Part II Wild Cards First, he was his prisoner. Now, he was his houseguest. So,
what was this Syndicate man's angle? What price was there to
be paid this time around? One thing was certain, he wasn't
like the Smoker. He didn't have that particular malignant
arrogance, though Krycek knew the old man was all too capable
of killing if he deemed it necessary. What Krycek couldn't
understand was why he had singled him out now, why he seemed
almost paternal towards him at times. It made Krycek uneasy.
It made him feel obligated. Granted, the Syndicate was now
divided about the Project. New alliances were forming in
response to the Colonists' internal struggle and to the rise
of an unexpected Resistance. The consequences would
inevitably affect everyone. Everyone. Yet Krycek suspected
that his elegant patron had a more complicated agenda than
the rest of his shadowy colleagues. Whatever the old man's
motives, they were keeping Krycek alive and safe, at least
for the moment. They were giving him time. He still had
contacts, even in Russia, even with all his bridges burned,
he could still call in a favor, or more. He had contacts in
even strangers quarters, too. But he needed time.
The rain rolled down the windows in heavy, drumming sheets.
The storm was getting worse. Another crack of lightning tore
through the sky in the distance. The rumble of thunder that
followed was louder. It seemed the perfect sort of night to
be faced with meeting Mulder again.
It was going to be difficult. He remembered the feeling of
surprise and relief that rushed through him when the old man
told him Mulder had gone to Wiekamp Airforce Base. They were
still unsure of the fate of the Resistance leader, but they
knew something had happened. Something had changed
because of Mulder's presence there.
Because Mulder had believed him.
A bright white flash lit the windows, followed by another
boom of thunder that sounded as if it was exploding right
over the roof. It was a bad night to be out. Krycek looked
down at the antique writing desk, at the canvas bag on top of
the green blotter. How had the smooth old bastard managed to
get a hold of that, he wondered. And why would he think that
Mulder would want it, or be able to utilize it, or even
manage to keep it safe? Mulder's track record for holding on
to any sort of evidence was somewhere just shy of dismal.
Well, perhaps that was the real object of the exercise: to
give Mulder something else to lose.
What puzzled him was the fact that the old man could've given
Mulder the stuff himself. He could've had it delivered by one
of his errand boys. Hell, he could've sent it FedEx, for all
that. But no. "Agent Mulder will meet you at the house. Give
him the holdall and inform him of its contents." It had not
been a request. Then Krycek was shown a file folder
explaining the facts behind what was in the canvas bag so
that he wouldn't be completely in the dark himself.
Krycek got up from the desk and started pacing around the
large room. The carpet was thick and plush under his bare
feet. His gaze swept the teak four-poster bed and its silver
and rose patterned silk spread that so perfectly matched the
wallpaper, the overflowing bookcase casually sprinkled with
first editions, the oil of an English country scene in its
gilded frame. He paused in front of it and smiled. A foxhunt,
what else. The hounds were scattering over the rolling
hillside, the horses with their red-jacketed riders trailing
behind. But the fox was no where to be seen. He wondered if
the painting was one of the old man's favorites.
He walked into the adjoining bathroom and stopped before the
floor length mirror, running his hand through his damp hair.
Being able to take a hot shower, have a good meal, sleep in a
luxurious bed, these were comforts he hadn't had in a long
time. If Mulder met him tonight, he would have to leave this
place. He couldn't see how he could remain here, but then, he
wasn't sure what the old man's plans were for him. At least,
not yet. He only hoped they didn't conflict with his own. It
was disturbing enough to know that the old man wanted him to
bring back the Smoker. God, how Krycek hated that man. He
shrugged off the thought. He'd have his day of reckoning with
that one eventually.
He looked down at his new prosthetic. It fit better than the
old one, and it was better balanced. He didn't have to
compensate as much when he walked. More importantly, it
wasn't as noticeably... fake. He straightened the sleeve of
his dark green cotton shirt over the wrist. Maybe,
eventually, it would even become easier to pretend he didn't
notice it.
Mulder leaned back in his desk and tossed the wadded up paper
at the wastebasket. It teetered on the edge for a second,
then dropped inside. "Two points." It was his fourth rim shot
in a row, a personal record. It was also the only productive
activity he'd accomplished in the past hour and a half.
He sat up and drummed his fingers on the stack of papers on
his desk. More damn reports for Skinner. He hated the lulls
more than anything. They gave him too much time to think
about everything else.
He glanced at his watch. Scully had left hours ago. It was
Friday night and though he doubted she had any plans, she was
always less of a fool about hanging around the office than he
was. Any minute now, the janitors would be making their way
down to the basement level. They always worked from the top
down, in true elitist fashion. Admittedly, his office was
also the closest one to the building dumpsters. All the
rubbish in one convenient location.
He let out a long sigh and got up. Well, he had an
appointment to keep. In fact, he should've left over an hour
ago. The ever-cultured British voice on the phone had been
quite precise. "There's a package for you containing
something I believe you may find most useful. A number of
parties have been looking for it for quite some time now." As
usual, the man gave Mulder no answers to his questions,
except to say that he would be given more information when he
collected the package. The man gave him the address of a
house in Arlington and told him when to arrive. Instincts
prickling and giving into a stubborn reluctance, Mulder had
none too politely replied that he wasn't in the mood for any
more wild goose chases.
"Then you saw nothing at Wiekamp Airforce Base, Agent
Mulder?"
That, as they say, was the question. "I'm not sure what I
saw," he had answered honestly. Images shot through with
light and shadows; the shift and bounce of the truck. A man
with no eyes. And someone else. The feel of the gun in his
hand and not knowing who or what he was shooting at, but just
needing to stop whatever was happening. Light descending over
them in a blinding white cloud. Time lost and his mind
blanked. The memory had returned later, but only in hazy
fragments. He just wasn't sure.
"You saw the alien Resistance leader, Agent Mulder."
Mulder had been silent then, the phone receiver clutched
against his ear.
"Agent Mulder?"
It was a 50s B Movie marathon. Battle from Beyond the Stars.
They Came to Conquer Earth. Attack of the Eyeless Invaders.
Now that he was finally convinced it had all been a fabric of
lies, carefully woven over decades to conceal the
government's covert experiments on its own citizens, he was
being jerked around again. Thrown another curve.
All he wanted was the truth. Before, he... believed. His
search was for corroboration, for the evidence of the truth
he already knew. Now, it was almost like starting over. Yet
he knew he'd already taken that first step when he went to
Wiekamp.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, hoping to catch some
insight into motive, if not fact. There was a pause on the
other end of the line and he thought, for a moment, that the
man might not answer.
"Everyone makes mistakes, Agent Mulder. Some mistakes are
irreversible. However, even then, one can perhaps affect the
consequences. Let us just say, I think the game would benefit
from a wild card or two."
"Is that what this is to you, a game?"
"For some men, everything is a game. It forces us all to
play. Sometimes poker, sometimes chess. Yes, in many ways,
it's much like a game."
"I prefer Parcheesi myself."
The beat of silence that followed seemed very cold. "You have
a peculiar sense of humor, Agent Mulder."
"So I've been told. Look, for all I know I've been playing
Trivial Pursuit for the last five years. Now, why don't you
just tell me what kind of information you're giving me. Right
now."
"Alex Krycek can answer your questions when you pick up the
package."
It was his turn to be speechless. Krycek. The last time he
met Krycek... well, he didn't even like to think about the
last time. He'd thought about it too much as it was. "Is he
working for you now?" he finally managed to ask.
"We have a mutual goal."
Mulder could hear Krycek's words echoing in his mind: I was
sent by a man, a man who knows as I do... "It seems his
loyalties are for sale to the highest bidder."
"Alex Krycek is a practical and resourceful young man in need
of guidance."
The Devil's Disciple? Krycek could probably teach the old man
a thing or two, thought Mulder angrily, tiring from the
cryptic runaround. "He's dangerous and belongs in prison."
"Really? I would think it would be extremely difficult to
generate an effective prosecution against someone without any
evidence whatsoever. And it's shocking how easily evidence
can disappear these days, assuming, of course, that it could
be found in the first place. Given the global crisis we are
all facing now, to preoccupy ourselves with Alex Krycek's
criminal culpability seems rather a waste of time and energy,
wouldn't you say?"
"Why are you protecting him? He's a killer, a traitor. He'll
betray you just like he's betrayed everyone else."
"Are you referring to his former partnership with you?"
Mulder said nothing.
"In England, some regard Benedict Arnold as a hero. It's a
matter of perspective, after all, Agent Mulder. From our
point of view, Krycek was merely carrying out the assignment
he was given, as he was trained to do, and as we fully
expected him to do. In fact, some of my colleagues feel he
was rather ineffective and far too independent, which is
fortunate for you, if not for him."
Mulder scowled at the receiver. "You should all form a glee
club. There's a little place in upstate New York called
Attica that could really use one."
The man sighed. "For god's sake, after all you've witnessed,
your juvenile naivete is becoming rather tiresome. Now, you
have the address. If you are still interested in pursuing the
truth, then you will be there tonight."
And then the line had gone dead with a quiet click, leaving
him with yet another unanswered question. Mulder snapped out
of his reverie at the sound of voices in the hallway. The
janitors. He grabbed his trenchcoat, glanced at his briefcase
on the floor before dismissing it, and walked out of the
office.
The night sky rumbled and cracked as he emerged from the
Hoover building. The street lamps were hazy amber globes of
light hovering in the pouring rain and cars knifed through
sheets of water on the roadway.
"Shit." He hadn't brought an umbrella and, naturally, he'd
parked in the lot across the street. By the time he reached
the car, he was soaked. His hair was dripping, rivulets
snaking down his collar, down his back. His pant legs were
wet, his shoes and socks drenched from a puddle he missed
avoiding. It didn't improve his mood. He considered going
home, but his curiosity was far too piqued. And then there
was Krycek. Beyond the sense of unfinished business, there
was a disturbing feeling of inevitability whenever Krycek was
involved. Their lives seemed to be forever twisted together
like barbed wire, and every new encounter seemed more
unsettling, more unresolved than the last. This time, though,
no surprises. No moves in the dark. This time, he would be
ready for him.
The windshield wipers whooshed in a steady rhythm as he drove
through the rain-soaked streets. He thought about calling
Scully. It would only be sensible to let her know where he
was going; she could back him up in case there was any
trouble. Krycek was no boy scout, after all. The cellphone
was in his hand, his finger hovering over the speed dial
button before he threw it back on the seat.
He hadn't told Scully about Krycek coming to his apartment.
He showed her the slip of paper about Wiekamp Air Force
Base, but that was all. He still didn't understand why he
hadn't told her that it was Krycek who had given it to him.
Just as he couldn't quite understand why he didn't want to
tell her that he was going to meet him now.
Krycek listened to the faint chimes of the hall clock
downstairs as he pulled on his boots. Mulder was late. Maybe
he wasn't going to show. That wouldn't make his well-
manicured host at all happy. He got up from the bed and stood
before the bureau mirror, lightly touching the left sleeve of
his shirt. The material was a soft, brushed cotton, too thin
to conceal the straps of his prosthesis. He stared at the
vague outline beneath the shirt, his lips tightening, and
went to the closet, looking through the items hanging there.
The old man had even bought him some clothes, his sartorial
sensibilities balking at Krycek's shabby Russian leftovers,
he assumed.
He took a wool, charcoal-colored shirt off of one of the
hangers. It was thick and bulky, and he put it on over his
green shirt. There, that was better. He realized his hand was
sweating and wiped his palm across the thigh of his black
jeans. Strange that he would feel so nervous. Considering all
the things he'd faced, all the things he'd done, the prospect
of seeing Mulder again shouldn't tie his stomach into knots.
It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. His hand balled into
a fist as he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.
Lightening flashed through the window curtains, making him
jump. A roar of thunder followed. He gritted his teeth and
walked over to the bed, pulling his gun out from under the
pillow, clicking the safety off and on again. The feel of the
cold metal in his hand was reassuring. He wasn't going to let
Mulder get to him. He was going to maintain control over the
situation. If he had to stick a gun in Mulder's face again,
then so much the better. He slipped the gun into his belt and
went downstairs to wait. Another half-hour passed by as he
paced and prowled through the rooms. Every few minutes, he
would check through the curtains at the front of the house
and glance at the controls of the security alarm system.
The residential, tree-lined street was fairly dark, with just
a streetlamp here and there and the pale rectangles of light
from a few windows visible through the storm. The wind was
howling accompaniment to the thunder, bending the branches of
the trees, scattering the late autumn leaves into the rain
like confetti.
Krycek was about to give up on Mulder when he heard a car
going by and then backing up, stopping and then pulling up
into the driveway. His pulse began to race, and he went to
the window, drawing aside the curtain fractionally to watch
as Mulder got out of the car and approached the house. He
didn't have an umbrella, but he was still walking slowly,
hesitantly, through the downpour towards the door.
Krycek drew in a long, hard breath and glanced down at this
left arm, pulling at the end of his shirt sleeve, and headed
for the door. He stood in front of it, waiting. The seconds
ticked by. No knock, no ring. Had Mulder changed his mind? He
looked through the peephole. Mulder was just standing there
in front of the door, the rain rolling off his hair, his
face, and his clothes. He was like a statue.
"Damn it." Krycek flung open the door and found himself
looking straight into Mulder's wide hazel eyes. For a moment,
all the words caught in his throat. The sound of the wind and
the sting of the rain brought him back to himself. "Get
inside, Mulder."
Mulder just kept staring at him, raindrops trailing down from
his hair over his face. His clothes were soaking wet. Krycek
reached out to pull Mulder inside. Mulder blinked, glanced at
his hand, and quickly brushed it aside, stepping into the
house. Krycek closed the door and set the bolt, turning to
see Mulder's
Sig Sauer pointed at his chest.
"Give me your gun."
Krycek realized he hadn't tucked it out of sight. With an
irritated sigh, he removed it slowly and held it out to
Mulder, handle first. Mulder grabbed it, slid it into his
coat pocket and, after a quick look around, motioned for him
to walk towards the living room. "There's no one else here,
Mulder," Krycek told him over his shoulder.
"Just keep moving." They were in the middle of the spacious
living room when Mulder told him to stop. Clothes drenched
and hair plastered against his forehead, Mulder was creating
a small pool of water where he stood. Even with the gun in
his hand, he had a certain pathetic, lost quality about him.
It reminded Krycek of the way he looked the last time they
saw each other, when he had left Mulder sitting on the floor
of his apartment in the dark, gun in hand. He hadn't been
quite sure then if Mulder would shoot him or not. He still
wasn't sure.
"I can get you a towel to dry yourself off," he offered. It
was a strange feeling, being in such a domestic setting,
playing the considerate host. He was reminded again of how
inexorably his life had changed, and how quickly it could
change again.
Mulder was looking intently at his left hand. The room
lighting was good enough to make Krycek willfully resist the
urge to shift his body away from the scrutiny. Whatever
Mulder saw, he didn't seem surprised by it. Krycek wondered
if Mulder had detected his prosthesis the last time they met.
It was certainly possible. Mulder usually noticed everything
but the obvious. It would also explain his stupid wisecrack.
As if on cue, Mulder spoke up.
"Your new owner said you had some information for me."
Krycek tried not to flinch. Mulder had a way with words.
Maybe he'd inherited it from that cold-blooded bastard of a
father of his. Fortunately, it seemed to be the only trait
they shared. He sighed, trying to ignore the insults. "He
wants to help you. I want to help you."
Mulder gave him a frost-covered smile. "Oh, but you've all
done so much for me already."
"Do you want the information or not? If not, then get the
hell out of here." He was suddenly angry, more at the old man
than at Mulder, for setting up this pointless confrontation.
"I didn't drive through this fucking storm tonight for the
scenery."
Krycek nodded tightly. "I'll go get it."
Mulder jabbed the gun towards him. "Oh, no, I'm not letting
you out of my sight."
"It's upstairs. I'll just bring—"
"We'll both go." Mulder waved the gun towards the doorway.
Krycek looked at the gun and managed a bitter smile of his
own. "Sure, Special Agent Mulder, whatever you say." He
looked up then and their eyes met and held. The air between
them suddenly felt as electric as the storm outside. He
turned away, not quite steadily, breaking the contact, and
led Mulder out of the room and up the stairs.
Mulder felt the raindrops dripping down his collar from his
hair as he followed Krycek through the house. He patted the
pocket of his trenchcoat, double-checking for Krycek's gun.
He was wet. He was cold. Yet his pulse was racing. His heart
was beating like a drum. It was the familiar surge of
emotions that Krycek seemed to generate whenever they were
near each other. With each successive meeting, the feeling
grew into something ever more complicated, ever
more... frustrating.
He gripped his gun, watching Krycek's back as they walked. He
looked at the man's left side. Krycek was wearing a thick
shirt. If Mulder hadn't already been sure about the fake arm,
he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. It was the
hand. Almost life-like. Almost.
They walked up the stairs and into the first room on the
right, which was a bedroom, a very attractive bedroom. The
entire house reflected its rich and powerful owner, the man
who was once his father's friend, thought Mulder. The man who
now owned Alex Krycek, or so it seemed. He paused and scanned
an elegantly framed oil painting with a note of amusement.
"You have a nice little kennel here, Krycek," he said. "You
must be a very obedient pet to deserve all this."
Krycek whirled around to face, his voice breathy. "No one
owns me, Mulder. I'm getting tired of your insults. They're
getting more predictable all the time. Why don't you just
shut up, for once?"
Well, it seemed Krycek still had a few buttons to push. It
almost brought a smile to his face. "My apologies. I forgot
how sensitive you can be when you're not killing people."
"Don't push me Mulder. Let's just get this over with, all
right?"
He was surprised by the sudden lack of anger in Krycek's
reply. Instead, his tone was flat, weary. Mulder watched the
man's eyes for a moment, watching the strange play of
emotions there. "All right, where's the information?"
Krycek pointed to a canvas bag on the desk near the bed.
"Open it, show me what's in it."
Krycek unzipped the bag and took out several large manila
file folders, about a half dozen disks and two thick black,
spiral-bound notebooks. Mulder waved him aside with his gun
and approached the desk. With his free hand, he flipped one
of the notebooks open and scanned the first page. 'Notes and
Observations' was the heading. Underneath that was a name:
Joseph Ridley, M.D.
Mulder looked at Krycek questioningly, unable to hide his
surprise. "Where did this come from?"
"The bag was in a locker in the Greyhound bus terminal in San
Diego, California. Locker 935, to be exact. It was put there
by a man named John Barnett."
Mulder felt a fist tighten in his chest at the name. John
Barnett had been the only man that Mulder truly regretted not
killing when he first had the chance. Too many people had
died as a result, including Reggie Purdue, his mentor and his
friend. He had few enough of those to spare. It was yet
another layer of guilt on his psyche. "These are Ridley's
research papers on his Progeria experiments. Barnett stole
them four years ago to bargain for immunity."
Krycek nodded. "They're still searching for his papers, now
more than ever."
"They?" Mulder opened one of the file folders, glancing at a
computer printout of formulas and lists of chemical
compounds. He sifted through some of the pages. It looked
genuine, but he didn't have the expertise to tell one way or
the other.
"The same ones that wanted it then, want it now."
"Why?"
"The Colonists want the information for their... hybridization
experiments. We're not sure, but it seems that they've
encountered some kind of problem with their specimens. Some
kind of mutation possibly. They've been told about Ridley's
research and now they want it. Maybe they think Ridley's work
could provide some necessary component for their
experiments."
"Specimens, Krycek? Do you know what you're saying?"
"Yes, Mulder, I know. If their agenda continues as planned,
we'll all wind up as specimens for them."
Mulder lowered his gun slowly. "Did your boss make a set of
copies for himself?"
"It'd defeat his purpose, just make it easier for his over-
anxious colleagues to get to it first. They'll hand it over
to the Colonists immediately. He figures you might be able
use it as a bargaining chip, if you have to. In the meantime,
you and Scully might be able to figure out what's in the
research that makes it so important to them. How it fits in
with everything else."
Mulder took a step towards the other man, noting the sudden
tension in Krycek's body. "I'm surprised you didn't want to
keep it yourself. As your own bargaining chip."
Krycek gave him a hollow laugh. "Yeah, right. We're playing
in the big leagues now, Mulder, and I'm in the wrong
position. Depending on who found out, keeping that stuff
would only guarantee me a bullet in the head or worse."
"Worse?"
"First place in the specimen line."
"The Resistance you told me about—"
"There's a lot of confusion. Contact's been very sporadic."
Mulder felt as though Krycek was not telling him everything,
not that that would be anything new. "Then it made no
difference that I went to Wiekamp."
"If the leader had died, we would've heard something by now.
It made a difference, Mulder. It might be part of the reason
they want Ridley's papers now, so they can escalate their
colonization process. Maybe the internal dissension is
growing."
Mulder stared at Krycek, searching the green eyes for the
truth. A clap of thunder shook through the house, the
lightening flashing white through the windows a moment later.
The storm was surrounding them. As Mulder held Krycek's gaze,
he felt the belief settle inside him. He wasn't sure whether
to pity himself for it or not. He also knew in his gut that
Krycek was, once again, giving him only pieces of the puzzle.
But then, Krycek himself was a mystery, with more twists and
turns to him than all the other shadow men surrounding the
Project. Mulder raised his gun again. "Put it all back in the
bag."
Krycek let out a breath and began stuffing the folders and
the rest into the canvas bag. He zipped it closed, picked it
up and held it out towards Mulder.
The rain was pounding against the windows, and the wind
whistled through the eaves. Mulder became aware of his wet
clothes and the pool of water that seemed to have invaded his
shoes. "I could use that towel," he said. He watched a small
frown grow over Krycek's face, a line deepening across the
bridge of his nose. He wondered why Krycek seemed
uncomfortable. At the same time, he wondered where he could
keep the Ridley research. Trying to hide it in his apartment
would be like leaving it in the middle of Dulles
International. He wasn't too confident about keeping it in
the office either. He should hand the stuff over to Skinner.
That would be correct procedure. Well, he could say with
pride that he had never been accused of being a stickler for
protocol. Besides, he didn't want to make this official
business quite yet. That could bring in too many other
parties and one too many chances of alerting the wrong
people. He'd been down that road enough times already. He was
going to keep this one under wraps for as long as possible.
He wanted to check out the material through his own sources
first, along with making a few extra copies of the data.
The Gunmen. Yeah, no place safer than with that trio of high
tech paranoids. He could ask them for help on deciphering
some of it, too, maybe check out some medical contacts. They
could also stash an extra copy or two of the data. Frohike
might demand a couple of his limited edition videos in
payment, but it would be worth it. He would drive directly
over to their place. Then he'd call Scully. Try and explain
it all. Somehow.
A towel was thrust into his chest. Krycek stepped back
quickly, stopping only when he bumped into the desk behind
him. Mulder clicked the safety on and slipped his gun back in
its holster. His shirt was sticking to his back, clammy and
cold, even though the room was warm. His socks were squishing
in his waterlogged shoes. Krycek was chewing on his lip.
"Is the lord and master coming home tonight? I'd like to ask
him a few questions, too," asked Mulder.
Krycek ignored the insult and just shook his head. "He's
probably halfway to London by now."
"Have this whole place to yourself then?" Mulder asked as he
pulled off his trenchcoat and draped it over a nearby chair.
"What are you doing?"
Mulder was loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, wiping
his neck. The nervous look on Krycek's face amused him. It
seemed that taking off his clothes was more threatening to
his former partner than a gun pointed at his chest. Well,
well, well. Mulder bent down to untie his shoes and pulled
them off along with his drenched socks.
"Are you taking your clothes off?" There was a distinct edge
in Krycek's voice, which seemed to have risen half an octave
above his usual husky whisper.
"It's a monsoon out there. I just want to dry off a little."
He glanced at Krycek and added, "Maybe wait here for a while
until the storm eases up." He was pleased to see the frown
return to the other man's face. "You don't mind, do you?
Driving here was a bitch and the storm is even worse now." He
ran the towel over his hair and then started stripping off
his tie and shirt. Krycek looked away and walked towards the
door. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm going downstairs."
"Oh, no, I said I'm not letting you out of my sight and I
meant it." Mulder threw off his damp shirt and slipped off
his wristwatch and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He began
to unbuckle his belt. "You're staying right here."
Krycek turned around, his eyes widening. "Damn it, Mulder,
I'm not going to do anything."
Mulder patted his gun holster. "Humor me."
Krycek shrugged and remained where he was, back stiff, head
turned towards the windows and the storm outside.
"How long have you had Ridley's stuff here?" Mulder skinned
out of his suit pants. The bottoms of the pant legs were
dripping wet. He sat there on the bed in his t-shirt and
boxers, gun and holster beside him, wiping his feet, and
looking at Krycek. He tried to recall the image of the
boyish, green agent that he worked with several years ago.
Krycek had played his role so well. Mulder wondered what role
he was playing now.
"A couple of days."
"Did you look through it? Does it make any sense to you?"
"I'm not a doctor, Mulder." Krycek walked over to the desk
and sat down in the chair, still facing away from him. "Yeah,
I looked through the notebooks, and the guy was crazy. He
really thought he could cook up the Fountain of Youth."
"It worked on John Barnett."
"Ridley used some sort of grafting procedure to grow back
Barnett's hand. Salamander cells, of all things. That may be
the part that the Colonists are interested in, the cell
grafting, but it doesn't make sense. All Ridley wound up with
his own personal Frankenstein."
"Barnett was a monster long before that." Mulder pushed the
dark memory aside, picked up his gun, got up and walked into
the rose-tiled bathroom. He tossed the towel into the empty
hamper and pulled another one off the rack. His t-shirt was
wet around his neck and down the back. He gave it a moment's
consideration, then drew the shirt over his head and off, and
walked slowly back into the bedroom. Krycek was looking down
at the carpet, brow furrowed. "Do you have a robe or
something I could borrow?"
Krycek glanced up at him, mouth opening and then closing in a
hard line before he looked away again.
His reaction intrigued Mulder. He slipped his gun back in its
holster and tucked it into the pocket of his trenchcoat. He
tapped the other pocket, making sure Krycek's gun was still
there. He really didn't expect it not to be.
Krycek's head was down, long dark lashes hiding his eyes.
"There are some clothes in the closet. They'll probably fit
you. Just take whatever you want and leave," he said.
Even though Mulder was almost naked, he felt completely at
ease. He might have more than his fair share of emotional
hang-ups, but being shy about showing some skin wasn't one
of them. It was certainly more comfortable than standing
around in soaking wet clothes. But maybe Krycek had a problem
with it. It seemed that Mulder's very proximity caused Krycek
a definite amount of distress.
Mulder walked up to him, closing the space between them. His
eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked down at the bent
head. Perhaps it was Krycek's tension that irked him on. He
realized he wanted to make Krycek squirm. Hitting him or
shooting him, however deserved, didn't seem quite apropos,
under the circumstances.
Krycek's hair was a little longer now. Mulder reached out,
the back of his hand brushing through the hair above Krycek's
left ear. It was silky and thick, falling softly through his
fingers. He only had a split second to register the fact
before Krycek leaped up from the chair, forcing Mulder a step
backward with the movement.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Mulder watched the man's face, the quick flow of emotions,
the interplay of anger and fear and pain in his eyes, and
then the cold mask settling firmly over his features.
"Don't touch me."
They were standing face to face, so close it reminded Mulder
of that time in the cell in Tunguska. Even Krycek's words
were almost the same. The gulf was there between them, as
always, yet somehow, something was different. Each time, it
seemed that Krycek was different, shifting and changing the
emotions between them, clouding and muting the crystal
clarity of Mulder's rage with each contradictory action that
Krycek inevitably made.
"Why not, Krycek? It's not like we haven't touched each other
before."
"I'm not in the mood for mind games."
Mulder's lips twitched upward. "So we only play when you
want to play, is that it?" Mulder didn't wait for an answer.
"Well, I'm not playing games, Krycek."
"Like hell you're not."
Mulder grabbed Krycek's arms, the fake one feeling strangely
stiff and unyielding in his fingers. He let go, raising one
hand slowly towards Krycek's face. Krycek ducked his head and
moved away, towards the door. Mulder followed. The look of
confusion on Krycek's face made Mulder grin wolfishly.
He watched as Krycek changed direction and hurried over to
the raincoat slung over the desk chair, fumbling for one of
the guns, pulling out Mulder's Sig.
Mulder looked at the gun pointed at his chest, not
particularly pleased with the immediate sense of dÈjý vu. No,
there wasn't going to be a replay of that little scene again.
It was going to be different this time. He gazed into
Krycek's wide green eyes and grinned. "I had no idea my
boxers were that threatening. You don't think blue is my
color?" He glanced down at his aqua blue shorts and back up
at Krycek, rubbing idly at his chest.
"I w-want you to get dressed, take the goddamn bag and get
out of here."
A boom of thunder sounded above them, then the flash of
lightning painting the room a ghostly white. Mulder crossed
the distance until he was standing right in front of Krycek,
the muzzle of the Sig inches from his bare chest. "You gonna
shoot me? Are old habits that hard to break?" Krycek
swallowed, teeth chewing at his lower lip. He had a nice
mouth, Mulder absently noted, lips full and round, ripe. As
an example of male anatomy, as just a body, and extracting
the dubious humanity that it housed, Krycek was a very good-
looking man. He was suddenly uneasy at the direction his
thoughts were taking, but it wasn't enough to override the
satisfaction of finally feeling in control of a situation. It
was a bizarre situation, of course, standing almost naked in
front of Krycek, looking at the gun barrel and knowing Krycek
wouldn't shoot him. After all, that would defeat the whole
purpose of giving him the Ridley papers. He could hardly do
anything with them if he was dead.
Any port in a storm. The phrase danced into his head with a
swirl and a dip of reckless abandon. Mulder hadn't had sex
with... anyone in a long, long time.
"C'mon, Krycek, put the gun down. You don't want me to bleed
all over your elegant host's lovely carpet, now would you?"
The Sig was still pointed at him. Krycek was standing with
his back to the chair, the wet trenchcoat pressed against his
leg. Mulder took another half-step forward "You said you
wanted to help me?" Mulder glanced deliberately at the gun
barrel. "That won't help me." He watched as the green eyes
squeezed shut for a moment and Krycek let out a long, unhappy
sigh.
Mulder reached out slowly, taking hold of Krycek's wrist,
pushing the gun down to his side. There was no resistance,
and Mulder didn't try to take away the gun. He leaned forward
until his lips brushed Krycek's right cheek. His skin was
soft and smooth, and smelled of soap, his hair fresh with a
hint of
evergreen.
"Remember?" Mulder whispered, moving his mouth gently over
the warm flesh, lips pressing into a kiss. He heard a sudden
catch in Krycek's throat, but the man said nothing, did
nothing. Mulder knew this was crazy. Definitely the E Ride to
Bedlam. Where was his protective wall of guilt, his trusty
anger? Why was it all so muddled, so distant, like an out of
body experience. No. It was an out of mind experience. His
body seemed to know exactly what it wanted to do as his lips
moved inexorably, with sensuous precision, towards Krycek's
mouth. He tilted his head, his lips hovering millimeters
away, so close their breath mingled, and then Mulder murmured
into Krycek's mouth, every word a distinct breath. "It won't
make any difference anyway, right?"
Krycek's eyelids closed slowly, a fine tremor running through
him. It was the only answer he gave. Mulder shut down his
brain completely, and pressed their mouths together. It felt
good. Too damn good. He opened Krycek's pliant lips with his
tongue, pushing inside. Krycek made another sound, like the
barest of whimpers as their kiss deepened.
There was a soft thud as the gun fell out of Krycek's hand
onto the thick pile carpet. Mulder was still holding the
other man's wrist. He reached out with his free hand, snaking
it around Krycek's waist, pulling their bodies together.
The kiss turned into two, then three, then four. Mulder's
cock was hard. He felt Krycek's erection, pressing against
him through his jeans, as hard as his own. He lifted his head
and burrowed his lips against the strong neck, licking a
trail up over jaw and cheek, and back over to the full, round
lips, wet now from their kisses.
There was something undeniably exhilarating about Krycek's
passivity, his... containment, all that intensity banked. As
he began moving them backwards, towards the bed, Mulder
wished he could see what was going on inside the other man's
head.
God in heaven and hell, help me. It was an odd thought
for a man who had never learned how to pray. Krycek's mouth
was covered again, kissed again, the heat of the contact
burning right through him. God, he'd let go of the gun. He'd
let it drop through his nerveless fingers like a fool.
Mulder's instincts were matchless, as precise as a scalpel.
And it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. He should stop it
now. Why was he letting Mulder pull him to the bed instead?
Why was he letting him push him down into the pillows?
Mulder's body settled over him, rubbing against him with
sinewy grace, cool fingers stroking his face and hair with
unexpected gentleness. A fingertip traced his eyelashes, a
warm tongue traced his ear. As Mulder moved to kiss him
again, struggled to shift him away, turning his head. He
gulped a breath, bracing his hand against Mulder's shoulder.
The movements seemed to surprise the other man. Suddenly
still, they looked at each other. Krycek tried to keep his
voice steady. "Okay, you've played your game. You've had your
fun. Enough."
"Oh, but I haven't had my fun yet," cut in Mulder.
"No more, Mulder. You hate me, then hate me, but not like
this. I won't be the only one who's hurt here."
"I don't care," whispered Mulder, his eyes dark with emotion.
"You always care, Mulder, sooner or later. That's your
albatross."
A silent moment later, Mulder rolled away slightly, sitting
back on his heels. Krycek's body immediately regretted the
loss but he swallowed hard, forcing himself to go on, to
finish it. "I won't apologize for the past or anything I've
done, Mulder. I did what I had to do. I had my reasons, and I
don't have to tell you a single damn one of them.
"Remember the day we met, you'd already made up your mind
about me. I told you then that you didn't even know me."
"I grant you that, Krycek, no truer words were ever spoken."
Krycek just shook his head slowly. "The real joke is that you
still don't know me, Mulder. Now, why don't you just be a
good boy and get off this bed, get dressed, take Ridley's
papers and go."
Mulder listened to him, head angled slightly, face bland
except for the heat in his eyes. "You know what insanity is,
Krycek? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again
and expecting different results." He looked as if he'd just
made up his mind about something, a self-mocking smile
curving the edges of his mouth. "This time we're switching
from the two-step to the tango."
Krycek's eyes widened in shock as Mulder reached for his belt
and began undoing the buckle. He grabbed Mulder's hand,
roughly pushing it away, and tried to sit up. "I don't want
to have sex with you, Mulder."
Mulder pushed him back down and straddled his thighs, making
Krycek grunt from the sudden weight. "Funny, I think I always
had the feeling that you did." The rain was still drumming
against the windows, but the thunder was moving away.
Krycek was angry now, his voice cold. "Sex doesn't seem like
your choice of weapons, Mulder. It's a lousy choice for
amateurs, a stupid choice." He let out a breath, too aware of
Mulder's scrutiny. There was one sure way to stop it. He
looked right into Mulder's eyes. "If you need it so bad, why
don't
you go and fuck Scully?"
Mulder stared back, unblinking. "Nah, she's too good for me."
But a bad boy is right up your guilt-ridden alley, thought
Krycek bitterly. "I bet she lets you know it every single
day, too. Not in words, of course, never that. I'm sure she
always tries to be kind, to be so very... noble."
Mulder backhanded him across the face, snapping his head
sideways. The sound was loud, the sensation burning across
his cheek and mouth. Carefully, he turned his head towards
Mulder again. "I guess we're back to the two-step. Good for
you. Now, why don't you get the hell out of here?" He waited
for Mulder to get up. He wanted to be alone. He was always
better off alone.
Instead, Mulder leaned forward again, touching their lips
together, and murmured against his mouth. "Don't try to use
Scully to distract me. You're lousy at it. This is just
between you and me." Then Mulder stretched out flat on top of
him, storm-cooled flesh and muscle settling over him,
smelling like autumn rain, moist lips nuzzling at his throat.
Heaven and hell in one perfect, fucked up package.
Mulder's hands and legs were still cold, or perhaps it was
just his own body that was too warm. The lips licking at his
throat moved up over his jaw, across his mouth. Mulder lifted
his head slightly. "C'mon, kiss me back."
Krycek was clutching the bedspread, the fine silk cloth
bunching and twisting in his fist. He let go with a hiss, his
hand reaching up towards Mulder's throat. His hand circled
damp skin, fingers playing over vulnerable arteries and nerve
points.
Mulder just looked into his eyes, smiled, and kissed him
again. Krycek's fingers felt for the nerve point behind the
ear as Mulder's breath touched his lips, tongue slipping into
his mouth.
Mulder made a sound, somewhere between a hum and a moan as he
probed Krycek's mouth. Krycek's fingers began to tremble, his
hand moving irresistibly into Mulder's soft brown hair,
carding through the damp, silky strands as he began,
helplessly, hopelessly, to kiss Mulder back.
It was like sinking, drowning, like falling from the sky. It
was like having secrets torn away. He was faintly aware of
the sound of the rain on the roof and against the windows, of
how cold it must be outside. Mulder was saying something to
him, unintelligible half phrases between kisses and embraces,
between touches that grew more and more intimate. It wasn't
until he felt Mulder's hard cock stabbing against his thigh
that he realized he was naked from the waist down and that
his charcoal shirt was lying in a heap with his pants on the
floor. Mulder was pulling at his thin cotton shirt, pushing
it up over his chest.
"N-no, leave it," he said hoarsely, tense fingers locking
around Mulder's wrist. He shifted away as Mulder let go of
his shirt and sat up, straddling his thighs.
His gaze roamed over Mulder's body. Did his own face reflect
that same confusion, that need? Mulder was breathing fast,
too, chest heaving. His nipples were erect. The reality of it
all was outrageous, impossible, seeing Mulder like this. With
him. Slowly, his hand reached out to touch the long thick
cock.
It was beautiful. Mulder was beautiful. His fingertips
brushed along the inside of the shaft, feeling it twitch at
the contact. He curled his hand around the base of it. It was
hot, silky, hard. The tip glistened. Mulder's eyes closed and
he groaned, a lush, teasing sound.
He was holding Mulder's cock in his hand. His mind began to
spin again. He pulled back. It shouldn't be happening. He
felt Mulder's fingers encircle the base of his cock, moving
up and down in a firm stroking motion as if it was something
he did every day, Mulder's gaze, rapt and locked on the
motion of his own hand. Krycek thought he'd been set on fire.
Then Mulder let go. He slid his hands underneath Krycek's
thin green shirt, until his fingertips brushed firm nipples,
hands reaching further up, towards his shoulders, the shirt
riding up, exposing his stomach, his chest.
"No!" Krycek twisted away.
"I want to see it," Mulder told him tightly, his hands
dropping to clutch at Krycek's waist. "It doesn't make any
difference."
"No. I can't." Krycek knew his face was already giving too
much away, but he said the word anyway. "Please." His mind
flashed back to the gulag. He'd said the word to Mulder then.
Would it be as worthless now?
The hands at his waist clenched, fingernails digging into
him. The pressure increased to the point of pain, then
stopped. Suddenly, Mulder's weight draped heavily over him
and his mouth was taken again, and again, his head anchored
between Mulder's palms. He felt the muscles rippling across
Mulder's back. Their bodies moved and shifted, cocks rubbing
and pumping roughly against each other, sensations igniting,
doubling. Mulder's skin was warm now, almost as hot as his
own, the scent of soap and sweat and rain mingling between
them, the sound of their ragged breathing and frantic grunts,
their noisy moist kisses drowning out the storm.
Krycek tasted blood on his mouth as he came.
When he opened his eyes again, Mulder was smearing a kiss
against his cheek, the long lean body bucking against him,
more wet heat spilling between them.
The room was blurring. Krycek blinked quickly, but couldn't
stop it. Oh, no. Mulder was trembling from his orgasm, sharp
breaths puffing against Krycek's neck. Krycek couldn't free
his hand, his right side pinned under Mulder's body. He
turned his head away into the pillow. He wished they had shut
off the lights.
The sound of the wind and the rain seemed louder in the
sudden quiet of the room. One of the windows rattled. Krycek
tried to press his face deeper into the soft down pillow. He
waited for Mulder to move away. He was almost relieved when
he felt Mulder's weight shifting.
He flinched as a palm cupped his jaw, trying to turn his face
into the light. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, resisting the
pressure. A fingertip slowly followed the trail of a teardrop
down to his mouth, then moved to dab at the blood on his
lower lip. Then, silently, Mulder rolled away to lie beside
him on the bed, their bodies no longer touching.
Krycek listened to the wind, and the drumming of the rain
against the windowpanes. His hand freed, he thought about
wiping the wetness away from his eyes, but it didn't seem to
matter any more. The room seemed colder. He was aware of the
semen splashed across his belly, the fact that his green
shirt was bunched up under his armpits, chest exposed. He
drew in a breath, too conscious of the body beside him and
began to get up.
A hand gripped his right wrist. "Where are you going?"
"Clean myself up," he answered. His voice was as rough as
sandpaper.
"Don't move." Mulder got out of the bed and scooped up the
towel he'd tossed over a chair. He turned off the lamp,
throwing the room into overlapping shadows, cut only by the
soft light shafting in from the hallway and the dim light
through the curtains from the street lamps. Mulder wiped the
semen from his belly and then got back on the bed and did the
same for Krycek. He tugged down on Krycek's shirt,
straightening it over his chest and stomach and pulled at the
bedcovers. "Shift up for a minute," Mulder told him.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to get under the covers."
"What for?"
"I'm tired."
Krycek swallowed, afraid he couldn't get the words out. "Why
don't you just leave, Mulder? The storm's moving off. The
rain should be easing up."
"No, it's not." Mulder's voice was as shaky as his. "I want
to rest for a while. I don't want to talk and I don't want to
think."
"That's right, you're not thinking." Krycek rubbed angrily at
his blurring eyes and started to get up again and, once
again, Mulder caught him by the arm and pulled him back down.
"What the hell's wrong with you? Let me go."
"I told you before I'm not letting you out of my sight.
You're staying right here. Now, get under the blanket."
Krycek stared at him in disbelief. The faint chimes of the
grandfather clock downstairs sounded midnight. Mulder's hand
still gripped his right forearm. Krycek couldn't see his
expression clearly in the darkness, just the sharp glimmer of
his eyes. Sighing, he settled against the pillows. "I don't
understand you."
"Shut up." Mulder let go of his arm, and tugged the covers
over them both.
It was surreal. Krycek lay on his back, forcing himself into
stillness. Inside, he was shaking, his body still
reverberating from the assault of sensations while his mind
mercilessly imprinted each and every one on his memory. He
could feel Mulder turning to lie on his side, facing him. The
streetlamps outside cast a distorted reflection of the
windows on the ceiling, magnifying the liquid movement of
rain against the panes. It looked as if the house was melting
over them.
He could hear his father's voice, whispering to him from the
past, from a time when there had been many possibilities. "Be
careful what you wish for, Alex." The deep, accented voice
had been uncharacteristically thick with emotion. "A man's
dreams will trap him more surely than any enemy." Krycek
remembered it very clearly now. It had been one of the few,
genuine conversations between them, a talk about consequences
and regrets. His father had seemed so incomprehensible to him
then. So... weak.
Like father, like son. Sometimes, it was true. He drew in a
breath and gave in to the urge to turn his head towards
Mulder. He met a steady, unblinking stare. Slowly, Krycek
raised his hand and brushed the back of it along the side of
Mulder's face. He felt the strands of silky hair falling
across the high forehead, felt the soft, velvet skin, the
beginnings of stubble across the jaw. The backs of his
fingers moved over Mulder's lips in a reluctant caress before
drawing away. Mulder closed his eyes but he didn't move.
Krycek looked back up at the moving patterns on the ceiling.
His life was like that, he thought, a mere reflection of its
original reality, twisted by shadow and light into something
only vaguely recognizable, even to him. He certainly hadn't
bargained on what meeting Mulder... knowing Mulder, would do
to him. Hadn't foreseen how it would affect him. Mark him.
Now, it was too late. He couldn't control Mulder in any way.
That realization was bad enough and not even particularly
new, but now he had to face the fact that he couldn't control
his own feelings either. He couldn't even find the strength,
the fucking common sense, to stand up and walk the fifteen
feet to the door and out of this room.
Whatever happened from here on out, even with the prospect of
a cataclysmic Alien War ahead of them, Krycek knew it would
be Mulder who would be the life, or death, of him.
All the same, when he closed his eyes, he succumbed to his
survivor's instincts and fought against the dreams, and his
future visions.
Mulder opened his eyes and stared at Krycek's profile, at the
fan of spiky, long lashes against the pale skin, pale even in
the shadows.
He felt a little like throwing up. He felt even more like
putting his arms around Krycek and rolling on top of him
again. It seemed the tango was better than the two-step after
all.
Krycek was right. He should have left. Even as he thought it,
he was reaching out to encircle Krycek's waist. He pulled his
hand back at the last second.
If only Krycek hadn't turned human on him. An emotionally
vulnerable Alex Krycek was not something Mulder had ever
expected to see again. It threw him off. It was too close to
Mulder's first impression of him than to the reality he had
become. If it was an act, it was a damn good one.
Mulder folded his hand under his own ribcage and sighed. The
drumming rain had turned into a softer patter against the
windows. It was easier to hear the wind. His eyes followed
the edge of Krycek's profile from his hair down to his
throat. He wondered what Krycek's amputated arm looked like.
He wondered what Ridley's papers could reveal, and how long
he could keep them secret. And how he could convince Scully
to keep it under wraps. He wondered why just rubbing his cock
against Krycek's could make him feel so... alive. Why had it
felt so... right?
He shivered then, the rain's chill (he assumed) finally
seeping into his bones despite the covers. Krycek's body
radiated heat. There was no point in being uncomfortable, was
there? Mulder moved his arm again and slid it around Krycek's
waist, easing closer until their bodies touched. Yes, that
was better. Warmer.
Krycek never moved, didn't even open his eyes, but Mulder
knew he was awake. He watched Krycek's Adam's apple bob
slightly as he swallowed. Shifting a little, Mulder's groin
settled against the other man's hip. He watched Krycek's lips
tighten suddenly, and slowly relax, as if with conscious
effort. The wind rattled one of the windows, making a faint,
keening sound.
His body was tingling, somewhere between satisfaction and
hunger. The warmth felt good. He'd just rest for a few
minutes, then drive over the Lone Gunmen office. They were
used to having him pop up on their doorstep at odd hours.
Yeah, that's what he'd do. He'd just close his eyes and rest
for a minute.
When Mulder opened his eyes again, he felt like he was
drifting out of a cocooning dream. A moment's disorientation
turned to shock at the feel of a body against him. Krycek.
Mulder's face was burrowed against his neck and his body was
partially draped over Krycek's right side, one leg nestled
between the other man's thighs, an arm cradling his chest.
Instantly awake, Mulder pulled away with a reluctance he
couldn't have imagined. Krycek's eyes were open, staring up
at the ceiling.
It was very quiet. Glancing at the windows, it looked as if
the rain had stopped. "What time is it?"
"The clock is on your side."
Mulder shifted and peered at the gold antique clock on the
end table. 5:25. "That can't be right." Insomnia rarely let
him sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, unless he
was drugged or totally exhausted. He didn't feel drugged, and
he wasn't tired either. In fact, he felt remarkably rested.
"That can't be the right time," he said again.
"You slept most of the night. The storm's over. Why don't you
leave now, Mulder."
The ice in the husky voice made Mulder turn back towards
Krycek, asking the first question that popped into his head.
"Did you sleep?"
Silence.
"Krycek?"
"Just leave, Mulder."
He frowned at the stony silhouette beside him. He wondered
why Krycek hadn't just left the room. Or taken his gun.
Or... any number of possibilities. Mulder would've woken up.
He was sure of that. Maybe that was it. Or maybe Krycek had
fallen asleep, too. He just happened to be the kind of guy
who slept without moving a muscle. Mulder smirked into the
dimness. He reached out and put his hand over Krycek's cock.
It was half-hard and pulsed against his palm. Krycek let out
a hiss and flinched.
"Relax, Krycek," he said with more nonchalance than he felt,
curling his fingers around the lengthening column of flesh.
His stomach suddenly felt like the Bulls were running a full
court press in it. His erection was even livelier.
He wished he had an off switch on his brain, or his cock. It
seemed they weren't communicating very well at the moment,
and both wanted his immediate attention. Apparently, his
penis still had the edge. It would be reassuring to blame it
on his pathetically solitary sex life, except he knew better.
There were two real driving forces in his life. The first was
to find the Truth, the second was to avoid boredom at all
costs. The X-files gave him the perfect vehicle for both.
And, in his own flawed and dangerous way, Alex Krycek did the
same.
The only drawback was that, with Krycek, Mulder knew he'd
probably hate himself for it later. His brain told him that,
his gut told him that. His cock, however, was insistently
guilt-free.
He stroked Krycek's erection, from base to tip and back
again. His index finger played over the wet, glistening slit
in a teasing zigzag. He felt it strain, grow even harder.
Krycek's fingers locked around his wrist. "Why?"
A dozen different answers flashed before him, each containing
bits of truth and deception. He chose the one he could live
with. "It's only sex." He paused, squeezed the hot flesh
pulsing in his hand, and smiled. "It doesn't mean anything."
He could see Krycek's eyes, bright against the shadows. "When
I walk out of here, it'll mean even less."
The vice-like grip eased and Krycek's hand fell away from his
wrist. Mulder watched Krycek's face through the shadows as he
drew in a long, deep breath and exhaled it as if it pained
him, and then, just as slowly, nodded his head. Krycek raised
his hand again and hooked it around Mulder's neck, bringing
their heads together, kissing Mulder with slow, almost tender
deliberation.
The greater the intimacy, the greater the danger, physical
and emotional. Still, Mulder wished for more. He wished
Krycek would suck his cock. He wanted to feel that mouth on
him. He wanted even more than that, but he knew it would be
insane.
He had the sudden urge to rip Krycek's stupid shirt off and
expose that fake arm, expose Alex Krycek completely. He rose
to his knees and straddled Krycek's chest, his erection
jutting out, his balls rubbing against the warm, green
cotton. Krycek's nipples were hard peaks against the material
of his shirt. Mulder massaged them through the thin cloth
with his fingertips. Krycek's breathing quickened, a tiny
moan escaping. Mulder shifted a little, taking more weight on
his knees. His cock was inches from Krycek's lips. Mulder
wanted... oh, he wanted... Waited.
Krycek turned his head away slightly, eyes still bright in
the dimness. Mulder reached behind him, took hold of Krycek's
erection and stroked it firmly, reveling in the narcissistic
thrill of touching another man's penis, velvet hard and hot
in his hand. Krycek began to squirm. Mulder stopped and
inched forward until the tip of his cock nudged the side of
Krycek's face. Mulder rubbed his cock back and forth along
the
edge of the lightly stubbled jaw, feeling an erotic charge at
the rough contact against his sensitive flesh. He bit down on
his lip to keep from begging Krycek. His body was doing
enough of that already. His cock hovered like a hungry snake
in front of Krycek's mouth. Yeah, the cobra before the
mongoose. If he
weren't aching so badly, Mulder would've laughed.
He almost did cry out when he felt the first touch of
Krycek's lips against the head of his cock. The touch was
tentative, awkward, Krycek's mouth firmly shut as his lips
simply... pressed against hard flesh. Mulder fought back the
urge to thrust. Open your mouth. Take me. Lick me with your
tongue. Suck me with that silky, hot mouth. I want to know
how your feel. I want to know. He didn't have to say the
words. They were written across ever cell of his body.
Intense green eyes looked up at him, blinking, then slowly,
very slowly, Krycek opened his mouth. Mulder thought the
soft, round lips were actually trembling. It was almost as if
Krycek hadn't sucked a man's dick before. Mulder couldn't see
how that could be true. It seemed like Krycek would be as
adept at using sex, in any form, as he was at using anything
and anyone else in his sorry life. To think of Krycek as a
novice in anything was... unsettling. Once again, Krycek was
not being what he was supposed to be.
Impatient, Mulder pushed his cock in a little too fast. Felt
the sudden scrape of teeth. "Hey!" He pulled out quickly as
Krycek half-wheezed, half-coughed. "Haven't you ever sucked
cock, Krycek?" he asked through quick breaths.
"Have you?" came the whispered reply.
He hadn't, but that wasn't the point here, was it? "You've
got a pretty mouth." Where had that come from, he wondered
suddenly. Well, after all, it was true. He shifted to nudge
Krycek's lips again.
Krycek's long fingers moved to touch his balls, cupping the
sacs in his palm, massaging them lightly as if they were a
strange, new discovery. Soft lips formed a kiss against the
tip of his cock, then opened to take him in. A tongue licked
shyly around the head.
It was torture. Exquisite torture. Mulder reached out and
caressed the side of Krycek's face and throat with his hands.
He watched as Krycek began to suck. He put his fingers near
the joining of mouth and cock, feeling himself move slowly in
and out of that warm, wet haven. He tried to let Krycek set
the pace, but as that tongue and mouth pleasured him, he felt
his tenuous control slipping. He began to thrust, watching
Krycek's face, his eyes, as the sensations pulled him under.
Heat and lightning and fire rushed through him, into his
cock. He threw his head back and came in Krycek's mouth.
With his heart still pounding in his ears, he opened his eyes
and realized he had half-collapsed across Krycek's chest. He
lifted himself up and eased himself off a little, suddenly
aware that Krycek was coughing. He was trying to free his
hand, trapped under Mulder's weight. Mulder shifted again and
stared at the shiny trail of semen on his lips and the
droplets across his chin as Krycek finally caught his breath,
long fingers delicately touching his own mouth, touching the
evidence of Mulder's orgasm, his green eyes wide with a kind
of quiet wonder.
Mulder pulled the hand away and took Krycek's mouth in a deep
kiss. He trailed his arm over Krycek's chest, stomach, groin
and took hold of Krycek's straining erection, began pumping
it in a firm, quickening rhythm.
He tasted himself in Krycek's mouth, tongue probing deep and
slow, their mouths locked, moving and melding together. He
couldn't get close enough.
Krycek cried out as he came, the sound vibrating into
Mulder's throat. Krycek's body shuddered against him, his
orgasm spilling over Mulder's hand. Mulder kept kissing him,
feeling every trembling breath, every little moan and whimper
as Krycek slowly returned to himself. It felt almost as good
as
coming himself . So good, it scared him.
Mulder broke away reluctantly, brought his hand up, looked
intently at the pearly fluid smeared across his palm and
fingers. The sight was curiously compelling. Before he knew
it, he was licking it from his skin. They tasted alike, he
realized. How strange that it didn't surprise him. He licked
off some more
and then bent to kiss Krycek again, letting him taste
himself. He felt Krycek's arm curl around him, tightening
their embrace, fingers running through his hair, clutching at
his hair.
A moment later, Krycek shoved him away with a breathless cry.
Thrown back against the pillows, Mulder stared in
bewilderment as Krycek stumbled out of the bed, grabbed up
some of his clothes from the floor and raced into the
bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Mulder sat up awkwardly. Krycek's bittersweet taste, and his
own, lingered in his mouth. The bed smelled of sex. His hand
was sticky. He suddenly felt cold. He fell back against the
pillows again and threw his arm across his eyes. "Oh, god,
what the hell am I doing? What the hell have I done?" he
whispered.
When he heard the door open sometime later, he looked up and
squinted as the light from the bathroom shafted across the
bed. Krycek stood in the doorway. He'd put on his pants and a
dark gray sweatshirt that Mulder had seen hanging on a hook
in the bathroom. Mulder sat up as the other man walked slowly
into the room, and turned on one of the lamps.
They looked at each other silently, awkwardly. Krycek turned
away first and walked to the bureau. Mulder noticed that he
was barefoot. Even his feet looked good. Krycek rummaged
through a drawer, pulled something black out and threw it on
the bed.
"Socks. The rest of your clothes aren't that wet. You have to
leave, Mulder. Now." He walked over to the desk, bent and
picked up Mulder's Sig and put it in the canvas bag. Then he
pulled his own gun out of Mulder's trenchcoat pocket. He
finally looked at Mulder, the gun dangling at his side. His
mouth looked swollen. From the kissing. His eyes betrayed the
cool, unyielding expression on his face. They were red-rimmed
and... defenseless.
Mulder swallowed hard and got out of bed, moving
mechanically, picking up his clothes, throwing them on
quickly. He pulled on the black socks. He stuffed his tie
into jacket pocket, barely buttoned his shirt. His shoes were
still wet, but he it didn't matter.
They didn't say a word to each other. The tension hung thick
in the air between them. Mulder heard a soft thunk. Krycek
had dropped his gun on the desk blotter. He held the canvas
bag out to Mulder who took it silently. Their fingers brushed
and Krycek jerked his hand back.
Mulder clutched the handle of the canvas bag and paused.
Krycek was looking at the top of the desk, at his gun, but
his eyes seemed to be staring at something much, much farther
away, at his ultimate fate, perhaps.
Mulder couldn't think of anything to say. 'Thanks for the
stolen information. I hope it doesn't screw me over. Oh, by
the way, I really enjoyed the humping and blowjob. Really.
Let's do it again soon because if made me feel—. It made me
feel.'
No. No, there was nothing to say. Krycek knew it, too.
Mulder realized from the painful tug and pull inside him at
that very moment that it would be best if they never saw each
other again.
Mulder started to turn towards the door and paused again,
sighing. He walked the few steps to Krycek, who looked up at
him in surprise. Mulder leaned forward and brushed their lips
together. It was a gentle, sad kiss that tasted of lost
dreams. When he pulled away, he thought, at the last, he had
sensed a small, defiant hope in it as well. He would've been
sure had he seen it in Krycek's eyes, but Krycek kept his
eyes closed. There was nothing to see except the dark sweep
of his lashes. Mulder stared at every feature of the closed
face and wondered, yet again, what he and Krycek were to each
other.
Krycek's eyes were still closed as Mulder turned and walked
out of the room. He went down the stairs quickly, feeling
suddenly, oddly, as if he was running away, as if he had to
run or be trapped forever. He closed the front door behind
him with a swift click. The autumn morning chill wrapped
around him. The sky was a deep blue-gray. The night was
dying. It would be dawn soon. There was nothing left of the
storm but a clean, cold scent and a fine mist. Dead leaves
littered the street in soggy clumps. Mulder's breath frosted
in the air as he unlocked the car door and tossed the canvas
bag on the floor of the passenger seat. He started to get in,
was stopped by an irresistible need to turn and look up at
the bedroom windows. A dark shadow was visible behind the
gauzy white curtains. Mulder felt that same, curious tug and
pull, that sharp, fragile pain in his chest that was not at
all physical. His throat felt constricted. He tore his eyes
away from the window with effort, got into his car, and drove
away.
In a car parked behind several other cars further along the
tree-lined street, a man lowered his high-powered binoculars
and jotted something down in a small notebook. As Mulder's
sedan drove away, he raised the binoculars again and focused
on the bedroom window. The indistinct shadow behind the
curtains remained unmoving long after Mulder's car
disappeared around the corner. For a moment, the man with the
binoculars was afraid that he might have been spotted. He
certainly didn't want to be caught, certainly not by the
shadow in that window. He knew it would be a mistake he would
never outlive. But then, slowly, the shadow moved away. The
man lowered his binoculars and waited, just to be sure. He
made another short entry in his notebook, adding the time. He
waited a little longer until the sky began to turn gray. Only
then did he start his car and drive away, sedately, in the
opposite direction.
In Somerset, England, the late afternoon sun was shining
weakly through a thickening bank of clouds. The Well-
Manicured Man glanced at his Rolex and walked into his study.
His grandchildren would be home soon and he did not want to
deal with any more business that day. His operative was told
to call either early that morning or now, as appropriate. As
appropriate. Harris hadn't called in the morning. It was a
good sign.
He sat behind his desk and sifted through some papers. Harris
would call momentarily. Either that or he was not as careful
as he should have been. In which case, he would be dead. That
would be something of an inconvenience. He was considering
his options given that possibility when the phone began to
ring. He touched the knot of his silk tie, a hint of a smile
on his lips, and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Harris, sir."
"Please report." The Well-Manicured Man listened as Harris
gave him the kind of detailed report he expected. He was told
the time of Mulder's arrival at the Arlington house, his
hesitation, not ringing the bell or knocking, the gun visible
in Krycek's waistband when he opened the door.
There were no listening devices in the house; he didn't allow
them in any of his personal properties. In any case, Krycek
would have found them. He was an extremely suspicious and
distrustful young man, which was sometimes quite useful. He
was the quintessential survivor.
Harris reported on the number of times he had seen a shadow
or two cross before the upstairs window. The bedroom window.
He told him when the light went out in that window and when
it went on again. Most interesting was Mulder's departure,
close to dawn. He carried the canvas bag, as expected, but he
was not dressed the same. His tie was missing, his shirt
partially unbuttoned. Harris told him how Mulder had stood
staring up at the shadow in the window. These were small
details. Important, revealing details.
"Shall I continue surveillance on the house, sir?"
The Well-Manicured Man smiled. "That will not be necessary.
Destroy any of your notes and take the next plane to London.
Contact me when you arrive. I have some other matters I need
you to take care of here."
"Yes, sir." The line clicked off.
That's what he liked best about Harris. The man never
questioned orders, never asked about the purpose of an
assignment. He was a highly efficient, reliable drone. He was
not in Krycek's class, but he was certainly infinitely easier
to manage. The Well-Manicured Man hoped that would not
change. He was growing very weary of the necessity of death.
He rose and walked to the window, staring out at the gardens
through the beveled diamond panes. Some of the trees were
almost bare, their remaining leaves falling, one by one, in
the cool autumn breeze. Little pools of red and gold dotted
the crisp mown grass where they fell. Another season was
passing, and soon another year would be gone. He was running
out of time, and there was still so much to do. The game was
still in play. He thought about his grandchildren and a
future that seemed to grow only bleaker with each passing
day.
The Well-Manicured Man considered his underling's report.
Reviewed those telling details once again. It seemed that his
suspicions were correct. There was something between Krycek
and Mulder. Something beyond the hostility and distrust.
Something far more complicated, perhaps terribly intimate and
inescapable. He certainly hoped so. He wanted that alliance
forged, on whatever terms.
Mulder was a strong man, much stronger than the Syndicate had
ever expected him to be. His own father had underestimated
him, which in retrospective, did not particularly surprise
the Well-Manicured Man. But Mulder still had his one critical
weakness: Scully. As formidable as the two were together,
they were also each other's greatest vulnerability. That was
a fact the Syndicate was now willing to exploit to the
maximum degree.
The Well Manicured Man watched a leaf tremble in the wind,
sever from its branch and spiral slowly to the ground. He
wondered if he would see another autumn and shivered with a
sudden chill.
He needed Mulder. Needed him to find and use the truth about
the Colonists, and fight the very real prospect of a war that
humankind could not possibly win. For all his tortured self-
doubts, Mulder was a True Believer. Scully, as gifted as she
was, would never be. She would never have that particular
brand of faith.
He needed Krycek. Needed a renegade who could break all the
rules. Krycek was an outlaw, but he was a True Believer, too.
Had been even before the Syndicate had claimed him. Strangely
enough, Krycek had not turned out to be what the Syndicate
had expected either. For all his posing, Krycek, like Mulder,
belonged to no one but himself. In yet another example of
life's peculiar ironies, they were mirror images of each
other, Krycek shaped by a nurtured darkness, and Mulder by
his own harsh light. Instead of being pawns in one game, they
had turned themselves into wild cards in a game of their own
making.
It would be a volatile alliance, at best. For those two young
men, the cost could be very high, in ways neither of them
could now imagine. For every choice, one must pay the price,
good or bad. The old man knew that lesson all too well.
The sound of approaching voices drifted in from the hallway.
His daughter and grandchildren had come home. The Well-
Manicured Man sighed. So little time, and so many variables.
He would do what he could, for as long as he was able. He had
placed his wild cards on the board. Perhaps that would be
enough.
He turned away from window and the darkening afternoon sky,
and walked toward the sound of children's laughter.
How to Throw a Curve Ball
by Courtney Gray
Alex Krycek stood near the fine, French voile curtains and
gazed out at the rain. Sometimes, the ironies of his life
amazed even him.
