TITLE: Bentropy Twelve
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K/? This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind, or perhaps lend one to Krycek.
SUMMARY: Entropy - chaos. Bent - not straight. 'nuff said.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is after everything, the season in the shower notwithstanding.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use...unless you count cheap thrills. Other characters belong to me...or someone else but they left them at my house so I'm playing with them.
Author's notes: I happen to think I have a great beta. I happen to think everyone knows who my great beta is. But I am dreadful about giving her credit for all her hard work. Shame on me. Thank you, Susan...the greatest beta in all betadom.
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Bentropy Twelve
by Mik
"No."
I have to say if there was any way a man could look less intimidating, I don't know what it would be, unless he was wearing a tutu and holding a wand and a bag of teeth. Still in his khaki jumpsuit and do-rag and gripping a huge glass of iced tea, Clayton was slumped into a lumpy sofa covered with big flowered upholstery and lots of pillows of various fabrics that didn't match anything else but the height of poor taste. The room was a veritable shrine to eBay, Home Shopping Network and the Bradford Exchange. Every possible inch of the room was displaying some collection of over the top vulgarity; from 'official reproductions' of Dorothy's ruby slippers, and Diana of Wales' crown to Elvis bobble heads.
And yet, Clayton managed to look out of place there, hunched back into the pillows, and glancing anxiously toward a door, from which a recording of I Drove All Night was playing at an ear splitting level. If I hadn't been so determined to get information out of him, I'd have been rolling on the floor, between the ceramic bulldog and the pressboard butler side table, laughing my ass off. The man who once cut such a mean figure in all black, and lots of chains, the man who once sold young men on the streets in a ruthless meat market, was so deballed as to have become just one more piece in his wife's collection horrible.
But I managed not to laugh. Instead, I kept my face stern and asked him once again if he did in fact send someone to meet me the night before.
"I said no," he said, making an unconscious shushing gesture with his free hand while he looked toward the door again. He raised his voice a little bit, to add insistently, "I told you, I'm out of that line."
I looked toward the door, then to Skinner, who arched a brow at me, and then back to Clayton. "Then why did you tell me you were going to send someone?" I persisted, still trying to keep a straight face.
He shrugged. "To get you off my case."
It wasn't so funny now. I looked back at Skinner, who, in an effort to contain his own laughter was giving great study to one of a dozen small display cases on the wall. "Look at this, Agent ..." he said, somehow managing to sound perfectly serious, "the thimbles of Law and Order."
I only just kept from rolling my eyes. I turned my attention back to Clayton. "What you did could be considered obstructing justice."
He blinked at me. "You said you were retired, that it was personal. Where does justice come into it?"
I opened my mouth, hoping an explanation would occur to me before words actually had to come out. But Skinner cut in smoothly. "I am not retired, Mr. Clayton. And for me, it is obstructing justice." He turned away from the thimble collection. "So, tell me, with whom did you make arrangements to meet us yesterday?"
Clayton was still blinking at us, with an occasional anxious look toward that door. "No one."
Skinner shook his head. "That won't do." He was using his slicing underlings to ribbons voice and even I shivered at it. "We know you made some kind of arrangements. It won't take us very long to get your phone records and from there we'll have enough probable cause to get a search warrant for your house." He raised his voice slightly, in the direction of that door. "You know all about probable cause, don't you, Mr. Clayton?"
Amazingly that did not have the cowing effect we'd anticipated. Evidently there was only one cow in his life, and she was in the next room, listening to Celine Dion. Clayton sat up and said, almost smugly, "Go ahead. Get your warrant. You won't find anything because there isn't anything to find. Because I didn't make no call."
"Then why did you say -"
He cut me off with a smirk. "I was just cranking you up. If you're so dumb that you don't see when someone's blowing smoke up your ass and you spent all night hanging around a gay bar, then all I gotta' say is," he paused to settle back into the mismatched sofa pillows, "no wonder you're off the force."
"You son of a bitch." I launched myself toward him, only to have Skinner's arm catch me around the middle.
"There was an attempted homicide there last night," he grunted, pulling me back. "If we find any evidence you even uttered the words 'Bois Town' yesterday, you're down for accessory. Got it?" He jerked me around and aimed me toward the front door.
"Bastard," I muttered as we walked back to the car. "That dirty fuc -"
"Easy, Agent," Skinner chuckled grimly, unlocking my door. "Somehow, I get the feeling that he's paying a bigger debt to society than we could ever impose." He moved around the car. "What do you think? Did he make a call?"
I dropped into my seat heavily. "No," I admitted. "Bastard."
Skinner slid a look at me before starting the car. "You look like hell, Mulder."
"You're a real sweet talker, aren't you, Mr. Skinner, Sir?"
"Seriously." He started the car smoothly. "Have you had a proper meal or a decent night's sleep since you left D.C.?"
I rubbed my eyes, which were feeling gritty and burning. "That implies I ever ate properly or slept decently in D.C." I waved my hand slightly before letting it drop back into my lap. "I slept a few hours this morning, didn't I?" I attempted a cocky grin. "Who am I to defy a direct order?"
He looked at me again. "You forget, I know exactly who you are. And I have a file this thick on my desk documenting every direct order you've ever defied." He checked for traffic and moved out into the street. "We don't have a direction to go from here, not until we hear from the officers working the scene. Why don't we grab a late breakfast somewhere?"
I took a look back at Chez Clayton. "Okay, but no pancakes."
"No pancakes," he agreed.
We stopped at a Denny's near the motel. Universally bad food, but universally a known quantity. We ordered without looking at the menu, because it's the same in every state of the union, and sat in silence over our bottom of the pot coffee, waiting for the food to arrive. In fact, I was probably a third of the way through my omelet before I looked up to catch him looking at me speculatively. "What?"
"I'm curious about something," he said.
"You? There's a surprise." I put my fork down and waited. "About?"
"Last night you said something to Ms. Bantam that was...intriguing. Regarding the baseball bat she was holding. As if you were not surprised she had it. In fact, the conversation seemed to imply that you had previously had a similar encounter." He picked up his fork, speared a piece of sausage and studied it. "Had you?"
I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. "Yeah."
"I'm assuming this was during your last sojourn here?" He reached across the table and nudged the plate back at me. "What happened?"
Oh, here we go again. "Krycek ... during the course of the investigation ..." I paused and sighed. I couldn't admit that he'd duped me just to get my attention, because then that opened the door to how I retaliated. And I was never going to tell Skinner that. "He was...assaulted. Beaten. In that same alley. For a while, Mich thought I'd done it."
"Did you?"
I wanted to throw my plate at him. Instead I just shook my head. "No."
"Was it the killer?"
"No."
He took a moment to slice another bite of sausage and smeared it around in the yellow blood of egg yolk. "Just a random act of violence?"
I was making a face at his food. "No."
He ate the sausage, chewing thoroughly. "So, it was related to the case," he concluded, reaching for his coffee.
"No." I slid down in my seat. I shut my eyes tight. I gritted my teeth. Finally I gave up. "Krycek paid some punk to beat him up."
Skinner dabbed yolk from the corner of his mouth. "Why?" he asked, as if he already knew exactly why.
"Because..." I shut my eyes again. The feelings of humiliation and rage were pouring over me. "Because he wanted to get my attention."
Skinner seemed blind to my discomfort. "Did it work?"
I shook my head. "No more questions."
"Did it?" he persisted as if I hadn't spoken.
"Yeah, it did." I banged my fist on the table. "And you know why? Because I am an idiot. Now, no more questions."
He didn't even flinch. He reached for a slice of toast. "Do you think Peyton was trying to get your attention?" he asked thoughtfully.
I didn't even have to think about it. "No. Peyton's just a sweet, dumb kid. Something like that wouldn't occur to him." I felt myself almost blushing at the notion of Peyton wanting my attention that much. "And anyway, I can't imagine anyone, not even Krycek, paying someone to beat him over the head with a tire iron."
Skinner seemed to be forcing a smile. "That does seem unlikely." He put his knife and fork down, neatly crossed over his plate. "Was he seriously injured?"
I gestured vaguely. "You saw him."
"I meant Krycek," he corrected patiently.
"Skinner," I complained, "do we have to -"
"Was he?" He signaled for more coffee. "And finish your omelet."
I picked up my fork rebelliously and stabbed at the congealed mess on my plate. "Yes, Daddy," I sneered.
"I'd watch that, if I were you," he warned. "Or I'll turn you over my knee." He smiled suddenly. "If the truth be known, I've been wanting to do that for years."
"Oh, no you don't," I warned around eggs, peppers and ham. "That will get you back to D.C. without benefit of a plane. I don't do kink."
"No, you just -" he cut himself off, took a quick swallow of the dregs from his cup and made a bitter face.
I felt my face getting hot. "I just what?"
"Nothing." He signaled again for coffee.
I put my fork down. "Go on, say it."
The waitress brought the pot. We both watched her pour. He watched her walk away. "I don't have to say it."
I could hear the echoes of Krycek's taunts and I cringed from them, and from the memory of the things I had done in response to them. "It wasn't supposed to be like that," I told him flatly. "I'm not like that."
His eyes on me were relentless and merciless. "But it was that way," he said evenly, "and you were like that."
I pushed my plate away, making it rattle loudly on the tabletop. "Yeah."
Skinner reached across the table and grasped my wrist, squeezing slightly. "He was sick, Mulder."
I looked down at his hand over mine. "He was abused," I protested, trying not to jerk my hand away.
"He was abused and it made him sick." He squeezed again. "Love's not supposed to be like that. It doesn't have to be like that."
I looked up at him. "I know," I admitted, trying not to like his hand on mine.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Because we were in the vicinity, and because we didn't really have another course of action, we went back to the motel room. Housekeeping had left the cooler on, so the room was dark and pleasant, and it felt good to drop back on the bed and lie still, and try to shut out some sights and sounds and memories.
Skinner came between the two beds and looked down at me. "Do you want to take a little nap?" he suggested.
"No." I opened my eyes. "We've got two cases going on now."
"Two?" He put a knee on the bed and pushed me onto my side. "How do you figure there are two?"
"Finding Krycek, and finding the person who tried to whack Peyton," I mumbled.
"I think we'll find they're related." He slid down beside me, and sort of wrapped himself around me. "The problem is, right at this moment, we have nowhere to go. We're going to have to wait on police investigation now." He rubbed a hand along my arm. "So...relax for a little bit. We'll think of something."
"We will?" There was something soothing about being in his embrace like that. I felt kind of guilty to admit it. I'd always held Krycek. That is, whenever he consented to being held. Those times were rare and therefore highly prized among my memories. But this was nice; new, different and came with a seal of Skinner's assurance. I let myself relax against him for a moment and, just for that moment, believed we would think of something.
Feeling me relax seemed to make him a little bolder. He slid one arm under my head to make a pillow, and let the fingers of his free hand work lazily through my hair. "Feel good?" he asked quietly.
I nodded, not wanting to risk any more conversation than that.
It really was relaxing as long as it lasted, but I should have known neither of us could stay silent too long, not under these circumstances. As I felt him draw breath in preparation to begin another speech, I cut in quickly, glancing over my shoulder at him. "How long have you known you were gay?"
He shrugged against me. "It seems all my life."
"Ever acted on it?"
He pursed his lips a moment, as if deciding how much truth to tell. "Once or twice." I felt his fingers twist in my hair. "Nothing very serious. I knew the minute I met you, though, that I wanted you."
I turned a little more, so I could see his eyes. "Really?"
He nodded solemnly. "Of course I could never act on it, not while you were under my supervision. And I always assumed you and Agent Scully..."
"Really?" I repeated. "Even after..." I swallowed. I had nearly said 'even after Krycek'. "Even after I came back from California?"
He was studying my hair. "Even then."
"I thought it stuck out all over me then." I turned to lie flat on my back. "I was terrified people would know. You never suspected?"
He seemed fascinated by that lock of hair in his fingers, his eyes never moving down an inch to mine. "Well, later on ...much later on, there was some communication that indicated that you and Krycek had been..." he paused delicately, "intimate."
I blushed. I know I did. "What kind of communication?"
He sighed, clearly reluctant to speak.
I pulled away from him, with a jerk. "What kind of communication?" I repeated with a little edge in my voice.
"There was a conversation that was intercepted, which in part, suggested that you had had at least one encounter with him."
"And who was doing the conversing?" I shifted out of his reach and began to inch to the foot of the bed.
Skinner was still on his side, still looking at his fingers. He looked as if he was a million years away, but his voice was very much in the here and now. "The names are immaterial. It is enough to say that they were people capable of causing you great harm, and they knew some of the more sensitive aspects of that encounter."
I swallowed again, and this time it hurt. "When did you find out?"
"Right before you left the Bureau." He was now as embarrassed as I was.
Things began to click. "Ah. So you came out here to ...?"
"Make sure he didn't find you and hurt you," Skinner answered but the way he sort of stumbled to a stop aroused my suspicions. "And?" I prompted.
"And to see if you were in any way interested in a relationship with me," he blurted.
I'd never heard Skinner blurt before. It was a bit embarrassing. But at the same time, a bit endearing. "Skinner," I began helplessly, "I really don't know what I'm interested in. I can't know until I -"
"I know, I know." He rolled to the side of the bed and sat up. "And if you do find him, and figure out what you want, you probably wouldn't be interested in what I could offer you, or want to offer what I want you to give."
"What the hell does that mean?"
He sighed deeply. "It means we'd better go find Krycek." He stood.
"How will we do that?" I stood as well. "Have we thought of something? Have we had a vision I missed?"
"No. We're just going to keep working with the pieces we have, 'til the one we're missing falls into place." He reached for the car keys. "Let's go."
"Where?"
He jerked open the door and gestured out into the afternoon. "Back where we started this morning. Let's go see Peyton."
- END Twelve -