Why me?

I mean, really, what the hell have I ever done to deserve this? And after the week I just managed to survive—barely survive, I'd like to add—I think it's beyond the pale for fate to throw me this particular curve ball.

All I wanted was a drink. Just one. Well, okay, maybe even two—or three. That doesn't seem like too much to ask, does it? I damn well deserve it. Shit, anyone who can survive Mulder's expense reports deserves a freaking medal—especially when one sits through them on a Friday afternoon.

So, as soon as I got myself the hell away from the Hoover building, I headed here, figuring that I'd earned a couple of drinks and maybe a blow job—or a quick fuck...depending on what kind of offers I got.

Things are looking pretty good at Trix tonight. I'm in the process of fending off the second request for a spanking—from a very young man—when I spot him.

Krycek. Sitting in splendid isolation at a table almost hidden from view at the other end of the bar. No chance of slipping away before he notices...he's staring directly at me.

Shit.

I haven't seen him in months—several months—and it's been close to a year since he spent the night on my balcony. I've heard about him, though. Oh yeah, I've heard—and read—entirely too much about him.

For some reason that I've yet to comprehend, Mulder has decided that Krycek is the source of all evil. The slightest hint that Krycek might be around sends my most irritating agent into a rage. Unfortunately for me, when Mulder's in a rage his reports, both written and verbal, take on a prolixity that is unequaled in the annals of reports of any kind—and, speaking as a government employee, that's fucking amazing.

I'm debating the wisdom of calling Agent Mulder and informing him that his nemesis is in my sights when a fresh drink is placed in front of me. Courtesy of the 'prettiest and most dangerously delicious green eyes' the bartender has ever seen.

I glance to the end of the bar and Krycek grins tiredly, lifting his drink in my direction in a silent toast.

He stares across the room at me, then lowers his eyes to look at the drink on my table. My lips twitch with the effort not to laugh; he's considering. He's not at all sure how I'll accept this apparent white flag. A wary expression crosses his face. His eyes dart around the room, looking for the fastest escape route. Bastard probably thinks I'll beat him to a pulp.

Not that the thought hasn't crossed my mind.

Gentlemanly manners win out. I raise the drink and meet his eyes. Interesting. He wasn't expecting that.

I rise from my seat and head over to join him.

Sitting down across from him, I nod. "Krycek."

"Skinner," he replies.

I wait, but he apparently has nothing to say. With a shrug, I sip my drink and let my eyes wander over the crowd. Gradually, I relax and I notice that he is looking a little more at ease, too.

The kid I'd brushed off earlier seems to have found what he was looking for, he heads into the back rooms with an older man. Looks like he'll get his spanking after all judging by the stern expression on the man's face.

Krycek snorts. "Now I see what he wanted from you."

A little disconcerted that he's been watching me so closely, I frown at Krycek.

He raises his hand in the air. "Hey, it's not my fault that you've got the classic 'dom' look, Skinner."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come off it. You're a large man, an older man, and you're carriage screams authority. Can't blame the kid for taking you at face value."

I don't know how to take that. So, I drain my glass and look at his almost empty drink. "I'm gonna go get another. You want one?"

That catches him by surprise. I see an oddly grateful look in his eyes before he nods. "Sure. Vodka tonic with a twist."

As I get our refills, the bartender gives me a meaningful glance. I nod at him. "You ever see him in here before?"

The bartender shakes his head. "Not that I recall. And I'd recall, believe me." He shrugs. "Doesn't mean he hasn't been here before though. I don't work every night."

I murmur my thanks and pay him, turning to take our drinks and return when I look up and see a thoughtful expression on Krycek's face. He's been watching me. Probably since I got up.

As I sit back down and slide his glass back across the table to him, I ask, "So, why are you here? Am I supposed to believe that you're not interested in a spanking, yourself? Or am I supposed to believe that you are?"

Krycek's glass halts before quite reaching his lips. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I shrug. "Nothing. Just making small talk. Or at least what constitutes small talk when dealing with agents who turn out to be less than agents and more than up to their eyeballs in shit."

Krycek snorts again. "If by that you mean that the Smoker is a piece of shit, I'll be the first to agree. Prick tried to fry me in a car bomb."

"Well, I guess that's one thing we can agree on; that black-lunged bastard is a pain in the ass." I lean forward and fix my eyes on his. "Tell me, Krycek, why'd he try to kill you—was it the DAT tape?"

"Does he really need a reason? The man's a psychopath."

If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black...

"But you did have the tape, right?"

A self-satisfied smirk appears on his face. "Sure did," he says. "And, after that little incident I kept the fucking thing, too. It made me a tidy sum of money, selling off bits and pieces."

"But he got it back, didn't he?" I can't resist needling him with this fact.

The smirk disappears, replaced by that blank expression I've grown to know and hate. "He did," Krycek growls. "Wasn't my idea, though."

Interesting. "Then whose idea was it?" I ask.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and studies the tabletop. "You remember Mulder's little jaunt to Hong Kong?"

I nod.

"Well—it was the black oil, you see...It took me over. Forced me to return the tape so Spender would tell it where its ship was."

"Yeah. I can't help noticing that somehow you're always the innocent, injured party in all these scenarios, Krycek." I didn't mean for my voice to sound all that dry and caustic but hell, does he really expect me to buy his little act?

Krycek glares at me and drains his glass. Impressive.

I raise my brows and follow suit, silently congratulating myself in downing the scotch in one swallow.

He's still frowning though.

I lift my chin at him. "More Stoli, Krycek?"

He grins suddenly. "Trying to get me liquored up, Walter?"

I'm not sure I like his sudden familiarity. I've never understood Mulder's nearly neurotic abhorrence of addressing people by their first name, but somehow I feel Krycek has neatly paid me back just now for my suggestion that he's not as lily-white as he was trying to paint himself.

We fall into a surprisingly companionable silence, taking turns heading to the bar for refills. Somehow neither of us have the inclination to continue the jibes. The incident in the hospital stairwell is off-limits, as is my evening spent on his balcony.

After several more drinks I find that Iım enjoying myself. He's good company—quietly tossing back his drinks and not showing any of that coldness he so often displays.

If only....Dammit, if he'd come to me in the beginning. Told me what was going on. I could have helped him. Maybe. I certainly would have given my best shot. Fuck it, the kid could have at least tried.

Why didn't he do that?

I take a deep breath and ask. "Why, Krycek?"

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you try?"

Krycek looks mystified. "Try what?"

"Coming to me, telling me what was going on...Why didn't you tell me? I would've helped you, you know."

Krycek scratches his chin and then shakes his head. "You've lost me about a mile back, there. Help me with what?"

I give him my best 'don't-fuck-with-me-I'm-your-A.D.' look and repeat, "Why didn't you tell me you were up to your neck in shit, before it hit the fan?"

Krycek is sniggering at me. "Sorry, Walter, but I was already in way over my head. And so were you." He knocks back the last of the vodka in his glass, obviously not feeling it go down.

"You boys interested in a threesome?"

What? It takes a few moments for the words to register but when they do I look up to see a hopeful expression on the face of the man now standing at our table. I'm just about to politely decline when Krycek scowls fiercely at the man. "Go away," he says emphatically. "We don't do that kind of shit."

We?

Does he really know that much about my sexual preferences? I find the thought vaguely disturbing.

"I need another drink," I say.

"I need to get out of here," he mutters.

I take off my glasses momentarily and rub my face wearily. "Let's do both. Let's blow this joint and go back to my place."

Krycek snickers. "I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid."

"And I may be stupid enough to invite you back to my place, but I'm not in the mood for another balcony scene. Let us both pray that Special Agent Mulder doesn't take it into his head to drop by tonight. He might get the wrong idea."

Krycek is laughing now. "Yeah. God forbid that Agent Mulder might get the wrong idea about us, and think that we like...uh, re–re–enac–renan—"

"Re-enacting." I give him a sharp look but he really does look inebriated. Hell, so am I, and somehow I have the suspicion that just because he's Russian doesn't mean he can soak up alcohol better than I can.

"That's the one." Krycek nods. "But here's the test, Walt. You can talk, but can you stand?" He snickers at me again.

After three tries, I manage to rise to my feet. Krycek smiles at my efforts. I'm more than a little gratified to see that he has similar difficulties. Together we stagger out of the bar, arms slung around each others' waists in support.

The bartender winks at me as we pass by him. Bastard.

After a protracted argument, we finally agree that driving ourselves home is out of the question. A cab is approaching, so we flag it down and pour ourselves into the back seat.

"Where to?" the driver asks.

"Uh...Crystal City," I inform him after a moments thought.

"Yer gonna have to be a little more specific, Bud."

Leaning forward, Krycek rattles off my address—he even tells the guy the shortest route.

Trust Krycek to have memorized where I live. At the moment, I'm too relieved to get upset. I'm sure Mulder would have a brain aneurysm over it. I begin to chuckle at that thought.

Krycek sits back and gives me a funny look. "You doing okay there, Walt?"

"Yeah. Just imagining Mulder's reaction to all this."

Krycek gives me a sarcastic grin. "You can tell me. Have you slept with him yet?"

I give him my most admonishing scowl. Not very easy under the circumstances. "I don't sleep with the agents under me. Or above me, for that matter."

Krycek's lips twist slightly, although in self-mockery or just plain cussed mischief, I can't tell.

"Isn't it convenient then, that I'm no longer an agent, and I'm not under you or above you. Yet."

Convenient...Yeah, convenient.

Yet? Does he want...

Nah. He's just playing—it's the Stoli talking—this is one big set up. For all I know he—or one of his fellow thugs has cooked all this up in order to ruin my career. Then again, what if he really wants me?

My muddled brain tries to work though the possibilities. It's a lost cause, though. The scotch has apparently deprived me of any logical thought. I sigh, lean against the seatback and turn my head to look at him.

"I think," I say, "that 'under me' sounds mighty fine right now."

He shrugs and smiles. "Okay," he says simply.

We arrive at my building and I pay the cabbie off. "C'mon," I say. "I hear a bottle of scotch calling my name."

Krycek is chuckling. "No, that was me. I asked if you had your keys."

"Of course I have my keys. What kind of senile, tottering wreck do you take me for?" I ask, indignantly, fishing around for my keys. I draw them out and jangle them before him triumphantly.

Krycek licks his lips. "I never said you were senile. As for the tottering, the scotch is to blame. Are you sure you need more?"

Making our way into the building, I declare, "I can handle at least one more. How about you?"

Krycek winces. "Actually, I'd rather not mix vodka with scotch, if you don't mind."

I'm sniggering at him as we get into the elevator. The doors shut and I turn to him. "'Tell you what; I might just have something in the freezer."

"I knew it," he murmurs. "You are trying to get me liquored up."

"I don't have to try. You've got that way all by yourself."

"Thanks, Walt, for pointing out these truths to me," he replies, dryly. "I'm sure I could've figured that out. I'm a big boy."

"Yeah?" I give him a once-over.

Startled, he stares at me momentarily, then bites his lower lip and turns away from me. "Yeah."

"How big?" I ask innocently.

He turns back to me with disbelief. "What, you want me to just whip it out right here? Jesus."

"Wellll..."

"Well what, Walt? I'm not into public displays."

I nod sagely. "Then I guess we'd better head upstairs. We wouldn't want to make you blush now, would we?"

"What makes you think I wouldn't blush in front of you? If I show you my...my...Damnit, Walt, I'm blushing already!"

He is a cute young thing—and with his inhibitions lowered by alcohol I find that he's not what I thought he was. I'm seeing a new and intriguing side of the man. Under that hard-edged persona lurks a shy and reticent Alex Krycek.

Who'd have ever suspected?

"Come on up, Krycek, I promise that I won't ravish you...unless you ask, of course."

He sighs deeply, as if feeling put upon.

"I won't even make you beg," I add.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaims. Then stops as the elevator doors slide open.

"I guess you're saved by the bell," I remark, leading the way.

He trails along after me, and follows quietly enough as I make my way to the bar in my apartment, where I retrieve a bottle of scotch I've been keeping unopened for a while now.

I turn to him with an empty glass. He looks like he's not sure whether to sulk or rise to the occasion. Truth be told, I'd be rising to the occasion myself just now, if it weren't for the levels of alcohol still currently floating in my bloodstream. Damn. He doesn't know it, but he's actually safe from me at the moment. But he doesn't know that, does he, I muse to myself and grin widely. "So, what'll it be, boy?"

"Don't call me that," he says, in a remarkable imitation of Mulder's petulant little phrase. Must have picked it up from him somewhere along the line.

"Oh, right. Sorry. So, how much for you, 'big boy'?" I repeat.

He regards me and then a grin threatens to slide onto his face. "About half of what you're having. Old man."

I fill his glass generously and hand it out to him.

After giving the drink a suspicious look, he looks at me with a dubious expression.

"It's just vodka," I reassure him.

He grunts and takes a small sip. "Stoli!"

"Yep," I say, as I head over to the couch. He remains standing, watching me closely while continuing to enjoy his drink.

"Krycek," I say, patting the comfortable looking couch, "take a load off. I did promise no biting or pressure."

"Okay, but one bite and I'm outa here," he says as he walks over to join me.

I can't help notice that he sits on the middle cushion. I decide to take that as a good sign.

He's still tense. Vibrating almost. I'm overcome with a brainstorm. A movie! Yes, that should overcome his nerves—relax him—help him overcome his jitters.

I get the tape, insert it in the VCR, and join him on the sofa.

He raises his brows at me when he sees what it is. "Walt," he groans, "why? Why this?"

"What?" I look over at him, innocently.

He growls, "Dogma?! Enough, already! I get the point."

"I don't think you do," I reply, settling back with my scotch. "Have you actually seen it?"

He mumbles bitterly into his glass. "Of course. And I get the message loud and clear. You're saying that I'm one of the fallen ones, aren't you?"

I turn, surprised, to stare at him. "Actually, I meant nothing of the kind. In fact, I didn't really have any ulterior motive for picking it. How very interesting, Krycek, that you'd be reading that particular motive into my choice of film for this evening."

He looks like he wants to bite his tongue, and then laughs. "Okay. Fine. Dogma it is, then."

"What I'd really like to know is, who is God, for you?" I murmur into my glass. "Considering where I found you, I'm guessing you'd rather it wasn't Alanis."

He groans. "Please. Let's just drop it. We're both drunk as a couple of skunks right now, let's just enjoy it and not get into some kind of twisted theological discussion. Jesus, Walter, this is the kind of thing I'd expect from Mulder, not from you!"

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you don't know either Mulder or me as well as you think you do? He'd probably grope you and there'd be very little discussion of any kind. I'm sure your sensibilities would be outraged."

He grins at me. "Has it ever occurred to you that it's kind of telling, that you'd bring me back here to your place in a drunken state? Taking home ex-agents from a bar, and a gay bar, at that." He tuts and remains focused on the movie.

"Yeah, I wondered when you'd get around to pointing that out," I say. "I wondered if you'd noticed."

"Oh, I noticed."

"And..."

He clears his throat and avoids my inquiring eyes. Takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. "I'm gay, Skinner. And, I've always been attracted to you...I just assumed that you were straight. My gaydar is usually pretty accurate, but I've never once gotten any hint that you might be..." He pauses and swallows heavily. "You are gay, aren't you? Or Bi?"

"Yes, I am," I admit for the first time to another person. "I'm gay. It wasn't easy to accept that...Hell, I even married a woman in an effort to deny my nature."

Krycek nods, sagely.

Of course, he'd know all about it, wouldn't he...I'm suddenly struck with the thought that here is a fellow, a buddy, that I can relate with. A comrade...and then I'm laughing at the irony. Comrade Krycek, indeed.

He clears his throat. "Are you gonna share the joke? Or just leave me hanging, here?"

I shake my head and reply instead, "So. Are Matt and Ben gay, then, do you think?"

Krycek throws me a disparaging look. "I don't indulge in speculation. Or gossip."

Fine. Two can play this game. "Oh? And just what vices do you indulge in, Krycek?"

He squirms. "No, I mean that I'd find out. I wouldn't sit around wondering about it. If I really wanted to know, I'd go find out for myself."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Yeah, I am." He meets my gaze squarely this time and doesn't look away.

Neither of us is watching the movie at this point and to be honest, we're too drunk to concentrate on it anyway. I'd rather concentrate on him. And the way he's licking his lips again, unconsciously, I think he feels the same way.

"You can tell me. I'm good at keeping secrets." And I am.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not very good with trusting people with them."

"That implies you have something to keep secret." I'm smiling now.

He scowls. "Why do you keep—Why do you have to do that?!"

"What?" I ask, startled. Innocent as you please.

"You turn everything into a minefield." He's pouting now. Christ, the boy is actually pouting! Damn, it suits him, too. I thought Mulder had the patent and copyright on pouting.

Strangely enough, a pouting Krycek doesn't garner the same reaction as a pouting Mulder. No exasperation. No clenched jaw. Not even the inkling of a desire to smack the pout right off of his face. I simply stare at him with what must be a dreamy expression.

"What?" He asks tersely.

"You're kind of cute when you pout, Krycek."

"Cute? I am not cute, Skinner." Of course his drunken indignation only serves to make him even cuter.

"'Course not," I hastily reassure him. "Definitely not cute."

He snorts.

In another time, in another place, under different circumstances I could definitely fall for this guy. But, we have to live out our lives as we are. Tonight, though...tonight we seem to have found a reprieve. An escape from the usual roles we've fallen into. And...oh, what the fuck, I for one am enjoying this chance to drop our fibbie vs. criminal routine.

"Want another drink, Alex?"

"Alex?" he asks incredulously.

"That is your name, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah—but you've never used it before now."

"'Bout time, don't you think?"

"Uh—"

"I'm Walt, by the way."

This, more than anything tonight seems to rattle him. He frowns, looks away, shifts in his seat as if a boulder has suddenly appeared and is digging into his ass.

"Okay, Walt," he finally says softly.

Dear God, I hadn't counted on what hearing him say my name like that would do to me. I clear my throat and get up, thinking of scotch, a bottle of scotch, fill our glasses to the brim...Anything but asking him to say that again.

It dawns on me that I need his glass too. Turning, I say, "Your glass."

He hands it to me with an unreadable expression. Those eyes are little too big, too wide and wondering. I drag myself to the bar. What the hell have I got myself into?

Drink. Drink!

I pour with a trembling hand. Trembling because I'm completely sotted right now. Not at all because I'm discovering that I'm besotted with a certain guy with the 'prettiest and most dangerously delicious' green eyes, as the bartender said. No, not at all.

I take a healthy gulp and top up my glass to make up for the difference before returning to the sofa. "Here," I say, my voice gruff with the whisky burning down my throat.

It would be unparalleled folly to jump this boy. So, I won't.

Besides, neither of us is really up to it, I wryly note.

I settle down beside him once more, concentrating on watching the movie. Our conversation has died down somewhat though, since our little chat. I glance over at him and he seems rather worn out. Bless his little traitorous, Russian heart; he looks like he could do with some sleep, actually. I look back at the screen and allow myself to get absorbed in what's happening.

I wake up with a start, having drifted off. 'God' has appeared and is doing Her thing.

I glance over at Alex again but he's already got his eyes closed.

"Walt?" he murmurs, lazily.

"Yeah?"

There's a long pause, and then, "I miss you, sometimes."

I frown. What am I supposed to say to that?

But he's not finished. "Do you ever miss me?"

I yawn before I can help myself. "You ran off without even saying goodbye. What do you think?"

His eyes are still closed but he starts sniggering.

"Oh, yeah, baby," I answer, with a noticeable lisp.

His eyelids rise, and he turns his head towards me. He's simpering! At me. "All you had to do was ask, big boy," he says, fluttering those obscenely long lashes at me. "A big, strong, manly man like you...I'd have been putty in your hands."

I'm laughing—can't help it really, this little display of our mutual knowledge of innuendo and gay clichés is too funny. However, a niggling part of me insists that it's almost a hysterical relief to fall back on it because then we don't have to admit how sincerely we both meant what we said. Jesus. Talk about disclosure—I get the feeling both of us will regret this in the morning. If we remember it. I respond gruffly, "You've had a taste of it before. Guess you liked, didn't you?"

A startled look crosses his face. "I hope you don't believe that," he starts.

I chuckle. "You're easier than I thought, Alex. Russian to the backbone. You take yourself so seriously."

He bites back his reply and forces a weary smile. He really is tired, I can tell. "I have to. Things are pretty serious. Especially after Tunguska."

With a mental jerk, I remember his arm—or rather, it's absence. I don't have a problem with it. It's just that I suddenly realize just how much I really don't have a problem with it...And how much it merely adds to the complex whole of the man, scars and all. I wonder if he knows that, or if he is leery about letting anyone see it, ever. He should know better than to imagine I'd recoil; I've seen far too much shit in Nam to let something like that cause me to squirm like a co-ed at the sight.

But now he's sighing and slipping back down into a tired slump in his place beside me on the couch.

The movie's ended but I find that I'm quite comfortable where I am. I settle myself deeper into the couch and let my mind wander. The Alex Krycek I've seen tonight is a surprise—a revelation, even.

I think I like him.

Glancing over at this paradox of a man, I note that his eyes have closed and his breathing is deepening. The man is falling asleep! On my couch, sitting next to me, he's actually relaxed enough to sleep.

Then, he makes a contented sound and leans closer, resting his head on my shoulder with a happy sigh.

Incredible.

Even more amazing, I don't push him away. Instead I yawn, lay my head against his and fall asleep myself.

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