Helpless Dancer
Fandom: The X-Files
Category/Rated: NC-17
Year/Length: ~3960 words
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Disclaimer: So not mine that it hurts. If he were mine, I'd dance for him.
Author's Notes: Pollyanna set up a Lyric Wheel. Rhi sent me some cool lyrics. We had a week, and weren't allowed to use a beta. That's my only excuse.
Standing under the pitiful spray of cold water, feeling the trickle down over his face, he had time to think at last. The woman stood in the shadows, in the corner of the room watching, as he first stripped himself naked, and then cleansed and deloused himself. He'd set his teeth, determined to give nothing away but still he couldn't resist the gasp of pleasure as he felt the sweat and grime of months inside the communal cell gradually begin to lift away from his skin leaving him feeling impossibly good.
It was as if she'd been waiting for it: for his façade to crack in some way and some evidence of his continuing humanity to appear, because she smiled coldly then, and made for the door indicating the pile of clothing and the towel she'd provided for his use.
Damp and naked, he stood, reveling in the space, peace and sheer sybaritic pleasure of cleanliness. As he dried his skin and applied ointment to the various sores he had acquired, he made a pact with himself. No more. It was time to change. He may have betrayed some sign of vulnerability to Marita, but it was the last he would show anyone.
He would mend from the beatings that had been inflicted on him. The rapes he'd endured were mere memories, and he would heal. He always did. He was a rat, and he would survive. That much he knew, but now he'd decided that it wasn't enough. He wanted more than survival. He wanted more than anonymous orders to kill unknowns for some inconceivable end. It was time, and more than time. Things were going to change.
She'd brought him silk to wear, and being alone he permitted himself a shiver of ecstasy as he slid his long legs into the well tailored pants. A faint smile, little more than the slightest tilt of the corner of his mouth expressed the joy he felt at being free, physically clean and clothed in something better than rags.
He didn't bother to check the fly-blown mirror that hung from the wall in the corner of the room. He knew his appearance would turn heads. He merely surveyed the room that was the gateway marking his transition from hell back into the world above and then made his way to the door, opened it and passed through.
He didn't look back.
He'd learned to keep his own counsel so later when Marita had begun very delicately to probe into his state of mind, trying to divine his intentions, she had met with a bland politeness that was mere degrees short of contempt. He responded in vague platitudes. He could tell that inwardly she was seething by the way she'd flushed and bitten on her lip, milk pale skin pinking up in frustration.
As the day had progressed, they'd boarded a charter flight - a Lear Jet - and he'd raised his eyebrows at that. Marita had definitely risen in the world from guinea pig to executive jet-setter. Way to go, Marita!
Now it was his turn.
Dusk was gathering as they flew into Stansted Airport, the flatlands of the Essex countryside pale with new leaves, and the air thick with fragrant pollen and rich with a moisture and fecundity unfamiliar to his lungs after his long incarceration. A car was waiting - a Bentley - and they were whisked into London, the gray asphalt of the M11 swallowed whole in mile after featureless mile as darkness descended.
He'd learned patience the hard way, and he appeared to doze, his body relaxed in its silken cocoon while his mind roamed free, sifting, noting, planning as he savored the scent of leather from the upholstery of the expensive vehicle.
They'd offered him alcohol on the plane, and he'd declined it, opting instead for water. Now once again Marita offered him a highball and once again he turned it down, noting that his body no longer needed alcohol. Mere freedom was enough to get him high.
London crept up on them, a confusion of lights and sounds that made him sit forward. It was satisfying on the most basic level to know that from here on he would be in complete control. He could disappear without trace if he desired, or stay with the blonde and go along for the ride. She would lead him to his desired goal, of that he was sure. He was on his way.
Arriving at a hotel in the heart of London, Marita stalked gracefully through the lobby, beckoning him on past reception to the bank of elevators and up to the highest floor, to an executive suite where she showed him his room. It was filled with new and expensive items that she gave him to believe were his. A quick exploration revealed clothing, toiletries, a new laptop computer and a prosthetic arm that was a miracle of technology. He turned towards her and smiled, wolfishly. Now. Now it was time.
"Why, Marita?"
She misunderstood him, as he'd known she would.
"He needs your help, Alex. He's dying." Her words were mechanical, almost as though she'd learnt them by rote, and he shook his head, frowned, and stepped in close to take hold of her shoulder, digging his fingers into her flesh for the sheer pleasure of watching her wince.
"Why are you still working for him? You know the things he's capable of?" His voice had been unused for much of the past year, and it had always been husky. Now the rasp of it was intense, grains of sand within honey, sweet and rough. Her eyes flashed as she thought she saw an opportunity.
"There's only us left, Alex, and he's dying. It's our chance to take charge and own all of this" Her gesture encompassed the room, and what lay beyond it. "It was either join him or..." Her voice died away, and she bit her lip again, her eyes willing him to understand.
"If you complain, you disappear, right?" He was still clutching her, his hands controlling, keeping her beside him while her discomfort grew. His eyes bored into hers, seeing all, pitiless in condemnation of her. She flushed again and lowered her eyes as she spoke.
"It'll be ours, Alex, all of it. He can't last much longer and then we'll be rich, powerful." He laughed then, a rediscovery of the sound, his laughter at first rusty and unused.
"You're a whore, Marita. Anyone's for a few bucks." She drew in a breath and raised her hand to strike him. His hand whipped up like lightning, intercepting the blow, catching her arm and twisting it to force her down onto her knees while she swore in language that was most unladylike. Alex laughed again, easier this time.
"Tsk, tsk! You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the girl. What a mouth you have on you, my dear." She glared up at him, body twisted by her position, her neatly upswept hair beginning to come loose from its pins, ruining the icy perfect exterior she'd been presenting. She hissed an obscenity and he smiled savagely, released her arm and then backhanded her, knocking her flying to land, sprawling on his bed.
"Will you pay anything to get what you want, Marita?" He could see her jaw tense in an effort to prevent her temper from showing, and he nodded to himself. She'd been given instructions and she was going to carry them through. Her hidden agenda was equally plain. He would use her, and walk away from her when he was done.
Grinning savagely he unzipped his pants and strode forward to seize her hair.
You want to ride on my coattails, girl, you'd better make it worth my while. His ready cock battered at her lips, and she glared at him from feral blue eyes.
At first he thought that she would balk, but then she opened her mouth and sucked him down her throat while he held her immobile against his thrusting hips.
Her mouth was poison hot, enveloping him in seething wet flesh as he jammed himself into her. Forcing himself down her throat he allowed himself to take pleasure as she sucked at him feverishly. His orgasm didn't take more than a couple of thrusts. He felt his balls tightening, and he came with a glorious, flashing surge that began at the base of his spine and radiated out until his heart was thumping and his muscles were locked in the tide of sheer delicious release that coursed through him.
He didn't spare her, jetting thick semen down her throat while she gurgled and gagged, and then withdrawing, moving away from her and turning to examine the computer.
"I don't know what you're expecting, but I sleep alone."
Her response was coarse, and impugned his parentage. Then she left him alone to relish the order, comfort and solitude of his new freedom.
The morning dawned bright and noisy. They breakfasted in a bistro that offered them a view of the street, and Marita used her cell phone to call someone who assured them that their belongings were packed and ready. Alex, inhaling the aroma of fragrant bacon and newly baked bread was content to wait, merely observing the people who passed by with a hungry need to fill his soul with impressions of life.
Once breakfast was done they made their leisurely way to check out of the hotel. The man who'd driven them the previous evening had stowed their luggage neatly into the trunk of the limousine, and was awaiting them as they left the hotel. They made a perfect couple and people turned to watch them, the beautiful blonde with her icy, untouchable aura, and the tall, black clad man with the handsome face and the eyes that took in everything, but allowed nothing to leave.
The flight back to Washington DC was spent in first class. Alex was beginning to see a pattern here, and he approved wholeheartedly, although somehow he doubted whether the man they were going to see would be so gratified.
He and Marita didn't speak. She'd produced his passport for him when they'd entered the UK, and now she was ignoring him, presumably not relishing anything that he might want to say to her. That suited him fine. He was content merely to be here.
Once they'd landed at Dulles, and passed through immigration, he decided that it was now time to take charge.
"I'll need my weapons. What provision has been made?"
"You'll see him first, and then you'll be kitted out if it's necessary. He gets nervous if people are armed in his presence these days."
His arrival at the familiar apartment on M Street made his breath catch in his throat. All the old, familiar feelings of inadequacy roared up to take him by surprise for just a second, and then he was in control again, made new, a blade honed through suffering until it had the keenest edge imaginable. He was a servant no more, and only he knew just how much more than that he had become.
With a gentle smile on his face he mounted the stairs behind Marita, and went to confront the old spider in the center of his web.
He was a little shocked once he came face to face with the old man. Much as Alex hated him, it was unsettling to see him in a wheelchair, a tracheotomy stoma at his throat. The evil old bastard had always seemed impervious to the passage of time. This was a grim reminder that he was human after all, and it took Alex a minute or two. He could understand now why Marita had felt free to spend so carelessly. This would need thinking about.
The old man had assumed that he would dance to the same old tune, and Alex hadn't disabused him of the notion. When the time came for his revenge it would be complete and devastating, and would be a complete surprise to everyone, so he smiled, and acquiesced when ordered to go alien chasing. That suited his plans more than anything.
He left DC for Washington State where he set out to discover the alien vessel. Almost at once he ran into the FBI, in the persons of Mulder and Scully. That amused him rather than annoying him. It would no doubt drive the old man crazy, and it would make for a far better revenge if he could inveigle the pair of them into his scheme. He knew that Marita had stayed behind with the old man for a reason, and as he listened to his bugs and wiretaps, he soon divined what that was. So she did want to ride on his coattails and then do away with him once he'd accomplished her ends. It didn't surprise him.
Silent and deadly, he laid his plans, and made contact with the alien rebels. Then he returned to DC where he reported his failure to find any trace of the ship to the ailing Spender. The old man had been most put out, and that alone made Alex feel good. His next task was to be covert, kept secret from the elderly, cancer-ridden man who believed he owned him. He set out to find Mulder, somewhat irritated at Marita's continuing presence, but nevertheless determined that he would have his way.
His return to the J. E. Hoover building was strange to him. Everything was the same as it always had been, but he was now so different. He wondered why the difference in him didn't cause him to glow like a beacon and trigger all the alarms as he passed through the checkpoints.
AD Skinner was not in his office when he arrived, and that pleased him. It would give him a little time to prepare himself for the storm he was about to cause. When the man himself arrived, Alex was ready for him. He explained his need in a few sentences, relishing the hatred he saw in the big man's eyes because it confirmed to him just how much in control he was.
He followed Skinner down into the basement, wishing that Marita was not with him, but accepting her presence for now even though he was about to come face to face with Fox Mulder for the first time in years, and he would have liked it to be without an audience.
He was calm as he listened to Skinner and Mulder exchange desultory conversation. When the AD stood back to allow him to enter the room where Mulder was, he felt a strange lightening as though a vast bubble had grown within him. As he came face to face with Mulder for the first time in two years, he waited, placid and smiling as Mulder went for him and Skinner caught him and fended him off.
In just a few words he laid down the bright and tempting trail he'd devised for Mulder, offering him everything he could possibly want with one glorious plan. He knew that Mulder wouldn't be able to resist.
Mulder stood, unusually motionless, eyes like crushed flowers as the conversation raged around him, and Alex knew he could have what he wanted, just for the asking. The other people were withdrawing now, Skinner leading Scully, and after a minute, Marita following as Alex indicated that she should stay with the big man. Finally, he was alone with Mulder. The two of them stood, surveying each other over the wreckage of a doomed love affair, and neither of them could move.
It was a long time before Mulder sighed, and turned to go back to the desk behind which he'd been sitting before Skinner had produced him. Alex jerked forward, desperate to make some kind of connection now it was too late, but not quite sure why he was bothering after all this time.
"Fox." The name hung between them like a mirage. Mulder paused again, and then, slowly, turned back to face him. His expression was perfectly bland, and Alex nodded. Somewhere along the line, Mulder had learned to conceal his feelings at last. He wanted to smash that expression, to hit until he drew blood, until his familiar, cranky, honest Mulder was laid bare from beneath the shell he'd grown.
He stepped closer. If ever he needed to sell a message, it was now.
"I've waited until we were alone to tell you, but it's time now. If you want to make a difference, you'll have to go yourself. I've done all I can. I talked to the rebel and he's ready to take you on board. He'll help, but it's the only way we'll win. There's nobody else now."
Mulder's voice was flat and betrayed no emotion. "Why should I trust you? When did you ever tell the truth to anyone?"
"I never lied to you, Mulder. If you're really honest with yourself, you'll realize that." He moved closer still, recognizing the flicker of - what was it? - pain that glimmered on the other's face just for a moment, and then was gone, as completely as though it had never been.
The G-man was standing, fists closed tight. If his expression said nothing, his body language was screaming. Krycek put out his hand to cup the back of the other's head, and pulled him in, applying his lips to Mulder's at last and tasting the bitterness, tasting the fears and the craving that poured from him as he kissed him.
Mulder permitted it, and after a few minutes began to respond, driving his tongue between Alex's lips as the two of them held each other. When at last they parted, Mulder was breathing heavily, and Alex brought up his fingers to touch the other man's full lower lip gently before he backed away.
"It really doesn't matter any more, does it?" Mulder's voice was bleak.
Alex shook his head. "Will you go?"
"Will you be there when I return?"
"Fox, I'll wait for you for the rest of my life. I'm not going to dance any more unless it's my own tune."
When the others began to file into the room, Mulder and Krycek were once more contained within their own worlds, seemingly inviolate. Krycek made his excuses and left soon after, the annoying presence of the blonde still beside him. All was set. Mulder would go, and the world would be safe. Once he had been taken, there were only a couple of loose ends to tidy up and he would be free.
It was late the following day when he heard the news from Skinner's lips. Mulder had gone with the rebel, and everything was in place. There was little left to do but he could afford now to allow himself the pleasure of breaking it to his erstwhile employer. He knew just how the news would affect the old bastard.
He strode into the sickroom like an executioner. He'd dressed carefully for this. He wanted the old fart to know that it was his last hour. He wanted him to be afraid before he died, and he wanted him to know that everything he'd worked for had come to nothing because he, Alex Krycek had made sure of that.
He took great pleasure in telling him that Mulder had been taken, and though the old man didn't say anything, he saw the stricken look in his eyes as he realized the implications. Once he'd seen the blow strike home there was no longer any reason to wait.
"What are you doing?" The nurse had fallen back away from him, and well she might. He was more than vengeance. He was justice, and he couldn't be denied.
"I'm sending the devil back to hell!" and anyone who'd heard him, or seen the look on his face would not have doubted his sincerity.
The old man blustered, as Alex knew he would, but it was to no avail. A single shove sent him tumbling down the stairs, wheelchair and all, to lie in a surprisingly small heap at the foot of the stairs. Alex stood looking at his handiwork for just a moment, and then shrugged. He was done here. There was only one thing left to finalize. Swiftly he strode down the stairs, and as he'd expected, Marita followed him.
They rounded the corner and he saw Marita's hand go down to her pocket for the syringe he knew the old man had given her. He waited until she stepped in to crowd him against the door, and put an arm up around his neck as though she would kiss him. When she brought the syringe out of her pocket he was ready for it, seizing her wrist in a vise-like grip that made her cry out as much in frustration as in pain.
"You were double crossing me one last time, Marita," he said, his black gloved hand holding hers safely away from his body.
"Don't be silly, Alex," was her reply. He could see the beginning of fear in her face as she looked up into his eyes, and met no trace of softness.
"You thought that you were going to use me and then put me out of my misery, didn't you?" He was smiling now, his eyes alight with some private joke, and she wasn't sure for a minute what his intention might be, but as she opened her mouth to deny it all, he suddenly shook his head, and his expression changed. Fiercely, he forced her hand up level with her face. "You see, Marita, there's no way I'd leave you alone with him unless I knew what you were talking about."
His caressing voice buzzed in her ears as he forced the syringe back towards her neck until the needle broke the skin. Her eyes bulged out, and she whimpered. His smile was grim now as he depressed the plunger, forcing the liquid that was contained within the hypo out into the vein there. She screamed once, and then dropped, her eyes turning up, to lie on the floor. A minute later, she was dead.
"You should have realized, Marita." He stepped over her and opened the door. The wind caught in his trenchcoat billowing it around him, and he strode off into his own future, leaving only emptiness behind him.
"...I've stopped dancing."
And the song:
Helpless Dancer by The Who, from Quadrophenia
When a man is running from his boss
Who holds a gun that fires "cost"
And people die from being cold
Or left alone because they're old
And bombs are dropped on fighting cats
And children's dreams are run with rats
If you complain you disappear
Just like the lesbians and queers
no one can love without the grate
Of some unseen and distant face
And you get beaten up by blacks
Who though they worked still got the sack
And when your soul tells you to hide
Your very right to die's denied
And in the battle on the streets
You fight computers and receipts
And when a man is trying to change
But only causes further pain
You realize that all along
Something in us is going wrong...
You stop dancing.
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