Go to notes and disclaimers


Measure of Devotion
by MJ Lee


How did Agent Thompson die?"

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 apartment—and 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 nightmares—asleep 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 reacted—like Pavlov's dog facing a prime piece of meat—to 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 Krycek—of 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.

Instead—Skinner's jaw set seeing the small secret smile that curled the sensuous mouth before the dark head turned away—he 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 fingers—hands—an 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 since—the 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 said—last 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, more—reliable." 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 youth—women with no interest in the man, only the color of his money—the 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 bite—much," 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 anticipation—there 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 around—and 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 SOB—small of the back—holster, 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, abused—raped?"

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
The Next Morning

"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 third—enigmatic.

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 condo—as 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 known—even then—that 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, abused—raped?

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 tongue—hitting hard since she hadn't drunk anything for months—she 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 alone—unlike Mulder and Skinner—had 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 reason—unable to hide his strong reaction, a mixture of disgust and rejection—his 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 owed—or 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
A week later

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
The Next Morning

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
Two Days Later

"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."

###

mj.lee@chello.se

Measure of Devotion II

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.

back to top


home
[Stories by Author] [Stories by Title] [Mailing List] [Gallery] [Links] [Resources] [Home]