Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Language:
English
Series:
Part 3 of A Dog in the Manger
Collections:
Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
Stats:
Published:
2020-11-05
Words:
6,967
Chapters:
1/1
Kudos:
26
Hits:
1,587

Dogs of War

Summary:

Summary: It's the night before Xmas and Alex Krycek doesn't come home. Sam Hamilton, Mulder and Skinner go looking for him.

Work Text:



Dogs of War
by JiM

 

Walter Skinner was still staring at the tasteful cream linen invitation in his hand when Sam Hamilton called.

"Walt? I hate to bother you, boy, but I think I have a problem. Alex didn't come home last night."

Skinner's last hope that this might just be an elaborate practical joke died at the worry crackling in his friend's voice. "Ham, I know there's a problem. Listen to this." And he began to read the invitation aloud.

" 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.

" 'You are cordially invited to an Auction of Revenge. Come and bid on the opportunity to kill some of your favorite enemies. High bid wins the right to execute public justice on your purchase. Ten thousand dollars and this invitation offer you a front-row seat at this exclusive event.

" 'Discretion is assured.'

"Ham, there are pictures. They've got Krycek." Skinner spread the three photos on his desktop and stared at the man in the middle. Bruised, one eye blacked, a lip split, Krycek glared at the camera. The other two men shown were even more roughed up but less defiant; Skinner had the odd thought that Krycek might fetch a higher price merely because he looked tougher to kill.

There was an odd tapping sound from the phone and Skinner placed it after a moment. Hamilton was tapping a pen against his teeth as he weighed and abandoned strategies, considered options, determined the odds.

"Someone out there knows I have an ax to grind against Krycek; it's got to be someone linked to the Consortium. And they have to be internal -- this invitation came through internal mail. The bastards are still out there," Skinner gritted. "I really thought it was over."

"When's the auction?" Hamilton asked.

"Tomorrow night. Christmas Eve."

"Hey, Walt, wanna go teach these jokers about Peace on Earth and goodwill toward men?" Hamilton tried to sound like his usual offhand, daredevil self and failed miserably.

Skinner closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Hamilton wanted him to help rescue Alex Krycek, of all people. For a brief but intense moment, he wished that he had just become a corporate lawyer like his old man had wanted. Hamilton said quietly, "Walter, please. I have to go after him."

"Yeah," Skinner sighed, "count me in."

"Mulder, too?"

"Mulder, too. I'm going to need some explanation for missing Christmas Eve with his mother. Might as well tell him the truth." Skinner had already learned that Mulder didn't appreciate being protected; he had no intention of making the same mistake twice in as many months.

"I'm on my way."

The truth was all Mulder ever really asked of anyone. Once they had told him, he was in, committed and ready for action. Skinner wasn't certain whether Mulder's friendship with Hamilton, his desire to keep tabs on Skinner himself, the chance to cancel a strained first Christmas as a couple with his mother or Mulder's own gradually lessening hatred for Krycek was the real motivator here. Ever since Krycek's startling return as Skinner's savior a few months ago, Mulder had begun building a cautious sort of friendship with Alex Krycek. While Skinner was still very uncomfortable around his one-time nemesis, Mulder had spent several evenings discovering that he and Krycek did have more in common than either had thought, including a fondness for truly awful B-grade science fiction movies. Ham had merely watched, smiled that secret smile of his and handed Skinner more beer.

Skinner watched Mulder piece together the facts as they sat in his office after hours He turned the invitation over and over in his long fingers as if hoping to gain some information through osmosis. "When did you first know for sure he was gone, Sam?"

"Last night. He never showed up for dinner."

"That's unusual? I thought he didn't live there." Krycek had remained adamant about maintaining his own apartment; they didn't even know the address.

Hamilton rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and stared out Skinner's window. "He doesn't, exactly. He just keeps some clothes there and he's been there every night since a week after I moved. Every night, Mulder. So when he didn't show...."

"You thought he'd skipped out on you?"

"I'd wondered, yeah." It cost Hamilton something to admit that.

"So they snatched him sometime yesterday, then. You last saw him that morning?"

Hamilton nodded. Mulder picked up the photo and grimaced as he looked at it. "Looks like he made them pay for the privilege, though." Mulder turned to Skinner. "There's something truly sick about that invitation, Walt. The people who dreamed this up are monsters. I think I'll enjoy taking them out."

"No one's taking anyone 'out,' Mulder. We're getting in there, getting Krycek and getting out. Any evidence we pick up on the way, we turn over to the Bureau. Got it? The main objective is getting Krycek out of there alive."

Mulder grinned at him suddenly. "And did you ever think you'd hear yourself saying those words?"

"Shut up and call the Three Whackos," Skinner growled. "We've got less than twenty-two hours to plan an undercover op."

The Three Whackos, a.k.a. The Lone Gunmen, were more than happy to help Mulder although a little doubtful about the wisdom of rescuing Alex Krycek. Between the four of them, they managed to turn up information on the 'auction' site, which led them to the owner of the mansion and an impressive file of indictments and racketeering charges that had all been mysteriously dropped. The owner was one Ricardo Montrecini; Mulder theorized that this was the 'Rico'who had provided Krycek with the information regarding the recent assassination attempt on Skinner.

"Why the hell did you ever let Scully take a vacation now?" Mulder complained to Skinner as he reported the latest findings when Skinner came to pick him up sometime after midnight. "She's much better at teasing all this stuff out of Records."

"Because it's Christmas and you threatened to pout until I gave her two whole weeks off," Skinner reminded his deliberately amnesiac lover. "Where's Hamilton?"

"Out picking up some party supplies for tomorrow night."

Skinner winced, knowing the kinds of things that Hamilton would consider reasonable equipment for a nighttime raid on a mobster's mansion in the Virginian countryside. "Well, he knows my position on tactical nukes. Let's hope he restrains himself." That startled a smile out of Mulder, who came over to rub his shoulders. Byers and Frohike exchanged glances and pretended not to have seen the intimacy. Langly merely snorted and kept fiddling with a headset he was customizing for their operation. Mulder's friends had taken the news of their relationship with remarkable aplomb but Skinner knew that they considered him to be Mulder's biggest romantic mistake to date, Diana Fowley notwithstanding.

Mulder's strong hands dug into the bands of tension that had been woven the instant he'd read that damned invitation, then tightened when he'd heard an unfamiliar quaver somewhere deep in Hamilton's voice. Sam Hamilton knew no fear -- for himself. But the sap was honestly frightened on Krycek's behalf. At one point, when Skinner had balked at the idea of any of them going in armed, Ham had just looked up and said seriously, "What would you do if it were Fox in there?"

Skinner groaned, half in pleasure as he felt the knots in his shoulder ease and half at the barbed knowledge that he could no longer deny; Alex Krycek was not merely a pastime or odd hobby for Hamilton. The idiot actually loved the rat bastard and that meant that Walter Skinner had to help his buddy get Krycek back. Hadn't Krycek taken a bullet on Skinner's front stairs trying to protect him? When Honor reared its austere head, he knew he was lost.

"Dammit!" he spat suddenly, making Byers and Langly jump and stare at him out of the corners of their eyes. Mulder's hands squeezed him gently for a second, then he leaned down and said softly, "I know. Let's go home." And suddenly, Skinner knew that Mulder did know, did understand why he hated doing this, why he had to.

"Come on, Walt. Let's go home. Sam'll find us there."

Hamilton arrived at 6 a.m., carrying a duffel bag and driving a stretch limousine. Skinner wanted to ask, but the set of Hamilton's jaw and the blaze of his eyes forestalled him. This was the Sam Hamilton he knew from the jungle, the man that lurked beneath the west Texas good ol' boy drawl and the mischievous grin. This was the squad leader of twenty-two successful raids, a man who wrote training manuals for Black Ops, grim, focused and deadly. Hamilton sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out a small machine pistol and began stripping it down and cleaning it with careful and precise movements. He ignored the cup of coffee that Mulder set beside him.

"Ham?" Skinner asked carefully.

"I've got everything we need. We leave here at 3 p.m." Hamilton squinted down the barrel, then ran the cleaning rod up it.

"Ham, did you sleep?"

Hamilton merely shook his head, then carefully re-threaded the barrel back onto the stock.

"You know you need sleep before an operation, Ham." Hamilton didn't reply, merely concentrated harder on his oddly mechanical task.

Mulder and Skinner exchanged looks, then Mulder said quietly, "We'll get him out, Sam. Now go get some sleep so you'll have enough energy to welcome him home properly."

Hamilton's hand jerked, then he fumbled, dropping the trigger guard on the floor. He stared down at it as if he suddenly had no idea what to do about it. The stark confidence in Mulder's tone had shocked Skinner; but that was Mulder. He had faith in the most insane things... and he was usually proved right.

Skinner stood up, then gently took the half-stripped pistol from his friend's hands. "Come on, Ham. Bed. I'll wake you at two." He steered his friend down the hall to the now-unused guest room and watched him strip down to boxers and T-shirt, then saw him climb into bed and drop into a deep sleep in a matter of moments. Hamilton had always been able to sleep anywhere, even in four inches of standing water, Skinner remembered.

Then there was nothing to do but take Mulder back to bed and hold him very tightly.

The limousine turned into the stately gates and paused at the guardhouse. The chauffeur, a bored-looking man with a long nose and hazel eyes handed the armed guard a single sheet of engraved cream linen and waited with ill-concealed impatience until a discreet number on the invitation was noted, checked, cross-referenced and his passenger's face peered at and the inside of the car inspected. Finally, they were waved through and the liveried chauffeur guided the car up the smoothly sloping drive to come to a stop before the long marble steps of the mansion, fully half a mile from the gate. The foyer doors were thrown open and light poured out into the midwinter gloom.

The chauffeur got out, put his hat on, then came around the car and opened the rear passenger door. A tall, grim-faced man in a dinner jacket got out. The driver handed him a small satchel, then nodded respectfully when the man spoke a few quiet words. The chauffeur then drove off in the direction indicated by a liveried servant standing in the drive and the tall man climbed the stairs and entered the mansion.

At the door, his invitation was checked again and his face most carefully inspected by a liveried security thug. The tall man stared aggressively and snapped, "Well?"

"Forgive the delay, Mr...?" a smooth voice with a trace of an accent said from behind him. The tall man turned and met the mildly amused gaze of a short dark-haired man in white tie.

"Hunter," he supplied, not meeting the man's charming smile with one of his own.

"Mr. Hunter, so good of you to come," and Skinner knew that this man knew exactly who he was.

"Mr. Montrecini," Skinner saw the cool amusement in Montrecini's eyes deepen for a moment, "I was surprised to receive your invitation. We don't move in the same circles."

Montrecini took his arm in the casual way of the continental and walked with him across a marble parquet hall, past a glittering golden staircase carpeted with crimson. "But we do, Mr. Hunter, merely on different sides. And, in the case of tonight's... entertainment, we certainly share a common interest, do we not?"

Skinner grunted noncommittally. Montrecini, catching his guest's taciturn mood, said smoothly, "Perhaps you would like to post your intention to bid now?" A careful request for payment. Skinner reached into an inner pocket and saw that he was suddenly the focus of attention for at least three trained sets of eyes belonging to men who looked over-large for their satin livery. Moving more slowly, he drew out an envelope with ten thousand dollars in it and handed it to his host.

"You won't be disappointed tonight, Mr. Hunter. I promise you that." Montrecini tucked the envelope away discreetly and urged him across the parquet toward the sound of music and voices.

They entered a small salon filled with men and women in formal dress. Skinner was assaulted with a mix of perfumes and the scents of foreign cigarettes and champagne. A welter of voices and languages struck his ear and his host said something that he couldn't catch before his arm was released. Skinner paused to take a flute of champagne from yet another liveried servant with a suspicious level of muscular development. Looking back towards the door, Skinner was impressed with the design that made the metal detector seem part of the intricate marquetry panels that adorned the walls of the room. All except one. Skinner turned and swore silently. At the far end of the room was a small raised dais that held an auctioneer's lectern and three oversized video screens. On each screen was a man; two showed men who were slumped in attitudes of dejection in small gray cells; the third man was pacing and swearing at the ceiling. There were neat rows of gilded ballroom chairs arranged before the dais.

Skinner raised his glass to his lips and muttered, "Mulder, are you reading me?" The tiny throat mike tucked behind his tie was chafing at him and the receiver lodged deep in his ear made him want to swat at the side of his head like a bee-stung bear.

"Loud and clear, Walt. I'm already past the first set of guards and heading for the basement. Seems to be some heavy electronics down there." Mulder was using a set of toys provided by Byers and Co., searching out the most likely sites for the prisoners to be held.

"Yeah, well there's a wrinkle. There's live video feed from each cell. The instant you move Krycek, everyone in this room will know about it."

"Shit," Mulder said.

Then something Mulder had said struck him. "What do you mean 'you're past the first set of guards?' Where the hell is Hamilton?" The plan had called for Mulder and Hamilton to do the recon and actual rescue work while Skinner provided cover and distraction, if necessary.

"Um... Hamilton stepped out for a moment," Mulder mumbled.

Shit. Five minutes into an operation and Hamilton was already hot-dogging. Deja vu, he thought and didn't even waste time getting angry. "I'm gonna kill him," he said quietly. "He's supposed to be watching your back! Every damned time, he used to do this every single time."

"He said you'd say that." The laughter in Mulder's voice soothed Skinner as he stood and scanned the crowd. He stiffened suddenly when he recognized a familiar hairstyle and the line of a feminine throat in the glittering crowd. "I think I found our internal Consortium spy," he muttered, covering his mouth with a hand as if to cough. "Johnson from OCB. I knew she was dirty, dammit!"

Mulder didn't reply for a moment and Skinner got worried. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. I'm just having trouble picking this lock...." Mulder hissed in irritation. "Can you tell which cell Krycek is in?"

"Not from the screens," Skinner said, considering the images of the two slumped men. He rather thought the one on the right was Krycek, something in the shape of the ear that was showing. This man had his head pillowed on his knees and was contained. The more Skinner studied him, the more he saw the man's posture as careful readiness, less desperation and despair.

"Well, we're in luck. The cells are all on this floor, but they're not right next to one another. Now I just need to figure out where Krycek is."

After another fifteen minutes of useless milling, there was a sharp rap from the lectern below the video screens. A cadaverous looking man in evening clothes that looked like Lon Chaney castoffs called the crowd to attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to begin tonight's auction. This will be a silent auction, bidding to begin at ten thousand dollars. Should you win your particular bid, you are asked to pay promptly then invited to dispense whatever justice you'd prefer. The only caveat is that it must take place here, before the cameras." There was a murmur of protest, a thin whining sound of complaint and a much louder hum of approval that raised Skinner's hackles. This highly-coifed crowd was out for blood and wanted a show.

"Mulder, plan B just went to hell, too. We can't just buy his way out of here."

There was a grunting acknowledgment from his lover and nothing more. The crowd began moving toward the chairs set in neat lines before the dais. "Come, come, surely you wouldn't deprive your fellow guests of a dose of amusement to kick off the holiday season, would you?" the auctioneer asked with toothy geniality. There was a polite ripple of laughter at that. "Then, ladies and gentlemen, let's begin the bidding with Lot #1, Terrance Cawdry, a former enforcer for the Caniglio Family...."

To Skinner, who had allowed himself to be dragged to far too many antique auctions during his married life, the scene had a gruesomely surreal familiarity. The crowd chatted and laughed and well-manicured hands or subtly shaped brows were lifted as the bidding to murder the pacing wretch became heated. Finally, a cheerful looking older man won the bid at $74,000 which he piled on a silver salver with a happy smile. Mr. Montrecini escorted him from the room and the crowd chatted and laughed as Skinner muttered, "Mulder, find cover. I think they're coming your way."

"Check."

On the center screen, there was some movement and the watchers in the salon grew silent and attentive. The pacing man appeared to have heard something; he lurched to a stop as bright light flooded his cell. His expression became terrified and he shrank back against the wall and began shrieking in silence. Suddenly, five orchid-like splashes of color bloomed on the man's chest as explosive tipped bullets tore into him. In seconds, the man's torso had been turned into pulverized meat and he slid slowly to the floor, leaving a bloody streak on the wall behind him.

Skinner swallowed heavily, then murmured, "One piece of good news, Mulder. There doesn't seem to be an audio feed."

"I heard it from here," Mulder's voice came back grimly. "I think I've found a way to bypass the video... there's a studio down here."

The auctioneer stepped back onto the dais. "Well, that was short but sweet, wasn't it, folks? A round of applause for Mr. Genelli, if you please!" Skinner was forced to join the entire ghoulish assembly as they applauded the cheery-faced killer politely, sounding like the court-side seats at Wimbledon.

"Mulder, I take it back. It would definitely be a pleasure to take these people out. Every single one of them."

"Well, now, boy, I'm glad you see it my way," Hamilton's voice flowed into his ear through the circuit.

"Where the hell have you been?" Skinner demanded under cover of a cough. There was no one seated directly beside him and he had long ago mastered the art of speaking without moving his lips, but he didn't think he could be too careful. On the screens, the remaining two prisoners had obviously heard the shots. Krycek's shoulders had jerked but otherwise, he hadn't moved. The other man had dropped to his knees and now appeared to be sobbing quietly.

"Just checking the lay of the land, Walt. Nuthin' to get excited about." Hamilton had his good ol' boy persona firmly back in place and he was working himself up to be as irritating as he could be, Skinner could tell. Once the adrenaline started pumping, Hamilton was all wisecracks and folksy geniality.

"Let's keep the objective in mind here, Ham. He's not MY lover," Skinner snapped as best he could without moving his lips or jaw, eyes fixed on the unmoving figure on the right-most screen.

There was a silence, then Hamilton said very quietly, "The mission objectives are in hand, Skinner."

"Good."

"Cut the chatter, you two," Mulder ordered. "The lock on this door is... " and he descended into half-heard obscenities. "Hamilton, where are you?"

"Two floors above you, keeping your escape route clear. What are you doing down there, playing with yourself?"

"Fuck you, Sam."

The auctioneer ascend to his podium again and the crowd quieted. "The next lot, ladies and gentlemen, is a particularly nasty piece of work. Charles MacIlhenny, late of Sinn Fein...." Skinner tuned out the auctioneer's obscene patter to listen in as Mulder grumbled, then began to crow with triumph.

"They do have a tape feed on these cells. I think I can loop the tape.... Yes!"

Watching carefully, Skinner saw the moment when the video feed switched to tape; there was a slight bobble and a jump, then the right-hand screen showed Krycek still just sitting there.

"I think you've got it, Mulder. How long is that tape good for?"

"12 minutes."

The auction for the luckless IRA terrorist was heating up between an iron-gray British woman and two voluble Saudis. Skinner checked his watch and folded his arms on his chest and did his very best impression of a man jaded and bored with the entertainment.

"You are not pleased, Mr. Hunter?" Montrecini's oiled tones in his right ear nearly made Skinner jump and drowned out whatever Mulder said next. "Only a few more moments of your patience and then the lot in which you have a more personal interest will come up." Skinner grimaced in polite acknowledgment and Montrecini drifted on to chat with another guest.

"Let's get a move on, Mulder. Krycek's number is coming up."

"Almost got it," Mulder's voice whispered.

"Just blow the damned thing," Hamilton urged. "I showed you how. All you need is a handful of the C-4. There's no one on two floors to hear it."

The image of his impulsive lover playing with plastic explosives made Skinner's stomach roll. Then he recalled that it wasn't a game and his stomach rolled again. There was a muffled thump! in his ear that had him shaking his head.

The Saudis overbid the British woman and were escorted triumphantly from the room.

"Heads up, Mulder," Skinner whispered urgently.

"Check," Mulder said, then there was nothing.

All eyes were riveted on the left-hand screen. In a few moments, the door to that cell also opened, but two of the liveried goons entered and seized hold of MacIlhenny's arms. They held him solidly as the two Saudis advanced into the camera's view. Each man held a very long, wicked-looking stiletto. This execution took much longer and several women and two men ran from the room in the first five minutes. The rest watched in rapt silence as a man was sliced to thin ribbons before them. Skinner kept his eyes fixed on the British woman who had been outbid. She watched with a serious sort of attention that would not have been out of place at the opera. When the first of the man's fingers was displayed and then dropped, her cheeks flushed and her eyes began to sparkle and Skinner had to grit his teeth to keep his roiling gut where it belonged.

"OK, Walt. We're out of here. I've got the engine running."

Skinner shot to his feet, handkerchief pressed over his mouth as he had seen the others do. He passed quickly through the gawkers, ignoring the amused glances and tittering remarks. He gained the parquet entrance hall where he was observed and dismissed by Montrecini's's disdainful thugs. He headed for the main doors and had taken his first deep draughts of the frigid night air when Montrecini's voice stopped him.

"Leaving us so soon, Mr. Hunter?" Surprise in the well-modulated voice, suspicion in the shrewd eyes that catalogued him.

"I came for a kind of justice, Mr. Montrecini, not to watch a man be sliced to ribbons by foreign sadists!" he growled, breath steaming and curling into the night above them.

"You would prefer, perhaps, domestic sadists?" Montrecini appeared to regret his lapse into callous humor. "Forgive me, Mr. Hunter, I see that you are truly unwell. Or is it that the bidding is a touch higher than you were expecting?" Again the assessing look.

"I'm leaving." Skinner shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket and tried to look like a man more embarrassed by his own financial weakness than by any inconvenient moral compunctions.

Montrecini touched his shoulder with polite concern. "I understand, Mr. Hunter. You must understand, of course, that I cannot return your opening deposit."

Skinner nodded shortly. "That's OK. I'll consider it my part of Krycek's price. At least tonight, I'll know he's dead, even if I don't do it myself. Well worth the money."

Montrecini inclined his head politely. "I am sorry that we are to lose the pleasure of your company, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps some other evening?"

"Perhaps," Skinner said shortly, eyes already seeking the sleek black limousine that Mulder ought to be driving up at any moment.

"A last thought, Mr. Skinner. I do expect discretion from all of my guests... and I know how to insure it." The shrewd eyes fixed themselves on him meaningfully.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Montrecini," Skinner growled.

"I know," the other man said complacently. "Good night, Mr. Skinner," he said as the limo pulled up and Mulder silently came around to open the door for Skinner. Skinner didn't reply, he just stalked down the stairs and got into the limo.

Watching from the steps of his mansion, Montrecini saw Skinner's limousine pull away and wind its way down the drive. So pretentious of the man, to allow himself to be driven, as if he were not merely a bureaucrat with an unfulfilled longing for murder. Montrecini snorted as he watched the limo pause at the gatehouse -- the man was probably arguing with his rented chauffeur as to the best route home. Was that a flicker of movement down by the gatehouse? No. The limo was turning the corner and pulling out onto the main road, the gates closing smoothly behind it.

Rico Montrecini shrugged and turned to re-enter his mansion. He was looking forward to this next lot a great deal. Alex Krycek had been more trouble that he had ever been worth and the sudden demise of the Maliazzi Brothers in the wake of Rico's own minor information transaction with Krycek had left him in a most painful position. Tonight would solve that problem. He had even rigged the bidding so that Krycek would fall to the one person in the room who had the artistry to make this final lot a truly fitting entertainment for the night. Montrecini clapped his hands together in anticipation and went inside.

"You OK, Krycek?" Skinner asked.

"Fine." Krycek was sitting beside Mulder and didn't turn around. His head was tipped back against the headrest and the side of his face that Skinner could see seemed very pale.

"Where's Hamilton?" Skinner asked Mulder as they came up on the gatehouse.

"He said he'd meet us here." Mulder braked and waited for the massive gates to swing open. There was a whisper on the closed circuit they had been using to communicate and Mulder pressed a button, lowering the passenger window next to Skinner, the one on the right side of the car, away from the view of the gatehouse guards. A crackling of dead leaves and a breath of wintry air and there was a black form diving through the open window and across Skinner's lap. Mulder closed the window, then nudged the limo through the gaping gates and took the turn onto the main road.

"Hamilton!!" Skinner roared, the tension and adrenaline of the night finally finding release as he shouted at, then hugged his maniacally grinning friend. Hamilton was sprawled on his back, still half-lying in Skinner's lap, dressed in black, covered in dead leaves, his teeth flashing palely in the dark.

"Just one more detail to take care of Walt, then this op is wrapped up, OK?" Hamilton struggled to sit up, then fumbled around in his blackout gear until he found a palm-top computer. Turning, he looked at the mansion behind them, a festering brightness in the night, then his grin got wider. Skinner didn't get it until Hamilton said softly, "Time to cash out, Mr. Montrecini." Then he touched the stylus to the screen.

The night behind them exploded into light and sound.

Mulder drove them back to Skinner's home, the place he had moved into less than a month ago and was only now starting to think of as 'home'. He blatantly ignored any suggestions or orders from Hamilton and the stony silence from the battered man seated beside him. Krycek's behavior was something of a puzzle. In the red-gold light of Montrecini's blazing mansion, Krycek's eyes had glittered and his teeth flashed as he watched one after another of Hamilton's party favors detonate, leveling the entire Mansion and most of its outbuildings. Hamilton had turned to look at his lover and the wild fire had died out of his eyes, leaving them very dark and very gentle as he reached out a hand to touch Krycek's bruised face with his fingertips. Krycek had allowed the caress for a moment, then his expression froze and he drew back, turning around to sit next to Mulder again, staring forward and not replying to anything they said.

It was barely 10 p.m. when they walked through the door of Skinner's house. Mulder led the way to the kitchen, automatically sweeping away the disassembled pieces of the machine pistol Hamilton had left on the table that morning. "You have to admit, Walt, it was a lot more fun than spending the evening making polite small talk with my mother."

"Actually, I think that I would have preferred explaining out entire sex life, in graphic detail, to your mother to just about all of this evening," Skinner said. He pointed Krycek toward a chair and rummaged in a cabinet until he found the first aid kit. The sullen Krycek tried to escape and was settled more firmly in his chair by Skinner's glare and a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Aw, c'mon Walt, you gotta admit, the fireworks show at the end was worth the price of admission alone," Hamilton said from across the room. Only someone who knew him as well as Walter Skinner would have known how much effort he was putting into sounding normal. He leaned casually against the doorframe, eyes bright and glittering with the evening's work, but Skinner could see the muscle in his jaw jumping whenever Hamilton tried to catch Krycek's eye and was ignored.

"We'll talk about that later, Ham," he said heavily, not wanting to get into the old argument about morals vs. efficiency just now. "Speaking of the price of admission, you're out ten thousand dollars. The rest is still in here."

He handed the attache case back to Hamilton, who only shrugged. "It doesn't matter, it was all counterfeit anyway."

Skinner closed his eyes and counted to ten as he tried very hard to ignore just how many laws his friend had broken tonight... how many laws his friend had gotten him to break tonight. A hand on his shoulder and he turned to look up into Mulder's gentle smile. "Don't worry about it, Walt. We've both done worse for less reason and you know it." He handed Skinner a bottle of beer, then handed Krycek an ice pack and a wet washcloth. He offered a bottle to Hamilton, who only shook his head and kept staring at Krycek.

Skinner turned his attention back to Krycek, neck prickling with what Mulder had said. It unnerved him when Mulder demonstrated exactly how well he knew his lover. He was willing to bet that Mulder even knew that most of his anger at Hamilton was really disgust at how little tonight's forays into lawlessness truly bothered Skinner, despite what he wanted to believe about himself.

"Skinner," Krycek said hoarsely, "Rico was a rabid dog with opposable thumbs. Trust me, you did the world a favor. And me," he added, wincing as Skinner doctored the minor cuts and scratches on his face. Besides the beating, there were slight chemical burns around his mouth and nose. "Chloroform pad?" Skinner asked.

"Something like," Krycek grimaced. Hamilton made an aborted movement, then stopped when Krycek looked at him coldly.

"Did they feed you?"

Krycek shook his head. Mulder brought over a plate with a pile of roast beef sandwiches on it and put it on the table in front of Krycek. He also put down a large glass of milk that Krycek regarded with sincere disgust. Mulder smiled uncompromisingly. "No beer. Eat. Drink," he ordered. As Skinner finished bandaging and anointing him, Krycek picked up the first sandwich and glared at it, then ate it in two or three snaps. The others joined him as he made short work of three more sandwiches and a full quart of milk. They ate silently, except for Hamilton, who took two bites, then put his sandwich down and took out a cell phone. He spoke three words into the receiver, then disconnected and put the phone away.

"The limo will be gone in twenty minutes. No one can connect it with you."

"Good," Skinner growled. "If I have sheriff's deputies on my doorstep tomorrow morning, Hamilton, I will personally give them your address...."

"Don't bother," Mulder said.. "Just point them down the hall. You're spending the night, gentlemen. Your old room is open, Sam, and there are clean sheets on the bed."

Both Krycek and Hamilton looked up to argue, but Mulder said firmly, "You're staying. We'll talk in the morning. Breakfast at eight. And if either of you is missing, I'll hunt you down personally. Got it?"

"What's with the bossy queen act, Mulder?" Krycek asked with a sneer.

"Just getting in touch with my inner bitch, Krycek," Mulder shot back, standing up. "You two have some issues to work out and you'll do it better on neutral territory. I'm going to bed." He looked at Skinner and jerked his head toward the bedroom. Skinner nodded and stood up.

"Lock up, will you, Ham?"

They were nearly out of the room when Krycek said quietly, "Merry Christmas, Mulder... Skinner."

They stopped for a moment, then Mulder said, "You're welcome, Krycek," and they left the two men sitting in their kitchen.

They prepared for bed silently. Skinner stripped off his tuxedo and left it in a heap in the corner of the room. Somehow, he had a feeling he would never wear it again. While Mulder showered and brushed his teeth, Skinner sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands, wondering.

When Mulder came into the room, ruddy from his hot shower and a towel wrapped around his waist, he said nothing. He merely sat down beside Skinner and waited.

"There were over sixty people in that room tonight, Mulder. There were servants and bodyguards and all sorts of people in that house tonight. You saw it -- no one could have survived that."

"I know," Mulder said neutrally.

"He killed all those people, Fox... and I helped him."

"We helped him," Mulder corrected gently. "And I'd do it again. So would you."

Skinner nodded miserably.

"That's the real problem, isn't it? You know exactly why Sam had to do it and a part of you secretly approves and that's why you're so angry at him. For making you know that that part of you is in there, too."

Skinner sighed, then turned and leaned his aching forehead against Mulder's warm shoulder. "I hate it when you do that," he said.

"I know," Mulder said quietly.

"He asked me last night, what I would do if it were you." Skinner paused for a moment. "I would have leveled the whole damned place, then sown salt on the ashes while I drank their blood."

Mulder grunted. "That's a bit more graphic than I needed, thanks, Walt." But his hand came up to rub very gently at the base of Skinner's skull. "Let it go, Walt. You are who you are, Hamilton is who he is... and we're all alive."

"Take me to bed and show me?" Skinner asked with a hint of a smile growing as the muscles in his neck slowly relaxed.

"As long as you promise not to tell my mother," Mulder said as he stood up and dropped his towel.

Hamilton and Krycek sat in frosted silence for nearly five minutes before Hamilton broke. "What the fuck is wrong with you, boy?!"

"I'm not your 'boy,' Hamilton," Krycek grated. "I don't need you looking out for me, Daddy!"

"Coulda fooled me, boy. You'd be dead right now if I hadn't been looking out for you tonight!"

Krycek shrugged, an ugly smile on his face as he stared into space. "Nah, knowing Rico, I wouldn't be dead yet... not for hours. He had 'plans' for me. I know, he told me. Sick fuck," Krycek added, almost meditatively.

"Jesus, Alex," Hamilton's strangled whisper finally caught Krycek's attention and he looked at him.

"You don't get it, do you, Hamilton? I'm not a 'fixer-upper.' I'm never gonna renounce my evil ways and go straight and use my powers for Good," Krycek sneered. "There is no good little boy under here, Hamilton. Just beneath the surface of the mud is more mud, got it? So save us both some trouble and let me walk out that door."

Hamilton's fist bunched on the table, knuckles going bloodless and white, arm shaking with the intensity of his own grip. But when he spoke, his voice was low and might have been mistaken for calm. "You don't get it, do you, b... Alex?

"I don't want to change you. I never did. In case you missed something back there tonight, I'm the one who just turned a Virginia estate into a pile of smoking ash. And liked it. I don't want a 'good little boy;' I just want you."

Krycek stared at him across the table. "Why?"

Hamilton stared back and shook his head slowly, no glib words rising to the occasion. "I don't know. But I do."

Somehow, against the odds, that had been the right answer. He could see it in the way Krycek's body suddenly slumped in his chair, his exhaustion quenching the anger. "Shit," he muttered and Hamilton began to smile. He stood up and tugged on Krycek's hand.

"Come on, time for bed, boy."

Krycek stumbled to his feet, frowning again. "Don't call me 'boy'," he snarled then rocked on his feet.

Hamilton gathered him quickly to his chest and held him firmly. "Time for bed, Alex."

"Better," Krycek muttered as Hamilton's hand came up to stroke his hair. "I really hate the way you keep trying to take care of me," he mumbled as his head was gently pressed to rest on Hamilton's shoulder.

"I'm just trying to pay my debts, Alex," Hamilton murmured, mouth against Krycek's temple. There was an interrogative grunt as Krycek shifted his head a little to press his face into Hamilton's throat. "Hey, the first time I ever met you, you were saving my life. I figure I owe you."

Krycek lifted his head and foggy green eyes stared at him in consternation. "You're insane," Krycek said after a moment's inspection.

"And you're only working that out now, boy?" Hamilton gently pressed his lover's head back to the comfortable spot it had been in.

"Don't call me 'boy'," Krycek whispered, his arm curving around Hamilton's waist.

"Come to bed, Alex," Hamilton said softly. "You can yell at me some more in the morning."

"'Don't think I won't," Krycek warned sleepily as Hamilton smiled and wondered if Krycek would ever be ready to hear all the silly, soft words Hamilton had stored up for him. Probably not. He might even have to tie Alex down....

Hamilton began to grin and plot as he steered his half-conscious lover down the hall toward bed.

 

end

Series this work belongs to: