by Josan
Alex Krycek was very aware that Skinner was watching him from behind the
curtains. With luck, that's where the man would stay till Mulder came and got
him in the morning.
Shit! Safe house! Mulder had promised to stash him away in a safe house.
Obviously they had different ideas as to the meaning of the term. Damn Skinner
with his "Think warm thoughts" philosophy.
Krycek checked the windows: no Skinner. Maybe he'd get some sleep after all.
He pulled up the collar of his jacket,burrowed into it like a turtle, stuck his
free hand into the pocket and curled up to conserve heat.
The balcony door opened very quietly. Krycek was just cold enough, tired
enough, to be slow in his reaction.
His free hand was grabbed, cuffed, and then pulled over so that when Skinner
clamped the other cuff to the top of the railing, Krycek was face down, arms
stretched out to their fullest. Skinner dropped his weight against Krycek's
shoulders effectively pinning him down. Krycek opened his mouth, swearing, only
to have a bit gag roughly pulled into his mouth,tied so tightly that he felt it
might tear into his cheeks.
Skinner's weight left his body, and Krycek managed to turn his head to see
the big man lean a shoulder negligently against the far wall. What scared him
the most was that there was no expression at all on Skinner's face. After a
couple of minutes, Skinner moved into the apartment, closing the door behind
him.
Krycek tried to see if he could get loose: maybe the cuffs would
miraculously loosen. As was, the pressure building up in his shoulders from the
position he was in was going to make the rest of the night seem incredibly
longer.
Skinner gave it an hour before he went back out again. The night was almost
black, no moon, no stars. The only light came from the hallway light behind him
and whatever could make it up to the seventeenth floor from street-level.
Krycek barely struggled when Skinner grabbed his foot, took off boot and
sock. Grabbed the other foot, did the same. It was only when his hands went to
undo the jeans that Krycek pushed his weight forward, and kicked back with his
heel.
He got Skinner just under the knee: a couple of inches higher and the kick
would have kneecapped him.
Skinner pulled back, silently cursing. So the ratbastard still had some
fight left in him. That would add some flavour to his plans.
Krycek's eyes, enraged, tracked him as much as they could. He had no
illusions about what Skinner was planning to do to him, but he had no intention
of making it easy for him.
Skinner waited till the pain in his leg became a dull ache. Krycek never
once took his eyes off him, swinging his head around when Skinner moved behind
him.
When Skinner came in close, he threw all his weight onto Krycek,
slamming him hard against the balcony railing,
knocking the breath out of him. Before Krycek could fill his lungs
again, he had hauled the jeans and shorts off the man.
This time, Skinner wisely stayed far enough away from those feet. He
dropped the clothing on top of the boots and went
back in. He would have to do something about those feet. Krycek was as
lethal with them as he was with his hands.
For a moment, Krycek let himself believe that was all Skinner had
wanted, to have him spend what was left of the night,
bare-assed and cold. However, he wasn't really surprised when Skinner
appeared with something in his hands.
This time when Krycek's foot lashed out, Skinner was ready. He
grabbed the offending leg tightly while quickly wrapping
something around the ankle. Fully extending the leg, he walked to the
railing and tied the free end of the restraint to the
top of it.
The pull on Krycek's body effectively immobilized him. As it was,
there was no need to bind the other foot as Krycek's
balance was too precarious for him to get too active. True, if he went
over the top of the railing, the cuffs and the restraint,
the last tie Sharon had bought him before the divorce, would probably
keep him from plunging down the seventeen
storeys to the ground, but he didn't think Krycek would want to chance
it.
However, just to test out his theory, he went to stand behind Krycek,
well within kicking reach of that second foot.
Krycek knew when to admit defeat. If he tried anything now, he fully
expected Skinner to tie his other foot to the railing
so that he'd hang like one of those boneless asexual gymnasts on a
balance beam. If his foot were free, he might, just
might, be able to get one solid kick in before this was over.
Skinner's grin was lupine when Krycek managed to turn his head to
find him. Still smiling, he reached out and drew a
finger down the taut muscles of Krycek's ass. Krycek glared as much as
he could around the gag, promised himself
Skinner would pay for every second he spent on his balcony, and turned
his head to look over the still city.
Waiting. For whatever it was Skinner was going to do to him.
In the silence of the seventeenth floor, the sound of Skinner taking
off his belt was enough warning for him not to be
surprised when the looped leather passed over his ass, gently, almost
like a caress. Over the inner muscles of the
stretched-out thigh. Back again to his ass. Down the other thigh, now
trembling with the cold and strain of supporting his
weight. Back up the inner muscles to tease his balls and flaccid cock.
Krycek's hands grabbed the top of the railing, bracing himself for
the blow that finally arrived. Skinner had moved to one
side so he could get a good swing on the belt. And Krycek certainly felt
it when it landed, across the fullest part of his
buttocks.
He sensed Skinner behind him, held back the sound that wanted out of
his throat when one of those big hands inspected
the path the belt had taken. And braced himself for more.
Skinner didn't disappoint him. Five more times the leather raised a
path of fire across his ass, and five more times he
refused to give Skinner the pleasure of hearing him scream.
Then, with a slight shifting of Skinner's position, the leather moved
to his thighs, first one then the other, as if Skinner
wanted to distribute an equal amount of attention to each.
Occasionally, the tip of the belt would flick his balls, or the head
of his penis. And then, the sharpness of the pain made it
impossible for Krycek to contain his groans. The bit gag effectively
muted the sounds, reducing the timbre.
But Skinner heard them. And enjoyed them.
After a few more blows, he stopped to inspect the damage. There were
some nice weals rising on Krycek's skin, weals he
roughly traced with his thumb. Krycek flinched, made a sound in the back
of his throat that pleased Skinner greatly. He
dropped the belt on top of Krycek's clothes, used his two hands to
massage the aching muscles of ass and thighs. Krycek
greyed out, his head sagging, adding further strain on already
over-strained shoulders.
Skinner pulled back, went to lean against the wall where he could
keep an eye on Krycek's face. He waited while his
prisoner recovered from the rough treatment he'd just inflicted on him.
Wanted him fully conscious and aware for his next
move.
At this stage of the game, Krycek wished Skinner would just hurry up
and rape him and get it over with. The strain in his
shoulders had passed the burning stage, and was now making itself felt
in his spine. His ass and thighs were on fire
where-ever the belt had landed, the head of his cock was sore. And the
coldness of the cement balcony floor was eating its
way up his free leg.
What the fuck was the bastard waiting for?
The first clue Krycek had that Skinner might have a different plan in
mind was when he heard a "snap". Like the one
made by a latex glove when it was snapped into place.
Krycek tried to see what Skinner was up to, but the man had hidden in
the shadows. Krycek could make out his shape,
knew he was doing something with his hands, but couldn't make out what.
He felt panic rising up in him, tried to control
it. If what he thought was going to happen, there was a good chance that
Mulder wouldn't have much use for him in the
morning.
When Skinner moved out of the darkness, Krycek was waiting for him.
This would probably be his only chance to get a
good kick in and he went for it as soon as he thought Skinner was in
reach.
But Skinner had been waiting for the move, anticipated it, and with
another brutal slam of his body imprisoned the leg
against the side of the balcony. Krycek was going to be black and blue
wherever the railing met his body.
Krycek caught his breath and forced himself to relax. Less chance of
damage if his muscles weren't tensed.
The first finger invading him told him that Skinner was indeed gloved
and that the latex had been lubed.
The second that there would be no side benefits to this, no chance of
even the slightest twinge of pleasure, even if he did
get off on this type of stuff.
The third finger stretched him more than he had been for a time. It
was beginning to hurt. Especially when Skinner spread
them open in him. The fourth only added to the burn.
Krycek tried to control his breathing to merge with the penetration.
Skinner let him think it might help before he twisted
the fingers around, making way for the thumb.
From this point on, Krycek just conceded that nothing he was able to
do would mitigate the pain of being fist-fucked. He
emptied his mind and tried hard to stay very still, anything to minimize
damage.
Krycek couldn't prevent the grunt of pain as the widest part of
Skinner's hand forced itself into him, holding in place.
"Are you enjoying this, Krycek?" Skinner leaned over, placed his
weight behind his elbow, adding to the build-up of
pressure on Krycek's anal muscle. "No? Funny, this is how I felt when
you fucked around with my department in the
Bureau."
He added just a bit more pressure. "This is what it feels like when
one of your agents turns out to be a fraud."
More pressure. Enough so that the entire hand was now in him. The
pressure on his anal muscle decreased slightly when
all that stretched it was a comparatively narrower wrist. "When you get
called on the carpet by the Director, to explain how
such an incident could have happened in your department."
"When OPC reams you out for two days, investigating why you couldn't
tell that so-called agent was a fraud."
Skinner twisted his hand: Krycek screamed.
"When that so-called agent turns out to be nothing more than some
thug whose continuing existence keeps reminding
your bosses that somehow, in spite of all their precautions, he managed
to slip past all their security measures."
With a savage brutality he hadn't felt since Vietnam, Skinner yanked
his hand out. This time, even the gag didn't prevent
Krycek's scream from piercing the night.
As he stripped the glove off his hand, Skinner watched the limp body
of the ex-agent hanging on his balcony railing.
Krycek was still breathing, though shallowly.
Holding the glove now inside out, he picked up the towel he had
dropped on the floor, used it to wipe the lube remaining
on his arm. Almost as an afterthought, he wiped Krycek's ass, wrapped
the glove in the towel. He dropped it by the door.
He released Krycek's leg, removed the tie from his ankle, let the
foot drop.
Standing behind Krycek, he grabbed the man's hair. Short though it
was, he managed to get a good grasp by the front.
Pulled the head back with one hand, released the bit gag with the other.
Krycek's face was wet with tears of pain.
With no word, no show of any further expression, Skinner used his key
and released his handcuffs from the inert body.
Krycek slipped to the floor, whimpered.
Skinner picked up his belt, the towel. With a foot, he pushed
Krycek's clothes, boots close to him. Went into the
apartment, closed and locked the balcony door behind him. Dropped the
towel down the incinerator shoot, turned off the
lights and went to bed.
In the morning, Skinner made his usual breakfast of cereal and
coffee, ate it while reading his morning newspaper,
grabbed his coat and left for work.
Not once did he go near the balcony door or windows. Not once did his
eyes even wander that way. It was as if Alex
Krycek didn't exist.
The Consortium had imploded.
Between suspicions, betrayals, power plays, misinformation supplied
by a one-armed double (triple? quadruple?) agent
who had worked his way deep into the Consortium itself.
Because of alien rebels, outside influences suddenly decided that the
cost would be too high for their own personal
interests.
Because Mulder finally had gotten his hands on actual documentation,
irrefutable evidence of fraud, financial laundrying,
treason provided to him by his one-armed
informant.
For all these reasons, and probably many more never to be discovered
or understood, it was over.
There had been a sleuth of investigations, of Grand Jury indictments,
suicides and even a few murders. And, apart from
several minor players and one major one, all had been accounted for.
Skinner snorted to himself at the irony and hypocrisy of the
situation. Mulder merely accepted it all as his due, his
vindication of so many years of mockery. Krycek was just pleased to have
all and any charges pending against him
dropped.
Walter Skinner was walking back from a meeting when he realized that
the front entrance of FBI headquarters was
swarming with the Media. Again. Not that they were there for him, but
making his way through the scrum was not
something he was in the mood for right now. If he went around the
building, there should be a back door he could use to
get back to his office and the paper work that seemed to be reproducing
overnight.
He had just turned the corner when a man fell into step with him,
quickly came up behind him. The barrel of a gun
jammed into the small of his back.
"It would be wise to come with me, AD Skinner, or would you prefer
spending the remainder of your life in a wheelchair,
assuming you survive?" When there wasn't an immediate answer, the man
shrugged noncommittally and pressed the
barrel into Skinner's spine. "The choice remains yours."
Skinner let his briefcase slid quietly down the front of his leg, to
his foot, to the ground. He turned in the direction the gun
wanted him to, walked over to the darkened limo that was waiting back at
curbside. Somehow, the Media seemed to be
focused on the big man, easily identifiable now, and the man with him, a
man who still appeared on the list of possible
suspects.
The limo door opened and CGB Spender, aka Cancerman, aka "that
cigarette- smoking bastard" greeted Skinner like a
long-lost brother, helped the two men into the back of the limo and the
car sped away.
All captured on video for the six o'clock newscasts.
"How nice to see you again, Mr. Skinner." Spender lit another of his
innumerable cigarettes. "I didn't want to leave
without thanking you for all the help you and your department have given
me over the years."
Skinner assumed, rightly, that the conversation was being taped. He
said nothing, sat stoned-face in the middle of the back
seat, between his "escort" and another man also wanted for questioning.
Both were holding guns on him.
"You know," Spender rattled on, "we never would have lasted as long,
or been as prosperous, had you not slipped us all
that useful information." He smiled around the cigarette. "No, couldn't
have done it without you, Skinner. Of course, the
bank account in the Caymans will certainly bear proof of that. You
should have a nice comfortable retirement. As you
said, much better than anything the Bureau could provide you with."
Spender nodded to one of the men, who pulled a syringe out of a
pocket. Skinner had his eyes on Spender, was aware of
the syringe only when it was jammed into the back of his neck. He
started to turn, hand rising to pull it out when he fell
forward onto the floor.
Spender reached up and pushed a button in the roof of the limo. A
cassette dropped into his hand. He stuck the cigarette
into his mouth, eyes squinted against the smoke, and placed the tape
into an already addressed envelope. At the next
mailbox, the limo stopped, and the pack was dropped into the shoot.
Skinner regained consciousness slowly.
Because of the drug hangover, it took him some time to really
understand the precariousness of his position.
His hands were stretched above his head, the weight of his body
straining shoulder muscles to the point of burning
cramp. He tried to stand only to realize he could only do so on the
front part of his feet. He was naked.
His head eventually cleared enough for him to figure out that he was
hanging from a metal bar which in turn was hanging
from a lever. He was in some barn, so he assumed the lever was for
lifting bales of hay into the upper loft of the structure.
He had no idea where this structure was located. He assumed that,
since he was not gagged, it would not be near people.
Did he want to take a chance and try calling out? What if the only
attention he attracted was that of Spender and his
friends?
But the decision was taken out of his hands when Spender and his
associates came out of a side door from what seemed
to be an office of some kind.
"Ah, Skinner, you've decided to join us. How nice." In spite of the
hay and straw on the floor, Spender took out a
cigarette, lit it with his lighter.
"You'll be happy to know that my contacts will be picking us up a bit
later on this evening. Maybe less happy to know that
we find ourselves with time on our hands until they get here."
He took a deep inhalation, held it, released the smoke in a series of
rings. Smiled at the circles that slowly made their way
up, dissolving into the upper reaches of the barn.
"Well," Spender smiled, "that's the limit of my entertainment skills.
Let's see just how much fun you can be, Skinner." He
took another deep inhalation, watched the tip of the cigarette turn
brilliant red and, with real pleasure, butted out the smoke
on Skinner's chest.
The pain hadn't stopped when the helicopter had arrived.
The hands hurting him had gone, but the pain had just continued
throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He faded in and out
of consciousness, finding it harder to breathe because of the constant
pressure put on his lungs by his up-stretched arms.
He was out when a figure all dressed in black slipped into the barn.
It avoided him, although it was obvious that he was
there. The figure went through the structure, verifying that he was
alone before slowly walking around him, objectively
evaluating the state of his body before coming to stand in front of him.
The barrel of an uzi was placed under his chin and upward pressure
forced his head up.
Through the pain, Skinner felt the presence of another person. The
need to know which of his tormentors had returned
forced him to open his eyes.
Instead, after some moments of trying to focus his sight, he realized
that a new character had joined the party. It took him
several tries to get enough moisture in his mouth to croak "Your turn,"
to Alex Krycek.
Krycek swung his weapon over his truncated shoulder, used the
prosthesis to balance it there. Took a cell phone out of
his pocket, speed-dialled it. "I found him. Send an ambulance."
Using the information Skinner managed to give them, Spender and his
goons were caught as they were transferring from
the helicopter to a private jet on its way to Libya. In the ensuing gun
battle, Spender was wounded, unfortunately, not
critically. His men had not been so fortunate. One had died on the spot;
the other the next day in hospital, though his
wounds had not been life-threatening.
Spender was immediately transferred to an extreme security cell where
he was waiting for an appearance in front of a
Grand Jury. Which would take place as soon as Walter Skinner was able to
testify.
The Grand Jury investigating the charges against CGB Spender was in its last
days. The final witness to be heard from
had just been released from hospital. Less than four weeks after being
found by Alex Krycek, Walter Skinner,
accompanied by a Bureau lawyer, was sworn in.
There had been some dissension by a few of the panel about the
veracity of this witness, considering the news videos, the
cassette recording, the Cayman bank account. The fact that the Director
himself had finally come out and stated
"positively" that, based on his knowledge of both Spender and Skinner,
he did not feel that AD Skinner would either
betray his country nor secret away money in an off-shore bank didn't
make him more reliable.
In general, the questions covered the relationship Skinner had with
Spender, Spender's actions within the Bureau itself, his
involvement with the X-Files Department. Once or twice they touched the
matter of the cassette and the bank account,
stayed away from the kidnapping and reasons for his stay in the
hospital.
Until it was the turn of Senator Matthews.
"Well, Mr. Skinner, you seemed to have convinced my colleagues that
you ran an honest show. Perhaps you may even
eventually convince me.
"As you know, in addition to all the charges against Mr. Spender,
there have been added, among others, kidnapping,
forcible confinement, gross bodily harm.
"You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Skinner, but I find these charges
quite unwarranted. In fact, I'm sure, if you will only be
honest with us, Mr. Skinner, these charges are there only to cover up
your activities in relation with Mr. Spender."
There was a negative reaction from most of the panel members.
"No, no, gentlemen, I intend to show that Mr. Skinner was a voluntary
participant in this so-called kidnapping. And that
the last day's testimony has been nothing more than a sham."
He waited till the room quietened down.
"Mr. Skinner, have you ever had consensual sex with a man? And before you
answer that question, I would just like to submit the following photos as
evidence to the panel that this" his voice showed his disgust "fine example of
the Federal Bureau of Investigations is a practising ho..mo..sexual who is into
games of say..do..mas..o..chistic bondage."
Skinner's lawyer accepted the duplicate of the package that was now making
its way along the panel. Skinner barely glanced at the photos of Mulder and
himself, taken in Mulder's apartment, with Mulder in handcuffs. All with
Mulder's face blacked out.
His lawyer slowly began pulling away from him. By the end of the session was
sitting almost away from the table.
The questions had been another rape.
Didn't he enjoy being tied up? Didn't he enjoy rough sex? Wasn't what had
happened to him been just a bit of rough sex that had gotten out of control?
He, Senator Matthews, understood that it was quite acceptable for a whip to be
used in this sort of activity. Burning, too, or so his expert witness had told
him: not that he himself would know about "such things".
Hadn't he actively participated in group sex? How was this episode so
different? After all, he understood that four way sex
was not unknown in "such things".
And as for the damages to the "anal canal" done by the barrel of some
gun, well, he understood that "object penetration"
was a common practice in "such things" and
some injury was only to be expected.
Alex Krycek sat at the side of the room where this inquisition was
being played out. Neither Scully nor Mulder was
around: someone had seen to it that Scully had been safely ensconced
with a series of autopsies in Quantico for the past
four days; Mulder was with the Director being shown off like some rare
species at some conference.
And someone had certainly seen to it that Senator Matthews had been
provided with all kinds of fascinating photos and
documents.
Krycek took it from the Cheshire-cat smile on Spender's face that he
was getting in his final twist of the knife in the man
he held responsible for not controlling Mulder and his X-Files
investigations: Spender was going down, but he wasn't
going alone.
And that fucking idiot lawyer the Bureau had provided was certainly
not doing his job. Or maybe doing it too well. With
every little revelation, most of them doctored to some extent, all the
motherfucker did was look horrified, pull further away
from Skinner who only sat there, stone-faced, not even trying to defend
himself.
But Krycek knew a few things about Senator Matthews that could prove
interesting. He stood up and held a short
conference with a couple of people who would not really want their
connection to him known. He waited until the panel
called a short recess during which they argued with each other as to
Matthews' line of questioning. Then he went over to
the table where Skinner sat.
Krycek patted Skinner on the shoulder, bent over and covered the mike
with his hand. "Listen to me, Skinner. At this rate
you're going to be sharing a cell with the Cancerman over there. So
you're going to do as I say, understand? Start giving
Matthews the details he wants. Long, involved juicy details. Think of
him as a vampire and feed him the blood he needs.
I'll take care of the rest."
Skinner's eyes were unalive behind his glasses. He met Krycek's eyes,
but couldn't hold them. When Krycek had found
him, he had expected the man to take revenge for what he had done to him
on the balcony that cold fall night.
Instead, Krycek had lowered him onto the ground, stayed beside him
till help had arrived in the form of Mulder, Scully
and some other people dressed all in black.
He'd managed to stay conscious long enough to pass on the information
that led to Spender's capture and arrest.
So, if Krycek had picked now for his revenge, he had nothing left to
fight him with. And why shouldn't Krycek get his
pound of flesh like everyone else?
At Matthews' next question, Skinner's dead voice gave the man the
emotional details he'd been pecking for. How he had
hurt, how there was a difference between rough sex and what he'd
undergone. That there was a difference between having
a dildo stuck up your ass and the barrel of a Glock.
The spectators drew silent, listening intently to the softly spoken
answers, a dark contrast to Matthews' condescending
questions.
Behind the panel, the man Krycek had spoken to waited for his signal
to walk over to Senator Matthews. As he passed the
senator's chair, he somehow tripped and knocked both the chair and the
senator in it backwards onto the floor.
"Oh! Dear God! Senator Matthews! You're masturbating!"
The ENG people pushed the "shocked" woman out of the way in their
hurry to tape the Senator with his cock out of his
pants, semen-stained handkerchief spread over his crotch. The reaction
of the man to the left of the Senator was caught for
all to view on the six o'clock news, especially since family hour
viewing precluded the sight of the Senator's quickly
shrivelling member.
Krycek sat back, grinning. That should help detract some of the
attention from Skinner. And, using his new connections, a
little talk with Mr. Spender that night would see an end to this comedy.
He tried to catch Skinner's eye, sure the man was
getting some enjoyment out of this reversal.
Skinner didn't seem to be aware of what was happening around him. He
just sat, staring at the front, waiting. His lawyer
had disappeared, and people around him weren't interested in him any
more.
Krycek got a strange feeling. He tried to get to Skinner but the
panel leader was rapping his gavel, bringing the
proceedings to a halt for the day. By the time Krycek got through the
crowd, Skinner was gone.
To everyone's surprise but Krycek's, Spender's lawyer rose with a
request to address the panel. "My client wishes to read
a statement into the record."
Briefly, Spender informed the Grand Jury that Walter Skinner had
never ever been anything but a hinderance to himself
and the people he represented. That the video op had been set up by
himself, the tape faked, the bank account was his, not
Skinner's. That the photos sent to Senator Matthews had been doctored.
And that Senator Matthews had been in his pay.
Krycek smiled: it hadn't taken long for Spender to understand that
any time spent in prison would be easier if he weren't
in a wheelchair, paralysed from the neck down.
By the time the statement had been read, questioned by the panel
leader, Skinner's reputation had been re-established: at
least Krycek thought it should be. The panel leader finally addressed
Skinner himself, indifferently apologizing on behalf
of all the panel, the absent Senator Matthews excepted, for yesterday's
line of questioning. Skinner said nothing. Waited
till he had been dismissed, stood up, and with all eyes on him, walked
out of the room.
Part Two
Krycek pulled up in front of the cabin, parked by Skinner's car. The
November rain made the Blue Ridge Mountains seem more grey than blue in the
late afternoon light.
Krycek wasn't sure why he was here.
Skinner had disappeared the day the Panel had dismissed him. Had just left
the Crystal City condo and taken off. Scully
knew he had had a meeting with the
Director that morning, knew he had a cabin in the mountains, had assumed
he'd gone there to convalesce.
She'd been livid at his treatment by the Panel and the Bureau.
Grabbed the chance to teach at Quantico, taking her out of
field work.
Mulder had been upset by Skinner's problems, but not enough to turn
down his former boss's position, on an acting basis
only, when it was offered to him. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to
be in charge of the people who had made it their
life's work to make him miserable.
Which was how they found out that Skinner had been told to take six
months sick leave.
Scully had tried often to get Skinner on the phone, had managed it
once or twice in the two months since the Grand Jury.
She hadn't made contact with Skinner in at least three weeks and was
worried.
"It's Thanksgiving next week, Scully. He's probably with his family,"
said Mulder, over-worked and enjoying every
moment of it. He'd never known how much fun it
was to have a group of people all on nerves, wondering when he would
tell them to "Cut the bullshit and get to the point."
Meetings were far less deadly when you were the one directing them.
But Scully was worried. Her own schedule meant that she couldn't take
the time necessary to drive out to the cabin and
check on Skinner in person. To everyone's surprise, including his own,
Krycek offered to do it. He was still floundering
around, not having found anything to do to replace his former
activities, not even getting laid on a regular basis since
Mulder had discovered the joys of bureaucracy and twenty-hour days.
The cabin seemed empty, but Krycek got the first frisson of something
not being right when he discovered the front door
was not locked. Old habits die hard, so he pulled his gun from the side
holster he wore under the prosthesis and
cautiously went in.
In the entrance way, he noticed the smell first, enclosed air, cheap
booze, unwashed dishes and clothes, something else.
There were no lights on, but the windows in the kitchen let in enough
for him to see the pile of dishes crusted over, the
garbage overflowing with bottles of whisky
and not much else. Krycek opened the fridge door. Empty except for a
dried piece of cheese, a container of curdled milk.
The bathroom contained the dirty clothes piled in a corner and the
smell of vomit.
The great room, with its cathedral ceiling, glassed wall, wooden
floor also smelt of vomit, some of it crusted by the deck
door, splattered on the windows by the door. Some by the fireplace.
Krycek checked out the loft bedroom with its king-sized bed and small
wood stove. The sheets hadn't been changed in
quite a while, smelled of rancid sweat.
There were signs of vomit on the quilt that lay tangled at the foot of
the bed.
Jesus Christ! What the hell was going on here?
Krycek made his way back downstairs, tried the deck to see if there
was any sign of Skinner. Noticed something he had
missed on his first turn around the room. On the coffee table in front
of the couch lay a Glock, freshly cleaned and oiled
going by the rag and can of gun oil next to it.
Krycek picked up the gun, checked to see if the safety was on: it
was. If it was loaded: it was.
He slipped it into his holster.
The cabin had been built on a slope, the front facing away from the
drop, the back porch built up on stilts. Steps led down
from the deck which offered a great view
of the lake. There, standing on the bank, Krycek spotted Skinner.
Krycek approached him with great care. Was horrified by the changes
he saw in the man. He had lost a good twenty
pounds while in the hospital, but it looked as
though he had lost twenty more. And he could smell him from fifteen feet
back.
Krycek made a small noise so Skinner could hear him coming. There was
no reaction from the man.
"Skinner." Krycek spoke softly. Repeated the name a bit more loudly.
Finally Skinner turned around enough to see who was behind him.
"What do you want?"
Krycek thought he was prepared for changes in Skinner but had trouble
recognizing the bearded scarecrow standing in
front of him.
He took the time to look him over. The deep lines of pain etched on
either side of nose and mouth were visible even with
the beard. The redden eyes were sunk, dark purple bruises in a grey face
that held no life. His glasses were dirty.
He had to have been standing in this rain for some time: he was
thoroughly soaked. The rain dripped off the shirt-tails of
the dirty black (navy? brown?) flannel shirt that hung on his body. The
jeans were worn, grimed, hips barely there to hold
them up. The unlaced boots were wide open, letting the rain in.
"Scully sent me to see how you were." Krycek slid the gun into his
pocket, kept his hand on it.
Skinner turned back to the lake. Krycek went to stand by him, trying
to see what it was that had caught Skinner's
attention. There was a white mist rising off the water, adding to the
eerieness of the entire situation.
After a few minutes, Skinner said in an indifferent voice, "You can
go now."
Krycek shook his head, spoke with an authoritative tone, "No. It's
been raining too much. One of the roads up here was
already flooding. I'll be spending the night." And turned to go back
into the cabin.
Once in, he quickly checked the place for more weaponry, confiscated
the knives that looked as though they could cut
from the kitchen. The safety razor and blades from the bathroom. Tossed
the lot in the trunk of his car and locked it.
In the freezer he found a container of coffee and with some
difficulty, the coffee pot buried in the rubble on the kitchen
counter.
He used the taps in the tub to wash it out, fill it with water and
got it going on stove, once he'd cleared the top of its
contents.
Skinner still hadn't moved. Still stood looking out over the lake.
Jesus! thought Krycek. What have we done to you?
Krycek was on his second cup when Skinner finally moved and walking
slowly, as if each step was impossibly hard, he
made his way up the path, up the stairs, across the deck and, after
hesitating at the deck doors, into the cabin.
He ignored Krycek and stopped in the great room only long enough to
see that the gun on the coffee table was gone. In
the kitchen, he opened a storage door and came out with another of those
whisky bottles that littered the cabin. He opened
it, found a glass on the counter and filled it with the liquid. With
bottle and glass he moved back into the great room, sat
on the couch.
Apart from filling the glass, now and then drinking, Skinner sat
unmoving. Krycek was horrified at the fragility of the
man he had once compared to "thick- skinned rhino". This man barely had
skin left to hold him together.
In the evening, Krycek made a fresh pot of coffee, cooked the two
beef pies he'd found in the back of the freezer. He used
a couple of pie tins as dishes, the only things he could find that
didn't need washing. Found a spoon and a fork that were
more easily cleaned. Placed the one with the spoon next to Skinner on
the couch. Ate his sitting on the bottom steps to the
loft.
Skinner ignored both the food and Krycek. Eventually fell asleep,
head resting on the arm of the couch. Still holding the
almost empty bottle. Still dressed in the sodden clothes.
Krycek waited till he was certain that Skinner was deeply asleep
before going to look at him.
The smell in the room was the smell of death. He knew that.
Recognized it from having smelt it before.
Skinner, the one with the least direct involvement with the
Consortium, was its biggest victim.
They'd all landed on their feet except him. Scully with her position
at Quantico. Mulder with his new office: everyone
thinking that he had taken Krycek as a lover as a way of getting
information.
Even he had landed pretty well-off: all charges dropped, even a bit
of a hero for having supplied all that documentation, all
that data to Mulder for him to use.
They'd forgotten the man who had done his best to protect them. Who
had given Mulder and Scully the time and leeway
to pursue the X-Files. Had protected them from Cancerman. Had done
things that certainly went against his training, his
personal philosophy to keep them alive. Had even done things to protect
him, Alex Krycek.
True, there had been that scene on the balcony, but even then, he had
made his point without permanent damage. Hell,
Spender and his goons hadn't used a lubed glove on Skinner when they'd
torn him apart on the inside. And Skinner hadn't
called the cops, even though he must have hated him for fucking his
department around the way he had. Or even toss him
off the seventeenth floor. Which he could nave done, and no one have
been the wiser.
He'd been violated twice: ripped apart twice. Once by Spender and his
goons, once by the so-called Justice system. He'd
needed more time to recover from what had been done... Shit! The man had
been tortured, and four weeks later they'd
tortured what was left of him.
Krycek sat at the other end of the couch and considered options. If
he left now, Skinner was dead. And he didn't deserve
that.
On the other hand, if he stayed... God! Scully should have been the
one to come up; to handle this. Even Mulder, for
Christ's sake! Not him. He had no idea what to do.
But he knew that if he contacted Scully—or Mulder—the only thing
they would do is have Skinner hospitalized. And
Krycek was Russian enough to be extremely suspicious of mental
institutions. And the "treatments" that took place there.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. Reached over and took the bottle
out of Skinner's hand. There was a mouthful of the
stuff left in the bottom. He tipped it back and swallowed what had to be
licensed rot-gut.
Skinner had been making small noises, been restless for some time
when suddenly he screamed. Krycek went to touch
him but Skinner sat up, white face beaded with sweat and barely made it
to the toilet when he vomited. The smell in the
room was overpowering as Skinner continued heaving even though nothing
was left in his
stomach to come up.
Krycek touched his shoulder and Skinner turned, eyes black with pain,
vomit marking his beard, his lips. "Please," he
whispered, voice hoarse with the effort of
vomiting, "Please, no more."
Krycek felt his stomach clench. Found he had to swallow, to breathe
shallowly to control the urge to vomit next to
Skinner. The man had curled up, huddled by the toilet, as if trying to
protect himself from blows.
Krycek crouched by Skinner, taking care not to touch him, not to do
anything to set him off. Waited till the man had
fallen asleep lying there on the floor, exhausted from the act of
vomiting, from the lack of food. From the pain and fear he
carried in him.
Krycek knew how Skinner felt. Knew the kind of depression that had
Skinner in its talons. Had been there often enough
himself. Knew that Skinner would have to be made to want to live again
if he were not to take that Glock and put it to his
head.
Krycek sat back on his heels and, after some time, made a decision.
Skinner woke to find himself on the floor of the bathroom, not an
uncommon occurrence these days.
His throat and stomach muscles hurt, his clothes were damp. He'd
learnt to ignore the taste in his mouth some time ago.
Slowly, he rolled over to his knees, sat back, and using the toilet as a
prop, he finally made it to his feet. He was dimly
aware that something was different today, but couldn't concentrate long
enough to track it down.
He'd staggered to the doorway of the bathroom when he realized what
was different. Krycek was standing in the kitchen,
washing a sinkful of dishes. The kitchen, though not yet clean, was
certainly a lot easier to find. Most of the dishes had
been soaked, scraped clean and then washed. The top of the stove was
cleared, except for the pot of coffee that was
percolating.
Krycek wiped his hand dry on a dishcloth he'd found in one of the
kitchen drawers. Between loads of dishes, he'd
stripped the bed, found the washer and dryer behind louvred doors and
was into his fourth load of laundry. Two more
piles of clothes were still waiting for their turn in the appliances.
Krycek poured himself a cup of coffee. Drank it while watching
Skinner absorb what was going on around him. When he
finished, Krycek put the cup down and in a continuous movement, slammed
Skinner against the wall, started stripping the
clothes off him.
Skinner tried to push him away. Got slapped hard across the face for
the effort.
"You," said Krycek through gritted teeth, "are a pig. You smell worse
than a pig. No self-respecting pig would live in his
shit like this." He pulled Skinner off the wall, turned him, pulled his
arm high behind his back, the fake arm around his
neck.
Angrily, he shoved the man back into the bathroom, manhandled him
into the tub. Skinner had trouble standing, wobbled.
Krycek stripped his clothes and prosthesis off, joined Skinner and
turned the water on. It took a bit of fiddling to get the
temperature to a bearable heat.
With very little difficulty, he got Skinner to his feet, braced his
hands against the back wall and began washing him down.
Stripped, Skinner was in worse shape than he had appeared. Krycek
felt he could have counted every rib, every disc of the
spine, hung his hat on hip-bones if he had wanted. There were sores on
skin that had dirt encrusted on it.
Even in depression, how could Skinner have let himself deteriorate to
this extent?
As he washed Skinner down, Krycek couldn't miss the webbing of scars
that lashed the back, buttocks, even chest of the
man. The larger burns still had a reddish sheen to them. The cigarette
burns freckled his chest, were denser in his groin
area, penis and balls. They contrasted with the sharp operation scars on
his ribs where they'd had to cut to clean out the
shards of bone broken by gun butts. Krycek knew they had had to remove
one of them completely.
When he finished washing Skinner, Krycek turned off the water, left
Skinner where he was while he dried himself using
one of the towels that had already gone through its cleaning cycle.
Pulled his jeans on.
He tugged Skinner's arm, got the man out and dried. Wrapped a towel
around his hips and shoved him into the kitchen.
There he poured him a cup of coffee, added
brown sugar and snapped, "Drink."
Watched as Skinner, hands shaking, got the sweetened drink to his
mouth and sipped. Waited till he had drunk most of it
before he began.
"Listen to me, you fucking bastard. I will be staying here for a few
days. While I am here, you will obey me. In anything
and everything I tell you to do. Do you understand?"
Skinner put the mug down on the table, held it between his hands as
if to warm them. He didn't respond. Krycek moved to
the table, hauled Skinner's chin up.
"I asked you a question. You answer me when I ask you a question. Do...
you... understand?"
Something flared for a moment in Skinner's eyes, then faded. He
dropped his eyes from Krycek's. "Yes." Voice low.
Krycek grabbed Skinner's jaw in his hand, forced it up, forced
Skinner to meet his eyes again. "Yes, what?"
Watched as Skinner's military training, his Bureau indoctrination
took over, which he had hoped would in response to his
tone.
"Yes. Sir."
Still holding Skinner's jaw, "I will be gone for the rest of the
afternoon. When I come back, I will find you here. I will find
the kitchen cleaned up. The bathroom cleaned up. I will find you sober.
Is that understood, Skinner?"
Skinner nodded, "Yes, sir." His voice was even softer.
Krycek waited for a moment before releasing Skinner's jaw. He set a
bowl with some cereal, all he could find in the
bottom of a couple of different boxes in the
back of one of the cupboards, poured some water and sugar on it and
presented it to the man. "You've got five minutes to
eat this." An "or else" threat hung in the air. Krycek waited for
Skinner to pick up the spoon, take a mouthful, and left to
dress.
He was taking a chance, leaving him here alone, but the cupboards
were literally bare and he had to get some food into the
place and into Skinner. He had passed a
small town not a half-hour away and thought that would have to do for
now.
He had gone through the house, taken away as much as he felt could be
dangerous, including all the booze he could find.
He pocketed Skinner's car keys. At the door, he turned around.
"Skinner!" Waited till he had the man's attention. "When
that load is dry, you'll find pants and some shirts in it. Get dressed."
He hadn't found all the booze.
He had found the town, spent a couple of hundred dollars buying
canned goods, fresh food, meats to restock the freezer.
Even added some fancy chocolate ice cream, a treat for himself which he
did not intend to share. He stocked up on cheese,
dry and fresh milk. At the small drugstore, he bought a variety of
vitamins, food supplements, stomach medication, shampoo, soap, basic
medical supplies.
He found out that for twenty bucks, the kid who pumped gas at the
only gas station in the area would pick up groceries
and deliver them to the cabin. For another twenty, wouldn't deliver
Skinner's liquor order.
He was gone a total of four hours and returned to find Skinner passed
out in the bathroom, hand bleeding from the bottle
that had broken against the toilet when he
fell. The kitchen was a bit cleaner. The bathroom not.
"Well, Alexei, now what do you do?" He had inferred a threat if his
orders had not been carried out. How was he going to
handle this "disobedience". Whatever he did, he had to consider the
shape the man was in.
Then he had an idea.
He dragged Skinner out to the great room. Carefully he washed and
bandaged the cut hand. "Shit, man, just what you
needed, another scar."
Because the kitchen was open concept, an upright beam served to
support its part of the loft. Krycek dragged Skinner face
down to it, took the handcuffs he had found in one of the upstairs
drawers, and cuffed Skinner's hands around the beam.
He dragged over a couple of the couch cushions, piled one on top of the
other, raised Skinner on them so that his head
hung over the edge. That way, if he vomited, he wouldn't drown in it.
And, just in case he did vomit, he placed a large metal
pan on the floor under his face.
At the last minute, he tossed a blanket over the man, turned on a
couple of lights so he wouldn't wake up in the dark, and
drove back into the town for a leisurely supper in the town's one
so-called restaurant.
It was nearly midnight when he unlocked the door and came in find
Skinner's eyes wide open and black. He strolled over
to the man, pulled the pan and ist contents away and went to empty it in
the bathroom. He took his time rinsing the pan,
putting it in the kitchen sink for washing.
He crouched by Skinner, stroked his face with a finger. "Next time I
tell you to do something, you'll do it. Won't you,
Skinner?"
He reached into his pocket, took out the key and unlocked the cuffs.
His hand came away bloodied.
He pulled Skinner's hands to him. Both wrists were torn, bleeding:
the result of Skinner's attempts to free himself. He
turned to yell at the man, to find terror and insanity.
"Please. Don't chain me. Please. I'll do whatever you ask. I won't
fight you. But please, don't chain me. Please!"
Skinner's voice had risen with hysteria; his body trembled, his eyes
grew wide with fear. He curled himself tight into a
fetal position, voice begging, words unclear except for the repeated
"Please!"
Krycek cursed himself. He pulled the broken man into his arms, tried
to get through the fear and hysteria. Too late he'd
remembered that Skinner had been handcuffed to the metal bar that had
kept him upright throughout his torture.
God! He didn't know what he was doing. He was only making things
worse. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe
Skinner would be better off in one of those hospitals, drugged to the
gills, not feeling anything but stoned.
How was what he had done to the man any different than Spender and
his goons? Shit! He should have remembered!
He rocked Skinner awkwardly in his arms, back and forth till his legs
went to sleep beneath him, his arm ached and his
stump burnt with the stress of gripping Skinner. Gradually, Skinner
calmed, holding tightly to Krycek.
Krycek thought he had fallen asleep when Skinner asked, "Please. When
you've had your revenge, will you kill me?"
Krycek rubbed his cheek against Skinner's bald head. "My revenge for
what, Skinner?"
"For the balcony."
Krycek did some quick thinking, hated himself for using the weapon
Skinner had just handed him. "That depends. Will
you obey me?"
Skinner nodded his head slightly against Krycek's shoulder.
"Then, when I'm satisfied, we'll discuss this again."
Skinner nodded again. Then faintly, "Please. Don't chain me. I'll..."
Krycek interrupted before the man was actually begging again. "No
chains. No cuffs. I promise."
He waited a bit longer, but Skinner seemed satisfied with the
promise. "Come on, Skinner. Let's get you on the couch. I'll
wrap those wrists of yours."
Skinner fell asleep before he had finished the second wrist. Krycek
made him comfortable on the couch, slipped a pillow
under his head, tucked a blanket around him. He wrapped another one
around himself, tried to get comfortable in the
armchair, put his feet up on the coffee table and did some heavy
thinking.
Skinner made it through the rest of the night without waking. Not
without nightmares.
By morning Krycek had decided against hospitalization, and had
decided to give it a shot. What Skinner needed was food,
exercise, sleep. Nightmares were something Krycek understood, something
he had learnt to handle.
When Skinner got a handle on the nightmares, he'd be okay, thought
Krycek.
In the morning, he made Skinner take a shower, put on clean sweats.
Made him a light breakfast of strong, sweet tea and
dry toast. Told him to take a nap.
All of which Skinner did without saying a word, without questioning.
That bothered Alex Krycek more than he thought it
would: the old Skinner would have told him to "Go to hell, boy!"
After an hour, Krycek woke Skinner, fed him more of the tea and
toast. Gave him the pile of towels and socks that he had
finally finished washing. Had Skinner fold
the towels, pair the socks, then told him to take another nap.
It was like that all day long: food, some small activity that didn't
require thinking, naps. Skinner made it to mid-afternoon
before his stomach rejected the last batch of tea and toast. Krycek
waited till Skinner had cleaned up the bathroom—he
hadn't quite made it to the toilet—and then handed him some of the
stomach medication he'd picked up. He gave it several
hours before he tried food again: this time it stayed down.
The only time Skinner spoke that day was when Krycek indicated that
he was to sleep upstairs with him. Skinner looked
from him to the bathroom. "Please," his
voice rough with disuse, "the couch is closer."
Krycek picked up a bucket he'd found in his cleaning spree, handed it
to Skinner. "By the bed. But you're sleeping in the
bed, not down here."
Up in the loft, he made Skinner strip to his shorts, get in one side
of the big bed, and claimed the other side as his. He'd
locked his gun in the car trunk, and felt quite naked without it. He
couldn't remember the last time he'd slept without it at
hand.
Which meant he slept badly, but that was okay, because he spent part
of the night holding Skinner's head over the bucket.
When it was over, Krycek cleaned up the bucket, Skinner. He piled a
bunch of pillows so he could sleep sitting up,
grabbed a shivering Skinner and hauled him
as close to himself as possible.
Skinner had flinched at first, lay tense but gradually, the heat of
Krycek's body, the hand gently stroking his neck and
back calmed him and he went back to sleep.
Krycek found that once more he was doing some heavy thinking about
the situation. He was having a hard time believing
that what Spender and his goons had done to Skinner was responsible for
this kind of extreme reaction on Skinner's part.
The next morning, he changed the routine: he made Skinner run before
feeding him. Skinner slept for two hours straight,
soundly, after that. Had him replenish
the wood pile by the fireplace before lunch. Twenty sit-ups, twenty
push-ups before the mid-afternoon feed. Another run
before supper.
All food stayed down, except for the bowl of cereal he had before
bed. So there was part of yesterday's routine repeated
after all.
Over the next four days, Krycek gradually increased the distance of
the run, the number of repetitions, the quantity of the
food. He left the length of the naps stable; Skinner needed all the
sleep he could get.
The nights were bad: Skinner's nightmares seemed determined to keep
him from getting a full night's sleep. Krycek began
the nights on his half of the bed, ended them on Skinner's, holding the
man.
He had worried about the cold turkey removal of alcohol from
Skinner's diet. Wasn't too surprised that to find total
abstention wasn't much of a problem. Skinner's wasn't an addictive
personality. The booze had been there for some
reason, but not because it was physically needed.
On Thanksgiving Day, Krycek had been there one week. Other than a
sentence here or there, there had been no
conversation between the two men. Krycek gave orders and Skinner carried
them out. And apart from that, Krycek read
while Skinner ran, exercised or slept.
There was a TV in the great room, but neither man had turned it on.
Krycek knew from what Mulder had told him that
Skinner was a football fan. He seemed to remember that this time of the
year was saturated with televised games. So, after
lunch, he turned on the set, found a game on and settled to watch it on
the couch. Skinner was sitting at the other end,
silent, waiting for the next set of commands from Krycek.
Gradually, he became interested in the game. For the first time since
he'd arrived, Krycek watched as some animation
appeared in the man. Not much, but enough for him to snort at some play
that Krycek, who had never spent much time
with this game, couldn't follow.
That game was followed by another, and by this time, Skinner had
caught on that the day's activities were to be more easy.
At one point, Krycek got up, went into the kitchen. He placed a bowl of
some kind of pretzel-nut mixture by Skinner, sat
at his end with a bowl of chocolate ice cream.
"I don't get the popularity of this game." Krycek licked his spoon.
"I mean, you've got a bunch of over-sized, over-paid
goons who crash into each other, try to dismember each other, feel each
other up. This is a sport?"
"You don't understand." Skinner voice was hoarse, not just from the
vomiting but because he'd spoken so rarely. "It's an
American thing."
"Don't give me that bullshit! I was born here. I'm as American as you
are, even if my parents were Russian. I had to put
up with those stupid jocks all the way through school. They haven't a
brain among them. And everyone thinks they're so
great that even when they kill their ex-wives, they get away with
murder. There's no real skill needed to play football. Just
brute strength and the ability to endure pain."
Skinner sat very still. Krycek checked him out of the corner of his
eye. Wondered if he was going to get any kind of
reaction from him.
"There's finesse in the game. You just don't know where to look for
it."
Ah, Krycek smiled into his ice cream. He almost sounded like the old
Skinner there for a moment. "Okay. So explain it to
me."
Shit! That sounded more like an order than an invitation to
conversation.
But it got Skinner started. He began carefully neutral in tone,
became more animated as the game progressed. He
explained the action on the screen as if he were talking to some kid who
had never seen the game before.
By the end of the game, Skinner had spoken more than he had in
months. And he had begun gesturing, using his hands to
explain rules. He slouched down on his spine, muttered comments about
the commentary. Krycek smiled openly,
delighted that this idea had borne fruit.
But when the game ended, it was as if Skinner found himself shocked
by his behaviour and he withdrew, fell silent again.
Over supper, Krycek left him alone. He intended to push, but not
today. Today had shown him that the old Skinner was
still around: he would just need some time to come out of whatever hole
he was hiding in.
A week later, Krycek handed Skinner an axe and told him to replenish
the wood stack. There were at least ten cords of
wood stacked outside, but some of the pieces need to be cut down,
especially for use in the small wood stove in the
bedroom and for kindling. The nights were getting colder and apart from
a small baseboard in the bathroom, a larger one
in the kitchen, all heat came from wood.
It was the first time that he'd allowed anything sharp near Skinner,
but with only one arm, he very well couldn't do the
chopping himself. And since he had no intention of leaving Skinner
alone, he stacked the chopped wood in the lean-to set
up for that purpose besides the deck steps.
After a while of working in the sun, Skinner took off his shirt,
continuing to work just in his t-shirt. Krycek sat on the
bottom steps and watched him.
He had managed to put on some weight. The exercise had helped it
become muscle. He had more stamina. Slept better,
except for the middle of the night. Except for the middle of the night,
had stopped vomiting completely. His skin had lost
that grey look, but that beard and the hair needed cutting.
After the game, there hadn't been much conversation, but what little
there had been was easier. And Krycek had discovered
the chess set on the shelf that held all sorts of well-used board games.
He had intended to play against himself, to pass the
time, but had been pleased when Skinner casually asked if he played too.
They played a game every night after supper. A sort of non-verbal
conversation, thought Krycek. He pushed and Skinner,
after losing too many games in a row, began pushing back. It amused
Krycek to see that Skinner pushed using the rules
while he tended to push against the rules.
They were in bed that night when Krycek caught Skinner wincing at
muscles that hadn't been used for some time.
"Turn over," he told Skinner. Skinner's reaction was to freeze. That
haunted look came back in his eyes, and he looked as
if he was going to panic. Finally, he took a deep breath and obeyed.
Krycek had caught his mistake almost as soon as it came out of his
mouth. He knew that he had just lost a lot of the trust
he had been so slowly establishing.
He had been aware, in these weeks, that Skinner was almost afraid of
being touched. Every night, when he had held the
man, there had always been a period where he was tensed, relaxing only
when sleep took over. And that was allowable
only because he was usually so sick that he didn't have the resources to
deal with more.
But now, it wasn't the middle of the night. He hadn't puked his guts
out. He wasn't shivering in reaction to the vomiting
and his dreams. He didn't need someone to
hold onto, to keep those nightmares away.
Krycek carefully propped the pillows so they would support his left
side: God! it was times like this that he missed his
left arm.
He lay his hand on the nape of Skinner's neck, felt the slight tremor
and left it there for him to get used to. Then gently, he
began massaging the tight muscles of neck and shoulder. He didn't say
anything, just worked on the knotted musculature,
reminding himself that he had to remember to get some sort of lotion to
make this easier on both of them.
After working on Skinner's neck and upper back, he made himself
comfortable on his side of the bed. " 'Night," he
yawned, and turned so his back was to Skinner, knowing full well that
wasn't what Skinner was expecting.
The next day, he doubled all of Skinner's exercise. Timed his morning
run. Had him spend the rest of the morning in
sit-ups, crunches, push-ups, anything he could think of to wear him out
completely. No naps either, had him run again in
the afternoon after telling him to cut ten minutes off the morning time.
Skinner ached that night, so much so, that when Krycek told him "Turn
over," he did so with a sigh of anticipation.
Krycek began propped up as he had the night before, but at one point,
he found it easier if he just straddled Skinner's
hips. He ignored the immediate tensing of the man. Shit! Skinner was
going to learn to trust him!
And again, when he was done, he moved over to his side of the bed and
went to sleep.
Skinner had his usual three o'clock nightmares, but this time when
Krycek pulled him into his arms, there was no tensing
up. And he went willingly.
The first snow arrived the next morning. In a nice little blizzard
that would dump five to ten inches, and then the sun the
next day would melt most of it away. Krycek didn't set a run that day,
just the usual inside exercises.
During lunch, he realized that Skinner had been staring at him under
his eyelashes all through the meal. As if really seeing
him for the first time. Krycek decided it was time to push the trust
issue just a bit further.
"Stay here," he said, after the dishes had been washed and put away.
He pointed to the table. Skinner sat, waited.
Krycek came back with a bowl of hot water, scissors, shaving lather,
a couple of towels, and a safety razor.
"I'm tired of not seeing your face," he wrapped a towel around
Skinner's neck. "And it's not really you, Skinner. Not the
beard. Not the long hair. You've never been scruffy, and if you've
suddenly decided to go for the hippie look, well, you're
too late now. You should have gone for it when you were the right age."
With the scissors, he trimmed the beard to a shaveable length.
Skinner, he noticed, kept very still during the whole
operation, only moving that part of his face that Krycek told him to
move.
It took, Krycek smiled to himself, a fair amount of trust to allow a
one-handed man, who used an electric shaver himself,
to shave your exposed throat with a safety razor.
When he got to hair, Krycek just shaved all of it off as well.
Skinner didn't protest, just made a little sound when Krycek
said, "Well, it's not as if you have no experience with being a
leather-head."
"I think," offered Skinner, "you mean a leather-neck."
"Whatever. It'll grow back soon anyway." He walked around Skinner
evaluating the afternoon's effort. He stopped in
front of Skinner, check out the smoothness of his work on cheeks and jaw
with a finger. Felt only the tiniest reaction from
Skinner to his touch.
"Better," he said.
Skinner looked at him, raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he admitted,
"better."
Krycek understood he wasn't just referring to the shave.
Skinner found himself waking, not because of nightmares but because
of the sense that something was wrong.
He was alone in bed, alone in the loft. Slowly, he got out of bed,
pulled his jeans on and went to see where Krycek was.
The idea passed through his mind that Krycek was fed up with him, and
had decided to take off. Then he shrugged it off.
He hadn't heard the door close, a car
start. And he wasn't sleeping so deeply that he wouldn't have awaken at
those sounds. Moreover, whenever Krycek went
into town, he always made sure Skinner knew he was going, how long he
intended to be away, and left a list of
instructions of how to fill in his time while Krycek was gone. Krycek,
Skinner had discovered, did not believe in idle
hands. Besides, there was still plenty of that chocolate
ice cream he ate so that he had no reason for going into town.
Skinner found Krycek on the couch, feet on the table. His face was in
the dark, but Skinner knew from the way his right
hand was massaging his shoulder and the upper part of his stump that he
was in pain. He'd read about phantom pain, but
this was the first time he'd seen someone experiencing it.
He quietly approached the couch, stood behind Krycek and waited till
the man acknowledged he was there before placing
his hands on Krycek's shoulder and using thumbs and fingers, began
pressing deeply into knotted muscle.
Krycek dropped his own hand, sighed at the ease Skinner's hands were
bringing him.
"Lean your head forward." Skinner worked on tight neck muscles, upper
back muscles before moving to include the front
of the shoulders.
Krycek groaned. "Thanks. It's not the same thing when you do it to
yourself."
Skinner grunted. "Phantom pain?"
"Yeah. And then the nerves get into act. It's like I can feel the
burning from my shoulder to my hand. I get the impression
that if I could just rub my hand, the bloody pain would stop."
Skinner moved his hands to the stump, holding it in both of his. He
could feel the muscles twitching. Very gently, he
massaged the scared and mangled limb. "Does this hurt?"
"Yeah, but it's good pain, don't stop. Sort of like working a charlie
horse out of a muscle. That kind of hurt."
After a while, Krycek rested his head against the back of the couch,
looked up at Skinner who was still working on his
shoulder and stump.
"Skinner. What happened?"
Skinner didn't pretend to misunderstand the question. He shrugged.
Krycek's hand reached up and rested on the arm
nearest to it. He tugged gently, and, hand still on Skinner, got him to
come around to the front of the couch. To sit next to
him.
"Listen, I know you strong silent types don't like to talk much, but
Skinner, those nightmares won't go away if you don't
get some of that stuff out of you."
Krycek turned slightly so he could look at the man sitting stiffly
next to him.
"Look, it's not that difficult. With a name like Sergei, you must
have had some connection to a church. What? Russian
Orthodox? Roman Catholic? Which one
was it?"
Skinner sat back, put his feet on the table next to Krycek's.
Scrubbed his face with his hands.
"Come on, Walter. Don't make me remind you of your promise. Remember,
I ask, you answer."
"Except," Skinner sighed, "you still haven't taken your revenge. And
you won't kill me. Not now."
"No. Not necessary now. But it was close. That day I got here, you
were going to do it. Put the Glock to your head and
add to the general smell and mess of the place." He paused. "Why?"
Skinner still didn't answer.
"What Spender and his goons did to you was shit, but you never struck
me as the type of guy who would let that kind of
shit get to him. I'm not saying it wasn't bad, because it was. But
Walter Sergei Skinner should have rolled with it, gotten
up, found his feet and gone on with life."
Skinner decided to answer another question. "Catholic. My father
found the Russian Liturgy took too much time. And the
local school with the best football team was Catholic."
"So you practice?"
"No. Nam took care of that. And I haven't seen anything in the last
thirty years to change my mind."
"But you're familiar with confession. That's all this is, Skinner.
Confession time. Just close your eyes and pretend I'm
Father O'Malley..."
"Father Kiwaulski." He found himself wondering just how far Krycek
was going to play this.
"Father Kiwaulski then and tell me all your sins. You know, the
venial ones first so that you can work your way up to the
mortal and not shock the old wino."
Skinner quirked an eyebrow at Krycek. "You seem to know a lot about
that."
"I've heard about it. I haven't done it." Almost defensive. Krycek
tried again. "Look, do it whichever way you want, but get
it out of your gut before it festers. Maybe it won't make the nightmares
go away, but at least I'll know what we're dealing
with. Maybe I can help."
Skinner looked carefully at the man next to him. The man who had
bullied him back into life. The last man on earth he'd
have ever thought would hold out a hand and pull him back from the
blackness. A man he had abused, hated, had wanted
dead, preferably by his hand.
Krycek didn't know where to go from here. He was tired and, in spite
of the massage, his arm still hurt. It would continue
hurting for no reason he could find and then suddenly stop, again for no
discernable reason. Meanwhile, it left him tense,
sore and gave him a headache. Normally he'd drink to handle the
situation,
but he had no intention of doing so in front of Skinner.
He was seriously thinking of finding some codeine tablets when
Skinner suddenly started talking.
"Two weeks after you found me OPC came to see me in the hospital."
"OPC? What the fuck for?" And two weeks after he'd found him, Walter
Skinner had still not been in any shape to handle
OPC.
"The video and cassette. The bank account."
Krycek was stunned. "Are you telling me they believed that bullshit?"
"That's their job, believing bullshit." Even Skinner heard the
bitterness in his voice. "They 'interviewed' me every day after
that. I was put on notice that I was to consider myself guilty... no, a
traitor unless they could prove otherwise. Like you,
they wanted a confession. It would make things easier on me if I just
told them the truth."
"Jesus, Skinner. But they knew you. Shit! Even I knew it was a set-up
when I heard it. Surely it was obvious to them."
"Well, you see, there'd been problems with my department before,
where they'd had to investigate..."
Skinner stopped to listen to Alex Krycek swear fluently first in
English, then in Russian. He really didn't have much
Russian, only his maternal grandparents had
spoken it, but he did recognize a few of the expressions. His
grandfather had always believed that Russian was a much
better language for swearing. Krycek obviously knew a fair amount since
he had yet to repeat himself.
Skinner waited for Krycek's anger to quiet. He hadn't really been
surprised at the arrival of OPC. What had gotten to him
was the vehemence, the acrimony directed at him. But eventually he had
understood it.
"I knew that they believed me dirty when I got to the Grand Jury
waiting room and met my lawyer."
"That asshole!" Krycek's disdain was obvious.
"The Director's god-son, who passed his bar exams on, it is rumoured,
his fifth try. I knew that they were hanging me out
to dry. And then there was Senator Matthews and his questions."
Skinner turned to look at Krycek who had slouched so that his spine
rested on the seat, head thrown back, eyes closed.
"By the way, thanks for that. You were the only one in that room who
understood what he was doing."
"Yeah, right. I told you to feed him and you did. You know," Krycek
opened his eyes to look at Skinner, "I actually
thought you'd get a kick out of what happened to him. What I did was set
you up for yet another assault."
Skinner slouched beside Krycek on the couch. "Actually, there was a
day when I finally got a laugh over it, but it did take
a while. And I was drunk at the time. But I do seriously thank you. You
were the only one who even tried to help."
"Look," Krycek felt he had to explain, "Scully and Mulder weren't
there because they didn't even think for a minute that
anyone would take those things about you
seriously. Neither of them knew about the OPC investigation, or they'd
have been there fighting. Shit! We thought the
bloody fighting was all over."
Skinner shrugged. The fact remained that of all of them, only Krycek
had been there at the Grand Jury, had been the only
one... again... to help him.
A new thought came to him. "So, what did you threaten Spender with
that he confessed to all the next day?"
Krycek shrugged. "I just described to him what prison life would be
like if he were paralysed from the neck down."
"Graphically?"
Krycek met Skinner's half smile with a grin of his own. "I'm very
good at graphic detail." Then, "How did you know it
was me?"
Skinner's smile grew. "You just told me."
Krycek snickered. That was more like the old Skinner. "So where did
you disappear to, after you were dismissed."
"The Director's Personal Assistant was waiting for me when I left the
Court. To take me to the Director. The PA had
already updated him on the morning's revelations."
"And?" By now, Krycek had an idea where this was going.
"And I got told that I had brought too much disrepute to the Bureau
for them to allow me to come back."
"Even if you'd been cleared?"
"Ah, but I hadn't been cleared. I had admitted in my own testimony
that I was quote a practising ho..mo..sexual who was
into games of say..do..mas..o..chistic bondage. Unquote. That I had had
sex with a subordinate who was too naive to
understand what I was leading him into."
"Mulder? Naive? Shit! That asshole doesn't know our boy very well,
does he?" Krycek's first and only reference to the
fact that they had both shared in Mulder's favours.
Skinner ignored the comment. "That in spite of Spender's testimony, I
was still under suspicion and therefore, until and
unless I was completely cleared, irrevocably cleared by OPC, it would be
required that I take leave without pay for at least
six months while my work was investigated. Of course, should I wish to
do the 'honourable' thing for the Bureau and its
reputation, I could resign. They would even 'allow' me to take
retirement if that was the route I preferred. After all, I did
have my twenty years and was eligible. Of course, pension payments would
have to be held back until I was cleared."
Shit! No wonder the man had hit the bottle.
"I really wasn't surprised then that Scully and Mulder weren't
around. I had been their supervisor. I understood that
considering the position I was in, they couldn't be seen to support me
in any way and keep their careers..."
"That's bullshit!" Krycek's vehemence stopped Skinner.
"No. I was... I am poison."
"That's not what I calling bullshit, though that's also bullshit. No.
You weren't just their supervisor. You covered for them
more than you had to. You cared for them. Christ, Skinner, you were
their fucking lifeline! They should have been there
for you. Hell, Skinner! You were even there for me!"
Skinner looked stunned. "How the hell did you come to that
conclusion?"
"Come on, the number of times you could have killed me. Called the
cops on me. Could have thrown me off the balcony."
"Instead I tortured you."
Krycek rolled his eyes. "Get real. You of all people know that it
wasn't torture."
"Really. So what was it that I did to you that night on my balcony?"
Krycek meet Skinner's eyes, saw the self-disgust in them. "I pissed
you off and you lost it for a while."
"I lost it?!" Skinner was incredulous.
"Jesus, Skinner, you going to tell me that Spender put a glove and a
ton of lube on one of those gun barrels before he
shoved it up your ass?" He took a deep breath, tried again.
"Look, I'm not saying it didn't hurt: it did. But you didn't tear
me." Well, he had, but not much. And he had had worse in
his life. "Though, I did shit lube for the next two days. And face it,
you did have legitimate grounds for hating me. It's not
like you did it out of the blue.
"And, not that I'm excusing them, but Scully was up to her neck in
corpses in Quantico, from the Johnson case. And
Mulder was on the West Coast at some conference with the Director.
Neither of them suspected what was going on. I
swear, Skinner. They didn't know. Or they'd have been there. And they
never for a moment believed any of that crap
Spender invented."
There was a long bit of quiet while Krycek thought of some very
inventive things he wanted to do to the Bureau Director.
"My family believed it." Skinner voice was very quiet.
The final piece, thought Krycek. "What did they believe?"
"The video, the cassette, the bank account. Even after Spender
confessed, they thought there had to be a grain of truth to it
because if there hadn't been, the Director would have come out right
away to defend me."
Krycek was stunned silent.
"And then there's the fact that I sleep with men. It's bad enough I
do it, but to admit it in front of a Grand Jury humiliated
them to no end. They had to send for the doctor for my mother. They
thought she was going to have a heart attack. My
brother George wouldn't let me talk to her because if I did, it might
kill her.
When I tried to get her later on, she hung up the phone on hearing my
voice.
"I thought if I gave it some time, things would calm down. So I
waited, called my other brother, Tom. He actually talked to
me. Told me how mom couldn't hold up her head in town any more. How
Father Kiwaulski helped her pray for my
immortal soul. How I was a embarrassment to the Marine Corps, the FBI,
the
American way of life. That he hoped that I would have the common basic
decency, if people like me had any decency,
to remember that there were children in the family and that my presence
would not be tolerated around them.
"He probably had more to say, but I hung up at that point.
"That was the day you arrived."
The next day, while Skinner was out running, Krycek got hold of
Scully in Quantico. Told her about the OPC
investigations, about the Director and his "support".
Heard, for the first time in his life, Dana Scully swear like the
sailor her father had been.
"How bad is he?"
"It's getting better. He'd lost weight. Wasn't eating properly.
Drinking too much. But he's got it under control again. More
like the old Skinner."
"Are you sure? Maybe I should come out and see for myself."
"Wait, will you, Scully. Maybe later. But there are still a few
things left for him to sort out, and it would be easier if he
dealt with them first. And I promise I'll call you every week with an
update."
Scully wanted to believe Krycek that things weren't bad, but had
gotten the message that interference would not be
welcomed. And since Krycek was the one who had gone up, she felt she had
to trust him. "Every week. I'll expect your
call every Wednesday at this time. If I don't hear from you, I'll be
coming up. And, Krycek, I'll find out what's going on
with OPC. After all, the new Acting Assistant Director used to be my
partner."
"How's he doing?"
"Having the time of his life shaking things up. Got the budget people
freaked out over his expenses approvals. Won't read
reports longer than three pages. He's getting away with it all only
because he knows he's still the Media darling. All that
positive coverage is just delighting the upper offices."
Krycek gave Skinner the day off for Christmas. Even allowed him some
of his chocolate ice cream after warning him that
should any disappear that he couldn't
account for, he would break Skinner's hands.
Skinner thanked him very politely for the treat, then pointed out to
Krycek that he really didn't like chocolate all that much,
preferred butter pecan. Which Krycek added to the shopping list.
Once Skinner initiated a conversation of his own: wondering if Krycek
didn't want to go back to his place to pick up some
clothes, his mail, something.
Krycek had been wearing some of Skinner's clothes, his shirts, his
sweats. Had bought socks, t-shirts, underwear in the
town's general store.
"I don't really have any other clothes. I usually keep things down to
a bare minimum. As for the apartment, I rent it by the
week. So it's been long cleaned out and rented to someone else. And the
only mail I get is addressed 'Occupant'."
New Year's Day. They spent the evening watching yet another football
game. Skinner was watching, stretched out on the
couch. Krycek was sitting cross-legged in the armchair, working his way
through Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury",
occasionally looking at the game.
He got up at one point, returned some time later with two drinks.
Placed one on the coffee table by Skinner, resettled in
his chair with the other.
Skinner looked at the drink, could smell it was scotch. Knew by the
colour, it had to be prime. Looked over at Krycek
who was watching him.
"Aren't you afraid I'll go back to that other stuff?"
Krycek shook his head. "You're no alcoholic, Skinner. One glass in
the evening, now and then, isn't going to send you
back that way. Not now." He raised his
glass, said something in Russian, translated at Skinner's raised
eyebrow. "To life!"
Skinner picked up the glass, toasted Krycek with it. "To life. Alex."
Alex smiled. "To life. Walter."
Walter took a sip. Felt the warmth of single malt scotch roll over
his tongue, down his throat, into his stomach. He shut
his eyes in appreciation. "Good stuff."
Alex shrugged. "You should know. That's the brand you had on the
sideboard in your place that night."
Walter shook his head in rueful appreciation. Alex had spent what,
ten seconds? in that part of his apartment, yet had
noticed, and remembered, something that insignificant. No wonder the man
was still alive.
Alex was beginning to wonder when Walter was going to tell him to get
lost. He'd been here two months, since
mid-November.
He had to admit that he liked it here at the cabin with Walter. Had
joined him in the morning and afternoon runs since the
New Year. Their chess games had become battles of strategy since their
evening games allowed them both to test old
skills.
Scully updated him every week on the ongoing battle with OPC. "It's
as if they want to find something to hang on him,"
she grouched. "And since they can't,
they keep on digging."
"They don't want to admit they were wrong. That they abandoned one of
their own. Not good for morale," Alex explained.
"Mulder's threatened to go public unless they tie it up real soon."
Scully told him the next week.
"That should light a fire under them." Alex's tone was both bitter
and sarcastic.
"I've got some time coming to me," said Scully. "Want me to replace
you for a while?"
But Alex didn't want to be replaced, didn't want any outside
interference.
Because he had finally clued in to the last bit of the Skinner
puzzle; that feeling that no matter how well Walter was, there
was something missing.
That morning, he'd passed the bathroom and noticed that while
shaving, Walter didn't look in the mirror. As if he didn't
want to see himself.
That got Alex thinking. Walter still flinched if he was accidentally
touched. Except in bed, after a nightmare, he made no
effort to touch Alex, even in passing.
And, unless he jerked off on his runs or in the shower, he had not
had any sex at all, of any type, since the kidnapping.
Alex knew that he himself waited to jerk off in the shower. He tended
to be a bit loud and liked the idea of privacy.
He knew now that Walter hadn't had much counselling in the hospital,
none since leaving.
And he had been brutally raped, not just by gun barrels but by the
three men themselves. Anally and orally.
Alex remembered how he had felt the first time he had been brutally
raped. How long it had taken for him to even tolerate
the sight of his body in the shower. Not
to cringe at the touch of a hand.
He shook his head, refusing to go down that path any longer. But it
made him look at Walter differently, picking up
signals he had till then either not seen or ignored.
He waited till they were in bed to test his theory.
He had propped himself on a couple of pillows, near the centre of the
bed, watching Walter stoke up the fire in the wood
stove that heated the loft, undress. Walter was surprised to find him
that close to himself, but just lay back, the way he did
every night.
Alex just kept on stroking the stubbly skin of jaw and cheek, felt
the tension rise in the man with each pass of his finger.
"When we finally do it," he leaned over and whispered, "it will not
be rape. You'll want it as much as I do." Walter's eyes
turned to his. "Yes, you will. But for right now, we'll go slowly. Very
slowly. Just a touch, till you get used to the feel of
my hand."
He moved the finger across Walter's mouth, gently stroking the lips.
Up to his nose and down it. Again across the lips.
Walter's eyes holding his own.
"Till the feel of them is less than the feel of my hand on your
skin."
Walter pulled away, sat on the edge of the bed, trying hard not to
vomit.
Alex moved to sit on his heels behind Walter. He didn't touch the
man, just let him adjust to his presence in his personal
space.
"By now I think you trust me enough to know I won't hurt you. You're
a hell of a lot better than what you were when I
first got here, Walter. You're eating regularly. You're back in shape.
You're back in control. Of everything except this.
"Before they raped you, you liked sex. You couldn't help but like it
with Mulder. You probably even liked it a lot with
your wife.
"They took a lot away from you, Walter. Your reputation. Your peace
of mind. Your self-worth. You went down for a
while there, but you've pulled yourself back up. And in the long run,
you're going to win.
"But not if you let them keep this part of yourself. If you do,
they'll have won your soul, your heart.
"And it's not an easy thing to do, to win back your soul. I know."
Alex took a deep breath. "I know what it's like to avoid looking into
a mirror because you can't stand to see what's in your
eyes. To shower and pretend it's someone else's body you're washing.
Because if it's yours that's being touched, the idea
will send you screaming through the night. To see marks on your body
that disgust you.
"To have nightmares where the darkness is hands and other things
hurting. To wake up screaming your throat to shreds.
To the smell of vomit."
Alex paused, trying to control his own breathing. "If you want me to
leave, I will. But I would rather stay, if you'll allow.
And if you do, then I will touch you, Walter. I will allow you to
dictate how much I can touch, but I will touch you.
"If the only way you can tolerate this is to say that this is my
revenge for the balcony, then that's okay. I will tell you now,
it isn't. I have wanted to touch
you for some time now, but I wanted it to be a mutual want."
His voice softened.
"I would like once in my life for someone to want me as much as I
want him. To want my pleasure as I want his. To touch
me with care. As I touch him with care."
Alex rested his head against Walter's shoulder, whispered so low that
Walter barely heard the words. "Not just be a piece
of meat."
Walter let his head rest on top of Alex's. God! He was tired! It had
hurt him more than he would admit to hear Alex
understood his self-loathing.
Slowly, he turned and took Alex into his arms. It was his turn to
hold and comfort. How many times had Alex done it for
him since he'd arrived? How many times had
someone done it for Alex?
He lay back on the pillows, holding Alex. They slept that way through
the night.
No nightmares for either of them.
Walter was aware that Alex had been very sincere in telling him if he
stayed he would touch.
Because touch he did. Light, casual touches. On a shoulder. On an
arm. Just in passing.
Standing closer to him than he had done. Sitting next to him on the
couch.
Yet always watching for Walter's reaction. Careful not to push too
long, too deeply.
Just getting him used to the feel of his hand, the nearness of his
body. The fact that his eyes followed him.
And those were just the days. The nights were a bit more intense.
Touching for a purpose.
Just the face to begin. A finger delineating his features. Eyes
watching for the slightest nuance of pain, fear in his. Then a
hand caressing. A comment about the roughness of his beard. About how,
when they were going to have sex, he was
going to have to shave first.
Then his mouth. Just passing over his skin, his lips. Then tip of
tongue, tracing the path the finger had taken. Licking.
Tasting. Soothing.
And done, gradually, over several nights. Sometimes as they went to
bed. Others, to awaken him in the night at the start of
a nightmare. In the morning.
So that finally, Walter realized that what he felt on his face was
not the touch of the men who had hurt him, but of Alex.
That night, he turned to Alex, and began his own attack of touch,
using, as Alex had, just a finger to begin with. Was
rewarded with green eyes that showed surprise. Then wary pleasure.
Watched as his touch brought a slight blush to
Alex's face. Passed his own lips over the blush. Opened his mouth to
Alex's taste and felt it overpower the sour taste that
had been left behind in his.
Walter found that now he too touched in the days. The same light,
casual touches. Fingers brushing when they played
chess. A slight nudge of a shoulder against the
other's, to point out a bit of action on TV. Feet "accidentally" resting
on the other's on the coffee table. Slouching so that
head rested against shoulder.
And understanding that a stump hurt after a day of wearing a
prosthesis. That a massage of neck, shoulder, stump was
heaven for a one-armed man who could never reach the right muscle.
Other than Scully's weekly phone call, and the weekly food delivery
by the boy at the gas station, they were alone. And
uninterrupted. Getting to know each other, each other's bodies
gradually.
Like, thought Walter one night, curled up in bed with Alex after a
necking session, two teenage virgins pussy-footing
around each other.
He nearly said it aloud to Alex, but by now had pieced together
enough information about Alex himself to know he had
not had that kind of adolescence.
It became a game; what Alex touched one night, Walter touched the
next. Necks, shoulders, chest were added to face.
Walter learnt that Alex enjoyed having his throat stroked, his
collarbone nibbled, his nipples teased by tongue and teeth.
Alex discovered that Walter's underarms were an erogenous zone that
made him flush from mid-chest to throat. That he
liked having the soft side of his elbows licked. That he was ticklish on
his left ribs, but not his right.
Each was careful of the other's scars. Gentle with them.
It took them a month of nights to finally work their way below each
other's waists. Where Walter found it hard to take a
hand, a light touch. But by now Alex had a better understanding of
Walter's mind. Knew that words—not that either of
them was much of a talker—would help distract Walter's attention from
a hand that was travelling over badly used
territory.
So, head resting on Walter's chest, hand making gentle forays on
abdomen, groin, upper thighs, Alex tried to find stories
from his past that would keep Walter's mind away from that hand.
He had made no attempts to conceal his past from Walter, knew that
the man could put the bits of information that
sometimes slipped out to their logical conclusion. Knew that from
Mulder's reports Walter would know how he had
survived in Hong Kong, how he had used his skills to start his way up
the internal structure of the Consortium.
There were not too many light moments in his past, but he did find a
few that he felt if he shared, Walter would not look at
him with contempt or disgust and send
him away.
In turn, Walter told him about Vietnam. About the boy who had given
him his first blow job. About the officer who had
taken his virginity. About his dying.
So that the night Alex finally put his mouth to Walter's cock, Walter
just sighed, and let himself accept the wonders of
Alex's mouth. Playing with him. Soothing him. Taking away the fear of
the oh-so-acute memories of pain. Bringing him
pleasure. And finally orgasm. Deep within the warmth, the security of
Alex's
mouth.
When Alex had finished with him, he moved up Walter's body to take
his mouth. "Taste yourself, Walter. As good as
chocolate ice cream."
And Walter tasted Alex, himself, flavours intermingled with the
saltiness of tears that ran down his skin into his mouth.
Alex nestled against him, holding him.
And wondered if Walter would have any use for him after tonight.
But in the middle of the night, it was Alex who woke with the feel of
a mouth on him. Walter took his time, remembering
the comment about being taken with care. And he was careful because Alex
also had his share of scars, his memories of
pain centred on his groin.
And when he too had come, had gasped his semen into Walter's throat,
Walter also moved up Alex's body to take his
mouth. "Taste yourself, Alex," he repeated. "As good as sixteen year old
scotch."
And wondered where they went from here.
Walter noticed that Alex seemed to be fighting some depression. He
recognized it easily enough from his own. More
trouble sleeping. Time spent just staring out the window. Less appetite.
Not that there was less touching, there wasn't. Alex seemed more
intent on increasing the sensuality of his touch. Light
touches became caresses; tasting, kisses. There were times Walter felt
that his skin burnt from the play of hand and mouth
on his body: and that was with him still wearing his clothes.
Alex would surprise him, push him against the wall, or into the
couch, or onto the floor and stroke him through his clothes
till he felt that the merest touch of cloth against his cock would make
him come. Except that Alex would suddenly stop,
pull away and resume what he had been doing. Walter would have called
him a
cockteaser except that it was obvious from the erection behind Alex's
jeans that he too was being left short of completion.
At night, there was a controlled element of franticness to Alex's
love-making. Walter knew there was something not right,
but he couldn't put his finger on it. Except that maybe Alex had been
here three months and was feeling restless.
Walter suddenly found that thought depressing.
Then one night, Alex whispered into Walter's ear, "I want to come in
you. Will you let me?"
Walter felt a frisson of fear. Alex picked it up. "Slowly. Not
tonight, but when you're ready."
And Walter looked into dark green eyes and realized that he wanted
Alex to come in him. So that he in turn could come in
Alex.
Holding Alex's eyes, he turned to lie on his stomach. His hand drew
the other's so that Alex lay on top of him. Alex
sighed, nibbled the top of the shoulder under him. He slipped his hand
under Walter's shoulder and slept there for the
night. Walter felt like some big cat had settled on him, found comfort
in the weight, the sound of the breathing, and slept.
The next night, he took the initiative for the first time. He dropped
lube and condoms on the bed by Alex. Leaning over, he
took Alex's mouth with his, let his hand stroke neck, slowly move down a
taut body to Alex's hardening cock. His mouth
followed his hand.
Alex pulled away. "Too quick," he gasped. "You're the one who needs
to get ready."
Alex dropped his mouth to Walter's body. Played all the spots he had
learnt made Walter forget to think. When he felt
Walter was truly ready, he handed him the bottle of lube to open. Walter
spread the gel on his fingers, and then turned
face down.
Alex wished right then for his arm back, if only for the next little
bit of time. The top position in this move was somewhat
difficult for one arm. Resting his upper body on Walter's back, kissed
the skin nearest his mouth.
"Take a breath, Walter." And gradually slipped a finger into Walter's
very tight ass. Walter stilled. Alex waited till he was
certain Walter had adjusted to the feel of the finger before slowly
moving it back and forth. Gently. Talking him through
this first penetration.
"God, Walter. A catholic miracle. The surgeons made you a virgin
again." Felt a slight snort from the man under him.
Then, seriously, "Tell me if it hurts. I don't want it to hurt,
Walter. I don't want to hurt you." Punctuated with kissing,
nibbling, licking the whip scars by his face.
"You're not hurting me, Alex. The only way you can hurt me is to
leave me hanging like this." Walter moved his hips into
the rhythm of the finger. Gasped when a second joined the beat.
Realized that the position was not easy for Alex to maintain. With
careful concentration, he moved to his hands and knees,
taking Alex and those fingers with
him. So that Alex was now kneeling behind him, between his knees, more
easily able to control the action.
Alex withdrew his fingers, rolled on the condom, added more lube to
it. He bent over Walter, kissed his back and slowly
began pushing his way into Walter's body. He did it slowly, waiting for
Walter to become accustomed to the stretch. He
hadn't been kidding: Walter was tight, virginically tight. He wanted
this to be pleasurable, not anything to remind Walter
of the last penetration.
Had it been the Walter of a month before, it would have been
necessary. This Walter appreciated the concern, but wanted
to feel Alex in him, now. He brought back a hand to grasp Alex's hip,
and, before Alex could do anything, thrust himself
back, fully, on Alex's cock.
Alex swore. "Jesus! Walter!"
Walter bit his lip to the point of blood. For a moment, there was a
burning pain. But then, that it was Alex in him, brought
a sense of pleasure. He began moving his hips, "Alex! I'm okay. But I
need you along for this ride."
Alex's hand came up to caress his stomach, stroke his abdomen,
squeeze his balls. Hips moved in counter rhythm to
Walter's thrusts, causing Walter to gasp when
Alex found his prostate.
Walter rested his weight on one hand, brought up the other to grasp
his cock, only to have Alex's hand slap it away.
"Mine," he growled in Walter's ear.
The word became his mantra. As he thrust in, as he brought Walter to
orgasm, as he spilled himself into Walter's ass. As
he lay spent next to his lover, he whispered it.
And longed with all his being for it to be true.
Walter woke the next morning, feeling as though a weight had been
removed from his shoulders. Only to find, by the end
of the day, that it had merely moved from him to Alex.
Alex was even quieter than usual. More... wary. His eyes tracked
Walter all through the day with almost a hunger. As if
he were storing up... something. Sometimes, something close to pain
would flash across his features, and his breath
would suddenly hitch as if to control the feeling.
That evening, while Walter was watching a hockey game on TV, Alex
joined him on the couch, rested his head on one
thigh, arm slipped under the other, and pretended to sleep under Walter's
stroking hand.
When they went upstairs, Alex dropped the lube and condom next to
Walter. Watched with darkly serious eyes, as Walter
aroused him, barely participating in
the act. Walter touched him gently, watched him shatter when he
penetrated him, Alex's legs over his shoulders, face to
face.
Walter wondered if Alex was even aware that his eyes shed tears all
through their final thrusts, through both their
orgasms. He withdrew carefully, as if Alex were made of glass. Got rid
of the condom. Pulled Alex into his arms and
wrapped himself around the silently weeping man.
Walter gently stroked Alex, long soothing caresses from the back of
his head, down his nape, along the spine to the small
of his back. Then back up again. Back and forth. Until Alex fell asleep.
The Alex that woke up in his arms was self-contained, calm. As if
last night had never happened.
Walter watched him puttering in the kitchen, making his breakfast.
Realized with a shock that Alex was wearing only his
own clothes, nothing of Walter's.
He sat back in his chair, coffee in hand, and thought over the last
few days. Concluded that Alex was leaving. But not the
reason why.
Or had he?
Or was it just wishful thinking on his part.
But he kept on hearing Alex's voice as it chanted "Mine", and decided
to take a chance.
"Alex. I have a problem."
Alex turned slowly, leaned back against the counter-top, hand braced
on edge. He looked like a man expecting a blow.
Even raised his chin for it. "What is it?" His voice revealed little of
his tension.
Walter looked from his coffee to the man watching him.
"How do you tell a man you once whipped and fisted that you love
him?"
It wasn't what Alex had been expecting.
Walter stood up, went up to Alex. Raised a trembling hand to caress a
whitened cheek.
"So," he whispered, "how do I tell him, Alex?" He bent and passed his
mouth over Alex's bottom lip. Looked up into eyes
that carried far too many shadows, far too much pain.
"That's..." Alex swallowed and tried again, a whisper. "That's not
what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?" Walter's mouth moved to those eyes now
closing, his tongue drawing the shape of them.
"That it was time for me to leave."
Walter rested his forehead against Alex's, felt the pain, the
expectation of rejection that Alex's indifferent tone covered.
He brought his hands up Alex's sides, from his hips to his shoulders,
brought his hands around the tensed neck, to clasp
the face in a gentle hold. He lowered his mouth to Alex's. Felt it
tremble under his.
Hesitantly, Alex brought up his hand, moved it across ribs, back to
shoulder. "Please," he whispered into Walter's mouth.
For a moment, he leaned into the kiss, savouring, then pulled back.
Walter saw Alex's soul stripped bare on his face. "Is
this a joke of some kind?"
"No joke. I swear. Alex. Don't go. Stay with me. Please."
Alex pressed close to Walter, held him tightly, was in turn held
tightly. Felt some of the pain that had enclosed him for the
last two days dissolve.
Part One
alter Skinner watched the man huddled against the railing of his balcony.
It was cold out there for DC, but he was sure the man had endured much colder
temperatures wearing just what he was wearing now.
Skinner's department had become the pride of the Director: Fox Mulder,
once the embarrassment, was now the darling.
He had no idea how long he had been hanging here though the pain in his
upper body told him if had to have been some
hours.
The next day, when the Grand Jury reconvened, Skinner sat alone at the
table, the Bureau not even pretending to support
him. Krycek watched him more intently now. Finally seeing the signs of a
man pushed beyond his limits. Krycek
wondered just what was holding him together.
"Eventually," he continued, "OPC had to admit that apart from the video,
the tape and the bank account, which they
couldn't trace definitively back to me, I 'seemed' to be clean. That's
when the Director came out with his oh-so-supportive
statement.
Alex waited till he thought Walter was comfortable before reaching out
to pass a finger along his jaw. Walter's eyes
opened, stared at the ceiling, didn't turn toward Alex.
