There was a flurry of movement above him, and he peered over the lip of the
pallets to see a slender woman land right in the middle of five of the
original men. He held his breath, waiting for multiple gunshots to toss her
to the ground like a rag doll. Instead, she executed moves he hadn't seen
since his last trip into virtual reality, and flattened all five of the men
with flying kicks and brutal hammer blows.
It was amazing. He found himself getting very turned on.
Then he started counting bodies, and his erection immediately started to
wilt.
Looking past the Flying Kung Fu Chick, as his subconscious immediately
dubbed her, he saw that the original two intruders were rolling, standing,
shooting, flinging themselves into bizarre contortions and shooting some
more. Incredibly, neither of them had been hurt, which was quite a
commentary on both the speed of their unexpected attack and the lousy aim of
the defenders. The attackers' aim also appeared to have sharpened, as their
targets were now falling like flies. In three minutes that felt, and
sounded, like an hour, all sixteen of the original men had fallen, and the
three black clad intruders were standing triumphantly in the midst of a sea
of equally black clad dead guys.
Mulder felt like he should applaud, and might, if his ears ever stopped
ringing. He also found himself yearning for a remote so he could have pushed
the fast forward button. Gradually, through the residual thrumming in his
eardrums, he realized the attackers were talking.
"Looks like it's all here," the tall blond man was saying, pushing aside the
top of one of the boxes and rummaging around in a desultory way.
"Well, that should make her happy, anyway," answered the Flying Kung Fu
Chick, swinging her hair back out of the way and examining the contents of
the box in a cool, collected fashion that just screamed out that beating the
snot out of legions of bad guys was an everyday occurrence. Mulder shrugged
silently. Maybe, for her, it was. Nice legs, he had to admit. Before his
thoughts could wander down any salacious byways, the second man stepped over
a fallen body to join his companions at the box.
"At least it's not lungs," he grinned, causing the oddest reactions in the
entire audience. Kung Fu Chick slammed the lid down, glaring at him and
barely missing his knuckles. Blond Guy suddenly went green and looked like
he was going to lose his lunch. Mulder felt his muscles turn to water,
collapsed against the wall and slid down into a boneless heap on the floor,
staring in blank disbelief at the third attacker.
Krycek.
He barely heard the woman tell the blond man to get a grip and go somewhere
to talk to some directors about something. His entire focus was on the
sparkling eyes of the man staring rather maliciously at the blond guy. By
the time he managed to get himself together enough to get off the floor, the
three were leaving the shed, with the woman and the blond heading down the
sidewalk toward a truck, and Alex Krycek, his own personal nemesis, bringing
up the rear.
He followed his demon.
Location reports were always a bitch, and that wasn't even counting the
Director's perverse sense of humor. Victor didn't like to leave home, not
really. There was too much of the Canuck in him to ever get used to the US,
especially the parts of the US he ended up visiting. Just once, he'd like to
be able to roam around Washington DC and do the stuff tourists did, whatever
that was. Maybe go to a museum, check out FBI headquarters, stuff like that.
Instead, what happens? He spends ten days in the US capital, nine of them
buried up to his ears in paper, the last one trying to keep his ass from
getting shot off by a bunch of gun smugglers. Thank god Li Ann backed them
up, in time, like she always did. There were only supposed to be three
guards, not a whole damned terrorist cell. He and Mac had been lucky to hold
them off until she'd gotten there. They were all three lucky that the C4 and
dynamite in the boxes hadn't been sparked off by any stray rounds. Nobody'd
said anything about explosives.
Oh, well, he cracked to himself. Couldn't been worse. Could've been body
parts.
The cutting thwack of a leather crop across his thigh snapped his attention
back to the briefing with a smothered oath. He stared at the Director, tears
glittering in his eyes from the unexpected stinging pain. "That hurt!" he
couldn't help but exclaim.
She rolled her eyes. It must have been a frustrating night for her. She was
dressed, if he could call it that, in a micromini of some sort of spandex
black leather, with thigh boots complete with stiletto heels, a studded
collar around her neck, and a matching hair band. It was one of her more
conservative outfits. She leaned forward, cleavage tilting dangerously, and
stroked the end of the crop along his cheek.
His entire body twitched. Usually she did this to Mac. Both Mac and Li Ann
were staring at him with surprise. What had he missed this time? The crop
tapped lightly at his mouth, and he accidentally licked it while licking at
his dry lips. Well, it had itched. She stared at the tip of his tongue, and
he hastily stuffed it back in his mouth, nearly biting it.
This time, her body twitched. She raised one brow, looked measuringly at him
for a long moment, then narrowed her eyes and shook her head. With a soft
sigh, she drew the crop back to her side. "That's the point, Victor."
It took him a second to reconstruct the conversation. Oh, yeah. Pain. They'd
been talking about pain. He swallowed, shut his eyes for a second, and did
his best to shrink into the chair and disappear. For once, Mac took pity on
him and continued the report where Li Ann had left off. Of course, this
meant that Mac took all the glory, but for once Victor couldn't find it in
himself to complain. He was just tired. He wanted to sleep for about a week.
And he didn't want to think about why he had started to get hard when the
Director had played with his mouth.
Maybe having Li Ann break up with him was taking its toll. After all, he
hadn't been getting much action lately, and his latest attempt, with a
crooked art dealer from his past named Gloria, had ended very badly. He
hadn't even gotten laid.
The crack of the crop across the table made him jump a good three inches in
his chair.
The Director sighed, again. "At least you got the guns. That was acceptable.
Wečve done all we can do here—now we go home and deal with the suppliers.
Clean up from the operation, then meet at Agency headquarters in three
days."
" Clean up now?" He thought his whine was internal. The half-disgusted,
half-amused look the Director gave him warned him it had not been. He must
be even more tired than he thought.
"No, Victor, you can have the evening off. You've been working hard the last
few days, and obviously need the break." The falsely concerned sweetness in
her voice stung even worse than the crop had. He blushed, and slunk down
into his chair again. By the time he managed to get his eyes off his own
hands, clenched in his lap, and look up again, she had disappeared. Mac and
Li Ann were getting out of their chairs and heading for the door of the
briefing room.
"You coming with us for a drink?" Li Ann asked. Mac just looked over at him.
He shook his head.
"Nah, she was right, think I'm going back to the flat and getting some
sleep. See you tomorrow." He pretended not to see either her concerned look
or Mac's enthusiastic grin at his words. Maybe Mac would get lucky. Maybe Li
Ann would, too. He didn't think he was ever going to get lucky again.
He shrugged into his denim jacket and headed out the door. It was a measure
of his fatigue and the skill of the follower that he never even saw the
nondescript Taurus that tailed him all the way to his door.
It was a very long night on a very lumpy couch for Fox Mulder. Normally, the
lumps wouldn't bother him. It wasn't like he was a princess complaining
about a pea. He'd slept on that couch for upward of seven years. The norm
was for him to pull on his sweats, flip on some porn, or a video of animal
attacks, or a really cheesy 50's sci-fi flick with very cool giant ants, and
be mesmerized by the flickering action until his eyeballs glazed over and
his eyelids shut of their own accord.
Not tonight. He couldn't be so lucky.
There was no room in the darkness behind his eyelids for the outside images.
His brain was too full to bursting with memories.
There were times when he cursed having an eidetic memory. This was
definitely one of them.
Stuck in a cold, damp, tiny stone cell, knowing that his own stupidity and
rash behavior had put him there, trusting as his only translator the one
man, of all people, who had personally betrayed him more often than any
other individual in his admittedly betrayal-filled life. Frozen to the bone,
hungry, scared, exhausted. They had taken Krycek away for questioning, or
something, and then tossed him back in the cell like last week's garbage.
They had confronted one another, he, trying to be intimidating, Krycek,
breathing out intimidation with no effort at all.
"Don't touch me!"
The words rang out inside his head, and instantly he was back in his
nightmare. For Krycek had touched him. Oh, god, how he most certainly had.
Waking in the cold, shaking, from yet another nightmare, to find himself in
the middle of an unexpected one. Krycek, so close they were sharing breath.
Cold hands on even colder skin, as the other man, his enemy, warmed him from
within. And he hadn't, couldn't, do a thing to stop him.
They hadn't spoken, almost as if silence was a pact between them, a
repudiation of the truth of their actions. For he hadn't been passive in his
own seduction. Submissive, yes, following Krycek's lead in every way... but
he had been an active participant. For months he had kept himself sane by
lying to himself, reassuring himself that Krycek had overpowered him, taken
him by surprise. Taken him.
He told himself that, now, fiercely. But the lies rang hollow. They were to
protect himself from the further truth, that Krycek had made love to him —
had sex with him, damnit—then, the next day, given him over to his
Russian masters to be used as a human guinea pig in alien/human experiments.
Had bartered him away for his own freedom as if Mulder was nothing more than
a commodity.
His enemy.
His lover.
Tactile memory took over now, and he felt layers of warmth shivering over
his skin in the coolness of the room, displacing the remembered chill of the
cell in Tunguska. His neck arched, as phantom teeth nipped at the soft skin
there. His nipples peaked, as cold fingers plucked at them, his, Krycek's,
he didn't know, didn't care. It hurt. Made his skin creep. Made him hard as
a rock. Made him pant.
A pant that transmuted into a deep, low moan as slowly warming fingers
caressed his cock urgently, spread his legs and pushed their way into his
body. Shadow weight pressed him down into the cold stone floor, the couch
disappearing as memory stole reality. Broad chest against his back, cool
hand pulling his cock, raking the sensitive head against the rough stone
floor, pain a flash of pleasure in his cold, dreaming haze. Another cold
hand, spreading his ass cheeks, pushing into his anus, followed by a
shocking heat, hard length forced into his guts, the pain radiating out to
warm him in a way nothing else could.
Pain flaring into pleasure, too long denied and utterly unexpected, in this
context, from this source. A harsh groan in his ear, words of praise,
completion, the warmth of moist air across his neck, under his ear. A
semicircle of fire as teeth clamped into his shoulder. Shuddering warmth
draped across his back, twining with his legs, a band around his waist, a
tight pressure on his spurting cock. Cold stone under his cheek, abrading
his chest, scraping his nipples, his knees. Hot flesh blanketing his ass,
his back, buried in his neck, at his groin, deep inside him.
He didn't fight. Didn't try to escape. Simply moaned, and thrust back into
the heat, forward into the pain, ignoring the salt of tears. His? Krycek's?
Shuddered. Climaxed. Awoke into hell.
A convulsion ripped through him, and he opened bleary eyes to see his
traitorous hand, covered in semen, gently milking the last of his orgasm
from his lax penis. The lumps dug into his hips, into his ribs. The back of
his head was sore from where he'd slammed it against the arm of the couch
when he came. He stared out the window over his small table in what passed
for a kitchen.
Dawn.
Time to go to work. If he was lucky, maybe get some answers.
What the hell was Krycek back doing in Washington? And what had happened to
the quiet man keeping to the shadows? He'd sounded like the Seventh Cavalry
yesterday afternoon, making enough noise to wake the dead. Not the best way
to stay hidden, from Mulder's experience.
Three hours later he was no closer to the answers. A sound at the doorway
broke his concentration, and he looked up to smile as Scully came into the
office.
She made no mention of the shadows under Mulder's eyes, although he could
see from her concerned glance that they had not gone unnoticed. Nothing ever
went unnoticed by his partner. But, unless he was actually bleeding, it
could pass unremarked. She hung her coat up on the rack by the door and
settled into her chair, swiveling it to face him. Crossing one leg over the
other, not mussing the crease in her pants, she cocked her head to one side.
"You might as well tell me, Mulder. Something happened. It's written all
over your face."
He gave a microsecond's thought to trying out his innocent, Who, Me? look,
but jettisoned the thought as soon as it hit his brain. He needed her help,
and he was too wound up to play any games with anyone, even Scully. "I was
witness to a shoot-out yesterday, Scully. At the warehouse where... my
source," he hadn't yet told her about the Ice Blonde yet. That could wait.
"—told me I would find some interesting information about the clones."
She didn't roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. He could tell by the way
her mouth compressed and one eyebrow crept up her forehead. As it was, she
contented herself with asking, "And did you find the information along with
the bad guys?"
"They weren't shooting at me." He ignored her muttered, "that's a change"
and forged on. "They were gun runners. There were sixteen of them, and these
three people, two men and a woman, broke in on them and proceeded to
demonstrate that neither side could hit the broad side of a barn at ten
paces. I've never seen so many wasted shots in one shoot out in my life! And
the one, the woman, rappelled right down into the middle of the action and
started knocking guys around like there were no bullets flying anywhere."
Scully gave him a patented 'I know what YOU were watching last night' look.
He ignored that, too, and kept going. "By the time the dust cleared, all
sixteen of the original men were dead, and the three that had taken them on
were fine. They broke open one of the crates, confirmed that it was weapons,
then left to make their report to somebody."
"What happened to the victims?"
A legitimate question. He swallowed heavily. "I don't know." This time, she
did roll her eyes.
"And why is that? Unless you wandered on to the set of the latest Jackie
Chan movie and didn't hear the director call 'cut'?" Her gentle sarcasm made
him grin in spite of himself.
"Jackie Chan, Scully? You have been getting out more." The grin disappeared.
"I recognized one of the three attackers." He took a deep breath, and she
looked at him quizzically. "It was Krycek."
Her eyes went wide and her body tensed in the chair. "Are you certain?"
How could he not be certain? He knew the sight, the touch, the scent of Alex
Krycek down to his molecular level. It was imprinted on him now. He nodded.
"Yes."
"What happened to them? Did you find out where they went?" Her questions
were laced with urgency. Krycek knew too many things that they wanted to
find out from him. Any possibility of bringing him in was a priority.
"Yeah, I followed them, for all the good it did me. They went into a suite
at the Hays-Adams. I didn't want to call too much attention to myself, for
fear I'd lose them messing with the front desk. But there was a guard
outside the door, and I couldn't hear what was going on from the hall. They
were in there about a half hour—"
Before he could continue, she broke in impatiently. "Mulder, he's a fugitive
with a federal warrant hanging over his head. Why didn't you just identify
yourself, wait for back up, go in and arrest him?"
"—then they... Scully, how long do you think he'd've stayed in prison? He'd
either end up dead, like Cardinale, or escape again." He looked away from
her unconscious frown at the mention of her sister's assassin, staring at
the pile of sunflower husks as the corner of his desk. "Besides, you didn't
see what they did in that shed. If they could do that against five times
their numbers, armed with machine guns, what chance would a SWAT team have
had? No, I wanted to find out about this group he's tied up with. Take him
ourselves." He looked up, catching her eye and holding it with his own. "We
take him, Scully, then we know he'll stay alive long enough to question
him."
She nodded grudging agreement. "All right, then, what have you found out
about him—them?"
A disgusted sigh escaped him. "Not a heck of a lot. There's evidence of a
well constructed identity for him, an ex-cop by the name of Victor
Mansfield. From what I can gather he was fired for being a thief."
"At least they're staying relatively true to character," she put in dryly.
He grinned at her, then looked back down at the scant information on his
print-out.
"This Mansfield dropped out of sight about five years ago. If there was a
Victor Mansfield, and his background is detailed enough that there just
might have been, that might have been when the Consortium stepped in. They
could have killed him and appropriated his identity for Krycek in case
they'd have need of it. And they probably would have. Who knows how many
people the guy's been?"
"Anything on what Mansfield is supposed to have been doing since then?"
"Freelancing, apparently. His apartment is owned by a corporation that he
does 'security work' for, he owns his own truck, has a decent balance in his
bank account, some savings, a few stocks. Nothing extravagant. I traced the
corporation. It's a web, and I have a suspicion that Cancerman's sitting
like a big fat spider right in the middle of it somewhere. I only got four
steps out from the holding company before I hit a blank wall. Looks like
this corporate group only exists on paper, and whoever set it up for them
did a hell of a good job. Oh, and Krycek's branching out... this place is
headquartered in Canada, and the apartment and Mansfield identity are there,
as well."
Scully had powered up her computer and was typing away. She began to fire
off short questions about the corporations he had found, and he answered,
brainstorming as she was researching. For the next two hours they attacked
the problem of Krycek's bogus identity from every conceivable angle, but it
was too solid to break. Finally, they changed tactics. Scully began to
scratch away at the network of false corporations that fronted Krycek's
identity, trying to tie it into any of the known corporate affiliates that
made up what they had uncovered of the Consortium. Mulder added his own
research.
By lunchtime, they had to take a break. Scully was ready to admit at least
temporary defeat. "It's not working, Mulder. It's too well constructed, and
too dense. We're not getting anywhere." She looked at her watch, rose from
her chair and stretched the kinks out of her back before heading over to
pick up her coat. "And I'm due to stand in on an autopsy in less than an
hour. I'm going to grab some lunch." She looked over at him from the
doorway. "Want anything to eat?"
"No, thanks. I think I'm going to head over and see what the Gunmen can dig
up." He grinned at her wrinkled nose. "Aren't you glad you have other
plans?" She grinned, nodded at him over her shoulder, and left the office.
As the door swung shut he heard, "Happy hunting!" float back from her
retreating figure.
He certainly hoped so. So far the hunt had been far from happy.
An hour later, the smiley face was still conspicuously absent. Byers was
standing, hunched over Frohicke's shoulder, muttering to himself. Langley
was on a separate computer, mangling French barely under his breath as he
tried to figure out some of the passwords the LGM decryption program was
throwing up on the screen. With a barely suppressed groan, Mulder
straightened from his slouch against the wall and wandered over to stand
staring over Frohicke's uninhabited shoulder.
"Black ops agency," Byers uttered tersely.
"Extremely black," Frohicke added quietly. "You have the most interesting
friends, Mulder."
Mulder glanced around at the lanky blond cursing his computer in fractured
French, the too-tidily suited man currently stroking his neat beard and
staring fixedly at flashing numbers running across a monitor screen, and
finally the frog-like little man with the balding pate and the bluish glare
monitor reflection glazing his glasses. "Yeah," he couldn't help but agree.
"But what can you tell me about Krycek?"
Frohicke tossed him an ironic look, proving that at least one of the Gunmen
had a sense of humor, then pointed at the screen. Since it was in French,
this didn't do Mulder a heck of a lot of good. He looked appreciatively at
the gibberish for a moment, then looked back at his buddy for further
elucidation.
"Like Byers said. Extreme black ops agency. Multiple levels of security.
Seem to be on the side of the angels, but we all know how that can change."
"Who knows, with angels?" Langley asked no one in particular. "Look at
Lucifer."
"Must we?" Byers answered rhetorically, taking up where Frohicke had left
off. "Canadian headquarters, and from what we can tell, international
personnel. Equally international funding and oversight, looks like
quasi-independent action cells, small groups of agents in each cell. Really
a perfect hiding place for one of the Consortium's moles."
Over the clatter of keys, Langley chimed back in. "No accessible connection
to either the Cigarette Smoking Dude or any of his cohorts we've been able
to track. Of course, that doesn't mean it isn't there. It's just buried."
"This agency, whatever it is, and the Consortium, appear to share the same
sort of extra-governmental brief." Frohicke looked up at Mulder, worry
evident in his pale eyes behind the thick glasses. "Be careful, Mulder."
"You already have quite enough enemies of this sort," Byers stressed,
looking a bit like a worried squirrel as he fussed with his tie and stared
anxiously at Mulder. "Don't add to the list." Langley didn't say anything,
but he was nodding along with Byers. Mulder smiled as reassuringly as he
could at his friends.
"I don't want to make any more enemies, guys. I just want Krycek." The
mental image and unintended double meaning accompanying that statement threw
him off stride for a moment. Happily for his own peace of mind, none of the
others seemed to notice, too busy chuckling at him.
"You never try to make enemies, Mulder." Frohicke shook his head at him.
"You don't have to try. It's a natural talent."
Mulder punched him lightly on the shoulder, ignored the automatic whine of
protest, and waved his thanks as he stepped out the door. He had more
information, true, but nothing to contradict any of the tentative
conclusions he'd reached earlier in the day. He was positive that Victor
Mansfield was Alex Krycek, but he couldn't prove it. He didn't know how much
longer he had before the rat ran, but for the moment, he knew where the
bolt-hole was. Settling into his car, he pulled out into the street and
headed for the nondescript brownstone Krycek had led him to the previous
evening. It was time he and his nemesis had a little talk.
He thought it would require a ruse to get into Krycek's apartment. It turned
out to be far easier than he expected. He knocked on the door. A voice asked
who he was, a voice he recognized clearly. Oh, it was Krycek, all right. He
responded, "Mulder."
There was a moment of silence. Then, "Who?"
So he was going to play it that way, hm? Okay. Mulder could play that game.
At least until he got inside and shut the door against prying neighbors'
eyes. "It's Mulder. Special Agent Fox Mulder. Federal Bureau of
Investigation." Like Krycek didn't know him. Intimately. "I need to talk to
you." Asshole.
There was a snick as the door handle lock was released, and the rattle of a
chain sliding off the bar, then Krycek opened the door. "May I see some
identification?" That did it.
Mulder swung his fist before he even realized he'd clenched it. There was
the impression of movement, then Krycek fought back, silently, proficiently.
The door clicked shut without either man being aware of it. Mulder's first
blow landed solidly, followed by what should have been a jab to the ribs —
except the ribs weren't there. He fell back on all the self defense courses
he'd excelled in at Quantico, but none of them was enough. Krycek fought
like the demon he was, blocking his swings and countering with kick-boxing
moves unlike any Mulder had ever seen. Before his rational mind caught up
with the rage fueling his body, it was too late. As darkness closed over his
head, he remembered something he should have remembered before he took on
the sonovabitch.
Flying Kung Fu Chick hadn't been the only one kicking those men in black all
over the shed.
That had been a hell of a welcome. Two days left to go before he could leave
this sorry excuse for a city, and some tall skinny guy with a bad attitude
comes right to his door, forces his way in and tries to beat him up. Victor
shook his head with disbelief. Whoever the guy was, and he didn't buy this
federal agent crap in the least, he was a decent fighter. Nothing Victor
couldn't handle with one hand and both feet tied behind him, but still, not
bad for a civilian. Running a shaking hand through his hair, waiting for the
adrenaline flooding his system to subside to a manageable level, he stepped
over the unconscious body on his entryway floor and headed to the kitchen
for a glass of milk.
Returning with glass in hand, he settled onto the couch and took a good,
long look at his would-be attacker. Not a bad looking guy, really. Tall,
maybe a little taller than he was himself. Dark brown hair, long lashes,
large nose, fantastic mouth. The thought shook him, and he straightened up
from his slouch, licking the last of the milk off his lips. Resuming his
study, he smiled at the hint of a cleft in the chin, the long throat, rangy
shoulders, long, lanky limbs. Bet he was a swimmer, or a runner. His eyes
were drawn to the curve of hip exposed where the tail of his suit jacket had
ridden up, and suddenly it became hard to swallow. What the hell was going
on? Surely he wasn't getting... turned on... by a guy?
Shrugging off the thought, he leaned forward, placed the empty glass firmly
on the coffee table, and took a deep breath. For some reason, the thought of
going through the other man's pockets disturbed him. It wasn't that he
didn't want to touch him. Oddly enough, he did. Maybe a bit too much. Which
seemed to be the problem. He stared thoughtfully at his right hand.
His fingers were shaking.
Okay. Enough already. He had to find out who the man sprawled on his carpet
was before he dropped his carcass out in the alley for the drunks to find.
He stood, walked over, and stared down at the line of the stranger's hip,
ostensibly looking for the bulge of his wallet in the back pocket. When he
realized that he had been standing there, staring at the man's ass, for a
good five minutes, he came back to himself with a start.
This was too weird for words. Forcing himself not to think about anything at
all, he patted the front of the stranger's jacket. Ah, there it was. A small
square of leather.
Not a wallet.
An id card.
Well, shit. He really was an FBI agent. And his name really was Fox.
Poor bastard.
Vic quickly disarmed the agent, settled back down on the couch, and waited
for his unwelcome guest to wake up. Three quarters of the way through a CD
of a live performance at Preservation Hall, he heard a pained groan, muffled
by the carpet, as Mulder finally came back to life. Vic sighed, thumbed the
disk off with the remote, and watched the other man shakily sit up.
"Welcome to the land of the living, Agent Mulder. You want to tell me why
you tried to beat me up?" He tried to sound threatening, but knew it came
out more bemused than anything else. Damn, but the man was cute, all tousled
and confused looking. The thought brought him up short, and confused him in
turn, so he was less aggressive than he otherwise would have been.
Mulder made up for it. "What the fuck do you mean, why did I try to beat you
up? Haven't we been trying to kill each other since we met?" The growl was
quite impressive. Vic thought about it for a few seconds.
"No." He left it at that. Mulder looked at him, disbelief written plain on
his face, and pulled himself painfully into a sitting position.
"True. That is true," he said, sarcasm dripping off every word. Vic didn't
have a clue what he was talking about. "We haven't been trying to kill each
other. You've been too busy betraying me to worry about actually killing
me!"
The theme from the Twilight Zone was playing in Victor's head, and it didn't
harmonize well with the classic jazz he'd been listening to earlier. "What
the hell are you talking about? Betray you? I don't even know you!" He was
trying to be reasonable. Of course it didn't work.
"Cut the bullshit, Krycek! This is me you're talking to!" The command bark
took Vic by surprise. There was more to this guy than just a great mouth and
better ass. Unfortunately, none of it was between his ears.
"My name is Mansfield. Not that it's any business of yours, but I dončt know
who Krycek is." Quiet, concerned. Isn't that how one was supposed to talk
when dealing with a nutso?
"I said cut the crap!" No, you said bullshit, he thought but didn't say.
Mulder had pushed himself to his feet and was now looming in what he no
doubt thought was a threatening manner over Vic. It took every ounce of self
control Vic had not to lean forward and stick his tongue in the navel that
was exposed by the ripped shirt and sagging slacks waistline. What the hell
was going on here? Mulder had continued to threaten while Vic was distracted
by the tempting flesh so close to his face. When the agent got tired of not
getting any response, he grabbed Vic by the thick hair at the crown of his
head and jerked.
Big mistake.
Instincts kicked in, then a foot lashed out, forearms came up and broke the
hold, and Mulder found himself flat on his back with a hundred and seventy
pounds of fighting machine on top of him. Vic managed to stop himself before
he actually did break something important. Their faces were inches apart,
and he could swear he could feel every square centimeter of Fox Mulder
against his skin. He stared down into dilated pupils in shocked hazel eyes,
and fought the insane urge to cover that delicious mouth with his own.
The temptation shook him so badly he had gathered Mulder up, tossed him out
the door, closed the door behind him, remembered the FBI agent's gun,
grabbed it up, opened the door, tossed the gun on top the man now sprawled
in the hallway, shut and locked the door and fallen back on the couch before
he ever unclenched his jaw.
He wouldn't think about it. He just wouldn't think about it.
For a moment, he considered calling the Director and reporting the incident
to her. Then he figured the apartment was bugged anyway. Why bother. She'd
know about it. No need to waste the price of an international call. He was
just being thrifty.
He went and took a cold shower. Then he took another one. Then he stood,
naked, in front of the open refrigerator door. For nearly ten minutes.
Eventually, much more slowly than he would have liked, his erection went
away.
After a night of confused dreams that he didn't want to remember, Victor sat
in the cold basement room at the temporary Agency headquarters and quickly
shuffled through the last of the reports on the most recent operation. A
shiver went down his spine as he heard the drip of condensation trickle down
metal pipes somewhere in the distance. Where, he wondered, did the Agency
find these places? Dungeons R Us? The thought spurred him on, and he found
himself working even faster, until he closed the final folder a good three
hours earlier than the time allotted for the task.
Great. Now what? With no particular plan in mind, no need to wander off to
the watering hole to see Mac and Li Ann since they were still sanitizing the
target zone, and nothing pressing to do before his flight the next day, he
ambled out to his truck and settled into the front seat.
Fuck.
How the hell had he missed that?
The cold snub of a gun barrel in the soft skin behind his ear caused him to
sit very, very still. Unable to think of a thing to say that wouldn't get
his head blown off, he let his curiosity peep out. "What kind of gun? I
can't tell from the barrel."
It dug a little deeper. "Walther PPK." No, it wasn't. He could tell that
much. Nine mil, probably a Sig Sauer... before his mind could wander any
further, the low voice told him, "Drive." He stared through the windshield
ahead of him and sat.
"Where?" he finally asked, when the pressure from the gun barrel grew
uncomfortable but no further instructions were forthcoming. Damned if he was
going to drive himself to his own funeral. "And why'd you lie about the
gun?"
The barrel stilled from where it had been making tiny, tickling circles over
his skin. The voice sounded surprised. "Didn't lie. Thought it was. Picked
up the wrong one this morning. Take a right at the end of the driveway, then
a left on fourteenth. I'll tell you where to go from there."
Well, at least it didn't sound like it was a trip to imminent death. For
some reason Vic didn't want to think about too hard, his hands were moving
on their own, turning the key, swinging the wheel around, heading to
wherever the hell it was that Agent Fox Mulder was taking him. Could be
heaven. Could be hell.
It turned out to be a bit of a dump.
"Don't you ever feed these fish?" Some of them were floating along the top
of the tank. Upside-down. He started to turn toward the door where Mulder
seemed to be fumbling with the locks, thinking it would be a good chance to
take him by surprise, turn the scene around, get back in control.
Good thought. Lousy execution.
For once, the FBI agent seemed to know what he was doing. He was standing
three feet away, just out of reach but not far enough for a truly effective
non-lethal kick. And he really didn't want to kill the guy. Besides the fact
that he was finding him disturbingly attractive, the cross-border paperwork
would be a real bitch. Mulder nodded his head.
"Sit in the chair."
There was only one. It was facing the small window, perpendicular to the
beaten up couch. A straight backed, metal chair, sturdy looking, nothing
fancy. Slowly turning his back to the man in the doorway, he started to
reach for the chair, intending to use it as a weapon.
"Hands where I can see them." The command was accompanied by the distinctive
click of a trigger being cocked. He got his hands out to his sides, fast.
There was a certain coldness to Mulder's tone that had him shivering all
over again. Victor honestly believed the agent could, and would, kill him.
He eased himself into the chair, keeping his hands up. The barrel touched
his skin again, this time at the base of his skull, making the short hair at
the nape of his neck stand on end. All of a sudden, this wasn't a game.
There was a lot of anger in Mulder, and right now it was centered on Victor
Mansfield, and Vic didn't like the sensation one little bit.
"Put your hands back behind the chair." He also didn't want to do that. But
he hadn't heard the trigger relax back in place either, so he didn't argue.
He flinched slightly at the sensation of cold metal clamping around his
right wrist, reflexively widened his hands as much as possible to give
himself some maneuvering room, heard the chain between the cuffs thread
through the metal back of the chair, and the matching circlet snapped in
place around his left wrist. At least his legs were free. If he got half a
chance he'd kick the shit out of Mulder, break the chair apart and get the
hell out of there.
So much for plan number two.
The cold kiss of the barrel disappeared, and he took a breath of relief as
he heard the hammer eased back into position on the gun. Then Mulder started
to question him.
"Where's the disk, Krycek?"
Not that again. What did it take to get through to this guy? "My name's
Victor Mansfield. I don't know who this Krycek is-"
"How did you get out of Tunguska?"
Where the fuck? Tonwhoski? Mulder was leaning over behind him, not giving
him a chance to kick him in the balls like he was really starting to want to
do. He began to work at the cuffs, thankful that Mulder had obeyed a spark
of humanitarian impulse and left them a little bit loose.
"Did you know about the clones? About the hybrid fertilizations?"
This guy was totally whacked. He'd been watching too many science fiction
shows hosted by ex-Star Trek actors. Vic fought down a trickle of panic and
worked harder at the cuffs.
"What about the rock, Krycek? The experiments with the Black Cancer?"
None of it made any sense. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mulder!"
That earned him a cuff across the side of the face. He was really starting
to get pissed. Unfortunately, all this hot breathing of questions in his
ears was also starting to give him a hard-on. He closed his eyes. What the
hell was wrong with him, anyway?
Mulder's voice was starting to rise, as the questions came faster, harder,
more furiously. "Don't lie to me, damnit! Tell me!"
"Tell you what?!" Vic was nearly shouting himself. Mulder swung around in
front of him, a perfect target, but by this time the frustration had built
up until Vic didn't want to kick him anymore. He wanted him to explain.
Besides, if he kept Mulder talking, he'd have a chance. His left wrist was
nearly free.
"What do you know about Scully? Was it the chip? Will the cancer come back?
What about Emily? Are there any more orphan clones out there created from
her eggs? And I need more answers!"
Mulder's hands had circled around Vic's head, and he was holding on to both
sides of his face, the gun tossed aside somewhere during the interrogation.
He pulled Vic's face up until they could stare into one another's eyes.
Victor didn't think he'd ever seen a more tormented look on a human being's
face in his life.
"Tell me! Did you kill my father? Was he my father? What about Melissa? Did
you know what they were going to do to me in that camp? And why did you
leave me alone there?" Mulder's eyes were blazing now, the hazel completely
eaten up with a fiery green, the pupils dilated until Vic thought he just
might drown in them. "Why did you do that to me, why did you take me like
that, then leave me to them?"
The questions rasped out in a tortured whisper, then Mulder was kissing him,
desperately, deeply, as if he would devour him. Vic's left wrist slid free
of the cuff, and he brought his hands up to pull Mulder off, break him in
two and get the hell out of there.
So much for plan three.
His hands wouldn't obey him. They curved up around Mulder's shoulders,
pulling him closer, pulling himself up, trying to get near that consuming
heat. There was a choked sound from the throat under his fingers, as Mulder
seemed to realize that the situation had changed, but by that time it was
too late for either of them.
He didn't know what the hell he was doing, but it sure felt good. His hands
found the buttons of Mulder's shirt, tugged hard at them, ripped them apart.
Dimly, he heard the pinging sound as they hit the floor. Felt right. The
shirt was off and his fingers scrabbled at the waistband of the slacks,
slipping inside, bumping against a hot, wet ridge of flesh that pulled a
whimper from Mulder. Yeah. Felt perfect. The zipper was no problem, neither
were the boxers, and the shoes only took a second. He wasn't sure how they'd
ended up on the floor, but it was probably best—the way they were rolling
around if they'd been on the couch they'd've ended up on the floor. Not so
far to fall this way.
Somewhere along the line Mulder must have been busy too, because there was a
breeze going down his back, and he didn't remember taking off his shirt.
Mulder's mouth was chewing at his neck, and it felt wonderful. Mulder's
hands were running over his back, squeezing his ass cheeks, and if he'd had
the sense he was born with he'd've been scared shitless. As it was, it just
felt great.
Then the world went sideways, and the back of his head thumped against the
floor, and he couldn't help giggling like a madman. He was on the bottom. He
wasn't on the bottom very often. He'd never been particularly adventurous
with sex, and his partners hadn't really complained. The Director called him
Vanilla when she thought he wasn't listening, but he had a feeling he was
about to discover chocolate sprinkles and lose his cherry.
Then Mulder slid between his thighs and he stopped thinking at all.
He'd never had a guy... he'd never had anyone kiss him there. Kiss, and lick,
and, oh, christ jesus, bite, too. Mulder'd taken Vic's legs up over his
shoulders and was making a feast of him. Sucking his balls into that
incredible mouth, rolling them with his tongue. Nibbling up along the length
of his cock and back down again, then nudging his sac out of the way and
nipping further down. Down, down, down... so that's what going down really
meant... he had more nerves there than he ever thought he would have, and
Mulder was hitting every fucking one of them. By the time the tip of that
talented tongue began to work its way into his asshole Vic realized that he
was moaning continuously, a rising and falling wave of sound that echoed
inside his head like a full orchestra. His thighs fell as far apart as he
could get them, and he began to push backward, trying to get more, take
more, open further, get that tongue clear up inside him, all the way to his
throat from the inside. Felt so damned good. Like nothing he'd ever felt
before.
His hands were busy, one buried in Mulder's cropped hair, urging him closer,
deeper. The other was roaming along his cock, pulling on it, pushing his sac
aside so he could see what Mulder was doing, then letting them fall so that
with every thrust of Mulder's tongue inside him, Mulder's nose was batting
at his balls. It was driving him insane. He was close, so close. Words were
starting to form within the moans now, as he rocked up into his fist and
back down onto Mulder's face. "Please" and "Yes!" and "God" and "Now."
Then the bastard pulled out.
Before he could help himself, he wailed at the loss of that tongue in his
ass. Mulder slid up his body, grabbing his hand and pulling it off his cock,
and the abrupt cessation of sensation on both sides turned the wail into a
scream. Mid-scream, Mulder's tongue was suddenly filling his mouth, and he
froze, shocked by the musky taste of himself. Instinctively, he lapped at
the other man's mouth, not thinking, just needing. Concentrating on the
unique experience, he let Mulder rearrange his legs, splaying his knees
wide, humping up to meet the thrust as Mulder sank his cock into the hole
he'd been so enthusiastically widening.
Vic tried to scream again. It came out sounding more like a strangled groan.
Mulder threw his head back, clamped his fingers tightly behind Vic's knees,
and put his back into his work. Vic's hands scratched at the carpet,
searching in vain for something to hold on to as his previously virgin ass
was given the reaming of its life. He'd wanted that tongue to fill him... now
he was being filled, and something woke up with a roar and decided it
really, really liked it. His asshole was literally itching for more, and he
was thrusting and pumping wildly against Mulder, trying to suck him in,
taking everything he had to offer and demanding more.
He moaned with every thrust, fingers giving up looking for a handhold and
contenting themselves with sliding along his own chest, rubbing his nipples,
pulling at his cock, running up along Mulder's sweat-streaked chest and
plucking and twisting the peaked nubs he found there. After what felt like
an eternity and wasn't nearly enough time to satisfy him, Mulder arched,
pressed into him so hard he could swear he felt it at the top of his
ribcage, and came. He felt the hot splash of semen deep inside himself, and
the alien sensation was too much. The itch finally stopped, as he clenched
and jerked at the shaft of his cock, finally coming himself, clamping around
the still hard flesh within him as he climaxed. The world drifted away in a
dark, hot, damp cloud of sweat, sperm and warm hard flesh collapsing on top
of him, his legs relaxing to wrap automatically around Mulder's thighs, his
arms falling limply to his side, head tilting back as Mulder's face fell
forward to nestle against his throat.
Oh. Yeah. Fuck vanilla. This was the whole sundae. Cherry, whipped cream,
nuts and all.
An intrusive spear of sunlight stabbed at Mulder's eyelids, making them
clamp shut reflexively against the intrusion. He didn't want to wake up yet.
It was Saturday. His back hurt. His knees hurt. His dick hurt.
His dick?
Oh, yes. And his arm was asleep.
That last realization brought him awake in a hurry. It was asleep because it
was hanging by the wrist from the headboard of his bed, where it was
securely handcuffed.
Shit.
He was naked. Handcuffed to his bed, with only the vaguest recollection of
staggering there. The last clear memory he had of the previous night was
finding himself with an armful of tiger and fucking that tiger raw. He
should have known Krycek wouldn't do anything by half measures. Nor would he
do anything the traditional way, even when circumstances allowed it. After
all, Mulder did have a bed, and they could have made love... had sex... on a
relatively comfortable mattress, on relatively clean sheets. But no, what
did they do? Fucked like wild weasels in the middle of the living room
floor. No wonder his knees hurt. Carpet burn was a real bitch. He wondered
how the small of Alex's back was feeling this morning.
He rattled the chain at his wrist. How was he supposed to get out of this?
Before he could get any further in his cogitation than the theoretical use
of mattress springs to pick cuff locks, a curious beep interrupted his
thoughts. He looked up and across to the nightstand beside the bed,
surprised to see his laptop open and running. It had been set up and
carefully turned so that he could see it easily from his position on the
bed. There was a file open on it, and the picture looked very familiar.
It was Krycek. Except, well, it wasn't.
The heading along the top of the screen made it clear that he was seeing a
document from a top secret Canadian governmental database. It had been
downloaded and displayed, especially for him. He had no doubt he wouldn't be
able to trace the download, but reading the information with growing
disbelief, he knew he really didn't need to. It was legitimate.
Holy hell.
He'd just raped a stranger.
Not that it had been particularly one sided, he hastened to assure himself.
Once the other man had caught fire, he'd nearly burnt them both up in the
conflagration. But that was just it... he forced himself to read the file all
the way to the end.
It wasn't Krycek. It really was an ex-cop turned government secret agent,
named Victor Mansfield.
Mulder closed his eyes and fell back against the headboard.
He had fucked up. Royally.
Again.
As he leaned his head against the hard surface of the board, it gradually
dawned on him that he wasn't alone. He swallowed against the dryness in his
throat, and forced his eyes open.
Yup. All his nightmares were indeed coming true.
There, standing in the doorway, leather jacket, stubble, black jeans, wicked
grin, bad attitude and all, was Alex Krycek. Smirking at him. Holding a tiny
silver key and waving it at him. "Looking for something, Mulder?" Mocking
laughter in the voice. And here he was, tied up like a sacrificial goat,
already stripped for the altar, not able to do a damned thing about it.
"Yes." His voice was rusty. Well, no wonder, he'd screamed his throat out
the night before.
Krycek sauntered into the room, swinging the key negligently around on his
fingertip. With a shock, Mulder saw that the left arm of the leather jacket
was empty, pinned up to keep it from swinging free. He flashed onto a
particularly vivid nightmare forced onto him in a virtual world, and his
stomach clenched. Keeping the horror from his voice with an effort, he
asked, "What happened to your arm?"
With a peculiarly graceful one-shouldered shrug, Krycek responded casually,
"Siberian inoculation." Green eyes met hazel with perfect understanding and
unwilling sympathy. The ease was forced, but Mulder didn't comment on the
recognition of pain. That would have given his enemy one too many tools to
use against him, and the deck was already stacked in Krycek's favor. Look
who held the key? He took a deep breath.
"Unlock me." He'd at least attempt to remain in control, for as long as
Krycek let him. As he'd expected, that wasn't long at all.
The other man continued into the room, stopping at the side of the bed, just
out of reach of Mulder's unfettered right arm. He swept the rumpled bed with
a knowing look, taking in the dried semen coating Mulder's stomach, the love
bites scattered over his neck and chest, the fingertip-sized bruises along
his flank, his waist, his pectorals, the vivid rug burns on his knees.
"Busy night last night, Mulder?" There was a wealth of innuendo in the
question. Mulder felt his temper rise. Unfortunately, that wasn't all that
was rising to meet Krycek's challenge, and the lack of any sort of covering
over his lap made the response all too obvious. "Oh, I don't think you're
quite ready to get up just yet, do you?" Krycek smiled sweetly down at him,
mischievous intent blatant behind his bared teeth. "At least, not out of
bed." He settled on the mattress, leaning over to run the pad of his index
finger along Mulder's burgeoning erection. "Other things are definitely ...
looking up."
Mulder gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and prepared for a very long day.
Maybe, if he got lucky, Krycek would get distracted and he could snatch the
key and get himself loose. As a hot mouth closed over the tip of his cock
and began to suckle lightly, he whimpered and stopped thinking.
Maybe, if he got really lucky, they'd lose the key altogether.
Back home again. No op in sight. Another day free, then tomorrow, back to
the grind. Vic hadn't had much to think about on the flight back to Canada.
So the ache in his backside was looming large in his mind.
He couldn't believe it.
Couldn't believe how much he'd wanted it. Enjoyed it.
Wanted it again.
He shifted on the bar stool, drifting back into the conversation when he
finally realized Li Ann was talking to him. From the irritated tone of her
voice, it sounded like it wasn't the first time she'd called his name.
"What is wrong with you, Victor?" Her face reflected her confusion. He
didn't know what to tell her. I got fucked last night? By a guy? A guy who
thought I was someone else? Who rode me hard, and I wanted it even harder?
Want it again. God, how he wanted it again. He took a deep breath.
"Nothing." Nothing he could talk about, anyway. Especially to his
ex-fiancée. "Just tired, I guess." He tried to smile at her, had a feeling
it was more of a grimace, and gave up the effort. Spinning his beer bottle
around in his fingers, he looked up to find Mac staring at him with an
arrested look in his eyes.
For an instant, there was a connection, and Vic had the weirdest feeling
that Mac knew just exactly what had happened, knew why he was sitting so
gingerly at the bar, knew how twisted up he was inside. Then the moment
passed, and Mac turned to make some smart ass comment to Li Ann, taking the
pressure off Vic. For once, he was glad to let Mac take all her attention.
He just wanted to sit there, as still as he could. Drink his beer. Try not
to think.
Figure out a way to get back to Washington DC. He smiled into his beer.
He was so totally fucked.
And he wanted to be, again.
In a featureless, dark room dramatically lit with splashes of light offset
by pools of impenetrable black shadow, a sharp featured woman with long red
hair and a form fitting black leather unitard sat at an onyx desk and
absently tapped a matching leather riding crop against her ankles where they
rested, crossed, atop the desk. An older man in an immaculate gray suit,
unlit cigarette dangling from one hand, stood before her, a small smile on
his face, not reaching his eyes.
"A small offering, in the interest of inter-Agency cooperation and
information sharing," he said quietly, passing her a videocassette in a
plain black case. She took it, the tips of her nails scoring lightly along
the thin flesh of his hand. A nearly imperceptible shiver ran through his
frame, and a small smile that matched his own crossed her face.
She nodded, accepted the videocassette, and inclined her head toward the
door. He looked meaningfully at the crop in her hand. She flicked it with
deliberate intent against the corner of the desk, the sharp crack resounding
into the far corners of the room. His smile widened, and he nodded slowly at
her. They understood one another.
Perfectly.
She waited until the doors had closed completely behind him, and the echo of
his footsteps had died away to silence. When all was still around her, she
slid the videocassette gently from its case and inserted it into a nearly
invisible slot in the desk in front of her. A screen rose from the center of
the desk, and she leaned back in her chair, intent on the images flickering
to life in front of her.
The silence was filled with the sounds of uncontrolled sex, moans in two
similar registers, low, bitten off curses, the slap of flesh against flesh,
whispers of encouragement and passion. Her eyes narrowed, then widened as
she recognized one of the men writhing on the screen, pulling his lover
closer, panting, clawing, spreading himself to be taken and reveling in the
possession.
"My, Victor, you have actually managed to surprise me. You're finally
discovering there are more flavors out there than plain vanilla." She
paused, a smile parting her lips, her tongue running along the bottom lip,
leaving it glistening in the half light of the room. "I wonder what it would
take to get you into leather..."
fin
Stealing a Moment
by Brenda Antrim
"Betray you? I don't even know you!"
