Act Two SCENE ONE
They would be at Mulder's desk. No, not the new one, out in the middle of
everything—the old one, down in the basement. He'd lock the door and stand
with his back against it.
Mulder sighed and released his partially-erect penis. Groaning in
frustration, he levered himself off the couch and wandered out to the kitchen,
adjusting his sweat pants. Well, this is what you get for trying to act on
your fantasies. Ruin two relationships, and now you can't even beat off. I'll
have to start doing Skinner, or something. Stupid fool Mulder. When will you
ever learn?
Mulder liked to sleep on planes. Strangely enough, though he tossed and
turned in his own bed, and dozed in fits and starts on his big, comfortable
leather couch, squeeze him into a too-small, back-breaking airline seat and he
was out like a light. He woke when the change in the engine hum signalled that
the plane was beginning its descent. His knee was pressed against Krycek's. He
peered at his partner through almost-closed eyes. Krycek was reading Thomas
Harris's The Silence of the Lambs, which he'd picked up at the airport
gift shop. He remained intent on his book, seemingly unaware of the knee
pressing against him. How long had they been like this? Well, Mulder's long
frame always tended to encroach on his airline seatmates' space. And Krycek was
tall, too—they could hardly sit next to each other on a plane without being
forced into physical contact. It didn't mean anything. But it was nice. Mulder
closed his eyes and pretended to be still asleep.
The Bozeman, Montana chief of detectives was a thin, middleaged man with
freckles on his balding forehead and a worried crease between his eyes. His
face held a perpetually perplexed look as he showed Mulder and Krycek the files
on the previous cases. One of the victims had been his cousin. His hand
trembled when he handed them her pictures. There was a photograph of a rather
plain, sandy-haired woman with a bright eyes and a fun-loving grin. Another
photograph showed a body so criss-crossed by wounds as to be unidentifiable.
Even the eyes were sliced through. Krycek swallowed and stared grimly at the
photographs.
Mulder slept surprisingly well, wrapped around his partner. He didn't think
Krycek slept nearly so well—when the alarm clock rang, Krycek blinked and
muttered groggily that he didn't want breakfast and why didn't Mulder just go
on without him? He looked pale and worn-out. Still worrying about last night?
Or anticipating the upcoming autopsy? Maybe he just wasn't a morning person.
But he'd hardly eaten last night, and he wasn't likely to want lunch either,
after watching a poor murdered woman being dissected, so he really should eat
breakfast.
Act Two
The latest victim of the Kafka Killer was a Native American woman from nearby
Livingston who had worked in Bozeman as an elementary school teacher. She was
twenty-eight years old and unmarried. In the photographs, she had a gentle,
good-natured face and a full figure. Of course, none of that was recognizable
now. The body that lay on the autopsy table was sliced into a pile of raw meat.
Five hours later, Mulder and Krycek were sitting in a booth at a local
coffee shop having lunch. Or rather, Mulder was having lunch. Krycek was
sipping coffee and staring rather sickly at Mulder's grilled cheese sandwich.
Mulder had been tempted to order French dip, but kindly refrained, knowing poor
Krycek's stomach would have been sorely tried by the sight and smell of
dripping meat. Now he was beginning to wonder if he should have eaten anything
at all. They still had to talk about the case. Much as he would have liked to
put it all aside, they were here to do a job, and Krycek was going to have to
learn to deal with it.
When Krycek returned from the bathroom, he was all business. "Okay, the
victim. She was last seen Friday afternoon, right? At her last class of the
day."
Mulder was careful to keep the conversation pleasant and neutral while
Krycek slowly worked on a bowl of barley beef soup. He didn't look like he was
enjoying it much, but at least his hands stopped trembling and a little bit of
color came back into his face as he ate.
Five women. Ordinary women, living ordinary lives. Working, spending time
with friends, participating in hobbies. They shopped, they telephoned their
mothers, they watched television and balanced their checkbooks. And then one
day they walked out of their jobs, or left their homes, and disappeared—only
to reappear two days, four days, a week later, nude and sliced to ribbons,
unceremoniously dumped behind a bush, reduced to a mass of reddened, bleeding
flesh. Friends and family stood with their arms spread in stunned disbelief.
Local cops, accustomed to breaking up bar fights and stopping rowdy teenagers
from shooting out traffic lights, shook their heads, protesting that this sort
of thing didn't happen out here. Mulder soothed and sympathized and sifted
through the evidence, mentally cursing the inadequate autopsies and careless
procedures. Still, a picture began to form of the man in his mind.
It was after ten by the time they returned to their hotel. Still on
Washington time, and exhausted by the horrific work they were doing, they were
both yawning when they reached their rooms. Mulder followed Krycek into his
room, intending only to offer a few words of encouragement before going to his
own room. But the moment the door closed behind him, Krycek turned and threw
himself into Mulder's arms, with a savagery that took Mulder by surprise.
Krycek lay with his hands over his head, gripping one arm tightly by the
wrist, while Mulder tongued one hard, brown nipple and worked two fingers
within Krycek's anus. Mulder had almost been afraid to go back to his room for
the condoms and lubricant, wondering what Krycek might turn into while he was
gone, but he'd found Krycek just as he'd left him—lying on his back, naked,
biting his lower lip and looking up at Mulder with a strange combination of
lust and weary desolation. He'd kissed Krycek until the tears ran down his face
- and made up his mind to believe that Krycek just cried when he was overcome
with passion—and then he'd set about searching out every sensitive spot on
Krycek's body. He was determined that this time he wasn't going to come while
Krycek was still cold. He ignored the urgency in his own cock, cupping Krycek's
balls in his palm while his fingers explored the moist, heated recesses of
Krycek's body.
They lay in a sweaty, tangled heap. Mulder never wanted to move again. But
his cock was going soft, and he had to get rid of the condom, and Krycek
couldn't be comfortable twisted up under Mulder as he was, although he wasn't
complaining. He yawned and pulled himself up, peeling the condom free and
tossing it into the trash. He waited while Krycek rearranged himself, then
settled beside him, one arm around his chest. Krycek squirmed against him,
sighing.
Some time later, Mulder woke from a light doze, aware of Krycek shifting,
fighting free of the tangled sheet, then settling onto his stomach with his
face in his pillow. He smiled, and moved closer, covering Krycek's shoulders
with his arm. Once this case was over, and they'd gone back to D.C., they would
have to deal with the reality of their situation. There would be hard
discussion, some pain, perhaps some joy. They would end it, or they would
figure out how to conduct a forbidden affair, with all the danger to their
careers it would entail. In any case, this sweet idyll would end. But Mulder
meant to make the most of it, while it lasted.
Another day, and no closer to a solution. Mulder was starting to feel
useless and depressed himself. He was supposed to be the FBI's best and
brightest. He was supposed to be able to conjure up stunningly accurate
profiles out of wind and will o'the wisps. He was not supposed to helplessly
stand by while days passed and the probability of another murder grew. And he
was most certainly not supposed to be spinning his mental wheels obsessing over
his partner instead of concentrating on the case.
And that was exactly what happened. It was Detective Hawkins who listened
in something like awe as Mulder rattled off all the characteristics he thought
the killer would have—early to mid-thirties, recently divorced, large red
pickup truck, hunting dog, isolated home, smooth, charming personality—until
finally he broke in, "That sounds just like Ed Vanson!"
It took several hours to get the search warrant. While they waited, Mulder
outlined strategies for the interrogation with Detective Hawkins. "It probably
won't be vital to your case to obtain a confession, since I'm certain there
will be physical evidence at Vanson's home. But it's always better to have one,
if you can, especially with a popular, charming suspect like this, who people
aren't going to want to believe is guilty."
They waited it out in the hotel coffee shop, drinking cup after cup of
strong coffee, too wound up to eat even though they'd never gotten around to
dinner. Krycek sat tapping his spoon on the place mat, staring out the window.
Mulder sat staring at Krycek, considering how impossible it was to ever really
know what was going on in another person's mind.
Vanson had smiled at the police officers who'd come to arrest him. "So you
caught me," he'd said, and then went silent, refusing to say another word.
They'd found it all just as Mulder had predicted: the rack, constructed out of
an old iron bedframe, in a shed out back, the hard-packed dirt beneath it dark
with blood. The women's clothing, neatly folded, in a chest of drawers in the
corner. A map on the wall, with five red-tipped pins marking spots along I 90
between Billings and Bozeman. A collection of knives and straight razors,
polished and shiny, on top of the chest of drawers.
They celebrated with chocolate sundaes. Krycek was quiet and thoughtful,
but tended to burst into giggles at odd moments. The talk was desultory and
apropos of nothing. Mulder was content to bask in the glow of a successful
conclusion to a harrowing case, and let the silences lengthen, smiling to
himself, and joining Krycek in his occasional giggling fits. They could have
packed up and headed for the airport immediately, but it was already late, and
Mulder was in no hurry to end their stay. One more night in Montana. One more
night in Krycek's bed, then tomorrow back to Washington and reality.
He followed Krycek into his hotel room, and pulled him into his arms as
soon as the door closed behind them. Krycek didn't pull away, but he didn't
return the embrace either, he simply stood with his hands resting lightly on
Mulder's waist. He closed his eyes when Mulder kissed his cheek. His lips were
pressed together tightly.
It was perfect, and Mulder thought he'd gladly spend the rest of his life
like this, with Krycek beneath him, legs spread, face crushed into the pillow,
incredible eyelashes batting against his cheek, fists curled at his sides,
breathing raggedly in time to the slow, deep strokes of Mulder's cock inside
him. Mulder had achieved a lovely warm state of pure pleasure, his entire body
glowing with the sweet sensations spreading from his cock.
Mulder lay curled around Krycek, arm draped around Krycek's waist, the firm
bottom tucked into his lap. It was nearly six A.M., and they'd made love three
times—Mulder didn't think they'd make it to four. He was drifting contentedly
in an exhausted, sex-drenched haze, too tired to move, but not quite willing to
let go of this pleasantness for the deeper darkness of sleep.
He called Scully from Dulles Airport, pulling his cellular from his pocket
as he waited outside the men's room for Krycek. Poor guy had been stumbling at
his side all the way off the plane and into the terminal. Mulder supposed he
really should have let Krycek sleep last night, instead of keeping him up all
night fucking. Well, never mind—they were home now, and it was still early
afternoon, Washington time. Krycek could just go home and sleep the rest of the
day away.
They'd finished most of their meal when Mulder leaned forward onto his
elbow, chin in hand, and settled in for one of his favorite pastimes—Scully
watching. She still had half a dozen French fries, and studied them as if they
were slides under a microscope. When her fork descended, it stabbed precisely
in the center of the selected fry, then carried it decisively to her mouth.
Surgically executed. Perfectly Scully. She paused to tuck her hair behind her
ear while she chewed. Her lips were wonderfully full and round. It wasn't
really necessary for her to have such beautiful porcelain skin or eyes like
cool aquamarines. But there it was. An embarrassment of riches; so much to gaze
at, and all of it Scully.
I have to tell Mulder the truth. He's going to hate me and I'll get
transferred and my boss will kill me. Literally. God I really could get killed
for this. But I don't know what else to do. I can't go on like this. Mulder
just won't leave me alone and I can't figure out a way to say no to him that
he'll buy, when he can see how badly I want him.
The next morning, Mulder was at the pool doing laps when Krycek came in,
walking around the side of the pool to meet Mulder at the end of his lap. The
swimming pool fantasy of a few months ago popped into Mulder's mind, and he
grinned to himself as he swam up to Krycek. Wouldn't it be fun to pull Krycek
in, undress him and make him swim laps, swimming along beside him, slapping him
on the bottom when he flagged, urging him to keep up? Too bad he was dressed
for work, in one of his awful suits, and couldn't be made to play.
Duane Barry was an abductee, a genuine one, Mulder was sure of it. The man
knew things. About the aliens, about abductions, about government
conspiracies.... And maybe he could have taken Mulder to the abduction site,
and maybe Mulder could have seen it for himself, and maybe he could have found
out once and for all what had happened to his sister, if only, if only.... But
poor Duane Barry was frightened and desperate and unbalanced, and the hostages
were in mortal danger, and Mulder had had no choice but to send Barry to the
door where the snipers could take him out. No choice.
Mulder punched the button on his answering machine and tossed his jacket
across the back of a chair, loosening his tie as he dropped onto the couch. It
was late, as usual, but he couldn't put it off any longer. He'd avoided Krycek
all day, breezing past him with the flimsiest of excuses, spending the day with
Scully and the agents who'd been in charge of the hostage negotiation. He'd
gone to see Duane Barry in the hospital. He'd even hidden in the library. He
just couldn't look at Krycek, with the memory of Montana scalding his nerve
endings, and the knowledge that soon they'd have to talk about what had
happened twisting his guts. Not in public, anyway. He'd call Krycek as soon as
he checked his messages. The first was from Scully.
She was gone. Her mother appeared at her apartment, crying. The phone lay
on the floor, smashed. There was blood and hair on the edge of the coffee
table. Red hair. Scully's hair.
Late morning. At least twenty-nine hours since he'd slept. He'd drunk so
much coffee his hands were beginning to tremble. His stomach churned. He
despised every minute that ticked by, another minute of danger to Scully. At
his desk, Mulder sat staring at the police reports, the photographs, the
cassette tapes, willing them to make sense, to resolve themselves into the
answers he needed. It had to be here somewhere, why couldn't he find it? He was
letting Scully down. He had to get her back. Had to. He couldn't lose
another... no, don't think about that. Just find Duane Barry, find Scully, get
her back.
It had been so close. If only they'd gotten to the top of the mountain a
little bit sooner, they might have been able to save her. The hood of her car
was still warm when Mulder felt it. Duane Barry was still standing with his
arms outstretched to the sky, exulting in not being the one who was taken this
time. And Scully was gone beyond Mulder's reach. Only a few minutes, but in
those few minutes everything changed. Scully was taken, and there was nothing
more for Mulder to do, except to go home and apologize to her mother and wait
and hope that somehow she'd return.
Krycek pulled up in front of Mulder's apartment building. Mulder shifted in
his seat, muscles stiff from sitting motionless against the car door for so
many hours. He glanced across the seat at Krycek, who was watching him
thoughtfully from under his lashes, so long they cast a shadow across his cheek
in the pale light from the streetlamps.
Mulder lay on his couch, in tee-shirt and jeans, arms crossed over his
chest, staring at the ceiling. It was cold, but he didn't pull a blanket over
himself. Every once in a while, he glanced at the clock on the VCR, and blankly
noted the passage of the hours. His mind was a shattered vessel of images,
frozen like a handful of photographs, scattered and jumbled and senseless.
Scully, eyes wide, strapped to a table, surrounded by small grey aliens. Krycek
lying naked on his stomach with his legs spread. Duane Barry standing in the
doorway with a small red laser dot on his chest. Samantha suspended in midair,
floating through the window. Scully in her apartment late at night, wearing a
sweatshirt and old jeans, shaking her head sadly. His mother weeping quietly by
the window. Krycek with his tie crooked and a scuff on the toe of his shoe.
He got up early and drove to Quantico, to see what had been learned from
Duane Barry's autopsy. Someone had killed Scully's kidnaper—and it wasn't
Mulder. Someone didn't want Barry talking about what he knew and what he had
seen. If he could discover who it was, perhaps it would lead him to whoever had
taken Scully. It was a long shot, but it was the only lead he had, and he was
determined to follow it to the bitter end.
Il
Traviato
by Cody Nelson
Mille serpi divoranmi il petto...
[A thousand serpents are devouring my heart...]
I can't stand it a minute longer. I know you want this as much as I
do.
Krycek would nod. Trembling fingers would fumble with his belt—
A cold and beautiful angel. It's not like it meant anything.
No. Make it Scully, bent over the desk, skirt pulled up to her waist. He
would approach her gently, reach out to touch her soft skin—
A gentle and understanding smile. No, Mulder. It's not for us.
Krycek, then. Warm and unresisting, gasping at his touch, mouth offered for
unbearably sweet kisses. Press him back over the desk, slip a hand under the
crisp white shirt. Partners in everything. Don't hold back.
I'm mad at myself, for letting it happen.
He switched on the fire under the tea kettle. The clock on the microwave
mockingly informed him that it was 3:17 in bright, glowing numerals. He was
beginning to despair of getting even a few hours of sleep tonight. What ever
had possessed him to move on both of his partners in the same night? And the
one who responded was the one he now had to face every day, sad-eyed and wary
and no longer his faithful young friend. They hadn't spoken of it again, but
that strange, almost frightening encounter continued to hang between them,
charging even the most innocent exchanges with tension. He supposed they would
have to talk about it again, but his continued shame had so far prevented him
from bringing it up.
Yawning, he spooned instant hot chocolate into his mug and waited for the
water to boil. Sometimes a hot drink helped him get to sleep, but he had no
hope for it tonight. He was far too troubled for such simple measures to have
any effect. He wanted to talk to someone. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to
relax if he talked to someone for a little while. But who was he going to call
now? Not Krycek, certainly. Scully didn't want him to call her so late.
Sometimes there was someone at the Lone Gunman offices at this time of night.
Frohike, or maybe Langly. At least he wouldn't disturb anyone by calling there
at this hour.
He poured hot water into his mug and wandered back into the living room. He
put the mug down on a magazine and picked up his phone. There was only one
person he really wanted to talk to. It was late, but....
He punched out number one on his speed dial and waited for the ring. A
sleepy voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Scully...." He was suddenly tongue-tied.
"Mulder? Are you...? Is everything all right?"
"I know it's late... I...."
"It's okay. Is something wrong?"
"No, I just couldn't sleep. I know you don't want me to call this late,
but...."
She sighed into the phone. "It's all right, Mulder. Really. I told you, I'm
your friend. I guess this is just part of being your friend."
He laughed ruefully. "Not much fun, is it?"
She laughed with him, warm and friendly. "It's not so bad."
The tightness inside his chest started to unknot. "So, how's it going?"
"Fine. Same old thing. How about you?"
He curled up on the couch with the phone cradled on his shoulder, in the
familiar and cozy ritual for late-night phone conversations. "I'm going to
Bozeman tomorrow. I'll eat a steak for you."
"Bozeman... the Kafka Killer?"
"Yeah." So-called because the murderer bound his victims, then inflicted
hundreds of gradually-deepening knife wounds all over their bodies, until they
finally died of shock and blood loss, reminiscent of the punishment in Kafka's
"In the Penal Colony." " 'You will be inscribed with the names of your crimes,'
" he quoted. "Not a very pretty case."
"Serial murders rarely are. Is Krycek going with you?"
"Yeah." He sighed. And how were they going to manage a trip out of town,
when everything was so crazy between them?
"You don't sound very happy about it."
There were several reasons he was not happy about going out of town with
Krycek. The one he would not tell Scully was that he was more obsessed than
ever with Krycek. The brief, unsatisfactory encounter between them had only
inflamed Mulder's need to possess his new partner completely. He didn't know
how he was going to restrain himself from making another attempt while on the
road in a strange town, with only a hotel room door between them. In fact, he'd
already given up hoping he would, and packed condoms and a tube of KY Jelly in
his overnight bag, just in case.
But there were other reasons he could tell her. "He's just a kid, barely
out of the Academy. He hasn't been through Behavioral Sciences training. He's
going to be way out of his depth in this. I think the only reason Skinner's
sending him along is to keep an eye on me."
"Mulder, he's thirty years old. He's not a kid. And I thought you said he
was good."
"He is good. He's smart and quick and has a good, analytical mind. But he
doesn't have the experience or the training for something like this. You saw
how he reacted at Grissom's autopsy, and that wasn't even that extreme. How is
he going to take the autopsy of a woman who was turned into hamburger over the
course of four or five hours, while she was still alive? It's not fair to
either one of us."
Scully mulled that over for a moment. "Can you ask Skinner to take him off
the case?"
"I already tried. But Krycek insists he can handle it. He's a real blue
flamer, Scully."
"Then I guess you'll just have to let him try to handle it."
Mulder smiled. Good old Scully. You could always count on her to cut right
to the chase. "I know."
"Staying up all night worrying over it isn't going to help."
"I know."
"You'd be better off getting a good night's sleep, so you can deal with
whatever problems come up."
"I know." He grinned happily. No, he didn't take Scully's advice, but he
still loved hearing it.
"Then why don't you?"
"Why don't I let you get back to sleep, you mean."
She yawned. "Well, one of us might as well get some sleep."
"Okay. I'll talk to you when I get back. Thanks, Scully."
"No need, Mulder. Good night."
It was a long and depressing day, spent gathering reports and talking to
various officers and detectives who'd been involved in investigating the
murders. They finally broke for dinner around nine-thirty. Mulder and Krycek
ate at a local steak house recommended by Hawkins, the chief of detectives,
then retired to their hotel.
At the hotel, Mulder sat down with his files on the murders to go over
everything one more time. He would have liked to have Scully's opinion on the
patterns of the wounds. He looked at the phone thoughtfully, then sighed and
left it alone. It was already after midnight, Washington time. Maybe he'd fax
her some of the autopsy reports tomorrow and see what she thought. Meanwhile,
he had a partner next door. Krycek hadn't said a whole lot about the case so
far. It was about time he found out what was going on in Krycek's mind.
He gathered up the files, then hesitated over the supplies in his overnight
case. Krycek had looked awfully pale at dinner, which for him had been only a
bowl of soup. The case was taking its toll on him already, and they hadn't even
gotten to the really rough stuff yet. The latest victim was scheduled to be
autopsied the next day; Detective Hawkins had arranged to pick them up in the
morning and drive them there. Krycek would probably be better off with a quiet
night alone, without either the case or Mulder's propositions to trouble him.
On the other hand, maybe some nice sweaty sex was just what he needed to
get his mind off the horrible murders they'd come to profile. Relax him so he
could get some sleep. Mulder wouldn't press. He wouldn't do anything to make
Krycek uncomfortable. But if, by some chance, it turned out that they ended up
in bed, he didn't want to have to come rushing back to his room for the condoms
and lube. Finally, he shrugged and slipped them into his pocket. It didn't mean
he was going to make a pass. He just wanted to be ready for whatever
transpired.
Their rooms had a connecting door. He opened the door on his side and
tapped on Krycek's. A moment later, Krycek answered, looking a bit disheveled
in his shirt sleeves and stockinged feet.
Mulder held up the files. "I thought we'd go over these a little more."
"Oh." Krycek looked at him bleakly. He remained standing in the doorway.
"Maybe we should go somewhere, get some coffee."
"I don't know where we're going to find anyplace open—I think this is one
of those places where they roll up the sidewalks at ten. Besides, there are
coffeemakers in the bathrooms. Come on, Krycek. I just want to go over the case
with you." Already he was pushing. But it was too absurd for Krycek to be
afraid to be alone with him.
Krycek nodded and stepped aside. He left the connecting doors open—as if
that were going to protect him—and followed Mulder back into the room. The
television was playing softly, and Krycek's paperback lay open on the foot of
the bed.
The table was too small to spread the files out on, and there was only one
chair. Mulder dropped the files onto the bed, moving the paperback over to the
table. "How do you like it?" he asked, nodding toward the book.
"It's good." Krycek smiled faintly. "I probably should have stuck to Dick
Francis."
"He gets beat up all the time."
"Yeah, well. At least he's not skinning people."
Krycek did look rather shaky. Mulder sighed. "Maybe we should forget about
it for tonight."
"No, I'm fine," Krycek insisted. "Let's get to work."
A four-star blue flamer. He'd work till he dropped, or went into hysterics,
or something. Well, Mulder would keep it short. They would just go over the
basics, and then he'd let Krycek get to bed. He sat on the side of the bed, one
knee drawn up, facing the pile of reports and photographs. They'd had enough of
the photos, he decided, tucking them away at the bottom of the pile, and
pulling the various police reports from the four previous killings to the top.
The bodies had been found dumped in state parks along I-90 between Billings and
Bozeman. It was rough, mountainous country, but no particular attempt had been
made to hide the bodies from unsuspecting campers. One had been found by a
thirteen-year-old girl. Mulder made a mental note to ask if the girl had gotten
counseling.
Krycek sat rather reluctantly on the other side of the bed. Was he avoiding
the gut-wrenching files, or Mulder? Or both?
"The victims have all been women between the ages of twenty-three and
forty-four. No particular physical type. The first was found four months ago,
near Columbus." Mulder found the small map of the area where the locations of
all of the victims' bodies had been marked and numbered. "The succeeding bodies
were found approximately at one-month intervals."
"He's on a lunar cycle," Krycek commented.
"No. But his victims were."
"What do you mean?"
"The murders were anything from two to six weeks apart. Not a regular
schedule. But all of the women were menstruating at the time of the their
murder."
Krycek went quite white. "Jesus." His voice was a choked whisper. "I don't
suppose that could have been a coincidence."
"Five randomly chosen women? I don't think so."
"How... how did he know? I mean... jeez, Mulder...."
"Finding that out is probably going to be the key to catching this guy. But
it could be something as simple as his being a clerk in a drug store and
watching to see which women buy tampons."
Krycek stood, walked over to the bathroom door, then turned and walked
back. He sat back down on the bed, running a hand through his hair. His mouth
worked. Finally, he said, "I should have let Skinner take me off this case,
shouldn't I? I'm not going to be any good to you."
Mulder began gathering up the papers and tucking them back into their
folders. "Everybody's inexperienced sometime, Krycek. You think this case
doesn't give me the creeps? You're just overloaded. It's late and we're both
tired, I'll go and let you get some rest." He stood up and headed for the door
to his room.
"Mulder." Krycek was sitting with his shoulders hunched, staring at the
floor beyond the end of the bed. "You don't have to go. Can we just... talk
about something else for a while?"
"Sure." Mulder dropped the files onto the dresser and returned to the bed.
He ached to put his arms around those tired shoulders, to kiss away the
disappointed hang of the head. But he must not. He was being offered Krycek's
trust back, and didn't want to drive him away again. "You should take the
Behavioral Sciences training. I think you could be good at this."
Krycek shrugged. "I don't know. This isn't really what I had in mind when I
went to the Academy."
"What did you have in mind?"
Krycek shrugged again. He continued to stare at the floor. "I wanted to
find the truth."
"The X-Files? There aren't any X-Files any more."
"I know. But there are still cases like those Marines who didn't sleep.
That was incredible. A guy who figured out how to make other people have his
dreams? But this guy, he's just some sick bastard with a blood fetish."
"You don't think he's some kind of genetic mutant who's allergic to
menstruating women? Or maybe an alien who somehow thinks they're supposed to be
bleeding from orifices all over their bodies?"
"Jesus, Mulder!" Krycek stood, clutching his stomach. But he was also
choking out helpless laughter. "You are really sick."
"Sick humor is a necessary part of the job." Mulder smiled up at him.
Krycek nodded, and sat down again. "Yeah."
"This menstrual thing is really freaking you out, isn't it?"
"Mulder, there are just some things I never really wanted to know that much
about."
"But you've had girlfriends, haven't you? Any time you're on intimate terms
with a woman for longer than three weeks...."
Krycek was staring at the floor again, lips pressed tightly together.
Oh. So that's it. Stupid Mulder. Mulder sighed. Well, he could really be
dense at times, couldn't he? Homosexual panic, indeed. I've had sex with men
before. So maybe it wasn't Mulder's feelings he was afraid of, but his own?
He'd thought that Mulder was a straight guy having a meaningless little fling,
and he didn't want to get hurt?
Well, Krycek was probably right. Mulder wasn't interested in any serious
relationships. On the other hand, he hadn't wanted anybody as badly as he
wanted Krycek in a long time, and the knowledge that Krycek was susceptible
just made him ache all the more. He reached out and took Krycek's face in his
hand. Krycek stared at him, stricken.
"I want you," Mulder said softly. "I don't think it has to be a bad thing."
Krycek just stared. His jaw tensed under Mulder's hand.
"Just tell me to leave and I'll go."
Krycek swallowed but didn't speak. His eyes were huge, liquid, the irises
swallowed in inky blackness. Mulder had to clench his teeth to keep himself
steady.
"You have to tell me, Alex. Stay or go?"
Krycek's breathing had quickened. The thick curtain of lashes came down to
cover huge eyes as he looked away. He spoke so quietly Mulder could barely hear
him. "Stay."
Mulder heaved a deep breath. The sudden relief threatened to make him come
on the spot. He was going to have what he wanted. Krycek must let him have it.
He pulled Krycek's face to his, gave him a brief, soft kiss, then released him
to stand and take off his jacket and tie, hanging them over the back of the
chair. Then he sat on the bed, bending to remove his shoes and socks. The rest
would come later. Slowly, this time.
Krycek had watched him beginning to undress, face pink. When Mulder
finished and turned to him, he looked away, and fumbled with his own socks. His
jacket and tie were already off. Mulder waited until he'd finished, then took
him by the shoulders and urged him all the way onto the bed, lying face-to-face
with him.
Ah, it was good. The delicious heat of Krycek's body; the scent of whatever
it was that he used in his hair; the crisp white cotton of his shirt under
Mulder's hands; Mulder's senses were filled with Krycek's warm male presence.
They lay holding each other, stroking each other's backs, their erections
pressed together. Mulder felt like he was floating in a soft, timeless, white
cloud of pleasure. He covered Krycek's face with light, damp kisses. His hand
slid down Krycek's back, over the firm, round buttocks. He felt the buttocks
flex under his caresses; felt the hips thrust, crotch rubbing hard against him.
He cupped Krycek's bottom in his hand and pressed his fingers between
Krycek's legs. Krycek's chest heaved against his. His lips found a small ear
and whispered, "I want to be inside you."
A tiny moan escaped his partner's throat. Mulder looked into the other
man's face; saw desire and surrender in those beautiful, thick-lashed eyes, but
also sadness and regret. He kissed each eye in turn, willing the sadness away,
running his tongue along the closed eyelids, dampening the lashes, and tasting
the quality of Krycek's passion. "Will you let me?"
Krycek's breath was hot on his cheek. His voice was rough. "Do you have any
condoms?"
Mulder smiled at his partner's practicality. "Yes." He disentangled himself
and reached for his jacket, pulling the condoms and tube of KY out of the
pocket and placing them on the nightstand beside the bed.
Krycek had pushed himself partly upright, and was now staring in dismay.
"God, Mulder. You were planning this all along."
Mulder shook his head. "No." He pulled Krycek back into his arms. "Not
planning. Hoping. Wondering. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
Krycek let himself be soothed and stroked and kissed. Then he groaned, "I
can't say no to you, Mulder," and opened his mouth to the kisses, inviting
Mulder's tongue inside. Inviting Mulder inside.
Yes. Oh, yes. Mulder's cock burned; he was so hard it hurt. He wanted it
now. It was all he could do not to just jerk Krycek's pants down over his hips
and jam it into him right then. But he forced himself to slow down. Forced
himself to take his time, to unbutton Krycek's shirt buttons one by one,
nuzzling at the pale throat as he exposed the soft cotton undershirt beneath.
And he took his time with Krycek's wool pants, and red pinstriped boxer shorts
- which Mulder found so endearing he nearly left them on, tucked up around
Krycek's thighs, with his balls resting decoratively on the waistband and his
erect cock standing stiffly above, so dark it nearly matched the red stripe in
his shorts. But at last Mulder had stripped his yielding partner, who had lain
quietly and allowed every touch, even the playful interlude with his underwear,
even though Mulder remained almost fully dressed. Mulder lay back down beside
Krycek, looking for signs of reluctance in his face and finding none, and
helping himself again to those full, round lips, gratified by the sweet
response. Krycek slid his arms around Mulder and held him as he kissed, but
made no attempt to remove Mulder's shirt. When the kiss ended, he glanced down,
batting those dark lashes against his cheek, and asked, "Front or back?"
Mulder knew the answer he wanted, of course—he wanted Krycek on his
stomach, bottom upturned, legs parted. He wanted his groin to pound into
cushiony cheeks. But Krycek had been so accommodating so far, he supposed he
ought to give him some choice. "What do you want?"
Krycek looked at him. He ran his tongue over his lips and smiled
ever-so-slightly—that same tight little smile that Mulder used to catch on
his face at odd moments, mostly when he thought Mulder wasn't looking. He
hadn't seen it since the night he'd gone to Krycek's apartment. Then Krycek
released him and started, slowly, to turn over.
Mulder was certain that Krycek was doing it because he knew it was what
Mulder wanted, not because it was what he wanted. He supposed he'd been obvious
enough. Never mind, if Krycek wanted to indulge him, he'd let him.
He caught Krycek by the arm before he'd fully turned. "Wait. We'd better
get off the bedspread."
Krycek slipped off the bed and stood, one fist at his mouth, while Mulder
pulled the covers back and plumped the pillows. Then he nodded, and, while
Krycek arranged himself on the bed, Mulder undressed himself. He took one of
the condoms and rolled it onto his aching cock, and finally lay down beside the
beautiful body laid out for his pleasure.
He stroked Krycek's back, already moist with sweat. He straddled the
strong, muscular thighs and kneaded Krycek's shoulders. Krycek lay quite still,
eyes tightly shut. But the heavy rise and fall of his back and the increasing
dampness of his skin told of his response. Mulder's urgency, which had faded
slightly as he took his time over the undressing, was returning now with new
intensity. He moved back, bringing his knees between Krycek's legs, and reached
for the tube of KY. He squeezed the lubricant onto his fingers and bent down to
kiss and nip at the smooth cheeks as he slipped his slick fingers between them,
finding the tight ring of muscle and beginning to massage gently.
Krycek let out a strangled moan when Mulder's fingers touched him. His hips
made tiny thrusting motions, and Mulder felt the muscles tighten, then relax,
under his fingers. Mulder eased his middle finger into Krycek's anus, just a
little way, stretching the opening gently with easy, circular motions. The
inside of Krycek's body was moist and tender and hot as a furnace. He withdrew
momentarily for more lubricant, eliciting another groan from Krycek when he
reentered. He worked the lubricant in, opening him up with one finger, then
two, thrusting his fingers deeper and deeper. God, how he'd been wanting this!
He was already so desperate he knew he wouldn't last long once he finally got
his cock into Krycek's ass. Krycek would think he was always a quick shooter.
Well, never mind. It was all Krycek's fault anyway, for being so desirable and
so hard to get. They'd have time for more leisurely encounters later. Krycek
didn't dare tell him it wouldn't happen again now. Mulder would have his sweet
ass as often as he wanted. Too bad the basement office was closed up and locked
off. He'd always wanted to have someone bent over that desk.
Mulder let his fingers slide free and positioned himself with his cock
pressing lightly into Krycek's anus. Slowly, he began to push, with easy
circular motions of his hips. He might not have much experience with men, but
he knew about anal sex. He'd known women who liked it, and who taught him how
to do it without causing pain. So he knew how to thrust gently, with just the
head of his cock nudging the entrance; how to watch for signs of tension in his
partner's hips and shoulders; how to gradually increase the pressure until the
anus opened for him and his cock slid in....
And he knew how incredibly good it felt to be sheathed in hot, tight flesh.
There was no tension in Krycek's body, and very little resistance to his
entrance. Krycek remained almost completely unmoving; just the small, helpless
movements of his fingers scrabbling at the mattress and the keening noises at
the back of his throat demonstrating his pleasure. Mulder found it terribly
appealing. It was just like his fantasy—Krycek quiescent, accepting,
completely overwhelmed by his touch. Mulder moaned as he thrust, driving
himself in to the hilt. He was already on the edge; he barely needed to move.
Just small, sharp thrusts, keeping himself deeply impaled in Krycek's ass,
while he nibbled at Krycek's ear and kissed his neck and rubbed his chest
against Krycek's back.
Tears squeezed from between Krycek's closed eyelids, dripping down the side
of his face. Mulder hoped it was passion, not regret, making him weep. Krycek
was never going to come this way—not touching himself, not moving against the
mattress. On another day, Mulder would work him harder, faster, reach his hand
beneath to stroke Krycek's cock, bring him off while Mulder was still inside
him—but tonight he might as well give up on that thought. He could already
feel the heat gathering in his groin, the delicious fullness in his balls, the
tingling pressure in his cock, intimately massaged and held within Krycek's
body. Just a few more slight, precise thrusts of his hips and he was crying out
his pleasure with muffled moans into Krycek's neck while his body stiffened and
waves of orgasm washed through him.
Mulder held Krycek by the shoulders and gasped, waiting for the spasms to
subside. Then he gathered himself up and continued for a few moments—but he
was already losing his erection, and Krycek still seemed far from his release.
Sighing, he reached down to hold the condom on his softening cock as he
withdrew. Krycek whimpered a little as Mulder pulled out.
"Sorry," he whispered into Krycek's ear. He stripped off the condom and
tossed it into the trash, then settled back down at Krycek's side, stroking his
hair. "I'd ask you what you want me to do, but I'm afraid you'd just tell me to
leave."
"You don't have to do anything," Krycek mumbled. His eyes opened, but tears
continued to stream from them.
"I want to. I like making you feel good. Why don't you want me to? I
thought you'd decided that this was all right."
"Mulder, it's just... everything you do takes another little piece of me.
Pretty soon there'll be nothing left."
Mulder kissed the broad shoulders, now tense under his caresses. "I don't
want to own you." And was that really true? But he didn't want to hurt him, he
just wanted to give him pleasure. "I want to make love to you."
"Then do it." The husky voice was rough with passion.
If he were really strong, if he put Krycek's comfort and ease of mind
first, perhaps he would have stopped, forced Krycek to tell him why this
troubled him so, allowed him to keep the pieces of himself that he was losing.
But Mulder needed Krycek's climax as much as he needed his own, and he could
not leave things half-finished this way. Maybe a little reciprocation would
reassure. Mulder wasn't terribly fond of being penetrated, but perhaps that was
due to the failures of his previous partners. Perhaps he could teach Krycek as
he'd been taught.
"Why don't you fuck me?"
But this only troubled Krycek more. His mouth tightened. "No."
"Why not? You seem to like it."
"No, Mulder. I can't. Please don't ask me."
"All right." He stroked Krycek's hair soothingly. "All right. Never mind."
He pulled Krycek onto his side, curled up against Krycek's back, and slid his
hand around the trembling flank to stroke the still-hard cock. "Is this all
right?"
"Unh." It was more of a grunt than a word, but Mulder decided it sounded
like assent. He brought his other hand between Krycek's buttocks and worked his
thumb into the passage, still soft and open from being fucked. He liked how it
felt. He found Krycek's prostate and stroked, while his other hand moved on
Krycek's cock. Krycek relaxed into him finally, hips working between the thumb
in his ass and the hand on his cock. He moaned, and gradually the keening began
again, and his movements became more frantic. Mulder felt the surge in Krycek's
cock, the pulse in his ass, and suddenly he was clutching the pillow and
wailing and spurting his semen into Mulder's hand.
Mulder held him and waited until the body in his arms relaxed into a hot,
damp boneless puddle. Then Mulder sighed contentedly and drew up his arms to
hold Krycek around the chest, fitting himself to the length of Krycek's back
and legs. He kissed Krycek wetly on the shoulder.
Krycek drew a gasping breath. "Mulder, I love you."
Mulder's eyes opened. "Alex...."
"Don't say anything. I'm not going to say it again, and I don't expect you
to do anything about it. I just want you to know—no matter what happens, I
love you. Remember that."
"Okay. I'll remember." Mulder's grip tightened. Good lord, now what was he
going to do? No wonder Krycek was upset. Helplessly, he held his partner,
rubbing his chest and stomach, kissing his neck. Trying to be reassuring when
his own heart was pounding. Well, they'd just have to deal with it somehow.
Everything would be all right. They would find a way to make it all right.
Tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep and worry about it tomorrow. "I'm going to
turn off the light now."
"Mulder, don't go to sleep."
"What?"
"You can't sleep here. You have to go back to your own room."
Mulder sighed again. "Alex. I'll put the 'Do Not Disturb' signs on both of
our doors. I'll mess up the bed in my room and I'll set the alarm for six, so
we'll be up and gone well before the maids get here. Okay?"
"They're going to find the condom in the trash."
"I'm sure they find them all the time. They'll just think you had a girl in
here."
Krycek thought about it. "Okay."
Mulder pulled him onto his back for a kiss before getting up to arrange
things as he'd said. "And I thought I was paranoid."
Finally, he was rewarded with a smile.
"I don't want breakfast, Mulder, I want to go back to sleep. So quit
bothering me and get out of here."
Mulder slapped him on the butt cheerfully. "Well, I guess you're in no
danger of starving."
Krycek could not entirely prevent a grin from softening his affronted
glare. Determinedly, he took Mulder by the shoulders and pushed him out of bed.
"Go!"
"All right, all right," Mulder laughed. "I'll be back in an hour. Try to
wipe the silly grin off your face by then."
A pillow caromed off the doorframe behind Mulder as he disappeared into his
own room.
SCENE TWO
Krycek stood beside Mulder with his arms folded, saying nothing. His mouth
was tight, but he seemed in control. In fact, he seemed to be handling it
better than the poor local doctor who was expected to perform the autopsy. No
doubt the man had never handled anything worse than a hunting accident before.
Mulder sighed inwardly. Too bad he couldn't have had the body shipped back to
Quantico for Scully to work on. Too bad he didn't have Scully with him. Too
bad.... How was he going to get any real information from this autopsy when the
doctor didn't have the slightest idea what to look for? Maybe he could arrange
to have an FBI pathologist flown in.
"The pattern is just the same as with all the others," Mulder began. "There
were rope fibers in her wrists and ankles, showing where she had been tied. She
was probably suspended in some sort of frame, so he could reach all parts of
her body at once. There's no evidence of any sort of gag being used, or drugs.
The histamine level in the wounds indicates that she was alive for hours after
the ordeal began.
"What does that tell you, Alex?" Get him thinking. Get him looking at it
like a puzzle, something to solve, not just a horrible, frightening tragedy.
"Uh... he's got some sort of special place set up to do it. He... he can't
just grab them and kill them on the spot, he has to take them somewhere.
Someplace he can tie them and... where the blood won't be noticed. Or the
screams. So it's isolated. A place out in the woods. On his own property, where
he knows he won't be disturbed."
Krycek's voice had gotten gradually stronger as he spoke. Good, he was
beginning to overcome his discomfort. And his conclusions were all logical and
most likely correct. Of course, it was all pretty straightforward so far.
Anyone could have figured this much, with simple logic. But then, that's what
it all was—logic and experience. Krycek didn't have the experience yet, but
he had a good, rational mind. Mulder could lead him through the analysis, and
time would take care of the rest. "Okay. And the lack of drugs or head trauma
or other injuries, what does that tell you?"
Krycek shook his head. "I don't know. Well, he ties them up. But he doesn't
knock them out first. So he must be strong. He overpowers them physically. Or
he threatens them, somehow, with a knife or a gun or something...."
"Right. And you said he's got some isolated, private place where he does
it...?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. He's got to lure them out there somehow. He
doesn't just jump out of the bushes and grab them. Or if he does, he... he has
to keep them under control until he gets them to the location where he ties
them up. So... so... hell, I don't know, Mulder. What does it mean?"
Mulder grinned. "It means he has a certain amount of self-confidence. He's
a charmer, someone who can put up a good front, someone who's not so afraid of
his quarry getting away that he has to kill them or knock them unconscious the
minute he gets them."
Krycek took a deep breath. "Okay, I can see that. He likes them conscious
while he's killing them, too. He wants to hear them scream, and watch them
struggle...."
"Right," Mulder agreed briskly. "And then what does he do with the bodies?"
"He dumps them in different locations. Oh, okay, he transports them to the
dump sites. He has a truck or something." He laughed humorlessly. "A red one,
probably."
"You're probably right," Mulder agreed. "A late-model pickup. A big one.
And red."
Krycek eyed him suspiciously. "You're kidding, right?"
"Actually, I'm not. What I am doing is showing off."
Krycek giggled. And it was very sweet to hear that charming giggle again,
finally. "So, what's the license plate number, Mulder? Let's put this guy away
and go home."
"I wish. I'm not quite that good, yet."
Krycek frowned thoughtfully, tracing patterns on his placemat with the tip
of his spoon. "He finds them somewhere. At a store, on the street. He strikes
up a conversation. He talks them into going with him. When they get to his
place, he overpowers them and ties them up. He... he cuts them up. When they're
dead, he puts them in his truck and takes the bodies out to the hills and dumps
them. So. Is there blood in the back of the truck?"
"Yes. But he probably hoses it down when he gets it home. There'll be
traces left for evidence once we find him, but we're not going to be able to
spot some truck with buckets of blood in the back, and arrest him that way."
"Is there even that much blood left in them by the time he hauls them off?
Maybe he leaves the bodies in the rack overnight to drain." He had it all the
way out before the impact of what he was saying hit him. His face twisted
unhappily.
"Maybe," Mulder answered quickly. "Anyway, the blood in the truck isn't
going to help us until after we've caught him."
"Well, what is going to help us?"
"You left one thing out of your scenario. How does he pick them?"
"Is there any connection between the women? Do they all go to the same
stores, take the same classes? Did they all recently meet a new boyfriend?"
"No, no, and no," Mulder grinned, "But those are good questions. So far,
the only thing all the women have in common is...." He waited for Krycek to
fill in the answer.
"The blood thing." Krycek's face had a look of pained distaste.
Mulder grinned, shaking his head. "Alex, it's a perfectly natural
biological function."
"Yeah, yeah."
Mulder sighed. "It's also a vital part of this case. You're going to have
to deal with it."
Krycek sipped his coffee, took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. Okay. So,
you said maybe he works in a store where he sees them buying...."
"Tampons. Menstrual pads. That's one possibility. Although the victims
didn't really live close enough to each other that they'd be likely to have
gone to the same drug store for their personal products."
"Then how...?"
"Think about it. How could he have known?"
"Hell. He's a blood-sniffing alien."
Mulder grinned. "Okay. That's one possibility. What else?"
"Maybe... he asks them."
"Good. That's good. Anything else?"
"Mulder, you're not serious."
"Well, I'm sure he doesn't just go up to random women and say, 'Excuse me,
but are you menstruating?' But he could strike up a conversation, work it in
somehow."
"You seriously think a woman would tell a guy something like that?"
"Maybe. Some would. Not every woman. Not every time."
"Yeah, but, jeez, Mulder. Okay, he's got a twenty-five percent chance of
picking one he wants at random in the first place. Then maybe, say, three
quarters of those are busy or not interested or lesbians or whatever, and they
just blow him off. So you're down to, what, six percent? And of those, how many
are going to say, 'yeah, I'm menstruating,' no matter how delicately he phrases
it? Be generous and say half, and you're still down to maybe three percent of
all the women he hits on. And this guy's doing a woman on average once a month?
He'd have to be trolling pretty much constantly to be catching that many."
Mulder grinned. You're beautiful when you're thinking, he wanted to
say. He loved the spark in those huge stormy-sea green eyes when Krycek got on
a roll. "Actually, if he tried one a day, according to your analysis, he'd
catch one on average once every thirty-three days. Give him twice on Sundays,
and...."
"Jeez. Do you really think that's how he's doing it?"
"No, not really. Something this important to him, he'll have a better way
of finding the ones he wants."
"The ones he wants... suppose it isn't the ones he wants. Suppose it's the
opposite. He meets a woman, he's fine, they get along fine, and then one day he
finds a used pad in his bathroom wastebasket and goes ballistic."
Mulder nodded slowly. "Okay. That's okay... except it means he's picking up
a new girlfriend almost immediately on killing the last one. But that could
be." He smiled encouragingly. "That's a good idea, Alex. See, I told you you'd
be good at this."
Krycek stared into his coffee cup and smiled tightly. "Maybe. I still don't
see how it helps us catch the guy."
"Anything can help. It's all part of the big picture. Okay, we've thought
about it from the killer's point of view. Now let's look at it from the other
side."
Krycek stared warily. "The other side?"
"The victim. To see the whole picture, we have to look at it from her point
of view, too." This was going to be harder, and he'd have to be careful not to
push Krycek too hard.
Krycek blinked, then swallowed, stretching his neck slightly the way he did
when he was mentally preparing himself for some task. "The victim. Okay. She's
a schoolteacher. She lives... lived in Livingston and worked in Bozeman.
Twenty-eight years old. Native American... Mulder, don't serial killers usually
hunt within their own racial group?"
"Yes." Clever boy, to have picked up on that. "There are a couple of
possibilities here. One, he's having a hard time finding the right women, so
he's had to widen the parameters of his search."
"Or maybe he just doesn't think of them as another race. If he grew up
around here, he's lived around Native Americans all his life, maybe he doesn't
see them as different."
"Or he could be Native American himself."
"Do you think so?"
"Possibly. But I doubt it, really. I think your idea is most likely to be
right."
"Really?" A hint of a pleased smile, quickly covered by another sip of
coffee.
Mulder gestured to the waitress for more coffee, smiling to himself. He
loved the way Krycek tried to hide his smiles, embarrassed to be so pleased by
Mulder's approval. It was terribly sweet. He almost regretted having to season
that innocence out of him—he would hate to lose those reluctant smiles.
But would he? As Scully had pointed out, Krycek was thirty years old. He
was fairly green as an agent, but he wasn't a child. Perhaps those smiles were
just part of his nature, a shyness he wouldn't outgrow. "Yeah, really." There
was a rush of affection in his voice he couldn't quite tame.
Krycek stared, then blushed a brilliant red. "Excuse me." He jumped rather
precipitously up from the table and rushed off to the restroom.
Mulder hid his face behind his hand and laughed softly. And thought about
last night, and that fine, strong body naked and willing and pliant under his.
With any luck, the case would stretch on for days, and he'd have more nights to
enjoy and explore that sweet body....
Good lord, Mulder, get a grip! With luck—what was he
thinking? This case should be wrapped us just as quickly as he and everyone
else working on it could possibly do it. And leave poor Krycek alone, for god's
sake. The guy was his partner, and he was in love with Mulder, and this was
tearing him apart. Leave him the fuck alone.
"Right. She had no plans for that night that anyone knew of. She was
supposed to meet a friend Saturday night, but she didn't show up. The friend
thought it was unusual, but didn't think to report it. It wasn't until she
didn't show up for work Monday morning that the police were notified."
"The body wasn't found until Wednesday. But she was probably killed Friday
night, or Saturday morning. So... maybe she stopped somewhere on her way home
from work."
"She wasn't known to frequent bars."
"Or to pick up strangers."
"So where did she stop?"
"Well...." Krycek leaned his elbow on the table and put his chin in his
hand. "It could be like you said. She stopped in at a drug store for... tampons
or something, and he spotted her there."
Mulder nodded. "And then?"
"He struck up a conversation. He charmed her. He talked her into going out
for a drink with him, or to dinner." He frowned.
"What?"
"I don't know. It doesn't seem right. She was a schoolteacher. Would she
really go home with a total stranger, no matter how charming he was?"
Mulder grinned. "Obviously, you've never seen Looking for Mr.
Goodbar."
Krycek grimaced, then laughed weakly. "Okay, I'm not quite that naive.
People take stupid risks. Even schoolteachers. And ninety-eight percent of
charming strangers are just charming strangers, not psycho killers. But it
still doesn't feel right. Not that that means a hell of a lot."
"It does. Instincts are important. Think about it, though. Why doesn't it
feel right?"
Krycek put his head in his hands and groaned. "I don't know, Mulder. Look,
this isn't helping. You know all this stuff already, you don't need me to tell
you anything."
All right, Mulder had pushed him far enough. God, he looked tired. And his
hands were beginning to shake from drinking so much coffee on an empty stomach.
"Alex, you're wrong," he said softly. "It does help to talk to you about it.
But we can stop now. You really should try to eat something. Have some soup, at
least."
Krycek smiled faintly. "Okay, mother."
Finally, Krycek put his spoon down. Mulder had to bite back the urge to
fuss at him to finish his soup. He waited, sipping his own coffee, while Krycek
stared out the window.
"Mulder, have you ever killed anyone?" The question was abrupt. Krycek
didn't turn from the window.
"Yes. A man named John Barnett. He'd killed a lot of people, and was about
to kill someone else."
"How do you feel about it?" Still staring blankly out the window. The
flatness in his voice belied the importance of the question.
"It was necessary. He had to be stopped. I only wish I'd done it sooner,
before more people died." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but
was not entirely successful. Reggie was one of those people who'd died. And
others, agents he knew. "Ideally, we'd never have to kill anyone, but it's not
an ideal world."
"Would you kill this guy?"
"If I had to. But it won't be necessary. We're just here to help the local
police do their job. What about you, Alex? You killed Augustus Cole. How do you
feel about that?" It was a risk—Krycek had been very upset when he'd
discovered that the ex-Marine didn't have a gun, he was just using his ability
to form images in people's minds to trick Krycek into killing him. He'd made
the mandated visits to one of the Bureau's counselors, but he'd never spoken of
the incident afterwards.
"He made me do it. He was just using me to commit suicide. He wanted to
die."
"But how do you feel about it?"
Krycek shrugged. "I don't like being used."
"But you didn't know that at the time. What if he had had a gun?"
"I thought he was going to kill you. I was trying to protect you." He
stared into his soup. His tone was studied, casual—but the slight roughness
betrayed his emotion. "I'd do it again."
Mulder smiled. "I wouldn't want a partner who wouldn't."
A slight, wry smile answered him. Then, "Do you believe in the death
penalty?"
"Yes, in certain circumstances. For people like this. The John Barnetts and
Jeffrey Dahmers and John Wayne Gacys of the world. Men like these... you can't
cure them or rehabilitate them. They are so damaged, they'll never be able to
lead any sort of normal life. And the crimes they commit horrify and violate
society on the deepest, most basic levels. I think society has a right to
destroy them." Mulder found his hand tightening on his coffee cup. It wasn't
something that was easy for him to talk about. He hadn't always held this
belief—he had the greatest respect for human life, and state-sanctioned
killing was not something to be taken lightly or supported without thorough
thought and consideration. But he'd seen too much horror in his days with the
Behavioral Science Unit. Too many crimes that made his blood run cold and
filled his rare sleep with dread disturbing dreams. He'd finally come to
believe that the world would just be better off without some of these people in
it. "What about you?"
"I don't know. I suppose I do. Although, if you put them away where they
can't do any harm, that should be just as good as killing them."
"I'm not sure I think that true evil can be contained by concrete and
steel. Maybe they do harm just by existing."
Krycek chewed on his lower lip. Which reminded Mulder of the taste and feel
of those round, moist lips. It was a strangely erotic situation—discussing
death with the youthful partner who'd lain so sweetly beneath him last night.
Sex and death and love and forbidden desire—it was a poignant and heady
combination. Perhaps he just couldn't resist eroticizing everything. With
Scully, the sexual dynamic had been implicit in their relationship, just by
their being male and female. With a male partner, the eroticism had to be more
explicitly stated. Or perhaps he was, as usual, overanalyzing everything.
"So it's all right to kill someone who's truly evil," Krycek said,
frowning. He was working his way to something; it seemed he was testing his own
beliefs of when killing could be justified. "Or to protect someone else. What
about the classic hypothetical question—if you had the chance to go back in
time and kill Hitler, would you do it?"
Mulder sat back and took a deep breath. "No, I don't think so. How could
you know you wouldn't just make things worse somehow? Maybe if you put Hitler
out of the way, he'd just be replaced by someone else. Someone who'd win the
war instead of losing it. I wouldn't want to mess around with the time stream."
"So it wouldn't be because you thought it was wrong to kill him before he'd
actually done anything. It would be because you were afraid of making things
worse."
Mulder suppressed a grin. He loved it when Krycek got on one of these
kicks. Digging, asking questions, poking and worrying at a subject until he'd
dissected it to his satisfaction. "Theoretically, I'd say it was wrong to
punish someone for a crime they hadn't yet committed. But if you could time
travel, that wouldn't really apply. It would have already happened."
"But there'd be no due process. Unless you're talking about a time court
that passes judgment after the fact, and then goes back in time to pass
sentence."
Mulder grinned. "I like that idea. But I doubt it would fly, for the other
reason. You don't know what you might be making worse by killing someone before
his time."
"So you don't think it would be right to kill someone to prevent him from
doing something horrible, unless you had certain future knowledge of his
actions."
"Well, that's relative, too, isn't it? I mean, when you see someone
pointing a gun at someone else, you don't have certain knowledge that he's
going to shoot. But you have a reasonable assumption that he's putting lives in
danger, and you're justified in stopping him any way you can."
"But what if the weapon isn't that obvious? The guy isn't standing there
pointing a gun at someone, but he's doing something that you know will have
dire consequences. Are you justified in stopping him then?"
He looked so earnest, leaning forward with his elbow on the table and his
chin in his hand. He had a way of doing that, leaning over so that he had to
look up at Mulder, enormous wide eyes staring intently from under long, dark
lashes. I've had my cock up his ass, came the unbidden thought. Stripped
him of that ridiculous suit, unbuttoned the crisp white shirt, slid a hand
between the firm, round buttocks. God, he wanted to do it again. Right here and
now. Waitress, bring us a towel, please. And kindly close the shades. We're
going to be busy for a while. You can just leave the check.
All right, have your fantasies. Fuck him in your mind, as often as you
want to. But for God's sake, leave the guy alone. "What about due process?
Why do you have to kill him? Why don't you just arrest him?"
Krycek sat back and gave himself a shake, staring out the window. "I don't
know. Suppose there's some reason you can't bring him up on charges. Suppose
what he's doing isn't even illegal. But if he isn't stopped, he'll set in
motion a chain of events that will result in hundreds of deaths. Thousands. And
there's nothing else you can do."
Mulder shook his head. "I don't know, Alex, I think you've been reading too
much Tom Clancy. This is all just too hypothetical."
"Yeah. But do you think there could ever be a situation like that, where
you thought it was justified to just kill someone?"
Mulder shrugged. "It's impossible to say. Maybe. Why are you worrying about
this, anyway? What does it have to do with our killer?"
Krycek suddenly became very intent on finishing his soup. "Nothing, Mulder.
I'm just flying off on a tangent, as usual."
"Yeah, okay. I think it's about time we got back to work. You going to be
all right?"
"Sure. I'm all right."
Mulder was far from convinced. But there was nothing more he could do.
A mature man. Mid-thirties. Self-confident, strong, charming. Familiar with
the area. A local man; someone who blended in. He might have been married in
the past, but now he lived alone. People who knew him would say he seemed nice,
but he always kept to himself. Mulder could almost see the man's smile in his
mind: secret, knowing, charismatic. What are you dreaming? Mulder asked
the man in his mind. What did it mean to him to make these women bleed?
Bleeding women, bleeding....
Mulder found himself slipping into the mindset. He was on the hunt, testing
the air, studying the tracks. His quarry was coming clearer, but it still
wasn't enough. Not enough to say, "This is the man. Here's your killer." He
needed something more, and it all had to do with the blood.
Krycek stuck it out, face grim and set, scribbling on his notepad, sharp
mind collecting the details. He didn't have the mindset, not yet, but he was
getting there. He'd settled down after lunch and appeared to be handling it
well. He was doing his best, but he didn't have the tools he needed to go where
Mulder was going. He had the potential, though. Mulder had a feeling that if
Krycek decided to go with this kind of work, he could be the next bright young
hotshot for Behavioral Sciences. Mulder felt a kind of possessive pride in
Krycek's purposeful intensity. My junior agent. My protege. My lover.
It was late again when they finally stopped for the day. Mulder was
determined this time that Krycek should eat a full meal, whether he wanted it
or not. He was still pale and tended to waver at odd moments when his
determination slacked. Mulder chose McDonald's, knowing that Krycek ate there
often, hoping the familiar food would appeal to his shaky appetite. And it
worked—or else Krycek had gone without food long enough, or calmed down
enough, to finally be hungry. He wolfed down a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate
shake, and Mulder watched him with relief while he ate his own dinner.
"Alex...?"
Krycek pushed him away, and stood staring at him wildly. It was the cold,
fey beauty again—or no, not cold this time, but red hot. Hard and strange and
desperate—for what, Mulder didn't know.
"Fuck me." It was almost a profanity. Krycek's eyes were wide and swallowed
up by the black pupils.
"Alex, take it easy," Mulder soothed, reaching out a hand to stroke
Krycek's arm.
Krycek shook it off. "No! Not like this. Not easy. Fuck me hard."
Mulder took a short step back. It had all been too much for Krycek after
all, and he couldn't hold it in any longer. He wanted to drown it in sex—that
was all right with Mulder, but first he needed to quiet this desperate
creature. "Alex—" He reached out again.
Krycek flinched away from his touch. "Hurt me, Mulder. Hit me. I can't
stand it like this." His eyes were unfocused. There was a pleading tone in his
voice, wavering towards hysteria.
"Alex, stop it. I'm not going to hit you." He gripped Krycek's arm firmly
this time. "I know you're upset, but this isn't the way. Just settle down...."
Krycek whirled away, and stepped forward to stand facing the wall. "God
damn it, Mulder, why can't you just fuck me?" He was nearly shouting.
"Shhh!" Mulder hissed. "For god's sake, Alex, the walls are paper thin in
here. Get a grip on yourself." He stepped up to Krycek and slid his arms around
him, holding him tightly, one arm around his waist, the other around his chest.
His body was stiff and trembling. Mulder felt that he was gripping a
quicksilver spirit; elusive and mysterious who lived within this man, outwardly
a child-man, sweet and innocent—but somewhere inside was this troubled,
roiling creature.
Krycek remained resistant, but didn't try to break away. Mulder felt the
chest heaving; felt the heat radiating from him. Mulder kissed the back of his
neck, nibbled on one earlobe. "It's all right, Alex. It's all right. Just let
me hold you." He began to pull Krycek toward the bed. "I want to make love to
you. I don't want to hurt you." He turned Krycek around and kissed him, gently
at first, just brushing his mouth against his partner's, then sliding his
tongue between Krycek's lips. Finally, the resistance collapsed.
"Oh, god, Mulder. You don't know what you're doing to me," Krycek moaned,
as he melted into Mulder's arms. Mulder hadn't planned it, and it wasn't the
way he'd have wanted it if he had planned it, but Krycek was begging to be
taken. It could only make things worse to refuse him now. Anyway, Mulder didn't
want to refuse him. He wanted to hold him and reassure him and make him feel
better. And he wanted to fuck him, so he would. After this case was over, they
would have to talk. Sort out Krycek's feelings, whatever they were, and
Mulder's, whatever they were, and decide if this relationship was
something they wanted to continue. Meanwhile, they were already in it, and one
more fucking more or less wasn't going to change the world.
But it sure would feel good.
He couldn't really say why it meant so much to him to be able to have
Krycek this way. Why he felt the crushing need to penetrate and possess this
man; why making Krycek whimper with pleasure from his touch filled Mulder with
almost unbearable desire. His cock throbbed with it; his heart pounded; his
loins burned. How could he honestly tell himself he would ever be able to deny
himself this?
He released Krycek and leaned back on his heels, gasping for breath.
Krycek's left nipple glistened with Mulder's saliva. His hard cock lay along
his belly, one ropy vein tracing a path along its length, swollen dark with
need. Mulder wondered what it would feel like to have it inside him. Some day
he would have to find out—but not tonight. Tonight, Alex had demanded,
Fuck me. And there was nothing Mulder wanted more than to oblige him.
Mulder reached for the condom and began to roll it on. Front, this time, he
thought. So he could watch those wild eyes while his cock plundered the body.
Taste Krycek's pleasure in it on his mouth; swallow his moans. Mulder took
Krycek's knees in his hands and lifted them, pressing them against his chest.
The thick-lashed aqua eyes were wide and hazy.
Watching Krycek's face all the while, Mulder spread more of the cool,
slippery KY onto Krycek's anus. Krycek's eyelids fluttered shut at the touch,
and his hands came up to grip his knees, holding his body open to Mulder's
approach. Then, at last, Mulder settled his body over Krycek's, and began to
ease his cock inside him.
He slid in smoothly, meeting only the smallest resistance. It troubled him,
ever so slightly. He was no expert in these matters, but could Krycek really be
as inexperienced as he seemed? He wasn't sure how much fucking it took to
accustom a body to being penetrated this easily, but Mulder knew that he
himself was not capable of it. He didn't like to think that other men's cocks
had been where his was now. He wanted this man for himself. Well, Krycek had
told him he'd had sex with men before—Mulder couldn't say he'd been lied to,
but he'd been taken in by Krycek's innocent appearance. Or, to be honest, he'd
wanted to believe in it, despite evidence to the contrary.
Never mind that. Krycek was his now; no one else would have him. He had to
resist the urge to spell it out to Krycek: No one touches you but me. Is
that clear? He forced the fierceness to subside, searching out the loving
tenderness he'd felt earlier, kissing Krycek's full, round lips and moving his
cock slowly within him. Krycek didn't need a demanding lover right now, after
what he'd been through. He needed to be soothed and treated gently.
He loved the little noises Krycek made when he was overcome with passion.
He loved the feel of Krycek's mouth on his neck, and Krycek's arms around his
back, fingernails digging into his shoulders. It was so tempting to forget
himself and pound into Krycek savagely. He had to fight to keep his thrusts
gentle and easy. It would make it last longer, anyway, and he was determined
that Krycek would come while he was still inside him. So he bit his own lip and
held onto his control, concentrating on the incredible feel of Krycek's tight
ass stroking the length of his cock.
He could feel Krycek's passion growing—chest heaving, hands clutching,
hips thrusting, hard cock sliding against Mulder's sweating belly—and that
was good. Finally, everything was going to be perfect.
Then Krycek cried out, with a strange, wailing moan, and arched up into
Mulder's body, and his semen flowed out between them, hot and sticky and wet.
Mulder felt the tight passage pulsing on his cock, and it was so sweet he fell
onto Krycek and groaned, and then finally he gave up and let his body move as
it willed, plunging his cock hard and deep. Each thrust elicited another
squeaky cry from Krycek, driving Mulder right out of his mind, so that nothing
mattered any longer except fucking Krycek, until his own orgasm took him,
fierce and hot.
But the sigh was not pure contentment. There was also sadness in it. Mulder
pulled him closer and spoke softly into his ear. "Alex, is everything okay?"
"Yeah."
It was not entirely convincing, but Mulder decided not to pursue it. You
asked for it this time. You can't blame me. But that wouldn't be fair. He
kissed Krycek's shoulder. "I guess we should get some sleep."
"Did you put up the 'Do Not Disturb' signs?"
Mulder grinned. "How did that get to be my job?"
"Senior agent. Buys condoms, sets alarms. Puts up 'Do Not Disturb' signs."
His voice was heavy with impending sleep. And Mulder didn't have the heart to
make him stir.
"That wasn't in my job description." But he was already getting up to go
perform the evening chores. And there was something calmly reassuring about it
- on only the second evening, there was already a nightly ritual to their
togetherness. He briefly considered taking a shower before returning to
Krycek's bed, but decided he wanted Krycek's body pressed against his more than
he wanted to be clean. He slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up around
them. "Good night, Alex."
"Shut up, Mulder."
Mulder chuckled, and fell asleep.
He kissed Krycek's ear, running his tongue along the delicate folds. Krycek
tried to hide his giggles in the pillow. "Having trouble sleeping?" he mumbled
into that ear. He ran a hand down Krycek's back, to cup one of the smooth,
round buttocks. Front was nice, but back was better. He liked the firm cushion
of Krycek's bottom under his groin. It had to be more comfortable for Krycek,
not to have his knees jammed against his chest. It gave them both more freedom
of movement. And here was Krycek, already laid out for the taking. And already
heating under his caresses.
"You need something to help you relax," he murmured. Then he slid onto
Krycek's back, kissing his neck. There might well be disaster looming on the
horizon, but for now, for however long it lasted, Krycek was his.
And Krycek was in no better shape. His mood shifted wildly, from nearly
giddy cheerfulness to irritated impatience to grim horror. Obviously, the sex
was only adding to his stress, not helping him to deal with it. But what was
Mulder supposed to do? It was Krycek who'd asked for it last night. Mulder had
tried to be as considerate as he could. He just didn't know what else to do.
The only new development in the case was the discovery of the latest
victim's dog, howling mournfully outside the door of her house. Where the dog
had spent the last five days, no one knew. If they could ask the dog, no doubt
it could lead them to the killer, but the dog just whimpered unhappily and
pined after its lost mistress. Watching the dog huddled in its cage at the
local pound seemed to upset Krycek nearly as much as the autopsy had done. He
clutched the chickenwire walls of the pen, swallowing repeatedly, leaning in
toward the grieving dog, as though he were the one in a cage.
They decided to skip lunch and go on working, opting instead for an early
dinner at the diner where they'd eaten lunch the day before. Krycek glared at
his menu as if it were taunting him, and ordered the Blue Plate special without
even asking what it was. Mulder, not to be outdone, did the same.
Mulder sipped his coffee and wondered whether either of them would be able
to eat. "So wherever she was when he got to her, she must have had her dog with
her." It wasn't much to go on, but it was another piece to add to the puzzle.
"Did the other women have dogs?" Krycek leaned forward with the heel of his
hand on his forehead, speaking with a world-weary tone.
"Only one. Her dog was found at home, safe and sound."
"At least he didn't kill the dog. Who's going to take care of it now?"
"Someone will take it."
"Are you sure?"
Mulder smiled gently. "I'm sure. People will feel sorry for the dog.
They'll be lined up to take it."
Krycek nodded. It seemed to make him feel better, and Mulder was glad. God,
he wished this case was over. He'd seen worse himself, certainly, but he'd
never had to watch a partner suffer through one like this. Had he ever been
this green? He supposed he must have, but at least he'd had the Behavioral
Sciences training before he'd worked his first serial murder case. He'd chosen
this work, and he'd gone into it with his eyes open and with as much
preparation as the Academy could give. And he hadn't been sleeping with his
partner, either. Damn it, he should have gone to Skinner and insisted that
Krycek be taken off the case.
"Do you think he drinks their blood?" Krycek asked suddenly.
"What?" Now where the hell had that come from? "I don't know. Do you think
he thinks he's some kind of vampire?"
Krycek shrugged. "Well, he sure loves blood." There was something almost
endearing about the flat, exaggeratedly hopeless tone of his voice.
Mulder grinned. "Probably drinks Bloody Marys."
A slight smile quirked at the corners of Krycek's mouth. "And eats blood
sausage."
"His favorite movie is Theatre of Blood."
"Blood Feast."
"Blood Wedding." Mulder's response was rapid-fire.
Krycek giggled. "Bloody Mama."
God, it was good to hear that giggle again, even if there was a slight edge
of hysteria to it. "Wears bloodstone jewelry."
"Raises bloodhounds."
"What?" Mulder froze, felt his eyes widen. Could it be?
Krycek frowned suspiciously, afraid he'd said something wrong. "What do you
mean?"
"A bloodhound—he could be using a bloodhound to find the women. Or some
kind of hunting dog."
"You're not serious."
"A bloodhound has an extremely keen sense of smell. And can be trained to
hunt just about anything." Mulder leaned forward, grinning. "Think about it.
All he'd have to do is take his dog out for a walk, and the dog would point out
the right women to him."
Krycek's face was a mask of thrilled horror. "He trained his dog to
hunt menstruating women?"
"Alex, it's perfect. The dog runs up to a woman, barking, and he knows he's
got a target. Then he apologizes, tells her the dog doesn't usually do that—and she can see the dog's ignored everyone else around—so he must really like
her. He's got a great conversation starter, as well as a surefire way to
identify potential victims."
Krycek shook his head in wonder. "Yeah, but Mulder. How is he going to
train the dog in the first place? I mean, he has to have... something to train
it with."
Mulder nibbled his knuckle and thought about it. He was right, he could
feel it in his bones. He was this close to nailing the killer, he just had to
be careful and fill in all the details. "He has to have had access to menstrual
blood at one time. Mother, a sister, a girlfriend, a wife...."
"You think he's married?"
"Not now. He needs privacy for the things he does. And the depth of the
fantasy—the intricacy, the details—he's expending a lot of energy on his
hunt. Probably doesn't have time for even the pretense of another relationship.
But he's been married, I'm sure of it. The breakup of the marriage might be the
stressor that sent him over the edge and made him start killing. But it had
been brewing for a long time."
"Then he's probably got some kind of record, doesn't he? Or his ex-wife, at
least, knows there's something wrong with him." Krycek's eyes were bright—he
was starting to get the feel for it; starting to slip into the mindset. Yes, he
had the talent for it, if he could get over the emotional trauma of dealing
with these kinds of cases. Mulder was inordinately pleased to see it.
"I don't think he has a violent history. His method is very careful and
precise. He doesn't slash the women angrily, or beat them. He's very controlled
and ritualistic. He doesn't get excited while he's committing the murders, he
goes into a fugue state and stays emotionally flat. And his wife probably
thinks he's a cold bastard, but would never think of him as a killer."
Krycek sighed. "So how is it going to help find him? Around here, everybody
and his brother has a dog."
Mulder smiled. "He's talked to the police, insinuated himself into the
investigation somehow. Maybe offered to help. He's gloating. When I take our
profile to the police, someone is going to say, 'Hey, that's So-and-So.' And
we'll have our UNSUB."
Vanson, Hawkins told them, was a carpenter who lived in an old ramshackle
house off of Route 89 near Livingston. He was thirty-three, had an old hound
named Red who went with him everywhere, and everyone had joked about the way
he'd finally cleaned up the bed of his pickup after his wife had packed up and
gone home to Colorado five months ago. Just before the first of the murders had
started.
"But it couldn't be Ed. He's a great guy, everyone likes him...."
"Except his wife," Krycek muttered. "I wonder if she's really in Colorado?"
Hawkins turned sickly pale. "You think...?"
"I think you should bring him in," Mulder interposed smoothly. They had
five real murders already; they didn't need to start speculating on a sixth—yet. "And search his place. It shouldn't be hard to come up with solid
evidence. There will be some sort of rack he used to immobilize his victims,
and a lot of blood on the ground beneath it. He'll have kept souvenirs—articles of the women's clothing, probably, since none of their clothes have
been discovered. A journal or map or something, recording the murders. And, of
course, the implements he used to cut them."
"How... how are we supposed to get a search warrant?" Hawkins had a dazed
look.
"Based on the profile. It's been done before. I can cite cases for your
judge in which FBI profiles have been used to obtain search warrants."
Hawkins swallowed, and nodded. "We'd better get it in writing, then. You
can dictate it to my secretary."
Hawkins stared off into space, still unbelieving himself. "He came to us
after the first girl was killed. He knew her, he said. Not well, but he'd done
a couple of jobs at her place. Said it was such a tragedy, and if there was
anything he could do.... It just never occurred to any of us that he might have
been the one. Are you sure, Agent Mulder? I sure wouldn't like to go out there
and arrest Ed and turn his place upside down, and find out it was a mistake."
"He fits the profile. There could be someone else who fits it just as well,
but I think you'd know it if there was. And whoever it is, it's going to be
someone you'd feel that way about."
"I remember he came in here after the second murder, too. Said he was
almost glad his wife was gone, with all this going on, he wouldn't feel she was
safe. And—it was the damnedest thing—that old hound of his made such a fuss
over my secretary, Lucy. Howled and tried to crawl right into her lap. He'd
never done such a thing before or since. And Ed laughed and said the dog was
going crazy in his old age, and had to put him out in his truck.... Are you
sure, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder and Krycek exchanged a look. Krycek's face was grim. Mulder turned
back to Hawkins. "I'm sure."
Mulder's cellular rang.
And in the freezer of an old refrigerator, five small freezer bags full of
blood, each neatly labelled with the name of the woman and the date of her
death.
Would it be possible to continue the affair once they'd returned home?
Krycek was reluctant, that was obvious, but would Mulder be able to reassure
his fears, whatever they were, and find a way to make it work? There wasn't
really that much danger of being discovered, as long as they were reasonably
discreet. It would actually be easier than carrying on an affair with Scully
would have been—there had been gossip about them, just because they were male
and female, but no one would think anything of it if he and Krycek spent time
together outside of office hours. If they could refrain from kissing each other
in the elevators or slipping into the broom closets for a quick grope, there
shouldn't be any problem.
The real problem, of course, was that little confession Krycek had made on
their first night here. Anguished declarations of love. Krycek wanted more than
he thought Mulder could give. And perhaps he was right. But if he really was
gay, he'd know damn well that he wasn't going to be able to be open about his
relationships and keep his job. Wouldn't it be better if he was with someone
who was in the same position, who wouldn't complain about not being able to
live together or kiss him in public? Really, what Mulder was offering would be
the best thing for him—partnership, friendship, hot sex, no demands. He'd
have to see that. Mulder would talk to him about it.
Tomorrow. Tonight Mulder was sick of talking, sick of thinking. He wanted
to forget everything except Krycek's heat, Krycek's firm body, Krycek's sweet
moans, and Krycek's pliant ass.
"We did it," Mulder murmured into Krycek's ear. He loved Krycek's ears;
small and neat and sensitive. No piercings, as Mulder's had, from youthful
fashion experiments. He nibbled at the lobe, enjoying the shivers in Krycek's
body.
"You did it," Krycek corrected, a little breathlessly.
"No, it was both of us. I couldn't have done it without you, Alex. Talking
to you helped me figure it all out." He ran his tongue along Krycek's jawline,
and nuzzled his neck.
Krycek's hands tightened on his waist. "Mulder, don't."
He stood back then, just a few inches, so he could study Krycek's face.
Still troubled—perhaps even more so now. Although he could also read the
desire there, in the hazy, half-lidded eyes. Always, there was this resistance.
It was sweet, when he knew how easily it was overcome. He pulled Krycek's head
to him and kissed his mouth, just a gentle pressure on his lips.
"Mulder," Krycek nearly gasped. "We should talk. I should tell you... I
have to tell you...."
Mulder stopped him with his fingers on the trembling mouth. "When we get
home, you can tell me anything you want. We'll talk about it then, I promise. I
know there are a hundred reasons we shouldn't be doing this. Just give me
tonight. Just one more night, with no case to worry about, no FBI breathing
down our necks, no guilt and no regrets. Just you and me and nothing else.
Please."
Krycek fell into his arms with a troubled laugh. "God, Mulder. I bet you
were a terror in high school."
Mulder held him tightly, stroking his back, grinning. "Are you telling me
my lines are high school?"
The giggle was muffled in his neck, and it sent sweet shivers through
Mulder's body. "If they are, then so am I, for falling for them."
He brought his lips to Krycek's ear and whispered, "You feel so good...."
Krycek whimpered, and shifted on his knees, tilting his hips up to offer
himself more openly. Mulder kissed his cheek, and it was salty with sweat.
Tears dripped from Krycek's huge, beautiful eyes, and Mulder tasted them, too.
He added a sharp, hard thrust to the end of each stroke of his cock, delighting
in the purring moans they brought from Krycek's throat. The sweetness was
almost unbearable. You are mine, he thought, and he almost said it. But
not yet. After they'd returned home, after they'd talked about it, if they
decided to go on with it, he'd take Krycek into his arms and let him know who
he belonged to. For tonight, he'd let his body tell the tale.
Krycek squealed, and his body stiffened, and then his orgasm was squeezing
Mulder's cock. I didn't even touch his cock, Mulder thought in wonder.
How could it feel that good? He'd have to make Krycek show him. Mulder held him
tightly while he gasped into the pillow, and reached underneath to feel the
still-spasming cock releasing its puddle of semen into the mattress. He loved
that he could cause this, with the motion of his cock in his lover's ass. Still
holding Krycek's cock in his hand, he resumed, until his own orgasm took him,
and he collapsed panting onto his partner's broad back.
He lay there happily for a while, stroking Krycek's arm thoughtfully, from
shoulder to hand, then playing with the slender fingers briefly before going
back to the shoulder to start again. How many times in one night could he
manage? He wasn't a kid any more. They hadn't eaten dinner yet, either. They
should probably order something from room service now, before it closed, and
shower and eat before settling in for the next round. It had been so good last
night to wake up to find a willing lover at his side—they'd do that again,
too. And in the morning when they woke up—they hadn't had the chance to try
that yet, either. If he had any energy left by then.
He kissed the back of Krycek's neck. "Alex, are you okay?"
"Mm," Krycek mumbled. He turned his face out of the pillow and half-smiled.
There was a hint of wildness in his eye. "Yeah. No guilt and no regrets, right?
Everything's fine."
Mulder felt a sudden chill. What truly was behind Krycek's doubts? Should
he really have been so quick to brush them aside?
Never mind. He'd established the rules for tonight himself, and he'd follow
them. No guilt and no regrets.
There'd be plenty of time for that tomorrow.
He nipped gently at Krycek's neck with his teeth. His partner squirmed in
his grasp, trying to nestle even closer. So Krycek was still awake, too. He
cast about for something inconsequential to talk about, to prolong the evening
just a little longer. What did he even know about Krycek? The bare facts in his
file—only child, Army brat, Political Science degree from Dartmouth, wide
receiver on the college football team. He'd been twenty-eight when he graduated
from college—not in any big hurry to get out into the real world, obviously.
And he still had that fresh-from-college innocence. He liked sports, pizza and
chocolate, silly '50s science fiction movies, paperback thrillers.
And opera. "Tell me about the second act," he said softly.
"What?"
"La Traviata. You only told me about the first act."
A single, sleepy giggle. "That was months ago, Mulder. I can't believe you
even remember that."
It was the first time he'd ever called Krycek outside of work. The small
beginnings of the closeness between them. Even if he didn't have an eidetic
memory, he'd have remembered every word of that conversation. "I've been on
tenterhooks ever since, waiting to find out what happened next."
"God, you're a liar. Why don't you go to sleep?"
"I can't. Not until I find out. What happens to Violetta and Alfredo?"
"Unh. Well." Krycek squirmed into Mulder's lap again, settling himself
firmly in place. Mulder pulled him close and kissed his shoulder. "Okay, La
Traviata, Act Two. Violetta and Alfredo are living together in the country.
They're happy but they have no money, because Alfredo's left his family and
Violetta's not working any more. Then Alfredo's father comes to visit Violetta.
He tells her... ," he paused for a yawn, "her relationship with Alfredo is
ruining his sister's chances of marriage, and she has to leave him for his
sister's sake. So she does. But he thinks she's dumped him to go back to her
old life."
"Why doesn't she tell him the truth?"
"She can't. She promised Alfredo's father she wouldn't tell him."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Some stupid opera reason."
Mulder chuckled. That "stupid opera reason" was the reasonable assumption
that if Alfredo knew the truth, he wouldn't allow Violetta to leave him. And,
of course, if that happened, the opera would be over before the third act and
everyone would have ended up happy (with the possible exception of Alfredo's
sister), which would have been quite unacceptable. "So is that it?"
"No, then Alfredo and Violetta meet at a party and have a horrible
confrontation. Alfredo... denounces her and throws his gambling winnings at
her." Krycek's speech was beginning to be slurred; he was drifting into sleep
even as he talked.
"So there's no happy ending."
Krycek yawned again. "Not... until the third act."
"What happens then?"
"They go to sleep." And he did, going limp in Mulder's arms.
Well, nothing lasted forever. Like Violetta and Alfredo, they'd had their
interlude of happiness in the country, and now would have to return to the real
world. But life wasn't opera; they wouldn't have to let the demands of others
separate them.
Mulder yawned, wrapped his arm tighter around Krycek's chest, and fell
asleep.
"Scully, it's me." He'd called her away from one of her classes. "I'm
back."
"I heard—Congratulations. That was fast work." There was only a slight
undertone of exasperation in her voice.
"They should have called us in sooner."
"Mulder...." The exasperation was stronger now, but affectionate and
familiar. This was an old conversation. "You did everything you could. How was
Krycek?"
Standing at his side, just now, leaning tiredly into the wall, watching him
with a strange, guarded expression. "Fine. I'll tell you all about it tonight,
at dinner. Seven o'clock okay?"
There was a pause. "All right. Shall I meet you somewhere, or...?"
"I'll pick you up at home. I have to go now. I'll see you tonight." He
disconnected, offering Krycek a tentative smile as he folded the phone back
into his pocket. "You look tired."
Krycek nodded towards the phone. "Scully?"
"Yeah." Why did he suddenly feel like he'd been caught cheating on his
girlfriend? We'll talk when we get home, he'd told Krycek. Surely he
didn't think that meant the moment they returned to Washington...?
He put a hand on Krycek's shoulder. God, the guy looked like he'd been run
over by a truck. He hadn't slept on the plane, like Mulder had, or had a good
night's sleep since they'd left for Montana. He couldn't be thinking clearly.
"Come on, I'll take you home."
Krycek nodded dully and allowed himself to be led off.
Scully dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and raised an eyebrow at Mulder.
"Do I have something in my teeth?"
He leaned back and grinned. "Just counting your freckles."
She smiled. "I don't have freckles."
"Must be ketchup, then."
She put down her fork and sat back. "I think you're seeing spots before
your eyes."
"No, just freckles." Krycek didn't have freckles. But he did have a small
mole on his left hip. There was a sudden pulse in Mulder's cock.
"So, tell me about the Kafka Killer."
"Not much to tell. Just your garden variety psychopath."
"How did Krycek handle it?"
Lying on his stomach, naked and squirming, legs open.... "He had a
pretty hard time. But he handled it." Mulder sighed, shaking his head. "I never
saw anybody suffer through a case like that. Everything hurt him. But he held
it together, and he even helped me solve the case. He's a good agent, Scully.
He should take the Behavioral Sciences training, or forensics, or something. He
should—" He should stop resisting me and let me fuck him just as often as
I want to.
"Does he want to take the Behavioral Sciences training?" Scully's smile was
slightly teasing.
"I don't know. Probably not right now. Maybe after he's had time to think
about it a little." Mulder grinned. "What he really wants is the X-Files."
Scully sighed. "I never thought I'd say this, but I think I feel the same
way."
Mulder stared at the wall. "Yeah."
Scully cleared her throat, then smiled brightly. "But I'm glad Krycek's
working out."
I fucked him, Scully. The words were on the tip of his tongue. I
fucked him six times, and I want to do it again. Could he tell her? He
thought she'd understand. Or if not understand, at least not hate him for it.
She wouldn't report them, that he was sure of. Perhaps she'd sigh, with that
determinedly non-judgmental yet slightly exasperated look she got when he was
about to go off on some particularly dangerous and foolish wild goose chase.
Do you think that's wise? she'd ask, calmly, as if they were discussing
whether or not to order the fish of the day.
No, it isn't wise. In fact, it's one of the most unwise things I've ever
done. But you should have seen him, Scully, sitting there on that hotel bed,
looking so weary and disappointed and determined. You would have had to put
your arms around him, just like I did. Or standing there sleepy-eyed in his
night clothes, hair all mussed, with a mouth that just demanded to be kissed.
No, it isn't wise. But it's thoroughly wonderful.
"He's working out a lot better than I expected."
"I hope you're not pushing him too hard."
I'm pushing him way too hard. Poor guy, he told me he loves me. I didn't
know what to say to that, but he wouldn't let me say anything. He seemed so
desperate about it, as if I'd already broken his heart. I don't want to hurt
him, but it seems almost predestined, somehow.
"I'm trying not to."
"You get on these crusades, Mulder, and you can't see anything but what you
want to see. I know you don't mean to run people down along the way, but
sometimes you just forget to look around yourself and see what's happening. And
Krycek, from what you've told me about him, seems like the kind of guy who'd
half kill himself trying to live up to your standards."
He wanted to tell me something last night, but I wouldn't let him. I was
so determined to have him all to myself for just one more night. Something is
hurting him, and it isn't just the sex, it's something else. But I promised him
we'd talk when we got back, and we will. I'll be careful, Scully. I will.
"I know." Mulder forced a half-hearted grin. "Hey, you were the one telling
me he's a big boy, that he can take care of himself."
Scully's answering smile was sad and affectionate. "He's a big boy. Big
boys can get hurt, too. Just don't let your need for the truth make you forget
to see other people's truth."
Like I did with you? Mulder felt a wave of regret and guilt wash
through him. Scully was speaking from experience. Fortunately, she was strong.
She was tougher in some ways than Mulder, and he'd come to lean on that
strength. But it hadn't been easy for her. No doubt she was relieved to be out
of it.
"Yeah. I'll talk to him tomorrow. Make sure he's all right."
Scully smiled. It was a warm smile, familiar and affectionate, yet somehow
sad. As if she'd been having her own mental conversation with him, too, as he'd
been having his, and she didn't entirely like the conclusions she had drawn.
What would she be saying to him in her mind, that she didn't think she could
say out loud? Some day, they would have to sit down and have one of these
conversations out in the open. Some day, he would tell her everything she
really meant to him.
But tonight, he was tired and strained and already had one very stressed
and unhappy partner to deal with. Go to him now? It wasn't that late. Krycek
had been exhausted, though, he'd already be in bed. Just crawl in with him, and
hold him close, like last night. Ask him silly questions he can't answer with
his mind so heavy with sleep, make him giggle and squirm closer. Don't
worry, just close your eyes, I'll take care of everything....
"That sounds like a good idea, Mulder."
He started. It took a moment to remember what he'd actually said. He almost
laughed.
"Mulder?"
He grinned at her. "You actually agreed with me. I was startled for a
minute."
She grinned back. "It does happen occasionally."
Not nearly often enough. And whose fault was that? Only his own, he knew.
And it would be his fault with Krycek, too, whatever happened.
From Alex Krycek's diary:
The trip to Montana was a disaster right from the start. I had no business
being on that case and I knew it and Mulder knew it and the only reason I was
there was supposedly to babysit Mulder (as far as Skinner was concerned) or to
spy on him (as far as my other boss was concerned). Only he ended up
babysitting me, because I couldn't handle it.
Okay, I killed a guy once. I thought he was going to kill Mulder and I
didn't have any choice and anyway I used a gun and I was at least twenty feet
away from him. Still it shook me up so bad I went home and cried (never told
anybody about that and never will). I'd do it again if I had to I guess but I
sure as hell didn't do it for fun. But this guy—this Kafka Killer—he
doesn't just do it for fun, he makes it as long and painful and horrible as he
can.
You go through the FBI training and the special covert ops training and you
think you know. You think you're some hotshot like Mission Impossible—"if any
of your IM Force should be caught or killed the secretary will disavow any
knowledge of your actions"—and it's all a game. Then one day you wake up in a
cheap hotel room in Montana with color photos of piles of raw meat that used to
be women lying on the dresser and your partner you're supposed to be spying on
is fucking your ass. Then you realize: you don't know shit. And you go over and
over it in your head but you can't figure out just how you got into this
situation and you sure as hell don't know how to get out of it. Except telling
the guy you love him isn't exactly the smartest thing you could have done.
I just wanted him to know. Some day he's going to find out everything, I
thought, and he's going to think I just slept with him because he was the mark,
and that it was a lie just like everything else. Somehow, I don't mind the
thought of him hating me as much as I mind him thinking I never felt anything
for him.
We were there for three days and he fucked me every night. Last night three
times. God. Well, you can't chalk that up to the heat of the moment, can you?
That was one very long moment. He is so damn sweet—all gentle and tender and
so determined. You could almost laugh or cry or something. He doesn't know what
he's doing but he sure knows what he wants. What the hell must he think I am? I
don't know, but I wish I was whatever it is. He pushes buttons I didn't even
know I had. Makes me feel like I'd do anything, any fucking thing in the world,
just to have him inside me again.
So I'm going to have to tell him. God, it scares me. He might even kill me,
I don't know. But somehow I've got to get out of this. I've got to make Mulder
believe me, and I've got to get away from that bastard of a boss. Maybe somehow
I can get something on him so he'll have to let me go. I don't know what, and
I'll probably just get myself killed, but I have to try.
From now on I'm taping every conversation I have with that
cigarette-smoking son of a bitch.
And I'm going to tell Fox Mulder the truth.
Krycek was determinedly businesslike, but his face was pink as he stopped
at the edge, looking down at Mulder. "Agent Mulder." His smile was even tighter
than usual.
"Krycek." Mulder grinned at him. "What's up?" He swam over to the ladder
and climbed out of the pool.
Krycek glanced down, caught a brief glimpse of Mulder's red Speedo, then
quickly looked away. "There's a situation going down. They want you out there
right away."
Krycek followed Mulder over to his towel. There was a slightly awkward
motion in Krycek's walk, as if he had too much on his mind to keep track of his
arms and legs.
"What kind of situation?"
"Hostage negotiation."
Mulder picked up his towel and began to wipe the water from his face and
chest. "And they want me?"
"Yeah."
"What for?"
Krycek looked at him earnestly, his huge eyes glowing liquid green. "The
guy escaped a mental institution—he's got four people at gunpoint in an
office building, claims he's being controlled by aliens."
Mulder felt the slow smile form on his face. It was probably nothing. Just
another garden variety psycho. Probably another jerkoff assignment to keep him
out of trouble. A bone thrown to him to keep him from getting too agitated
about losing the X-Files.
But maybe not.
It was late by the time Duane Barry had been driven away to the hospital,
and Mulder was exhausted and unhappy, and Scully was there, and maybe it was
insensitive of him, but he told Krycek to go on ahead back to D.C. without him,
he'd ride back with Scully. He wanted her calm, familiar presence; and he
definitely was not ready to deal with Krycek and the feelings that had surfaced
during their trip to Montana. He determinedly avoided seeing the forced cheer
on Krycek's face as his new partner nodded and insisted that no, he didn't mind
driving back alone.
But ready to deal with those feelings or not, they wouldn't leave his tired
mind alone. Mulder lay awake on his couch late into the night, in the silent
dark, while the events of the past few days spun through his mind, over and
over, like a stuck record. It was just all happening too fast. Duane Barry.
Alien abductions. Hostage negotiations. Scully. And two nights ago, he'd been
lying in bed in a hotel room in Montana, fucking his male partner just as often
and as long as he was physically capable. He'd touched Krycek in places he
wouldn't even touch his own body. They'd lain wrapped together for hours, so
tightly they could barely move, even when their sated bodies were unable to
respond. And Krycek was right—Mulder had come on like a high school lothario,
insisting on having his way, refusing to let Krycek express his doubts. He'd
promised they'd talk as soon as they got back to D.C., but now he was doing his
best to avoid it.
He just didn't know what to say. One minute he was determined to end the
affair immediately; the next he was fantasizing about dragging Krycek off into
a broom closet for a quickie. They had to do something, but he had no idea
what. And he was perfectly well aware that sitting down with Krycek and talking
about it would be the best way to figure it out, but he just couldn't manage to
face it. Well, he was tired. It had been a harrowing day. Surely there was
nothing wrong with just wanting to go home and rest after a day like today.
(And how many days in Mulder's life weren't days like today? It hadn't stopped
him from knocking on Krycek's door and fast-talking his way into Krycek's bed.)
Mulder pushed himself upright and reached for the phone. But he'd only
gotten half the number punched in before he put the phone back down. What was
he going to do? Call Scully and ask her whether or not she thought he should be
sleeping with his partner? Call Krycek and tell him he didn't want to talk
about what happened in Montana, he just felt like waking him up at three in the
morning?
He picked up the phone again, and punched out a number.
"Mulder?" Krycek's voice was husky with sleep.
Mulder smiled into the phone. "How did you know it was me?"
"Well, of the hundreds of people who usually call me at three o'clock in
the morning, you're the only one who does it after he ditches me."
"Sorry. Look, Alex. I am sorry about putting you off again. Do you want to
get together tomorrow night?"
"Sure. You couldn't have asked me this in the morning?"
Mulder grinned. "I had to call you tonight. I ditched you today, remember?"
"Are you going to ditch me tomorrow?"
"No, I promise. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Okay, Mulder. Can I go to bed now?"
"Wish I was there."
"Yeah, right." But the humor was back in Krycek's voice.
"I'll see you tomorrow." Smiling, Mulder hung up. All right, he'd gotten
back into Krycek's good graces.
But he was going to have to talk to him tomorrow.
Mulder did not sleep that night.
"Mulder, it's me. I just had something incredibly strange happen. This
piece of metal that they took out of Duane Barry—it has some kind of code on
it. I ran it through a scanner, and some kind of serial number came up. What
the hell is this thing, Mulder? It's almost as if... it's almost as if somebody
was using it to catalog him!"
There was a pause. Mulder stopped, stared at the answering machine. What
was that noise? Then there was a gasp, and a crash, and "Mulder! I need your
help! Mulder! Mulder!"
Oh god—how long ago had that message come in? Mulder grabbed his coat and
keys, heart pounding, Oh god oh god oh god Scully! and launched himself
out the door.
He stayed with the police all night. Her mother, he finally talked into
going home. I'll take care of her, he assured her. I'll find her, and
I'll bring her home. He worked all night like a man possessed. He called in
every favor he'd ever earned, and bought a whole lot more on credit. He
cajoled, pleaded, pushed, and threatened, not caring who he woke. He did
everything he could think of, and cursed himself that he couldn't do more, to
find Scully. It wasn't until nearly five A.M. that he remembered Krycek, and
finally made the long-delayed call. The irritation quickly disappeared from
Krycek's voice when Mulder explained what had happened. Within half an hour,
Krycek was at his side, looking strained and red-eyed, but solidly reassuring.
And his pain eased, ever so slightly, but even the slightest relief from that
pain was a blessing.
Krycek brushed off his feeble attempts at apologies. Forget it, Mulder.
Let's find Scully first. We'll worry about the rest of it later. Grateful,
Mulder had gone determinedly back to work.
Krycek sat on the edge of Mulder's desk, chewing on a bagel. He tore off a
piece and handed it to Mulder, who took it without thinking and pushed it into
his mouth. He'd already swallowed it before he realized that he must have
finished nearly half of Krycek's bagel. Krycek had been feeding him all
morning, bite by bite. Half of a bagel. Parts of two muffins. Never a word,
just handing Mulder pieces of whatever he was eating, knowing Mulder would
refuse to eat if asked, but that he'd accept casually-handed-over bits of
Krycek's food without even thinking about it.
Mulder stopped and stared at Krycek, as if he were staring at a stranger.
Who was this man, who had Mulder eating out of his hand, who had doggedly
followed Mulder around all morning, who didn't even know Scully, but who was
willing to dedicate himself to her safety, for Mulder's sake? Obviously a man
who had slept little last night, who had dressed hurriedly and carelessly early
this morning. Usually a fastidious man, today his striped tie (and where did he
get those awful ties?) was knotted crookedly, and there was a scuff on the toe
of his left shoe. His face was drawn and pale and the huge eyes were circled
with dark smudges. He looked like he was wearing eyeliner, Mulder suddenly
thought, and it made him want to wash Krycek's face. Had he stayed up last
night, waiting for the call that never came, nibbling on his lower lip until it
was reddened and swollen, wondering if Mulder would ever keep his promise? Or
had he gone to bed in disgust and lain there, tossing and turning, wishing he'd
never gotten involved with Fox Mulder?
Pain tightened in Mulder's chest. Everything had gone so wrong—he'd
failed Scully, and now he was failing Krycek, and he wanted so badly to
explain, to make Krycek understand that he'd never meant to let him down.
Everything was crazy right now, but if only Krycek would just help him get
through it, then he'd make everything all right. But he didn't know how to say
any of it. He could only stare at Krycek, hoping somehow Krycek would know.
Krycek's face turned pink under Mulder's scrutiny, and he looked away,
swallowing. "I'll get us some coffee," Krycek muttered, and hurried away.
Mulder was silent during the long ride home from Skyland Mountain. Krycek
insisted on driving; Mulder didn't even make a token protest. He sat and stared
out the window, feeling empty and cold and hopeless. He stared into the night,
and his soul felt as black as the sky.
"I'm sorry, Mulder." His low voice seemed to float gently on the air
between them, clear and soothing. "Are you going to be all right?"
Mulder's throat was raw. There was a rushing noise in his ears. One hand
groped blindly to catch Krycek's shoulder; then he was pulling Krycek towards
him, burying his face in the coarse fabric of Krycek's suit. "Stay with me."
Krycek's arms encircled him, solid and tight. He felt Krycek's lips brush
against his ear. "Mulder, you need to sleep."
Mulder felt his chest tighten, and the rush of misery flowed into his empty
heart, like blood flowing back into deadened limbs. "How am I going to sleep?
Alex, I know I promised you we'd talk...."
"That doesn't matter—god, Mulder, do you think I'd expect you to sit down
and talk about us, with all this happening? I don't care about that." He
squeezed Mulder until the air was forced out of his lungs, and it felt so good,
Mulder would have cried if he'd been able to breathe. "But there are still
things we need to talk about before...."
"What things?" Mulder wanted to shake him. Perhaps he would have, if he'd
been able to move. What could be more important tonight than being together?
I can't be alone tonight.... And then he remembered the first time he'd
said that to Krycek—after Scully had turned him down. When he had lost her in
a different way. And now he'd lost her again, and again he was expecting Krycek
to fill the void left by her absence. "Oh, Alex, I'm sorry, I don't mean to
keep doing this to you, but please—"
"Mulder, you don't understand." And Krycek's voice, too, was shot through
with pain. "I just have things I have to tell you. But I can't tell you now. I
want to be with you, god, you don't know how bad I want to be with you—there
are things, I just can't explain to you now." Krycek's words were muffled
through hot, fervent kisses to Mulder's cheek, his temple, his ear. Mulder
fought himself loose from Krycek's iron grip—he had to grab a fistful of
Krycek's collar and forcefully pull his head back—just to get enough room to
bring Krycek's face to his, to crush their mouths together. And then, for just
a little while, blessed silence: the universe stopped pounding at his brain,
and Krycek's own special sweet taste overwhelmed Mulder's senses, and made
everything all right.
Of course, it couldn't last, although Mulder dazedly thought that he
wouldn't mind suffocating to death on the spot, putting a final end to his pain
with this fiery heart-stopping pleasure. But they broke apart at last, gasping.
The interior of the car had gone foggy. "Alex, please...."
"Mulder, do you remember what I said to you, that first night in Montana?"
Krycek's voice was hot and urgent.
"I remember." And how could he ever forget?
"I meant it. I still mean it. I love you, Mulder. I always will. Never
forget it."
"Then why can't we be together?"
Krycek kissed him again, firm lips pressing Mulder's with dazzling
perfection. "We can. We will. As soon as I've had a chance to explain."
"Then tell me."
"Not tonight. You need to rest. I need to rest." Krycek stroked Mulder's
hair. His smile was fragile and full of pain. His eyes were inky in the dark;
tiny chips of glowing obsidian. "Just remember what I said."
Mulder nodded, then, and the terrible need drained out of him, leaving him
sad and empty again. But not quite as cold. "All right." One last kiss, gentle
and tender; then Mulder got out of the car, and went into his apartment, alone.
Somehow, he thought, there must be a way to put them together. A way to
make the puzzle make sense. He was too weary to think, and too ruined to sleep,
but maybe if he just let the images play, they would at last resolve themselves
into a whole picture, and he would understand.
The images played on, over and over and over.
But the autopsy was another frustration, another cover-up, and another dead
end. The Navy pathologist wouldn't tell him anything. Toxicological test
results were delayed, perhaps forever, and wouldn't be available to him in any
case. From there he went on to an inquiry into his own role in Duane Barry's
death. If he hadn't been so numb by this time, he might have actually found it
funny. Scully was gone. He'd seen Army helicopters on the scene. Duane Barry
had been murdered, and the military was covering up the autopsy results. And
all his superiors were interested in was whether he'd been too rough on Duane
Barry. He answered their questions dully, not really caring if they believed
him.
After the meeting had ended, he caught up with Krycek in the hall, and
pestered him into giving him his car keys. Mulder had one hope left, and that
was his contact, Senator Matheson. Perhaps the Senator could shake loose the
autopsy results, and that might give Mulder another shred of evidence to keep
going on.
But this was a dead end too. He didn't even get in to see the Senator; his
occasional informant and nemesis, X, had appeared in the stairwell to warn him
off. He returned to Krycek's car, not quite having wrapped his mind around the
hopelessness of his cause, somehow sure that something would occur to him,
there would be another idea, another lead, no matter how slim, that he couldn't
just go home and give up, Scully wasn't lost forever, there must still be a way
to find her and bring her home.
He sat for a moment in Krycek's car, taking what comfort he could from the
signs of his lover's presence. The car seat, adjusted to Krycek's height, the
same as Mulder's own. The Hershey bars and opera tapes in the glove
compartment. The ashtray full of change....
Mulder stared at the cigarette butt, uncomprehending. Krycek didn't smoke.
How could this have gotten into his car? Krycek was a stickler for procedure,
and would never use his Bucar for personal trips. And it was late and they were
both exhausted when Krycek had taken him home last night. They had both been at
headquarters all day. There was no time, no reason.
Mulder picked up the cigarette butt. Morley, only a few puffs taken before
it had been stubbed out. Mulder felt dizzy, his sight beginning to go black.
God, no. Not Krycek. Not his one remaining friend, his precious junior partner,
his sweet innocent lover. Not Krycek, working for his enemy. Stopping the tram
to delay him from getting to the top of Skyland Mountain. Slipping something
deadly into Duane Barry's water while Mulder stood in the hall imagining Scully
on the aliens' examining table. Helping them to take Scully. Lying to him,
spying on him, destroying his life.
Mulder, I have to tell you....
Betrayed.
Mulder sat in the car, and stared at the cigarette butt. Such a small,
insignificant thing, to cause so much pain. Mulder blinked, and the image of
the innocent, beloved man-child in his mind shattered and disappeared forever,
leaving only the mysterious cold beauty in its place.
It was the final, crushing blow. Samantha. Scully. Krycek. Mulder's
forehead came down to rest on the steering wheel, and his eyes flooded with
hopeless tears. He sat in the car and wept, alone.
Betrayed.
