by Jami Wilsen
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.
A week later...
"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.
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.
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.
utumn 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.
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.
