Part I
How could he have been so stupid? Out of options, Krycek obeyed, feeling
his legs kicked apart and off balance in the traditional search position
he'd learned during his own FBI days. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! The icy
muzzle against the base of his skull never wavered as Mulder's other
hand performed a quick and ruthless search that found his gun, his
backup, his knife, his strangling wire hidden in the collar of the
leather jacket, the throwing darts in his prosthetic forearm.... Shit!
He had to think of something fast. He didn't know which would be worse,
a quick bullet through the head in this abandoned parking garage, or
letting himself be taken into custody where They could find him. Black
humor's the only weapon you've still got, Alex. Use it!
"Mulder, if you just wanted to cop a feel—"
"Shut. Up." The quiet voice behind him was deadly. "Don't make me hit
you, Krycek, or I'm never going to stop. What you did to Scully, to my
father—I want an excuse to kill you, Krycek. I want it very much."
Fuck, he meant it. Krycek swallowed and was silent.
"We need to have a little talk, you fucking traitor. Over there. Move!"
Krycek allowed himself to be shoved toward a narrow concrete pillar, and
made no move to escape as Mulder threw a pair of handcuffs at him hard
enough to draw blood. "Back up against the column, Krycek. Lock your
arms around it behind you."
The gun barrel glared at him like a third eye, as if all Mulder's rage
was focused through it. Despite his better judgment, Krycek obeyed. The
position was awkward, his arms strained back to their limit, and his
prosthetic was so well attached with a long strap across his chest that
he could not get free.
Mulder circled around behind him, and an unyielding hand checked the
cuffs. Then Mulder came back into sight.
"Damn it, Krycek, why couldn't you give me an excuse to shoot you?"
Mulder's voice was furious, and then that crazy grin tore at the corners
of his mouth and Krycek was deeply afraid.
Mulder's grin widened into a shark's bared teeth, and softly he set down
his gun and Krycek's weapons well away from Krycek's reach. But the
knife he kept, and drew it for inspection.
"Nice knife, Krycek." It was not a compliment. "What is this, a
Sykes-Fairbairn? Double-edged blade... How many partners have you killed
with it? How many people who trusted you?"
He was too close, and getting closer. Shit! Krycek had faced assassins
and felt only professional caution, but Mulder had never been entirely
sane and in his current mood he was far more dangerous than any hired
gun. How could Krycek ever have taunted this man with an insulting kiss?
The blade was blacked, but the edge glittered coldly at the edge of his
sight. Oh God it was touching his throat, it was moving, it was
ice-sharp and hot blood spilled down his fear-taut skin—
Then the blade pulled away and traced the line of his jaw, and he could
not stop himself from shaking. Salt sweat burned and stung in the
shallow cuts, and he could barely breathe.
The knife-point prowled upwards and came to rest just below his left
eye. Bozhe moi, my God, nyet! Nyet—! He did not dare close his
eyes, but the pain made them sting with tears, and he cursed himself for
that sign of weakness. He could feel the oppressive heat of Mulder's
nearness, so different from the ice of his hatred.
He had wanted this nearness once; had fantasized about it. But now—
Fuck, let me out of here! I don't want to die like this—!
"You killed my father, Krycek." The very name was an epithet in that
chill voice. And it was not done speaking.
"You sold me out." And the sharp point slid just a fraction forward,
and Krycek felt the tears of pain spill down his cheek in horrible
self-betrayal.
"You sold them Scully." The voice was a breath, a whisper sharp as the
whetted blade. "Do you know what they did to her? Do you?"
And the blade and those cold hazel eyes both dropped from his face and
Oh God below his belt—
Even if Mulder killed him, he had to fight. Dropping his head into
butting range, he slammed a knee upwards towards Mulder's groin—and
missed.
Mulder laughed, one short slap of sound. "I don't think so, you rat
bastard. Getting slow, aren't you." And then the cold tip of the blade
forced Krycek's chin up and back as Mulder closed his other hand over
Krycek's belt.
"Looks like I'd better restrain your legs as well. Kick your shoes off—
carefully!—so I can remove your jeans."
Do it, you idiot, you know he means it! Krycek tried not to
struggle. Fuck, remember this is Mulder. The more helpless you are,
the less likely he is to kill you, even if it goes against all your
instincts.
Feeling the blade sting when he couldn't keep himself from swallowing,
Krycek pushed his boots off with the opposite foot and slid them in the
approximate direction of the guns. The cold concrete beneath his feet
was unyielding as death.
And then all thought left him as Mulder freed his belt with one hand and
yanked his jeans down without ever moving the knife from his throat.
Christ, how can I be hard! Utter humiliation flooded him as he
realized that Mulder could not miss his arousal even through his boxers,
nor the blush that now burned his face like a wave of fire.
Mulder scowled down at him for a moment, then raised those ice-sharp
eyes to his. No, nyet—Oh God, please just let me die now! God—
Krycek could not make himself look away, locked in that ruthless gaze
like a beast in a steel-jawed trap.
Then Mulder shook his head, lip curled in disgust. He stepped away to
pull the jeans free and walked around him out of sight, and Krycek
jerked in unwilling reaction as those strong hot hands caught his
ankles, one and then the other, and tied them with the legs of his jeans
which were now wrapped behind the pillar.
In sudden panic, he lost control and tried to fight, but his legs were
now as pinned as his arms, and he could do nothing. He yelled—in Russian
or English, he couldn't even tell—but then Mulder was standing again,
and that sharp, sharp blade was pressing against his lips. Tasting his
own blood, he stammered into silence again.
"Krycek. Be quiet." That still voice was sharper than the knife. "Do not.
Provoke. Me." And those glittering eyes watched him from too close,
seeing every drop of sweat and blood and furious tears.
When Krycek stopped trying to speak, the knife moved away, and he could
not keep from catching his breath in something very like a sob as Mulder
set it down. Then those taut hands came up to slide the jacket off his
shoulders in a horrible parody of intimacy. "I think you've been spying
on me long enough." Mulder's voice was flat. "My turn."
And the jacket was wedged in the small of his back, his arms still caught
in the sleeves and trapped even more firmly against the pillar. And then
the knife came up again to rest at the hollow of his neck.
This time he closed his eyes as he felt the blade begin to move. Shit,
at least he was wearing a buttoned shirt today so Mulder could open it
like the jacket without using that kn—And then he felt the sharp kiss
of steel as Mulder cut the first button free.
Oh fuck oh fuck—With each button, he felt the knife against his skin,
shallow cuts that burned like ice. His chest, his stomach—And worst of
all, the tug of cloth against his fear-sensitive ribs each time only made
him harder. Every sensation was so sharp, so immediate—
The shirt was soaked in sweat before the final button parted. And then
the shock of those hot dry hands as Mulder pushed it back over his
shoulders to join the jacket. Against his now-bared back, the rough
concrete made his spine ache with cold.
Another touch made him jump as Mulder's hand closed on the stump of his
arm, and a merciless intrusive thumb scraped under the straps. He tried
to force himself to open his eyes, but something in him knew that
Mulder's madness would eat him whole if he met that lethal gaze again.
And then a moment of stillness, and nothing moved but Krycek's shivering
breath.
He felt the stinging pain in the hollow of his throat before he felt the
pressure of the blade. Uncontrollably, he cried out, and heard his own
cry as small and voiceless as if in some passion other than fear.
A chuckle.
Krycek's eyes flew open as he felt the knife dart down to his hip, and
Mulder, too close, slit his boxers with hardly a tug against the skin.
Oh shit, oh shit—He was totally exposed and defenseless now, not even
cloth between him and the hate-cold eyes and the sharp, sharp knife. And
even now, the danger and something else made him harder, until he thought
he'd die of that alone.
Mulder stepped away and looked him up and down—not only his betraying
cock, but every scar, every blemish and flaw, every joint and hollow and
unprotected target. His narrowed eyes echoed the shark's grin of his
bared teeth.
Even Krycek's voice was raw and defenseless. "Just finish it, Mulder!"
Finish it, Christ, just let this be over, whatever happens—Just let
this be over—
Mulder's words were so low he barely heard them. "You betrayed me,
Krycek." Oh God, he was moving closer again, unbearably slow. "You shot
my father." The blade floated up in timeless suspension like a nightmare
rising. "You helped them hurt Scully."
And the glittering tip neared his eye again and Krycek flinched away,
his eyes squeezed shut as if the fragile lids could somehow protect him.
"Don't. Move." Almost a whisper, and the nearness sent a whipcrack of
heat down his spine.
Utterly terrified, he made himself be still and waited for the first
explosion of agony to blossom in the socket.
The cold point traced the shape of his lid, a feather touch of pain and
fear, so light—A moment of blessed freedom, and then he shuddered
uncontrollably as the knife made contact on the other side. Another
almost gentle tracing across his spasming eyelid.
Any moment now—
But the blade traveled down to rest at the corner of his mouth. And with
the same lethal delicacy, it mapped the outline of his lips and slid
across between them without breaking the skin, although the drying blood
from the earlier cut snagged at the blade.
Then a slow, precise line down his neck to the hollows below, and the
blade shaped his collarbones like a sculptor's tool. And still the cuts
were shallow and little blood spilled.
Christ, Mulder, please finish it. I'd beg you if I dared. Just one fast
strike under the rib and it would be over. Please, before this hideous
tension unmans me and I foul myself in terror. Please—
But the careful point glided along a rib with the inevitability of the
tide, and oh Christ his nipple, no, nyet, God no, please stop!—any
pain would be easier to bear than this sudden wash of stinging heat. No!
And then the point reached the nipple's core and pressed delicately
inward, barely parting the skin and waking not pain but fire, and he was
screaming wordlessly "Ah, ah!" over and over with his breath torn and
ragged. Mulder smiled.
A moment of relief and he was nearly sick, but now the blade moved across
to his other nipple.
"Uhn—" A sound torn from his gut now, and the knife's light touch seared
through him and his knees gave way, only his bound arms holding him
upright as the fire from the tiny cut stole all his strength.
Mulder's smile was dark and secret, and Krycek knew then that he would
not stop.
An endless moment and then the blade moved lower. Down along the
breastbone, and then lightly across his stomach to circle his navel.
Explosive tremors shook through Krycek's body, and he felt his own
movement part his skin against the point.
The edge of the blade then, delicately shaping the curves and hollows of
his hip, waking only a shallow thread of blood and pain where it had been.
Krycek wished very fervently to be dead, but it did not stop.
Sharp feather-touch down the sensitive crease where the torso meets the
thigh, and it would almost have tickled if his body weren't cramped with
the unbearable fear.
And then it moved towards his center, his cock—"Christ no please don't
please don't Oh God please—!" Krycek cried out. And Mulder casually
smashed him across the mouth with the butt of the knife and lowered it
again to the task.
With that same deliberate lightness, the tip traced the line of a
swollen vein up the arc of his cock and then lingered near the tip.
Krycek nearly came in terror as the point teased the folds of his
retracted foreskin, delicately circling just below the head of his
cock.
And then the head itself, the knife-point playing with his slit, and the
warm drop spilling like blood—
The cold concrete pillar scraped his back raw as he fought to pull away,
but he was too tightly bound. And Mulder, his eyes dark and narrowed,
took his panic as reason to linger. Oh God, the cold sharp point
stretching the slit of his cock almost to cutting—
When the steel tip finally retreated, Krycek sagged further, sobbing
uncontrollably now and waiting for the final blow.
But Mulder wasn't finished. The knife followed the line of his cock down
to the root, then slid around his balls as if to shave him clean. Oh God,
Mulder, please—Please just finish it; don't make me wait for the end any
longer. Oh God, please—!
But the vicious cut he expected never came. The knife continued back to
the secret hollow behind his sac, the valley of flesh that had one
center.
Mulder shifted his grip, and then without warning drove the knife in,
hilt-first and knobbed with steel. Screaming, Krycek came and came and
came, all his fear made blood-hot and exploding from him with the force
of a car bomb. Every spasm clenched him tighter on the merciless steel,
and every bruising pain racked the pleasure higher and higher, until the
unending agonized joy hurled him finally into darkness.
He woke slumped on his knees at the pillar's base, his back flayed from
the rough concrete and his body utterly limp. A strong hand closed almost
casually in his hair, and Mulder pulled his head back until their eyes
met.
Krycek had no strength left even for fear. "Are you going to kill me
now?" he asked, almost uncaring.
Mulder's eyes were dark with satisfaction. "No," he answered at last.
"Not unless you give me further reason. But this—" he tapped the blade
insultingly against Krycek's raw nipple. "If you don't have a ring
through this by the next time I see it, I'm going to cut it off."
And before Krycek could react, Mulder unlocked the cuffs and walked away.
Hilt
by Nonie Rider
To the Hilt
"Krycek. You ratfuck traitor—" Mulder's voice was a chill hiss in his
ear. "Hands on the roof of the car, or I get to shoot you. Do it!" 
