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Sunflower Seeds I
by Jami Wilsen


Autumn leaves flung themselves at the windows while the cold wind sprang from one direction to another in indecisive gusts. Inside the rather large house that was ex-AD Skinner's residence, along with his fellow tenant, ex-Special Agent Mulder, the two of them sat pensively in the living room.

Mulder had just come downstairs to join him. Skinner rubbed his face with both hands and exhaled, looking over at Mulder. "There was a phone call from Bill Peterson. We've got a possible situation."

Mulder's brows went up alarmingly. "I thought we were retired here, Walt?"

"I know," Skinner sighed. "It's—" he hesitated, well aware of what this news was going to unleash from within Mulder's buried past, his psyche and old traumas. Damn, and just when he'd thought they both had recovered so well, too. Life was quiet, life was good. Retirement was good, if a trifle early.

Mulder noticed he wasn't telling. "Come on, Walt. Give. What, are you worried I won't be happy with it?"

"I'm worried you'll go ballistic." Skinner pulled a wry, knowing face. "It isn't anything relevant to anyone but us, probably. Although it's hard to tell. But it may not be as mysterious and paranormal as you'd prefer. I'm afraid it's rather personal, actually."

"Enough mystery, here! I don't want paranormal, I'm sick of aliens and X-Files! Normal is nice," Mulder declared. "Normal is good. Just give it to me straight. No chaser."

Skinner regarded him with a raised brow. "Okay then. But remember, you asked for it. I'm gonna let you have it right between the eyes," he warned. He sent up a silent prayer, sure that Mulder was going to have a full-blown hissy fit over this.

"Give it to me," Mulder said carelessly, grinning.

And he did.

Peterson had called Skinner about a source who had requested asylum and immunity, insisting he held information that was of paramount importance to the 'powers that be'. When given tasters of the information that the contact had, as well as proof of its validity, heads had nearly spun and satellites almost stopped in their orbits. This information was hot and somehow Peterson had ended up having to arrange the culmination of the deal. Having come through on his side of the deal, the source now wanted protection. And it would be final and costly. Apparently upon learning of the newly designed witness protection programs already utilized for some for Consortium-linked individuals in their files, even those who had dealings with them and were known faces like Skinner and Mulder, the source had requested highest security identity suppression. He was well known enough to still present a target and was wanted in too many circles. Dead.

A simulated death was the best option, of course, for agents and witnesses under threat and so arranging the contact's "death" was a necessity. But he said he'd arrange it himself. He didn't want any fuck-ups. Peterson suspected the contact only trusted himself to do it right; to not end up actually buried for real. But Peterson had grown desperate to find somewhere to arrange for him to go. And had told Skinner he was anxious, with intense pressure from above and below squeezing him, to find somewhere, anywhere that their source would accept.

At a loss and with abject apologies, Peterson had finally contacted Skinner, knowing his place was probably the best bet, at least for a while. Especially given that due to Mulder's extreme paranoia and courtesy of the Lone Gunmen's abilities, they'd managed to equip a fairly unreachable place with a set of twisted, electronic travel trails that ran cold early on and had left them with a single non-traceable contact phone to Peterson. Living on the edge of civilization in the far north of Canada presented the necessity of having interesting survival skills, particularly in winter, but Skinner and Mulder had actually relished the challenge, aware that anything softer would have taken the edge off their reflexes.

Mulder had specifically requested it and was quite happily looking forward to the peace and quiet of an actual retirement out of the whole mess, and Skinner had agreed. They'd taken a house that Skinner had already eyed earlier and was in the process of buying for his planned retirement and used it as their bolt hole. It wasn't until they were living together here at the house that they'd eventually discovered they'd both had feelings for each other for some time. Their friendship was first priority; neither of them was willing to give that up for sex, however good it was. Of course, neither of them let it get to the point of having to make that choice and the sex was good, so it was an all-around nice arrangement; having their cake and eating it too. Skinner wondered if Peterson would still have contacted them if he knew that their relationship had bonded in this way. He said nothing though, aware that the man had far more urgent problems.

The contact needed to lay low. Very low. Invisible. In fact, he refused to turn himself in and said he'd make his own way to the location when they found one for him.

While trying to explain what Peterson had outlined, Skinner found himself indeed facing an instantly ballistic Mulder, just as he'd feared. Especially since he made the mistake of mentioning the man's name: Alex Krycek. Who was of course traveling under a different identity.

Skinner didn't like it anymore than Mulder did. He found himself in the unenviable position of having to try to convince him that it was only temporary, that Krycek didn't even know it was them at this particular safe house (private as it was) and that Peterson had come to them as a last resort. Apparently none of the other options had been considered effective according to Krycek. Skinner was hardly pleased to know that Krycek approved of their choice of hideaway or the design of their convoluted system of contact with the 'outside'. But Peterson was desperate and had promised him that Krycek would behave. Skinner had laughed, telling him he didn't know Krycek at all and they'd never believe anything the man would ever say. Peterson had begged, saying that apparently Krycek would release the final crucial data only if and when he was securely situated at the safe house.

Never mind it happened to be their home, Mulder bitterly reminded him. Pacifying Mulder was an added stress Skinner really didn't want to have to deal with.

Things went rapidly downhill from there. Skinner attempted to get him to lighten up, telling him that his fixation was still in full force, which Mulder emphatically denied. Even when Skinner reminded him of the time when Mulder had ordered on a whim some mail order videos over the Internet. One of them had been entitled 'Alex, Jean and John', about a hot threesome... Mulder had watched it, waiting more and more impatiently for the second guy to enter the picture until Skinner had patiently explained that Alex could be a girl's name. Not pleased to be reminded of this lapse at this time, Mulder stomped out of the house. It wasn't until he reached the end of the driveway that he remembered there was literally nowhere to go, they were so remotely located in the wilds. And darkness was already falling. He stopped and returned to sulk on the couch, refusing to look at Skinner.

Skinner patiently explained that Mulder was going to have to sort himself out. To his credit, Mulder tried. But in the end he succumbed to the temptation and complained, infuriated, growling and snarling about it until Skinner had thrown up his hands and dryly commented on how some fixations tended to act up in violent ways with some people and required space for reflection. This was all said in very loud, heated tones, of course. For the first time in a long while, Mulder retreated to his own bedroom and closed the door. Slammed it, in fact. Loudly.

Skinner took this time to reflect, himself, before calling Peterson back to reply whether they'd agree to take Krycek in. It would be another few years before they would feel happy enough to walk freely without fear of being recognized and targeted themselves by mavericks or ex-Consortium affiliates. Going into hiding could be much like self-inducing cabin fever. Introducing Krycek into this environment could be explosive, if not handled carefully. And Krycek didn't even know that it was them. Skinner had warned Peterson not to tell him or Krycek would bail for sure.

But this might also prove to be the perfect opportunity to help Mulder heal from some of the mental anguish and post-Rebellion trauma that he'd been projecting onto the form of Krycek for so long.

And it might also help himself, Skinner realized, not forgetting for an instant that he had just as much a vested interest in happily taking in Krycek and then putting a bullet in his head. He had no intention of doing so, of course. He knew he needed to resolve this. They needed closure. He found he really didn't want to kill him, which surprised him.

And then there was Krycek himself. They could not trust him. But he too needed to heal. And it would be a temporary thing, six months at the most. It was unlikely that Peterson was selling them out; the man was a close personal friend of Skinner's from way back. And it was equally unlikely that Krycek knew it was them and intended to kill them. The risk was there of course, but Skinner was willing to bet that it would shock Krycek far more than they, to find them here. It would have to be handled carefully. Krycek was not the kind to shoot first and ask questions after. Ironically, that was more Mulder's style—at least where Krycek was concerned.

He had tried to explain some of this to Mulder earlier but his lover had simply yelled louder, saying rather hurtful things to the effect that Skinner was the one with issues about Krycek, and what else had the man blackmailed him into doing all those years ago, and was he indeed still under his sway... Mulder knew this was nonsense, all of it. But he was understandably upset. Skinner suspected if it had been anyone but Krycek, Mulder wouldn't have displayed such a violent reaction. He was projecting like crazy and for the first time Skinner was tempted to throw a pail of cold water over him. Fox always had been stubborn. Skinner was more so, however. Particularly when he didn't have the Syndicate, the Director of the FBI and the federal government, the military or other intelligence branches of the United States breathing down his neck, impeding his progress and disrupting his actions.

There was a certain level of healthy respect that Skinner had always had for a man who could survive the apparent number of mishaps and horrors that Krycek had endured. It went beyond the man's abilities and competency to get any job done. It also went far beyond the nearly heroic deeds Krycek had performed towards the end of the Rebellion. It went beyond the respect tainted with fear during the blackmail period and the fact that Krycek's coldness had been more than legendary—it had been a reality, as evinced by the friction between them whenever Krycek showed up. His 'professional' attitude was far too smug for Skinner's liking. No, the respect did not go too far beyond that, just barely enough. The grudging respect he had for Krycek sprang from an uncomfortable understanding of his motives. But Skinner understood survival. In fact, he knew he respected him more now than before, but did not share this with Mulder. But for Krycek to have survived it all, with no support whatsoever, no back up, nothing... It didn't mean he believed Krycek had a soul. But maybe Krycek could regain it, while helping Mulder to heal his. Mulder had already told him about Krycek's little games with him, that Kiss (that stood out so starkly for Mulder, for some reason) and all the lies and obfuscations over the years.

Skinner had experienced a number of interesting incidents back during his Marine days, things he again would not necessarily share with Mulder. There were bad memories that had long since been exorcised. He knew what it must have cost Krycek to have to be that strong, to will himself to survive. It gave Skinner an edge over Mulder's understanding of the possibilities and he ended up falling back on his concern for Mulder's well-being to show him exactly what he needed to do for his partner; to stop this tantrum that Mulder was throwing like a sulky boy. He did the only thing they had agreed, through trial and error, which actually worked with him when he began to show this wild, stubborn, reckless side.

He spanked him.

And afterwards, he called Peterson back to accept—on the condition that Krycek would be evicted at the first sign of trouble. Peterson was understandably bemused because his own calls with Krycek had always been cool and calm, precise and chillingly distant. Nothing like the volatile, delicate balancing act Skinner had portrayed would be played out here upon his arrival.

xx

A week later...


They sat, waiting. They had been told they could expect him to arrive sometime this week. Skinner had guessed Krycek wouldn't leave it very long to make the journey up here once he was given the location. Peterson had told them he guessed today would be the day.

"It'll be dark in a couple of hours," Mulder pointed out, with a measure of satisfaction.

"Since when has that ever stopped him from going anywhere?" Skinner asked, mildly. He was reading, keeping half an eye on the monitors from both cameras situated at the front and the back approaches to the house. They were linked to his laptop and he had the screen displayed in front of him so he could watch and read at the same time. The front one overlooked the driveway. The backyard camera: the tree line, the edge of the lake and hill behind the house.

It was November, and Skinner had wondered if a snowfall might deter him. But so far they'd been lucky... or not, according to Mulder, who was muttering, "It might save us the trouble if he gets himself lost. Or meets a moose, in the dark."

Skinner merely snorted, absently. "Krycek? I wouldn't bet on it. He's armed, of course, and can bring us back the moose for steaks. In the interest of goodwill. And he could find his way here if you dropped him in the middle of an Alaskan tundra plain."

"You know, once he gets here, and finds out just exactly who is here, he might turn around and head back out again."

"And go where? But you're right. He might get pissed. He might think he was compromised, or that they set him set up somehow."

"Walt, I'm impressed," Mulder said, surprised. "I didn't think you understood the paranoid mindset so well."

"Well, after working and living with you for so long, it rubs off," he replied absently, still reading.

Mulder sighed. "Alright. So what do we do if he does? If he runs?"

"We bring him back and convince him we're not going to kill him," Walter replied, nose still in his book.

"Since he's already dead, how would that make a difference?"

Skinner pinned him with a searching stare. "Fox, if you can't handle this, you can wait upstairs while I greet him. I don't want any scenes."

"Okay, okay. I was just kidding." And under his breath, "Christ."

Minutes passed.

Mulder's fingers were drumming on the arm of the couch.

Skinner looked up finally. "Nervous?"

"No," Mulder replied, irritably.

Skinner couldn't help cracking a smile at that, which he quickly smothered. The waiting was getting tense, he admitted to himself, but he didn't think it would be too much longer.

Sure enough, a lone figure suddenly appeared, walking up the driveway. It stopped, a dark, indistinct figure on the camera angle displayed on the laptop. He was willing to bet that it was Krycek, because after standing looking in the direction of the house for a few moments, it disappeared. Then a dark vehicle that had obviously been parked out of sight beyond the farthest line of trees came driving up the long dirt road, up to the front of the house.

Skinner drew a deep breath. He shot a warning look at Mulder. "Fox, I don't want any showdowns now. Behave yourself. Please?"

Mulder thoughtfully chewed the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, don't worry about me, I'm on the edge of my seat here. I'm dying to see him again." His voice dripped sarcasm.

Probably the most honest thing you've said so far, Skinner thought, not daring to smile at this. Skinner stood; Mulder remained sitting on the couch. There was a knock on the door.

"Amazing: he knocks. He finally learned to knock, after all this time." Mulder sounded flat, his authentic monotone was perfectly executed.

But Skinner heard the suppressed tension; he shot him a final glower and called out, "It's open."

The door swung back wide and Krycek stood there on the doorstep, regarding them. He was dressed in his customary black leather jacket, although the rest of his apparel seemed more appropriate for the climate and the current weather conditions, which were threatening very cold rain later on. He looked rugged, like he'd been outdoors for a while and had been enjoying it. He stared at them in disbelief as the reality of their presence within this so-called 'safe house' registered upon his mind. Finally, nearly speechless, he managed, "You've got to be fucking kidding."

Skinner kept his voice controlled and calm. "What, didn't they tell you?"

"No, they fucking well didn't." Krycek's voice was clipped and curt. He was displeased, that much was certain. He didn't move. He was obviously expecting them to get up and go for him. When they remained where they were, waiting for him to do something, he realized they had known whom to expect. His gaze flicked alertly between the two of them, taking in Mulder's domesticated attitude, as he lay sprawled in the couch. And Skinner's relaxed stance, an expression devoid of any frown. He was confused. First to be landed with this unwelcome surprise, and then to find that they weren't openly shooting at him... it was strange. And then it hit him. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"We are," called Mulder from his slouch in the couch. "So are you."

"Come on in," Skinner said, moving slowly to the door. "How much did you actually bring?"

Krycek stared at him, a puzzled little frown creasing the center of his dark, slim, arched brows. Skinner took a breath. Damn but Alex was looking good; he had to force himself to remain distant. But that had always been a problem with Krycek, hadn't it? It was hard to remember not to trust him when one couldn't help but react to him on an instinctive level to his nearly unconscious charm. The threat of him turning it on and actually using it was considerable. He didn't seem to be acting; he appeared genuinely surprised. Skinner liked that look on him. It made him seem more human than the smug stone-cold assassin who'd blackmailed and controlled him for far too long.

But Krycek seemed to be floundering for once. "You—I..." he actually turned and looked behind him, at his vehicle, at the trees and landscape beyond before turning back to him. He was wondering if he was going to have to trek all the way back to civilization from here; having come all this way, it didn't really appeal to him at all.

"Come on," urged Skinner, a bit more impatiently. "You're letting the cold air in."

"It's not an ambush," drawled Mulder. "Come on, it's freezing in here! Get a move on."

Krycek blinked, confounded, had to visibly steel himself before stepping inside. Once he made the decision however, he quickly adapted and regained his poise and composure, ready to deal with whatever this situation yielded.

Skinner shut the door behind him and then moved around to face him again, raised his eyebrows at him and nodded once, indicating his boots. "Take them off—you'll get mud everywhere. Unless you want a hand unloading? Thought you might appreciate a cup of coffee first, though. It's a long trip out here. Usually we get a chopper drop for things we can't get hold of at the supply store in town, supplies and food." And Krycek had to know by now that 'town' was a settlement forty miles west.

Skinner then sauntered off to the kitchen and began pouring coffee. "Black?"

"Sure." Krycek watched him curiously. Then turned to regard Mulder once more, his face returning to his customary, impassively stony expression that revealed nothing. Mulder looked back at him, his face not revealing much either. Stand-off, thought Skinner, watching this.

He returned to Krycek bearing a cup of coffee. "No ambush, Alex. We've been expecting you. They asked us if we'd let you stay here for a while and we agreed. Want to give me your coat and drink your coffee before unpacking? We'll give you a hand bringing your things in."

"I can manage, thanks. I'll do it in a minute. Just—just what is this?"

Skinner made a mental note: can't accept or ask for help. "What is what?"

Krycek would have made a sweeping gesture with his hand but was intercepted as Skinner finally pressed the hot cup into it. "This," he said. "Is this your place? You own it? Are you both just... cohabiting here?"

"Why is that so surprising?" Mulder questioned. "Things got too hot. I had four death threats and two attempts on my life. Wal-... Skinner was shot."

Krycek didn't respond, lifting his cup and taking a cautious sip. It wasn't too hot; he took another.

Skinner stood nearby and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "We live here, Alex. You're welcome to as well, for a while. Six months was the deadline, I believe. We—"

He was interrupted by Krycek asking, "Why? Why am I welcome here? I would've thought you two had more to gain by killing me." His eyes strayed to Mulder momentarily. "For revenge, if nothing else."

Mulder nodded. "So did we. But we talked it over. You've had a stay of execution. You're on probation, actually."

Skinner broke in as well. "We're willing to give this a shot, if you are. As long as we establish some ground rules, there's no reason why we can't learn to get along. Sure, there are things we hold against each other, but we can work through it without resorting to killing anyone. Look at it this way, Alex: who else is going to understand your background in the Rebellion and your history? We at least share common ground. We had different roles and parts to play, but we were in the same war. We might also be able to help each other get over some of the, shall we say, outstanding accounts."

Lifting his head, Krycek's eyes narrowed dangerously, giving him a feral look, particularly framed by his dark lashes. Skinner was reminded of how dangerous he was. "You mean grudges."

"No," stated Skinner, firmly. "No grudges. This is not about revenge. It's about clearance. Believe me, we've all got a lot of baggage still left over from the past. We can help each other to heal old wounds and start again. Since we have to hole up anyway, why not learn and grow while we're at it? That's my reasoning on it. It's certainly worked so far."

Mulder sniggered. "We're an excellent example of self-help therapy and New Age armchair psychology at work."

Krycek stared at Skinner in perfect bewilderment. "I can't believe you actually... expect me to believe... that you," his eyes glanced to Mulder and back again, searching for some trace of what he'd come to expect from them and still not finding it, "both of you, can do that. Can just... let me in here like that."

"I dunno; it's kind of ironic. The spy who came in from the cold, and all. There are precedents." Mulder seemed lost in his own weird visuals at this, obviously recalling various black and white spy films and conspiracy magazines.

Skinner ignored him, his attention fixed on Krycek. "We can do it because we believe that you are sincere about wanting to hole up for a while. We're proof that this place can provide what we need, and I for one don't believe in dragging out dirty laundry and skeletons from closets. Let them stay there. You wouldn't have come here if your agenda didn't coincide somewhat with ours. We can give you a chance, if you want it."

Krycek drained most his coffee and said, "I can accept that. But Jesus, if you needed safety, why'd you come out here, this far away? You know, you could've contacted me. I would've eliminated most of the players who threatened you."

Mulder was about to snap back some smart reply, but Skinner beat him to it. "Despite the relative karmic justice of that, we really didn't want to. Cleaning up the place isn't our fight. Nor is it yours. Hiring you would've simply prolonged the problem. Let them sort out their own mess. We've done what we can. As for contacting you, hell! You're impossible to track. Even with our best resources I don't think we would have found you in time to effectively remove the most troublesome of them. No, we were looking forward to retiring out here for a while. We've given our blood, sweat and tears for the cause. Besides, it's easier to recover from trauma in an isolated and safe environment."

Krycek looked down. He had to agree; it was exactly the same reasoning he had when he'd concluded his only decision was to go underground for a while. Lifting his chin, he said, "Yeah, I guess you're right. I could have taken them out for myself, too. It just didn't seem worth the trouble. It's still a rat race out there."

Mulder murmured, "You should know; it takes one to know one."

"Fox," Skinner rumbled in warning.

Mulder merely gave him a sardonic smile but he shut up.

Krycek watched this little exchange with interest. It seemed apparent that Skinner had some sort of dominant sway over Mulder—he'd give anything to know what his secret was. Curious, he tentatively probed this. "So, it's your house, eh, Skinner?"

"That's right. If you're going to be living here, there are some house rules, too."

Krycek's lips twitched, in spite of himself. "How domestic."

"It's a home. Treat it as such. Care to go over them? Or are you going to walk out of here because it happens to be Fox and me who are living here?"

That was blunt. Talk about calling him out, Mulder thought, but he said nothing. A warring part of him wanted Krycek to leave, another wanted him to remain and to see what unfolded.

Krycek let his breath out audibly, letting go of some of the tension at the same time. "There's the issue of trust."

Mulder perked up with interest at this. "Yeah, exactly. That's something we really should talk about."

Skinner folded his arms and stood where he was. "Okay. Let's, then. Trust doesn't come easily to any of us. We have no reason to trust you, Alex; in fact, excellent reasons not to. But for our own sake and yours, we've allowed you to come here into our life. That alone implies a certain level of trust in itself. The thing is, can we? Trust you, I mean?"

Krycek regarded him warily. "Bit of a catch-22, isn't it? You're asking me if you can trust me, who you don't trust? Whatever I tell you, you can't trust it until you decide to. So the real question is, can I trust you to believe me?"

"Okay," Skinner declared, firmly, "so what we have here is a truce. A compromise, for now. The best way to enforce it, to ensure this doesn't get out of hand, is to abide by certain rules. As long as we all follow them, and deal with things as they arise within the limits of those rules, then we've established a situation we can handle. Agreed? I'm asking you here, too, Fox. Can we agree on this?"

Mulder sighed. "Yeah."

Krycek considered this. Then both of them. There was something appealing about the notion of settling here for a while, settling their differences, and being allowed into their world. He'd always looked up to Mulder, for his idealistic pursuit of the truth if nothing else. He refused to examine the relief and secret happiness he felt at seeing the man again. Even lounging on that couch, scowling at him mistrustfully, he was simply... Fox. Long-limbed, languorous and as always... Beautiful. He drew in a breath. As for Skinner—his conscience was ruthlessly berating him. He'd had his own reasons and rationalizations for blackmailing the man. And Skinner had been far too important and pivotal in his own way in the Bureau, to not have some leverage of control over. It didn't make up for the fact that Skinner was standing there virtually telling him he was willing to let bygones be bygones! He couldn't understand it.

But he grasped at this chance, this slim opportunity. Christ, he knew far better than they did exactly how much he did not deserve to be in this house with them. "Alright. But I have to know what those are first. I'm not agreeing to any rules until I understand them and I'm not unpacking until this is settled."

"Fair enough," Skinner replied, going back to his armchair and sitting down in it. "Have a seat."

Krycek shifted and then slowly leaned down to remove his boots. Then he took off his jacket and hung it on the spare peg behind the door. His black turtleneck was figure-hugging enough to reveal that he at least had not been starving; he looked well, in fact. Robust and toned. It made a change from the usual encounters either Skinner or Mulder had with him in the past, in Hong Kong, after Tunguska, even after Tunisia. Gone was the scruffy thug or even the barely-suited spy, the Syndicate rep. He'd been taking care of himself for a change. He approached Mulder and Skinner and finally decided upon the armchair on the other side of them. Hard choice: Mulder was laying on the couch full-length, taking up three seats worth.

Skinner was thinking to himself that he was glad it was a three-piece and it was nice to see each of them sitting there, symmetry achieved at last in his living room. If they could maintain a congenial atmosphere and avoid outbreaks of cabin fever, this should work nicely. It was interesting how just having another person around could change things. Three's company, he thought.

"Are these rules already in effect?" Krycek's voice broke his reverie, brought him sharply back to the present.

"If they weren't," Mulder said, deadpan, "you wouldn't have made it in the door."

"It's a good thing we're about to go over them again then, isn't it?" Skinner said to Mulder with displeasure. He looked back over at Krycek. "First rule: no violence. There will be no fighting. There isn't anything that can't be sorted out by discussing it. No weapons allowed in the house, either. We do have some but they are to be used only in the event of our location being compromised to someone from the outside who decides to, shall we say, try and take us out. Also, in the spring we do have a problem with hungry bears here. They can have mean tempers and cause problems. Other wild animals, too. Moose have quick tempers; they can be very dangerous." He stopped, frowning.

"So, no fighting. Considering your background in particular, I think this is the most important rule of all. Especially when we look at the history that you and Fox share. Fox," Skinner turned and fixed Mulder with an adamant stare, "you will refrain from attacking Krycek here, and keep hold of your temper."

Mulder sighed reluctantly. "Yeah, okay."

Krycek nodded. "I agree with all that. It seems reasonable. What about the rest?"

"Everyone pulls their weight. There are a number of chores and there's no reason why we all can't take turns and even have specific jobs that we do. I chop wood and mind the coal store. There's also a lot of game around here. We'll all pitch in to clean, prepare and freeze the meat. There's fish in the lake. We take turns cooking and cleaning. This isn't a bachelor pad and I have zero tolerance for slovenliness and slackers."

"He isn't kidding," murmured Mulder.

Krycek folded his arms before him, resting one foot over his other knee. The motion made it even harder to tell that his left arm wasn't quite right, it was done so casually. Skinner glanced down at the left hand—it looked as though somewhere along the line, Krycek had fitted an appropriate and better replacement to the cumbersome plastic he'd had before. Skinner looked away. "Third rule. In the event that either of those rules are infracted, there will be a penalty. I don't give a damn if you two are angry or if you end up shouting your heads off, there will be absolutely no physical fighting, no physical contact. No violence, or you're out of here. That goes for you especially, Krycek. I mean it; if you start it, you go. Your training makes you more dangerous at close quarters and I don't want any incidents or bodies here. For one thing, we're too remote for any serious injuries. For minor unpleasantries or loss of temper, once again, we can work it out. This is my home, my house, and both of you are here at my good will and discretion. Fourth rule: you agree to accept any punishment that I see fit to prescribe or administer, in the event of minor infractions. Are those acceptable to you?"

Despite himself, Krycek found he was impressed. Clear, no-nonsense and basic. And Mulder was proof that they worked; for it was true—in the past, Mulder hadn't thought twice of leaping up at the sight of him and attempting to beat the shit out of him.

He found himself nodding thoughtfully. "Yeah. It sounds good. Alright. I'm in, if you're okay with that."

Skinner turned to Mulder. "Yes?"

Mulder nodded, although he didn't look at Krycek. "Okay."

"Good." Skinner stood up. "Let's get you unpacked."

Outside, Mulder stood entranced beside the truck. It was like a transit van but heftier, built more for heavy terrain. He sounded almost awed. "What is it? It isn't like any other model I've ever seen."

Krycek was amused. "It's a custom-made job, built to requirements. When I realized I was coming out here, I figured it would be needed."

Mulder was practically drooling over it. Skinner grinned. "It's a fine machine. A worthy addition. You can stay."

Krycek found himself smiling back, before he realized it. "Thanks. But I'm keeping the keys."

Skinner watched Mulder eyeing its sleek black lines. "Good idea," he answered, thinking of the number of cars and vehicles Mulder had managed to destroy during his career in the FBI.

Together, they brought Krycek's things into the house and into the guest room. It was the third bedroom on the upstairs floor. Beside it was Mulder's, and then the master bedroom, Skinner's. At the end of the landing was an ample bathroom. Heavy timber beams supported the roof and the walls and gave the whole place a log-cabin feeling, although it really was more of a lodge.

Fortunately, it was Skinner's turn to cook. He was far better than Mulder, although Mulder had made progress over time. So it was that Krycek found himself in the bizarre situation of having dinner in the middle of nowhere with two enemies from his previous life, under amiable and even comfortable circumstances. After dinner, Mulder and Skinner appeared to return to their usual habits. Skinner read his book, Mulder was on his computer in the corner of the room.

Krycek found himself occupying what seemed to have been designated 'his' armchair and perusing the bookshelves. Luckily enough, Skinner had eclectic taste in literature.

They had only made it halfway into the evening when Krycek stood, stretched and announced he was going to bed. Hearing Skinner and Mulder simultaneously murmuring goodnight was such a surreal experience that he had to stop to let in sink in, momentarily.

Once he was gone, however, Mulder turned in his swivel chair. "Well?" he asked, meaningfully.

"Well? Well what?" Skinner repeated.

"I behaved. Aren't you proud of me?"

Skinner snorted to himself. "It's a bit premature. If we get through tomorrow without incident, then I will congratulate you."

Mulder was chewing his lower lip. "Do you think he knows?"

Skinner looked up, wondering. "Oh, you mean—us? I don't know."

Mulder shook his head. "I'm uncomfortable with this. I mean, it was bad enough when Scully visited."

"Dana was fine. I thought she took it very well, actually, all things considered," answered Skinner with a twinkle in his eye. "Don't tell me that having him here is going to make you come quietly?"

Mulder stared at him. "Just what exactly are you implying?"

"Do the words screech owl make it clearer?" Skinner was grinning at him.

Mulder actually growled in his throat and lunged for him, Skinner still laughing. Somehow, they made it upstairs without thumping.

As Alex lay upstairs in his bed—his bed?—without sleeping, as he stared into the darkness and enjoyed the scent of the walls. The wood. The linen of the bed. It didn't feel like a hotel, or a safe house, or even a house. It felt like a home. It terrified him. Nothing in his world had any right to feel that comfortable, that normal. Normal things tended to be taken away, or to not last very long. He couldn't trust normal.

And this bizarre turn of events; both Mulder and Skinner being here when he had believed both of them dead... he realized now he should have checked into it more thoroughly. The initial jolt of pain and the subsequent slamming down of any kind of reaction to it when he'd tried to think about it had been the reason why he had left it alone. And later on, he didn't dare go digging into it for fear of the further pain it might cause him. He found himself relaxing into the bed, letting his muscles loosen more. It was such a novel idea, being dead. And to disappear for a while, to make it more believable... he'd thought it so original and clever. Damn it, those two would beat him to it, he grinned suddenly to himself.

He wondered if he would make it through the night. He found it hard to believe that those two could just accept him into their little homey scene. But neither did he want to fall asleep. Unfortunately, this place made him feel safe enough that he might be able to fall asleep for longer than an hour or so at a time... and that brought the nightmares.

Evil. Most people really had no clue as to what evil was. Evil was an experience, evil was helpless terror. Evil was being unable to—

A sudden sound grated across his nerves and he stiffened, ready to react. He listened and it came again. It was coming from down the hall but... better to be safe than sorry.

He got up and went cautiously to the door in the dark. Opening it silently, he strained to hear. It was repeated and although muffled, it was definitely Mulder. Mulder's voice. Strained and rough, as though torn from his throat. And, of course, it was coming from Skinner's room. Why was Mulder...

The realization was like a hot flash. It ran with a shock through him. It rooted him to the spot. He felt hot and cold at the same time. Of course, of course they would. After all these months together. Living here in this isolated place. Years, even. They'd been through it all. Known each other from the beginning. Somewhere along the line, the boundary between subordinate agent and AD had been crossed. And then he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before, in the way the two of them behaved towards each other. The sounds continued, increasing in frequency and urgency until Mulder suddenly stopped.

Overload. It was both titillating and horrifying at the same time.

He slipped back into his room and closed the door. And stood in the dark trying to breathe. He was unaccountably disturbed by this. He'd been so wrapped up in trying to stifle his own attraction to Mulder, his reaction to his presence and the knowledge that he was alive, alive. He hadn't even considered the possibility that they were—he flinched at the thought—lovers. He should have. He wondered that he might have been so out of it, so off-balance that he might have missed such obvious signals. But as he sifted through the impressions of the day, he realized the signs had been there. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to see them.

Pain, pain. And a dark ache, a reminder that they had what he'd never had, never would.

His own encounters had consisted of hasty liaisons in dark streets, hotel rooms, other people's rooms. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept with someone, or had a sexual encounter that wasn't somehow commercial. Sex was a commodity, a luxury item, something deals could be sealed with; either it was paid for or it was the price itself.

To imagine a relationship where sex was only part of the equation, next to affection, security, companionship...

Pain and pain, and more pain. He forced himself to lay back under the bedcovers and close his eyes. He had dealt with pain, had lived with it for a long time. He knew how to transmute it into a wish instead. Always had. Keep it in the back of his mind as something to get around to once everything was finished, complete, over... once he could leave and think of himself for once, as separate from the larger scheme of things. Unless he died first.

It didn't help to know that really, he was dead now. There was no reason why he couldn't begin to do what they had done; start building his future, bringing his own wishes to fruition. To fulfill whatever whims and personal dreams he might have.

He could hardly begin here, in their home. With them carrying on like that at night. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought vehemently. How was he to remain impartial? To pretend he didn't hear? Didn't want to hear? He acknowledged that he envied them, what they had. But he also had to face that he was jealous. It was too much. To find both of them alive. And together. Fox! His heart constricted inside him, flooding his chest with something like watery grief, once more hot and cold at the same time. He would be a fool to remain here. And yet, he was so tired of running. The irony of it all made him want to laugh. And he wondered why, after all this time, his heart which he had thought long since suppressed and gone, would suddenly leap again.

How was he supposed to retain any dignity at all, in the face of this? He could just see it, day after day, the two of them enjoying each other's company, the security of knowing that they were safe in the other's regard. The love they shared. He realized at this that he must have hidden masochistic tendencies. The ability to withstand levels of pain that were intolerable to most other people, sharpened by the loss of his arm and other traumas he'd survived, was hardly the same as this.

He spent the rest of the night in contemplative agony.

xx

Breakfast was a feast. Bacon, eggs, small steaks of something that was decidedly not beef, butter so light it was almost another entity entirely, some strange kind of bread and fresh coffee. There were other things too, but those were the important ones.

Mulder suspected Skinner was laying it on thick in an attempt to start the day off on the right foot. Despite his other equally obvious attempt to pacify him in the night with particularly hot sex, Mulder found he was unable to relinquish the anger and resentment he felt at Krycek's intrusion into their lives. Mulder had been enjoying a peace he'd never felt before. Days had flitted by easily. He'd gotten more work done than ever, and yet found more chances to enjoy himself. This had all changed the moment Skinner first mentioned Krycek's name a few days ago.

And even in the midst of their lovemaking, Mulder had found himself unable to ignore the fact that Krycek was only two rooms away and most probably listening, getting a kick out of their sex life. Never mind the fact that when he'd finally climaxed, it had been with a frenzy of final, hasty images that he'd been unable to keep out of his head—of going next door and holding Krycek down, hitting him, tying him down, fucking him—

He flushed, looking around the room. Skinner was still outside, in his beloved storeroom near the woodshed. Krycek hadn't yet come back downstairs after retreating there when breakfast was over.

And the anger boiled anew. Goddamned, traitorous, murdering, fucking rat bastard, he thought. After everything, to end up having to take care of him, here. To endure his presence, here. It was horrible. The subject of Alex Krycek had been one of the few things he refused to delve into with Skinner, saying it wasn't important enough to require going over. Now he kind of wished he had. The man set his teeth on edge. And his prettiness, offset by the knowledge of things he'd done, it was almost offensive. He had no right to look so damned pretty; no man should be that pretty. And despite Bill Mulder's own Consortium exploits and his own guilt at having cost Krycek his arm, it still didn't make him feel any better about the ratbastard.

Skinner came in with an armful of wood and immediately began dealing with the fireplace. He cast an absent eye on Mulder before going to the front door again. "I'll be back soon. Got some more things to do," he said.

Mulder only nodded from his customary place on the couch. He sat there, doing nothing, in fact. Although anyone could see that his brain was far from inactive. Abruptly, he shoved himself upwards and went to his own room to rummage about.

After a while, Krycek emerged from the guestroom and went downstairs. Mulder was upstairs; Skinner was outside, out back.

Krycek sat down in the armchair nearest the fire. It was crackling and casting a palpable glow of heat over the room. The smell was deeply welcoming.

He found himself approving of the décor, and the furniture. It was cozy and yet spacious at the same time. And it gave the impression of warmth and comfort while retaining a high quality of taste. He imagined it had to be Skinner who was responsible for this. Having become familiar with Mulder's apartment in DC for so many years, under covert surveillance if not actually physically present, he didn't think Mulder was blessed with such an ability to decorate.

He was still trying to adapt to the fact that nothing was required of him, beyond a modicum of polite help around the place. He didn't need to earn a ranking position in any organizations, there were no secrets to be sold, no ghouls that needed to be iced, no marks to protect, no agents to monitor under surveillance, no bases to infiltrate, no aliens to convince of his loyalty, nothing. He realized he was going to have to adapt to being at peace. The idea was outlandish. His nerves were frayed to hell and back, and yet he still felt edgy as though he expected action. He closed his eyes, trying to find a way to relax. It was too great an effort to be effortless.

Restless from inactivity, he got up and prowled about, familiarizing himself with the house. He wondered why he felt no desire to enter the men's shared bedroom; it was Skinner's actually—but it was obvious that Mulder's own room was never used. Somehow, the need to know everything about the escape routes, from basement to attic, didn't include that room. It was a rule he always kept; always learn the layout. He put it down to wanting to respect their privacy. But secretly, he knew it was because he didn't belong there. Never there. With either of them. Let alone both. The thought had crossed his mind and then quickly fled, as he knew both of them had reason to hate him deeply. Hell, there was no telling what they might do if they caught him in there. He wanted to avoid Mulder's temper, but it was Skinner who actually frightened him. Krycek wasn't afraid of many people but he knew Skinner, especially after his successful and thorough blackmailing of him with the nanocytes, had a righteous grudge against him.

He returned to the living room and sat down, his attempt to feel at home failing miserably as he knew he was out of place here. He wished he'd never come here. Why had he stayed, again? Oh yeah—he'd wanted so badly to see them... together. To see... him. Fox. Not his. Not his Fox, never was. Never would be. Always belonged with someone else.

There was a bowl on the table in front of the couch. It was a large glass bowl, nearly empty of the familiar shelled seeds Mulder was so fond of. Krycek realized Skinner must get them in bulk, and had run out. Another example of touching care, and he sucked in a breath at a little resurgence of the dark hollow thoughts that had morbidly depressed him until the dawn.

He was so very bitter at the way things had panned out eventually; the last time he'd seen Fox Mulder, the man had launched himself at him—Skinner preventing him from getting close enough to hit him. And afterwards, a cold truce borne of necessity to listen and cooperate. He couldn't hope that the way might be fully cleared between them, but he wanted to try at least make a cautious peace with him.

Time passed. He finally wandered over to scan more of the titles on the bookshelves again. He had rather envied the sight of Skinner sitting there so happily engrossed in his book the previous evening.

Skinner, out in the storeroom, found himself examining the number of cans and frozen food they had. He realized he would have to alter the figures, the budget, and the tally to incorporate Krycek's presence in the household. He grabbed a number of cans and small containers of food and took them back into the house, clattering about in the kitchen. Then went back out to the shed, and began counting, doing a stock take so that they could change the numbers when they reordered.

Krycek was growing restless. He went upstairs to his room for a while and missed Skinner's return to the kitchen. He heard him though. By the time he went downstairs, Skinner had gone back out. He hadn't found a book that captured his attention yet, and he ended up sitting in the armchair and thinking, his thoughts chasing one another. There was too much left unspoken, between all of them. The future was uncertain and distant, and the past was pressing up behind them, crushing them with urgent demands for attention and resolution.

He looked up as Mulder suddenly came in the front door, a rush of cold air reminding him of the harshness outside. Their eyes met, Mulder's accusatory glare was as stingingly harsh as the draft. Mulder shut the door behind him and removed his boots. Then his coat and gloves. He ignored Krycek then, moving to the kitchen and pouring himself coffee.

Weird. He'd thought Mulder was upstairs. Maybe he'd gone out the back. There was a back staircase; he must have slipped out. His eyes narrowed. Mulder was avoiding him.

Mulder came into the living room and set his coffee mug down on the table. "Bored already? Why don't you go out back and try some target practice? We don't have any moving ones, though, sorry. Unless you count the birds. But they won't give you much sport—not like people do, anyway. Just make sure you don't hit Walter, by accident."

Krycek pressed his lips together and didn't look at him.

Mulder saw the now full bowl of sunflower seeds sitting on the table. He smiled knowingly, but his tone was scathing. "For me? How thoughtful of you. Should I have my food-taster check them first?"

"I didn't put the fucking seeds there, Mulder. I have more important things to worry about than catering to your weird addictions." This was delivered flatly, with almost no emotion whatever.

Mulder sat down on the couch, and began to pick seeds out of the dish and nibble. Nonchalantly, he said, "So. Going to stay, after all? I would've thought this might be too tense, even for you. What is it that makes you want to stay?"

Krycek found himself fighting conflicting urges, to stay and take part in their usual exchange, or to get up and leave before it escalated out of control. There was a third option of course; there always had been. He could simply state the truth. Confront Mulder with his actual opinion of him, even declare outright that he wanted to get past all this crap. And yet again he dismissed it as pointless—Mulder would either take offense or use it as an opportunity to hurt him. And as always, the latter seemed more likely. A strange desire rose in him: to lick those long fingers, take them in his mouth, roll his tongue softly on them, tasting the sweat and the salt from the sunflower seeds. He tore his gaze away, absently saying, "The ambience. You know I can't refuse a challenge."

"Really? Here's one for you: can you stay here without killing anyone? Without telling any lies? Without betraying anyone, without selling us out? Or how about developing a conscience? Wait, that one's a bit much to ask for, isn't it. I take it back."

Krycek tossed a noncommittal glance at him. "I'm willing to give this a chance. Why aren't you?"

Mulder delivered his next rant with a perfectly flat voice. "You've done things that are... despicable. You're a despicable, sorry creature who should have been flushed away with the rest of the leftover remains, the slimy scum left crawling around blinded by the daylight when the Consortium folded and the Rebellion ended."

"Oh, well. Forgive me for not living up to your expectations. I'm sorry, Mulder—did I disappoint you?"

"Not really. So far, you've lived up to your reputation as pond-scum quite admirably. I'm surprised you wanted out; I thought you'd have felt right at home with the back-stabbing, unethical liars swilling about in the new system, whoring themselves to whoever can pay them enough."

"I came here to die."

"I can give you hand with that," Mulder rejoined, instantly.

When he didn't rise to this, Mulder turned and looked at him. Krycek sat there without answering. His face was downcast, looking at the furry rug on the wooden floor without blinking. He looked forlorn, alone; resigned, as if he had indeed come to this place to die—or at least didn't care if he did.

A twinge of pity panged inside Mulder at the sight and in the next moment he was seized with panic at the realization, followed on its heels by pure rage. Krycek was a slimy, no-good, cock-sucking bastard and he'd be damned if he'd start developing feelings for him.

"What do you want, really? What are you doing here?" Mulder demanded, starting to see red. "You think you can just waltz in here and take over, fuck up my life again? You think I believe your bullshit story, that you want out? I think it's a little too big of a fucking coincidence that you showed up at our door."

Krycek closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Mulder was spoiling for a fight. Probably from the repressed tension of having to play nice, docile and civil in front of Skinner. He wished Skinner would return. "I already told you. Skinner's probably told you. Peterson told you. I'll tell you something else, too, Mulder. You touch me again, I'm leaving. I won't take it from you anymore."

Mulder's eyes flashed somewhat. They never lost that wounded, betrayed look that had always haunted Krycek, but they were certainly darkening with familiar fury now. Why was it that Mulder's fits of rage were always justified? Mulder caught him by surprise though, with his next sentence. "Why did you...? Why do you always let me beat you? Before, I mean. You could have fought back."

Krycek merely stared back at him, anger starting to rise in him, too, at Mulder's stupidity, and unnecessary attitude. "Why did you come here? Gave up on your search for truth, did you? Found it a little too bitter to swallow in the end, after spending all those years waiting for it? And why the hell come all the way out here to play houseboy? What is it about Walter Skinner that does it for you—is it the big daddy or the Marine? Sir, yes, sir," he said, mockingly.

Mulder didn't answer, too surprised and angry that Krycek would attack him on this ground, about his involvement with Skinner.

"My guess is you just needed someone to give it to you up the ass, keep you in line. It was about time, I guess. You needed it for years. You could've just asked. Who knows? I might have obliged you," Krycek snorted. Mulder's face was beginning to turn white with anger again. "S'okay though, Mulder. Looks like you found someone else to do it, instead."

"Son of a bitch," Mulder said in a low voice, his response expelled out of him along with his breath as he started towards him.

Krycek was on his feet faster than Mulder could register.

The sudden appearance of a wicked-looking knife stopped him in his tracks, forcing him to reconsider.

"I've bottomed out here, Mulder, but if you think I'm going to put up with your shit, you're wrong." Krycek's statement was like cold water in his face, reminding him through his anger that the man was a killer.

"What, can't you defend yourself like a man, Krycek? Why do you need that to help you?"

"This is just a deterrent to remind you. Don't play with me if you don't want to get hurt. I won't tolerate you hitting me for your own amusement, or using me for taking out your frustrations on anymore. If you still want a piece of me, let's at least take it outside." Krycek's rational, calm voice wasn't helping Mulder's frame of mind.

Incensed already, he shot back, "Fine; let's go, right now."

Krycek regarded him with no change of expression. "It won't solve anything. You'll just find your ass on the ground. I'm not in the mood for your games anymore, Mulder. Try to keep your games in the bedroom."

He'd meant it as a warning but it only served to enrage Mulder further, who took it as a taunt. He was surprised that Mulder decided to rush him despite the knife. He of course wouldn't ever use it; he had only been trying to make a point. If he'd had a gun on him it would have been more effective—Mulder always did respond better to them, having carried a gun himself for years. Mulder respected guns.

He dropped the knife and started to dodge. But Mulder had already charged, like a bull, and he found himself on the floor, Mulder getting in a few good body blows to his ribs. Here he was, yet again trying to defend himself from the man's violent temper while not harming him in the process. And he wasn't doing a very good job of it either; his heart hadn't been in this in the first place.

Mulder ground his body against Krycek's; Krycek wasn't hard but Mulder was. This upset Mulder even further; he felt embarrassed that he should find this involuntarily arousing and the other man didn't. "What's wrong? Doesn't this do it for you anymore?" he exclaimed, as they grappled, "I thought you got off on letting me beat you. You've been a glutton for punishment this long; don't tell me you've lost your taste for it!" he spat at him.

Krycek couldn't really appreciate the fact that this was Mulder's hard cock pressed up tight and hard against him through their jeans; all he wanted was to get away from him. As usual. And of course not having a very useful left arm didn't help—he didn't want to hurt Mulder with it. Scrabbling under him, trying to get a handhold on something other than the bearskin rug that was sliding and slippery on the wooden floor, Krycek gasped out, "Get real! You're the one who gets off on me, every time! You can't keep your fucking hands off me! Fuck, Mulder, you're practically humping me here. Get—get off me!"

Mulder was already enraged enough without Krycek stating it as baldly as this. He pushed against him with renewed strength. "Don't give me that shit! You're the one who broke into my apartment, threw me against a table and then kissed me at gunpoint!" he exclaimed.

Krycek choked at Mulder's hand pressing against his windpipe. He managed, "I only wanted to get—you—" he wheezed, straining, "-to listen to me, you—stupid—asshole!"

"Fucking faggot, slime-bag, mother-fucking bastard!" Mulder spat, quite unable to find words to properly express how angry he was, furiously contending with the hard left arm Krycek was holding against him as a shield, with him to try to get his hands back on his neck and pound his head against the hardwood floor.

Krycek noticed while blocking the worst of Mulder's right arm with his hard left, that Mulder had apparently forgotten that really that first epithet applied to himself more than Krycek, for all he knew. He was the one currently involved in a committed, long-lasting relationship with another man; he had no idea who Krycek's preferences included. But he wasn't thinking at all, blinded by the biting anger that encompassed him.

Skinner sighed. He'd come in a few moments before and they hadn't even noticed. Well, he suspected Krycek had. And he quickly moved up behind them. "Mulder!" he bellowed, pulling him off of Krycek abruptly, a look of relief flooding Krycek's eyes, even a flicker of gratitude before he looked away. Skinner used his superior weight advantage to keep the straining man from reaching back down and returning to his assault.

Krycek had pulled up his knees and was already starting to crawl away, to a position of safety behind the couch, to catch his wind and assess his bruises. Damn Mulder anyway! Still, he knew this was bound to happen eventually. He was right; the man couldn't keep away from him.

"That is enough," Skinner said, shaking Mulder like a terrier with a rat, hard. He looked back over at Krycek who was still on the floor, doubled-over and panting. Mulder had managed to wind him a couple of times with a well-placed knee. "You," he glared at Krycek, "upstairs, now," Skinner added.

Krycek painfully and slowly pulled himself to his feet and went upstairs to his room, collecting his knife before doing so. Which was noticed by Skinner. Skinner turned to Mulder. "What was with the knife?"

"He drew it when I went for him."

"And why did you go for him?"

"He—Walter, he—" Mulder's voice was pained. "He said that I was basically your—your houseboy. Well, he said more than that, but it was nasty. I just snapped."

"Explain it to me," Skinner said, breathing hard, his anger evident. "From the beginning."

Mulder started off angry, himself, but by the time he'd come to the point where he'd asked Krycek about always letting him hit him without defending himself, and Krycek's reply about—Walter and himself... he couldn't bring himself to repeat it.

"And that's when he snapped. Which is when I snapped."

"I've had just about enough of this as I'm going to take," Skinner declared, "and it's time Krycek learned a lesson, too. If he wants to stay here, he's going to have to stay under the same conditions you do. When we're through here, I want you to go to our room and stay there until I'm done with him."

This however caused Mulder to sit up sharply and stare at him, alarmed. "What are you going to do?" The fear and concern was evident in Mulder's voice.

Skinner frowned at him, confused. "What are you afraid of? You don't care if you beat him black and blue but if I spank him it's too much?" An expression of realization spread over his face. "Oh, I get it; you can use him as your personal punch bag but no one else is allowed to touch him. And you don't want me touching him because you're afraid that it'll interfere with what we have. Am I right?"

A ripple of guilt crossed him. "Yeah. Something like that. Look, what we do, it doesn't include him. Okay, I can see how he'd benefit from it. But he isn't —I mean, he's not—surely you aren't going to let him into our relationship! "

"Fox, I thought you understood. I discipline you because I love you, but not as part of our relationship. I do it as a friend because it's the only check on your temper that works. Just because a taste of the same might help straighten him out too doesn't mean he's suddenly in our bed. That's a separate issue. And one you and I are going to have to talk about."

Skinner's face relented somewhat.

"I've got more reasons than you do for hating him, Fox. The man killed me and then brought me back, in pain. He blackmailed me, has hurt you and Dana and others I care about, more than once. And on many occasions, he's used me, exploited me to further his own agenda, whichever one he might have running alongside whatever twisted events happened to be unfolding. But I'm over it—I can understand his justifications and excuses. I don't agree or condone them but I understand them. It was during a war and people do things they regret under difficult circumstances. I don't agree with it but I can let it go. You're problem is a lot more personal. It's really fucked-up, in fact. It won't be easy untangling this. But you realize I'm going to have to tan your hide for what you said to him. That was inexcusable."

Mulder stared. "What? Why? What did I say—"

Skinner stared at him, penetratingly. "You called him a faggot. You said other things, too. I heard what you were yelling as I came back up to the house. And you were pounding on him again. You damage him inside every time you do that. You hurt his feelings, whatever shreds of them there are left. I wanted to offer to help him rebuild his psyche, not send it into permanent exile along with his previous identity. He looks up to you. And he looks up to me. You aren't helping him."

Mulder stopped, stock-still. The light turned on behind his eyes and he began to hear what Skinner was saying. The more he hurt Krycek, the less respect Skinner had for him.

"Calling him names, insulting him like a school bully. You always threaten him with violence, hurl sexual crudities at him and then do what you can to demean him. And I can't tell you how sad it makes me that you are still capable of such immature behavior, Fox. But that isn't the worst of it. I can't believe you ran into a knife. You saw he had it. You went for him anyway. I don't want to lose you, Fox. I love you, you know that! At least, I thought you did. I don't want you dead. He's a trained killer; you might want to ask yourself why you continuously throw yourself at someone who could have killed you several times over by now. It is unacceptable to me both as your friend and your lover. You have to learn to control your temper. Now. Assume the position."

Mulder drew up tight with dismay and anger. "God, not—not out here! He'll hear!"

Skinner nodded. "I know. That's partly why I want to do it here and now. It's important that he understand what lies ahead for him. He's going to have to submit to this too, if he wants to remain here. If I don't enforce our rules, and also make sure they apply to you as well, we don't have a foundation anymore and we might as well all pack up and go. Fox, I won't say it again; assume the position."

Mulder's stomach went cold and muddled inside at the thought of Krycek listening to what was to come. It was too private, it was too personal. It was purely between them, a dynamic of their relationship that Krycek had no part knowing about. "Walt..."

Skinner gave him a searching look. "Fox, that's part of the punishment. I know you don't want him to hear. But it's important that he does, and it's important that you get used to it, too. Either he'll stay, or he won't. And it bothers you that he might understand how it is that I keep you in line—how he'll be kept in line. And you've earned yourself twenty extra swats for this."

Mulder bit back a retort. He wanted to demand what or who was going to keep Walter in line if they were his whipping-boys and could be punished at the slightest thing. Slightly askew from the truth but even so... And realized that so far, Skinner was well within his right to assert dominance, mete justice and punishment however he saw fit. It was his home. Mulder swallowed, realizing he'd jeopardized not only his relationship with Walter, but his life, and his tenancy. Feeling entirely angry and ridiculous, venomously cursing Krycek silently in his mind, he pulled down his pants and shorts, and swore he'd find a way to pay Krycek back for placing him in this predicament. Krycek was probably going to laugh his ass off. He wouldn't be able to look him in the face again without that snide, sneering smugness in his eyes—even worse than before.

He bent over the edge of the couch, and as Skinner began to swat him with merely his bare hand, not even a belt, he steadfastly refused to give in, to let Krycek hear even a single cry.

Soon though, he was hollering out loud, unable to keep it in. How did he manage to forget every time, that Walter had such strength in his arms?!

Upstairs, Krycek was stunned for the third time in less then twenty-four hours. First, to find these two alive and well, living in what he'd been looking forward to being his home, his safety net for a while. Second, to hear them having sex—correction, to have to listen to Mulder's orgasm, which in itself was interesting and yet unbearable at the same time. Third, this new sound at which he had not be able to believe his ears, quickly joined by Mulder's voice again, this time in pain? Skinner, spanking Mulder?! He shook his head slowly, wondering if he really wanted to remain here. There was something about this that made him feel uneasy, in fact—downright queasy inside. Yet, the thought that it took only a whipping to keep Mulder in line; he wanted to laugh. That quickly fled when he realized that Skinner was probably going to ask him to leave.

There was no way that they were going to go through with this. The situation had already broken down once. The next time it might be worse. And Mulder had proven that he could not control himself around him. Who was wrong and would have to go? Skinner's lover... or their mutual enemy, the intruder into their private life together?

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Torn. He didn't want to remain in this —frankly—weird house with rules and Mulder's temper and hatred of him, and Skinner's disciplinary measures. But he didn't want to leave the only place he had finally come to at the end of his rope, the last attempt he had managed to arrange in his life for a place to hole up. To heal. The end of the road. The only other option, if he left here, was to go out back, off-road rather than return to civilization, and stay there with the wolves until the wilderness took pity and finished him off. He sat with his head in his hands, experiencing the incredibly intense and somehow wonderful sensation of choosing life with it's absurd pains and trials, or death. Cold, clean death. Beautiful death, for real this time, not just a ruse, a trick. A way out. He should have known he wouldn't be able to cheat it in the end. All those lives he had taken over the years, snuffed out, no matter how necessary had been their deaths, how justly deserved. He'd survived this far. What was the point now? He couldn't see any reason to carry on. His one wish, to find 'home', somewhere... he put his face in his hands and sighed, hating with one absent part of his mind yet again, the sensation of one cold unyielding hand and one warm one against his face.

Mulder stood, pulling back up his pants.

"Do you need another one, Fox? I'm quite willing to do it again if you think that's what it will take to get you to behave like an adult. I don't want to have to find you bullying him ever again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir." But there was still a trace of fire in those deceptively mild brown eyes, staring so soulfully and sorrowfully after the tears had been hastily wiped away.

Skinner sighed to himself. The only way this was going to be resolved was with patience and the defusing of the conflict situation between them. Mulder needed to face his feelings towards Krycek, and Krycek needed to face his feelings, period. Privately, Skinner suspected Krycek would respond better to authority than Mulder ever would, given he understood the stakes. If he elected to remain, that is.

"We have to talk, later. After I deal with him. And when I find out whether he'll be staying, or leaving. Go upstairs. I'll probably have to do this down here. Unless you want me to do this in his room?"

Mulder shook his head. "I'm going outside. I need—to clear my head. Think things over."

"Okay. You gonna be alright?" Skinner let his concern and feeling for him enter back into his voice. The effect was immediate. Suddenly Mulder was holding him tight, hugging him almost desperately.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he whispered, muffled into Skinner's sweater.

Skinner was flooded with relief, returning the hug warmly. "It's alright, I understand. It's a bit much, seeing him again like this. We both knew this would be difficult. But it's probably a good thing. At least we can get this sorted out. No matter what happens, it at least gives us a little closure."

"Yeah," Mulder answered thickly before pulling away. He placed a warm kiss on his cheek and then went to the front door, pulling on his boots once more. "I won't go far. But don't come looking. I'll be a while."

Skinner nodded. As the front door closed behind Mulder, he found himself looking at the stairs, wondering how on earth he was supposed to enjoy 'retirement' when he was having to act simultaneously as a therapist for shell-shocked veterans of a cold war against several arrayed alien forces amidst the blind stupidity of a schizophrenic global government. As well as a father figure to two overgrown, emotionally-stunted boys, keeping from killing each other simply because they were too blind to see how much they needed each other. Retirement. Right.

He went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. There was a murmur of assent and he opened it. He stood in the doorway, not coming in. Krycek hadn't begun packing at least. That was a good sign. But he looked shuttered, withdrawn, sitting on the edge of the bed, unmoving. He fully expected to be told to leave, Skinner realized.

"Fox displays all the characteristics of a spoiled brat when he doesn't get his way," Skinner explained. "We discovered that a check was needed to help him to learn what is and is not acceptable behavior. A light spanking seems to do the trick. Sometimes a more vigorous approach is needed. We don't let it interfere with any other part of our life here, either. It's simply discipline. Knowing him as you do, I'm sure you'll agree that something that keeps him in line is beneficial to all." His eyes even twinkled at that, remembering the first time he'd done it. Mulder had been utterly floored. The look on his face had been priceless.

Krycek found his lip curling up despite himself. He almost chortled. "Yeah, yeah I can." And winced as he pulled a muscle that was too sore still from the bruising. His expression turned blank again. Waiting. He didn't look at him. Feeling almost lightheaded from the expectation. Waiting for the words to ring in his head with finality.

"I have a proposal that I'd like you to consider," Skinner said, enjoying the way these unexpected words hit him. "An equal standing with Fox here, where you accept a like-punishment for your involvement in this little skirmish you two had. I am not suggesting for a moment that I would abuse you. Nor would I abuse your trust, in allowing me to punish you for bad behavior, or remaining here under our roof—my roof, as a guest. Despite the fact that Fox is still unpredictable and needs to sort out his reaction to you. Who knows, a spanking might do some good to sort out your guilt complex. You have a bad one, Alex. Or you wouldn't let him hit you. You don't tolerate it from anyone else. I'm asking you to tolerate it from me as well, not just from Fox Mulder. Although given your... history," the somewhat sarcastic tone was not lost on Krycek, nor was the looking him up and down, "it probably wouldn't be enough."

Krycek couldn't believe his ears. "You're—actually suggesting that I let you spank me?"

"Yes. You contributed to that scene downstairs. Granted, I know he was going to break at some point. But you didn't help. And you could have avoided the worst of it. There was no need for you to provoke him the way that you did, towards the end there. You said some things that cut right to the quick. You made him feel ashamed for being here with me. I'd say that's grounds for a spanking, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not a child," Krycek said, tightly. The disbelief was apparent though, and behind it an anxious fear.

"You're acting like one," Skinner replied. He sighed wearily. "What's it going to be, boy?" He said it, knowing it would nettle him.

A ripple of anger visibly washed over him at the use of that word. "I don't have to take this."

"No, you don't," Skinner agreed. "You're free to go, in fact. Go on, leave. You come in here, with all the baggage and reminders of our painful past, our long-standing enemy—both of us have personal reason enough to kill you and feel good about it afterwards, at least for a while. You're also a distraction and a hindrance to our own relationship. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. Not to mention give me back my peace of mind. Somehow, I can't imagine why, I find it hard to sleep with you under this roof. I don't know how you do it, either, to be honest. Fox would like nothing better than to nail you to the floor... and I don't mean fucking you. Although I'm sure it's very prominent in the back of his mind. That's why he's reacting this way to your presence here."

Krycek flushed at this last part and his eyes slid away. He'd been calm and relatively accepting of what was being said until then. Interesting, Skinner thought. "Right now, he wants nothing more than to beat you to a pulp."

His eyes downcast, his cheeks surprisingly red, Krycek said in a low voice, "He already has. Repeatedly. It's his favorite pastime."

"Yeah, but I notice that you always let him."

Krycek's heart was burning inside his chest—even more so than his face.

He looked so desperate, so vulnerable. Walter wondered if he yet realized what effect he had on him. He licked his lips with a pink tongue, the sight sending a flicker of arousal through Walter who sternly ordered himself to ignore it for now.

Walter suspected that he desperately wanted to be accepted into their little situation here to the fullest extent. He couldn't help but think it probably might work, if he really wanted to stay with them. The younger man was probably one of the few people that they could relate with, given their common history. And it would help get Mulder over his obsession with him.

Skinner was actually wondering why it didn't bother him that the same man who his lover was still experiencing suppressed desire and longing for after all this time was now in the same house. He realized he had always wanted to see Krycek redeemed—and this seemed the most reasonable and loving way to do it. If Skinner could forgive him and accept him into their life here, help him regain his heart and soul, get Fox sorted out simultaneously, maybe they could all lay their ghosts to rest. And begin their healing and retirement for real, rather than hiding from the pain of their collective past.

He saw how Krycek had always been competition too, holding one last key to Fox's heart—his lover, his Fox, his own Fox... and yet. The chance to hold the other key to Alex's heart himself, gave him the edge. He could keep both. He would certainly try.

Certainly it was also an irresistibly tempting possibility as Krycek had always been a stunningly good-looking man. He wondered if Krycek had ever realized that deep down, despite the anger and resentment of being blackmailed by him, he had felt a sorrowful regard and acknowledgement at how far the boy agent had fallen in the years afterwards. Finding maturity in the harsh cruelty of alien agendas and scheming old men who thought nothing of feeding humanity to their enemies.

He found himself looking forward to seducing him with loving kindness. But Krycek did not need that yet; first things first.

Krycek for his part, though, was upset, visibly shaken by his own reactions. They were a lot stronger than he'd imagined. He'd thought he could control the pain that it caused him every time Mulder attacked him. He muttered, "It's all I can expect from him. I let him hit me because I hurt him. It's the only way he can relate with me."

"That's pretty screwed-up, wouldn't you agree? I'm not making a judgment here, just saying that it doesn't really help in the long run. But it still doesn't excuse what you did. Your part in what happened."

Krycek defiantly looked up at him. "He won't listen, he won't believe me. It wouldn't have mattered what I said, he still would have gone for me."

"Not quite good enough. And you know it. Pull down your jeans and come over here," Skinner ordered him flatly, sitting down in the armchair in the corner of the room. It was a low chair, and quite long, almost like a short couch. It was a two-seater.

For a moment, he thought Krycek would turn and stalk out. A dangerous variety of emotions quickly played over his face but Krycek stood for a few moments. His hand went to undo the buttons of his jeans and he slipped the dark denim down past slim hips, revealing his briefs. They were black, snug and fit him too well. Skinner found himself catching his breath—they offset Krycek's pale skin and male beauty in a way that seemed wicked, sinful, as if it were hard to remember that he was not an innocent. It was like looking at something forbidden.

Ah, the pitfalls to avoid, in being a disciplinary authority figure. He wondered which was worse; the need to keep his arousal at bay with Krycek, or the way he always had to stop himself from bursting out loud with laughter whenever Mulder dropped his own pants—it didn't actually happen that often but whenever it did, Mulder seemed to be wearing a new pair of hilariously entertaining shorts. In fact, his taste in shorts was worse than his taste in ties. Or better, if one counted the amusement factor.

Krycek moved slowly forward and stood beside him, allowing Skinner to draw him down over his knees. "Jesus," Krycek managed, slightly breathless and feeling torn between anger and shame. He was not at all happy with the way things had turned out. Being laid across Skinner's lap like a kid—not only was it humiliating and a little pointless, he felt, but it was very hard to take seriously. He was just glad that it was on the couch, allowed to lean and balance himself with his right arm and he wasn't just hanging over the man's knees; it felt precarious as it was.

Skinner's tone went hard. "No one is ever too old for a spanking, if they are behaving like a child throwing a tantrum. I won't tolerate attitudes like the one you have, or like Fox has. I have had about as much of this as I'm going to take." He gathered Krycek closer and settled him on his lap, reaching up to pull his right arm back down and hold his wrist in the small of his back. He landed a volley of hard slaps onto the firm black mounds situated across his lap. Krycek was unmoved. Skinner laid into him a little harder, knowing he could take it.

Krycek didn't even flinch. Skinner almost sighed aloud. He should've known it would be tougher than with Fox. But he was more than aware that it would have to go farther to get Krycek to open up. He said in his best AD voice, "Stand up."

Krycek didn't move. "What? That's it?!" The surprise and incredulity made Skinner smile.

"Not at all. Get up." He helped Krycek to his feet off him and then looked up at him, standing there. "Pull those down too. The material's absorbing too much. It's more effective without them."

A ripple of distaste crossed Krycek's face, his apprehension obvious. "I'm not into sick games."

"No, I'm sure all your games are very healthy, very conducive to your partners' peace of mind," he agreed, allowing himself a measure of sarcasm. "This isn't about sex, Alex, and you can leave anytime you want to. There's the door. But if you want to finish this, and see it through to the end, you'll do as I tell you."

Krycek could see his point. His eyes narrowed as he considered his options, which were actually rather simple. Stay—or go? Of course it was out of the question that he leave over something so trivial as a spanking; and Skinner didn't really seem to be getting anything out of it. In fact, it was this that finally enabled him to make the decision. Skinner seemed to be motivated purely by his concern for him. There was something about that that moved him inside, left him feeling empty, forcing him to face that turbulent dark place he usually only faced at night, alone with his own mind. Why should Skinner care? With a touch of curiosity, he decided to go along with this.

He inched his briefs down past his knees, to his ankles, exposing himself. Where he stood, his groin was right in the man's face. Skinner paid no attention and detachedly helped him lean back down across his lap, ensuring this time that no part of Krycek's crotch was in contact with his own jeans, situated in fact just before his right leg, it being Krycek's chest and stomach that was over his knees. He didn't want to mix sexual signals with this initial induction into punishment. Skinner was of the firm belief that sex should be a comfort, not a disciplinary measure.

Besides, he knew the other man would be unable to ignore it, himself, particularly given the fact that it was obvious that Skinner and Mulder were bed partners, lovers, and entirely romantic about it. Probably sickeningly so, to the outsider since his arrival. He hoped it would bring Krycek in a little closer to have to face the fact that he wanted their acceptance, wanted to be part of that closeness. And of course wanted Mulder... Hell, it was alright with Skinner; he was already decidedly interested by the sight of the delectable ass in front of him, and that smooth back visible by the riding up of his sweater and shirt, the slight figure. Alex was a smaller man than either Mulder or himself, and beautiful too—he shook his head to bring himself back. He needed to remain focused...

He didn't touch him, but as he spoke, he felt Krycek tighten as if anticipating the blows. "Now, let's go over this again. You threatened Fox with a weapon. After I specifically forbade any in this house. I told you, no fights. And you agreed."

Skinner seemed to be awaiting his answer, so he said a little defensively, "I was defending myself."

SMACK!

He jumped, then cursed himself for doing so—it had stung a little, nothing more; he was more surprised than anything else.

"Come on! I never would have used it!" his exclamation was more than a little anxious.

But Skinner interrupted him. "Never, ever break the rules. I outlined the ground rules when you arrived. They exist for a reason. Tell me what that reason is."

Another loud crack as Skinner's hand fell upon his butt, this time leaving a clear handprint upon his white skin.

Krycek's voice was strained slightly, and not from the spanking so far, either. Shit, he could grow to like this, he realized, never having been in a situation like this before. There was something about the way Skinner held him there in place with his ass exposed. He didn't want to analyze that just now. In fact, he found himself distressed to discover that he was getting really hard. But the alternative was to focus on why he was having to endure this in the first place. He swallowed in a throat that had gone unaccountably dry. "Safety. There's no need for anything to be worked out here with violence. We can talk it through. And we only use weapons in self-defense."

"Yes, in the unlikely event that we have unwelcome visitors. I'll admit the chances of that happening have increased substantially since your arrival here, Alex, but I also trust your instincts. You are to tell me if you even get a whiff of something not being right."

Krycek nodded, wondering where this was leading.

"But you threatened Fox with a knife. And that is inexcusable."

SMACK! SMACK!!

And now Skinner began to speak, swatting him very hard after each word to punctuate them, "You—will—never—do—it—again!"

Krycek's ass was reddening and though he didn't move or flinch, he was taut and poised like the string of a bow, tensed. Indeed, the muscles of his ass were clenched tight. "No, I won't. I'll remember," he ground out.

"Good. And now, I'm going to give you thirty more, for arguing with him, encouraging him and even provoking him, instead of doing the right thing. Which was?" Skinner prompted.

"I should have gone to you. We should have talked—you could have talked him down."

"That's right." And without warning, Skinner launched into a severe series of swats, turning the reddened cheeks scarlet.

Krycek finally gasped halfway through and couldn't help squirming in an inadvertent attempt to escape them.

To his consternation, the force of Skinner's strength he could feel behind the blows, as well as the fact that his bare butt was exposed so vulnerably, began to take it's toll. Not the mention the sound of Skinner's hand on his heating flesh—it sounded—almost—erotic. His cock was so hard now, and yet he was also feeling as though Skinner could see right through anything he might say. He was used to pain, he was also used to torture, having unfortunately been interrogated in the past. But nothing had ever struck him so close to the heart as this. It was as if the barricade of his carefully erected shields he'd constructed around his heart were being torn down, like the walls of a child's snow fort, and offering as little protection.

The humiliation of this was more than Krycek could bear and it was that that finally made him cry out as Skinner delivered several more short but very sharp, heavy-handed swats to his ass.

And finally he tried to say something. "P-please!" The gasp was ripped from Krycek's mouth as he panted, unable to keep from shuddering under the weight of Skinner's palm bouncing off of his blazing asscheeks. In the back of his mind, he found himself actually entertaining the possibility that this might be fun, under different circumstances... and he blushed furiously. Hating it. He'd played many kinds of games before, but nothing had ever reached down into the core of him like this. He suspected it was because the sexual aspect was held at bay, and could be used afterwards. He wondered how Skinner would receive such a suggestion. And then wondered why the hell he was even considering it, even as he was twitching and jumping in his lap. H-he didn't want this, he didn't want sex with them, he didn't want into their bedroom—did he?

Skinner stopped. "We're done with that now. But I think you need to tell me something. Why do you think that you can't talk with Mulder and tell him why you let him hit you? You know why he lost his temper with you. You didn't answer his question and he deserved an answer. Now, I want you to tell me. I'm going to spank you until you do." Skinner spoke his next sentence very slowly and carefully. "Why do you let him hurt you?"

And Skinner paused momentarily, giving Krycek a chance to think it over, to speak before he started. When Krycek resolutely remained silent, he began. Little red welts were beginning to rise. But he swiftly brought his hand down harder, sharply, letting himself put more into it. His hand would hurt afterwards but he didn't want to change the flow of events by getting up and finding something else to use.

He knew Krycek needed it; it would allow him to break down in a way that could then be worked with, give him the catharsis that he needed, to let himself trust Skinner enough to at least talk with him openly.

Krycek's whole cycle with Mulder of bait, attack, provoke, pummel and finally fight, always letting Mulder punish him for his 'sins' was a vicious circle. And always it ended without any real resolution. Skinner was tired of dealing with Mulder's suppressed love/hate/desire problem that was so tied up with Krycek, reinforced by literally years of brutal encounters. Not only did it detract from their own relationship (not that he ever would have wanted anything that violent, regardless of the passion it fostered) but it also left Krycek in a helpless spiral, forever falling backwards into himself in a depression of guilt and self-recrimination. It was entirely unhealthy, and with this in mind, he leaned into the spanking with renewed vigor.

Finally, Krycek was gasping open-mouthed, and unable to stop twisting under the spanking that continued mercilessly. Okay. This had ceased to be arousing long ago. He wanted to confess but it would cost too much to do so. He wanted to blurt out the answer that would end this painfully humiliating and yet surreal experience. And he wanted Skinner's support, he needed him to believe him. Somehow, he didn't think Skinner would be able to. Especially since he was Mulder's...lover. He silently swore at the thought, as it ripped into him yet again, more painfully than anything Skinner or even Mulder could ever subject him to. Every time he saw what they shared, it made him bleed inside. With envy, mostly, though the other things also left him feeling black and empty. And the ache to be loved the way Skinner so obviously doted on Mulder, and to be able to dote on Mulder, himself... it was too much. Breakfast had left him bleeding inside. "Stop, stop," Krycek said, getting angry at the pleading tone of his voice, his own loss of control and his own level of anxiety.

"Not until you tell me, Alex!" Skinner said. He kept up the blows, letting the stinging swats land repeatedly on the same spot four or five times before moving to another, occasionally wandering down to the tender skin of his upper thighs—that seemed to get quite a jerking response.

"Fuck, fuck you! Damn it—I—I love him! Alright?! What do you want me to say?! Fuck!—tvoyu mat!—" And he dissolved into a stream of helpless curses that were so ragged as to be unintelligible; the curses interlaced with breathless attempts to suck air in for more invectives so jumbled up Skinner couldn't even place what languages they were. He stopped spanking him, breathing heavily himself. He hadn't expected to find this such a demanding task. He was hard-pressed not to turn him over and kiss him passionately, reassure him. He realized Krycek had probably surprised himself with that little outburst and would have to deal with it.

Krycek was shaking. What? Love? Why? Why had he said that? He didn't love Mulder—he couldn't stand him. The man was cruel, abusive and intolerably mean to him. It always hurt to be around him. Sure, he wanted him, who wouldn't want a body like his, an ass like that. But 'love'? Never! He would be damned to hell before saying something like that to him, let alone 'admitting' it.

"Alex? ALEX!" Skinner demanded. He waited until Krycek had stilled in his lap, trembling uncontrollably. And then continued, "You are going to have to tell him."

"No!" But the explosive denial was laced with desperation and a definite pleading.

"Why shouldn't he know!? He deserves to know." Skinner let his hand fall heavily upon the scarlet cheeks once, to make the point.

"N-no!" gasped Alex, his voice tight and harsh as he desperately tried to twist out of Skinner's grasp.

"Why?!" Skinner demanded again, this time letting his hand fly free several times in quick succession.

"I—I'm—" Alex's eyes had filled, the tears now spilling down his face, splashing full and heavy though he hardly noticed as he continued, "I'm not good enough for him." He bowed his head, letting the truth of it wash over him, leaving him feeling almost clean. It felt surprisingly good to let it out. He hadn't known that he'd find the words. And they were so simple. But the cost; he felt as though something had broken inside him.

Skinner knew something had broken too, and he knew what it was. It was his heart. Because Alex thought he wasn't good enough for Fox. Skinner sat there, feeling unexpectedly stunned at this revelation. Not only was it surprising that he had such an inferiority complex, but it was a breakthrough. Krycek's guilt ran deep, he suspected, but he hadn't realized that he thought so little of himself in respect to the object of his infatuation. Must be the integrity thing, he thought to himself. Having built Mulder up in his head as a shining example of nobility—Christ, it was no wonder he let him beat him up constantly.

Alex continued, "Please... please!" His voice dwindled to an almost inaudible whisper. "Please don't tell him. Please!" The tears had become a stream now, flowing unceasing, blinding him.

Skinner took a breath and searched for the words that would stabilize this situation. It was rapidly spiraling and he didn't want it degenerating into the relief zone and then depression, too quickly. He understood Krycek's cathartic need to let it out—however deeply in ran—but they needed also to get clear that his version of how things stood were not necessarily the reality.

He kept his voice soothing and gentle, calm. "I won't tell him. Alex, why shouldn't he know?" He kept his hand on his ass, feeling the way the heat radiated and flamed his palm and fingers. He didn't move it though, aware that the simple caress would burn. He just left it there, almost reassuringly reminding him he was still in charge, while lending a certain amount of support, that he was there for him.

"Because he doesn't want me!" There were actually silent sobs issuing forth, now; Krycek was shaking, his shoulders and the hand that Skinner still held firmly by the wrist, keeping it pinned behind his back, quivering under the strain. "He hates me, he hates me!"

Skinner knew Fox was in the hallway, nearly outside the door listening to this. His days in the V.C.-infested jungles hadn't left him dull and he'd heard the cautious footsteps earlier, well before any of this confession had begun. Good, he thought, maybe it'll shake him up enough to make him see a little sense. It went against the principle of the thing but he knew Fox would benefit from hearing it from Krycek's own lips, as a confession and under spanking, no less. As opposed to an open declaration face-to-face under tension and threat of renewed eruptions of temper from Fox... or even from Skinner—Fox might think that he was trying to speak on Krycek's behalf. Fox knew the process firsthand and could hardly deny the honesty that was extracted during the experience.

But Krycek had finally broken and was crying now, not entirely silently either, unable to keep quiet the moans and tiny sobs that punctuated the ragged breaths he tried to take.

Skinner let a frown color his voice. "Are you sure he hates you? How do you know? Have you asked him?"

And Krycek almost gave a short laugh in a hysterical voice, "Are you kidding?! He—he would laugh. There's no way he'd ever believe me..." and he could no longer speak, as a pang of pure pain squeezed inside of him, like a metal band around his heart, finally releasing him, wringing open-mouthed cries from him, his shoulders shaking.

Skinner knew that Krycek had now reached the point he needed to, in order to fully face how he felt and what he wanted from the bizarre arrangement they had. Time for the next step. Gently and firmly helping him to lift himself back onto his feet, he then pulled the younger man against him, letting him sit on his lap and easing him down gently with caution for his sore butt, and cradling him against his broad chest. He held him close, one hand on his head, stroking his hair. "There," Skinner said, quietly. "It's alright. It's over now."

Krycek continued to weep with little gulps, trying desperately to stop. He hated feeling this open, this vulnerable to attack. He felt like an animal, or indeed a child, expecting any moment to be pushed away and told to get out. He also felt incredibly stupid. He was a grown man. Part of him was screaming that he was so desperate for attention, any kind of positive attention, that he was allowing himself to be drawn into this twisted little game Skinner and Mulder had going. Another part of him rebelled against that, knowing that he'd do virtually anything to be able to share at least a small part of the amount of care and affection he'd had to endure watching from the sidelines since his arrival. It was driving him insane. He hadn't been touched in far too long, and he wanted to relax in Skinner's arms but a part of him still didn't believe that the man was serious.

Skinner kissed the top of his head. Krycek froze. Skinner wasn't sure if he'd gone too far for this first time but Krycek didn't move. He carefully placed light kisses down the side of his face, to his cheek, and Krycek moved his face numbly towards him so their lips met, just barely. Krycek kept his eyes closed, waiting for Skinner to move back. When he didn't, Krycek moved his face up, leaving Skinner no mistake that he was offering his mouth.

Skinner found himself relieved; Krycek did want it, after all. And pressed his mouth to Krycek's more firmly, tasting his full, plush lips and finding traces of tears even there.

Krycek was surprised; he hadn't expected to feel so safe, so comforted here. And being held in Skinner's arms, no less! He wondered at the feeling of security and affection that surrounded and suffused him, even as Skinner's probing tongue casually flicked against the tip of his own. He wanted to relax now, to go ahead and let down his guard completely. And he realized, he owed Skinner this; this was the best way to clear the way between them—to actually trust Skinner not to hurt him.

He let his mouth open further and returned the kiss more deeply. To be forgiven and then to receive this... attention... acceptance... it was enough to cause a resurgence of tears to trickle down. Skinner felt it as he broke down again, and caught them all, kissing them away, while murmuring softly, "It's alright, Alex. You don't have to go. I want you to stay here, with us. I'll be here for you. It's all over now, and you can let it go."

He found Krycek clutching him hard, his face pressed against his shirt, taking comfort from his heartbeat, his warmth. He rocked him gently, quietly, keeping his arms wrapped around him.

"We can work this out. We'll talk, all three of us. Okay? I won't let him hurt you anymore."

Krycek didn't reply, he couldn't. He just wanted to die, like this. He wanted to fall asleep here and never wake up again. It was the first time he'd ever felt like this; usually he prayed for insomnia, because the nightmares when he did sleep were so terrible. Dark silos, vomiting up oil aliens, car bombs, men with garrotes and wires, faceless aliens with burning torches and having his arm sawed off with hot blades did not make for very palatable dreams.

Unfortunately, it had to end. Skinner shifted, restlessly, as he was growing stiff from sitting in the same position for so long.

Softly, he said, "You alright?"

Krycek only nodded.

Skinner drew a breath. "I'm going to go downstairs. Come on down when you feel up to it. Why don't you go wash your face, gather your thoughts? I'll wait, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Krycek's voice was still rough from crying.

Skinner hugged him close again, tight. "You're staying right here. You're not going anywhere. I want you, in whatever capacity you decide. If you're not comfortable with anything but friendship, that's fine as well. But consider accepting this, too." He kissed the top of his head again and then got up, helping him to stand and ease his pants back up over his crimson welts.

Skinner left the room, returning in a few moments with some gel. He tossed it onto Krycek's bed. "Here, put this on it. It'll ease the soreness." He didn't miss the thoughtful, grateful expression on Krycek's face.

Returning downstairs, he saw Mulder's boots by the door. He looked around the room, went to the kitchen. Nothing. He went into the pantry. Then the utility room. Mulder was there, stuffing clothes roughly into the washing machine.

He stood up after thrusting the last set of socks into it and turned the switch. Then turned to face Skinner.

"You heard?" Skinner asked.

Mulder bit his lips, licking them, thinking. "Yeah."

"What do you think? I think it could work, but it's up to you."

Mulder realized what he was saying. In terms of authority, Skinner was in charge. But in their relationship, Mulder was the one who called the shots. It was he who decided how far, how often, and how deep the affection ran. In the beginning, Skinner had been taken aback at Mulder's eagerness to take their friendship to the next level. He hadn't thought the younger man would accept his advances. Mulder had practically had to seduce him. He shoved his hands in his back pockets. "He has to earn it."

Skinner considered him, a curious frown marring his right brow just barely. "How?"

"Good behavior. He has to prove that he really has changed; that he values what we have here. He has to understand that he's not calling anything, he's—that he's—" Mulder stopped, not able to find the right way of putting what he meant into words.

"Bottom dog," Skinner finished.

"Yeah. He has to accept it, and like it. If he really meant what he said upstairs, then he will anyway. But he has to show it. He has to make us believe it."

"Yeah, okay. For how long?"

"How long? For good! For as long as he's here."

"No, I mean, how long does he have to prove it to us? Before we let him into—" Skinner paused, meeting his eyes, before finishing, "into our bed."

Mulder stopped at this, chewing his lower lip with consideration. "Your bed is your call, whenever you decide. But my bed? That's a different story. I might never, or I might tomorrow. I don't know. And please don't try to convince me either. It has to be in my own time. Alright?"

"Agreed. That's only fair. Alright. Do you want me to talk to him? Or should we discuss this openly, all three of us?"

Mulder shook his head. "You talk to him. But go ahead and tell him that if he wants to talk to me, I promise not to lose it again. I won't go for him." He looked at Skinner again, more shamefaced. "I promise, okay? I won't hit him. I'll behave. I'll give him a chance. And Jesus, Walt—I really do hope for our sakes that he isn't giving us a line."

Skinner made a face. "Yeah, I know. But I don't think even he is a good enough actor to spill his guts the way he did up there with me, and not mean it. He might be able to cry on demand, to make it look good, but I don't think he'd lie about the way he feels about you. Maybe I'm wrong. But if he really intended to do us harm, he could have killed us last night. He isn't sloppy; he wouldn't need to wait this long. And he has no reason to. Especially considering who he is. I think he really would have more to fear from those lunatics out there than we do."

"I know." Mulder nodded.

Skinner sighed. "I'm going to go see where he is. I don't want him brooding for too long. I'm responsible for seeing him through what we started."

Mulder sniggered suddenly. "Mother hen, huh? You realize what a fucked-up family this is becoming?"

"God, if I'd known... I almost wish I'd stayed here alone." Skinner shot him a grin though.

Mulder shared it, and then frowned, as a thought occurred to him. "Where'd you get those sunflower seeds? I thought we ran out weeks ago. Did you have them in the storeroom?"

"No." Skinner stared at him. "No, I didn't. I thought you put them out."

They both looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of the guest room... and then exchanged a look.

Mulder found himself biting his lip, suddenly feeling a dart of shame pass through him.

Skinner nodded slightly. "Give him a chance."

Mulder stood where he was, wondering why he hadn't picked up on this earlier. He knew Walter was right. He had overreacted, blown his top and very nearly destroyed something delicate that was in the making. And he began wondering what it meant that Krycek, Alex rat-bastard Krycek, had said—while sobbing—that he loved him.

Mulder remained in the washroom, standing there, thinking.

When Skinner entered the living room, however, Krycek was sitting in the armchair as though everything was fine. His face was composed, his position casual. "Hey," Skinner said, in a wondering tone.

"Yeah." And, measured and even, "So. How are things?"

Skinner went to his own seat and sank down gratefully. "My hand hurts like a son of a bitch." He shook it ruefully. "You're lucky; I don't think I'll be repeating that for a while. Give me a break, okay, and don't break any of the rules?"

Krycek smiled. "Least I can do. What about the rest of it, though?" His eyes betrayed a certain amount of tension at this.

Skinner nodded. "For now everything's a go. But you have to be on your best behavior and not fuck it up. You have to show that you value the chance we're taking on you, that you understand it's a privilege, us taking you at your word. Trusting you. But he said to tell you he won't attack you again. Ever."

Krycek's eyes fell and then he looked back up at him, his gaze clear. "Yeah, alright. No problem."

Skinner let his head sink back and he closed his eyes. "Thank god. I've had enough domestic strife to last me the rest of the year."

Krycek raised a brow at him. "That's over in less than two months."

"Yeah, I know."

By the time Mulder wandered into the living room, there was an easy peace and the vibe was fine once more. Krycek met his eyes when he came in and Mulder could sense that they shared an unspoken mutual apology. As well as an agreement not to fall back to that level of violent disagreement again.

The day slipped by.

Dinner that night was quiet, unassuming. They ate at the same time but no production was made of it and they kept to their own pursuits. Skinner had his book he was still reading and Mulder was on the computer again. Alex sat in his chair, enjoying the novelty of absently going through Walter's books and having an armchair that was 'his'. Suddenly the guest room upstairs was 'his', too. Simple but somehow priceless. However warped, strange and misbegotten this little arrangement might be to anyone else, Alex found that it was starting to work already on that gaping hole inside his head and heart. A sense of belonging, of being accepted, of having a place here. Of home.

xx

Alex lay in bed. Another night, and another dark length of hours to try to find something to fill it with.

The thought that the two were fucking in there, even at that exact moment—no, not fucking... making love—sent a twin surge of utter jealousy and desire through him.

He sat up abruptly. He was fool, longing for the impossible. It was one thing to accept Skinner's attention, to agree that it might be therapeutic for him to, like Mulder, also accept discipline as a way of working through his inner demons and guilt. It was quite another to have to lay there, straining to hear muffled cries of pleasure, wondering if it was Fox, if Skinner's cock was causing them, and then straining equally as hard not to hear them when he finally did.

And to his shame, for the second time in the same day, he wept. Carefully, quietly, burying his face in the pillow until it was soaked and he had to turn it over if he wanted to sleep on it. Maybe Skinner was right, he thought, letting his tears run silent now. Maybe he did need this; he hadn't actually cried since his childhood. Pain and suffering through torment and torture was one thing; actual emotional release was another. He wondered if this set-up started to work, if he might also begin healing the scars, dealing with the nightmares. And taking a shuddering breath, he wiped his eyes and began to think. To scheme, to plan the assault. Good behavior, combined with ass-kissing—figuratively speaking; he had to find a way to talk to Mulder, to find a way to get him to believe that, despite everything, despite years of being enemies, he was worthy of friendship, tolerance and affection. Of being more than just part of this household; of being part of Mulder's life, his feelings.

Skinner was sitting downstairs in the dark. The fire was starting to die. He held the whisky glass in one hand without drinking from it, resting it on the arm of the couch. It was possible that having Krycek here would tear apart the quietude of his relationship with Mulder. But it was obvious that Mulder was still in love with him the way he always had been; even if he still refused to recognize it. And strangely, Skinner found he took some comfort from the younger man's presence. Krycek was quiet, reliable (as much as one could trust him), competent and neat. He didn't throw sulks when Skinner refused to relinquish control of the remote, he didn't openly glaze over and salivate at the sight of a blond woman on the television, did not leave sunflower seed shells everywhere, he cleaned up after himself and didn't demand attention. Skinner took a guilty pleasure from being able to relax too, knowing that having Krycek here would act as a deterrent as much as another target. Krycek had survived this long—it was unlikely he'd let anything happen if he had anything to do with it.

Skinner wondered if Mulder really were the pivotal person in this newly developing strange triangle. Krycek represented chaos and disruption, mistrust, the sowing of discord. Yet, he was also the central figure—the one that always came like a shadow between him and Mulder whenever he tried to ask Mulder anything about the Consortium or the past. Interestingly, Mulder had ended up fusing Krycek and his part in Mulder's own history with everything to do with the Consortium. Sure, Krycek had risen in their ranks but he'd proven even at the end that his loyalties had always lay, somewhat selfishly perhaps, with Mulder's own ideals and projected heroism. Justice. The 'good of humanity'.... Had served it from his own side of the fence in ways Mulder's morality would never have allowed him to. And from that viewpoint had proven himself worthy, actually.

Still, Skinner couldn't yet forgive him for the blackmail and the horror of the nanocytes. Even after they'd been deactivated and Krycek had disappeared. He was actually tempted to abuse Krycek's trust and kick the shit out of him for it. But he knew, better than anyone would ever hear from him directly, that revenge was not sweet and in fact he'd be unable to do it. No, revenge was not an option. Jesus, to be saddled with the task of redeeming Krycek. To accept the challenge as a service to himself, as well as the men who lay upstairs. He rubbed his eyes wearily. And then cast them upwards, regarding the ceiling. No doubt Krycek's nightmares would start soon. They were too disturbing to ignore, let alone sleep through.

Hell: what the man had been through had been hell for him too. They all bore scars. No one escaped the blight of war without being touched by the hand of discord or pain. And then he wondered if he was being selfish, by wanting them both. There was only so far he could invite Krycek in, and only so far that he could push Mulder towards him. They had to want to make it work. Damn it, he groused, it was like having two wives. Why couldn't they just get on with it! Trust me to be left with the two most screwed-up, psycho, ex-FBI, alien-hunting survivors of the Millenium's special brand of apocalyptic cold war.

He placed his glass on the table. It had been a token gesture anyway. He didn't actually like drinking anything, ever. Despite the healing and disappearance of his ulcer, he didn't like to push it. A slight noise from the stairs caught his ear and he went still, waiting.

A dark shape detached itself from the shadows and flowed into the room without another sound. Alex, Skinner realized. Fox wouldn't bother to move that quietly and had long since given up his more paranoid creep around corners; ever since they'd settled here, in fact.

"Can't sleep?" Skinner asked, casually, letting him know he was there.

Krycek brought his face up sharply, illumined now by the dim remaining firelight. Surprise made his reply rough, as he moved to stand beside the red embers and black cinders. "Still afraid to. I don't like waking up screaming. I don't think you'd appreciate it either."

"What, waking up like that? Or hearing you? We've been treated to it already a few times, so far. Last night."

Krycek winced. He hadn't thought he had slept—maybe he'd been so out of it and exhausted he hadn't realized.

Skinner looked at him more shrewdly. "Those pills of yours. Are they to stay awake, or to sleep?" He'd seen them on the bedside table earlier that day.

"Neither. It's the pain meds Peterson left me at the checkpoint. Don't worry, I'm not hooked or anything. They're not strong enough and I don't need that kind of complication on top of everything else right now. I only took them because of the... skirmish." Krycek allowed himself to drop easily into couch, to Skinner's right.

"Look, Walter," Krycek began, throwing him a quick glance at the use of his name to see how he would react. When Skinner merely waited, he continued, "I made decisions, hard ones. Maybe they were wrong. They weren't even choices, I wasn't given the luxury of choice. And if I hadn't made those decisions, if I had skipped out, I wouldn't be sitting here now; I'd be—I don't know, floating around somewhere rattling chains or something."

"Haunting Fox, maybe." Skinner allowed a note of humor into his voice though.

"Yeah." Krycek actually gave a nervous chuckle. "Probably." And then bit his lip, looking away, obviously ill at ease.

Skinner sighed to himself. Here it comes. "What is it?"

"I've got these bruises and I can't sleep on them. I'll just stay down here." He said it a little too lightly. As if he was still unable, still afraid, to ask for help.

Skinner was surprised, expecting a torrent of insecurity about his past, the terror of his nightmares, his anxiety over Mulder, etceteras. Instead, he was mutely asking for medical attention.

He stood. "Come over here. Come on," he repeated, making it clear he meant him no harm by holding up his hands, briefly. "How bad are they?"

"Hurts worse on my back." Krycek stood up beside him, pulling off his shirt to reveal a t-shirt beneath. He paused, unwilling to remove that too.

"Don't worry about it. I've seen far worse than a missing arm, and seen wounds treated even less well, in my time," Skinner murmured as he lifted the right side of the t-shirt to inspect the bruising on his back from Mulder's pummeling earlier. He grunted. "I can't really tell in this light. Let me turn on the lamp and get my kit."

It wasn't long before Skinner had Krycek lying face down on the fur rug, shirtless, and was straddling him, carefully rubbing ointment into the yellow, green and purple bruises on his back. "Amazing," he murmured, "I had no idea a wooden floor could cause such damage."

"No one has ever shown me kindness like this. Without expecting something in return, I mean." Krycek's voice was soft. Skinner had to lean down to hear him better. "I don't understand why you care. Why you let me stay here. When you knew it was me—god! Why?"

Skinner continued the massage, unabated. "Alex?" he asked, casually, slowly, "What's with the sunflower seeds? I thought you didn't know we were here."

Alex jerked imperceptibly beneath him. He wouldn't even have caught it if he didn't have his hands on him and felt it.

After a long series of moments, he finally replied, "I got into them. I mean, I wondered what the attraction was, you know? What was so special about them? And I just, sort of—got hooked. So when I was unpacking, I realized who else was here and I thought I'd give it a shot."

Skinner grinned above him, working on the muscles of his neck with both hands. "Well, you should know that I don't think it went to waste. He noticed."

"Yeah, I know." Krycek sounded bitter.

"No, afterwards. He realized it was you, and knew what you meant by it. It's okay."

There was silence at that, Krycek assimilating the implications. So Fox had accepted his little offering, had he? "I thought he was dead," Krycek began, almost inaudibly again. "It was the only way I could remember him without dying inside, myself. Anything else was too painful."

Krycek sighed. Skinner's hands were working magic on him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him—and he opened his eyes. Skinner had held him, spanked him even; kissed him. "I want to stay. I want to work this out."

"I know." Skinner's hands began to slow down, the movements reflecting more of admiration and caressing than massage. "How long has it been since you," he paused. "Had someone?"

Krycek's explosive snicker told whole tales. "Can't remember the last time it meant something."

"Mm. And how much would it mean to you, here with me?"

Krycek couldn't answer because his throat had closed up.

Keeping his hands still now, but on his back, Skinner leaned forward, and said in his ear, "How much is worth, for me to want you? Is it worth hanging around for?"

There was a whispered "Yes."

"Is it worth an apology, to me, for having put me through utter hell?"

Krycek tightened under him, but swallowed and repeated, "Yes, it is."

Skinner waited. "Well?"

His eyes tightly shut, Alex decided to go for broke. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did to you. I didn't enjoy it. I thought it was necessary at the time and I knew you would hate me for it, would kill me if you had the chance. It was like, like the story, having a tiger by the tail. And I honestly expected either you, or Mulder, or both of you, to shoot me on sight. It would have been no more than I deserved. And I can't understand why you think I'm worth the trouble." Damn it, his eyes were leaking again. Twenty years of keeping himself together under the most trying conditions—well, apart from torture—and suddenly he couldn't stop crying every time Walter spoke to him. What the hell... He wondered if this was part of the healing process. If it was, he wanted it over, and fast. He hated feeling like this, like an open sore.

The gentle and undemanding kiss on his cheek was kind of surprising then. And Walter saying, "I forgive you. I want you. I want you here, and I want you. If that's what you want."

"Why?!"

"Because you're worth loving. You're worth saving. Because you're beautiful, regardless of what you've done, of what you think you are. Because it would be a waste for you to go out there, put a gun to your head and pull the trigger when you could be living, with me. With us. With Fox."

Alex winced, visibly. Skinner's words struck a chord somewhere within him. That anyone, let alone one of his past enemies who he was responsible for causing so much pain and trouble for after so long, should express this to him. It rocked him. It didn't make sense. He shook his head. "How can you think that? I'm an intrusion here. I've already caused trouble for you two. I don't see how you can think I'm valuable in this... home."

Skinner stretched his back and shoulders, considering. "Well, love has it's own logic. So does forgiveness. My advice to you is not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I'm not just doing you a favor. This way I can lay all the pain to rest too. Pain you caused me, in a past we shared. Somewhere along the line, I developed feelings for you. When I heard you were looking for a way out, that you might actually come here, it made me think. I wasn't sure but I wanted to take the risk. We both had unfinished business with you. And Fox is in love with you."

Alex replied coldly, "Yeah, well I don't think 'Fox' would agree with you." But his insecurity was obvious, especially when he tightened under Skinner's hands. He didn't want Skinner to think he valued Skinner's attention any less than the possibility of gaining Fox's.

Skinner sat up, enjoying the feeling of Alex's butt where he sat on it. He absently made a mental reminder to himself to put more gel on it afterwards. "Fox isn't actually that complicated, once you understand Einstein."

"Walter, what the fuck are you talking about?" Alex's voice was lazy.

"Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Fox's reaction to you is inversely proportionate to how he feels about you. He gets mad and hits you all the more furiously because he is very, very glad to see you and has no idea how to let himself love you. He wants you, but he's afraid that he might lose me and be rejected or betrayed by you."

Alex took all this in. It made perfect sense. "Christ almighty," he remarked, fervently. And then miserably, resignedly, "Oh, god."

"What do you want, Alex?" Skinner knew what he wanted, he wanted to fuck Alex through the furry rug. But he had to be patient. Didn't want this lost little boy panicking.

"I want—" and he stopped. Started again. "I want to... to eat him..."

"Yeah. Devour him. Lick him all over and then chow down. Believe me, it's good."

"What about you?"

"Me? I want to devour you."

Alex sighed. "Fuck."

"Something like that," Skinner agreed, moving back off of him and kneeling beside him. "Where'd you put the tube of gel I gave you earlier, for your ass? We need to put some more on, I think."

A sudden, knowing grin spread over Alex's face and he leaned up on his right elbow. "It's in my room."

Skinner heard the note of pride and contentment. "Well, let's get up to your room, shall we?"

Alex held back. "I had forgotten how... caring and kind you can be. It always took me by surprise; how you could be such a nice guy, with all that ex-Marine, FBI history and being so buff. How can you do this? With him here?"

Skinner smiled. "I have two very talented, interesting and beautiful young men living with me, plus they're in love with each other. Makes for exciting and tempting possibilities. And no, I'm not worried you'll steal him from me. I stole him from you, only none of us realized it."

Alex was silent, considering.

Skinner gently probed, "You okay with this still?"

"Fuck me," was the hoarse reply. "Let's go. Upstairs." And Alex was suddenly moving, fast, gathering up his clothes and going upstairs.

Things moved quickly and hazily after that. Skinner had no memory of them undressing, or even climbing into the bed. Alex's bed. And there was a dark, hot impression of his cock being sucked expertly into a burning, swirling, sucking mouth, the loss of that mouth followed by the incredible sensation of Alex impaling himself on him and riding him with urgent thrusts against him. He placed his hands on either side of his hips and took over, wrenching little gasps and cries from him until Alex's own hand went to squeeze and milk his own swollen, needy cock, and they were both splashed with the results, Skinner pumping deeply up into that tightly gripping hole.

Sleep began to overcome them. The dark silence of the night surrounding them helped. The relief and exhaustion of having been through it all, that day, was taking its toll. Skinner was slightly disappointed. It was hot, and great, but he wanted more. This merely took the edge off. He wanted to experience the full meal, not settle for a quick snatch and grab. Would have to rectify that tomorrow, he thought. Fox could help. He grinned. And fell asleep with Alex partially draped over him and out like a light.

xx

Sunflower Seeds II: Fried Eggs

Jamiwilsen@hotmail.com

Date: 11/10/2000
Disclaimer: this piece of slash fanfic is written purely for entertainment purposes; all characters and X-File series' situations referred to belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, etc.
Spoilers: possibly all eps up to, but not including, Season 8.
Rating: NC-17—slash, language, m/m sex, bondage, discipline
Pairing: Sk/M/K
Summary: Skinner and Mulder enjoying R&R (retirement and rest) in seclusion; until Krycek, in need of sanctuary, appears in their midst. Can they accept him into their life, or will his presence tear them apart?
Warning: This is my first Loving Discipline fic! Yay! If angst, explicit sex, emotional disclosures, consensual mild punishment, and tender declarations of love stress you out, don't read this. [g]
Betas: Many sincere thanks to Cattnip, Lorelei, Candace, Jeanie and Jas. This story wouldn't have been half as readable without their help!
Dedication: A Special Hug and Thanks to my dear friend Lorelei, without whom I never would have found the inspiration or the courage to write this.

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