by Tarlan
I arise from dreams of thee
Or was it free will?
Did he jump to Krycek's aid through conditioning, like Pavlov's dogs? The
fear of the nanocytes erupting in his veins brainwashing him into providing
whatever Krycek needed, whenever he needed it? Or did he jump because of
those fantasies of Krycek's beautiful body writhing beneath his own? Had the
vision of that pretty mouth wrapped around him short-circuited his brain? He
sighed, stripping off his glasses and trying to rub away the ache behind his
eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.
But they are great fantasies.
Skinner stopped to question his own motives, pushing the sharp blade of his
own intellect deeper into his head, like a surgeon with a scalpel trying to
reach a malignancy. He wanted to understand exactly what he was doing, and
why. He wanted to know if this was just some obscene conditioning, or if it
was some subconscious desire to save that beautiful, dangerous and deadly
creature for himself.
And he is beautiful... even now with his face covered in cuts and bruises.
"Damn it." Skinner knew there was nothing overly important left for him to
do today, just budget reports, and so he depressed the key on the intercom
that connected him to his secretary. "Kim? I'm going to take the rest of the
day off. Reschedule the budget meeting for after the weekend."
'Yes, sir.'
The disembodied voice held a slight questioning quality but Skinner ignored
it; he had more important things to concern himself with than appeasing his
secretary with explanations. He glanced at his watch. If he left now he
would easily beat the worst of the commuter traffic; get home, put on a CD,
pour himself a drink, perhaps some of that twelve year old scotch he'd been
saving.
With a determined look on his face he made it as far as the parking lot exit
before he smacked the steering wheel in anger—and then headed in the
opposite direction from Crystal City.
The journey seemed to take forever and yet hardly any time passed before he
found himself parked just along the street from the Free Clinic run by his
ex-marine buddy. Skinner closed his eyes and tried to decide just what it
was that drove him here each time: conditioning, or lust.
Or fascination.
Fascination? Did Alex Krycek fascinate him? Did the image of that body
writhing upon him in wanton abandonment 'fascinate'? Anger filled him.
Shit! No.
Yes... whispered his subconscious in unwelcome response.
Skinner found himself swallowing hard as his mind conjured up a vivid image
of Alex Krycek's firm body on hand and knees before him, his own hands
gripping the lean hips tightly. The broad back would be arched, the dark
head thrown back, exposing the long line of creamy, vulnerable throat as
Skinner thrust deeply between those firm ass cheeks, filling the hot channel
with his essence before collapsing upon the curved back.
He reached down and rubbed a hand across the bulge that was slowly growing
harder in his pants and groaned, changing the image in his mind until he had
Alex on his back, legs spread and trailing over Skinner's shoulders. He
could see deep into those sea-green eyes; stormy, turbulent eyes that swept
over him like a tsunami, drowning him in their passion. Behind those eyes he
could see the sharp intellect, the razor of a mind slicing through the world
around him, and he wanted to possess that as deeply as the body he plowed.
So, is it just lust?
Could it be mere lust that brought him back here every day? Was there
anything even remotely 'lustful' about the vulnerable, damaged body lying
motionless in the clinic?
They had raped him. It didn't matter that they had paid for their actions
with their own lives, and it didn't matter that it was not the first time
Alex had been abused in such a fashion; they had still raped him, beat him
and left him for dead.
I can't hate him.
Not now. Not after seeing the terrible injuries. Oh, he could be angry with
Krycek for the pain he had inflicted upon him, but hate?
I ought to hate you, Krycek.
He rubbed a hand over gritty eyes, knowing that sleep had been elusive since
that panicked voice of a stranger had asked him to help. His mind was in
turmoil, he could not even think of the damaged man with a single name...
alternating between Alex and Krycek as the pendulum of his emotions swung
first one way then the other, between anger and desire. On the one side he
could feel the tightness of rage, feel the horror of his skin crawling as
the nanocytes attacked his body while Krycek looked on, seemingly impervious
to his pain. On the other he could see the fragile, injured man looking so
childlike beneath the tubes, wires and bandages, could remember the
pain-filled eyes clouding over in relief as Krycek gazed up at him. Krycek
trusted him.
Why? And How? How could he be so trusting; willingly placing his life into
the hands of the man he had been torturing for months? And what gave Krycek
the right to force him to take responsibility for that rat bastard's life
anyhow?
And then there were the other images, the dreams where the perfection of
that beautiful body was arching up against him as they took pleasure in one
another; the slight sheen of perspiration glowing on the silken flesh, the
brightness of smoky green eyes locked onto his with passion.
Alex... and Krycek. The man was both—separate and yet the same—and yet
it was this complexity which Skinner found so fascinating.
Skinner walked into the clinic slowly, going straight to the small room
where Alex lay, unchallenged, his presence a common sight since the day the
bloodied body was brought there. As always, his heart skipped a beat when he
saw the fragile-looking man lying as still as death. There was a change in
his condition though. Skinner noticed, instantly, that all the wires and
tubes had been removed since his last visit.
The mottled bruises covering a fair proportion of the too thin frame were
slowly fading, and yet, to Skinner, they still seemed as livid as they had
been on that first day; purple, blue and green against the pale ivory flesh.
He reached over and pushed a lock of sweat-dampened sable hair from Krycek's
forehead, but pulled back quickly as Alex began to fight the medication that
kept him sedated.
The sound of the door opening behind him brought Skinner spinning around
but, this time, it was a friend who came into the room.
"Gordy."
"Hi Walt."
"How's he doing today?"
"Fine." An uneasy silence followed. "Walt? I'm gonna need that bed soon."
"Yeah. Figured as much."
Walter Skinner pursed his lips in thought. A Free clinic could rarely afford
to allow anyone to stay any longer than necessary due to the high turnover
of patients arriving at its doors.
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Day after at the latest." Gordon Maine paused. "He still needs
someone to take care of him. To make sure he doesn't overdo things while his
body finishes the healing process."
Skinner sighed, realising that he had already come to a decision, albeit
subconsciously until this moment.
"The Department owes me some leave. I'll put him up in my apartment... look
after him until he's back on his feet."
"You're a good man, Walt."
"Am I?"
Gordon Maine didn't bother to decipher that cryptic response. He had seen
the way his friend stared at the vulnerable younger man with a mixture of
love, lust, anger and confusion. Had he not seen an answering expression of
desire—and maybe even love—reflected back from his patient then he would
have looked about for an alternative care plan.
He looked closer at his old friend, seeing the lines of stress etched deeply
as Skinner frowned down at Maine's patient. Maine sighed. He was one of the
few who had tried to talk Skinner out of marrying Sharon, having already
figured out that his friend needed male rather than female companionship. At
the time Walter had been too confused by his near-death experience, by the
brutality and destruction all around him as they fought—and loved—side
by side in Vietnam. He bit into his lower lip. If times had been different;
if homosexuality had been a little less frowned upon, then he would made a
far greater attempt to keep Skinner for himself once they returned to the
'real world'.
Maine pushed the regrets aside and focussed on the two men before him.
Despite the age difference, he had a feeling that they both needed each
other and, perhaps some time spent alone together would help build a more
solid relationship between them.
"I suppose, if he's going to move in with me then the least I can do is
retrieve his possessions for him. I doubt he'll want to go back to that
cabin for them."
The strident beep of a car horn brought his attention back to the highway
and Skinner grimaced, recognising the danger of becoming so wrapped up in
his thoughts when he ought to be concentrating on the road ahead. A few
miles later he saw the turn-off and took the small road up into the
Appalachians. The road became a track, and at the end of the track stood a
cabin.
Skinner pulled to a halt outside and sat, for a moment, staring at the
picturesque cabin nestled against the trees. It looked far too innocent to
be the scene of such ugliness and Skinner felt a momentary pang of disquiet
as he stepped out of his car. He swore under his breath, annoyed with his
own sense of dread that was coiling in his belly, and walked up to the
cabin. The door was standing slightly ajar and he nudged it open a little
further with his outstretched hand. A glance down as he crossed the
threshold made his stomach flip uneasily, his mind already supplying a name
for the dried, brown stains splattered across the floor: blood. Krycek's
blood, to be precise. Skinner swallowed hard, his lips tightening as he
stepped inside.
"Don't believe you'll get your deposit back, Alex."
He grimaced at his own sarcasm as he saw the larger stain in the centre of
the room, no longer really caring what the owners would say when they saw
the mess. It occurred to him that they may not even have been informed of
what had happened here. Certainly, Skinner had not made an official report,
having no intention of revealing Krycek's whereabouts and condition to
anyone.
Krycek's condition. He sighed as his mind provided morbid images of what
must have taken place here as his gaze fell upon the sliced T-shirt and
boxers lying nearby; discarded by the rapists. He could almost visualise the
men holding Krycek while the clothes were stripped from his body, their
grips tightening as first one then another plowed hard, and brutally, into
his unprepared ass. A cruel, sadistic part of him wanted to cheer, seeing it
as divine retribution for the way Krycek had fucked up Skinner's life, but
the civilised part of him—the part that had pushed him into enforcement as
a career—was abhorred by the viciousness of the assault.
"Hell, Walt. It's not just the job and you know it."
He admitted to himself that, despite everything Krycek had done to him, the
thought of someone hurting him this way was sickening. His thoughts turned
to Spender.
Was this why you let him live? Do you actually have a little bit of a
conscience still alive in that otherwise cold heart?
Skinner remembered the look on Spender's face as the man gazed down at Alex
in the clinic, watching Spender swallow hard in anger and disgust, the
seamed lips tightening momentarily as rheumy blue eyes travelled over the
damaged body.
Skinner snapped out of the trance he had fallen into and moved into the
bedroom. He grabbed the small holdall and placed Krycek's few belongings
into it then he moved back into the living area. He almost missed seeing the
battered paperback sticking out from beneath the overstuffed couch. Turning
the book over in his hands, Skinner frowned. It seemed a strange choice of
reading material for the man he thought he knew. Somehow he was expecting
something gritty, or dark, or informative rather than this, obviously,
well-read children's novel.
"'Have Space Suit Will Travel'. So what were you expecting, Walt? 101 ways
to Kill with One Hand?"
Skinner placed the novel into the holdall and zipped it up. On a last check
around he spotted the vodka and foodstuff that were still unpacked, sitting
on the table in the kitchen and he grabbed them too, deciding it could be
Krycek's contribution to the household while he stayed at Skinner's
apartment.
"And there's no sense wasting good food anyway."
Wet Dreams
In the first sweet sleep of night
- Shelley
Lines to an Indian Air
AD Skinner's Office
FBI Headquarters
Washington DC
alter Skinner was worried, and that annoyed him because he ought not be
worried, not about this. He grimaced. Five days ago, Alex Krycek had
resurfaced under the worst possible circumstances. A phone call from a
panicking stranger sending him on an errand of mercy to save the rat's life—
and he had jumped in, with both feet, no thought of doing otherwise ever
truly crossing his mind. Now, by rights, the lack of such a thought should
not have unnerved him. After all, Krycek had wielded that damn palm pilot
enough times that it wasn't the first time he had been forced to jump.
However, this was the crux of the dilemma. On all the other occasions he had
jumped when Krycek ordered purely because he could not bear the
indescribable pain of the nanocytes building barriers in his blood, whereas
this time he had jumped of his own free will.
It never occurred to Skinner that Alex might not agree to stay at his Crystal City apartment, but then, that was probably because Skinner was not going to offer him a choice.
As they moved through the mid-morning traffic, Skinner gazed from time to time at his sullen companion. Alex was leaning against the passenger door, pulling his body as far away from Skinner as was humanly possible in the confines of a moving car. The pretty mouth was set in a tight line, the green eyes sending daggers towards him every once in a while but Skinner knew Krycek did not have the strength to back up the animosity he was feeling.
It gave Skinner a perverse kind of pleasure, having Krycek under his control, being able to dictate to Alex what he could and could not do. It was certainly a more rewarding feeling of revenge than hitting out at him, giving Skinner a sense of power over the other that he had lost when the nanocytes infected his blood.
Eventually, Skinner pulled into his personal parking space in the underground lot beneath the tower. He turned off the engine and waited, neither man moving as the engine clicked softly, hot metal slowly cooling. Skinner sighed and glanced across at his silent companion. Alex looked back at him, green eyes flicking up through thick, long dark lashes, the beginnings of a thaw apparent.
"Guess we should go in now we're here."
Skinner stepped out of the car and stopped at the rear, fingers itching to reach out and help the struggling man get out of the car, but he knew Alex was too obstinate to accept assistance. He gave a wry grin, wondering whatever possessed him to offer to take Alex in. He could have taken care of him just as easily in a hotel.
That's a load of rot and you know it, Walt.
His internal annoyance must have shown on his face for Krycek gave him a funny look as he slowly walked passed. Skinner could see the exhaustion in the heavy footsteps and stayed fairly close as they made their way across the parking lot to the elevator, wanting to be ready to catch Krycek should he stumble or fall. Beads of perspiration had formed on the tall forehead by the time the elevator arrived and Skinner could see renewed pain etched across the delicate features when Krycek slumped against the back wall.
He found himself admiring Krycek's show of stamina when the man refused to drop onto the comfy couch as soon as they reached the apartment, moving instead to take a seat by the breakfast bar.
"Water?"
A tired nod was all he gained in response so Skinner set a tall glass of filtered water in front of Krycek.
Alex glanced around the room, he had not been given the opportunity to give it more than a cursory glance on the one other time that he had been here. On that occasion he had spent most of the time doubled up in pain from a sucker punch before being hauled across the room and thrown out onto the balcony. Later, when Mulder came to release him, he had been more concerned with getting out of there before more Consortium goons converged on the apartment. Surreptitiously, he swept his eyes around the room, taking stock of the doorways, windows, and possible weapons... then realised he did not have to worry about such things, not if Spender was telling the truth.
He was out of the game. For now, anyway. Whether that remained the case depended on what happened once he was fit enough to leave here.
"Why don't I show you to the guest room? Then you can have a lie down while I prepare some lunch."
"I'm not an invalid."
Skinner just about caught himself from snorting his derision at the petulance displayed, only then noticing the tenseness in Krycek. He saw the way the shoulders were hunched, the man pulling himself inwards, making himself smaller, eyes darting around the room as if searching for an enemy.
He's afraid. Why?
Skinner softened his tone, forcing the hard edge out of his voice.
"Yeah. I know... I'm just being hospitable. Tomorrow I'll expect you to make lunch."
Krycek looked up at that, mouth tightening, eyes narrowed in confusion, unsure whether he was being challenged or not. The frown line over the bridge of his nose smoothed out as he gave an exaggerated sigh, then Krycek eased himself from the bar stool. He raised an eyebrow at Skinner, giving him the sort of look that said... well, what are you waiting for?
Skinner led the way through the apartment, up one flight of stairs and along a short corridor to the guestroom, matching his pace to the slow one of Krycek. He pushed open the door and stood back, letting Krycek go in first.
Alex paused on the threshold, mouth parting in surprise when he saw his few belongings lying on the bed next to his holdall; the clothes freshly laundered. On the bedside cabinet was his battered paperback. He glanced over his shoulder at Skinner and uttered a gruff thanks.
"I'll call you when lunch's ready."
Skinner found himself grinning from ear to ear as he walked back down to the kitchen.
He had lied, of course. Skinner had no intention of calling Krycek down for lunch. Instead he tiptoed up the stairs and peaked through a crack in the door. Krycek lay on his side, his one hand cupped beneath his cheek, knees bent and pulled in close to his body—like a small child. His posture spoke volumes to Skinner, making him realise how vulnerable Krycek must be feeling at this time, the way he was curved almost into a protective foetal position. Even though Skinner hovered over him for a moment, Krycek made no movement, the breathing remaining deep and even, lips slightly parted, his mouth slackened in sleep. As Skinner turned there was a soft murmur. He looked back and saw the dark lashes fluttering, the eyes moving beneath the lids.
What are you dreaming about, Alex? Good times or bad?
A small cry fell from the soft lips and Skinner found himself dropping to his knees by the side of the bed, his hands stroking gently through the dark hair, his voice murmuring soft reassurance as if to a child. Krycek snuffled and then quieted, drifting back into an easy sleep.
After eating a solitary repast, Skinner watched a little television then pottered around quietly. As the brightness of the day gave way to the greyness of dusk, he drew the curtains to close out the rest of the world before turning on a few lamps, sending a warm glow throughout the room. Another hour passed before there was the sound of movement from above and Skinner raised his head from his book only long enough to acknowledge Krycek's presence. He watched from beneath his lashes as Krycek lowered himself, gingerly, into the comfy chair opposite.
"Sleep well?"
"Yeah... thanks."
Skinner closed up his book.
"I'll make us some dinner."
As Skinner passed by he dropped the remote control for the television onto Krycek's lap and left Alex to make his own decision on whether to switch the machine on.
The rest of the evening passed by in strangely companionable silence, and as Skinner slipped into his own bed and pulled the covers over him, he smiled. The first day had ended and they were both still alive to tell the tale.
It couldn't last. They spent a few days tiptoeing around each other while Krycek grew stronger and then the arguments began. Stupid things like who's turn it was to cook, what station to watch on the television. It was ludicrous, the things they found to berate each other over were so petty, so inconsequential—but it lead to nastier arguments and soon the accusations were flying.
"That's it. Enough. I don't need this."
Krycek stomped up the stairs, anger crackling off him like a visible aura. He came back down a few minutes later.
Skinner stared at the younger man, his eyes, finally, alighting on the small holdall at Krycek's feet. He swallowed hard, realising that Alex had packed all his worldly possessions back into that bag and was preparing to leave. His sense of responsibility pushed aside his own anger. He had promised Gordy he would look after Krycek. His voice came out deeper than he wanted, almost a growl.
"You don't have to go, Alex."
Krycek couldn't prevent a wave of hope from crossing his face but he, viciously, pushed it aside. Now he was back on his feet he had no right to continue taking from this man. Worse still, it was too hard, seeing Walter Skinner every day—the man he loved—and not being able to express it. He had dreams each night where he and Walter made love, where they writhed in passionate abandonment against each other. He could still feel the phantom lips that teased and bit and licked at his willing flesh; could feel the strong arms holding him in their powerful embrace, the muscles rippling as Walter thrust deep inside him, taking him to heights of pleasure that he only seemed to reach in his dreams.
Being so close to Skinner and yet unable to touch him was slowly killing Alex, little by little, day by day. He had to leave—now—before the small amount of caring Skinner had managed to dredge up for him was completely snuffed out. He wanted to leave while he still felt he had a little self-respect, and a little dignity. He had to go before Skinner came to investigate the muffled moans coming from his room at night as he sank into the welcome but unfulfilling arms of his wet dreams.
"See you around."
Skinner watched Krycek shut the apartment door behind him, gaining just a terse nod from the almost cold and impassive face, the hard yet honeyed voice still echoing in his head. He moved over to the window, pulling back the curtain, and listened to the rain drumming against the pane. It was late afternoon but the dark clouds had obscured the sun sending the world into a murky grey.
He saw his own reflection in the glass, and his anger bubbled up to the surface.
What right had Krycek to just waltz in and out of his life as he goddam pleased?
Before he knew it, Skinner was out of the door and summoning the elevator. It took only moments to arrive but he cursed its slowness anyway. As he journeyed downwards, his thoughts deepened in anger, all the rage and frustration of these past years exploding from the depths of his soul. He ran out of the apartment building, heedless of the deluge. The wind battered at him, driving the rain into his face until he could no longer see through his glasses but, ahead, he could make out the familiar one-armed figure. Skinner raced forward, anger driving his muscles. He reached out and spun Krycek around.
"What the--?"
"You don't just run out on me, you bastard."
Krycek dropped the holdall, fist raised in defence, a snarl marring the beauty of his face as his lips curled back from his teeth. He shoved Skinner aside as the powerful hands grabbed at his jacket, managing to trap one hand and jerking his knee up to catch Skinner in the groin.
Skinner twisted at the last moment, the knee grazing his inner thigh. He caught Krycek around the throat with a muscular forearm, spinning him around until they were pressed with his chest to Krycek's back—and pulled tight— his words low, spoken through clenched teeth.
"You owe me, Boy. You owe me for your miserable life. And you owe me for making my life a living hell with the nanocytes."
Krycek pulled uselessly at the forearm, seeing stars as his oxygen-deprived brain fought against the encroaching darkness.
"Owe.. you... nothing."
In a last ditch attempt at freeing himself, Krycek stamped down hard on Skinner's foot. They both slipped as Skinner jerked in pain, bodies tumbling into the ever-deepening puddles as the wind whipped the rain into a torrent of sharp droplets, slashing at their exposed faces. They landed with a splash, water spraying upwards, mingling with the rain, soaking through their clothing instantly.
Krycek scrabbled backwards awkwardly, like an three-limbed crab, finally sinking down onto the wet pavement. A car went passed, its wheels hitting the deeper puddles formed at the kerb side, sending a plume of water over the top of Krycek, drenching him from head to toe.
Skinner had been trying to gain his feet but he sank back down—and started to laugh—and once he started, he couldn't stop. It was the priceless look on Krycek's face; the shock, the water running in rivulets down his cheeks. Mulder's nickname for Krycek came back to him: Ratboy.
"Drowned rat, more like."
He laughed even harder when Krycek's eyes narrowed, seeing confusion and anger slowly replacing the indignant expression.
Alex stared at Skinner, shuddering as a trickle of water seeped beneath his collar and ran the full length down his spine. Skinner looked a mess with one of his glass lenses spider-cracked, his T-shirt sticking to his muscular body, the pink of his flesh showing through the now translucent material. His feet were clad only in moccasins, the soft brown suede now dark and waterlogged. Alex felt a bubble of hysteria filtering up from deep inside, his mouth twitching as he tried to hold back his own laughter but finally caved in.
Eventually, their laughter faded into chuckles and then Krycek pushed the sodden locks of hair back from his forehead and stared at Walter Skinner, his expression becoming serious. He shouted above the sound of the rain drumming hard against the pavement, reaching up to flick a strand of wet hair from his forehead
"I only did what I had to do to keep you alive."
Skinner nodded and closed his eyes, knowing instinctively that it was the truth. He pushed himself to his feet and towered over the bedraggled figure of the younger man, looking down into the tired eyes. Skinner offered Krycek his hand.
"Let's go back inside, Alex. Try again."
Krycek looked up into the warm, brown eyes, his body shivering from the wind and rain that still pummelled him, and from the cold water that had soaked through his jeans, chilling him to the bone. He smiled ruefully. He had walked out because he could no longer bear to be so close to what he desired, but every step away from Skinner had been a nightmare in itself. With each step he knew he was throwing away his dream of belonging to someone. No... not just to someone; to Walter Skinner.
He grabbed the arm and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, but Skinner had overestimated his own strength, forgetting how much lighter Krycek was than he looked in the bulky leather jacket. Krycek came crashing into him and Skinner steadied him with his arm. Their faces were so close, lips almost touching. He could feel Skinner's warm breath upon his cold, wet face; could see a longing in the brown eyes as they looked deep into his own. Just one more inch; just the smallest of movements would bring their lips together, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't force himself to cross that line, and he began to shake with the strain of holding back.
Skinner found his breath coming hard and fast, his heart thumping in his chest as he gazed into the darkened eyes of the wet and wild-looking creature he held in his arms. Now he knew why he bickered with Alex, and why he found fault with him over the most stupid of things. It was because he wanted him; desired him with all his being, to love and to hold, and he had been striking out in anger at this man that he could not have.
Could not have? But why not?
He knew Alex desired him too. The Smoker had said that much to him at the free clinic, but Skinner knew he wanted more than just a few nights of sweaty sex, and until now he had believed that was all Alex would offer him. However, looking into those emotion-charged eyes, Skinner knew he could see more than just plain desire in their depths. He could read every hurt; he could see the need and the love, clouded by fear and knew, instinctively, that Alex would never be the one to reach out to him no matter how much he desired it.
A fine trembling shook the fragile figure, momentarily jogging Skinner away from the new path his thoughts had taken. Concern filled him. Krycek was still too weak from his recent injuries and standing out here in the torrential rain was doing neither of them any favours.
"Come on. You're freezing. You can't afford to catch a chill. Let's get back into the warm."
Skinner grabbed the holdall and then, keeping his arm securely around Alex's waist, he led them back inside, his mind already starting to formulate a plan on how he was going to seduce Alexei Krycek into staying with him—forever.
