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Shaken I
by Lorelei Alex awoke with the damp sheets tangled around him and the tear-tracks
drying on his face. He sat up and looked around the tiny, barren apartment.
No one there. Not that he expected anything else. He drew his knees up to
his chest, wrapped his good arm around them and began to rock back and forth
slightly. He breathed deeply through his nose, waiting for the urge to vomit
to pass. A wave of self-pity washed over him and for once, he allowed it.
What would it be like to have someone there to chase the horror away?
He tried to remember his mother. Surely she must have held him, when he was
a tiny child? There was nothing but a blank place where the memories should
be. Alex closed his eyes, tried to imagine what it would be like to be held.
It was like trying to imagine what it would be like to fly. He could only
picture a vague sort of happiness, and he felt even less human than he
usually did. He had no idea what it was like for another human being to take
him in their arms and hold him there in the warmth. The concept of comfort
was alien to him. He simply had no frame of reference.
Alex ran a shaking hand through his sweat-soaked hair and got up from the
bed, disgusted with himself for wallowing like this, like some fucking
little kid. Dizziness overtook him as he walked toward the bathroom, making
the edges of his vision shimmer and blur. He leaned against the wall for
support, waiting for the lightheadedness to pass. He was on the third day of
a self-imposed liquid diet. His last client had tied him down and whipped
him savagely with an extension cord, brand-new and stiff. The thought of
sitting down on a toilet seat made him feel sick. He had spent the following
two days without leaving his apartment, lying on his stomach, naked from the
waist down, moving only to drink a little instant soup and swallow
painkillers. Only the previous night had he been able to bear the slight
weight of thin cotton boxers against his tortured flesh.
The dizzy spell passed and Alex made his way unsteadily into the bathroom.
He turned the shower on, keeping the water pressure light. He stepped under
the lukewarm spray, shivering a little. He was gingerly drying himself when
his cell phone rang. He deliberately let it ring twice more before he
answered it, knowing how the son of a bitch hated to be kept waiting.
"Next time answer more quickly," Spender snapped. His tone changed to one of
mock concern. "Well, Alex, how are we feeling?"
Alex gripped the phone so tightly he felt it might shatter in his hand.
"We got our ass whipped by some fucking freak until it bled. That's how
we are." Alex hissed. There was silence on the other end of the line for a
moment, broken by the flare of a match. Spender's voice was cold and flat.
"Meeting, Alex. One hour. We'll discuss your attitude then."
He hung up. Alex walked back into the bathroom and opened the medicine
cabinet. He stood there for a long while, looking at the small box of
single-edged razor blades, the small box emblazoned with the word "PAL".
Alex smiled a little at the surely unintentional irony of that name. Pal,
indeed. A pal you can always depend on. He turned the box over in his hands
for a few moments, then tossed it back into the medicine cabinet and shut
the door. Not today.
Alex stirred another packet of the dehydrated chicken soup into a mug of
steaming water and drank it. He dressed quickly in the dark clothes that had
been chosen and purchased by his employer, dark, tight-fitting clothes that
appeared unnervingly in his closet when Spender decided the old ones needed
replacing. He shrugged into his leather jacket, careful of his prosthetic,
then took the stairs down to the lobby of his nondescript apartment
building. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, hesitating for a moment before
heading in the direction of Spender's office. It was a fairly long walk, but
he preferred it over taking a cab or having Jason, Spender's odious driver,
pick him up. The walk gave him a chance to feel the sun on his face, to lose
himself in the crowd of other people, normal people, and feel, for a little
while, at least, that he was a part of their world. Even if he never really
could be.
Walter Skinner stepped out of the bookshop, feeling in the pocket of his
jacket for his car keys. He had made his usual Saturday afternoon stops at
the dry cleaners, the post office, the supermarket. By then it had only been
half past noon. He had driven to the hardware store. A new screwdriver and
brass switchplates for the condo. To the auto supply store. Brake fluid. A
quart of oil. A long and involved conversation with the man behind the
counter about the pros and cons of fuel additives. To the stationery shop.
Paper for the laser printer. Pens and post-its. Perpetual motion. Because to
slow down meant to remember. To stop meant to think. Trying to find some
comfort in the manic performance of these ordinary errands, to try to forget
for a little while, at least, that he was a man living under a death
sentence.
He had been about to make the reluctant drive back home to the empty condo,
order a pizza, get to work replacing those switchplates. Then he remembered
Sammy's book. Sammy Kellerman. Skinner remembered a skinny kid, bucktoothed
and gangly, quick with a joke, his battered Nikon never far away. Long
nights on patrol, Sammy's high, skittering laugh as he told another raunchy
joke from a seemingly inexhaustible supply. Sammy's face, white and pinched,
as the medics loaded him in to the helicopter. Skinner had lost touch with
Sammy over the years, the last he'd heard of him was a postcard about ten
years ago. Sammy was married, teaching photography at UC Berkeley. Skinner
had heard recently that Sammy Kellerman had published a book of photographs
taken during his tour of duty in Vietnam. It was apparently a limited run,
from a small publishing house, and proved difficult to find. Skinner's call
to the little corner shop near Dupont Circle had borne fruit, and he had
asked the shop's owner to hold a copy for him.
The next week had been hectic. Between budget meetings, constant memos from
the Director and Mulder's inability to account for two rental cars and a
backhoe, Sammy Kellerman's book had completely slipped Skinner's mind. Until
he stood in the parking lot of the stationery store, depositing the slippery
plastic bag that held his paper, post its and pens in the back seat of his
car. Until he contemplated the evening ahead. The quietness. The empty
hours. The time to think. To wonder when it was going to happen. He got into
the car and headed in the direction of Dupont Circle, making a quick call on
his cell phone to the bookshop. The shop's owner, a garrulous, elderly man,
assured him the book was still being held for him, to inquire at the
counter.
Skinner stood on the sidewalk outside the bookshop, Sammy's book tucked
under his arm, fishing for his keys. He looked up.
"Son of a bitch!" Skinner snarled.
There, across the street, descending the steps of a brownstone apartment
building, was Alex Krycek. Skinner quickly ducked back into the shadow
provided by the shop's brightly striped awning. His eyes narrowed as he
watched the little bastard look around warily, then zip up his jacket and
disappear into the crowd of Saturday shoppers. Skinner's jaw was clenched so
tightly it ached. He wanted to dash across the street, catch up to the cocky
little shit and beat him senseless. Hold him down and pound that infuriating
insouciant smirking face into a bloody pulp.
Skinner realized with a start that he had actually taken several steps
toward the street. With difficulty, he forced himself to retreat back into
the shadows. Krycek might have the Palm Pilot on him, might use it. He
glanced across the street at the apartment building. So, the rat does have a
home, he mused. Of course, Krycek could have been visiting someone, but
somehow Skinner didn't picture him having a lot of friends to chat with on a
sunny Saturday afternoon. Skinner could wait. He would come back, observe,
be patient. The opportunity would present itself. When it did, he thought he
knew a certain doublecrossing little rat who was going to be very sorry
indeed.
Alex's stomach knotted uncomfortably as he approached the office door. He
hated these "meetings", as his employer insisted on calling them. He knocked
and Spender's driver answered, ushering Alex in with a smirk. Alex brushed
past him, feeling the man's lustful eyes on him. Alex entered Spender's
inner office, unconsciously making a face as the cigarette smoke assailed
him. His employer shook another cigarette out of the pack and jabbed a
yellowed finger toward the carpet. Alex shot him a look of pure hatred
before kneeling down stiffly, gritting his teeth a little at the pain in his
backside and thighs.
"Alex," came the oily voice from behind the desk. "You have a date tonight.
Jason will take you."
Alex looked up apprehensively. Please don't let it be one of the bad ones. I
still hurt so much. Please just let him fuck me and let me leave.
"Yes, sir," he said tonelessly. Fuck you, sir. Please God just let me live
long enough to kill you, sir.
Spender stood up, exhaling a plume of smoke. He gestured to Alex to stand.
Alex climbed awkwardly to his feet and stood, waiting. Spender tapped his
ash into the tray.
"Strip. Let's see what you've been whining about."
Alex felt the blood rush to his face. His fist clenched as the rage boiled
up inside him. He knew it was useless to fight. He knew it would only end
the way it always did, with Alex hurting. With Alex sorry. With Alex wishing
he were anywhere else on earth.
"Fuck you."
Digging his own grave, one word at a time. Hollow words, useless words, but
it was his only way of trying to hold on to the Alex Krycek he once was and
could barely remember. When he was something other than Spender's whore.
Spender considered him coolly over the glowing tip of his cigarette.
"Do it, Alex. Now. Or I'll have Jason help you."
Alex slowly moved to obey, not wanting Jason anywhere near him. He placed
his boots under one of the wing chairs that faced Spender's desk, his
clothes and the prosthetic arm on the seat. He stood, naked, wishing he
could cover his genitals, knowing better than to try it. The last time he
had pissed blood for a week. He kept his eyes lowered. Spender took a drag
on his cigarette, blowing the smoke in Alex's face.
"You know what to do," he said.
Alex turned, his face blank, trying to control the fear. He reluctantly bent
over Spender's desk, automatically spreading his legs as he did. His one
hand gripped the side of the desk. He was almost unaware of his ingrained
response to the command. Time and consequences had taught him well. He
closed his eyes as Spender trailed a cool, dry hand across his bruised ass.
Whenever his employer forced him to endure this humiliation , Alex would
focus on a small brass horse that stood on a nearby bookshelf. The horse was
rearing, kicking, frozen in motion on its burnished wood base. Alex looked
at the brass horse and tried to distance himself from this place, this self.
This ravaged thing that he had become.
Spender ran his hand over the dark welts, roughly fingered the purple
bruises that marked the pale flesh. He slapped Alex's ass hard, making him
gasp. The pain was devastating. His knees threatened to buckle and he clung
to the side of the desk with his one hand, trying not to collapse. Spender
smiled as he surveyed the damage.
"All in a day's work, wouldn't you say, Alex?" Alex winced. He knew he would
suffer for what he was about to do, but he had to. Resist. For the tiny part
of himself that was all he had left.
"Let me up, you sick bastard!"
Alex attempted to stand but was shoved back down with a hand coiled
painfully around the back of his neck. Spender hit him again. Alex's eyes
filled with tears and he fought them back. Crying was not an option. Spender
leaned close, the fabric of his suit jacket brushing Alex's bare back.
"Alex?" That voice. Smooth as Cutty Sark. It never failed to make Alex break
out in a cold sweat.
Alex tightened his grip on the side of the desk until his fingers ached. He
stared at the horse. The brass glowed warmly. So pretty in the light. The
horse's eyes were wild and rolling in its head, its mane streaming out
behind it as it bucked and kicked and fought.
"Your last... client had a complaint."
Alex's mouth went dry. He began to tremble, his legs shaking with the effort
of remaining in position. Spender suddenly grabbed Alex's wrist and twisted
his arm up behind his back. With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of
Alex's hair and yanked his head back savagely.
"You worthless little slut," Spender growled, "how dare you disobey a
client?"
"That fucking sadist was torturing me!" Alex cried. Spender wrenched Alex's
arm up higher behind his back. Alex screamed as a bolt of pain shot from his
elbow to his wrist. His fingers went numb.
"He paid good money to hurt you, you little whore!" Spender spat. "You're
nothing but a pathetic little piece of ass, Alex. You ought to be grateful I
don't make you sell it on the street."
Alex shut his eyes, tried to shut out that awful voice, those awful words.
But he couldn't, he never could. Another sharp yank forced his head further
back. Spender leaned closer, his breath hot against Alex's ear.
"God help you, Alex, when your looks are gone," he whispered. "Do you know
what I'm going to do with you when that day comes?" Alex whimpered. "I'm
going to put a bullet right behind that pretty little ear of yours."
His tongue flickered across Alex's ear. Alex moaned and tried to pull away,
but the fist clenched in his hair kept him in place. Spender kept up the
pressure on his arm, increasing it fractionally until Alex thought he would
go mad from it. Oh God, my arm! He began to panic, thrashing weakly in
Spender's grip, but the lack of food coupled with his ordeal at the hands of
his last client had left him weak. The stump of his left arm thumped dully
against the desk as he fought to escape. Spender easily held him down.
"How many times do we have to play this little scene out, Alex? Why do you
insist on pushing me when you know I'll make you suffer for it?"
Alex struggled grimly to free himself, only to be forced back against the
desk. The wood surface was chilly against his skin. Spender watched
detachedly as he fought.
"What do I have to do to make you remember your place?" he demanded. He
yanked Alex's arm still higher. He could feel the muscles straining. He
could feel Alex's panic rising and he relished it. "Do I have to break your
arm?"
For a moment Alex went deathly still, then his terror overtook him
completely. He was breathing in great, gasping sobs, shuddering from the
pain and fear. Spender tightened his grip on Alex's wrist, feeling the
small, delicate bones shift and slide.
"Is that what I have to do, Alex? Break your arm? I will if that's what it
takes. What do you think life will be like then, Alex? What will it be like
for you with one arm gone and the other broken?"
Alex screamed again. Unbelievable that you could hurt this badly and not die
from it. He broke then, splintered, shuddering and hurting and wailing in
the face of that unbearable vision.
"Oh God please don't break it, please don't, sir, don't break it, please,
please..." he begged, his voice cracking. Spender smiled.
"Are you going to be good, Alex?"
"Yes! Please, sir, please"
Alex heard himself groveling and he didn't care. It didn't matter, nothing
mattered. Nothing except escaping this room with his only arm intact.
Spender eased the pressure on Alex's arm slightly and let go of his hair.
Alex rested his head against the desk, panting and disoriented from the
pain. His heart felt as if it would explode in his chest. Spender leaned
close again.
"I'm only going to tell you this one more time, Alex. You are my property.
You will go where I tell you, when I tell you. Once you are there, you will
do whatever you are told to do, however you are told to do it. Your opinion
is not a necessary part of the equation. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." Alex whispered.
The agony in his arm had eased slightly, but he was acutely aware of its
vulnerable position. He struggled to concentrate on what Spender was saying.
He knew a wrong answer now would cost him dearly. Spender gave Alex's arm
another sharp tug and savored the groan that followed.
"Who owns you, Alex?" Spender's voice sounded tinny and far away. Alex
swallowed and croaked out an answer.
"You do, sir." Alex's voice was a weak, defeated whisper. Spender petted his
damp hair.
"Very good, Alex."
Without warning, he dealt another hard slap to Alex's ass, aiming for the
worst of the welts. Alex shrieked and Spender pulled his arm up higher
again. His voice became low and dangerous.
"Who decides where you sleep? What you wear? Who you fuck? Who decides if
you get to live to see the light of the next day?"
"You sir, you do," Alex sobbed.
Spender stroked his hand down Alex's back, feeling him shiver under his
touch. So frightened. So submissive. Sweet shattered pretty thing. He looked
down at Alex, at the sweat drying on his white skin, so pale against the
polished oak. His hand clutching, trembling. He ran his fingers through
Alex's dark hair. Alex whimpered again. Spender licked his lips. No matter
how many times he crushed this beautiful creature, it never failed to make
him rock hard. Almost as hard as the first time. Almost as hard as it made
him to think of Alex being used, again and again, forced to spread his legs
and offer that sweet little ass up to whomever Spender allowed the
privilege. He trailed his fingers along Alex's shoulderblades almost
tenderly.
"And what are you? Tell me, Alex. Tell me what you are," he said quietly.
Alex lay still under Spender's hands. Please don't make me say it. Please.
But he would say it. He always did. Hurting and tired and all the fight gone
out of him, he spoke in a broken, exhausted monotone.
"I'm a slut, sir. A whore." Amazingly, after all these years, the words
still had the power to hurt. Spender let him go.
"Get up."
Alex stood slowly, holding his throbbing arm close to his body, wishing he
could massage it.
"Get dressed."
Spender picked up the pack of Morleys and lit another one. Alex clumsily
buckled the straps of his prosthesis. His fingers were still partially numb
and it took him longer than usual. Spender stared at him as if he were a
particularly interesting experiment, making no move to help him. Alex was
secretly grateful. If Spender touched him now, he thought he might start to
scream again and never stop. He got his clothes on, a task that was
difficult enough without his one good arm stiff and sore. Once he was
dressed, Spender eyed him coldly.
"Are you going to learn to watch your tone, Alex? To adopt a
more... respectful manner?" Alex bit his lip.
"Yes, sir," he said, his voice barely audible. He stared at the floor.
"Good. These petty rebellions of yours are tiresome and pointless." Spender
resumed his place behind the desk.
"Jason will drive you to your date now. The client has you until seven
o'clock tomorrow morning." Alex's stomach heaved. "Make sure you aren't late
with your report." Alex turned to go. Spender called after him. "And, Alex?"
Alex turned. "If your client has even the smallest complaint, I promise you,
a broken arm will be the least of your problems." Alex nodded and left. In
the hallway, Jason was waiting. He sneered.
"Awww, did the pretty boy get taught a little lesson? Want me to kiss it and
make it better?"
Alex looked at him with disgust and turned away. Suddenly he was shoved
against the wall, Jason's massive bulk pressing up behind him, his reeking
breath on the back of Alex's neck.
"Awfully uppity for a rent boy," he growled in Alex's ear.
"Get the fuck off me!" Alex yelled.
He tried to jab his elbow back into Jason's solar plexus but the larger man
effortlessly held him still. Jason's meaty hand trailed along Alex's back,
then down to his ass. He squeezed him hard through the denim. Alex bit back
a cry of pain. Jason leaned closer, pinning Alex between his body and the
wall, and whispered in his ear.
"I can't wait to fuck you, pretty boy. I'm going to make you scream like the
little bitch you are." He bit the back of Alex's neck just hard enough to
hurt.
"Mr. Spender likes me. He thinks I've got potential. He said I can count on
a generous Christmas bonus this year." Jason licked his lips lasciviously.
"Guess what I'm going to ask for?"
Alex was motionless against the wall, his eyes closed. He knew Jason
wouldn't dare take it any further unless the old man gave him permission.
The thought made him shudder. Jason let him go, and he turned around, his
eyes drawn to the tender hollow at the base of Jason's throat. One hard
punch there, and the sorry piece of shit wouldn't be able to so much as
whisper for a couple of weeks. Maybe forever. Alex smiled at the thought,
his hand curling into a fist. Jason saw the glitter in Alex's eyes and took
a step back before he even realized what he was doing. He narrowed his eyes.
"Come on, whore. You've got a date to keep." He pushed Alex in the direction
of the stairs leading to the parking deck.
Alex climbed into the back seat of Spender's sedan. Jason started the engine
and pulled out into traffic. Alex could feel Jason's eyes on him in the rear
view mirror. He looked up and Jason shot him a seething look.
"Wouldn't want to be in your shoes if you fuck up again, slut." On the ride
to the client's hotel, Alex stared out the window, seeing nothing, waiting
for what would happen to him next.
Skinner drove back to Crystal City, Sammy's book forgotten on the seat
beside him. He stared resolutely ahead, changing lanes, signaling, turning
mechanically. It had been exactly thirty-eight days since Krycek had last
contacted him. Skinner knew this because he had spent every one of those
thirty-eight days wondering if it would be his last. Wondering if this would
be the day he would die. Again. He had died, that night in the hospital, but
had been brought back, only to become Krycek's unwilling lackey.
Krycek had an unsettling habit of appearing in the back seat of Skinner's
car. In the parking garage at the condo. That husky voice on the other end
of the phone, calling him in the middle of the night, reminding him just how
close death was. Then, nothing. Krycek had simply stopped calling, stopped
showing up. There had been no contact at all in over a month, leaving
Skinner to wonder if the little bastard had gotten himself killed. What
then? If Krycek was dead, who was controlling the tiny deadly machines that
could end his life with the touch of a button?
But Krycek wasn't dead at all. He was alive and well and in Washington,
strolling the city sidewalks as if he hadn't a care in the world. While
Skinner slept little, ate less and wondered which would get him first, the
nanocytes or the heart attack. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as
he pictured himself wrapping those hands around Krycek's throat. Krycek's
long white throat. The way he had looked, standing in the sunlight, his hand
shoved in the pocket of his black leather jacket, the slight breeze ruffling
that dark hair. Those tight jeans molded to his ass, leaving nothing to the
imagination as he turned and melted into the crowd. Skinner swore. What the
hell was he doing? His life was literally in Alex Krycek's pocket, and here
he was, thinking about him like this. Like he was an attractive, eminently
fuckable young man and not a traitorous, backstabbing rat bastard.
Jesus. It was so easy when he was out of your sight, to forget the beauty
shrouding that black soul. To see him as he should be. To mar the skin, warp
those long, delicate bones, to blacken the teeth, to blight him as he had
blighted the lives of all he touched. Skinner laughed ruefully. God loves
irony. The killer with the naughty choirboy face. The angelic, pretty
triple-crossing spy. He parked in the underground garage of the condo and
got out, pausing to open the trunk and unload the day's purchases. He headed
for the elevator, already mentally plotting his plan of attack.
Jason pulled Alex along the hotel hallway by his jacket, jerking him hard
enough to make him stumble.
"Maybe I'll get to stay and watch, pretty boy. What do you think about
that?" he jeered.
Alex didn't bother to reply. He stood silently behind Jason, looking down at
nothing. Jason knocked on the client's door. The man who opened it appeared
to be in his fifties, with blue eyes that were unsettlingly icy in his
deeply tanned face. He did not acknowledge Jason. He reached past him,
grabbed Alex's right arm and yanked him into the suite before slamming the
door in Jason's face.
The man grasped Alex's jaw in a firm grip and stared at him intently. The
hard fingers dug into his flesh and Alex fought the urge to pull away. He
stood unmoving, his back against the door, forcing himself to remain still
as the man studied him. The strong fingers tilted his chin up, those flinty
eyes taking in every detail. Alex looked up at the ceiling, expressionless,
waiting. Without a word, the man released his jaw and divested him of his
jacket, his hand briefly brushing the smooth plastic of the prosthetic arm.
He tossed Alex's jacket over a nearby chair and appraised him with a
practiced eye, taking in the long legs, the slim hips, the long elegant
curve of the throat, so appealingly exposed.
His scrutiny finally complete, the man smiled. The price had been high, but
the boy was everything Spender had promised. He had been skeptical when
Spender had assured him that an amputeea very beautiful green-eyed
amputee- could be procured on such short notice. Supply and demand. This was
a man who appreciated, truly appreciated, the power that having money could
bring. The man turned and walked toward the wet bar, leaving Alex in his
position by the door. Alex cleared his throat nervously. He spoke
tentatively, not looking at the man.
"How do you want me, sir?" he asked softly.
He cringed inwardly as he said the words. Spender made him say it. Every
time. He would check. The man glanced at Alex as he poured himself a drink.
"Sit down there for now."
He gestured toward the sofa. Alex walked over to it and sat down. The man
put a second glass down on the bar and filled it with scotch. Alex didn't
want a drink right now, but he kept his mouth shut. It didn't matter what he
wanted. He shut his eyes, steeling himself for the ordeal ahead. He hated
this so much. Spender used to whore him out only occasionally, to punish him
for fucking up an assignment or when there was no other dirty work for him
to do. The frequency of the "dates" gradually increased. Eventually, Alex
the assassin found himself relegated to the role of Alex the whore.
He had no idea how much his employer charged these men to possess him, to
use his body for an hour or a day or a week. He knew it had nothing to do
with money, the old man had more money stashed away in offshore accounts
than he would ever live to spend. It had everything to do with Alex on his
knees, Alex on his back. Alex on his stomach, spread and waiting, helpless
to refuse. The slow and insidious erosion of a soul, one night at a time.
He looked up cautiously at the man who owned him for the next twelve hours.
His temporary master wore charcoal colored slacks and a black knit shirt,
his salt-and-pepper hair neatly and expensively styled. Alex fidgeted
nervously as the man sipped his drink. He had been here at least fifteen
minutes and the man had barely spoken to him. The man's silent appraisal had
badly unnerved him. Usually the clients were too full of the feeling of
power that came with having this beautiful creature under their control to
waste any time. Usually they began barking orders at him the second the door
closed behind him, sometimes firing so many directives at him so quickly
that he had to scramble to comply. He certainly didn't remember the last
time he had still been fully dressed after fifteen minutes of the client's
time had elapsed. Perhaps that was what felt so wrong.
His shoulders tensed as he awaited his instructions. He had always derived
some tiny measure of comfort, if it could be called comfort, from the sheer
predictability of these men. Surely they would have been dismayed to know
how truly pedestrian their deepest fantasies really were. They would have
been disappointed to know how sickeningly familiar their darkest most
unspeakable desires were to him. Alex had a sinking feeling that this man
was going to be different. He kept his eyes cast downward submissively,
trying not to look scared. He wasn't supposed to look scared unless the
client specifically requested it.
Finally, the man crossed the spacious living room and sat down beside him.
He handed the glass of scotch to Alex.
"Drink it," he said.
Alex looked at the scotch. He really didn't want it. Alex closed his eyes
briefly and then obediently raised the glass. He drank half of the scotch,
his nearly empty stomach protesting a little. The man beside him nudged his
arm.
"All of it."
Alex finished his drink and the man took the glass out of his hand. He
returned to the bar and opened a cabinet under it, removing a black doctor's
bag. Alex's overworked nerves were suddenly on full alert. The man walked
past Alex toward the bathroom, carrying the bag.
"Stay there," he ordered. He disappeared into the bathroom.
Alex listened to the sound of running water coming from behind the closed
bathroom door, getting more jittery by the second. He did not like the look
of that black bag one bit. He wondered just how pissed off Spender was this
time. Had he decided to rent Alex out to some kind of Dr. Mengele and let
him find out just how bad it could get? He remembered his words in Spender's
office, how he had pushed the old man even though he knew he would pay for
it. He bit his lip, regretting his false bravado, his trembling defiance.
When the hell was he going to learn to keep his mouth shut? The sound of
running water stopped and the bathroom door opened. The man returned to the
living room, a syringe in his hand.
Alex was up off of the sofa and heading for the door before he knew what he
was doing. He reached the door and scrabbled for the knob, his jacket
forgotten on the chair, intent on putting as much distance between himself
and that glittering needle as possible. He managed to get the door open a
fraction before a large hand shot over his shoulder and slammed it shut
again. The man grabbed Alex roughly and shoved him back toward the sofa.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he growled.
Alex tried to use his agility and smaller size to his advantage, ducking
around the man and attempting to run for the door again. The man caught him
by the scruff of the neck, picked him bodily up off the floor and threw him
back onto the sofa. He pinned Alex down before he could get up again. Alex
was in a full-scale panic, stoked by adrenaline, Spender's warning all but
forgotten as he struggled.
The man grasped Alex's wrist and pinned it against the arm of the sofa. Alex
attempted to swing his prosthetic left arm up, intending to crack the man's
skull with it, but the man batted it away with a curse. He yanked Alex's
T-shirt out of his jeans and efficiently stripped it off, releasing Alex's
right wrist only long enough to get his arm out of its sleeve. Holding
Alex's thrashing body down, he swiftly unbuckled the straps before removing
the prosthesis and tossing it across the room. The abrupt, impersonal
removal of his arm pushed Alex over the edge. He began screaming as he
kicked and clawed, trying to dislodge the implacable weight holding him
down. The man slapped him hard across the face.
"Enough!" he roared.
He shook Alex sharply. Alex saw the furious red face above him, the flashing
eyes promising that there would be hell to pay. The man held Alex's wrist,
still sensitive from Spender's earlier mistreatment, firmly pressed against
the arm of the sofa. Gradually, the pain in Alex's wrist brought him back to
himself and he stilled as the events of that afternoon came back to him in
sharp focus.
"Oh, God..." he groaned aloud.
His breathing was still ragged, his oxygen-starved body trying to recover
from his panicked attempt at escape. Alex trembled as he realized what he
had just done. Oh, shit. Spender. The old man would kill him for this, no
doubt about it. Just two hours earlier, he had nearly broken Alex's arm just
for arguing with a client. At least that's what Spender had called it.
Alex had borne the agony as long as he could as the man whipped him with the
thick extension cord. But when the man began hitting him with the plug end,
Alex had begun to plead and beg. The man complained to Spender and Spender
had nearly torn his fucking arm off. Jesus, Alex thought. What the hell is
he going to do to me for this?
He looked up fearfully at the man holding him down. The man stared down at
him, no discernable expression on his face. He could feel the boy's pulse
racing as he held his wrist, could feel his triphammer heartbeat through his
chest. Alex tried to lie still, tried to regulate his breathing. He was too
frightened to speak. The man watched as Alex slowly regained control.
"Are you quite finished?"
The man's voice was brusque and irritated. Alex nodded.
"I'm going to let go of your wrist now. You will leave it where it is.
Understand?" Alex nodded again. The man released his wrist but made no move
to get off of Alex. Alex obediently kept his arm bent over his head. He
flexed his wrist cautiously, wincing at the pain. The man waited to make
sure that Alex was not going to try to fight again. Alex lay motionless
under him, his eyes closed in surrender. The man spoke again.
"Look at me." Alex opened his eyes.
"Are we going to have any more of this bullshit?"
Alex shook his head. The man snorted impatiently and got off of Alex. He
stood next to the sofa, his arms folded. Alex didn't dare move. The man
pointed his finger at him.
"Sit up."
Alex slowly hauled himself up into a sitting position, mindful of his now
swollen wrist. He hugged the corner of the sofa, drawing himself up as small
as possible. Satisfied, the man continued.
"You will not move from that spot unless I give you permission. Is that
clear?" Alex nodded.
"We are going to have a little talk, you and I. I have paid a great deal of
money for the pleasure of your company," he paused and cast Alex a stony
glare, "and I believe in getting my money's worth. You have wasted enough of
my time."
Alex looked down, his shoulders slumped. The fight had worn him out, and the
effects of the scotch he had been forced to drink were beginning to hit him.
He felt altogether unwell. The man had left the syringe on top of the bar
when Alex tried to flee. He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger,
holding it up so that Alex could see it. Alex's eyes widened and he began to
shake.
With difficulty, he remained in his place on the sofa, his eyes never
leaving the syringe. Alex's sense of dread was overwhelming, but as much as
he feared what this man might do to him, he feared Spender more. Besides,
his weary mind reasoned, he was trapped in here with this maniac. He had
tried to escape and had failed. The man was going to do whatever he wanted
to do to him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He stared at the
frightening syringe. Jesus. No one had ever done this to him before. Was
he going to poison him?
He tried to think clearly. If Spender decided it was time for Alex to die,
he almost certainly wouldn't do it like this. He would insist on doing it
himself. Though he was still deeply afraid, Alex relaxed slightly. Whatever
the clear stuff in the syringe was, it probably wouldn't kill him. He
allowed himself a moment of rueful contemplation. Another fun-filled day in
the life of Alex Krycek, where success is measured one stumbling, bleeding
day at a time. Somehow, he still hadn't reached the point where the thought
of another day spent broken and degraded and hurting was worse than the
thought of dying. Somehow that fathomless unknowable darkness was still more
frightening than a lifetime spent in servitude to Spender. This man was
going to hurt him, he knew. How much remained to be seen. And there was the
little matter of Alex's abortive escape attempt. If Spender found
out... Alex's stomach heaved again.
As if reading Alex's thoughts, the man picked up a cell phone from the top
of the bar, snapped it open and began to dial.
"I'm calling your employer and telling him to send that goon back over here
to pick you up. I'm sure once I tell him what just happened here he will be
only too happy to give me a full refund." He shot Alex a disgusted look.
"Imagine, him telling me how well-trained you are. Well-trained! Disobedient
and willful is more like it!" Alex was perilously close to breaking down. A
tear spilled down his cheek and he wiped it away quickly with the back of
his hand.
"Sir? Please... please don't call him, sir. Please give me another chance."
The man glanced at him dismissively.
"After that little wrestling match you instigated? Why should I?" Alex
looked at him pleadingly.
"Please, sir, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just got... scared."
He looked at the syringe. The man snapped the cell phone shut and put it
back down on the bar, placing the syringe next to it. He walked back over to
the sofa and sat down next to Alex. His expression was inscrutable.
"You were saying?" he prompted.
Alex blinked, trying to keep the tears back. The threat of Spender's wrath
had reduced him to a pathetic, quivering mess. His cheeks burned with the
shame and humiliation of having to beg for the privilege to stay and be
hurt.
"I'm sorry I disobeyed you. I'm sorry I tried to leave. Please, sir, I'll do
anything," Alex begged, his voice shaking, "anything you say. Whatever you
tell me. Just please d-don't call him. Please don't call him, sir." The man
considered this for a moment, fixing Alex with a steely glare.
"All right," he said severely, "this is what's going to happen. Look at me."
Alex obeyed. The man took Alex's chin in his hand, none too gently, and
continued. "You are bought and paid for, here for my pleasure. You have
wasted," he glanced at his watch, "seventeen minutes of my time. My patience
is at an end. If you stay, you will do as I tell you and you will do it
immediately. Do I make myself clear?" Alex's lower lip trembled. Another
tear made its way down his bruised cheek.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. And if you even look like you're thinking of giving me any more
trouble, I will call Mr. Spender and tell him exactly what I think of him
and of you. Is that clear?" Alex nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir." The man stood and went to retrieve the syringe.
"You want to know what's in this." Alex nodded, his eyes huge. The man
smiled, without humor. "All in good time." Alex was very pale, his eyes
fixed on the syringe.
"There are no permanent effects, so you can stop looking so terrified."
Alex wasn't sure he could. He was absolutely terrified. Wasn't it enough to
humiliate him? To fuck him? To remind him again and again that he was a
whore, sold by the hour? Did the fucker have to drug him, too? Jesus, even
his veins weren't safe. The man turned toward the short hallway that led to
the suite's other rooms. "Bedroom. Now." he said, not bothering to look back
as Alex reluctantly followed.
"Lie on the bed, on your back," the man directed. "No, leave your jeans on."
He wanted to strip the boy himself after he had been given the injection. He
smiled in anticipation. He'd done this before, but never with such a
beautiful subject. He watched as Alex, graceful even in his fear, lay down
on the bed. His pale skin seemed almost translucent against the dark blue
coverlet. The man sat down on the edge of the bed. Alex's one hand picked
fitfully at the leg of his jeans.
"Stop fidgeting."
Alex started guiltily, then placed his hand down by his side. The man
noticed that it was shaking. He leaned forward, making sure he had Alex's
full attention. He held up the syringe and watched as Alex's eyes were drawn
to it and held there with horrified fascination. He snapped his fingers in
front of Alex's face, making him flinch.
"I want you to pay close attention to what I am telling you." He waited for
Alex's nod before continuing.
"The drug in this syringe is called Ketamine. I will administer it by
intramuscular injection. As the drug takes effect, you will lose all bodily
control." He paused, eyeing Alex intently. "Do you need to use the bathroom?
I need to know."
Alex, still trying to process this last awful piece of information, shook
his head numbly. "Are you sure?" the man pressed. "If you need to go, tell
me now. I will be extremely displeased if you urinate or defecate while
you're under." Alex's mouth felt like it was full of cotton.
"I-I'm sure, sir." he croaked.
The man nodded and continued, his voice cool and dispassionate. "I'm giving
you a dose sufficient to render you unconscious for four or five hours. When
the drug begins to wear off, you will be awake but paralyzed. The paralysis
will last thirty minutes to an hour. You may hallucinate. These are referred
to as emergence reactions. You will be in no immediate danger."
Alex couldn't believe this was happening to him. He didn't think he had ever
been this scared. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to leap up
from the bed and run for his life, but he knew he had to stay. To submit. If
he tried to get away again, this would be a walk in the park compared to
what Spender would do to him. Alex swallowed, his throat working. He wanted
very badly to ask a question, but he knew he must tread very carefully. He
was terrified that the man would call Spender after all.
"Sir?" he ventured. The man, who had been tapping the side of the syringe,
holding it up to the light, turned to him.
"Yes?" Alex felt the man must surely be able to hear his heart pounding.
"May I please ask a question?" The man nodded as he depressed the plunger
slightly, shooting a small amount of the drug toward the carpet.
"Sir... may I ask why?" He nodded toward the syringe. "If you want me to be
still, sir, I can do that. I wouldn't move. I've done that before." The man
stared at him for a long time. Alex barely breathed. Finally the man
answered.
"Why is my business, young man. Suffice to say, I require no active
participation from you." Alex bit his lip. His voice trembling, he threw
caution to the wind. He had to know.
"Please, sir, may I ask one more question?"
The man sighed as he rummaged through the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a
foil packet and ripped it open. Alex could smell the rubbing alcohol and
felt a tightening in his gut.
"What is it?" the man snapped.
"Sir? What will you do to me? When I'm asleep?" Alex's voice was small and
frightened. The man glanced at him with disdain.
"Nothing that hasn't been done to you before. Unbutton your jeans and slide
them down over your hips."
His tone brooked no further discussion. Alex complied, trying to pretend
this was happening to someone else. He slid his jeans and boxers together
down to the tops of his thighs, feeling the man's eyes on him.
"Roll over." The voice was cool and clinical. Alex hesitated. The man eyed
him levelly. "Don't make me regret not making that call."
Alex hastily maneuvered himself over onto his stomach, his hand clutching
the pillow. He felt the man move his jeans a little farther down, then felt
the cold swab of the alcohol on his skin. He buried his face in the pillow,
tears threatening to dampen the cool cotton. He gasped as the needle bit
into him, feeling the sting as the drug was forced in. He lay like that for
some time. His skin began to feel curiously warm, his limbs too heavy to
move. Alex was dimly aware of hands turning him over. He tried feebly to
move and couldn't. He felt the man pulling off his boots, socks and jeans.
The hands lingered over his boxers before removing them as well. Alex knew
he should try to get away from the hands, but the fear that had consumed him
so completely before now seemed distant and unclear. As if this were
happening to someone else.
The man savored the scene in front of him. He had removed his own clothing,
and his erection stood stiffly out in front of him. He grasped his cock and
stroked it as he stared at the boy, so naked and helpless. The boy was
trying to blink and look around the room, but those pretty green eyes were
confused and unfocused. This was going to be so much fun. The man knelt on
the end of the bed, then lay beside Alex. He stroked those long creamy white
thighs, ran his hand across the sparsely haired chest. He gently pressed his
thumb against those pink lips, slightly parted. He listened to the boy's
faint breathing. The drug would depress his respiration slightly, but it was
no major cause for concern. He smoothed the dark hair back from the boy's
face, traced the delicate cheekbones with his finger.
The man was glad he had told his wife the medical conference would require
him to be away two days longer than he had initially expected. He flicked
his tongue gently across Alex's lips. Such a mouth this one had. Lush and
inviting, it would be like sliding into velvet. One very beneficial aspect
of Ketamine, he had discovered, was that while it rendered the subject
deeply unconscious, the cough and gag reflexes remained unaffected. He could
use the boy as he pleased, and it was very unlikely that he would aspirate
anything.
He sighed. Of course it would be so much simpler to administer the drug
orally, slip it into a drink. The boy never would have known what hit him.
But it was the knowing, the look in his eyes as he watched the needle coming
closer, knowing what was going to happen, the look of surrender as he rolled
over, waiting, accepting the sting, the tumble into blackness. So sweet. He
kissed those lips, feeling them give softly under his, glad the boy wouldn't
move now and spoil everything. The boy's eyes were closed now, his faint
breaths almost too soft to hear. The man caressed his prize, circled one
pale pink nipple with his tongue.
Skinner sat in his armchair, Sammy's book unopened on the coffee table. The
new screwdriver and switchplates lay abandoned on the kitchen counter, still
in their packages. The pizza he had ordered upon returning home was still in
the box, cold and uneaten. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes,
feeling the mother of all headaches coming on. Alex Krycek. Son of a bitch.
Free to walk the streets, no doubt wreaking havoc wherever he went, while
Skinner jerked and danced on the end of his invisible tether. Dying a little
death every time he had a stomachache, every time he felt a little feverish,
wondering if the unspeakable crushing agony was about to descend on him
again. Wondering if it was again his time to die, this time for good. He
remembered that night in the hospital, looking up as the sheet was pulled
back from his face. Seeing Krycek through the window in his ridiculous
disguise, those unmistakable eyes burning into him. Holding Walter Skinner's
next breath clutched in one black gloved hand.
Skinner's hands clenched into fists. He leaned his head back and closed his
eyes, imagining what he would do to Alex Krycek when he got the chance.
Fantasies of revenge, raw and roughly taken, filled his mind. The little rat
bastard crawling and cowed. Krycek on his knees, handing over the Palm Pilot
with trembling hands. Krycek pleading. Krycek sobbing. Krycek bleeding, his
wise-ass punk routine in tatters. Those long-lashed cat's eyes looking up at
him, big and scared, shining with the aching and complete understanding of
what it meant, what it truly meant, to be in the control of another. A
lesson in loss, painfully and exactingly taught. The Education of Alex
Krycek. Skinner smiled tightly. It was an education Skinner intended to
undertake with scrupulous attention to detail.
Alex Krycek was dying. The way he had always known he would, the bullets he
never saw coming finding the soft, vulnerable parts of him, winding their
unerring way through the defenseless flesh. The pain was piercing, bright,
undeniable. He pressed his pale trembling hand against the dark ruined place
at the center of him, the hot sticky rush of his blood pouring over the
fragile dam of his fingers, the sound of his own heartbeat faint and far
away. Fading. He was alone and so cold, the ground hard under his back, the
red lake thickening around him. The darkness pressed close, wanting him, and
he whimpered, trying to shrink away from that terrifying blind embrace. The
darkness took him then, broken body lying white and gushing red, owning him.
Alex tried to scream, his eyes and ears and mouth full, choking on the dark,
his last breath lost in that relentless unknowable blackness.
Silence, stretching forever. Alex couldn't move. He lay sprawled in the
unending void, his arm and legs numb and useless. There was something
familiar about this cold, empty place. A place remarkable not for what was
there but for what was not there. Sound. Warmth. Light. He began to panic.
He was dead and in Hell. Hell was the silo. Buried alive again, eight
stories down. He knew he deserved it but oh God, it hurt, the gasping
clawing terror at the aloneness, the howling soul shattering grief for the
loss of the light. The taste of his fear was bright and metallic in his
mouth as he fought with all his strength to move, to run, to escape. His
traitorous body refused him. He could only lie frozen, subsumed by the
rapacious darkness that would not be denied.
A voice. Someone was here with him. Who? What had they done to deserve
banishment to this monstrous hollow place? Alex surfaced slowly, following
the voice instinctively. The voice would lead to the light. He gradually
became aware of his own pounding heartbeat, his rasping, ragged breathing.
He opened his eyes, tried to focus, to find the voice. He could see shapes
now, shadows. The voice was speaking to him. He tried to understand what it
was saying.
"... emergence reactions..."
Alex recognized the voice, recognized the words. The man. The man who had
hurt him, who had done this to him. The man was sitting on the edge of the
bed, watching Alex with no expression in his pale eyes. Alex tried to move
his head, but his muscles would not obey, his own voice, shrill and
terrified, screamed in his head-oh god I can't move can't move can't! He
tried to speak, to plead, but could only moan softly.
Alex could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his chest rose and fell as he
sucked in air, his terror bringing him close to hyperventilation. A sob
escaped his swollen lips. Alex fought to control his panic. The hotel. He
was in the hotel with the client. He wasn't shot. He wasn't dead. He wasn't
back in the silo. The man was frowning, saying something to him. Alex tried
to listen, to understand the words. His frightened eyes fought to focus on
the man who now stood beside the bed, staring at him without pity.
"Stop it now. Take a deep breath," the man ordered.
Shakily, Alex obeyed. He would do whatever the voice demanded if only it
would free him from this nightmare, from the prison of his own body. He took
another deep breath, and then another. Slowly his heart rate and pulse began
to approach a more normal rhythm. Alex's eyes darted around the room, still
trying to reassure himself that this was not the hallucination, that he
was really still alive. The man spoke again. His voice had all the emotion
of someone reading a grocery list.
"You are experiencing the emergence reactions I told you about. You are in
no danger."
Alex's boxers had been put back on him. The man placed the rest of Alex's
clothes, neatly folded, on the foot of the bed.
"Mr. Spender's driver is coming to collect you. The paralysis should wear
off by the time he arrives."
The man turned and left Alex alone in the room. Alex lay in the dim light of
the bedside lamp, staring at the ceiling. He felt utterly empty. He thought
he had been used in every way one human being could use another, but nothing
in his short, harsh life had prepared him for this. None of the cruel
lessons he had been forced to learn so early had prepared him for this
stainless, meticulous subjugation, this taking, this agonizing demolition
from the inside out.
When the tingling in his arm and legs began, Alex sobbed with relief.
Despite the man's clinical assurances, he had been terrified that the
paralysis wouldn't be temporary. He could not bear to imagine what would
happen to him then, what Spender would do with his helpless, stricken whore.
Alex slowly flexed his fingers, his toes, tentatively moved his legs. His
muscles were slow to respond, sluggish. He wanted desperately to sit up, but
fell back groaning in the attempt. Moving his head brought on a sickening
onslaught of nausea. He closed his eyes and drifted, jerking awake with a
start every few minutes, fitfully moving his arm and legs to make sure he
still could.
Skinner moved stealthily down the dimly lit hallway of Krycek's apartment
building, treading as quietly as was possible for a big man on a hardwood
floor. Finding the rat's apartment had been surprisingly easy. Keeping one
eye on the door in case the rat himself decided to make an ill-timed
appearance, Skinner had staked out the lobby of the brownstone. He didn't
have long to wait before spotting a likely mark. A petite older woman,
perhaps approaching sixty, entered the lobby walking a Yorkshire terrier on
a leash. Skinner watched as she used a key to retrieve mail from one of the
mailboxes which lined the far wall.
Armed with a sincere smile and a closely cropped photograph scavenged from
Krycek's old FBI personnel file, Skinner approached. The conversation went
exactly as he had planned. He charmed. He schmoozed. He patted the Yorkie's
head. He even flirted a little, smiling as the woman sneaked a hand up to
smooth her tightly curled hair. He had her right where he wanted her.
Skinner painted a touching picture for Krycek's unsuspecting neighbor. The
concerned uncle from out of town. The beloved young nephew, alone in the big
city, who wasn't keeping in touch as he should. Skinner smiled warmly,
chatting on, surprising himself with his gift of invention. He spun
convincing tales of family picnics, soccer games, holidays. A dearly
departed brother and a promise to look after the brother's only son, a
sweet-natured young man who loved his uncle, even if he was a little
forgetful when it came to phone calls and letters home.
She bit and bit hard. Skinner thanked her effusively as she pointed the way
up the stairs. Apartment 12. Where the nice young man in the photograph
lived. The nice young man who always helped her carry in her groceries.
Skinner had nearly choked on that one. Nice. Yeah, right. Nice like a rabid
dog. He could just picture Krycek wrapping this woman around his little
finger, using those big green eyes to their full effect, carrying in her
shopping bags, listening to her natter on about this and that. Making sure
that she and his other neighbors would never suspect that the polite,
helpful young man in Apartment 12 was in reality a ruthless, murdering spy.
Skinner stood outside Apartment 12, close to the wall, his weapon drawn and
hidden in the folds of his trenchcoat. He had indeed found Krycek's
apartment with surprising ease. Getting in was another matter. Cautiously,
he leaned closer to the door, listening intently. Silence. No creaking
floors. No rattling dishes. No television. He took a deep breath and then
knocked briskly on the door, stepping quickly back to his place away from
the door in case there was a gun on the other side of it. Silence. Skinner
knocked again, not about to take chances. The rat hadn't lived this long
because he wasn't careful.
Skinner forced himself to wait ten long, sweating minutes before moving. In
that time, he had heard absolutely no sound coming from Apartment 12. His
decision made, he put his plan into action. It was a plan that left no room
for error. If Krycek was in there, if he got the drop on him, Walter Skinner
had no doubt he would end up on a slab. Just as he would when Krycek decided
to activate the nanocytes and turn Skinner's blood into the circulatory
equivalent of battery acid. Skinner was a man with nothing to lose. It was,
he thought grimly, time to do or die.
He knelt down beside the door, keeping a wary eye out for anyone
approaching. He was a little rusty with the lock pick, but managed it well
enough. Not bad for a desk jockey, he thought as he heard the tiny click.
Skinner stood, pocketing the lock pick. He straightened his back, took a
deep breath, and gingerly turned the doorknob. He held his breath as he
cracked the door open. Nothing. His heart was pounding, his body thrummed
with nervous tension. There was no guarantee that Krycek wasn't on the other
side of that door, aware all this time of Skinner's actions, just waiting
for Skinner to step inside so he could put a bullet in his head.
Skinner waited, sweat beading on his upper lip, listening for any telltale
sound that would alert him to the presence of someone inside. He pushed the
door a little further open, peering inside, seeing nothing except a wedge of
burnished wood floor, a section of plain white wall. It occurred to him that
perhaps Krycek would have the place booby-trapped. Skinner hoped Krycek was
secure enough in his lair as to think such cloak-and-dagger trappings to be
unnecessary. Skinner made his decision. He had come this far.
Alex was grabbed roughly and pulled up into a sitting position. The bundle
of his clothing hit him in the chest and fell into his lap. Jason loomed
over him, glaring impatiently.
"Come on, whore. I don't have all day."
Alex peered up at the large shape gesturing at him, then looked down at the
jeans and shirt in his lap. He picked the shirt up and stared at it
stupidly. Oh. The shape wanted him to put his clothes on. Alex tried to make
his hand do what his brain told it, but somehow the signal seemed to get
lost on the way. He rubbed his eyes. God, he felt like shit. A Ketamine
hangover was not something he ever wanted to experience again. He made a
clumsy attempt to get his hand into the shirtsleeve and only succeeded in
dropping the shirt on the floor. Jason snatched it up, grumbling.
"Jesus Christ," he growled, "you're as dumb as you look."
He knelt down beside the bed, complaining the entire time, and got Alex's
shirt, socks and jeans on him. Alex cooperated as best he could through his
fog. He didn't like Jason touching him, but he knew Jason was going to take
him away from here, away from the man with the frightening needle. Alex
squeaked a little at Jason's indelicate handling of the prosthetic against
his bruised stump, earning himself a cuff on the ear. Jason shoved Alex's
boots on his feet and tossed his leather jacket at him.
"You carry it or it stays."
Alex tried to keep a grip on the jacket as Jason yanked him up off the bed
and toward the door. He tried to walk in a straight line, but his
coordination was impaired and he walked into the wall. Jason cursed him for
an ignorant slut and half-dragged, half-carried him through the suite's
living room. Alex looked around fearfully. The client was nowhere in sight.
Jason shoved Alex out into the hallway. Alex slumped against the wall,
blinking, trying to clear his head. Jason smiled maliciously and grabbed his
arm again. Alex had to stumble along quickly to keep it from being yanked
out of the socket. He kept his eyes fixed on Jason's broad back,
concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not falling.
Suddenly he realized that Jason was pulling him toward the elevator. He made
a mewling sound in his throat and tried to free himself from Jason's grip.
Jason just gave Alex's sore arm another hard yank and Alex yelped. He dug
his heels into the carpet, shaking his head.
"No... no... no..." he moaned, groggy and confused. They never took the
elevator. The one time Jason had forced the issue, Alex had thrown up on
Jason's shoes. After that, they had taken the stairs. Jason jerked Alex
nearly off his feet and threw him in the direction of the elevator doors. He
jabbed the button with a fat finger. The elevator doors opened and he shoved
Alex inside, ignoring his protests. Panicked, Alex dove for the doors as
they began to slide shut. Jason gripped the back of Alex's neck painfully
and slammed him up against the wall of the elevator, pinning him there.
Alex struggled but was no match for Jason's brute strength, especially with
the dregs of the Ketamine still in his system. He closed his eyes, trying
not to think of the enclosed space he was trapped in, taking deep breaths,
trying to fight off the panic attack. The stainless steel interior of the
elevator was cool against his bruised cheek. His heart was pounding and he
felt the nausea making a strong comeback. He whimpered softly. Jason leaned
close.
"I'm through coddling you, slut. Stop your whining or I'll give you
something to whine about. And you puke and I'll beat the shit out of you."
Alex tried to be quiet, squirming a little at the discomfort of Jason's hand
clamped around the back of his neck. Jason took advantage of Alex's impaired
condition, letting his free hand roam over Alex's body. He pawed his way
under Alex's shirt, found a nipple and pinched hard. Alex gasped. He felt
Jason's hand slide up between his legs, cupping his balls through his jeans.
He went very still. Jason's voice was smug.
"That's right, pretty boy. You'd better be good. Unless you want to go back
up to the top floor and start over."
Alex trembled. He tried not to think about Jason's hands on him. In a few
seconds the doors would open again and he would be out of this tiny space.
That was all that mattered to him at that moment. Jason wouldn't dare rape
him, but he did have Spender's leave to punish him. Alex knew Jason's threat
to take the elevator back up was very real. He sagged with relief when the
doors finally opened again and he was hauled off toward the parking garage.
Skinner stepped inside and closed the door behind him, taking care to lock
it again. He glanced around, quickly taking stock of the apartment. Skinner
felt mild surprise at the ordinariness of this small, tidy place. There was
nothing at all remarkable about it. The walls were white and unadorned, the
floors bare of rugs. What sparse furniture there was, was plain and
practical. There were no framed photographs, seemingly no personal effects
of any kind, save a few books on a low shelf in the living room. Skinner
could not reconcile this spartan, utilitarian space with the dangerous,
unpredictable man who had become his personal demon.
He noticed a small closet near the kitchen. His gun drawn, he walked over to
it and quickly opened the door. Nothing there but a pair of old boots in the
corner and a black raincoat on a wire hanger. Skinner stepped into the
miniscule kitchen and found it also empty, likewise the bedroom and
bathroom. After investigating the bedroom closet, finally satisfied that he
was indeed alone, Skinner began a quiet and methodical search of Krycek's
apartment.
Half an hour later, he stood in the living room again, his hands in his
pockets, thoroughly frustrated. He hadn't found the Palm Pilot. Skinner
swore quietly. Rat bastard must have it with him. Skinner had hoped to have
it in his possession before he confronted Krycek. If Krycek was able to hit
the button before Skinner could stop him, could force him to unlock its
secrets... Skinner didn't want to think about it.
Alex lay on his side on the back seat of the sedan, hugging himself with his
one arm, noticing now the soreness, the burning in his rectum, the familiar
taste in the back of his throat. He was glad he couldn't remember what the
man had done to him after the shot. He curled around himself, the motion of
the car lulling him to sleep.
Skinner stood in the living room of Krycek's apartment, tense and alert.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Skinner's eyes darted around the
small room. Quickly, he moved over to the closet by the kitchen door and
stepped inside. He left the closet door open a fraction, not latching it, so
that he could see into the living room. He just had to hope the rat wouldn't
notice it before Skinner had the chance to pounce. There was the sound of a
key turning in the lock and the apartment door opened. Skinner peered
through the small opening between the closet door and the jamb. His mouth
dropped open and he stifled a curse.
Spender cast a disdainful eye around the place, took off his coat and
dropped it across the arm of the little sofa that faced the apartment door.
He sat down, directly in Skinner's line of sight. Skinner hardly dared to
breathe. Something was very wrong. Spender got comfortable, crossing his
legs and lighting a cigarette. It didn't look like he was going anywhere
anytime soon. Shit, Skinner thought. Shit! What the hell is he doing here?
He didn't want to think about what would happen if he were discovered.
Skinner was glad the closet was practically empty, it decreased the chance
that he would jostle up against something and make his presence known.
Still, the closet had definitely not been designed for a tall man to conceal
himself in. Skinner was hunched over, the rod for the hangers across the
back of his neck. Sweat was beginning to trickle down his back. His muscles
were beginning to cramp. He shifted his position as best he could, keeping
his eye to the crack in the door.
He became very aware of the passage of time. God, what if he was stuck in
here for hours? His bladder was beginning to make its presence known, all
right, and he began to regret having that tall glass of orange juice before
leaving the condo. He was glad Mulder couldn't see him now. This was exactly
the kind of situation that would have earned his subordinate a long and
expert reaming from the AD. Skinner watched stealthily as Spender tapped his
ash on the floor, smoke drifting around his head. He gazed at the closed
apartment door and calmly smoked his cigarette.
Skinner heard the approaching footsteps at the same time Spender did. The
door opened and the biggest man Skinner had ever seen lumbered in. He looked
not so much dressed in his ill-fitting suit as upholstered in it. He had one
big paw on the shoulder of Alex Krycek, propelling him into the room.
Skinner couldn't imagine anyone being glad to see Cancerman, but Krycek's
reaction was extreme. Krycek saw Spender and his face immediately lost all
color. He took two hesitant steps forward, his head bowed, and sank to his
knees. Skinner's jaw dropped in surprise. Krycek seemed to be shaking. The
big goon closed the apartment door and stood silently next to it, watching
Krycek with an unhealthy gleam in his eye. Skinner didn't know what the man
was thinking but he was prepared to guess that they weren't deep thoughts.
Spender stood, dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it.
"I've been very busy this morning, Alex. Would you like to know what I've
been doing?"
Krycek stared at the floor. Spender continued.
"I've been checking up on you, Alex, and I don't like what I'm finding out.
I would have thought our little chat in my office yesterday would have had
more of an impact."
Alex didn't dare look up. He shivered and huddled into his jacket. The man
had called Spender and told him what Alex had done. He would be punished
after all. He bit his lip and waited. The shock of Spender's unexpected
appearance in his apartment had dispelled the last of the Ketamine's
aftereffects. He almost wished it hadn't. He wished his mind, at least,
could be somewhere else while his body bore the brunt of Spender's anger.
Spender walked over to where Krycek knelt. He stared at Krycek for a moment,
his eyes narrowed. His voice was hard and cold.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Krycek flinched.
"I" he began. The backhand caught him across the cheekbone, knocking him
down off of his knees. He lay on his side, dazed. Spender dealt him a
vicious kick to the midsection that made even Skinner wince.
"Kneel up!" Spender shouted.
Krycek slowly got back into position, a trickle of blood running from the
corner of his mouth. Skinner watched, astonished. He was seeing the rat get
what he deserved, even if he hadn't been given the honor of administering
the justice himself. So why was the feeling of triumph such a hollow one?
Skinner felt cheated. Instead of feeling warm satisfaction at Krycek's
suffering, he felt vaguely disturbed by it. Krycek looked terrible. Skinner
wondered when he had last eaten. He looked pale and sickly, and now that
Skinner was seeing him up close, a good deal thinner than Skinner
remembered. He looked almost frail, a word Skinner had certainly never
thought to apply to Alex Krycek. Spender slapped Krycek again. Krycek seemed
to fold in on himself, hunched over on his knees, his face a tight mask of
pain.
Spender glared at Krycek with disgust and then walked back over to the sofa.
He picked his coat up and reached into the pocket, removing something. He
walked back over to Krycek and grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look
up. He showed the object in his hand to Krycek. It was the Palm Pilot.
Skinner stopped breathing. Time seemed to slow, to shudder to a stop. His
felt as if his knees would buckle. Was this it? Was he living the last few
minutes of his life? Would Spender flip open that sleek, deadly machine and
end him right here and now? He mentally calculated the distance between
himself and Spender, wondering if he could reach Spender in time to save
himself.
Alex saw what Spender held in his hand and his eyes widened in terror. His
mouth worked but no sound came out.
"Why is Walter Skinner still alive?" Spender screamed.
He kicked Krycek in the stomach. In the closet, Skinner's breath caught in
his throat. His heart pounded. He strained to see and hear everything, his
aching back and cramped position forgotten as he stared in disbelief at the
scene unfolding in front of him. Spender kicked Krycek again, then leaned
down close, shoving the Palm Pilot in his agonized face.
"I had it checked out, Alex. It's been disabled. Useless!" Spender's voice
grew louder. "You little whore, did you think you would get away with this?
That you would make a fool of me? You dare to deceive me?"
Spender turned and hurled the Palm Pilot across the room, where it exploded
against the wall. The floor was littered with the pieces of the ominous
black machine. Krycek cringed, curling into a ball as Spender kicked him
again. He screamed as the toe of Spender's shoe connected with the small of
his back hard enough to lift him off the floor.
Alex lay panting, hurting, trying to make himself as small as possible,
agony blossoming in the pit of his stomach as Spender dealt him another
vicious kick. This was it. The end. In a moment, Spender would take out his
gun and kill him. Alex hoped it would be quick. He hoped Spender wouldn't
let Jason have him first. He felt curiously unafraid now. He was so tired.
So that part of the hallucination had been right. It would be a bullet. Alex
thought about the silo and shivered. Maybe he would be lucky and there
wouldn't be a Hell after all. Maybe just nothing. No more fear. No more
pain. He wished Spender would get it over with. Spender had worked himself
into a frenzy. He snatched Alex up by the hair and threw him across the
room. Alex hit the wall hard and slid down, dazed. Spender screamed at him
again.
"The other two! Where are they?"
Alex tried to get to his feet and collapsed, moaning. Spender kicked him in
the face, grimacing with distaste at the blood that spattered his shoe. Alex
groaned loudly. Spender grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and dragged
him back up on his knees. Alex knelt there, swaying, his hair disheveled,
blood dripping from his chin. That odd serenity flowed over him again. It
was all right. It was really all right. Soon he would finally be at peace.
No one would ever touch him again. He looked up at Spender, who was
breathing heavily, his face red, beside himself with fury.
"In the Potomac," Krycek said softly. "The pieces, anyway."
It was true. After Alex had managed to gain possession of the other two Palm
Pilots, he had smashed them with a hammer. That night he had stopped on the
bridge and dropped the pieces into the river, shining like black glass in
the moonlight. Skinner thought he saw Krycek smile then. A faint, almost
peaceful smile. Spender was apoplectic. Skinner didn't think he had ever
seen anyone that angry. The man looked like he was about to have a stroke.
Spender slapped Alex again, putting all of his weight behind the swing. Alex
reeled, but managed somehow to stay upright. Skinner wondered how in hell
the man was still conscious. Spender advanced on Krycek again.
"I told you I wanted him dead, you fucking little slut! And you dare to defy
me? To destroy my property?"
Spender grabbed Krycek by the hair again and forced him to look up.
"I'm going to make you suffer, Alex. I'm going to make you regret the day
you ever contemplated double-crossing me." He pulled Krycek's hair harder,
snapping his head back.
"Why, Alex? Why do you care whether Walter Skinner lives or dies? Why is it
worth your suffering to save his miserable life?"
Skinner held his breath. Krycek looked like a man about to be executed,
kneeling, his throat exposed, drops of blood on his white shirt. He looked
into Spender's eyes, calmly meeting his gaze. He spoke softly. Skinner had
to strain to hear, but what he heard was unmistakable.
"He didn't deserve it."
Spender slammed his fist into Krycek's face, only his grip on the man's hair
keeping him upright. Krycek shakily wiped the blood from his face with his
one hand. He looked up at Spender again, his green eyes unblinking,
unafraid.
"Go ahead. Finish it. Go ahead and kill me. It'll be the first kindness
you've ever shown me."
He said it without a trace of irony. Spender smiled without any warmth
whatsoever. He leaned down and spoke directly into Krycek's upturned face.
"Kill you?" He laughed. "Kill you, Alex?"
He let go of Krycek's hair and turned away, withdrawing a handkerchief from
his pocket and wiping his hands on it. "You underestimate me." He glanced
toward the door.
"Jason?" The large man nodded at Spender and opened the apartment door.
"NO!"
The shriek sounded torn from Krycek's throat. His eyes were huge and
terrified, fixed on the man who stood in the doorway. Krycek began backing
away from the man, on his hand and knees, shaking his head and moaning.
"No... no..."
The man paid no attention to Krycek. He stepped inside the apartment, his
dark eyes flicking over the room with an imperious air. He nodded toward
Spender.
"Charles," he said amiably.
So that's your name, you son of a bitch, Skinner thought. Spender smiled and
flipped open his cigarette lighter.
"Nikolai. So good of you to come on such short notice."
"Not a moment too soon, it would appear," the man replied.
His voice was cultured, with a strong Russian accent. The man glanced toward
Krycek, who was still backing away toward the far corner of the room. Krycek
looked as though he were going to faint. He was chalk white, his breathing
had become irregular and shallow. He had begun to shake violently. Skinner
watched Krycek from his hiding place. Why was Krycek so obviously terrified
of this man? He looked more than terrified, Skinner thought. He looked as
though he were having a breakdown.
Krycek reached the corner and curled into a fetal position, his body racked
with tremors. He curled his arm around his knees and rocked back and forth,
keening softly. Skinner took a closer look at the man. He was tall and
broad, his impeccably tailored black suit making him resemble a well-heeled
funeral director. He appeared to be in his sixties, his silver hair swept
back over his forehead. He was meticulously groomed, with sharp features and
a prominent nose. He looked at Krycek.
"Alexei."
Krycek did not respond. He rocked harder, his head tucked down. He was
sobbing now, loud, gasping sobs that echoed in the small room. The man
frowned.
"Alexei. Stop that noise this instant."
He sounded as though he were scolding a recalcitrant child. Krycek shrank
down smaller in his corner, shaking his head, crying harder.
"Alexei! Come here," the man ordered, his voice snapping like a bullwhip.
Krycek lifted his head slightly, one frightened green eye peering over his
arm. He shook his head again.
"Please," he whispered. He looked at Spender beseechingly.
"Please, sir."
Spender eyed him coldly. Krycek unfolded his body from the corner and
crawled awkwardly over to Spender, glancing fearfully at Nikolai. Nikolai
watched him, a faint smile curving his thin lips. Krycek knelt in front of
Spender, his haunted eyes looking up pleadingly. He leaned down, trembling,
and kissed Spender's shoe. Spender looked down with disgust at the tears
dripping down onto the leather. Krycek's voice was shaking with terror.
"Please, sir, please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sir. Please don't do this."
Spender ignored him, arching an eyebrow at Nikolai. Nikolai looked at Krycek
calmly.
"Alexei. Come!"
Krycek shook his head, mewling, beginning to back away again. His eyes
resembled those of a wounded animal. Krycek tried to plead again but he was
crying too hard to speak. Nikolai fixed him with a steely glare.
"ALEXEI!" he thundered.
Krycek jumped and cried out. Slowly, awkwardly, he got to his feet, his hand
clutching his side where Spender had landed a particularly sharp kick. He
looked around the room, looking very small and afraid. He looked at Nikolai,
then back at Spender. He shook his head again, making small animal noises of
fear in his throat. Nikolai turned to Spender.
"You should have called sooner, my friend." He looked back at Krycek.
"Alexei. Now."
He pointed a long finger toward the floor by his feet. Krycek, shaking,
finally obeyed. He walked slowly, jerkily toward the man who so terrified
him, his body language screaming with every reluctant step that he did not
want to do this. He reached the designated place beside Nikolai, shrinking
as far away from the man as possible, and collapsed on his knees. He
cringed, whimpering, as Nikolai reached down and stroked his hair.
"Now, Alexei. What is this? Have you forgotten all of your lessons?"
He grasped Krycek's chin in his hand and tilted the tear-stained face up.
"I am terribly, terribly disappointed in you, little one," he said sadly.
"You were my proudest accomplishment, Alexei. Can you imagine my
embarrassment when Mr. Spender called? To hear how troublesome my little
Alexei has become?"
Krycek cringed as Nikolai caressed his face. "When Mr. Spender asked if I
might be willing to suspend my retirement and return here to help, I was
only too glad to agree." Nikolai's voice became stern.
"I take a great deal of pride in my work, Alexei. I will not tolerate this
appalling behavior from you. I have a reputation at stake." He spoke to
Spender.
"I do apologize, Charles, for Alexei's forgetting himself this way. I assure
you, he will be thoroughly retrained before he is returned to you."
Hearing this, Krycek wailed. He was rocking back and forth again, wide eyes
focused on nothing, shivering like a puppy in a thunderstorm. Spender smiled
a cool, satisfied smile.
"Thank you, Nikolai. I appreciate your coming all this way to take care of
this little," he glanced pointedly at Krycek, "problem. Jason?"
The big man came forward. Spender gestured toward the stricken Krycek. Jason
took Krycek by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Krycek panicked. He began
screaming and struggling, surprising Jason, who nearly lost his grip on the
terrified man. Krycek lost all control, hysteria overtaking him completely.
"PLEASE!" he screamed. "Please, sir, don't let him take me! Don't let him,
sir, please!"
Krycek was sobbing so loudly that Skinner thought surely everyone in the
building must be able to hear him.
"Please! I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'll do anything, sir,
please! Please don't let him take me!"
He fought with all of his strength to get away, but Jason held him fast,
pinioning Krycek's right arm behind his back. Spender took a drag on his
cigarette and looked at Krycek pitilessly.
"We've discussed your behavior, Alex. My patience is at an end. Now you will
learn again what it is to be obedient." He gathered up his coat and walked
to the door.
"Jason, please give Mr. Andreiev any assistance he may require. I will be
waiting in the car."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Spender," Jason said.
Nikolai smiled at Spender.
"Not to worry, Charles. A few weeks and you will have your old Alexei back.
He only needs reminding of his place and to whom he belongs."
"Thank you, Nikolai. I knew I could count on you."
Spender ground out his cigarette under his shoe and opened the door. Krycek
strained, trying to loosen Jason's grip on his arm.
"Please, sir! I'll be good! Please!" Krycek cried, twisting in Jason's
grasp.
Spender walked out without looking back, closing the door on Alex's
entreaties. Krycek watched the door shut behind his employer and sobbed, his
last hope gone. Nikolai walked over to the sofa and sat down. He held his
arms out toward Krycek.
"Bring him to me."
Krycek writhed, putting the last of his strength into the effort to escape.
Jason wrapped a thick arm around his waist and dragged him over to the sofa,
Krycek's feet barely scraping the floor. Jason forced Krycek down onto the
sofa. Nikolai reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew
several black leather straps.
"No!" Krycek sobbed. "Please"
Nikolai took Alex's chin in his hand, his fingers gripping tightly enough to
leave bruises. His voice was low and cold.
"Stop now, little one."
There could be no mistaking the undercurrent of menace in that deceptively
cool, quiet tone. Krycek went very still, trembling and whimpering.
"Hold him, please, Jason."
Jason held Krycek as Nikolai quickly and efficiently bound his ankles
tightly together. He then tied Alex's right wrist to the wrist of the
prosthetic, binding them in front of him. Krycek was crying steadily, his
chest hitching as he sobbed. When Alex was securely bound, Nikolai rose.
"Is there anything else I can do, sir?" asked Jason solicitously, his eyes
on Krycek.
The little whore looked so hot, tied and helpless like that. When the slut
was brought back, Jason fully intended to have a little talk with Mr.
Spender. He smiled. Maybe Christmas would come early this year. Nikolai
handed Jason a hundred dollar bill and walked him to the door.
"No thank you, Jason. I think we'll be quite all right."
Jason took the money and left with one last lustful look at Krycek, who sat,
his dark head bowed, weeping softly. Nikolai returned to Krycek's side. He
sat down and put one arm around Krycek's narrow shoulders, pulling him
close.
"Now, Alexei. That is enough."
Nikolai reached into his jacket pocket again, this time retrieving a length
of black cloth. Krycek stiffened and tried to pull away, but Nikolai's grip
was unyielding.
"No," Alex begged, beginning to cry harder. "no, please..."
Nikolai stroked Alex's hair. He spoke in a soothing tone that belied his
chilling words.
"We've been apart too long, little one. You really have become quite
unmanageable." He cupped Alex's face between his long, tapering hands.
"You have behaved very badly, Alexei. You must be punished. You know that,
don't you?" Alex closed his eyes, tears sliding out from under the thick
lashes.
"Please don't," he whispered, "please." Nikolai wiped Alex's tears away with
his thumbs, then picked up the cloth.
"Hush now, little one. You know it must be done."
Nikolai tied the black cloth tightly across Alex's eyes. Alex shuddered and
whimpered, tiny sounds of fright making their way past his pale lips.
Nikolai pulled the trembling boy into a tight embrace, forcing Alex to rest
his head on Nikolai's chest. Alex lay like a doll in his arms, shaking and
crying softly. He was lost again in the dark, bereft and alone. The memories
circled, pressing close, and Alex felt himself begin to fade away, eclipsed,
ravaged. Shuddering, he whispered one last intelligible word.
"... dark..."
Nikolai cradled Alex, running his hand through Alex's damp hair. Alex began
to mumble incoherently, the words too soft to hear, interspersed with
increasingly shallow, hitching breaths. Stroking Alex's hair, Nikolai spoke
softly, as if to a child.
"There, now, little one. My plane is being readied for our journey back to
my dacha. You remember it, don't you, Alexei?"
No response. Nikolai didn't appear to notice. He continued, one hand toying
with Alex's dark hair.
"You must be corrected, Alexei. You must be reminded to whom you belong.
Things will be easier for you then, little one. You'll see."
Alex whimpered faintly. Nikolai pressed Alex's face against his chest, one
long, tapering hand absently stroking his hair as one would a pet cat.
Alex's eyes were closed. The memories were coming back and he had no
defenses left. That hand stroking his hair, the familiar scent of the
expensive cologne Nikolai wore, the same as all those years ago. Alex
shivered. Nikolai pulled him closer.
"Shhh, little one, try to rest. We have so much work ahead of us."
Alex whimpered again, his mind powerless against the assault of that scent,
those hands, that voice. He was fourteen again, hurting and afraid and
alone, defenseless against the dark.
Skinner leaned heavily against the wall of the closet. He felt as though he
had been mugged. He was in a state of shock, his mind still grappling with
the fact that he had just seen Alex Krycek-Alex Krycek-traitor, thief,
cold-blooded killer-crouched in the corner sobbing like a terrified child.
Krycek had protected him? Krycek had risked death, endured torture, for him?
In God's name, why? Skinner watched Nikolai holding Krycek, murmuring in his
ear, stroking his hair. Krycek was crying, whispering brokenly. Skinner
tried to make sense of it all. In the last hour, everything he thought he
knew, everything he believed had been turned upside down. He leaned close to
the crack in the door, watching as Nikolai gently sat Krycek up.
Nikolai traced Alex's delicate cheekbone with one long finger.
"Alexei," he breathed, "still so beautiful, little one."
Alex moaned, his trembling growing more pronounced. Nikolai unbuttoned
Alex's shirt and pulled it down over his shoulders, exposing his chest. He
kissed Alex, feeling the boy's trembling lips part under his. He kissed and
licked the tender place where his neck and shoulder met, then bit hard
enough to draw blood. Alex cried out, trying weakly to pull away, a thin
rivulet of blood threading its way along his collarbone. Nikolai held him
close, long fingers stroking, touching, remembering.
He pulled Alex up on his feet and unbuttoned his jeans. Alex sobbed quietly
as Nikolai pulled his jeans and boxers down to his knees, pausing to trail
his finger down one pale thigh. Nikolai turned Alex around and pressed him
back down onto the sofa. Alex was forced onto his stomach, his bound hand
trapped painfully under him. Nikolai admired Alex's pale smooth skin, the
sweet inviting curve of his buttocks as he lay, panting and afraid, ripe for
the taking. Nikolai lay his jacket and tie over the arm of the sofa and
began to unbutton his shirt.
"I have missed you, moy lyubov," he breathed, his voice trembling with lust.
"My beautiful boy. So many years, Alexei, and you are even more breathtaking
than you were the first day I saw you." He moved toward Alex.
"I will be your teacher again, Alexei. I will punish and correct you, little
one, and you will once again be my perfect obedient boy." Alex lay still,
the fabric of the cushion rough against his cheek, tears soaking the
blindfold. Nikolai unbuckled his belt and reached for his zipper, his
erection straining against the fine material of his suit.
Skinner moved soundlessly. He couldn't stop to think. He raised his gun and
brought the butt end down in a short, efficient arc, dropping the Russian
where he stood. Krycek lay motionless on the sofa, seemingly unaware of what
had just happened. Skinner looked around the room, then went to the bedroom
and stripped the coverlet from the bed. He returned to the living room,
quickly tugging Krycek's jeans and boxers back up before wrapping him in the
coverlet. There was no time now to untie him.
Skinner hoisted Krycek over his shoulder, surprised for a moment at how
light he was, and opened the apartment door. There was no one in the
hallway. Skinner had parked in the alley behind the building, close to the
building's back door. Skinner carried his burden down the stairs, the only
sound from Krycek a faint moaning. He managed to get him to the car without
attracting any undue attention, a fact for which he was supremely grateful.
He lay Krycek on the back seat, still wrapped in the coverlet, and drove
toward Crystal City as swiftly as he dared.
Skinner carried Krycek into the condominium, pausing only to close the door
behind him. He shifted the slight weight on his shoulder, trying not to put
too much pressure on Krycek's ribs, remembering his screams as Spender's
ferocious kicks had found their mark. The last thing Skinner needed was for
Krycek to end up with a punctured lung or worse. He carried Krycek into the
guest bedroom and put him down on the bed. Krycek lay still, his lips
slightly parted, his skin waxy and pale. Except for the occasional tremor,
he had not moved at all since Skinner had taken him from the apartment.
Skinner reached for the blindfold and then stopped as his fingertips brushed
the black material. What if Krycek awoke and panicked, became hysterical?
How would he react when he realized where he was?
Skinner thought uncomfortably of the last time Krycek had been here,
remembered Krycek's stunned bellow of pain as Skinner slammed his fist into
his stomach. He remembered the look of helplessness and fear on Krycek's
face that cold November night as Skinner clipped the handcuff to the balcony
railing and left him there. The resignation in those sea green eyes as
Skinner walked back into the living room, back into the warmth, sliding the
door shut behind him without a backward glance. That long night, tossing and
turning in his bed, haunted by those eyes, wondering what it would be like
to slide that door open again, plunder those pretty pink lips with his
tongue, make that long supple spine arch, make the assassin sigh and shudder
and moan. Skinner had taken a not quite cold but far from hot shower,
stroking himself to a joyless orgasm, seeing Krycek's hurt, scared face,
those sad, unforgettable eyes.
Skinner reached for the blindfold again, steeling himself for whatever
happened next. Judging by what he had seen in the apartment, leaving the
blindfold on was definitely not an option. He untied the cloth and tossed it
aside. Krycek didn't move. He looked exhausted, his closed eyes ringed
faintly with dark circles. Skinner moved to untie Krycek's ankles, hissing
as he saw the deep red marks the leather straps left in the tender flesh. He
began removing the bindings from Krycek's wrists and discovered the
prosthetic, uttering a startled exclamation as his fingers closed around the
chill plastic. Skinner carefully peeled off Krycek's bloodstained shirt,
dropping it on the floor. He unbuckled the straps of the prosthesis and
removed it, wincing at the thick scars circling the stump. He glanced up at
Krycek's face, feeling amazement and a grudging respect. How in hell had the
man survived that?
Skinner stripped off the rest of Krycek's clothing, leaving the boxers. He
ran his hand over Krycek's ribs, the prominent ridges telling a tale of too
many meals missed. Skinner pressed gently. He didn't think any of the ribs
were broken, but spectacular bruises were already beginning to form. Krycek
was definitely going to wake up hurting. Skinner went to the bathroom and
returned with a wet washcloth. Krycek twitched a little and moaned as
Skinner washed the dried blood from his face and chest.
Carefully, Skinner rolled Krycek over onto his stomach, checking for further
injuries. Skinner winced again as he saw Krycek's bare, scarred back. Old
welts and new ones threaded amongst the bruises and scars. Skinner reached
for the waistband of Krycek's boxers, remembering the fleeting glimpse of
welts as he had quickly covered Krycek up before fleeing with him. He tugged
Krycek's boxers down.
"Jesus Christ!"
Skinner stood frozen, his expression one of shock and horror. There, in the
small of Krycek's back, were six small, perfectly round scars. Cigarette
burns. In the shape of a circle. Someone, Skinner had no problem guessing
who, had slowly and deliberately pressed a burning cigarette into that soft,
vulnerable hollow, holding it there. Blazing, hellish anguish, repeated six
times over. He swallowed, feeling the bile rising in his throat. He gently
rolled Krycek back over and lifted him up. Krycek's head fell back, exposing
his white throat, making him look even younger and more vulnerable.
Skinner looked down at him for a moment, dazed with secrets so unexpectedly
revealed, reeling from this glimpse into Krycek's life of misery and fear.
Skinner got Krycek into bed and covered him up, leaving Krycek's own
coverlet on top, telling himself it was just to keep him warm, to ward off
shock. Definitely not because he wanted Krycek to have something of his own,
something familiar to comfort him when he awoke.
Skinner sat down heavily in the chair near the bed and cradled his head in
his hands, unsurprised to find that they were shaking slightly. What the
hell had happened? He watched as Krycek murmured softly, his face taking on
a faintly worried expression. He whimpered and then settled again. Skinner's
jaw was tense as he remembered Krycek's screams, Krycek's blood stark
against his skin. Krycek crying and begging as the men who controlled him
did as they pleased with him.
Skinner's gut tightened as he thought of the desire for revenge that had
fueled him these last few months. He had wanted to make Krycek scream, make
him cry and beg, make him plead for mercy. Skinner looked at the unconscious
man in his bed, the monster so suddenly revealed as being all too human.
Skinner tried to feel that rage again, to touch that bottomless well of
anger for Alex Krycek, that thirst for vengeance. The fury that had fueled
him for so long now seemed faint and insubstantial.
His enemy lay helpless in his bed. The man who had betrayed him, betrayed
the FBI. The man responsible for Scully's sister. Mulder's father. The
nanocytes. Skinner sat in the chair, willing himself to stop shaking, as
Krycek's terrified screams echoed again in his mind. He looked at the face
of the man he had spent so much time hating. Alex Krycek. The diabolical,
dangerous killer. The calculating, clever spy. Krycek was beautiful in
repose, his pale pink lips parted slightly, dark hair falling across his
forehead, appearing nearly black against his alabaster skin. He didn't look
like a killer. He just looked like a little boy in a big bed.
Skinner rose and walked to the door. He needed a drink. He paused for a
moment in the doorway, a strange expression crossing his face, looking at
the end result of a day in the life of a man who did not make impetuous
decisions. Skinner shook his head, glad once again that Mulder couldn't see
this. Skinner prided himself on being rational and practical, yet he had
left his home that morning with fantasies of revenge, of rough justice. He
had thrown his hated enemy over his shoulder like a damsel in distress and
spirited him away from the man who was abusing him, and what now? Just what
in hell was he going to do with Krycek? Skinner watched as Krycek's head
moved fitfully against the pillow. He groaned and then grew quiet again.
Skinner hesitated a moment, wondering if he should leave Krycek alone. He
went downstairs, leaving the bedroom door open so that he would hear if
Krycek awoke.
Alex clawed his way out of the dark for a moment. His eyes opened slightly
as the man in the doorway turned and left the room. Alex saw his face as he
turned, and fear gripped him. Skinner. Alex tried to think but his thoughts
were murky and sluggish. Spender had given him to Skinner. Alex's mouth was
very dry and he wished for some water. He whimpered. He knew how hard
Skinner could hit. He tried to stay very quiet. Maybe if he was quiet
Skinner wouldn't put him out on the balcony. A tear slid down Alex's cheek.
He wondered if Skinner would kill him. He was so tired. His ribs and back
hurt. Another tear spilled onto the pillow and Alex was sucked back under
again.
Skinner rummaged in the kitchen cabinet for the bottle of Glenfiddich he
kept for company. He himself drank only on occasion. This was, he thought to
himself, one hell of an occasion. He dropped ice cubes into the glass and
splashed the scotch over them. He drank it in one swallow and poured
another. He leaned against the counter, trying to come to terms with what
had happened. The nanocytes. If what he had heard in Krycek's apartment was
true, the nightmare was over. Skinner blinked, his eyes suddenly full of hot
tears. The hope was overwhelming, devastating. Could it really be over?
Could his life really be his again? Were the deadly dark machines that
haunted his dreams really powerless now?
Skinner shook his head numbly. Krycek had done this. Krycek had been beaten
and terrorized and nearly raped because he had done this. Skinner glanced
toward the stairway. Why? He felt the anger welling up within him. Why? Why
would Krycek risk his life to save me? He resented him at that moment,
resented the beaten man who lay in his bed. Did he do it so that I would owe
him my life? So that I would be beholden to him, obligated to repay the
favor? Skinner put the bottle away before he was tempted into a third drink.
He would get Krycek awake and talking. Once he was well enough, he would be
on his way. Debt paid in full.
Unbidden, his mind replayed the image of Krycek huddled in the corner,
pleading through his tears as the Russian man called him to heel like a dog.
Krycek curling into a ball as Spender's shoe thudded into him. Krycek on his
stomach, his jeans and boxers around his knees, blind and helpless. Skinner
put his glass in the sink, a little harder than necessary. A few hours ago,
he had hated Alex Krycek more than anyone he had ever known. Now, he didn't
know how he felt. He thought of those six perfectly round scars burned into
the soft skin at the base of Krycek's spine. He saw Krycek, beaten, kicked,
struggling to stay on his knees, blood dripping onto his white shirt. Saw
Krycek asking for the kindness of murder. Spender's bloodless smile around
his cigarette, smoke curling from his lips as he coolly promised suffering
unforetold. No one, not even Alex Krycek, deserved to go back to that.
Skinner was starting back up the stairs when he heard a knock at the door.
He crossed the living room to the door and looked through the peephole, his
gut already telling him who it would be. Spender stood in the hallway,
smiling coldly, the big man standing silently behind him. Skinner opened the
door. Spender raised his eyebrows and spoke with that grating false
cordiality that made Skinner want to hit him.
"Mr. Skinner? I do believe you have something of mine." Skinner glared past
Spender at Jason.
"The gorilla stays in the hallway."
Spender smiled again, turning to Jason.
"Jason? Please wait here. I'm sure Mr. Skinner and I can discuss this small
matter like gentlemen."
The big man's lip curled. He nodded at Spender and stepped a few paces away,
his hands in his pockets. He cursed under his breath as Skinner stepped
aside and allowed Spender to enter. He hoped he would get the chance to
teach that bald bastard some manners.
Skinner closed the door and stood just beside it, his arms folded. He did
not want this man in his home and he was not about to allow him to think
otherwise. Spender dragged on his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke,
ignoring the look of disgust on Skinner's face.
"That was fast," Skinner said sarcastically.
"I'm a resourceful man, Mr. Skinner," Spender replied. "My colleague has a
rather nasty headache. Your handiwork, I presume?" Skinner met his eye
coolly.
"You tell me."
Spender laughed humorlessly.
"All right, Mr. Skinner, all right," he held up his hands in mock surrender.
"You were observed as you left Mr. Krycek's apartment building. With my
property. If you will be so kind as to return what is mine, I will be on my
way."
Skinner appeared to consider this. He kept his gaze coolly fixed on Spender
as he readied himself. He was going to have to bluff this out, and he was
going against the master of the game.
"I want him."
Spender chuckled drily.
"Most people want the things they steal. May I ask why you want Mr. Krycek?"
"Revenge," Skinner growled. "I owe that little rat bastard. I want to make
him regret every second of every minute of every day he's lived since he
betrayed me. And then there's the little matter of the nanocytes."
Skinner managed to keep his voice even. Standing in his own home, faced with
the man who had engineered his death, was requiring all of his strength not
to throttle Spender. Spender calmly smoked his cigarette.
"Go on," he encouraged.
Skinner envisioned taking revenge on the man truly responsible for his
suffering and when he spoke, knew that the requisite cold gleam was present
in his eyes, knew that his smile was feral and dangerous.
"I've decided I need a hobby. Making Alex Krycek's life a living hell sounds
like something I'd be good at." Spender raised an eyebrow.
"So you decided to make off with my property? Not very polite, Mr. Skinner."
Spender's eyes were flat and unreadable. Skinner knew he was on dangerous
ground. He chose his words carefully, hiding his disgust at what he heard
himself saying.
"When I found out where the rat was living, I wanted revenge," he said,
trying to sound a little sheepish. "I didn't stop to think. I apologize for
the inconvenience my hasty actions have caused you and your colleague," he
paused. "But I want Alex Krycek. What's it going to take?" Spender's smile
made Skinner feel suddenly chilly.
"Hmm, a very interesting situation, indeed," he said thoughtfully. "Mr.
Krycek can be very troublesome. I have invested tremendous amounts of time
and money on his training and still he remains stubborn and disobedient." He
sighed, sounding truly put-upon. "My patience has been sorely tested. I had
been thinking of disposing of him." Skinner held himself in check. To sound
too eager now would be a mistake.
"Let me take him off your hands," he said. "I have a number of scores to
settle with him. He'll beg for death before I'm through. Besides," he added,
giving Spender a sympathetic look, "he's not getting any younger. What is
he? Almost thirty? And with only one arm. He's not much good to you anymore,
hardly worth his keep, I'm sure." Skinner smiled again, a shameless
we-are-men-of-the-world-aren't-we grin. Spender fell for it.
"I'm sure you would make his remaining time on earth exquisitely painful,"
he said, taking another slow drag on his cigarette. "I must admit the irony
appeals to me. I rather like the idea of that little whore being consigned
to live out his days under the control of the man who hates him more than
anyone in the world." He smoked thoughtfully. Skinner kept his expression
carefully neutral. At length, Spender gestured magnanimously.
"All right, Mr. Skinner. You have a deal. There is, of course, the matter of
payment."
Skinner's stomach did a flip-flop. Here it comes, he thought. He wondered
what Spender would want. The X-Files closed down again? Mulder assigned to
some remote outpost? He swallowed, wondering if he had gone too far. Spender
continued.
"I'm sure you'll find my price reasonable. Shall we say, five thousand
dollars?" Caught off-guard, Skinner gaped at Spender.
"You've got to be kidding," he said. "Do you realize what you're saying?"
Spender caught Skinner's look of amazement and sniffed impatiently.
"Alex Krycek is mine, to beat, to kill or to sell. I am giving you a special
price, as a friend." Coming from Spender's mouth, the word was grotesque.
"I am only recouping my original investment, Mr. Skinner, I am hardly making
a profit." Skinner stared at him silently.
"Ah, I see I've offended your delicate sensibilities. If it makes it easier
for you, Mr. Skinner, you may consider it compensation for my inconvenience,
as well as for the considerable cost involved in his care and training."
He smiled, enjoying Skinner's obvious discomfort. Spender continued drily,
as though this were an ordinary business transaction. For him, Skinner
thought with contempt, it undoubtedly was.
"No reason for you to feel your irreproachable integrity has been impugned."
Spender's tone was gently mocking. Skinner glared at him. The seconds ticked
by, Spender studying him as at cat would a mouse. What the hell am I doing?
Skinner thought. He swallowed. He would have to go along with it. What was
the alternative? To carry Krycek's limp, battered body downstairs and hand
him over to this monster? Skinner hid his revulsion and extended his hand to
Spender. Compensation. That was how he would have to think of it.
"Agreed." Spender's hand was dry and cold. Skinner wanted nothing more at
that moment than to thrust his hand under the kitchen tap and scrub the
flesh raw. With much effort, he kept his mask intact. Spender glanced around
the room.
"Where is dear Alex?" he asked casually.
Skinner braced himself. It was time for the coup de grace. He smiled again,
trying for sadistic malice, the answering gleam in Spender's eyes telling
him he was successful.
"He's upstairs in the closet. He didn't like that too much, I'm afraid. I
had to gag him so the neighbors wouldn't hear him yelling. I don't think he
likes his collar and chains, either. He's quite a bad little dog, but I
intend to beat the disobedience right out of him. I'd like for you to see
him, but he's in deep bondage and I don't want to interfere with his
training."
Skinner held his breath. He had lain his cards on the table. If Spender
called his bluff, his story was blown. It was a foolish chance to take,
perhaps, but he had to be sure. He had to know that Spender believed him.
Spender glanced toward the stairs, then at his watch.
"Thank you just the same, Mr. Skinner. The sooner I wash my hands of that
worthless slut, the better. I have other business to attend to this
afternoon." Skinner escorted him to the door, hiding his relief. Skinner
opened the door and Spender turned.
"You will receive instructions regarding payment. You will make a deposit
into one of my foreign accounts. Quite untraceable, I assure you." Skinner
nodded.
"Just curious," he said, nonchalantly, pasting an expression of casualness
on his face. "How long have you had him?" Spender reached into his pocket
for his pack of Morleys and shook out another cigarette.
"He was fourteen when I obtained him. Beautiful boy, so much potential." He
sighed again. "Despite my best efforts, he's only useful as a whore, and
most of the time he can't even do that right." He shook his head as he left.
"Do yourself and the world a favor, Mr. Skinner. Have your revenge and then
put a bullet in him. Let me know if you require assistance with the disposal
of the body." Spender walked down the hall, followed by Jason, who shot
Skinner one last, seething look over his shoulder.
Skinner shut the door and then leaned against it, his eyes closed. His
stomach was roiling. The smug bastard who had tried his level best to kill
him had just violated his home, then walked out unscathed. Skinner itched to
take the man apart with his bare hands, but he knew it would never happen.
Spender was literally untouchable. Skinner walked into the kitchen and took
down the bottle of antacid. He chewed one of the chalky, fruit-flavored
tablets and then another, for good measure.
He put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the taut muscles. He, Walter
Sergei Skinner, had just arranged to buy another human being. He had
agreed to purchase Krycek from Spender as though he were an animal. Skinner
shook his head. No. He couldn't allow himself to think in those terms, to
think like Spender. He wasn't purchasing Krycek. He was purchasing Krycek's
freedom. A fool's argument, he knew. It was a subtle difference. Subtle,
Walt? He chided himself. Try practically nonexistent. He just had to hope it
would be enough to help him sleep at night.
Skinner shook his head. He suddenly had a vivid picture of Krycek's life and
it was not a picture he wanted to see. It would have been so much easier to
be able to keep hating him, to keep seeing him as the victimizer. It was all
too obvious now who the victim was. Fourteen. Skinner closed his eyes again,
remembering himself at fourteen. A tall, gangly boy who could outrun almost
anyone, his father proudly clapping him on the back after he placed first in
the all-county track meet. His first school dance, the school gymnasium
decorated with balloons and crepe paper. Stealing a kiss from Sarah Swanson
by the punch bowl, telling her jokes so he could see the way her little
freckled nose crinkled up when she laughed.
Skinner stood, his hands in his pockets, thinking about Krycek. Had Krycek
ever gotten to experience any of those things? Had he ever had the chance to
experience anything at all except misery and fear? He wondered about
Krycek's parents. Where were they? Had they sold their son to Spender?
Skinner remembered Spender's cold, casual words. Original investment.
Spender had purchased a fourteen-year old Alex Krycek for five thousand
dollars.
Skinner frowned. No matter what else happened, he would have to make sure
Krycek never found out about the five thousand dollars. Skinner was
disgusted enough with the situation. He couldn't bear to see that disgust in
the eyes of another, even Krycek. Skinner had more than enough in his
retirement fund to supply Spender's blood money. He would pay the man and
then try to forget it ever happened.
Skinner heard a stifled cry from upstairs. He quickly climbed the stairs to
the bedroom. Krycek was struggling to sit up, his one hand clutching his
side, his face contorted with pain. He froze when he saw Skinner, his green
eyes huge and frightened. Seeing Krycek's fear, Skinner spoke quietly and
soothingly.
"Don't move around too much, be careful of your ribs."
He took a step toward the bed, intending to help Krycek position himself
more comfortably. Krycek whimpered and shrank back against the headboard.
Skinner backed off, keeping his hands at his sides, trying to appear as
unthreatening as possible. He could imagine what Krycek was thinking, having
been the recipient of Skinner's hospitality in the not-too-distant past.
Skinner cautiously pulled the chair a little further from the bed and sat
down. Krycek watched his every move, trembling, his breathing shallow.
Skinner spoke again, softly and deliberately.
"Take it easy, Krycek, I'm not going to hurt you."
Krycek swallowed nervously and bit his lip, those terrified eyes full of
pain and distrust.
"Do you want me to help you sit up?" Krycek didn't answer. Skinner tried
again.
"Look, you can't stay in that position," he nodded toward Krycek, who was
propped up awkwardly on one side. "You're putting too much strain on your
ribs." Skinner stood up very slowly and went to the closet, retrieving an
extra pillow from the top shelf. He turned back to Krycek.
"I'm just going to make you more comfortable, okay?"
He took a careful step toward the bed. Krycek's trembling increased. It was
obvious that it was requiring a monumental effort on his part to remain
still. Skinner advanced slowly, the pillow held in front of him like a
shield. He reached the side of the bed and stopped.
"Are you ready?"
Krycek shivered and closed his eyes, waiting for the hurt. Now Skinner would
hit him, pull him from this warm bed and drag him out into the cold. He was
pretending to be nice so he could make his revenge all the more sweet.
Skinner reached down and placed his hand under Krycek's arm, then carefully
pulled him up, placing the pillow behind his back. Krycek watched him
closely as he returned to the chair.
"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Skinner said.
Krycek hesitated, then gave a small shake of his dark head. Skinner was
worried. Krycek was far too pale, a thin sheen of sweat shone on his
forehead and upper lip. Skinner leaned forward slightly, trying not to spook
the frightened man.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" Krycek nodded slowly.
"Where do you hurt?"
For a moment it seemed Krycek would not answer, but then he did, staring at
his lap, his voice so low Skinner had to lean closer to hear.
"All over, sir," he said softly. "My ribs and my back."
Skinner breathed a small sigh of relief. At least Krycek was talking.
"I've got some painkillers in the medicine cabinet. I'll bring you one.
It'll help with the discomfort." Krycek's reaction was extreme. He whimpered
again and began to shake.
"NO! Please, sir, no drugs," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, please
don't, sir."
Skinner was surprised at Krycek's reaction. If he had taken a beating like
that, he would have been begging for a Percocet. He also found Krycek's use
of the word "sir" a little strange, but he let it go for the moment. Right
now he needed to calm the man down.
"Okay, okay Krycek," he said soothingly. "No drugs. But you need something.
You're in pain and I'm afraid it's probably going to get worse before it
gets better. How about something a little less strong, strictly over-the
counter? Will you take a couple of Tylenol?"
Alex looked at him for a long time before nodding. Skinner left the room.
Alex could hear him opening the medicine cabinet and rummaging through it.
Alex stared at the empty bedroom doorway. He was confused. He had been awake
a few minutes now, and Skinner hadn't hurt him yet. He was in a soft warm
bed, under his own coverlet. How had that gotten here? He tried to remember.
He remembered Spender, and Nikolai. His stomach tightened and he trembled.
Spender had given him to Skinner, after all. But why was Skinner being so
nice? Alex swallowed again, his pale lips a tight line. Revenge. That had to
be it. He was being solicitous now but then he would pull the rug out from
under Alex and hurt him badly. Alex blinked back tears.
Skinner returned with the pills and a glass of water. Wary of Krycek's
skittishness, he moved slowly, avoiding any sudden moves. He walked to the
side of the bed and held the pills out to Krycek in the palm of his hand.
"See? It says 'Tylenol'. That's all they are. Might take the edge off the
pain, at least."
Skinner knew that was far from likely, but Krycek's terrified reaction to
the suggestion of painkillers made him reluctant to press the subject any
further. Krycek shyly reached for the pills, his fingers brushing Skinner's
hand. He studied the pills for a moment and then put them in his mouth. He
took the glass of water, spilling a little as he maneuvered it to his mouth
with a shaking hand. Skinner helped him hold the glass steady while he
drank. Skinner put the glass on the nightstand, beside Krycek's prosthetic.
He had left it where Krycek could see it when he awoke, and had noted with
satisfaction that Krycek had looked at it several times, as if he wanted to
reassure himself that it was close by. Skinner stood by the bed silently,
trying to think of what to say next. Krycek stared down at the coverlet, his
expression blank, his fingers toying with a loose thread. Skinner cleared
his throat.
"I'd like to talk to you. Are you up to it?"
Krycek looked up in surprise, then gave a slight nod. When was Skinner going
to stop toying with him? He was here, he was helpless, he was hurting. Go on
and finish it, he thought. Skinner moved slowly back to the chair and sat
down. Skinner looked at Krycek for a few moments, then began.
"I know what you did, Krycek. The nanocytes. I know you were ordered to kill
me and you didn't." Krycek looked up sharply, his eyes wide.
"You... how?"
"I was there, in your apartment. I heard everything."
Skinner took a deep breath and continued. He needed to say this, needed
Krycek to hear it.
"I went there for revenge," he paused as Krycek's body stiffened, "I wanted
to hurt you."
"I wanted to hurt you so badly that you would at least be able to imagine
what I was going through. I wanted to beat you until you told me how to free
myself from those goddamned machines."
Skinner fought to keep his voice low and even. Krycek was even paler, if
that were possible, and he had begun to tremble again. His hand was
clutching the coverlet, his head bent as he listened silently.
"But Spender showed up, and I hid. I heard the truth, Krycek, all of it. I
saw what they did to you. I didn't have time to think, I just got you and me
both the hell out of there."
Krycek looked up. His face had that frightened, hunted look again.
"Spender? Oh God, what time is it? How long have I been here?"
Krycek roughly pushed back the coverlet and tried to get up. Skinner jumped
up from the chair and rushed to the bed, grabbing Krycek's shoulders.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Krycek struggled, the pain of his sudden movements making him gasp.
"You don't understand," he said, frantically trying to free himself from
Skinner's grasp. "I have to get back, he'll be angry, he'll hurt me"
Skinner held Krycek tightly, immobilizing him. He looked into Krycek's
panicked eyes.
"Krycek. Stop it. Krycek!" he said, using his military voice. Krycek
stilled, shaking and panting with fright.
"Are you listening to me, Krycek?" Krycek swallowed and nodded.
Skinner let go, not relaxing until Krycek settled back a little against the
pillows.
"Calm down. It's over, Krycek. You don't ever have to go back to him again."
Alex's mouth opened soundlessly. His eyes were uncomprehending,
disbelieving.
"Wh-what?"
It couldn't be true. There was no way to get away from Spender. Why was
Skinner saying this? Was he setting him up for punishment, keeping him from
Spender until Spender thought he'd run away? Alex shivered at the thought.
Skinner saw the doubt in Krycek's eyes.
"It's true, Krycek. He won't ever bother you again," Skinner said. Krycek
shook his head, as though it would clear away the confusion.
"But... how?"
"I met with him. Here, downstairs. He just left a little while ago."
Alex gaped at Skinner incredulously.
"He was here?" Skinner nodded.
Alex looked at Skinner's face, his eyes searching for the sadistic smile,
the malicious flicker in the eyes that would reveal this to be another
cruelty. He didn't find it. He looked down at his shaking hand, clutching
the coverlet.
"It's really true, sir?" he whispered.
"Yes," Skinner said simply.
Krycek's face was a map of conflicting emotions. He trembled, blinking back
tears as he tried to come to grips with the enormity of what he had just
been told. Skinner sat silently, waiting for Krycek to regain his composure.
He had to admit, it felt good, even slightly heroic, giving Krycek his
freedom. He felt better already, that suffocating feeling of obligation
loosening slightly. He would help Krycek get back on his feet, give him a
little money to get himself started somewhere, and then they would be even.
A life for a life. Skinner smiled. He just hoped the old man would keep his
end of the agreement. He hoped his performance had been convincing enough.
Krycek looked up, his expression strange. Even though he sat only a few
inches away, Skinner had to lean forward to hear him.
"Am I yours now?"
Spoken in a near-whisper. Skinner looked at Krycek in amazement. Krycek's
eyes were grave. Skinner saw something else in those eyes, something he was
not prepared for. Trust. Hope.
"Wh-what? No!"
It came out sharply, more sharply than Skinner had intended. Krycek's eyes
filled with tears. He was confused. Hadn't Skinner just told him he wasn't
Spender's anymore? Hadn't Skinner brought him here and put him into bed?
Alex's lower lip trembled.
"Don't you want me, sir?" he asked sorrowfully, a tear sliding down his
cheek. "I'll be good, you won't have to hurt me. Please, sir," he gulped.
"please don't send me away."
Alex was terrified. Why had Skinner saved him, if he didn't want him? Who
would he be given to? Would he be given back to Nikolai? Krycek trembled
again. He knew only that Skinner had not yet hurt him. He was in a warm bed.
Skinner had seemed concerned about his pain, given him pills. He couldn't
remember the last time he had been in the same room with another man for
this length of time and had not been hurt. Would Skinner send him away? Alex
sniffled. He had nowhere to go.
Skinner watched in growing alarm as Alex became more and more distressed.
Damn, he thought, this wasn't the way it was supposed to go at all. He had
tried to give Krycek his freedom and had only succeeded in making the boy
think he was his new master!
Krycek was trying to get up again, tears running unchecked down his pale
cheeks. Skinner grasped his shoulders again, holding him still. Krycek
turned to him, his eyes frightened and confused.
"Who do I belong to? Please, sir, please tell me, who do I belong to?" His
voice broke, and he began sobbing in earnest.
"Please tell me, Skinner. Please tell me who owns me. If I don't do what
they want, they'll hurt me. Please, sir, please tell me what I'm supposed to
do."
He looked at Skinner pleadingly. Krycek's breathing had become erratic
again. He was on the verge of full-blown hysteria. All that moving around
wasn't doing his ribs any good, either. Skinner spoke quickly.
"Okay, okay, Krycek," he said.
He gently grasped Krycek's chin and forced him to look into his eyes, hoping
to calm him as quickly as possible.
"Listen to me. I'm-you're mine, okay?" Skinner couldn't quite believe he was
saying this. "You belong to me now. I'm not going to hurt you and I'm not
going to send you away. You're safe here."
Skinner winced as he unintentionally echoed his own past words, words he had
growled out in anger before hitting Krycek as hard as he could and chaining
him on the balcony like an animal. If Krycek noticed Skinner's discomfort,
he did not show it. Instead, he looked back up at Skinner, his eyes brimming
with tears.
"You mean it?" he said tentatively. "You won't send me back?"
Skinner hesitated almost imperceptibly. He wasn't sure where this was going.
Krycek was obviously shellshocked and helpless, apparently having suffered
some sort of breakdown. He had suffered horrific abuse and was going to need
careful handling to gain any semblance of normalcy. Krycek looked at him,
pleading with his eyes. Skinner nodded.
"Yes."
Krycek sagged with relief, sinking back into the pillows, his eyes closed.
His wet eyelashes fluttered slightly. Skinner watched him, silently
reproving himself. Well, you brought him here, Walt. He's your
responsibility. What did you think was going to happen? The man has been a
virtual slave since the age of fourteen. He's been beaten, burned and very
likely raped. Did you really think he was just going to thank you, dust
himself off and sail out the door to begin a new life? Skinner made a mental
note to make sure this was his last impetuous decision. Ever. Krycek
interrupted his reverie with a tug on his sleeve. Skinner looked at Krycek.
Krycek's eyes were big and serious.
"How do you want me, sir?" he said softly, almost sadly.
Skinner sat puzzled for a moment. He realized what Krycek was asking and a
sharp pang of sympathy pierced his heart. How many times must he have said
that, in that same soft, sad voice? Skinner frowned slightly, pressing
Krycek firmly but gently back against the pillows. He pulled the coverlet
back up, tucking it in around him.
"Just like that, flat on your back, covers up to your chin," he said firmly.
Krycek looked up, confused. Skinner looked down at Krycek with just the
barest hint of a smile.
"Sleeping."
He left the room, making sure to leave the bedside light on. Alex lay
staring up at the ceiling, surprised at Skinner's reaction. He had expected
to be used, hadn't expected to be tucked into bed with such gentleness, with
nothing expected of him. Alex sighed and let himself relax a little, though
his mind wouldn't let him rest. Was Spender really gone from his life? Alex
couldn't even begin to comprehend it. Could he stay here with Skinner and
not be hurt? Alex knew this couldn't last. At least when the hurt started
again, he would have a memory of being cared for. Alex yawned, wincing as
his ribs protested. In a few moments, he was fast asleep.
Krycek slept on and off throughout the night. Skinner dozed in the chair by
the bed, a blanket over his legs, waking frequently to check on Krycek.
Krycek's bruising was severe. He was black and blue over most of his torso
and lower back, with some patches of yellow. His tortured muscles were
beginning to seize up, and Krycek moaned in pain even as he slept. Skinner
woke him every few hours to give him more Tylenol, Krycek peering blearily
at the pills before he would swallow them. Skinner had been sorely tempted
to slip Krycek a Percocet, but held himself back. He didn't want to erode
any fragile trust that might have built between them in the short time
Krycek had been there.
Skinner awoke as Krycek gasped in pain. He had tried to sit up on his own.
Skinner rubbed his eyes and got up from the chair.
"Krycek? What are you doing?" Krycek looked at him fearfully.
"I have to go to the bathroom, sir," he said timidly. Skinner looked at him
doubtfully.
"I don't know," he said. "You're in a lot of pain. I can bring you a
bottle." Krycek considered this, his face reddening.
"Please sir," he said softly. "I'd like to try to walk."
Skinner held out his hand to help Krycek up. Krycek flinched back. Skinner
exhaled, trying to remain patient. He sat down on the edge of the bed next
to Krycek.
"You know, Krycek," he said, not unkindly. "If I'm going to be taking care
of you, you're going to have to work on not being afraid of me."
Krycek looked down, nodded.
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered.
"Don't apologize," Skinner said firmly, but smiling as he did so.
"Tell me, have I hurt you? Have I done anything to harm you since you've
been here?" Krycek shook his head.
"Then just try, Krycek, that's all I ask. I know it'll take time before you
trust me. Just try to get used to me, that's all."
Krycek looked up again, as if he wanted to say something. Skinner waited,
but Krycek only glanced down again, then nodded. Skinner gently eased Krycek
up off the bed. Krycek moved slowly down the hall, in obvious agony,
shuffling like an old man. Skinner waited outside the bathroom door until he
heard the toilet flush, then helped Krycek back to bed. Krycek fell back
against the pillows, exhausted, falling back to sleep almost immediately.
Skinner sat back in the chair, pulling the blanket around him. He was
definitely going to have to deal with this "sir" issue.
At precisely eight the next morning, Skinner called his personal assistant,
Kimberly, and advised her that he would be taking his accumulated vacation
time immediately.
"All... all nine weeks, sir?"
"Yes, Kimberly. I have a... personal matter to attend to. AD Kersh will be
handling any matters that arise in my absence."
Skinner had called him ten minutes before, and he hadn't sounded happy. Too
bad, Skinner thought. He went upstairs to check on his guest. Krycek was
sleeping, curled in a ball, a shock of dark hair peeking out from under the
covers. Skinner went back downstairs and read the newspaper, working his way
through most of a pot of coffee as he did, listening all the while for any
sounds from the guest room. It was half past nine when he went to check on
Krycek again. He found him sitting propped up against the pillows, his head
turned toward the window, the sun playing across his face.
"How are you feeling?" Krycek opened his eyes, squinting a little.
"Sore," he admitted. Skinner looked at him carefully.
"When was the last time you ate something, Krycek?" Krycek looked down
quickly, not meeting Skinner's eyes.
"I... I don't remember, sir."
He really didn't. He had lived on instant soup for a few days, but before
that, he wasn't sure. He couldn't remember the last time he had had an
appetite. Skinner left the room, returning a few minutes later carrying a
tray with a bowl of cereal and milk and a glass of orange juice. He placed
the tray on Krycek's lap and sat down beside the bed.
"Mind if I keep you company?" he asked.
Krycek shook his head, toying unenthusiastically with the spoon in the
cereal. Skinner had decided to try to spend as much time in the room as
possible when Krycek was awake. Maybe then Krycek would start to get used to
him.
"Come on now. Stop playing with it and eat it," he admonished gently.
Krycek looked up with a strange expression, and then took a mouthful of
cereal. He managed to eat about two-thirds of the cereal and drank all of
the juice. Not bad for a start, Skinner thought. Krycek closed his eyes as
Skinner took the tray, the effort of eating the small meal having worn him
out. He drowsed as Skinner went downstairs and cleaned up the breakfast
dishes, waking when Skinner returned carrying a small television set. He put
it on the chest of drawers that sat against the opposite wall and plugged it
in.
"I thought you might like this, to help pass the time."
"Thank you, sir," Krycek murmured. "Maybe later." Skinner sat down in the
chair.
"Krycek? I think we need to set a few ground rules." Krycek nodded, his
posture straightening perceptibly. He understood rules.
"Yes, sir." Skinner smiled, trying to put the younger man at ease.
"First, you don't have to call me sir. In fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't.
This bald head of mine makes me feel old enough."
He smiled again, watching carefully for Krycek's reaction. Krycek looked
down for a long while, then looked up.
"Okay," he said softly, not smiling at Skinner's joke. "I... I always... I
mean, I might forget sometimes."
His eyes told Skinner everything he needed to know. If Krycek had ever
forgotten his manners once, it was a safe bet there hadn't been a second
time. Skinner knew he was seeing the direct result of years of programming
through terror and abuse.
"It's all right, Krycek. I won't get angry if you call me sir. I know you're
used to saying it and it may take time for you to relax enough so that you
don't feel like you have to. Just try, that's all. I know," he said
brightly. "Why don't you just call me Skinner?"
Krycek looked down, smiling slightly, and nodded. Skinner continued.
"Secondly, I am not going to hurt you. Not today, not tomorrow, not next
week. Do you understand?"
Krycek hesitated, then nodded again. Skinner pressed further.
"I want you to say it." Krycek cleared his throat nervously and looked at
Skinner. "Go on," Skinner encouraged. "I want to hear you say that you
understand that."
"I understand... that you won't hurt me," Krycek said, a little unsteadily.
Skinner was pleased.
"Do you believe that, Krycek?" Krycek stared at the coverlet for a long
while, then spoke in a whisper.
"Yes."
Skinner knew better than to believe him. The tense shoulders, the bowed
head, the nervous fingers plucking at the coverlet, all told him that Krycek
was far from certain about anything at this point. Skinner decided to let it
go, for now. There was no use in trying to talk the boy into trusting him.
He would have to let him see for himself, day by day, that he was safe.
"Very good." Skinner stood. "The third and last rule is," he pointed at
Krycek with mock sternness. "You get better. You eat and you rest and take
your Tylenol and get better. Understood?"
Krycek nodded, his eyes suddenly and suspiciously bright. He ducked his
head. Skinner took a deep breath. He wanted to proceed cautiously, get the
boy used to his presence. Rushing things would only panic Krycek.
"Is it all right if I sit on the edge of the bed?"
Krycek tensed and for a moment Skinner was sure he was going to say no.
After a long while, thought, Krycek nodded almost imperceptibly. Skinner sat
on the edge of the bed, gingerly, so as not to jar Krycek. Krycek watched
him warily. Skinner made sure not to get too close. He spoke softly.
"It was hard, with Spender."
It wasn't a question. Krycek nodded again, a lump in his throat. Skinner was
afraid of upsetting Krycek, but he wanted to get him talking, and there were
things Skinner wanted to know.
"Those burns on your back, Krycek..."
Krycek caught his breath and looked down, his face scarlet. Skinner
cautiously put a hand on Krycek's arm. Krycek jumped a little but did not
pull away. Emboldened, Skinner put a finger under Krycek's chin and tilted
his face upward.
"Don't be ashamed, Krycek. It's not your fault. Do you want to tell me about
it?" Krycek bit his lip, then spoke quietly.
"It was for Bill Mulder."
Krycek looked up at Skinner's face, watching intently for any sign of
judgment. He saw none. Skinner waited for him to continue.
"I was supposed to kill him. I went there but I couldn't. I just... couldn't.
Spender didn't trust me. He had Jason follow me. I hid in the bathroom but I
couldn't do it. I couldn't," he paused, his voice choked, "I couldn't take
his father away. Bill Mulder came into the bathroom and Jason shot him
through the window, then he dragged me back to Spender. Spender did that to
me. He made a circle, he said so I wouldn't ever forget that I was nothing,
zero."
Krycek laughed softly.
"And I never have." Skinner tilted Krycek's face up again, noting the tears
in his eyes.
"I don't want to hear you say that again," he growled.
Krycek's eyes widened. Skinner's tone softened.
"You are not nothing. Spender is a cruel, sadistic old man who victimized
and abused you. I know it's going to be hard for you to try and unlearn all
the horrible things you've been taught, but," he paused, his own words
surprising him, "I'll help you."
Krycek blinked, his mouth falling slightly open. He flushed and looked down
so that Skinner wouldn't see his eyes filling again. Skinner stood again,
smoothing out the creases in his trousers.
"How about a nap until lunch?" Krycek nodded.
"Yes, s-I mean, yes," he said, catching himself.
He tried to keep himself from flinching, the response was so ingrained in
him. He looked up at Skinner, and saw only a proud smile.
"Very good. Let me know if you need anything."
Skinner went downstairs and busied himself, tidying up and making a few
phone calls. Except for one trip to the bathroom, Krycek slept until noon.
Skinner helped him sit up so he could eat, then brought in the tray.
"Think you can handle chicken noodle soup and a sandwich?"
Krycek nodded, although he wasn't at all sure about the soup. Skinner had
brought his lunch up, too.
"I thought we'd eat together," he said. Krycek hesitated, then nodded.
"Okay."
They ate in companionable silence. Skinner polished off his sandwich and
started on his mug of soup in the time it took Krycek to eat a few bites of
his sandwich and three spoonfuls of soup. Skinner frowned. The boy was too
thin and his appetite did not seem to be improving. Skinner took the tray
and handed Krycek the remote control for the television.
"Why don't you watch a little TV while I clean up? I think you should try to
stay awake for a while."
"Okay."
Krycek flipped around, finding little of interest, finally settling back to
watch a documentary on sharks. Skinner went downstairs and put the dishes
into the dishwasher, thinking all the while. Krycek needed some meat on his
bones, and he wasn't eating enough at meals to do it. A memory surfaced.
Skinner had gone into the cafeteria in the Hoover building for a late lunch
and encountered the new agent raiding the snack machine. Skinner had thought
he looked awkward in his unfashionable suit, as though he were wearing his
father's clothes. He had made pleasant conversation with Agent Krycek as the
fresh-faced rookie produced a handful of change and purchased several
chocolate bars.
"Just stocking up," he had said, looking a little embarrassed.
Skinner remembered seeing Krycek at his desk, poring over a stack of files,
absently nibbling on a Hershey bar. Even Mulder had commented on the man's
propensity for consuming chocolate, seeing no parity whatsoever between that
and his own sunflower seed habit. Four years later, Skinner stood in his
kitchen, grinning. He went into the pantry and rummaged around on the shelf,
exclaiming triumphantly when he found what he was looking for.
Sharon had loved gadgets of all kinds. When they were still married, Skinner
had never known what new gizmo she was going to come home with next. There
was the electric rice steamer, the dehydrator, the juicer, the milkshake
machine. Skinner held it in his hands. The only gadget she had ever bought
that had had his enthusiastic approval.
When Sharon moved out of their home in Alexandria, Skinner had
surreptitiously squirreled the milkshake machine away so that she wouldn't
take it with her. He had made prodigious use of it until his doctor put a
stop to his one-a-day milkshake habit. He had sadly packed it on the top
shelf of the pantry, behind the olive oil and canned soup. It was made of
gleaming chrome, just like the old-fashioned ones in the ice cream parlor
back when he was a kid. He took it into the kitchen and wiped the dust off
with a dishcloth, then washed and rinsed the metal cup.
He opened the freezer and took out the premium chocolate ice cream he had
bought on impulse a few days before, intending to indulge his occasional
sweet tooth. His doctor hadn't forbidden him the occasional bowl of ice
cream, now had he? It was a weak rationalization, Skinner knew, but one he
was glad to have made. He dropped two scoops of the ice cream into the cup,
followed by a generous amount of milk, chocolate syrup and three heaping
spoonfuls of protein powder. He went to work, blending the milkshake to
perfection, not too thin, not too thick. He poured it into a tall glass,
impulsively adding a dollop of the real whipped cream he kept for hot
chocolate and the apple pies that Mrs. Napoli down the hall brought him,
always remembering her bachelor neighbor when she baked.
Skinner started toward the stairs and paused, returning to the kitchen. He
opened the cabinet door and felt for the small bottle of chocolate
sprinkles. Good, it was still there. He shook a liberal amount decoratively
over the top of the whipped cream, pleased with his creation. Skinner smiled
as he headed for the stairs. He was fond of Mrs. Napoli. She was a widow and
liked to bring him pies and cakes, no doubt thinking that he never got a
decent meal. He hadn't had the heart to tell her that he made a pretty mean
apple pie himself.
Krycek turned off the television when Skinner came in. Skinner stood next to
the bed.
"Don't turn it off because of me." Krycek shrugged.
"It was nearly over anyway."
Krycek looked at the milkshake, then dropped his gaze, his expression
neutral. Skinner thought he understood. Krycek didn't want to assume
anything. Skinner stepped closer to the bed.
"I made this for you. I thought you might like it."
Krycek's eyes widened. He looked up at Skinner, taking the glass as though
it were a chalice. He stared down at the whipped cream floating in its pool
of chocolate.
"You made this for me?" Skinner nodded.
"There's plenty more where that came from. I'm going to fatten you right up,
boy."
Krycek took a small sip, then another. Another sip, then a smile. A real
one. Skinner felt his heart swell. The smile disappeared all too quickly, as
Krycek seemed to withdraw into himself again. Krycek got a tiny dot of
whipped cream on the end of his nose, and Skinner caught himself wondering
what it would be like to kiss it off. Slowly, Krycek drained the glass. He
handed it to Skinner.
"Thank you, Skinner," he said quietly. "That was good. I'm really tired. I'd
like to sleep for a while."
"All right, but just for a little while. If you sleep too much now, you'll
never get to sleep tonight. I know it's hard, but we need to get you on a
schedule."
Skinner paused at the door. "I want you to get a bath in after dinner, all
right?"
Krycek nodded and closed his eyes, already half-asleep. Skinner stood there
for a long moment, watching as Krycek drifted off to sleep. Skinner took the
glass downstairs and put it in the dishwasher, then cleaned up the milkshake
machine. He mentally congratulated himself. Who would have thought that a
chocolate milkshake could make an abused former assassin smile like a child?
The smile had been fleeting, but it had been there, and Skinner was grateful
that he hadn't missed it. He knew it would take more than chocolate
milkshakes to get Krycek well, mentally and physically. But, he thought,
it's a start.
Skinner sat down on the living room sofa, shifting around a little. Sleeping
sitting up in the chair the night before had done nothing at all for his
back. He found a comfortable position and sank back into the cushions with a
sigh, looking forward to relaxing until it was time to check on Krycek
again. He turned the television on to the sports channel, keeping the sound
low so he would be able to hear any noise from upstairs. He smiled and
sipped from a bottle of his favorite beer, pleased that he was in time for
the start of the Capitals game. The puck had just dropped when he was
startled by a loud pounding at the front door. Skinner crossed to the door
and looked through the peephole. He leaned against the wall for a moment,
cursing softly. He squared his shoulders and opened the door.
Mulder rushed past him, rumpled and agitated. He looked around the living
room, his eyes wild.
"Where is he? Where is that son of a bitch?" He was breathing hard, his
fists clenched.
"Are you all right, sir?"
Skinner closed the door and positioned himself between Mulder and the
staircase. He folded his arms. His jaw was clenched.
"That's enough, Agent Mulder," he growled.
Mulder began to pace around the living room, his eyes darting about as
though he expected to find Krycek lurking under the sofa or behind the
drapes.
"I'm going to kill that fucking little rat!" he yelled. "Where is he?"
"Lower your voice, Agent Mulder," Skinner snapped.
Mulder faltered and stopped in his tracks, suddenly realizing he was the
unfortunate subject of Skinner's most furious AD glare.
"Sit down."
"But, sir"
"AGENT MULDER!" Skinner shouted.
Mulder's eyes widened and he dropped down onto the sofa, his mouth slightly
open. Skinner didn't move from his position by the stairs. He fixed the
errant agent with look that he knew well. Mulder began to realize that he
was in deep trouble.
"Agent Mulder, would you like to explain just what in the hell you think
you're doing, bursting in here like this?" Mulder flushed and looked down
sheepishly.
"Sir, I-I was worried. Kimberly said you were taking nine weeks vacation all
at once, and then I heard that Alex Krycek..." he trailed off. Skinner's
eyes were flashing fire.
"Go on, Agent. What about Alex Krycek?"
Skinner's voice was calm. Mulder swallowed nervously. Skinner's calm voice
together with that clenched jaw and red face meant one thing: storm warning.
"Well, sir, I... uh," he stammered. "I was told... isn't he here?" Skinner
stared at Mulder.
"And if he is?" he said evenly. Mulder's face reddened and he jumped up from
the sofa.
"Sir, we're talking about Alex Krycek! He killed my father! He killed
Scully's sister! He betrayed us all! He's nothing but a lying, murdering,
traitorous scumbag and I'm not leaving until I get a chance to even the
score with him! Where is he? Where is that fucking coward?"
Mulder was shaking with rage. He took a step toward the staircase. Skinner
stepped in front of him.
"Sit down, Mulder."
Mulder tried to duck past him. Skinner moved in front of Mulder, his face
like a thundercloud. Mulder shivered as the AD's eyes bored into him.
Skinner's voice was shaking with the effort of holding his temper in check.
"Agent Mulder. Sit. Down. Now."
Mulder quailed, returning to the sofa and sitting down obediently. Skinner
stared at the agent for a long moment. Mulder began to fidget uncomfortably.
He was flabbergasted at the turn of events. What's going on here? He
thought. Alex Krycek is here in Skinner's home instead of in jail where he
belongs and Skinner's yelling at me? Skinner finally spoke, in a tone with
which Mulder was unhappily familiar.
"Now, why don't you tell me exactly what you heard regarding myself and Alex
Krycek." Mulder gulped.
"Well, sir, I received an anonymous phone call. The caller said that they
could tell me where to find Krycek. Then they gave me this... your address,"
Mulder said hesitantly. Skinner's gaze was withering.
"So you rush over here without so much as a phone call? You barge into my
home and behave like a madman? Because of an anonymous tip?"
Skinner snorted. Anonymous, indeed. He wondered how long it had taken
Spender to teach the missing link how to use a phone. Mulder rushed to his
own defense.
"But, sir," he said, his voice sounding dangerously close to a whine. "We're
talking about Alex Krycek! I thought you might be in danger!"
Skinner stared him down again. Mulder's shoulders sagged. Skinner spoke
quietly.
"I know what we're talking about, Agent Mulder. We're talking about your
blatant disregard for my privacy. We're talking about you going off
half-cocked as usual and assuming that you have all the facts when you
clearly do not." Skinner paused. "And yes, we're talking about Alex Krycek.
I am only going to say this once, Agent Mulder, so make sure you pay
attention. Alex Krycek is a guest in my home. Period. I am not going to
apologize and I am not going to explain."
Mulder gaped at Skinner, astonished.
"A guest?" He said incredulously. "Krycek? But he's"
"I know what you think, Agent Mulder, and up until a day ago I thought the
same thing. You don't have all the facts. I don't either, but I'm starting
to understand a few things. Krycek didn't kill your father and I don't
believe he killed Scully's sister."
Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but Skinner cut him off, his voice
rising.
"Don't, Agent Mulder! I've heard all I'm willing to hear from you on the
subject. Alex Krycek has lived a life that you couldn't imagine in your
worst nightmares. And before you accuse me of being swayed by his wide-eyed
charms, let me assure you I have witnessed it firsthand. The man lying
upstairs in that bed is so badly beaten that he can barely move. He's been
systematically tortured and abused. He's so traumatized that he can barely
hold a conversation. You know what Spender did to him, Mulder? He burned him
with a cigarette. Not just once, but over and over. I've seen the scars,
Mulder. He ground a lit cigarette into Krycek's back again and again."
Skinner took a deep breath.
"That was his punishment for not killing your father."
Skinner's pulse was racing. He was surprised at just how angry Mulder's
outburst had made him. Mulder was staring at Skinner, his mouth open,
dumbfounded. Skinner pinned him to the sofa with his glare.
"I have one more thing to say, Agent Mulder, and you'll want to listen. Alex
Krycek is off limits. You will not attempt to contact him. You will not
attempt to have him arrested, detained or otherwise inconvenienced. You will
not come here again without speaking to me beforehand and making the
appropriate arrangements. And if you ever try to harm him, you'll have to
come through me to do it. Is that clear?"
Mulder continued to gape, his face white with shock.
"I said, is that clear?" Skinner barked.
Mulder jerked and stood up quickly, his face ashen.
"Y-yes, sir," he said quickly, his eyes round with disbelief.
Talk about an X-File, he thought. Have I stumbled into some bizarre parallel
universe where up is down and down is up and Skinner is playing The Great
Protector to poor helpless Krycek? He shook his head numbly. When did
everything stop making sense? Skinner opened the door.
"I think it's time for you to leave, Agent," he said. "I'll give AD Kersh a
call. We've got quite a backlog of surveillance tapes that need transcribing
and I'm sure he'll agree you're just the man for the job."
Mulder paled and quickly made his exit, mumbling an apology. Skinner closed
the door. He turned off the television, suddenly uninterested in the game.
He poured the remains of his tepid beer down the sink before walking down
the hall to his office to make that phone call.
Skinner hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. He climbed the stairs
and went to the bedroom, moving as quietly as possible so as not to awaken
Krycek. He stopped in the doorway, surprised to find that Krycek was not
asleep.
Krycek was sitting up in bed, his eyes rimmed with red. He had been crying.
He stared at Skinner with an expression of disbelief, his face seeming all
the more ashen in contrast to the dark hair falling across his brow. He
looked down, struggling to speak, twisting the coverlet around his long,
delicate fingers.
"I heard you," he said, his voice hoarse.
Skinner walked over to the chair and sat down heavily. He looked at Krycek,
his face etched with concern. Krycek looked up again, his eyes shining with
unshed tears.
"I heard you," he said again, "you and Mulder. I heard everything." His
voice dropped to a whisper.
"You... you took my side. You protected me."
He shook his head in wonder, still barely able to believe it. He had been
jolted awake by the sounds of shouting from downstairs. Two voices. When he
had recognized the second voice, he had begun panting with fear, looking
frantically around the room for a place to hide. Mulder was here. Mulder was
screaming his name, baying for blood. He had huddled under the covers in a
miserable ball, waiting for the sound of rapidly ascending footsteps,
waiting for the angry snarl, for the punch in the gut. Waiting for the pain.
But it hadn't come. Cautiously, he had emerged from his cocoon and cocked
his head, listening to the voices. Listening to the words. Skinner's furious
growl carried up the stairwell, accompanied by Mulder's plaintive whine.
Krycek stared at Skinner now, as though he were seeing him for the first
time. He spoke softly, as if saying the words out loud would bring this
fragile hope crashing down around him.
"You defended me," he said. "Against him. It was Mulder," he whispered,
his voice tinged with awe. Skinner nodded.
"Yes," he said simply.
Krycek continued to stare at him with that expression of wonderment in his
eyes, his mouth slightly open, utterly amazed. Those fathomless green eyes
searched Skinner's face, as if Krycek were trying to memorize each line and
contour, each shadow and plane. Abruptly, Krycek realized that he was
staring and looked away, blushing.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Skinner leaned forward slightly, smiling.
"It's all right, Krycek. It's all taken care of," he said gently. "Did you
get much sleep?"
Krycek stretched a little, his sore back and ribs pulling him up short.
"A little," he answered, then added, hesitantly, "the yelling woke me up."
Skinner stood, his hands in his pockets.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Krycek. Mulder won't be troubling you and
that's a promise." He grinned at Krycek.
"Right?"
Krycek nodded, his eyes fixed on Skinner's.
"Right," he said softly.
"Do you need the bathroom?" Skinner asked.
Krycek shook his head shyly.
"All right," Skinner said, "if you need it, all you have to do is call me.
I'd better start thinking about dinner."
Skinner turned to leave, stopping when he heard Krycek's soft voice calling
after him.
"Skinner? Would you stay?" He looked down at his lap.
"Would you sit with me for a little while?"
Skinner nodded and sat down in the chair again, secretly pleased. It was the
first time Krycek had asked for anything, had seemed willing to have Skinner
there. It was definitely progress. For a while, neither man spoke. Skinner
sat quietly, content to watch the beginning of the sunset through the
bedroom window, the copper-gold light illuminating his face, softening his
features. Krycek leaned back against the pillows, the gnawing fear that was
a constant undertone in his life retreating slightly, loosening its grip for
a little while. He closed his eyes, basking in Skinner's quiet strength.
They spent an hour like that, speaking little, watching the shadows slowly
melting together as darkness approached. Just before the room became more
darkness than light, Skinner reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. He
patted Krycek's shoulder gently and went downstairs. Krycek lay in the small
pool of warmth provided by the lamp, slowly beginning to accept his place in
the light.
Skinner stood in the kitchen, filling two plates with poached chicken and
steamed rice. Not his favorite meal, but one that he hoped would be easy on
Krycek's stomach. He had looked longingly at the steak as he had pulled the
package of chicken from the freezer, but had decided to eat the same dinner
as Krycek. No need to make the boy feel like an invalid. He picked up the
plates, balancing the cutlery carefully, then stopped. Cutlery. Brilliant,
Walt.
He placed the plates back on the counter, chiding himself. That had been a
close call. He began cutting up the chicken on Krycek's plate, thankful that
he had realized his mistake before taking the plate upstairs. There was no
way Krycek could cut up the chicken himself, even if he was wearing the
prosthetic. It would have been an agony of embarrassment for him and Skinner
was glad to have avoided that. He thought he was finally getting through to
Krycek, and a careless mistake like this could have been a major setback. He
finished cutting up Krycek's chicken and then started on his own,
efficiently cutting it into neat cubes. He mixed the chicken in with the
rice, then took the tray upstairs.
Alex had been dozing, smiling a little at the unfamiliar, homey sounds
drifting up from the kitchen. Skinner had been humming as he cooked, his
rich baritone mingling with the sounds of dishes clanking and water running.
Alex's eyes filled as he listened, so unaccustomed to someone cooking for
him, caring for him. To someone else being there. The smell of cooking
chicken wafted up to him and his stomach growled. He knew he was physically
hungry, but his appetite remained absent. He sighed. Maybe he could eat a
little. Skinner seemed to want him to and he didn't want to make Skinner
angry at him. Deep inside, he knew the caring and kindness wouldn't last.
Sooner or later, he would end up alone and hurting again, but if he was
good, maybe it would last a little longer. Alex heard Skinner coming up the
stairs and began to sit up, hissing as his sore ribs protested.
"Anyone order room service?"
Skinner joked as he entered the room. He saw Alex's pained expression and
sat the tray down on the nightstand.
"Hang on a minute, Krycek, let me help you."
He gently helped Alex sit up, then had him lean forward. He plumped the
pillows and put them back behind Alex.
"Are you all right?" he asked. Alex nodded shyly.
"Thank you."
He looked at the tray as Skinner put it his lap.
"This smells good." Skinner sat down in the chair, balancing his own plate
on his lap.
"Well, it's nothing fancy. I think we'd better stick to bland food until
your stomach gets accustomed to regular meals." Alex nodded.
"But what about you?" he asked, glancing at the plain chicken and rice on
Skinner's plate. "Do you like this?" Skinner laughed.
"This is just fine, Krycek. Believe me, my doctor would approve."
There was no need to tell Krycek how he had been lovingly eyeing the Black
Angus in the freezer downstairs. The steaks would still be there when the
boy was better. Alex smiled a little and ate a few bites of chicken. Skinner
ate his dinner, glad for the liberal dose of salt he had given his meal
before coming upstairs. He watched Krycek pick at his food, eating a few
forkfuls of chicken and rice without enthusiasm.
"Is it that bad?" he asked, not unkindly. Alex looked up, embarrassed.
"No," he said hastily. "It's just... I'm not really that hungry."
He nervously toyed with his fork, looking carefully at Skinner from under
his lashes. Was Skinner angry at him? Alex trembled involuntarily. Was he
going to be punished? Skinner watched him with concern. He thought he knew
what Krycek was thinking.
"It's okay, Krycek," he said. "Just try. I know you don't have much of an
appetite right now, but you've got to get your strength back." He looked at
Alex's plate.
"Do you think you can eat at least half of that?"
Alex looked down at his plate. He was a long way from half. Skinner placed
his own empty plate on the nightstand and took a sip of iced tea. Alex
hadn't touched his own glass of milk. Alex looked up.
"I guess so," he said hesitantly. Skinner smiled.
"I'll tell you what. If you eat at least half of that, and drink all of the
milk, I'll make you another milkshake before bed."
Alex blushed and smiled, feeling like a little kid being promised dessert
for finishing his dinner. He glanced up at Skinner, but there was no mockery
in those brown eyes, only kindness. Alex's eyes filled again and he looked
back down at his plate so that Skinner wouldn't see.
"I'd like that," he whispered. Skinner stood.
"I'm just going to take my dishes downstairs. And you," he pointed at Krycek
in mock severity. "You get to work. I want half of that milk gone and I want
to see a dent in that chicken and rice by the time I get back. I warn you,
my milkshakes have addictive qualities, so you'd better get used to eating
your meals, young man."
Alex nodded. He swallowed a forkful of rice past the lump in his throat as
his plate shimmered in front of him, hot tears threatening to spill onto his
cheeks. He took a sip of milk and closed his eyes, willing the tears away,
so grateful for the small kindnesses.
Skinner lingered downstairs, flipping idly through a magazine, giving Krycek
time to eat. He returned to the bedroom to find Krycek had done better than
he expected, finishing his milk and almost two-thirds of the chicken and
rice. Skinner was very pleased. He had been planning to make Krycek another
milkshake before bed anyway, but if it proved to be a useful incentive to
get him to eat, so much the better. Alex put his fork down and wiped his
mouth, carefully folding the napkin and resting it on the tray.
"Did I eat enough?" he asked.
Skinner took the tray, patting Krycek's shoulder as he did. Krycek looked
surprised but didn't flinch away. Skinner was secretly pleased. He sensed
that Krycek was still afraid of him and regarded each minor victory as a
milestone.
"You certainly did," he said. "Later, I am going to make you a spectacular
milkshake and enjoy watching you drink every drop." He smiled as he carried
the tray to the door.
"After all, every artist likes to see his work appreciated."
He thought he heard a soft snort as he descended the stairs.
Skinner finished cleaning up after dinner and then went upstairs to the hall
bathroom. He began running a bath for Krycek and placed clean towels on the
vanity. He walked into the bedroom.
"Ready for your bath?" Alex pushed back the covers, looking down sheepishly.
"I don't remember the last time I had one," he admitted. "I must smell
pretty bad."
Skinner slowly moved to Alex's side and helped him swing his legs over the
side of the bed.
"Don't worry."
He wrapped one arm around Alex's waist and took his hand, gently lifting up
until he was standing.
"You'll feel a lot better once you're clean."
Alex had gotten paler and his breathing was labored. He was obviously in
pain. Skinner stood next to him, supporting him with his arm around his
waist.
"It's okay, Krycek. Whenever you're ready."
After a moment, Alex nodded and they made their way slowly to the bathroom.
Skinner sat Alex down gently on the closed toilet seat, then dipped his hand
into the bathwater. He adjusted the taps, adding a little more cold water to
the mix. Alex watched silently, his solemn green eyes taking in everything.
Finally, Skinner turned off the water and turned to Alex.
"All right," he said. "Let's get you undressed."
Alex suddenly reddened and began to fidget nervously. He looked down at the
tile floor, unable to meet Skinner's gaze.
"M-May I please have a shower instead?" he asked.
Skinner understood. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and spoke quietly.
"I'm afraid the shower is going to have to wait until you're stronger. We
don't want to take a chance on you falling." He stood up.
"Besides," he said kindly, "a good long soak is going to do wonders for
those sore muscles."
Alex hesitated, then nodded slowly. Skinner smiled and extended his hand,
waiting for Alex to take it. Alex apprehensively took Skinner's hand and
allowed himself to be hoisted up. He hooked a finger into the waistband of
his boxers and stopped, flushing furiously.
"Come on, Krycek," Skinner said gently. "Believe me, I saw everything there
is to see when I was in the military. There are no surprises left."
He smiled and reached slowly for Alex's boxers, keeping one hand on Alex's
arm to keep him from losing his balance. He tugged Alex's boxers down and
helped him step out of them. He put them on top of the laundry hamper and
looked at Alex.
Alex stood, trembling, flushing furiously, half-turned away from Skinner. He
knew Skinner had seen the stump of his arm, obviously. He hadn't worn the
prosthetic since he'd been here. He shivered a little, hating the feeling of
being exposed like this. Being naked like this, in front of Skinner, was
almost more than he could bear. Being naked meant being hurt, being used.
Alex closed his eyes against the tears and forced himself to turn towards
Skinner. He belonged to Skinner now, and Skinner had the right to see him
like this, to do with him as he pleased.
Beautiful, Skinner thought, seeing Krycek's naked body, so pale and so
slender. He was too thin, but his finely honed musculature had not deserted
him. He curved gracefully, all smooth flowing lines, ending abruptly at the
termination of his left arm. Skinner had grown used to the sight of the
stump and to the occasional scar that marred Krycek's otherwise enviably
smooth skin. Somehow they seemed to conspire to make Krycek seem more real,
more there, flawed but still possessed of an almost ethereal beauty.
Krycek's eyes were tightly shut, his dark lashes fluttering gently against
his cheek. Skinner's eyes took in the long pale throat, the sparsely haired
chest, the dusky pink nipples. The flat stomach, the fine trail of dark hair
that led down to the neat dark bush and the thick, uncircumcised cock.
Skinner coughed a little and shifted position so that Krycek would not see
that Skinner's own cock had taken more than a passing interest in the
proceedings.
"Come on, Krycek, let's get you in the tub." He gently grasped Alex's arm as
he stepped in.
"It's not too hot, is it?" Skinner asked, concerned.
Alex shook his head and began to sit down, losing his balance and nearly
falling. Skinner caught him and gently lowered him down into the water. A
flash of pain crossed Alex's face and he gave a bitter laugh.
"What is it?" Skinner asked. Alex stared down at the bathwater.
"Just look at me," he said harshly. "I was a highly trained operative, a
skilled assassin, and now just look at me," he indicated his scarred, naked
body.
"I hate being like this," he whispered. "Pathetic."
Skinner sat on the closed toilet seat.
"Krycek," he said. "You're not superhuman. No one could go through what
you've gone through and not suffer for it. You've been abused and beaten and
you need time to heal. Why don't you give yourself a break? I think you
could use one."
Alex looked up, watching Skinner intently. Skinner looked back, his
expression one of concern. Alex smiled, the ever-present tension seeming to
ease a little. Skinner rose and went to the medicine cabinet over the sink,
retrieving a small glass bottle. He uncapped it and poured a little of the
oil into the bathwater. The scent of eucalyptus filled the room. Alex
watched, his eyes wide. He swished his hand around in the water a little, a
smile curving his lips. He murmured a thank you as Skinner returned the
bottle to the medicine cabinet. Skinner handed Alex a dark blue washcloth.
"There's soap in the dish. I'll be just down the hall." He paused as Alex's
eyes followed him to the door.
"Please don't go," Alex said quietly. "I mean, unless you want to." Skinner
turned.
"You sure you don't mind?" Krycek gave that shy smile again. Skinner was
beginning to like that smile, to look forward to it.
"No," Krycek said. "I'd like the company, if it's all right."
Skinner nodded and sat down again, watching as Krycek rubbed the wet
washcloth against the soap in the dish. He wanted to help, but it felt right
to let him do it on his own. If Krycek wanted help, he'd ask. Alex began
washing his chest, making small circles. Skinner thought for a moment, then
spoke.
"Why was Spender so cruel to you? Why train you and then..." he paused
uncomfortably, "break you like that?"
Alex paused momentarily in his bathing. His stomach knotted. He didn't want
to talk about Spender, about the awful things that he had been forced to do.
Talking about the past might make Skinner angry. He bit his lip, reminding
himself that Skinner owned him now, that Skinner had the right to know. He
swallowed nervously.
"It was always bad," he said softly. "I always knew if I fucked up, I was
going to get it. But after Bill Mulder... it just got worse and worse."
"Did you ever try to run away from him?" Skinner asked.
"Once," Alex said, his expression faraway. "I ended up in the silo, buried
alive. He left me there, alone, no food, no water... I was sure I was going
to die, crawling on the floor of my own tomb." He laughed ruefully.
"That was the last time I ever tried it."
There was silence in the room for a moment. Skinner cleared his throat and
asked softly,
"Did you kill Melissa Scully?"
Alex's hand tightened on the washcloth. He looked up at Skinner, his green
eyes clear and serious.
"No," he said quietly. "It was Luis Cardinale. Spender didn't trust me, so
he sent Cardinale everywhere with me, to watch me and report to him. I was
so scared, Skinner. I knew what Spender would do to me if I disobeyed him,
but I didn't want to be there, I didn't want Scully to be hurt," Alex said,
his voice shaking.
"Please believe me, I didn't want that. I tried to stop it, but it happened
so fast. He shot Scully's sister before I could stop him."
Skinner considered him silently. Alex looked down, wondering if this was it.
Skinner was remembering, seeing him for what he was, and this small period
of kindness and safety would be over. After a moment, he looked up into
Skinner's solemn brown eyes.
"I believe you," Skinner said simply.
Alex's mouth dropped open slightly. He felt his heart resume its normal
rhythm. He believes me, he thought incredulously. He believes a rat bastard
like me. He blinked back tears, unable to find the words to express his
gratitude. Skinner leaned forward, his expression intense.
"There's something I've got to ask you, Krycek," he said.
Alex stiffened and nodded, waiting tensely.
"It's been on my mind ever since that day in your apartment. Spender was
interrogating you. He asked you why I was still alive, why you hadn't killed
me." Skinner paused.
"You said it was because I didn't deserve it." Alex nodded, then spoke
softly.
"You were nice to me," he said. Skinner gaped.
"I was nice to you?" Alex nodded again.
"Back when I started at the FBI," he paused, looking up cautiously, afraid
that the mention of the Bureau would remind Skinner of his betrayal. Skinner
merely smiled and nodded, waiting for him to continue. Alex cleared his
throat and began again.
"When I started at the Bureau, when I was assigned to your section. You
asked me how I liked it so far, and you said my reports were good, that you
were impressed with my work." Alex smiled at the memory.
"You didn't deserve it," he said, his voice a whisper. "You're a good man
and I didn't want to do it."
Skinner stared at Alex, amazed. He barely remembered the conversation he had
had with the green new agent, it had probably been a quick chat in the
hallway as he rushed to make yet another budgetary meeting on time. But it
was obvious that it had been very important to Krycek. Skinner released a
long slow breath. To think that a hurried, quickly forgotten platitude
muttered to a subordinate would end up saving his life. He looked at Alex,
shaking his head in disbelief.
"But... what about the balcony? The night Mulder brought you here?"
Alex soaped up the washcloth again and absently scrubbed one knee.
"I deserved it," he said, biting his lip. "For the stairwell."
He tensed as he said the word, sure that Skinner would descend on him now in
a vengeful rage. Skinner tensed also, albeit only for a moment. He
remembered the stairwell, remembered the piano wire around his neck,
remembered being held as Krycek punched him again and again. That last
gratuitous blow to the jaw. He exhaled slowly, and forced himself to relax.
Krycek had stopped bathing and was watching him, his eyes wide.
"I didn't want to, Skinner," he said, his voice trembling. "Cardinale was
there. I knew they'd kill you to get the tape if they had to. I had to make
it look good, I had to make it look like I wanted to do it." He looked down.
"I'm so sorry," he said miserably. "I'm so sorry for everything."
Skinner looked at the pale young man hunched over in the bathtub, already
flinching, waiting for the first blow.
"Krycek," he said softly. Alex raised his head, his eyes bright with tears.
"I have things to apologize for, too. The night that you were here, I
slugged you in the gut and left you out on the balcony all night in the
cold. I shouldn't have done that." Alex started to protest but was waved
silent.
"Two wrongs don't make a right, and what I did was wrong. So, I'll tell you
what," he said, looking Alex in the eye. "Why don't we make a deal? You
forgive me and I'll forgive you. We'll let bygones be bygones. Deal?"
Alex stared, stupefied.
"B-But I have so much more to be forgiv" Skinner held up his hand.
"No. We're not going to get out the scales of justice and weigh wrongdoing
against wrongdoing. Maybe you do have more to be forgiven for, but I also
know that Spender forced you into most if not all of it. I know you've been
tortured and abused until you didn't dare even think of going against him.
So, what do you say? A clean slate?"
Alex's eyes were huge. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Skinner was
giving him a gift so incredible he couldn't even bear to believe it was
real. He shook his head, dumbfounded.
"Just say 'yes'," Skinner said gently. Alex swallowed.
"Yes," he whispered, a tear escaping and rolling down his cheek. Skinner
noticed that Alex was shivering.
"Is it all right if I help you finish up? Then we can get you out of here
and back into bed."
Alex nodded. Skinner took the washcloth and washed the younger man's back
and arm, then helped him stand. He wrapped him quickly in a bath sheet and
then helped him dry off, allowing Alex to do most of the work himself,
hovering nearby in case he lost his balance again. After Alex was dry,
Skinner helped him back to the bedroom. He sat Alex down in the chair while
he efficiently stripped the bed and made it up again with clean sheets. He
turned back the covers and looked at Alex thoughtfully.
"We're going to have to get you some clothes," he said thoughtfully.
He sat Alex on the edge of the bed and went to his bedroom, returning with a
pair of boxers and a T-shirt. The boxers were an old pair, too small for
him, but they all but swallowed Alex. The same with the T-shirt. Standing
up, it reached nearly to his knees. Alex saw himself in the mirror and
laughed.
"I should pose for the 'after' picture for one of those weight loss
programs," he joked.
Skinner helped him back into bed and pulled the covers up to his waist.
"Don't forget, you've got a milkshake coming. You'll be the 'before' picture
by the time I'm through with you." He paused at the door.
"Do you need anything?" Alex smiled sleepily.
"No, thanks," he said. "I'm okay."
"All right," Skinner replied. "I'll be up in a little while with your
milkshake."
Alex lay back against the pillows, replaying the conversation in the
bathroom. Skinner had believed him. Skinner said he forgave him. Alex began
to cry softly, so Skinner wouldn't hear. The hope he had held at bay for so
long was too strong now to resist. He let it take him, sobbing helplessly.
Please, please let this be real, he thought. Please don't let it be taken
away. He closed his eyes, surrendering, the tears flowing through the thick
lashes. I am his, he thought. He said so. I belong to him and he can do with
me as he pleases. If he is just toying with me for revenge, I'll be grateful
when he kills me. He looked toward the empty bedroom doorway, sniffling.
Skinner's deep hum carried up the stairs, followed by the whir of the
milkshake machine. Alex stared at the ceiling, listening, his heart full of
desperate hope.
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airing: Skinner/Krycek
Rating: NC-17 for language, m/m interaction, discipline, implied/remembered emotional and physical abuse, violence, consensual and non-consensual sexual activity Spoilers: Please assume all Krycek eps Disclaimer: The X-Files and all related characters are the intellectual property of Chris Carter and Fox. Come and get me, Chris. Suing me for money would be like trying to put toothpaste back into the tube, only more frustrating. Warnings: I don't want to give anything away, but I don't want to squick anyone either. Alex goes through a lot in this story and doesn't deal with it altogether well. If a bit of blood will squick you, hit delete now. This story also deals with a male/male loving discipline relationship. If this is not your thing, please do not read it. If you're under the legal age in your locality, don't let the screen door hit you on the way out. Archive: Persuaders, SKSA, RatB, RATales, anyone else please ask first. Please keep my heading and e-mail address intact. Feedback: Yes, please. Lorelei633@aol.com Thanks: Thanks to HollyIlex for the world's best beta. This is her story too. If not for her constant support, guidance, insight and patience, it would never have seen the light of day. Thanks to Josan for advice and encouragement and a much-needed kick in the butt. If it weren't for her giving me her most severe schoolteacher look over her glasses, I'd still be talking about writing instead of writing. Thanks to Vic for answering my questions about Russian language and cuisine. Special thanks to Ursula and Lexi Krycek for sneak previewing! Summary: Skinner and Krycek. Angst, H/C, evil smokin' bastard and loving discipline. Author's Note: I am attempting to lay the foundation for a very deep and loving discipline relationship between Walter Skinner and Alex Krycek that will continue to evolve throughout the series. I hope that with this first story, showing in detail what happens before and during the beginning of Walter and Alex's relationship, the events that follow and the characters' actions will be much more meaningful. PAL brand razor blades are manufactured in Staunton, Virginia.
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