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Measure of Devotion
by MJ Lee The young agent said steadily, "Thomas Halliwell ordered his death." A
slight pause, "they shot him through the guts and knees and left him to
bleed to death. The coroner says it took him hours to die."
Skinner looked out the window, hands behind his back, face wiped clean
of expression. "And the information?"
"Gone, sir. Halliwell's men must have retrieved it before they shot
Agent Thomson."
"Too bad. You can go, Philips," Skinner said curtly.
"Yes, sir."
Closing the door behind him, Special Agent Charlie Philips thought with
a flash of resentment that AD Skinner certainly lived up to his
reputation as 'Stoneface.' There had been not even a hint of anger or
emotion for the death of a man that had come up through the ranks of the
FBI at same time, and who had been, according to rumor, as close to a
friend as Skinner allowed himself.
Behind the door, Skinner remained by the window, powerful hands
clenching until the knuckles whitened. He cursed himself savagely for
agreeing to the mad plan when Alan had first broached it. But his old
friend had been so sure he could infiltrate Halliwell's organization.
Could get the information they needed to take down the man and his
organization and not so incidentally put one over on both the CIA and
ATF who had both been after Thomas Halliwell for years for crimes
ranging from assassination to smuggling, spying and extortion.
Dark eyes hardened. From now on, Halliwell was a top priority. He owed
Alan that much; he owed the three children who had been left fatherless.
He owed the beautiful woman whose wedding he had been best man at.
Going over to his desk he opened the thick file staring down at a black
and white surveillance photo of the smirking man, snapped as he was
leaving a nightclub, his arm around a curvaceous blonde.
"Damn you to hell, Halliwell!"
The words echoed around the silent room.
Thomas Halliwell's Apartment
The sudden crackle of a radio broke the silence of the night. "We're
ready to move in."
Walter Skinner spoke quietly into the radio. "A team go. B Team go."
Rising from his half-crouch, he opened the door of the black van, Scully
and Doggett close behind him.
Checking her gun, Scully spoke softly, eyes trained on the shadowy
outline of the building, "I really think we'll get him, sir."
Skinner glanced at her briefly, "I'm counting on it, Scully."
Small, restless hands played with her gun for a moment before stilling.
"Yes, sir."
He gave her a longer, searching look. Outwardly she seemed focused on
the task ahead, all cool professionalism. Only someone who knew her as
well as Skinner could read the subtle signs of tension.
Once again he realized that Mulder's abduction had affected Scully on
some fundamental level. Since his disappearance, she seemed
fractured. She still performed her duties with the panache and skill
that made her one of the best FBI agents he'd ever worked with, but the
old spark, the dry humor and sharp logical wit that had made her such a
perfect foil for Mulder's quirky genius was gone. She was slowly
building another partnership, with a very different man. But she would
have been the first to admit, if they'd ever spoken of it, that as good
a man as John Doggett was, he remained forever in the shadow of Fox
Mulder.
If Walter Skinner had not been a man to whom self-discipline was second
nature he might have smiled bitterly; the ghosts that haunted his own
memories and nightmares were not as pleasant as Fox Mulder.
He seemed deceptively relaxed, scanning the night. Listening to the
radio for a few moments, he drew and cocked his gun. "They've got the
back of the building secured, let's go."
"Scully, Doggett, go! I'll cover," Skinner, ordered, flattened against
the wall of the building, gun at the ready, peering into the gloom, the
barrel swinging back and forth, covering as much ground as possible. He
was still in excellent shape, no sign of the years of riding a desk on
the large muscular frame.
Scully moved first, diving in a smooth roll, coming up in a crouch.
Doggett moved in the opposite direction, and even as all his attention
remained focused on the task at hand, Skinner thought absently that the
two had gelled amazingly well for such a short time together as
partners. Especially considering the almost symbiotic relationship
Scully had had with Mulder.
"All clear, sir," Scully called from inside, her voice sounding hollow.
Skinner stalked through the door, another agent covering his back. He
stared around at the empty apartmentand cursed fluidly. Pulling up
his radio again, he barked questions into it frown growing deeper as he
listened to the answers.
Scully had gone into the bedroom and now she called out, "Sir!"
Skinner walked up behind her. "Yes?"
"Look," she held up a tangle of black leather straps and dully-gleaming
metal studs.
Skinner raised both eyebrows. "What exactly am I looking at, Scully?"
She pursed her lips. "Judging from this, Halliwell seems to live a
rather interesting life."
He frowned, "What do you mean?"
"He's got rather ah, extreme tastes. I haven't seen this kind of outfit
since I worked on a case a few years back breaking up an international
S&M and pedophile ring."
Skinner cursed his sudden flush, especially when he saw her sudden smile
at his discomfort. "No, don't tell me, Scully, I really don't want to
know." He frowned, "but it looks as if our bird has flown. Although I
don't think he's been gone long. Doggett found half a bottle of
champagne and some caviar, not to mention a pound of strawberries in the
kitchen." For a moment he looked like a disapproving Puritan confronted
by an orgy in church.
"Yes, sir. Do you want us to check the other apartments on this floor?"
"I've already got one team checking, but you can go lend a hand."
Alone in the apartment, Skinner started methodically to check through
cabinets and behind books. Glancing out through the enormous windows, he
sourly noted the magnificent view of downtown Washington. He didn't even
want to venture a guess on the price of the condo he was standing in,
but he knew it involved more money than he'd ever see in his lifetime.
In the distance he could hear the shouting and thumping of the other
agents checking the building and he sighed, knowing it was most likely
futile.
Just turning to leave, his ears caught the faint sound of a dull thud
coming from the bedroom. Pulling his gun, he moved stealthily towards
the bedroom door. As he carefully placed his hand on the half-open door,
he heard muffled steps.
Taking a deep breath, he kicked in the door moving fast and yelling,
"FBI freeze!"
The man standing by the bed whipped around swift as a cobra, the gun in
his hand coming up and lining on the intruder.
For an endless moment they stared at each other in frozen silence.
Walter's Skinner's eyes widened as he looked at a face that haunted his
nightmaresasleep and awake.
"Krycek," he breathed, hatred thickening his voice.
Alex Krycek froze for a split second before a smirk slowly spread as he
let the barrel sag. "Well, well, Walter Skinner, what are you doing
here, slumming?"
"Cut the crap!" Skinner spat. "You're interfering in an FBI operation."
Green eyes hardened fractionally. "Stay out of it, Skinner, this is
personal business."
"Sir, I" Scully opened the door, she broke off as she caught sight
of the other man and her blue eyes narrowed in pure hatred. "What the
hell is he doing here?!"
"That's what I was about to find out," Skinner said evenly, having
regained some of his composure.
The traitor seemed cheerfully indifferent to the fact that he was facing
two people with good reason to hate him. "I was here first; I may as
well ask you the same question."
Before anyone could react, Scully cocked her gun, training it on
steadily on Krycek. "Give me one reason for not pulling the trigger,"
she said coolly, blue eyes cold as ice.
Krycek went very still. "You don't want to do that, Scully," he said
softly.
"Oh yes, I do," she almost whispered, finger tightening around the
metal.
He tensed, ready to leap.
"Scully!"
The deep voice cut like a whip through the silence.
She didn't turn her head. "He deserves to die."
"Yes, he does," Skinner agreed, "but not without due trial and
conviction, and not by your hand, Scully. Don't let yourself get dragged
down to their level. You're better than that."
"He helped abduct Mulder." Her eyes never left the dark man watching her
with the wariness of a wild animal.
"And he may be the only chance of curing Mulder," Skinner reminded her.
Scully took a deep breath and slowly lowered her gun. "Should I arrest
him, sir?"
He was tempted; oh fuck yes, to have the man who was watching them with
a smirk on his lips under lock and key. To watch Krycek stripped of his
arrogance before a judge sentenced for some of the crimes he'd
committed. To have him alone in an interview room with time enough to
shake all the secrets and lies from his traitorous head.
But whatever else he was, Walter Skinner was also a realist. Dreaming
aside, the price would be too high. A moment's satisfaction weighed
against the possibility of dying slowly and in agony when Krycek used
his little toy.
"No, let him go, Scully. " There was defeat in the deep voice. "You know
as well as I, that we'll never be able to hold on to him."
She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it without saying anything,
the image of Skinner's tortured and dying body before her eyes. "Yes,
sir." A last hate filled look at Krycek, and then she was gone, closing
the door behind her. Although Skinner never realized it, she made sure
no one else went into the bedroom.
"Get out, Krycek," Skinner said very tiredly, bitterness tasting like
ashes and dust in his mouth.
A momentary hesitation, and then Krycek slid his gun into the shoulder
holster under his jacket and opened the balcony door. One leg already
over the railing he half-turned, mockery gleaming in the green eyes.
"You're looking good, Skinner, catch you later."
"Not if I see you first," Skinner growled in reply, but when he looked
up he was alone, only the night wind fluttering the gossamer thin
curtains...
They filed silently into the dark room; men in immaculate suits, lines
carved deep into solemn faces, men whose power lay heavily on their
shoulders. These were the heirs of men who had dreamed of a new future
for mankind and had bargained with a devil beyond the stars.
Sadder, wiser, less arrogant than their predecessors, they had assembled
to save an ignorant earth from folly. The old man at the head of the
table, frail but with the dark fire of a fanatic burning in tired eyes,
cleared his throat.
"We will now hear the status reports. Mr. Skinner..."
Walter Skinner slowly stood up. Looking around, he still had
difficulties believing he was a part of the shadowy conspiracy that had
once held him on a choke chain. "Mulder's re-appearance has caused more
questions than it answered. He remains in a coma in hospital and we have
been unable to find out where exactly he was taken or for how long."
Skinner paused, frowning at the memory of a still pale man in a hospital
bed. It must be the first time in his life that Fox Mulder has ever
been quiet. The errant thought almost made him smile and the smile
remained in his voice as he continued. "We're still trying to discover a
means of getting to Thomas Halliwell."
He removed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, briefly massaging the bridge
of his nose. "As you all know, Halliwell has long been a thorn in the
collective hide of the Consortium and the FBI. Not to mention the fact
that the CIA and the DEA are both after him. I will say this for him,
he's very good."
"We are aware of it, Mr. Skinner," one of the men spoke up. "And he has
been very useful to the Consortium in the past."
Skinner grunted. "I know. But, at the moment I'm more interested in how
to stop him."
"You will keep us informed?"
"As agreed." Skinner gave the man at the head of the table a hard look.
"But we play it out my way. Halliwell will be brought before a judge and
jury, and if convicted he will serve his term in prison. I won't do your
dirty work for you."
"Yes, Mr. Skinner, that is precisely what we agreed." Mr. Smith smiled
thinly, "We have no intention of interfering in the legal process. We
want Halliwell tried and convicted publicly for his crimes. His fate
will serve as deterrent to anyone else who considers betraying the
organization."
Before the next speaker could begin, a man entered and whispered
something in the ear of one of the men, who smiled broadly and held up
his hand to signal he needed to speak.
"I have some good news," he announced, nodding to the guard standing by
the entrance.
All eyes turned to the opening door and watched as a man was dragged
inside between two sturdy stone-faced guards.
Head slumped forward he seemed only half-conscious. One of the men
holding him grabbed a fistful of dark hair and pulled it back revealing
a bruised and battered face.
Alex Krycek
One eye almost swollen shut, a discoloration forming on one cheekbone,
lip torn and bleeding, he had obviously not given up easily.
There was a collective release of breath. Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow.
"Well done, Mr. Graham, how did you catch him?"
The tall stooped man smiled thinly. "I wish I could take credit, but in
truth, it was just luck."
Not a muscle moved in the lined face, yet there was a thread of intense
satisfaction in Mr. Smith's voice. "So we can finally close the chapter
on one of our most troublesome problems. Roberts, take him out and make
sure, please?"
"No."
Every head turned looking down the table.
Not a muscle moved in Skinner's face as he watched the men around the
table, their eyes ranging from coldly amused to curious and hostile.
"No, Mr. Skinner? I would have thought that you of all people would
enjoy seeing an end made of Krycek."
Skinner raised an eyebrow. "Would I like to see him punished for the
crimes he has committed? No doubt. But before you kill him, I want some
information."
"What kind of information, Mr. Skinner?" There was open suspicion in the
thready voice and the watchful eyes of the men around the table.
He hesitated but knew that the truth would serve him best. "I want the
palm pilot that controls the nanoyctes."
Suspicion faded, as there were soft sighs of understanding, slight nods.
Mr. Smith said affably, "By all means, we will make sure to extract the
information you desire before" he did not finish the sentence.
Not a muscle moved in Skinner's face. "I want him alive."
Once again every head swiveled to stare at the tall man.
Mr. Smith looked faintly puzzled. "Why? I would have thought that you
would be last man to object to Krycek's death."
Walter Skinner knew pity would be viewed as a deplorable weakness by
these men, and yet blended with the dark rage that had gripped him at
the sight of Krycek, there was a faint stirring of compassion for an
enemy brought low and a rat cornered for the last time. He said curtly,
"I don't trust Krycek to speak the truth and I want him in my sight
until I have the palm pilot in my hand."
He would not spare a single glance at the man hanging limply between the
guards and so missed Krycek raising his head, green eyes wide with
sudden hope.
There was another moment of utter stillness and then Mr. Smith sighed,
"Very well, Mr. Skinner, he is yours. I only trust that you will not
have cause to regret your decision."
After a brief silence another voice said thoughtfully, "At least if Mr.
Skinner is willing to take Krycek, let him make himself useful. Skinner
by his position is more exposed than most of us. Whatever else he is,
Krycek is an effective body-guard and killer."
There were slow nods and even Mr. Smith's mouth softened a little.
"True, I had not considered that."
Standing in a spacious, elegantly furnished bedroom later that night,
watching the flickering light of the fire reflect off dark paneled walls
and windows, a glass of whisky in his hand, Walter Skinner had much to
ponder.
Earlier that evening he had eaten alone, served an excellent dinner and
an even better wine by a silent cat-footed servant. During the meal
Skinner had perused some more files. That was a rather amusing aspect of
being a Consortium member that he'd never expected; the never-ending
flow of files and papers. They did not make for easy reading, confirming
what he'd already suspected; that Mulder's abduction was merely a small
part of a much larger picture.
Skinner felt his skin prickle at the memory of staring at a patch of
burned ground in the middle of a wheat field in Iowa, and wondering if
he'd ever see his most maverick and brilliant of agents again. Although
Mulder had returned as mysteriously as he'd disappeared, it did not
diminish the power of the memory; standing beneath the starry skies
alone, knowing that Fox Mulder was gone.
He smiled grimly, relishing the irony that Mulder would have given
whatever remained of his soul to read the files he was holding in his
hand.
Thankfully there were points of light in the midst of the darkness.
Successful attempts to strike back, to contain the lurking menace. He
knew that he could never remain neutral. That for better or worse he was
about to get into a new war.
Strange, he thought, that after so much doubt and anguishing his only
feeling was one of relief. Finally he had an enemy, a right and wrong.
To a man like Walter Skinner mired far too long in the vagueness of
shadows and ambiguities there was nothing but relief in finally knowing
who the enemy was.
A soft knock on the door brought him sharply back to reality.
"Come in," he called out curtly and was less than surprised when the
door opened to reveal Alex Krycek.
"Krycek," he said flatly. "What do you want?"
Staring at the man framed in the door Skinner's heart beat loudly enough
to deafen him, adrenaline pumping through his body, and suddenly he was
so hard he ached.
Emotions, jumbled, confused, conflicted shook him to the core.
Hatred.
Rage.
Lust.
Acrid self-loathing for the flood of overpowering want.
Sweat dampened skin was suddenly hot and itchy, as Skinner's guts
clenched with frustrated lust. The battle fought and won in the space of
a single breath taken and released was only too familiar. There had
never been a time, not when he'd first seen a young, green agent with
deceptively innocent eyes, not when he'd spent a long night watching the
man huddled over for warmth, hand-cuffed to his balcony, not while dying
in a hospital bed, that he hadn't wanted Alex Krycek, wanted him to the
point of madness.
Dark bitter desire, turned by their past into obsession and lust.
A wry smile flitted across the thin elegant bones of a face that he
hated, and wanted. Christ, how he wanted. "I came to say thank you."
Skinner's eyebrows rose. "And how should I take that?"
A slow rippling shrug. "How about honestly?"
Eyes dark and inscrutable, Krycek stalked across the floor, the
comparison to a sleek predator inescapable. It took all of Skinner's
vaunted self-discipline not to take a step back as the man who had once
held his life between his fingers stopped, so close he could see slight
movement of his chest as he breathed out and in.
"Honesty from you, Krycek?" There was a mocking note in the deep voice
as large hands unconsciously fisted.
Long dark eyelashes lowered for a moment before rising and revealing
blank green eyes. "Honesty," Krycek spoke in husky murmur, that reminded
Skinner far too clearly of sordid motel rooms, deserted garages bathed
in harsh light and abandoned warehouses. "I know you don't put too much
value on my life, but I'm rather fond of it" Another wry smile, "Mr.
Skinner."
The mockery inherent in the use of a title, drove him over the edge, and
before he knew he'd moved, he was slamming Krycek up against the wall, a
brawny arm across a vulnerable throat, a thigh resting heavily against
the juncture of two long, lean jeans-clad legs. "Never call me that."
Icy control imperfectly disguised the heat of rage. "It's a fucking
insult coming from the likes of you."
Krycek made no attempt to fight back, arms at his side. A strange little
smile half-bitter, half-knowing twisted his mouth. "What do you want me
to call you?"
"Nothing!" Skinner spat, cursing silently as his body reactedlike
Pavlov's dog facing a prime piece of meatto the proximity of the
man.
Krycek's smile widened as he watched the slight dilation of dark pupils.
"How about, lover?" He murmured softly, breath fanning across hot,
flushed skin.
"Lovers, Krycek? You were doing a job, and I," Skinner's cold, mocking
smile never reached his eyes, "wanted a fuck and you were convenient."
If he hadn't known it was impossible he could have sworn for a moment
that the emotion moving across the green eyes was something akin to
hurt, but then Krycek smiled again. "In that case, why don't you let me
provide you a little more convenience?" He leaned across the remaining
inches and, like a cat, licked the corner of the snarling mouth so close
to him.
Surprise made Skinner jerk and release his grip. Far from using the
sudden slacking to escape, Krycek moved closer until his body was
pressed against the larger one. His smile turned knowing at the feel of
the twitching hardness of the cock pressed against his stomach.
Slowly, gracefully, he sank to his knees, the sound of the zipper loud
in the stillness of the room.
Skinner's deep exhalation at the first skillful touch of lips against
his skin was a groan torn from the depths of his soul. Hands fastened in
the sable darkness of hair, he swayed on his feet as a wet tongue teased
the throbbing head, tracing the outline of a vein running along the
underside of the hard length of his cock, before Krycek swallowed
deeply, lips carefully protecting the sensitive skin from the sharpness
of teeth.
It had been too long since he had last fucked or jerked off and in an
embarrassingly short time, Skinner moaned as he poured himself down the
willing throat of the man kneeling before him.
Breathing deeply, chest heaving, Skinner zipped himself up with shaking
hands. He glanced at Krycek who was still on his knees, head turned
away. A deep-rose wet tongue flashed out to wipe a last creamy trace
from his lips.
Strange, how a position that should emphasis vulnerability instead
painted a picture of guarded, aloof eroticism that set his heart
pounding and the blood rushing through his veins.
Something in the very stillness of the pose caught his attention. He
frowned, "Krycek?"
A deep breath and when the younger man finally turned his head, the
familiar insolent grin was fixed firmly across his face. Slowly
shrugging out of his jacket, letting it fall carelessly on the floor, he
tilted his head. "That was just for starters, Mr. Skinner."
Closing his eyes, helpless to prevent the renewal of heat pooling in his
groin, Skinner's eyes snapped open again at the first feather light
touch stroking delicately down flanks and stomach as Krycek maneuvered
them towards the bed.
Using his remaining arm, Krycek slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting it
drop on the floor, skimming out of his jeans.
Skinner caught his breath at the first sight of the lean, muscled body.
Chest heaving he fought to regain sanity. "This is crazy," he growled.
"Come on, Skinner," Krycek murmured, eyes dark and hazy with lust as he
knelt above the other man. "You know you want to fuck me. Hot, deep,
fast." His smile widened, "anything you want..."
Large hands closed over slender muscled shoulders, turned him roughly
and pinned him to the bed. Far from resisting, the smile grew wider, as
Krycek let his thighs fall apart. "Want to hurt me, Skinner?" he arched
his back in an unmistakable challenge. "Use me? Give me back a little of
the pain? Remember what it was like lying in that hospital waiting to
die, every vein in your body distended?"
At the soft mocking words something snapped inside Walter Skinner, hate
overriding lust, demanding an outlet. With a low animal growl, he let
his weight pin the younger man to the mattress, large hands brutal as
they pinched nipples made hard by earlier gentler touches. Bending his
head, he bit down brutally onto the inviting flesh, a jolt of lust going
through him at the muffled scream that tore its way out of an arched
throat.
Memory had once again cheated him. Had proved vastly insufficient for
the mind-blowing reality of being inside Krycekof thrusting deeply
into the tight heat of the body between his thighs. Groaning he pulled
the narrow hips up from the bed with enough force to leave bruises,
angling them so each movement took him deeper, ignoring the soft muffled
sounds of the man being pushed deep into the bed, half-suffocating from
the weight of the body pounding into him.
There was another soft sound of pain or pleasure, as he bit deeply into
a pale shoulder below him, leaving a mark. The noise pleased Skinner so
much he did it again, this time choosing the other shoulder.
He was a man to whom control of himself and his environment was
paramount. Only one person had ever made him lose it. The man who was
panting beneath him, the man whose legacy was hatred, bitterness and
lust.
Hatred can be a potent aphrodisiac. When he came, moaning, pouring
himself into Krycek, the image coiling through his mind was of a
smirking face in the mirror of a dark car.
Slowly catching his breath Skinner raised himself on the elbow, looking
at the naked man in his bed. On his stomach, legs spread wide, bare
assed, dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, having just been
fucked through the mattress Krycek should have looked defeated, taken,
used.
InsteadSkinner's jaw set seeing the small secret smile that curled
the sensuous mouth before the dark head turned awayhe looked more
like a conqueror.
"Where is it, Krycek?" The deep voice was startling loud and discordant
breaking the silence.
Rolling over, Krycek's smile widened. He was wise enough not to pretend
ignorance. "Someplace safe."
Brown eyes grew hard and icy. "I want it."
"It won't do you any good."
"What the fuck, are you talking about?"
Krycek yawned, cat-eyes slitted and sleepy. "The nanocytes stopped
working months ago."
Skinner stared at him.
Smug smile widening at the sick shock written across Skinner's face,
Krycek explained lightly, "The nanocytes were a one-time deal,
unfortunately they degrade and are absorbed by the body pretty quickly.
That's one reason the research was eventually halted."
"You son of a bitch!" Skinner spat, a red mist of rage obscuring
everything but the mocking smirk of a man who lied and betrayed as
easily as he breathed.
Body momentarily sated, rage overrode lust, the smile reminding him of
the betrayals, the deaths and lies, the pain Krycek had caused. Strong
hands impotently opened and closed. A beating, a fucking, and still
Krycek would walk away smiling, the winner of the obscure, dark, game
they played.
Gripped by dark madness Skinner snapped, the restraints of a lifetime
disregarded in the space of a moment. He had never wanted anything so
much as he wanted to see Krycek scream, to see him bleed and suffer.
Looking down at his curled fingershandsan ugly smile suddenly
thinned his lips.
Skinner moved grasping the dark hair and brutally dragged the younger
man up by it.
Wincing from the force of the grip, Krycek didn't protest as he was
pulled into a kneeling position on the bed. He even smiled slightly,
balancing on his knees, spreading his thighs. "Hot to trot again? You're
pretty vital for an old guy," he murmured, shifting slightly to make
himself more comfortable.
"Shut up!" The blow echoed through the room, the dull thud of flesh
meeting flesh.
Head snapping back from the force of the strike, losing his balance and
falling, Krycek slowly got to his knees again, grin intact. "I never
knew you were the kinky type, Skinner," he murmured, fingering the side
of his jaw, which would soon wear a bruise.
Skinner smiled, and for the first time Krycek felt a shiver of
apprehension feather down his spine.
"You have no idea," a dark voice said with silky malice.
The first probe of blunt fingers at the still stretched knot of muscles
was expected and not even unpleasant, as they slid, deceptively gently
across the sensitive nerve endings. The sudden stabbing deep inside made
him bite his lip and shift, but still nothing more than expected. Even
the second finger added and then a third to stretch him wide open while
beginning to hurt, followed script. It was when the fourth finger forced
its way inside that the pain went from bearable to red-hot agony.
Green eyes opened wide, and he stiffened. "Fuck! Stop it, Skinner!" He
tried to move and was brutally forced back by the weight of a knee in
the small of his back, pushed into the mattress, even as the fingers dug
deeper, impossibly deep.
A grunt was muffled by the pillow as his body stiffened and arched in
rejection.
"Listen, you little shit," he heard Skinner growl in his ear, the weight
of the big body half-suffocating him and forcing air from already
tortured lungs. "Personally I don't give a fuck, but if you don't relax
I'll tear you to shreds."
Having no doubt that Skinner would follow through on his threat, Krycek
forced himself to obey, trying to slacken his body even as something
bigger, harder than a cock started to press against the tautness of
muscle, forcing its way inside, splitting him open; making him
vulnerable. Unable to prevent another obscene grunt, he only dimly felt
Skinner pull back slightly before a sudden stabbing burned its way into
his guts. Despite himself, he writhed silently, muscles contracting,
sweat breaking out and painting his body in moisture, mouth opening and
closing in a soundless scream.
Pain.
Helplessness.
Fear.
Watching the pale body shudder in pain, Krycek's strong graceful fingers
closing and opening spasmodically, Skinner smiled grimly, intense
satisfaction akin to sexual pleasure spiraling through him. Finally he'd
peeled away the ever-present mockery, cracked open the mask Krycek
always wore.
Forcing his fingers even deeper, watching the thick knuckles disappear
from sight, he felt the tight muscle stretch impossibly wide, the wet
sound loud in the silence of the room Skinner laughed low at the choked
noise Krycek made.
"Jesus, Skinner!"
Krycek could hardly wrap his tongue around the words, mind running in a
panicked coil. More than the burning pain, more than the sickening
helplessness, there was the humiliation of being wide open and
completely vulnerable to Skinner.
Bending low, a deep voice whispered into his ear, "I'm rather enjoying
myself." Krycek didn't answer, biting his lip until it bled, determined
not to show any further signs of weakness. Of making Skinner despise him
more than he undoubtedly already did.
Despite his silent resolve, when Skinner moved his arm, muscles
stretched almost beyond endurance screamed in protest and he was unable
to hold back a slight groan. Invisible contractions around the thick
wrist traveled through tense muscles, translating into deep shudders.
Krycek writhed in silent agony, not from the pain Skinner inflicted but
by the thought of the picture he must make, ass in the air, legs splayed
wide. A toy for someone's pleasure.
Placing his other hand, palm first, fingers splayed into the small of
the long curve of a muscled back, Skinner treasured the tiny shivers
rippling through the pale skin. "Up," he ordered grimly.
Stilling, unable to comprehend the curt command, Krycek jumped at the
sudden stinging open handed slap against one ass cheek. "I said, up!"
Slowly, each movement sending new arrows of torture through his lower
body, he obeyed, painfully pulling himself up until he was balanced on
his knees once again.
Keeping as still as possible, Krycek kept his eyes wide open, breathing
in large painful gulps of air. Praying for a moment to recoup, to gather
himself, he almost missed the curt command.
"Ride it. I want to see you fuck yourself on my fist."
Shaking his head in instinctive refusal earned another hard slap that
almost unbalanced him, the sudden jerky movement shooting unbearable
agony through his guts. "Please..." the word was forced out between
clenched teeth.
"Do it." There was no mercy in the dark voice.
When Krycek still didn't move, Skinner told him silkily, "Do it, or I'll
fucking tear you apart."
Unable to stop the high sobbing gasp, the incoherent sounds of pain and
pleading, Krycek obeyed. Slowly he moved, fucking himself on the thick
fist. Each breath was torture, the very act of releasing air too painful
to endure.
As each moment crawled past, the world narrowed down to each movement,
to the next breath. Up... down... up... down...
Perhaps he fainted, perhaps he screamed. Perhaps he simply crumpled
bonelessly into unconsciousness.
Krycek never felt Skinner remove his hand, never knew how long the older
man stared at the slack body stretched across the bed.
He woke alone and sated, not sure for a moment where he was, merely
aware of the contentment deep in bones and sinew. A lingering pleasure
he hadn't felt sincethe completion of that mental reflection
banished the last traces of relaxation. Last night. Pleasure. Pain.
Darkness. Krycek.
Oh fuck, Krycek.
Skinner sat up abruptly, eyes cold and wary. It must be later than he
thought since golden sunlight spilled in broad pools across polished oak
and the muted jeweled brilliance of oriental carpets.
Standing by one of the windows, light and shadows painting his body in
golden stripes was the man he had dreamed of, hated, loved, lusted
after, and last night, had fucked and hurt. He would not deny, even to
himself, just how arousing the sensation of Krycek helpless beneath him
had been.
Last night had been a revelation in more ways than one. He'd always
known that hatred and lust could coexist, could feed off each other. But
he had been innocently unaware of just how strong a drug the mixture
was. Lips stretched in a smile that was more of a snarl as he realized
that this time there was no need to deny himself. For once in his life
he was free to take what he wanted.
Alex Krycek.
There was no movement when Skinner walked up behind him; green eyes
remained steadily on the horizon, the delicate colors of the sunrise
seemingly absorbing all his interest.
Skinner frowned as he saw bruises on the lean pale body, the angry welts
and bite marks that marred the skin. He slowly traced one with a large
finger. A strange atavistic thrill ran through him at the thought that
Krycek was wearing his marks.
When he opened his mouth the last words he'd ever thought he would say
spilled from his lips.
"Did I hurt you?"
"Nope," the husky voice as always sent shivers down his spine.
"Liar." Skinner growled, suddenly angry.
A flash of dry amusement lit the green eyes, as Krycek half-turned.
"What do you want me to say?" A quick graceful shrug. "I can handle
whatever you do."
"So you saidlast night," Skinner bent his head and bit into one soft
ear, pulling the hard lean body into his arms with little gentleness.
The dark madness of the past hours had done much to assuage the worst of
Skinner's rage. He was still pissed as hell, but no longer ready to
kill. He had seen Krycek stripped of his defenses tremble and scream in
pain, mockery gone.
It was almost enough.
Krycek tilted his head to give him better access, shifting his weight
until Skinner's rapidly hardening cock was pressed tightly against the
cleft of his ass.
"Last night..." Skinner whispered in his ear, breathing picking up
speed, "why?"
Pale skin rippled as Krycek shrugged, a strange bitterness flowing
across the elegant features. "Why not?" A self-mocking grin flashed.
"Surely you've realized the kind of privileges that go with Consortium
membership?"
Large hands tightened in punishment. "I didn't join for the money or
power."
A quick twist, and they were face to face. "Which rather leaves open the
question of why exactly you're here."
Stepping away, Skinner shrugged. "Would you believe if I said, because I
think I can make a difference?"
He waited for the inevitable mocking, but instead there was a moment of
silence and then a husky chuckle. "Funny, that's exactly what I thought
you'd say."
Despite himself there was a flash of answering amusement, and he let it
color his voice as he said dryly, "Always happy to be so predictable."
"Not predictable, morereliable." Krycek stepped closer again, body
open and vulnerable. "It's good to know that some things never change."
He tilted his head. "You know, there are some benefits that go with the
risks and responsibilities. You'll never have to worry about a pension
plan again."
"Ah, but the question is, will I live 'til old age?" Skinner countered
dryly.
A flash of sardonic humor. "Sorry, I never make any promises about
survival, including my own, but you won't need to worry about money
again." A pause, a brief hesitation and then he said softly, "And like
it or not, you've just acquired another possession."
Skinner frowned. "Do I want to know what you're talking about?"
"Probably not," Krycek admitted a thread of amusement whispering through
his voice. "It's one of those things your puritan side disapproves of."
He looked away, a strange vulnerability shadowing green eyes for a
moment. "You really did save my life yesterday. I was all out of
bargaining chips and Mr. Smith has never been too fond of me."
Skinner shrugged, uncomfortable, not wanting to think of his impulsive
decision. "Must be your winning personality, Krycek, you're a
rattlesnake with a rattle a mile long." He paused, giving Krycek a hard
look. "All I want is you out of my life for good." He ignored the faint
voice at the back of his mind that whispered, liar.
Krycek shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Skinner. I'm yours or
I'm dead." He smiled wryly. "Look on the bright side, you can have me
anytime, any place, any way you want. Cheaper than buying a whore down
on the strip, and more fun than your own right hand."
Skinner gave him a long searching look wishing yet again that he knew
what was going on behind the dark green eyes watching him with cool
mockery. While he was not eager to remember all of last night, neither
had he expected Krycek to ignore it. Bitter experience had taught that
if there was one thing Alex Krycek knew it was how to retaliate. Nor was
he the kind of man to submit tamely to abuse.
A frisson of unease suddenly whispered up Skinner's spine. Staring at
Krycek he said coolly. "Give me one reason for not handing you back to
Smith, now that I know the nanocytes are neutralized."
He relished the sudden fear shimmering across the green cat eyes. "Ah,
but can you trust me to tell the truth?"
Skinner smiled grimly. "Oh, I don't expect you to, but you'll take me to
the palm pilot today." There was absolute certainty and Krycek cocked
his head in wry agreement.
Hips pressed back, legs spreading as he steadied his weight against the
man nuzzling his shoulder, nipping at the sensitive skin of an exposed
nape. "How about this then? What better way to regain your manhood, than
in the body of the man who took it, hmm?"
It bothered him more than he wanted to admit, the accuracy with which
Krycek pinpointed his weaknesses, and for a moment he wondered which of
the two of them had been truly fucked last night. In retaliation his
hands tightened, hard enough to leave more bruising on the pale skin.
But far from flinching from the pain, Krycek simply laughed, the husky
mocking sound that never failed to drive him mad and spread his legs.
Ignoring the blatant invitation, Skinner stilled, ignoring the urgent
demands of his body. "It's not enough, Krycek."
Something akin to fear shadowed the thin dark face. "If you hand me over
to Smith you know what he'll do."
"I know," the deep voice replied evenly.
Bitterness hardened Krycek's eyes to emeralds. "I see. Okay, how about
this? I can get you Thomas Halliwell."
Skinner exhaled loudly. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Krycek smiled thinly. "I've known Thomas Halliwell for a long time, I
can give you all the info you need to take him down legally."
"How?"
A casual shrug. "Keep me, and I'll give you what you want."
A moment of silence and then; "You have a deal, Krycek."
Krycek's smile never reached his eyes, as he turned, slid his remaining
arm around Skinner's neck and pulled it close, kissing Skinner with
practiced heat and expertise.
Rubbing up against the solid body behind him, like a cat in heat, he
moved sinuously, going to his knees and slipping the hard cock into his
mouth, teasing the slit with his tongue before swallowing it deep with
the ease of long practice.
Expertly judging the moment, he pulled away, ignoring the instinctive
protest, rising to his feet, turning around and bracing himself against
the wall. He glanced over his shoulder, "Come on, Skinner and fuck me."
Pausing in the act of doing exactly that, Skinner hesitated suddenly
remembering last night. He knew he had hurt Krycek, and for some to him
unfathomable reason, he was hesitant to do so again.
Instead of accepting the blatant invitation he detoured briefly to the
table beside the bed, grabbing the tube of lube he'd used the night
before, and returning, nudged Krycek's thighs wider apart.
Skinner squeezed a liberal amount of lube on his fingers, reaching down
and using his thumbs to lightly knead a well-muscled ass before pressing
inside the tender, bruised ring of muscle.
He knew Krycek must be hurting, yet the only sign of the inevitable
rawness of barely healed flesh was a minute shifting before Krycek
pushed his hips back almost defiantly, throat arched and bared.
Skinner fought to control his breathing as he rode the sensations, long
slow thrusts, each flex of his hips sending him deeper into the tight
heat, the sensation of slick skin beneath his fingers, the soft moans
and responses of the man beneath him. He took without hesitation or
gentleness, as Krycek had taken his pride and freedom. Each groan of
lust, each stifled sigh of pain was repayment on debts owed.
"God, I hate you," he whispered into the damp hot skin of a vulnerable
nape. Thrusting again, he reached around to roughly fist the hard,
dripping cock, thumb flicking repeatedly across the swollen head.
A shudder traveled through the pale graceful body writhing beneath him
in response to the rough caresses. Krycek moaned softly, the flick of
silky-soft dark hair sweeping across broad shoulders as he arched,
taking Skinner even deeper.
He caught his breath; it never failed to drive him mad, the free, wild
response. A man like Walter Skinner was accustomed to the need for
patient coaxing during the long years of his marriage. His previous
experience had been the whores of 'Nam he'd slaked his lust in during
his youthwomen with no interest in the man, only the color of his
moneythe ease with which Krycek became aroused by a touch, a caress,
a kiss, was a marvel.
In silence they moved; thrust and counter-thrust, the rays of the rising
sun coloring sleek, sweaty bodies in shades of gold. Panting heavily,
his breath jagged and uneven, the very motion of pushing air through
tortured lungs was almost too painful to endure.
Krycek's breathing grew harsher, more rapid as Skinner felt the body
around his cock contract in silken invisible tremors and a flood of
warmth spilled across his fingers. That pushed him across the top and he
soon followed Krycek over the edge and into the abyss.
As soon as his breathing had evened a little, Skinner abruptly pulled
away. "I need a shower," he muttered, going into the bathroom and
slamming the door behind him.
Turning the force of the water on to the maximum, Skinner cleaned
himself, in more than one way cursing his own weakness. If only he
didn't want Krycek so much! But even now, after just fucking the man,
even the thought of Krycek stirred his body back to life. With an
impatient oath Skinner turned the handle, gasping as icy needles hit
him, and momentarily at least, cooled himself off. He only wished it was
as easy to cool off his mind.
Wrapping a towel around his hips, he made a decision. He'd accept
Krycek's offer, as a bodyguard and, his lip curled, a fuck toy. As his
body had reminded him last night, it had been too long since there had
been more satisfaction than the occasional solitary jerk-off to a porn
flick alone at night in his condo.
Ah yes, he would use, as he had been used.
When he came out again, he found that Krycek had apparently found a
shower of his own, if his damp, slicked back hair was anything to go by.
The younger man too was dressed in faded tight jeans that left little to
the imagination and a black polo necked shirt.
"Mr. Smith is waiting for you," Krycek said calmly, all business.
It was hard to imagine that this was the man who only minutes past had
been moaning his name, Skinner thought. He strode across the room,
grasping the firm jaw between his fingers, turning it slightly to study
the severe lines of the face, the enigmatic green eyes.
"I wonder..." he finally said musingly, "if there is such a thing as
honest emotion left in you." Slowly he stroked the pliant lips open,
tasted the hot silk of a willing mouth. A strong hand came up and
briefly clutched his shoulder, before sliding down a broad muscular
back, pulling him closer.
When they finally had to break apart for air, Skinner's mouth twisted.
"Jesus you're a bastard, Krycek."
Krycek breathed out slowly. "I know." For a moment there was regret,
soft and fleeting as a summer wind in the husky voice. Then his voice
changed, mocking himself and the man glaring at him with hatred in his
eyes. "Think of me, as a signing bonus. The chocolate mint on your
pillow."
Despite himself Skinner couldn't help the dry inflection of his voice.
"Compliments of the management?"
Skinner sipped tea out of the Royal Derby china cup, watching a
soft-footed servant offer a tray of cucumber sandwiches and fruitcake to
an old man. Resisting the urge to demand coffee, real coffee, no
cream, no sugar, he looked at the man on the other side of the table.
"I'll be leaving as soon as the last meeting is over but I'll keep in
touch."
Mr. Smith inclined his head. "I will look forward to your report." He
hesitated briefly, "Mr. Skinner, while I would not like to interfere in
your private business, are you sure that taking responsibility for
Krycek is the wisest course of action?" He cast a disdainful look at the
dark man standing just inside the door, awaiting the pleasure of his new
master, playing the role of loyal servant to the hilt.
Skinner followed his look to the fine-boned enigmatic face, green
cat-eyes meeting his steadily, without a flicker of emotion, arms
hanging loosely at the side, the real and the prosthetic. The stillness
of pose was capable of transforming into action at a moment's notice; an
arrow released from the bow, and with the same deadly grace. "No, I'm
not sure that it's wise," he admitted in his deep voice.
Mr. Smith pursed his lips. "Nonetheless, our colleague is correct and if
you can indeed control Krycek, he is yours, without reservations."
Skinner looked at him thoughtfully. "Not that I don't appreciate the
gesture, but why?"
"The truth?" Mr. Smith seemed almost amused, "Krycek, while occasionally
extremely effective, is also regrettably flawed. Had it not been for the
insistence of a former member of the Consortium he would have been
eliminated a long time ago."
Skinner glanced at Krycek who seemed utterly indifferent to the news,
was actually smiling slightly at some private joke. "I see, so you are
really off-loading a bad investment on me?"
Mr. Smith said gently, "Not at all, Krycek is a very effective bodyguard
and killer. That is of course, the other reason he has not been
eradicated. As long as you do not trust him, and keep him on a short
leash you should have no problem."
Skinner raised an eyebrow. "I don't think trusting him overmuch will be
a problem." He rose abruptly, a tall powerful man, the wire-rim glasses
not detracting from the aura of menace. "We may have an alliance, but
that doesn't mean I trust you, or your organization."
"I understand, Mr. Skinner."
Turning to leave, he realized that Krycek had silently come up behind
him. Skinner gave the younger man a hard look. "You're coming with me?"
"What do you think, Mr. Skinner? Hard to guard someone's back from a
distance. From now on, wherever you are, I'm there too."
Ignoring the hot flash that ran through him at the cool words he
frowned. "Somehow I don't think the FBI will appreciate me having a
personal body-guard from a shadowy global organization."
A flash of white teeth and sardonic humor. "No need for them to know,
I'll just be your mid-life crisis; a toy to console you for the breakup
of your marriage. This is the age of don't ask, don't tell, they can
hardly fire your ass for swinging both ways." He shrugged and added with
casual cruelty, "Besides, you're never gonna go any higher up the fibbie
food-chain."
"Much as I appreciate your detailed explanation of my middle aged
frailties, and the limitations of my career options," Skinner said
dryly, "you forget, you're not just some hustler I picked up from the
street. You're a wanted felon."
Krycek shook his head. "Nope, I've been cleared of all charges, go check
the records if you don't believe me." He lifted an eyebrow. "One of the
perks of the new Consortium." He smiled, "Actually, all it took was some
judicious pressure at the right places, a good hacker and voila!" He
gestured at himself. "You see before you a blameless citizen of our
great and glorious country."
Skinner sighed, "Shut up, Krycek."
"Yes, sir!"
Skinner gave him another hard look.
Stepping into the shining black BMW, he smiled grimly at the sight of
Krycek holding the door politely. Quite a difference from the smirking
man who'd showed up playing with his little toy, enjoying watching
Skinner thrash helplessly.
Unlocking the door to the condo, Skinner was acutely aware of the man
standing silently behind him. He was so hypersensitive he almost jumped
when Krycek shifted his weight, the leather of the old jacket creaking
softly. He actually flinched as he felt a warm puff of air against his
neck.
"Relax, Skinner, I don't bitemuch," a soft voice murmured, laughter
running through the tone.
Skinner swung around abruptly. "Back off!" he ordered curtly.
A dark eyebrow rose in a question, even as Krycek held up his hands and
took a step back. "Hey, I was just kidding."
"I wasn't." Dark eyes crackled with icy rage. "Let's make something
clear, Krycek you're here on my sufferance. It's damned clear the
Consortium doesn't want you. If it wasn't for me, you'd be feeding the
fish at the moment."
Krycek stared at him for a moment, the knowledge of being a helpless
pawn carved deep into the lines of his face. His mouth twisted. "True."
Bitterness pervaded the husky voice. "So now what?"
Walter Skinner looked at him coldly. "Now, you prove that you're worth
the price, the Consortium put on you. You keep me alive and..." he
paused, "satisfied."
There was a sudden flash of anger. "I'm no" Krycek broke off
abruptly. "Fuck, you're enjoying this, aren't you, Skinner?"
"What do you think, you little shit?"
Krycek spat, "I think you're gonna loving grinding my nose in the dirt."
Skinner threw his jacket over the back of the sofa, going over to pour
himself a whiskey. "Then you'd be right." He raised an eyebrow, his turn
to mock. "Why the pissy attitude, Krycek? You're a whore, and we both
know it."
The anger was gone as abruptly. "I may be a whore, Skinner, but I don't
come cheap."
Skinner drank down some of the alcohol, feeling it burn all the way down
his throat and stomach. "Let's get some things straight. I despise you,
I think you're an unreliable, treacherous bastard who should be taken
out and shot."
Neither of the men recognized the inherent contradiction between
Skinner's words and his actions.
Krycek unzipped his jacket, shrugging out of it. "Always happy to be
appreciated," he quipped ironically.
Skinner looked down at the remains of the whiskey, swirling it around in
the heavy glass, watching the amber liquid slosh gently against the
sides. "But for the moment, we're stuck with each other." He gave Krycek
a grim look. "Which reminds me, you still haven't told me what the hell
you were doing in Thomas Halliwell's apartment two nights ago."
Krycek sighed, "Trying to put together a deal to save my ass. I knew the
Consortium wanted Halliwell dead, and I figured if I"
"... Came bearing Halliwell's head like a trophy all would be forgiven
and forgotten?" The question was laced with heavy sarcasm.
"Something like that, yeah."
Skinner shook his head. "Every time I think you've reached the limit,
you surprise me, unpleasantly."
"Glad to oblige." The words were snarky, the tone more weary than
anything else.
Skinner rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm too tired to deal with this
tonight. Tomorrow I'll make sure you get a visitor's pass, it'll be the
lesser of two evils, I don't want you caught by some agent lurking
outside."
He added a little grimly, "I'll introduce you as a consultant."
"A consultant, now there's a word that covers a multitude of sins,"
Krycek sprawled down on the sofa, stretching out, making himself at
home, like an alley cat. He murmured appreciatively, "I'm looking
forward to watching Scully's face tomorrow."
Skinner regarded the tall fluid body with intense dislike, not sharing
the anticipationthere were times when Dana Scully definitely lived up
to the myth of redheads. "Jesus, I must be crazy to agree to this," he
muttered.
"Oh, I'm sure we'll all play nicely together. Green glimmered mockingly
beneath dark lashes.
Skinner snorted starting to leave when Krycek spoke behind his back.
"Oh and, Skinner," there was a deceptive mildness to the husky voice
that should have warned him.
"Yes?" he turned aroundand stared straight into the dully-gleaming
barrel of a loaded Walther PPK. Automatically a part of his mind
processed the information that Krycek must be wearing a SOBsmall of
the backholster, for future reference.
The sound of the safety being cocked was unnaturally loud in the sudden
silence of the room.
Krycek said very evenly, "If you ever put your fist up my ass again,
I'll put a bullet between your eyes."
Skinner raised an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by the reminder of what
he'd done. "Did it hurt? Did you feel helpless, abusedraped?"
The ugly words hung in the air between them.
"What the fuck do you think?" Krycek spat, green eyes hard as glass.
"Then you know exactly how I felt lying in that hospital bed, dying."
Krycek stared at him. "Bastard."
Skinner shrugged once. "You want pity? You've come to the wrong man." He
crossed his arms, a hard man not giving an inch. "There's too much
history between us for you to play the victim now, Krycek."
The sudden smile was genuine albeit wry. "Well it was worth a try, most
other guys would be crawling by now, drowning in guilt."
"Easier for you to manipulate?" Skinner stalked across the room,
grasping the younger man by the shoulders, the grip firm but not hard
enough to bruise. "Boy, I know you too well to fall for that act." He
paused, then suddenly gripped the firm jaw and forced it up for his
inspection. "And just so you know, the next time you point a gun at me
I'll feed it to you barrel first."
"You're such a hard-ass, Skinner," Krycek murmured with cool irony, the
gun disappearing as fast it'd appeared.
He was almost asleep, body aching from the workout Skinner had given it,
curled on his side as far from the other man in bed as possible. He'd
wondered if he should just leave after the fucking, but when he'd tried,
Skinner had growled a curt order to stay.
Obviously the AD believed firmly in keeping rats where they could be
seen.
"It won't happen again."
The deep voice woke him from a half-slumber. For a moment he almost
asked why. "Glad to know."
A long silence, and he had almost drifted off again when Skinner's next
words brought him abruptly awake.
"I'm sorry."
Sitting upright he tried to stare through the gloom of the room. "You're
what?" The incredulity was obvious.
Skinner was on his back, one arm flung across his face effectively
hiding it from view. "You heard me."
"Yeah, I just can't believe I heard right."
The arm moved as one dark eye opened and focused on the man leaning over
him. There was a hint of a smile on the stern mouth. "I was out of
line."
Krycek sounded genuinely bewildered. "What fucking line?"
Skinner didn't answer.
He blinked once. "You'll beat the shit out of me, but rape is out."
Krycek almost laughed aloud. How very typical Skinner. The man was such
a mixture of outdated honor concepts and uncompromising pragmatism. He'd
kill for mom and apple pie, probably even torture and maim if necessary.
But bring sex into the equation and he baulked. Damned puritanical
American.
Aloud he only said, "Well, that's one load off my mind."
Skinner growled, eyes closed, "Don't push it, Krycek."
"Perish the thought," the younger man said dryly still amazed that
Skinner had actually apologized.
FBI Headquarters
"Scully, Doggett, in my office now!"
The two FBI agents looked up in surprise at the grim face of their boss.
He was gone before they could say anything else.
Scully raised an eyebrow at her new partner in mute inquiry.
"We'll find out when we get there," the tall grey-eyed man said
laconically. Scully gave him a look compounded equally of annoyance and
mild amusement. After more than seven years of being the sensible and
logical person it was both irritating and liberating to be partnered
with herself.
Pondering life with John Doggett Scully entered Skinner's office after a
perfunctory knock. The sight that met her eyes drove all thoughts of her
new partner from her mind.
He was standing by the window, a tall lean man, dressed in black leather
and faded denim, a man with the face of a fallen angel and the light of
the devil in his eyes.
"Krycek!" she hissed.
He cocked his head in the old familiar gesture. "Scully," his voice
mocked her hatred.
Skinner stepped between them. "Back off, Scully," he ordered. "Krycek is
here at my invitation."
She focused on Skinner, shock evident on her face. "You invited him
here?"
The big man met her glare steadily. "Yes, I did.
She swung around, hands clenching at her sides. "What have you got on
him, you son of a bitch?!"
Doggett blinked, he'd never seen his cool, capable partner so emotional
and for a moment his eyes rested on the dark stranger. He knew who Alex
Krycek was, like everyone else he'd heard the rumors and whispers, but
somehow the reality was very different. The lean body, slouching
casually by the window, dark hair flopping down into a thin, too pretty
face did not match up to the legend of Alex Krycek, ratbastard and
traitor extraordinaire.
As the scene played out before his fascinated eyes, he looked beyond the
angry words to body language: Scully's aggressive stance, Skinner's
strangely protective pose and of course, the focus of their argument,
Krycek's seemingly indifferent, remote posture.
Krycek smiled wryly, something strange glimmering in the green depths.
"Would you believe nothing, Scully?"
"No!"
He sighed, turning, almost unconsciously, to the big man looming over
him.
"It's the truth, Scully," Skinner said in his deep voice. "I am not
being coerced or blackmailed. As a matter of fact," he smiled a little
grimly, "Krycek is mine now."
That silenced her as nothing else could have. "How?"
"The Consortium." Once again she was about to interrupt when he shook
his head sharply. "Face facts, Scully. The Consortium as we knew it is
dead and gone, either burned to ashes or," he glanced at the silent man
at his side, "otherwise disposed of. What their heirs are doing is
something I can support. Something in fact I believe we must support."
"And Krycek?" She did not give as much as an inch.
Skinner sighed, "He's part of the deal. The charges against him have
been quietly dropped. After all, we," a corner of his mouth twisted
dryly, "have never been able to actually prove anything against him."
Scully snorted, her opinion of Krycek's guilt obvious. "Yes, sir. But
that still doesn't explain what he's doing here." With you her pointed
look added.
For the first time Krycek spoke. "By allying with the Consortium, Mr.
Skinner is putting himself on the line, there are people outside the
government and inside it who don't want him to succeed. I'm here to make
sure he stays alive."
Three pair of eyes fastened on Krycek while he spoke. One was hostile,
one indifferent and the thirdenigmatic.
Skinner shrugged, "As you heard, there are people who think my life may
be in danger and they've sent Krycek along as guard-dog."
Scully looked down her nose, not an easy feat when you're the shortest
person in the room by about three inches but she managed it
effortlessly. "A dog, sir? Does he sleep at the foot of your bed?"
There was a moment's silence, and then Krycek murmured mock-innocently.
"I don't remember you complaining, Scully when I was warming your feet."
Scully's mouth dropped open.
Skinner gave the man by his side an annoyed look, his voice resigned.
"Tell me, Krycek, is there anyone here at FBI that you haven't slept
with?"
A flash of devilish amusement was his only warning before Krycek
answered blandly, "I never slept with either Mulder or Scully, Mr.
Skinner. I just fucked them, no sleeping involved."
Scully flushed until the color of her skin matched her hair and gave
Krycek a look that should have slain him on the spot. "Sir, I can
explain," she began.
Skinner shook his head to prevent further confessions. "No need, Agent
Scully, I'm only too aware that Krycek went through the halls of FBI
like a groupie through a rock band."
John Doggett who had watched the scene unfolding before him in silence
shook his head in disgust. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, "I thought I was
being assigned to the FBI not some crazy soap-opera."
Krycek chuckled, "Welcome to the world of the X-Files." He rested a hip
casually against a desk. "We're just one big happy family, aren't we,
Mr. Skinner?"
Skinner's hand fell heavily across a leather-clad shoulder and squeezed
a not very subtle warning. "We've got more important things to discuss
than Krycek's sexual escapades."
Scully's cheeks still flamed. "Yes, sir."
"Scully, Doggett, we've got a meeting here in half an hour, I want an
update on what's happening with Halliwell." They hesitated and he
growled, "Move it, people!"
Such was the force of his personality that although Doggett still looked
incredulous and Scully tight-lipped, they left.
Once alone, Skinner turned on the grinning man sprawled in a chair.
"Rabble rouser."
Krycek grinned, "Sorry, I couldn't resist, they're so easy."
"Yes, they are," Skinner's voice was very dry.
A soft chuckle, "Anyone tell you you've got a dirty mind?"
"... We are still not getting anywhere. He's covered his tracks too
well. The boys in the backroom are trying to hack into his financial
records, but so far no luck."
Although both Scully and Doggett were manifestly punctilious, neither of
them could resist sneaking little glances at the silent man sitting in
the corner. Slouching in the chair, looking bored, fingers drumming a
tattoo on the smooth surface of the armrest from time to time, his
presence making the room hum with unspoken tension.
Skinner frowned. "What about his street contacts?"
"You're never going to get him through the dealers. He's too careful."
Three heads swiveled to stare at Krycek.
"Ah yes, our resident Halliwell expert," he ignored the look Krycek shot
him, "tell us what we've missed, what's not in the file."
Krycek thought for a moment. "Don't know just how good your info is on
him, but I'll tell you one thing, Halliwell has survived this long for
one reason, he always covers all his bases. He's one of the money men
for the Consortium, but he's got his fingers in other pies as well."
"And you know him exactly how?" That was Scully.
He smiled sourly, "I used to courier for him once or twice."
"Couriering what?" Scully persisted.
He shrugged, "Guns, drugs, information, whatever he wanted me to carry."
Skinner had listened in silence, arms crossed over his chest. "Keep
talking."
Krycek frowned thoughtfully, "He's got few weaknesses and doesn't trust
anybody."
"Sexual habits?"
Scully ignored the three incredulous pair of eyes turning to stare at
her, saying coolly, "We found some pretty exotic toys in Halliwell's
condo, do they belong to him?"
"Yeah, Halliwell likes his little games," Krycek's mouth twisted
briefly. "But I don't think it's something you'll be able to use. He's
careful, everyone is adult and it's all 'consensual.'" He cocked his
head, thinking. "If you want him legally," cold irony shaded his voice,
"then your best bet are the secret files he keeps on all his dealings."
"Halliwell keeps records?" Doggett asked sharply. "You sure? We've been
looking ever since this operation started, but the word on the street is
that he got burned badly in the past."
Krycek smirked, "Yeah, I know that rumor. Guess who started it?"
Skinner glanced at Doggett and Scully, "Check it up," he ordered curtly
before turning back to Krycek. "Anything else you can tell us?"
"If you wait, the problem will resolve itself," he glanced at Skinner,
"there are other peoples besides the feds that are pissed as hell at
Halliwell and they'll solve the problem their usual way."
"Why is the Consortium after Halliwell?" That was Scully, her body
proclaiming louder than words dislike of the man that looked at her, a
smile in his bottle-green eyes.
Krycek's voice was suddenly colder than liquid hydrogen. "He sold out to
the enemy. Some good people died because Halliwell got greedy."
"Good people?" Scully asked in blatant disbelief. "Are there such a
thing in the Consortium?"
Krycek shifted, and something in his face silenced her. "Don't be too
quick to judge, Dana," her name was a soft challenge, "you've only seen
one side of the Consortium. Remember, when you fight for your life,
there is little room for mercy or compassion."
They stared at each other, and it was Scully who dropped her eyes first.
Skinner realized that once again Krycek had managed to surprise them
all. He remained an ever-changing enigma, capable of casual, ruthless
cruelty, easily dismissed as nothing but a thug and assassin. Then there
would be moments like this, tantalizing flashes of another Krycek, of a
man who fought for a cause, with little glory and less recognition.
There was a moment when he wished, uselessly, that things had been
different; that they could have been on the same side. That what bound
him to Alex Krycek was more than bitter memories, hatred and lust.
With Scully and Doggett gone, Skinner speared him with a sharp look.
"You whored for Halliwell."
It wasn't a question.
"No. Not exactly," Krycek's voice was unexpectedly soft as he shifted in
the chair. "A long time ago we fucked once or twice, but I was never his
to whore."
Skinner suddenly looked thoughtful. "Do you think he still wants to?"
It was Krycek's turn to stare at Skinner. "Maybe, probably, why? You
thinking of turning pimp?"
Ignoring the instinctive and violent rejection of the idea, Skinner
shrugged with fake casualness. "We need an edge and we don't seem to get
anywhere."
Face suddenly wiped clean of all expression, Krycek said evenly, "I can
get in touch with some old contacts, sound them out if you want."
A brief hesitation and then Skinner shook his head. "No, I'll keep it in
mind but I'd prefer to use a cleaner way to take him down."
"Much obliged, Skinner," Krycek said very dryly.
Skinner gave him a hard stare. "You're being hypocritical. That's what
you did in my bed last night, wasn't it? Whoring."
Krycek went very still. "What?" Which he had to admit wasn't the
cleverest thing to say.
Skinner picked up a file, not replying to the question. "Stay here, I
need to get to a meeting," he ordered, "don't move from this office
unless you need to go to the bathroom. I don't want you wandering
through the building. Christine has orders not to admit anyone and don't
touch anything."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Driving home a week later the words still echoed in his head; the casual
threat growing more real by the day as each lead to Halliwell's elusive
records proved a fruitless dead end. Skinner was far from the first man
who'd kept him for personal pleasure and professional use. This was the
first time he'd resented the knowledge that he was nothing but a good
fuck and a useful tool for the man who held his leash.
Leaning forward he fiddled with the search button on the radio until he
found a classic station the strains of Stravinsky's 'The Firebird Suite'
filled the air. As the heavy sensual beat of the music permeated the
silence, a new kind of tension crept between the two men.
Shifting in his seat Krycek glanced at Skinner through long dark lashes.
Turning his head at the same time, their eyes collided, and suddenly
Skinner was breathing as heavily as if he'd gone for a long run. Feeling
uncomfortably hot, he shifted in the seat; sweat slicking his palms and
making them slippery as he gripped the steering wheel. The flesh trapped
inside his pants was hard and painful against the confines of the
fabric.
Fucking Krycek was like drinking saltwater; it left him wanting more,
the more he had. Skinner was relieved when they finally reached the
parking outside the condo, and his hands when he locked the car door, to
his disgust, actually trembled slightly.
Watching the graceful movements of the man walking ahead up the stairs,
Skinner's guts clenched with raw primeval need. Whispering through the
red heat of lust there was also a strange kind of gratefulness that in
the here and now there was no need for restraint, for care. He was a
strong man, and a big one, and Sharon had complained more than once that
he was hurting her. In consequence he'd been forced to learn care and
putting his own needs second. Sex with his wife had too often been an
exercise in frustration and humiliation. And it had been years before
their divorce that they'd last slept together.
With Krycek he could do whatever he desired. Strong and supple, the
younger man was ready and willing to take whatever Skinner wanted. The
sex was dirty and hot; fucking not making love.
He barely had the patience to kick the door shut before he grabbed the
tight ass. Krycek melted into his grasp easily, willingly; head flung
back a fierce smile peeling back his lips. To know that this man of
loose limbed grace, skilled mouth and eyes to drown in was his was
enough to make Skinner lose control.
There was a moment when he had the strange impression that Krycek
actually relaxed fractionally once they were in the condoas if it was
a safe refuge from the world outside the door. Then even that fleeting
thought was forgotten in the urgency of pushing the hard body up against
the door, of running hands down soft skin, of feeling Krycek writhe
against him. He was not gentle, as he reached down and tugged down the
tight jeans with impatient fingers, swearing as they caught on slender
hips.
Krycek moaned again, head flung back, leaning back against the wall,
hooking one leg around a thick calf, urging the man pinning him closer.
He exhaled in a low shuddering moan as a large hand closed around his
aching cock, stroking it, the roughness of the palm against the
sensitive skin faintly uncomfortable, the slight irritation adding to
the sensations coursing through him.
Surrendering without hesitation, hips moving, bracing himself against
Skinner, he felt the sensation beginning deep in his balls, spread to
his stomach, thighs, every muscle and blood vessel in his body until he
came, harsh breath panting into the silence of the darkness. Skinner
stepped back, and he almost collapsed in an undignified heap.
Standing back, watching and making no attempt to help, Skinner's dark
eyes gave nothing away.
"Upstairs."
It was the first word either of them had spoken since leaving the FBI
building. Stumbling a little, not bothering to pick up his discarded
jeans, Krycek obeyed, skin still sticky with semen and drying sweat.
Entering the dark bedroom he stopped in the door staring at the
king-sized bed for a moment, before being propelled forward by a non-too
gentle hand in the back.
Hiding a sudden bitter smile, Krycek obediently crossed the room,
pulling off his sweater and letting it drop carelessly to the floor.
Getting on the bed, he turned his head, watching Skinner undress in
silence.
"I don't get it," he said huskily, almost hesitantly. "Why do you even
bother?"
Skinner looked up from unbuttoning his shirt. "Bother with what?"
Turning onto his back, one leg bent and raised, Krycek cocked his head.
"Jerking me off," he gestured vaguely at the bed, "this."
Folding his shirt neatly across the back of a chair, Skinner joined
Krycek on the bed. "Because I'm too old to fuck against the wall," he
slapped the taut curve of naked ass hard, leaving a red palm print
against the paleness of the skin. "Up!"
Rolling over, Krycek raised his hips, burying his face in the softness
of a pillow. The first touch of large blunt fingers on his body, as
always made him shiver, his cock firming and hardening just from a brief
indifferent caress. He remained obediently still, resisting the impulse
to push back against the hard cock already nudging against him.
He knew only too well that this wasn't about him. This was Skinner
taking what he wanted. Skinner getting revenge for past betrayals, past
pain by fucking a man he hated.
Life had taught him that sex was power and power was sex, and that men
who would not have spit in his face in the light of day would be more
than happy to fuck his brains out at night.
He didn't look up but remained where he was, unmoving, waiting as he
listened to the noise of a cap being unscrewed and then the touch of
something slippery sliding inside him, cool slick fingers, loosening and
stretching muscles guarding the entrance to his body. They brushed over
something deep inside and he shuddered again, pushing back against the
fingers, riding them deeply. There was a deep contemptuous rasp, "You're
one hell of a whore, Krycek, you must have made the Smoker a fortune
renting you out."
The cold voice sliced through the comfortable haze of arousal and he
stiffened, for an endless moment tempted beyond endurance to resist, to
refuse. To just say to hell with it, with the man who even now used
strong thumbs to open him to the impalement of a brutal, too thick cock.
Muscles clenched in resistance and sweat poured off already slick skin
as he writhed beneath the merciless pounding. Arching beneath the
merciless thrusts, a bitter smile twisted his lips even as his chest
heaved with harsh sobbing breaths. At least Skinner wasn't fucking him
dry. And after that first night, while not taking particular care,
neither had he been deliberately cruel.
Slowly, too slowly the pain melted into pleasure, or perhaps the
pleasure was merely an absence of pain. A soft groan and suddenly he was
on fire, moving with each thrust, moaning in helpless lust, cock hard as
rock, balls swinging low and full and heavy. Why this man who hated him?
There was nothing but the sound of rasping breaths, of the dull moist
thuds of heated flesh pulsing inside a writhing body, of damp skin
rubbing against skin.
Low animal sounds vibrated from deep in Krycek's throat as a dark head
tossed back and forth, fingers scrabbling against the sheets. He was
faintly aware of the fact that as Skinner came, shuddering hard, he was
whispering in a low monotony over and over again. "Fuck you, bastard,
fuck you..."
As soon as he'd regained his breath, Krycek rolled over and shook his
head, dislodging the sweaty strands that clung to his forehead. "You're
such a romantic, Skinner."
Without sparing Krycek a look, Skinner got up and went into the shower.
Returning within minutes, he went over to the wardrobe, still ignoring
the naked man stretched across the bed like a wet dream, pulling out a
clean shirt and dark pants.
Krycek frowned, "You going somewhere?"
Tying a dark blue silk tie, Skinner shrugged into a matching jacket.
"I'm having dinner with an old friend."
The man on the bed sat straight up, moving from sated relaxation to
alert tenseness in the space of a heartbeat. "Give me five minutes and
I'll be ready."
"You're staying here." It was an unmistakable order.
Krycek glared at Skinner. "Look, it's my ass on the line as well, if
something happens to you," he argued vehemently.
Skinner simply ignored him, picking up his car keys. "If I see you
anywhere close to the restaurant I'm shipping you right back to your
friends in the Consortium."
A sardonic smile. "This is supposed to scare me?"
Skinner gave him one of his looks "I don't know, you'd know that
better than I. Is it a threat?"
Getting up and going over to pull on a pair of old sweats, Krycek almost
flinched. "Fuck off, Skinner."
Skinner smiled in grim satisfaction, the swagger a little more
pronounced as he left, slamming the door behind him.
Alone in the condo, cursing in frustration, Krycek thought ruefully that
Skinner was enjoying their present situation just a little too much.
Raking a hand through dark thick hair, he winced as sore muscles twinged
and abruptly green eyes turned hard and bitter. There was little use in
denying that he was something he'd sworn never to be again; a powerful
man's fuck toy and possession. The fact that it was Skinner just added
another dimension to the humiliation, the pain that clawed inside.
For more years than he cared to remember he'd wondered perhaps even
fantasized about what it would be like to share Walter Skinner's bed.
What was the old proverb? Be careful what you wish for, you may get
it.
There were times recently when he could have wished that the fantasy had
remained just that; fantasy. Reality was lying face down in the
king-sized bed, sweat pouring off his body as the man above pounded into
him, hard, fast, dirty, large fingers gripping his hips painfully, hard
enough to leave bruises.
Reality was unconditional capitulation. Surrender. Submission.
Not just in bed, in everything they did Skinner was enjoying grinding
his heel into a bowed neck, a latter day Russian nobleman arrogantly
demanding service and obedience as his right.
The thought lightened Krycek's mood as he padded into the kitchen to
find a beer. Drinking it straight from the bottle, he thought that the
image of arrogant Cossack fit Walter Skinner only too well; tight riding
pants and leather boots arrogantly giving orders to submissive peasants.
There was a sudden rueful smile as his body hardened in response to the
mental image conjured. It had always been one of his most deeply kept
secrets that what should have been a routine mission, had turned into
something very different from the first time he'd laid eyes on Mulder's
boss, Assistant Director Walter Skinner.
He had found himself wanting, and more than that, needing with an
intensity never felt before, certainly not while on the job. Why it was
that the large solid frame and unexpected flashes of gentleness, the
clumsy, awkward caresses and sudden wry smile had fired his body as no
accomplished lover had ever managed he had no idea. Didn't want to know.
Although he had knowneven thenthat he was little more to Skinner
than a convenience, the memory of those short encounters had stayed with
him through the darkness of Siberia, the loss of an arm and almost his
life. A man always focused on survival and reality, memories of Skinner
had been the closest thing to dreams he'd ever allowed himself.
The smile died abruptly. Jesus, he hoped that Skinner never suspected
the truth. There was still too much rage, too much hatred between them
for the other man not to use the knowledge as a weapon.
He'd expected anger, but not the depth of the loathing, the icy contempt
that lashed at him every day. Nor had been prepared for what Skinner had
done that first night. He'd gone to the room to repay a debt, to seal a
bargain and, he swallowed, looking down at the half-empty beer bottle,
to fulfill an old dream. What he'd gotten was closer to a nightmare. A
thin smile twisted the firm mouth. Ah shit, he should have known better.
He had after all watched pure hatred reflected in a car mirror as he
played with the palm pilot in his hand.
Did it hurt? Did you feel helpless, abusedraped?
Much as life had accustomed him to pain and violence, that morning,
watching the sleeping man in bed, he had hated, wanted vengeance. Of
striking out and hurting as he'd been hurt. Perhaps what he had hated
most was that it was Walter Skinner who had hurt him. Who had proven
to be capable of such studied cruelty.
Then you know exactly how I felt lying in that hospital bed, dying.
Oh yes, it would be so easy to return to what they had once been. A
stairway beating for a night freezing on the balcony. A man killed and
brought back to life for a rape.
Tit for tat.
A humorless laugh whispered through the room. He had always known that
there would be no easy forgiveness for his acts, for the lies and
betrayals. Skinner was relishing every moment of their role reversal and
for a man like Alex Krycek who'd fought for every scrap of freedom, it
wasn't easy to roll over and bare his throat. He did it because, as
always he had no choice. Yet, there was also, buried so deep inside him
it was barely acknowledged, a small hidden hope that Skinner was at
heart a decent man driven by hatred to commit atrocities.
The sound of the doorbell brought him abruptly into wary alertness and
grabbing his gun from where it hung in its holster, he silently stole to
the side of the door. A quick glance through the spyglass and then he
relaxed fractionally and unlocked the door.
"Hello, Scully," he spoke in resignation.
She marched inside, the fire of battle in her eyes and snapping from her
voice. "Krycek, we have to talk!"
He carefully laid the gun aside. "Would it be any use for me to say no?"
She glared at him. "Not if you value your life."
He shook his head ruefully, "Scully, you've got more balls than ten
men." He raked his fingers through thick dark hair. "Look, if we're
gonna talk, can we pretend we're actually civilized beings?"
She gave a grudging nod. "Fine by me," and marched past him into the
living room where she swung around on her heel, stance shouting
aggression. "I want to know everything you know about the clones."
He sat down in the sofa, and because he knew it would irritate her, put
up his feet and smiled lazily. "What's in it for me?"
She gave him a grim look. "You get to live."
Krycek stared at her, danger prickling along his skin. He sat up again.
"I do believe you'd do it," he said softly, watching her warily.
She met him stare for stare. "You can bet on it." Unconsciously her
hands went to the slight swell of her stomach, deftly hidden beneath the
cut of her jacket.
His eyes followed her hands, and his eyes narrowed. "Buliatch!" He
muttered in Russian. "They did it."
Scully stared at him. "Did what?" For a moment she seemed very small and
fragile, skin so pale you could see a faint band of freckles across the
bridge of her nose. "You know, don't you?" She whispered. "You know what
they did to me."
He shook his head violently. "No! I mean, I can guess, there were some
rumors, some whispers, but I don't know anything for sure." He held up
his hand to stop her accusations. "I swear, Scully, I don't know!"
"Why the hell should I believe you?" She demanded. "Ever since I first
knew you, you've done nothing but lie."
He was on his feet, approaching her slowly, warily. "I never lied
without a reason, Scully. It was my job, my assignment."
Distrust edged her words. "And why should I believe you now?"
"Because, I have no reason to lie now." He spoke with such simple
conviction, that despite herself she was reluctantly convinced.
He hesitated, and then said softly, "Scully, you and I, we're the ones
who got screwed worst of all."
She stared at him, and read nothing but truth in his face.
"Maybe we should talk," she heard herself say in a very different tone
of voice.
He looked at her uncertainly as if unsure if she was serious or not.
Then he smiled, the dazzling, white-toothed smile that had first caught
her eye. At the time she'd felt the pull of sexual attraction, in the
here and now it was a slap in the face. Glaring at Krycek, she opened
her mouth ready to demand answers, when once again he managed to
disconcert her.
"Are you hungry?" His voice turned wry. "Skinner's gone out, and I
haven't eaten yet."
Before Scully could say anything her stomach embarrassingly replied by
growling loudly.
He chuckled, "I'll take that as a yes. Pizza okay?"
She almost flinched at the casual words; pain slicing deep at the memory
of the innumerable times Mulder had said the same thing as they'd shared
a pizza or some Chinese takeout.
Ever since he had disappeared in such a spectacular fashion she'd felt
the lack of Mulder's presence, not just in work, but also in the small
everyday details of her life. Not until he was no longer there to share
a casual Sunday brunch, or lend a sympathetic ear on the evils of
plumbers, had she fully realized just what a large part of her life he
was.
Clearing her throat Scully said huskily, "Pizza is fine, plain." For a
moment she thought wistfully of extra pepperoni and spicy sauce.
Pregnancy sucked in more ways than one.
He nodded picking up the phone and dialing the number.
Ordering two pizzas, Krycek was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang
fifteen minutes later. "Get it, Scully?" he called out.
Opening the door and seeing a giant white rabbit in a yellow and green
waist-coast and top hat would not have truly surprised her at this
point. Deciding that this was probably all a surreal nightmare was much
the easiest way of dealing with the fact that she found herself paying
the spotty delivery boy and carrying the hot flat white cartoons to the
sofa and placing them down on the low table in front.
"I raided Skinner's wine rack," Krycek appeared from the kitchen,
holding up a bottle. "Not a bad vintage either, the bald guy has hidden
talents."
It jarred. That casual reference to one of the few men she not only
trusted but also genuinely regarded as a friend. She had known and
disapproved of Mulder's dark fascination with Krycek. Yet, even that was
more easily understood and accepted than Skinner's seemingly effortless
forgiveness and trust of a man who deserved neither.
Silently she accepted the wine he handed her, before reaching across to
open the pizza cartoon and sniffing appreciatively. Although aware he
was consciously disarming and diffusing her anger, a part of her
couldn't help responding to his casualness.
Besides, in a strange way, this man remained the strongest link to her
impetuous lost partner, so strong was their connection and the passion
of hate and betrayal. She would never have spoken aloud, but uncannily
he seemed to pick up on her thoughts.
"He'll be okay," he said suddenly not looking at her, fiddling with the
remains of a slice of pizza.
Scully stiffened. "How do you know?"
"Because you're too stubborn for him not to be." Krycek smiled wryly at
the look in her eyes. "He wouldn't dare not recover, after the number of
times you've saved his ass, not to mention pulling him from insanity.
The two of you are practically joined at the hip. Scully and Mulder,
Mulder and Scully."
"I miss him." The soft words slipped out before she could stop them and
she was horrified at the weakness they betrayed.
"Yeah, in a strange way so do I," Krycek admitted, his usual mockery
absent, a strange look in his eyes. "He's a crazy bastard, but there are
times I actually miss his demented focus on me as the root of all evil."
She gave him an owl-eyed look. "That wasn't all he thought of you as."
He swallowed the last of his pizza. "You mean the fucking?"
She choked as the wine she was drinking went down the wrong way.
Coughing and sputtering, she finally recovered, glaring at him. "You
don't believe in pulling your punches do you?"
He shrugged, "What's the use in denying something we both know is true?"
She blinked and cleared her voice, "Ah yes, well..."
The level of the wine bottle had sunk, and Scully could feel herself
mellowing, not exactly drunk just pleasantly relaxed, and a part of her
was outraged. This after all was Krycek, smiling, speaking easily and
acting like they were old friends, not mortal adversaries.
It had been a hard year, working longer and longer hours to forget about
Mulder, the pregnancy making her feel like shit.
The alcohol loosening her tonguehitting hard since she hadn't drunk
anything for monthsshe suddenly said, with genuine curiosity, "Level
with me, Krycek, what it's like being ordered to go to bed with total
strangers?"
He stared at her for a moment, and then he actually flushed. "Uh,
Scully..."
"I mean it must be different for a man. A woman can fake it," she found
herself stumbling over her words a little, "but umm... how do you do
it?"
He stared at her and then he grinned, "Mulder's right, you do ask the
damnedest questions."
"Well, I've always wondered," she admitted, burying her nose in the wine
glass, red staining her cheeks.
Krycek shrugged, "It's not so different really. You can always get a
physical reaction. As for the rest..." he paused. "A man can fake too
you know." He smiled wryly, "you think sex is always great for a guy?
Trust me, it can be boring and mechanical as hell."
She opened her mouth then closed it again. He chuckled softly easily
reading her thoughts. "If you're wondering about you and I, then let's
say that on a scale of one to ten where one is a job I'd rather shoot
myself than do, and ten is absolute and utter bliss, then..." devilish
laughter lit his eyes, "you probably end up around six or so."
A silence fell between them as Scully drank down some more wine,
pondering whether she should feel insulted or not. But somehow, no
matter how she tried, she was feeling more amused than irritated.
It was an irony she sometimes savored that of the three people Krycek
had fucked over, personally and professionally, she aloneunlike
Mulder and Skinnerhad never thought of the few hurried furtive
encounters in the past sharing a bed and a fuck, as anything but a good
stress reliever. Nor had she ever allowed the hurried, clandestine hours
they'd spent in a motel bed, to influence her feelings towards him. Hate
him she did, cool reason undiluted by the memory of a mutual use of each
other's bodies.
She could still appreciate Krycek's physical attributes, even with only
one arm, perhaps even feel a brief rush of lust although she'd never act
on it; her hormones at times were all over the place. No one had told
her that being pregnant meant there were times her libido went into
overdrive and she was ready to drag the nearest man she encountered into
a bush.
Draining her glass, she said coolly, "Unlike, Skinner?"
He stilled. "What makes you say that?"
She looked down her nose at him, "Krycek, it doesn't take a genius to
see the sparks fly between you two."
He didn't answer, eyes suddenly distant and blank.
Skinner was feeling not only weary but decidedly out of sorts as he
pulled out the keys to his condo. Dinner had been less than pleasant,
his 'old friend' blunt about the kind of rumors that floated around the
corridors of power. He'd always known he was a marked man, but it was
never very enjoyable to be told he was lucky not to be fired.
What had stunned Skinner most though was a clumsy, mumbled query at the
end of the dinner; a thinly veiled suggestion to rent Krycek for the
night. The price suggested by the red-faced and suddenly sweating man
had Skinner more than a little stunned. It had also provided a painful
reminder of what Krycek was.
The brutal truth that the choice had been death or life as Skinner's
whore.
For that reasonunable to hide his strong reaction, a mixture of
disgust and rejectionhis refusal was curter than intended.
His 'old friend' said snidely, not hiding his disappointment, "Guess you
want it all for yourself huh, Walt?" A leering ugly smile twisted the
heavy jowled middle-aged face. "If what I've heard is true he must be a
hell of a whore. I bet you've got him on his hands and knees begging for
it every night." The sudden smirk made Skinner long to plant his fist in
the slack-lipped face, even before Jack added, "I bet he's one wild
ride," a sly wink, "especially if not too willing if you catch my drift.
Hell, I always did like a freak, and it could be amusing seeing what
he'd do to protect the one arm he's got left from being dislocated or
broken."
"Go to hell, Jack!" He shook off the hand violently. Reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out his wallet with jerky movement. Removing some
bills he threw them on the table, "to cover dinner!"
He rose, looming over the table. Tall, powerful, icy anger darkened
brown eyes. "I'll say this once, stay the hell away from Krycek, and
from me, got it?"
"Like crystal." Jack's small mouth tightened angrily. "The Consortium
sure pays you well. Not everyone rates a possession like Krycek."
Feeling the sudden need for a shower, Skinner turned on his heel without
another word and walked away ignoring the taunting voice behind him
calling out, "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
Driving back home, he impatiently loosened his tie with one hand, while
maneuvering through the late night Washington traffic. Damn Jack and his
insinuations! He and the rest of the gossipy bunch of old bitches had no
idea what was going down between himself and Alex Krycek. They had no
idea of the debt that Krycek owedor how he repaid.
Waiting for the lights to change, Skinner rolled down the window,
breathing in deeply of the cool night air. The memory of Krycek in bed
earlier tonight, pale body writhing from the rough caresses abruptly
assaulted his mind.
After a lifetime of wanting without satisfaction, of humiliating himself
endlessly for access to Sharon's body, for the first time in his life he
could take without asking, want without denial. Whenever he wanted,
Krycek was there. On his knees, on his back, body offered in compliance.
A whore.
"... Should have seen the look on his face!" Green eyes were glittering
with sardonic amusement.
Scully sighed. "What I wouldn't have given to be there!" A brief glance
at her watch widened her eyes in alarm. "Is that the time? I must get
home!"
Getting up, but tipsy from the glass and a half of wine she'd drunk,
after abstaining completely for most of her pregnancy, she overbalanced
and almost fell, Krycek catching her around the waist before she hit the
floor. Landing on top, she stiffened angrily, pushing against him with
both hands, the curses interrupted by the sound of the door opening and
after a moment of incredulity, shutting with more force than necessary.
Inscrutable dark eyes surveyed the scene: the man leaning over the small
curved body, smiling down in her face with lazy appreciation.
"Good evening, Scully."
She looked up a little blearily. "Hello, sir, I was just leaving."
"Don't leave on my account," Skinner said icily. Stalking upstairs, he
resisted the childish impulse to slam the door behind him.
Behind him, Scully busied herself looking for her shoes, not sure how to
react to Skinner's palpable anger.
"I should stay and explain," she finally said uncomfortably.
Krycek shook his head, a strange expression on his face. "No, go home,
Scully. This is between Skinner and me."
"Are you sure?" she hesitated, while she really didn't want to stay,
somehow she found herself reluctant to leave. There had been something
in Skinner's eyes that sent shivers of warning down her spine.
"No, go on, Scully."
When Skinner came down again, dressed in a pair of well-washed jeans and
a sweatshirt, he found Krycek alone, standing by the balcony door, a
glass of vodka in his hand, staring outside.
"Reliving old memories?" The deep voice asked with heavy cold sarcasm.
The lean graceful body stiffened, but Krycek merely said softly, "Not
really, just thinking." A swift look, "is there any chance you'll listen
to what I've got to say?"
"You're such a slut," Skinner said evenly. "Couldn't do without for even
a night, hmm?"
A dark head came up, green eyes glittering dangerously. "Fuck you,
Skinner!"
An arched eyebrow, a deadly smile. "In your dreams, but I'll fuck you,
and soon."
Krycek took a deep breath knowing it was hopeless. "Look, it wasn't what
it looked like, okay?"
Skinner stalked forward, lips peeled back in an ugly smile. "I don't
really care, Krycek." He pushed the younger man against the wall,
fingers sliding through thick dark hair and tugging hard.
With a started yelp, Krycek jerked instinctively, the motion bringing
his body up against the unyielding hardness of the man pushing him
against the wall.
Anger sang through him, made him resist the arrogant demand that he
submit. "Get the fuck away from me!" he spat, muscles tensing in
rejection.
Taking Skinner by surprise, he even managed to get two steps before a
hand around his neck pulled him up, the other spinning him around, a
large fist in the stomach making him double over with a soft exclamation
of pain. Vaguely he realized that by fighting he was giving Skinner
exactly what he wanted.
The fight was as short as it was ugly. It ended as it had to with Krycek
on his back, arm pinned over his head, helpless under the weight of the
man straddling him. Breathing in short jerky gasps, he closed his eyes
and surrendered the last of his illusions. In tense silence he waited
for the punches, red pain blooming into ugly bruises, followed by the
brutal taking, the male instinct at its most basic, claiming victory
over enemy territory.
Skinner was breathing heavily, anger still thrumming through him. It
would be too easy, and oh so sweet to take it out on the body between
his thighs. To sate his rage in the man who surely deserved worse for
his betrayals, for the deaths he had dealt others, far more innocent
than he could ever aspire to.
He had already drawn his fist back for the first blow, when something in
the stillness of the body caught him. Skinner suddenly hesitated, dark
eyes trying to see through the gloom. "Krycek?"
"Just do it, Skinner," the toneless, weary voice froze him. "It's all
that a whore like me deserves, right?" A sound that could in another
time and place be called a laugh emerged, and was cut off abruptly.
A sudden shift, and the lean body turned boneless in surrender as Krycek
spread his legs in a universal gesture of submission.
"God, I'm so tired..." He almost missed the soft, drained whisper.
"Alex"
Neither of the men realized that it was the first time Skinner had ever
called him anything but Krycek.
Anger died, replaced by shame. Shame and something hot and burning that
filled his throat and tore at his heart and guts. Rising abruptly, he
knelt, large hands framing Krycek's face so he could look into the
pretty lying eyes.
Almost in wonder Skinner traced the finely honed features that created
such an arresting whole.
Long dark lashes, fanned over pale skin trembled and lifted. A smile
bitter as aloes twisted the finely sculpted mouth. "Do me a favor,
Skinner." He shook his head, "don't bother with the lies, okay?" He
pulled away, and Skinner let him go immediately, hands falling
helplessly to his sides.
He stood for a moment, unconsciously posing, silhouetted against the
light outside. Tall, slender, dark, he looked young and deceptively
vulnerable.
Moving stiffly, with little of his usual grace, Krycek bent to pick up
his shirt, not bothering to put it on, merely slinging it over a
shoulder. In the door, he half-turned to look at the man sitting as if
turned to stone. "Not that it matters, but Scully was picking my brains
about the clones. She wanted to know if there are any more Emilys
walking around out there, that's the only reason she was actually
talking to me." He raked a hand through dark disheveled hair. "We may
have fucked once or twice years ago, but basically she hates my guts." A
swift humor-less smile. "Not that she's the only one."
"Alex..."
But Krycek was gone.
Sitting alone in the darkness, unable to get the image of Krycek
stretched out on the floor waiting to be hurt and used out of his mind,
a memory persisted in nagging at him. It had been one of the numerous
fights he'd had with Sharon towards the end of their marriage. Or
rather, she'd fought, yelled even, while he'd sat, calmly listening, not
a muscle moving in his face. "You're such an insensitive bastard,
Walter, you don't care who you hurt." She'd glared at him, the tears
starting up. "Twenty years, and never once have you let me close enough
to know the real you."
He had been unable to refute her accusation, exaggerated as it was.
Almost two decades of marriage, of sharing a bed every night, and yet
Sharon had been right, he'd never taken that last step, dropped all his
masks, reached out to the woman who was his wife without reservation.
Tonight, his vision crystal clear, helped no doubt by the amounts of
whisky he'd drunk, he knew with a sickening certainty that the only
person who would ever break through the barriers built over a life-time
of war and death was the man in the other room.
A man who had once killed him, who would no doubt do so again if ordered
to by his masters.
A man who whored himself because of a debt incurred.
A man he fucked and used each night.
A man he hated.
Coming into the kitchen the next morning, Skinner found Krycek already
seated at the table, sipping a cup of coffee. He hesitated briefly in
the doorway, but for all his faults, no one had ever accused Walter
Skinner of cowardice.
"Good morning," he said curtly before pouring himself some coffee,
gulping it down. He glanced over at the dark head bent over a newspaper,
even white teeth biting into a piece of a toast smeared liberally with
honey.
"Good morning, what's the day's schedule?" Krycek's tone of voice was
low, pleasant, giving nothing away.
"I have a meeting with Scully and Doggett later this morning," Skinner
was deliberately casual, ignoring the minute stiffening Scully's name
caused.
"Want me to stay out of the way?" Krycek glanced up, folding the
newspaper neatly.
Skinner shook his head, "No, I want you to attend."
Picking up his cup and dumping it in the sink, Krycek said evenly.
"Whatever you want, you're the boss."
"So you've said," Skinner gave him a long thoughtful look but said
nothing else as he went to get dressed. Tightening the knot of his tie
he glanced briefly in the mirror, seeing the stocky middle-aged man
staring back at him. Shaking his head, he wondered, as he'd done so many
times before, what the fuck he was doing. Surely the wisest course of
action would be to get Krycek out of his apartment, out of his life.
He sighed, picking up his briefcase, knowing that he would never do it.
After a lifetime spent devoted to duty, to doing the 'right thing'
Walter Skinner would not easily give up the man in his bed.
The trip to the office was made in complete silence, Krycek repeatedly
scanning their surroundings, wary and tense. Skinner, after giving him a
thoughtful look, didn't say anything either.
Walking inside, showing his pass, waiting for Krycek, who always had to
go through the metal detector, and who always got stopped by the guards,
Skinner realized that even in the short time they'd been together,
they'd adjusted to each other, to an amazing degree, as he waited, with
barely concealed impatience for Krycek to emerge from the small room.
"Why don't you stop pissing them off?" he asked curtly as Krycek finally
joined him, cocky grin in place, glancing over at the glaring sullen
guards.
Krycek shrugged, "Wouldn't matter what I do. That bunch definitely
doesn't believe in 'forgive and forget.'"
"What did you do to them?" Skinner asked resigned.
"Nothing," Krycek was all wide-eyed innocence. Abruptly he dropped the
pose. "Their supervisor worked with me once on a case."
Skinner gave him a steady look. "He liked you." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, he did," was the soft answer. "And I liked him."
Something close to understanding flickered in dark eyes. "Not easy
having to deal with everyone you let down and betrayed, is it?"
The moment of vulnerability passed as Krycek shrugged. "Nothing more,
than I deserve, right?"
"Correct."
They said nothing else as they stepped into the elevator taking them to
the sixth floor.
"Good morning, sir, Krycek," Scully walked inside the office followed by
Doggett. Neat, dark suit, sensible shoes, every hair in place she looked
every inch the efficient FBI agent she was.
"Good morning agents," Skinner greeted sitting behind his desk.
Krycek nodded briefly from his usual perch by the window, before
returning to his study of the street.
Scully gave him a brief searching look before she settled on her chair,
a note pad and pencil in her hand. "Sir, I've talked to Byers and
they're digging through old databases on Halliwell." She flipped a page
on her notepad. "I have also talked to Jameson about Peter Cardenza."
Skinner played with a pencil, "Cardenza? Ah yes, the smuggler."
So used were they to Krycek's presence by now, that none of the three
FBI agents noticed the slight stiffening, the sudden alertness before
Krycek slouched down to his usual indifferent sprawl again.
She nodded. "Exactly sir, we got a rather lucky break, his partners are
willing to cut a deal." Scully smiled grimly, "the senior partner's
daughter got caught in a drug raid a month ago. Daddy didn't want his
little girl going to jail instead of Stanford and he rolled over without
hesitation. It's our belief that Cardenza could be an important step on
the road of cracking Thomas Halliwell. The two have had considerable
business together in the past."
"Good job, Scully." Skinner complimented her briskly. "Please set up the
operation."
They moved on to other topics, the inevitable paperwork and bureaucracy
that dogged every government agency.
After his solitary lunch, nothing more than a quick sandwich in the
cafeteria, Krycek was walking down the corridor on the way back to
Skinner's office, oblivious to the many suspicious looks he encountered,
the wry crook of his mouth the only evidence he may not have been quite
as ignorant as he seemed.
"Krycek, a word with you?"
He turned at the sound of the voice, and waited until she reached him.
"Yeah?"
"Err... is everything all right? Skinner didn't seem too happy about me
being at his place last night." She hesitated but uneasiness at the
memory of Skinner's icy rage last night pushed her on. "You explained
didn't you?"
Krycek shrugged. "Don't worry about it, Scully."
She bit her lip. "I wouldn't want Skinner to get the wrong impression."
He suddenly smiled. "You're a big fraud, you know that?"
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
In reply he leaned forward and kissed her hair, breathing in the light
flowery scent of the herbal shampoo she used. "Tough, hard as nails,
ice-queen Dana Scully. But underneath you're as human as the rest of
us."
She blinked, hovering for a moment between anger and laughter, before
laughter won. "Don't let it get around," she whispered in his ear. Then
she was gone, leaving him staring at her rapidly departing back.
Krycek smiled strangely, watching the last flick of auburn disappear.
"Leave her alone," a voice growled in his ear.
He turned around and collided with the cold eyes of John Doggett. Krycek
smirked. "Jealous?"
In answer, Doggett snorted. "Look, you may enjoy playing sexual musical
chairs and screwing with people's heads, but leave me out of it.
Scully's my partner so I protect her back. I also happen to respect her
a hell of a lot."
A strange look crossed green eyes before Krycek suddenly chuckled
softly. "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose." His voice slid
effortlessly into perfect French, caressing the musical cadence.
"Mr. Skinner, are you ready to leave?" As always, Krycek was
scrupulously formal and polite whenever there was someone else present.
Skinner looked up from signing a last batch of papers. "I'll be right
with you," he spoke curtly while nodding his thanks to the quiet
efficient blonde who was his secretary.
She took the papers and with a disapproving flick of her narrow grey
plaid skirt she left, passing as far away from Krycek as was possible.
Smiling wryly, Krycek looked after the blond secretary. He realized
Skinner was giving him a quizzical look and remarked idly, "I think I
preferred Kim, I swear the temperature must have dropped ten degrees
when I came in."
Taking his time, putting the black and gold pen back in its leather
case, Skinner noted dryly, "You do have a certain reputation around
here, Krycek. Christine doesn't approve of you, I'm afraid."
Sprawling down in the visitor's chair facing the large desk, Krycek
arched an eyebrow, laughter dancing in his eyes. "What, little old me?"
Skinner just shook his head and picked up his briefcase. "Drop it,
Krycek."
"Yes, sir!"
Following the broad back in its immaculate white shirt, Krycek allowed
himself a rueful half-smile.
They were just about to get into the car when the attack happened, their
only warning a sudden screeching of tires. Krycek reacted instinctively,
and almost faster than the eye could follow he pushed Skinner to the
ground, protecting the bigger man with his body even as he pulled his
gun. Aiming and firing in one smooth motion he moved faster than seemed
humanly possible. Laying down a hail at bullets he snapped at Skinner.
"Stay down, dammit!"
Cursing vividly, Skinner pulled his own gun, crouching behind a dark
green Toyota that belonged, he realized with a flicker of amusement, to
the accountant in Finance. "How many?"
Flattening himself against the car, to make as small a target as
possible, Krycek spat something unintelligible in Russian as a bullet
whizzed past him so closely he felt the heat of its progress. He
returned fire, watching another man go down. "I count eight, including
the driver."
"Yeah, that's what I make it." Skinner almost flinched as another bullet
embedded itself in the formerly flawless lacquer of the car door. He
cautiously poked his head around, swiftly withdrawing it when the fire
intensified. "Cover me!" he ordered, waiting until Krycek laid down a
wall of bullets, before dashing across, returning fire, smiling in grim
satisfaction as he watched another man go down.
Caught in the deadly crossfire, the remaining two would-be assassins
broke and ran.
"No!" Skinner barked as Krycek made a motion to follow. "Leave it,
Alex." It was the second time he'd used the name, and it brought up the
younger man sharply.
For a moment he looked ready to argue, but after a long tense moment,
Krycek sighed, relaxing fractionally. "Your call," he said coolly.
Skinner nodded curtly. Gun still at the ready as he approached the
sprawling bodies. "You know them?" he glanced over at Krycek.
A shake of a dark head was the answer. "Nope." He shrugged, "but it
doesn't have to mean anything. The consortium has quite a few bodies
I've never seen."
Skinner gave him a sharp look. "You think this is Consortium?"
"Dunno, could be." Krycek knelt beside one of the bodies, rolling it
over. "'Course it could also be someone who doesn't like your new
friends." He re-holstered his gun, going through the pockets of the dead
man swiftly and efficiently. Glancing over his shoulder, he said
casually, "And here comes the cavalry, too late as usual."
Skinner looked up to see Scully and Doggett leading a group of FBI
agents, all with drawn guns fanning out across the basement and his
mouth curled in the same sardonic amusement that colored the husky voice
of the man kneeling on the ground before him.
Some of the tension flowed from his shoulders and Krycek withdrew into
his usual remote, watchful stance as Scully checked Skinner making sure
he was unharmed.
Doggett's usually cool grey eyes were more than a little stunned as he
took in the scene of carnage and the bodies. He walked over to where
Krycek was leaning against a car. "You took out six men?"
Krycek shook his head. "Nah, Mr. Skinner got two of them," he smiled
wolfishly.
Doggett glanced at where two agents were arguing animatedly over one of
the corpses. From the direction of the frequent looks both men aimed
towards Krycek, it was pretty clear what the topic of discussion was.
"Still, four against one, that's pretty bad odds.
Krycek had already ceased listening, focusing on Skinner who was on the
ground being fussed over by Scully.
Walter Skinner irritably batted away her hand. "I'm fine, Scully. My
shoulder's just a little bruised from hitting the ground at the wrong
angle."
"I still want to take a look, sir," she maintained stubbornly.
He sighed, knowing just how tenacious she could be. "Fine, but I'm going
home. If you insist you can check me over there." He stood up. "Krycek,
get your ass moving."
"Yes, sir!" With a soft chuckle, completely unfazed by the surly
reaction of the man whose life he had just saved, Krycek moved into his
usual position, behind and to the right of his master.
FBI Headquarters
Despite everyone putting in longer and longer hours, they registered
little progress. As Krycek had said that first day, Halliwell was far
too careful to leave an opening they could exploit.
Working mostly out of Skinner's office, Krycek was keeping his mouth
shut and to himself, despite the slight easing of tension among the rest
of the FBI ever since he'd saved Skinner's life, more or less, during
the garage ambush.
Taking a break in his attempts to work through the layers of dummy
corporations Halliwell had surrounded his operations in he glanced over
to where Skinner was working on the endless paperwork that seemed to dog
his existence. Rising and stretching, he ambled over to the desk looking
down at the open file lying there. "Who's this?" he asked casually,
holding up a black and white photo.
Stiffening, Skinner reached across the desk and tore the photo from
Krycek's hand. "Give me that!" he growled.
Startled by the reaction, Krycek looked down at the paper beneath the
photo, "Alan Thompson? I don't remember seeing him around Halliwell."
Skinner didn't answer but only said curtly, "I've arranged for you to
work with Scully, I want the two of you to track down those records you
were talking about earlier. None of our files mention their existence or
we'd have been after them. Doggett is checking old contacts at Justice."
Krycek lifted an eyebrow. "You want me to work with Scully? If I don't
get back, at least make her reveal where she hid my body."
An unwilling smile curled a corner of the stern mouth. "She won't shoot
you on FBI premises, too much paperwork to fill out."
Krycek gave him a speaking look as he left.
Surrounded by row upon row of dusty files and folders they worked
without speaking. Seated at a small table, dust motes floated in the
light of the bulb hanging overhead. Some of the initial tension
gradually dissipated, as they poured through endless files fortified by
cups of truly exorable coffee.
Getting up to get another file, she glanced over at dark head bent over
an arrest report thinking how easy it was to forget that once Krycek had
actually been a good agent. For a moment she almost smiled remembering
the earnest young man with the arresting eyes and terrible clothes.
"Scully, who was Alan Thomson?"
She looked up, obviously surprised by the question. "Alan Thomson? He
is, or was, a senior FBI agent." Her face tightened. "He was killed in
the line of duty two months ago, Skinner took it pretty hard. I know
that they were close."
Krycek simply nodded, not revealing his dismay. Well, he had his answer.
Hell, a man like Skinner probably believed in loyalty and friendship and
all that shit.
Fuck.
Three hours later Scully shut the file she was reading with a snap. "I'm
not sure where you got your information from, Krycek but I can't find
anything to back it up." She eyed him with obviously distrust. "Tell me
again exactly how you know that Halliwell keeps secret records."
Krycek arched an eyebrow. "He doesn't let it get around, but he told me
years ago." He smirked, "at a time and place where, trust me, there was
no reason for him lie."
"I don't need to know all the sordid details," Scully said repressively.
He leaned back, long slender fingers idly playing with a pen. "Actually,
I'm not surprised that both the CIA and the FBI have failed. Thomas has
a very sharply honed instinct for betrayal and he's made sure that his
people are completely loyal."
"Does he trust you?" She didn't react to his casual use of Halliwell's
first name.
Krycek blinked and then chuckled softly, "I doubt it. I don't know many
people who do. What are you suggesting?"
She frowned, not answering that question directly, saying instead, " You
think he's keeping the computer files and discs in his house?" She
paused, frustration evident when she continued, "We can't get a search
warrant for his house because we don't have the evidence, and we won't
get the evidence because we can't get a search warrant. It's a classic
Catch 22 situation."
He nodded. "And if I know Thomas right, he's keeping them very close."
He looked up, "how by the book do you think Skinner wants this to be?"
"As close as possible. Why?"
A shrug, "Well, a prudent spot of B&E could solve the problem."
Scully frowned, "I don't think he's going to approve of that."
Krycek's grin was filled with mischief. "He doesn't have to know."
She almost rolled her eyes. "Grow up, Krycek. Unlike you I don't go out
of my way to lie and deceive people, especially my boss, nor do I get a
kick out of breaking the rules."
He shrugged, standing up and stretching to get the kinks out. "It was
just a thought, besides Skinner's not above bending the rules when it
suits him."
Before he could say anything else, the door opened and Doggett walked
in. Ignoring Krycek, he told Scully shortly, "Well, he's not lying. I
found someone over at Justice who'd transferred from ATF and he confirms
everything." Doggett glanced over at Krycek, "he was mighty curious how
the hell you know about them. According to Jake, Halliwell guards his
records like they're a state secret, he actually had one of his own men
killed for talking about them in a bar while drunk, that's how ATF
learned they existed." Doggett was obviously pissed off. "They've been
hoarding the info ever since, trying to get an edge. Dammit, I hate this
inter-agency rivalry shit."
Krycek suddenly grinned. "I'll let you in on a secret, it's not so
different on the other side."
"Hey, Doggett, got a minute?" Looking up from where he was searching for
an arrest record, he saw Krycek slouching against the doorjamb in a way
that no FBI agent would ever allow him or herself.
"What do you want?" he asked curtly.
Taking it as an invitation, Krycek sauntered into the room. "I've been
told that you're not above breaking the rules once in a while."
Doggett gave him a hard look. "Who told you that?"
Krycek shook his head, "Not important. What I need to know is if you'd
be up to some ah, private enterprise that'd get the job done."
Doggett frowned, "Keep talking."
Again Krycek shook his head, "Not here, too many ears around. Meet me in
the coffee shop across the road in half an hour and I'll explain."
When Doggett entered, sniffing appreciatively at the rich scent of
coffee, he spied Krycek sitting alone by a window table, an untouched
cup in front of him.
Looking up as Doggett sat down, Krycek nodded once.
"Talk," Doggett ordered abruptly.
"I've nosed around, and I've been able to narrow it down to either his
town house or the country place he keeps out at Cape Cod." Krycek
frowned, "my bet is the Cape, it's got better security."
"There is no way we'll be able to get a search warrant," Doggett pointed
out.
Krycek flashed a white-toothed grin. "Who said anything about asking for
one?"
"I see..." Doggett slowly sipped his coffee. "You know what would happen
if we got caught?"
An indifferent shrug of leather-clad shoulders. "If we do, just lay the
blame on me, I don't mind taking the rap for leading another innocent
FBI agent astray." Mouth quirked, "Besides we won't get caught, will
we?"
Not answering, Doggett silently weighed the pros and cons. "Tell me
something, Krycek," he said thoughtfully, "why are you so determined to
get Halliwell? There's nothing in it for you."
Krycek smiled wryly, "Unfortunately that's not quite true. Trust me,
catching Thomas means more to you than to me."
Doggett look suddenly suspicious, hearing the welter of conflicting
emotions in the level voice. "Why do I get the feeling you know this guy
a hell of a lot better than you let on?"
"Let's just say that we've run into each other from time to time."
Outside Thomas Halliwell's country estate
Krycek was already waiting when Doggett drove up and parked the car. He
simply melted out of the shadows, making Doggett almost jump when he
felt a hand on his shoulder.
Turning, gun flashing out, he found Krycek standing behind him, dressed
all in black a utility belt around his waist.
"You're on time."
It was Doggett's turn to be inspected and then Krycek seemed to relax
slightly. "Good, you're dressed for the job."
"You thought I'd turn up in an Armani suit and tie?" Doggett asked
ironically.
A sardonic grin acknowledged the reputation of the man against whom
Doggett was constantly judged and mostly found wanting, at least by his
partner and immediate superior.
All Krycek said however, was, "Come on, I've been scouting ahead and
there's a place we can use to check what kind of security we're up
against.
Flat on the ground, their position on a small rise hiding them from
prying eyes they waited patiently to map out the security of their
target. Weight supported by his elbows, Doggett spoke softly, eyes
trained on the imposing country manor, "I just don't get you, Krycek."
"Get what?" Krycek, fiddled a little with the night vision binoculars
he'd brought to scan the perimeter defenses.
"When I first heard about you from a friend at Quantico, I couldn't
figure out just how you'd managed to infiltrate so easily. Your cover
must have been fucking good to survive not only FBI's but Mulder's
screening."
He shifted on the ground, trying to find a more comfortable position,
"It's obvious what you and Skinner are doing," cool disapproval colored
his voice, "but I've also seen the way he'll say jump and you'll just
ask how high."
"Yeah, so?" Krycek seemed supremely unmoved by the less than flattering
observation.
"You don't strike me as a roll-over. You're a murderous bastard and a
traitor," Doggett said flatly, "I find it hard to believe you'd let even
AD Walter Skinner walk all over you. Level with me, Krycek, what's your
angle?"
Krycek took his time answering, peering through the telescope silently
counting the number of guards. Finally he said softly, "You're right, I
don't easily take orders," his mouth twisted sardonically, "which
doesn't mean I haven't had to put up with some serious shit. Part and
parcel of the trade I'm in." He shrugged, "Simple truth is that Skinner
owns me, lock, stock and barrel."
Doggett turned his head and gave him an incredulous look, "Jesus,
Krycek, how over-the-top is that? 'Owning'" he mimicked. "Unless you've
totally missed it, the 13th Amendment means we don't believe in slavery
in this country. I think we may even have fought a war or two to stop
it."
"I bet you still believe there is a Santa Claus too," was the sardonic
reply.
Doggett frowned, about to speak, when Krycek shook his head sharply.
"No, listen! I've been owned most of my life, a tool to be traded, used
and then dropped when I was no longer convenient." He laughed softly
with little humor, "And no, I didn't like it, why the hell do you think
I've got a reputation as a contrary bastard? No one, not even the smoker
could ever quite break me to the leash."
Very softly he added, "Yeah, I'll jump at his command, I don't really
have much choice, and" he broke off abruptly, "let's go! There's a
change of guards coming up." He started to crawl through the grass,
closely followed by Doggett.
"Shit!"
"What's wrong?" Doggett hissed, keeping a nervous lookout, ear pressed
to the closed door of the lavish office they were in.
"It's not here!"
"What the fuck are you talking about?!" Doggett came over and crouched
beside Krycek staring into the open safe. There were neat piles of
dollar bills, velvet boxes which when Krycek reached in and opened one,
spilled out a treasure of gems and gold. "Shit, he must have taken
everything with him."
Doggett suppressed a curse. "Now what?"
"We get the hell out," Krycek growled.
"Sound thinking," Doggett agreed, rising. Realizing that Krycek wasn't
beside him, he glanced down to find the other man still staring into the
safe. "Come on," he ordered.
Krycek didn't answer, contemplating the fortune inside the safe. "Hey,
Doggett, want to add to your pension plan?"
"Jesus Christ, Krycek, we're FBI agents, not fucking thieves!"
A husky chuckle as Krycek rose, his hand full of diamonds and rubies.
"I'm not."
"Krycek!" Doggett growled angrily.
"Relax, Dog-boy," green eyes gleamed mockingly in the darkness as Krycek
easily avoided Doggett's rush. "I think we tripped an alarm, they'll
know someone's been here, better we make it look like an ordinary
break-in don't you think?"
Giving his companion a suspicious look, Doggett had little choice but
accepting that Krycek spoke the truth, watching in sullen silence as the
other man calmly stuffed his pockets full of gems and banknotes. "Let's
go."
They reached the car without interruptions, and unlocking the door,
Doggett hesitated, looking over the top of the hood towards Krycek
brooding on the other side. "Sorry, we didn't get what we came for."
Krycek seemed to awaken from whatever dark thoughts had been occupying
him to shrug, "Name of the game. Nice working with you, Doggett." He was
about to say something else, but instead simply nodded once and melted
into the shadows from which he'd come.
Getting into his car and starting the long weary drive home, Doggett
reflected that despite spending most of the night with Krycek, on the
kind of tight dangerous operation that usually bonded two people, he
knew nothing more about the man called Alex Krycek than he did before
tonight.
FBI Headquarters
Passing by the small lunchroom down the corridor, Skinner paused outside
the door, when he heard Krycek's husky voice.
"... I told you, he won't sell me to the highest bidder."
John Doggett blinked not sure how to take the flat statement. "Uhhh..."
Green eyes shifted from anger to cool, ironic amusement once again. "Did
I shock your fibbie sensibilities?"
"Corrupting my agents, Krycek?"
They both looked up at the deep voice.
"Is that possible, sir?" There was still a smile in the husky drawl. "I
didn't think there were any more idealists around."
Skinner gave him a look. "You're the only man I know who can make
idealist sound like fool."
"That's because 99% of the time they are one and the same."
"I think I've just been insulted," Doggett said dryly. He rose, "much as
I've liked having this little talk, I've still got some things to do."
He turned to Skinner; "I'll see you later this afternoon at the
department meeting, sir."
When Doggett left, there was a long silence.
Krycek drained the last of his coffee. "It's strange being back here,"
he said abruptly. "Last time I walked these corridors I was" He broke
off.
"Playing a part." Skinner finished. "Geeky green agent worshipping at
Mulder's feet." It slipped out a degree sharper than he'd intended.
Krycek chuckled softly, "Yeah, you know, I rather liked that Alex
Krycek. He had something."
"He was certainly better than the Consortium agent and traitor,"
Skinner's voice was so dry it could have cut ice. "And infinitely better
than the man who showed up pressing little buttons on his palm pilot."
It was like an old familiar melody as the trademark smirk spread across
Krycek's face. "Yeah, well that was just payback for an extremely cold
night on your balcony."
Skinner refused to take the bait, knowing how fast it could descend into
punch and counter-punch, no less hurtful for being verbal rather than
physical. He knew how easy it had been in past to take out his rage on
the man in front of him. And he realized again that Krycek seemed to
almost relish the return to familiar ground, to well-known hostility and
anger.
"So we're quid pro quo now?" he asked mildly and was rewarded by
confusion, quickly covered.
"Dunno, are we?" Oh yes, that was vintage Krycek, wary, wearing a small
mocking grin that made you want to punch him in the gut.
"Oh, I think so..." His voice dropped a little, and as always Krycek
responded to the change. He sprawled a little deeper in the chair, long
muscular legs sliding open.
"Good, then why don't we go somewhere where you can fuck me stupid?"
A reluctant smile curled the stern mouth. "Is that your solution to
everything, Alex?" The name came more naturally this time, sliding
across his lips with ease.
Krycek laughed softly, rising in one smooth movement, "It's worked for
me so far." He reached out, only for Skinner to step back, and his arm
fell to his side. "Sorry, forgot," he said coolly.
It wasn't that he relished the thought of FBI agents snickering behind
his back about being their AD's rent-boy, but Skinner's insistence that
at work all personal contact was prohibited still irritated him. It
wasn't even, recalling Doggett's words last night, as though they were
fooling anyone.
Skinner seemed about to say something, to explain but it was too late as
Krycek had already turned away, walls back in place.
At dinner that night, and when the hell had dinner become a natural part
of their lives? Krycek wondered in mixed bafflement and frustration, he
listened to Skinner talking on the phone with some unknown woman.
Assuring her repeatedly that everything possible was being done. There
was a tone in the deep voice he'd never heard before.
When Skinner came back to the table and sat down, dark eyes somber and
frustrated, he knew instinctively who it had been on the other end of
the line.
"You don't find it strange talking to this Thomson's wife, when the two
of you were fucking each other?" He asked coolly, waiting for the
explosion.
Skinner looked up from his food startled, and when he replied his voice
was more amused than anything, "Alan was very straight and very, very
married. Not everything's about sex, Krycek. What he was, was an old and
trusted friend. We came up through the ranks together, he covered my
back more than once, I'm godfather of their youngest son." His voice
grew cold as ice, "He was a damned good man who deserved a better fate
than being shot in the gut and knees and left to die in an empty
warehouse."
More disturbed than he wanted to admit by the velvet thread of respect
and affection in the deep voice, Krycek looked down at the fork in his
hand, shaken by the sudden bolt of jealousy.
It would be foolish in the extreme to crave something he'd never have.
To want something that Skinner would never give to a man like himself.
Respect. Friendship. Loyalty.
"So that's why you hate Halliwell?"
It was Skinner's turn to shrug, "Yes and no, I'd have gone after him in
any case because of his crimes, but yes, Alan makes it personal. I
want Halliwell, and I'll use whatever means necessary to get him."
Including you. His level look challenged silently.
A flash of anger heated suddenly slitted cat-eyes. It was irrational but
the realization that Skinner was using him to avenge his good buddy
made him angry as hell.
Fuck you Skinner!
He stood for a moment in the darkness gathering himself, the air sour
and thick with smoke and reeking of human filth.
Walking through the park he felt the unseen eyes of predators watching
him carefully from the shadows.
Old habits, old personas kicked in as he swiftly and silently made his
through the darkness and the errant thought whispered through his mind
that this was where he truly belonged, among his own kind.
The house had once been a marvel of red brick, gracefully arched windows
and elegant proportions; when it was first built in the early decades of
the century. In the here and now, gaping holes and rotting window-frames
remained stark evidence of its status as a derelict, long abandoned by
everyone bar the rats, human and non-human.
He was early, just as he'd planned. Waiting patiently, leaning against
the wall, unheeding of the stench and filth surrounding him, he once
again went through the reasons for coming here.
Hearing the steps in the broken stairwell, a wolfish smile twisted his
mouth as he stepped softly to the left of the doorway, the door hanging
broken and useless on rusting, bent hinges.
The man came into the room slowly, carefully.
Slipping up behind him, Krycek pressed the muzzle of his gun to the
neck. "Hello, Cardenza, long time no see."
He stood very still, arms at sides, well away from the gun hidden
beneath the dark coat.
"Krycek. I heard you were dead."
A sardonic tone, "I'm hard to kill."
A half-smile shaped Cardenza's mouth as he watched Krycek moving
carefully, keeping his distance leaving no opening, until they were face
to face.
They locked eyes: killer-to-killer.
"I wouldn't have failed."
"Perhaps, perhaps not."
A tawny eyebrow arched. "You gonna kill me?"
Krycek seemed to actually consider it for a moment, but then a smile
that was no smile at all twisted his lips. "Not tonight."
"So why the set-up?" Cardenza seemed unmoved by the information that
he'd survive to see another sunrise.
Uncocking the gun and raising the barrel in a mute sign of trust, Krycek
replied, "No set-up. I just wanted to talk where no prying eyes could
see us."
Putting his hands in the pockets of his coat, Cardenza said coolly,
"Then talk."
"The Feds are on your case," Krycek said flatly.
The other man shrugged once. "They have been for a long time." There was
little concern in his voice.
"It's different now."
"How so?"
"Your partners are selling you out."
That hit, as he knew he would. "I don't believe you!"
The knowledge of betrayal sat heavy and bitter on the broad shoulders.
Krycek smiled, self-mockery evident in the tone of his voice. "No? Do
you know who is holding my leash these days?" He waited but there was no
question, nothing from the man who remained so still he could have been
carved from stone. "Walter Skinner."
That got a reaction, as he knew it would. "The man leading the FBI
investigation?"
Ah, so Cardenza too had his connections. It seemed that more than one
G-men could be bought. The thought amused him for some reason.
"Why the warning, Krycek?"
Another shrug. "I owe you for Berlin."
A brief hesitation and then, harshly, "Can you find out when they'll hit
me?"
They both knew the promise implicit in the words. The debt incurred and
acknowledged.
"Dunno. Perhaps. It's," Krycek hesitated and then said carefully, "not
uncomplicated."
"You're under orders?"
Krycek nodded once. Pulling out a small bottle, he held it out to
Cardenza who shook his head. Unscrewing the cap and taking a deep swig
he felt the fiery liquid burn down his throat providing welcome
protection against the rawness of the night. "You're just a small part
of a much larger operation. Get out now, Peter, cut your losses and
run."
Cardenza bit his lip. "I'll lose a bundle."
"Better than your life and everything you've spent your life building. I
mean it. You don't stand a rat's ass in hell with your partners refusing
to lift a finger to help you and the Feds determined to bring you down."
"I'll go tonight." There was a pause and the hard voice changed, "come
with me, Alex?"
Krycek flinched. "I can't."
"They'll know who tipped me off."
A jerky nod. "I know."
"You'll be lucky if they let you live."
"I know."
"You're one crazy bastard, you know that?"
"Nah, being crazy would be taking you up on your offer. Besides..." he
hesitated. "I'll take my chances Skinner's got enough pull that they
won't kill me."
He hoped.
Cardenza gave him a long thoughtful look. "This being the man you just
betrayed by coming here? I've heard of Walter Skinner, Alex and
forgiveness for sins past is not exactly in his character."
Krycek didn't answer, but a bitter smile twisted his mouth. No, Skinner
was not a man to forgive and forget. The first night of dark vengeance
and pain had taught him that. He was reminded every time his new owner
fucked him through the mattress, every time the other man looked at him
as if he was a lower life form. Every time Skinner spoke the name
'Krycek' with cold sarcasm. Every time, Skinner baited him with icy
mockery that scantly hid his contempt of one Alex Krycek.
"I know," he said softly for a third time.
A knowing leer curled Cardenza's mouth. "You've gotta be pretty sure
that you're worth more to him alive than dead. Same old Alex, eh?"
There was no answering smile on the thin face. "I'm not sure of
anything, Peter, except that I can't run."
The other man sighed. "I read you, Krycek." The name meant a return to
normality, a shift away from intimacy. "We're more than even now, if
there is anything I can do for you in the future..."
Krycek screwed the cap of the bottle back on, tucking it back inside his
jacket. "Actually, there is something you can do. Recently there was an
attack on Skinner."
"Who?"
"Dunno, but I recognized one of the guys, Bill Tolstoy."
Cardenza raised an eyebrow, "Tolstoy? Last I heard he was working for"
he broke off, light dawning in grey eyes. "Ahhh... yes, I see."
"If Harold's involved it can only mean one thing."
A long slow nod, "I read you. I'll make some phone calls. If it really
is Harold," he broke off, swore, "Christ, they must be stopped!" He
glanced over at Krycek, "and it means one more reason for you to get the
hell out of Dodge."
"I can't." He could never explain to Cardenza why he had to stay. A
year, a month, a week ago he would have simply run, using the funds
salted away in numbered accounts and added to recently by the money from
Halliwell's safe. He'd have counted on skills honed during a life on the
knife-edge to avoid the Consortium's bounty hunters for a little while
and determined to at least take some of the bastards with him when the
time came.
He realized that Cardenza was watching him with narrowed eyes. "What?"
"That's the real reason you came, isn't it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Your bull-shit, all that crock about owing me. If you hadn't wanted to
know about Bill Tolstoy you'd have let me fry."
Krycek half-smiled, an enigmatic look in green eyes. "Maybe," his smile
widened at Cardenza's snort of disbelief, "and then again, maybe not."
He peeled himself off the wall, adding abruptly, "I'll be waiting for
your call. See you around."
"Not if I see you first," but the tone was softly ironic, almost amused.
Peter Cardenza's House
"Damn!" Skinner rarely swore while on duty, but this time he thought
circumstances warranted it. "You're sure?"
"Yes, sir," the voice of the FBI agent crackling through the radio
conveyed both anger and frustration. "He's gone. Cleared out, not a
trace remaining."
Skinner thought for a moment then ordered curtly, "Get whatever is left
behind then return to base."
"Something go wrong?"
He turned and realized that at some point Krycek had snuck into the
room. "Cardenza has flown the coop." There was little reason in not
telling him the truth.
"Too bad," Krycek balanced his hip on the corner of a table. He looked
uninterested. "So, do you feel like Chinese or Thai?"
"Krycek..." the growl was a warning.
As always Krycek dared to go where neither angels nor men ventured.
"Italian then? I'm easy." The quirk of his mouth invited the obvious
comeback.
Skinner ignored him, barking more orders into his walkie-talkie.
It was the beginning of a long and frustrating day. Peter Cardenza had
been extremely thorough in his flight leaving behind him nothing but
empty warehouses and wiped hard discs. In the end, Skinner and his team
had to admit defeat, bringing back whatever they'd been able to find.
They knew there were weeks of weary re-assembling and puzzling together
of scraps, for probably little or no payout.
By the time they were in the elevator going down to the basement
parking, Skinner was feeling a headache pounding behind his eyes.
"Hey," a soft touch on his shoulder made him turn.
Krycek gave him a quizzical smile, "You're looking pretty wiped out.
What do you say to some takeout and a cold beer?"
Skinner closed his eyes for a moment, "You read my mind," he admitted
wearily, allowing his body to lean into the touch.
Krycek stepped closer, blowing warm air into his ear, "Bet I can read
your mind about the rest of the night as well." His hips moved, rubbing
up against Skinner's hand.
Skinner laughed low, fingers tracing the outline of hard flesh through
the denim. "You're such a slut, Alex."
The only answer was a shuddering breath as Krycek pushed his groin
closer, hot impatient lips fastening on Skinner's neck, sucking hard.
"Just the way you like, me, eh?"
Although Skinner smiled in agreement, a small voice at the back of his
mind insisted with increasing force that, no it wasn't. He didn't want
Krycek the slut, Krycek the Consortium whore, who spread for anyone who
paid the price. He didn't want to stare into bottle green eyes and see
nothing but emptiness and lust.
They had to step away from each other as the doors of the elevator slid
open. A respectable distance apart they stepped into the garage.
"Mr. Skinner..."
The polite voice had them both whirling, Krycek pulling his gun and
aiming it in one smooth move. "Behind me!"
Skinner tensed, but a quick scan revealed nothing more threatening than
a man in a suit standing by a large black Mercedes. Curtly he ordered
Krycek to put up his gun.
Obviously unwilling, Krycek obeyed, giving the car and the man a
suspicious look. Then he seemed to relax fractionally. "It's clear,
they're known," he announced.
Skinner frowned. "That doesn't exactly reassure me." He looked at the
stranger. "I assume I have little choice?"
"Not at all, Mr. Skinner, we are not here to abduct you," a slight
smile. "On the contrary, Mr. Smith would be honored if you would meet
with him."
Walter Skinner sighed, "Very well, let's just get this over with."
Automatically he glanced over at Krycek who was beginning to look tense.
"Alex?"
"Let's go," Krycek agreed quietly, resignation in his voice.
The trip was made in complete silence, and as soon as the car slid to a
stop, men stepped from the house and surrounded Krycek who was taken
away.
"What the hell?!" Skinner started after them, only to be halted by a
polite touch on his arm.
"This way, Mr. Skinner, Mr. Smith will explain everything."
"Where are they taking Krycek?" Skinner demanded, anger rising.
"As I said, everything will be explained by Mr. Smith." The younger man
waited patiently until Skinner reluctantly followed him."
He sat in the darkness of his room, dark fury consuming him. The
contents of a yellow folder spilled across the table. The storm outside
more than matched the force of the anger rising and consuming him.
Once again Krycek had betrayed him. Once again he had let his guard
down, fooled by a pair of green eyes and a body that begged to be used
and taken. He had been so sure that never again would he fall into the
trap. That this time he was armed. But, despite the hatred that festered
inside he had been lured into a false sense of security by Krycek's
apparently sincerity and the body that was offered so freely and
expertly.
Standing up, scattering the pictures of Krycek and Cardenza caballing
across the polished oak surface and the thick dark carpet beneath it,
Skinner almost swore aloud at his own idiocy, the stupefaction he was
unable to hide when Mr. Smith had calmly laid out the evidence for
Krycek's duplicity.
"He must be punished, Mr. Skinner," the old thin voice had said, pale
eyes watching him carefully.
Struck to the core of his soul by this new treachery and furious by his
own stupidity, Skinner whispered a single word.
"Yes."
|
Title: Measure of Devotion
Author: MJ Lee E-Mail: mj.lee@chello.se Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Skinner/Krycek Warnings: Non-connish in places, quite a bit of angst and schmoop. Very mild spoilers for Season 8 but veering off in another direction before that ep.J Feedback: Yes, please. Notes: Well, this was supposed to be just a tiny pwp, a character study of Krycek and Skinner, but umm, it turned into something else. I have a quite a few people to thank, so in no particular order, Emu, for reading through a first rough draft and offering insights into Skinner; Aaboe and Cara for their knowledge of ahem, interesting techniques and kinks; Kris for the Russian cursing; Kes for gun info; the unlucky people in #bic who had to suffer through my endless moaning, whining and obsessing in IRC; Ursula for once again taking time out from her own incredibly busy life and betaing another monster for me; and last by never, never least; the two best friends and betas anyone can ever be lucky enough to have, Raven and Dee. I don't know many people who will beta a story this size, correct horrendous grammar and knit dangling plot threads together, not to mention betaing a final version on-line in one marathon eight-hour session. Dee, I worship at your feet. Raven is the only person I know who sends back a betaed story before I've had time to catch my breath and then pushes for more to beta. J This is dedicated to all the great Sk/K writers, in particular Josan and JiM who first introduced me to the pleasure of the AD and his Rat. Summary: An unexpected encounter between two old enemies leads to Walter Skinner acquiring a new and unwanted possession. |
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