Mulder remembered, a little too late, why he didn't take late night shortcuts
through this part of D.C. Wolf-whistles, cat-calls and lecherous glances came
from a multitude of prostitutes, both female and male, making him drop his head,
blushing furiously.
Eventually the noise stopped, as the flamboyantly dressed rabble moved on to
harangue a luckless Japanese tourist, who was apparently in need of directions.
Mulder walked on, and upon looking up, found his eye caught by a movement in the
shadows. A tall young man, dark haired and pale, was leaning against a brick
wall, smoking a cigarette. Soft tendrils of smoke curled from between his lips,
drifting away into the chill night air as he exhaled, unaware of Mulder's eyes
upon him.
There was something inexplicably familiar about the figure. The hair was longer,
the posture more relaxed, but there was something watchful, wary about his
stance. It couldn't be. But as the man turned to Mulder, fixing him with
glittering teal eyes, Mulder knew; he could never forget those eyes.
"Krycek?"
He recognized the FBI agent and froze, gulping down wreaths of smoke. He choked
and began coughing violently, swearing in Russian.
"Svolach! Yob tvoyu mat!" [Bastard! Fuck your mother!]
He doubled over, gasping for breath, his helpless paroxysms preventing escape
until Mulder was too close for him to try it. Taking deep breaths, he
straightened, waiting for the inevitable questions and the fight that would
presumably follow.
Mulder pulled out his gun. "What are you doing here?"
Krycek grinned and retrieved a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his
leather pants, passing them to Mulder.
"Trying to oust the surgeon general. Don't let me have those back."
Mulder gave Krycek a puzzled look and tucked the packet into his coat pocket. He
gesticulated with his gun and repeated himself. "What are you doing here?"
Krycek, audacious in his disregard for danger, leant forward and slowly ran his
tongue along the underside of Mulder's gun. The older man tried desperately to
curtail his consideration of the other things that tongue could do. A few clumsy
hand jobs at college and a little research of the pornographic variety had made
him sure enough of his sexuality, his rare heterosexual relationships complete
disasters. It had always seemed safest to avoid them, and the path he was
choosing now was, to his mind, insane. But he'd never denied to himself his
attraction to Alex Krycek and wasn't about to start, particularly seeing as the
man seemed intent upon pushing all his buttons just to see how far he'd go.
The green-eyed demon ran a hand through his thick sable hair, letting it fall
across his forehead in careful disarray. "What do you think, Mulder?"
Mulder gritted his teeth, letting the safety catch off his Sig. "Tell me."
Krycek let out his breath slowly in a sensuous sigh that paid no tribute to his
apparently impending demise. "I've never found a good word for what I do."
He waved a long-fingered hand at the mob still harassing the unhappy tourist.
"I'm not really one of them; I can afford to pick and choose my clients."
Mulder's jaw dropped. He slowly replaced the safety catch and holstered his gun.
"You're a rent-boy, a prostitute."
Krycek grimaced. "Neither are terms I am particularly fond of." He favored Mulder
with another fleeting grin. "But whatever turns you on, Mulder."
He was close enough to feel Alex's breath on his face, to smell the mixture of
smells that made up his unmistakable scent. Vanilla, nutmeg and rough vodka, all
blended together with the soft, bitter tang of tobacco. Well, if this was some
sort of challenge, he was willing to prove himself up to it. Mulder leaned toward
the other man, his proximity to Krycek made him feel dizzy. Two trains of thought
collided, sending shivers of desire chasing through him. I shouldn't. I'm
going to. He killed my father. I don't care.
He stepped forward, trapping Krycek's body against the wall, and not leaving time
for further thought, pressed his lips to the younger man's. He didn't know what
he expected. A struggle, harsh words, a knee in the gut. Only knew that he must
try, despite the consequences. He certainly didn't expect Krycek's mouth to slide
open beneath his own, the kiss returned with the same passion with which it was
given.
Mulder allowed his eyes to slip shut. He didn't need to see, only to feel. Feel
those lips against his own, that tongue teasing at his mouth, strange sensations
laying siege to his senses. Alex's arms slid up around his neck, and the Russian
tangled his fingers in Mulder's thick golden-brown hair. The world slowly washed
away beneath Alex's fingertips. Nothing existed but that kiss, with its strange,
forbidden flavour. Time slowed, every second of blissful sensuality stretching to
eternity.
Krycek pulled back, gasping for breath, wild green eyes dark and glittering with
lust. For the first time he could remember, Mulder looked somewhat less than his
usual self-assured self. His hair was ruffled, his lips swollen with kisses and
his demeanor that of a lost child. Krycek decided to take control of the
situation while Mulder was still slightly dazed. He grabbed the FBI agent by the
wrist and began to drag him down a narrow alleyway.
Mulder finally found his voice. "Where are we going?"
Krycek gave him a predatory smile. "Wait and see."
Suspicion kicked in, overriding the dangerous desires Krycek had always inspired,
and Mulder stopped. "I promise you, Mulder, I'm not armed." He noted the other
man's expression and twisted his mouth into an imitation of Mulder's usual pout.
"But if you want to frisk me, or, hell, even strip search me, I won't protest."
Mulder began chewing his lower lip. Damn. He began patting his hands
over Krycek's sides, his fingers making the black silk of the shirt whisper
gently. Without looking up, he knew at that the Russian was smirking. He slid his
hands lower, over the soft leather of Krycek's pants, feeling the half-faked moan
reverberate through the man beneath his fingers. Mulder realized with a start
that he was enjoying himself just as much as Krycek appeared to be. Having
confiscated a switchblade from Krycek's boot, he straightened up, licking his
lips in an unconsciously sexy action.
"Alright, I guess I'm relatively safe." He tried his best to look innocent.
"Where were you taking me?"
Krycek growled, deep in his throat and grabbed his wrist, dragging him down the
alley. Waiting for them at the other end, crouched like some strange,
preternatural creature, was a motorbike. Not just any bike, but the kind Mulder
had dreamed of, between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. A Harley. Krycek
nonchalantly threw a leg over the gleaming black and silver machine. He knocked
the kick stand up with a foot and revved the engine until it roared.
"Coming?" The older man suppressed a chuckle. Freudian slip? "Oh yeah,
I'm coming."
The fluorescent sequin studded inner-city disappeared behind them, the growl
and pulse of the powerful engine dulling senses to all but the primitive thrill
of speed.
Still in Washington D.C., but far enough away from the centre to miss most of the
rush, police cars and bustle, Krycek slowed the bike down. Mulder had long since
forgotten the chill of the wind, lost in the warmth of Alex's body against his
own. He had spent the past ten minutes resisting the vaguely bewildering urge to
run his tongue over the small silver hoop through the triple agent's ear. The
pirate-bandit look suited him, without a doubt.
They eventually stopped outside a tall, narrow building, divided into apartments.
Krycek knocked the stand down and twisted the key out of the ignition. Jumping
from the bike, he ran up the steps and pushed the main door open. Framed by the
doorway, he beckoned to Mulder with a brief to come-hither glance.
He climbed four flights of stairs to Alex's top floor apartment. Flinging the
door open, he ushered Mulder in ahead of him. The apartment was spacious, yet
sparsely furnished. The bathroom, study and kitchen were partitioned off from the
main room which contained a couple of sofas, chrome framed and upholstered in
green leather, a large bookcase and a double bed. Mulder gazed at the bare red
brickwork, white plaster walls and the high wood beamed ceiling, then the bed.
The bedspread was patchwork, coloured like flame; blue at the bottom fading to
purple, to red, to amber to yellow at the very top. Krycek knelt on the bed to
open the window behind, then rolled off it and leant over the book case to open
the other, letting the cool night breeze wash through the large room.
Mulder took a deep breath. "I have to have to ask. How the hell do you afford all
this?"
Krycek threw himself down full length on the bed. "I'm a very hard-working man,
Mulder."
Mulder raised one cautious eyebrow. Krycek sighed.
"I can earn more in a month than you, on your G-man salary, would in six. In
return for services rendered, there is now no record of my existence on any
criminal database anywhere in the world. Any moral objections I might have to, to
selling myself, or whatever you want to call it, quickly disappear when I walk in
this door, or go for a ride on the Harley. It's not as bad as you'd think."
Mulder shucked his topcoat and collapsed onto one of the sofas, still watching
the younger man, who read his vaguely worried expression easily. A little too
easily for the FBI agent's comfort.
"You want to know, but you don't want to ask."
Mulder nodded.
"Fine, but we eat first. I'm starved, and I'm willing to bet that you haven't
eaten in a while."
"Sounds good." Mulder followed him into the kitchen, leaning on the doorframe to
watch his hurried search of cupboards and drawers.
"Have to be pasta. I should go shopping, really." He clattered around for a
while, and when there was nothing more he could realistically do, he turned
abruptly to Mulder.
"Why haven't you shot me yet?"
The older man laughed and shook his head. "Food first."
Krycek sighed and stabbed the Fettuccini viciously. "Fine."
They ate in the living room area, Mulder on the dark green sofa, Krycek seated on
the hardwood floor by his feet. Mulder swallowed a mouthful of pasta and spoke.
"Talk."
Krycek looked up at him. "Answer the question you carefully avoided asking? The
one about the exact services I provide?"
Mulder nodded, watching the younger man intently. Alex's gaze dropped to the
floor. "For a start, I do all the things you would expect. Aside from that —"
He stopped, uncertain of how to continue, until he felt Mulder's fingers beneath
his chin, forcing his head up so that the two men were eye to eye. He tried to
carry on.
"Businessmen, rich, successful men, may want to be seen in a certain restaurant
with a certain type of young man. Or they want to come back from a holiday on the
French Riviera with photos that prove they can still get a guy. They'll pay huge
amounts of money, thousands of dollars, not just for sex, but for me to act the
part of their choice." He paused.
"Maybe someone with more money than sense wants to be caught doing something he
shouldn't, because by the next day he can be damn sure all his friends will be
gossiping about it."
He pulled away from Mulder's fingers. "Anything else you want to know?"
The older man spoke softly. "No." He brushed his fingertips across the line of
Krycek's jaw. "I suppose I have to answer your question now."
"Yes."
"I haven't shot you because, uh, I don't want to anymore."
Krycek collected the dishes and got up. He walked to the kitchen, dumped them in
the sink and leant against the doorframe.
"I did shoot your father."
A muscle tightened in Mulder's jaw. He stood and stalked across the room until he
faced the younger man. "I know."
Krycek's tone was cold, distant. "Understand that I had orders to follow. Orders
that I couldn't even think of disobeying."Mulder leaned closer.
"Why not? What happened to make you what you are?"
Krycek shut his eyes. He could feel Mulder's warm breath on his face. "I can't
explain. It's too complicated and I —" His eyes snapped open.
"Shit!" He twisted away from Mulder and ran to the study. He returned with a cell
phone, frantically punching in numbers. Mulder watched him from the doorway.
"Leon? Hi, it's Alex—yeah, I know. Can I speak to him? Thanks." Krycek walked
past Mulder and sat on the kitchen counter, drumming his heels on the cupboard
beneath him.
"Sir? I'm sorry, I —"
He was cut off by the voice on the other end of the line. Mulder caught one or
two words; 'whore' was repeated several times. He watched as Krycek's expression
hardened, so that while he could not hear it, he could guess at the direction the
conversation was taking.Krycek looked up and briefly caught Mulder's eye.
"No sir, I'm not." He jumped down from the counter and pulled a bottle of Absolut
from the freezer. Grabbing a glass from the sink he poured himself a generous
measure and swallowed it, grimacing as the liquid burned its trail down his
throat. "Well if that's the way you feel, perhaps it would be better to put an
end to our arrangement."
He reached for the bottle, which Mulder deftly removed, gaining a frown from the
other man.
"Yes, I understand that. Fine. Goodbye."
He broke the connection and chucked the phone onto the kitchen table. He ran a
hand through his hair, taking deep breaths. Mulder interrupted his silent
reverie.
"You can't tell me that you're happy with this, Alex."
The younger man turned on him, furious. "Don't give me that crap. I've got a
million reasons for doing what I do, none of which concern you. I'm not looking
for absolution from my guilt any more than you are looking to absolve me. You are
here for an easy lay, and I'm obliging because it's been a long time since I was
fucked by someone I'm attracted to."
"Don't flatter yourself, Krycek. I don't know why I came here, I wish I did. And
if you must know, I've never had sex with a guy before."
As soon as he'd spoken them, he wished the words back. Krycek was staring at him,
wide-eyed and incredulous. "You're a virgin?"
Mulder turned away, face hot with unwanted colour. "I'm going."
Krycek grabbed his arm. "Don't. Please don't. Stay."
Mulder looked triumphant. "I'll remind you in the morning, that you said that."
Without waiting for a response he pulled the arm that Krycek held, unbalancing
the other man and knocking him into his grasp, then brought his lips down hard
over Krycek's in a bruising kiss that went on and on.
Mulder broke away and stared at Krycek, wondering when the evening had stopped
being about himself and started being about both of them. Right about the
point the world stopped revolving around you, and you took a good look at the guy
you're about to fuck.
Krycek pushed Mulder back against the wall and began systematically divesting the
older man of clothing. Mulder did nothing, allowing Krycek to take control, and
for Krycek this passivity was a pleasure in itself. The opportunity to be in
control of any sexual encounter was a rare one for him and he intended to enjoy
every second of it.
Mulder's eyes fell shut as Krycek's talented mouth began a sensuous worship of
his body, unsure of whether the pleasure was due merely to the physical stimulus
or also to his own acceptance of the man who continued to perform his own
personal idolatry. The undeniable turn on of danger, of the forbidden, the
illicit and corrupt was hardening his cock and making him dizzy. Finally free of
the confines of his clothes, he looked at Krycek. The younger man gave him one
seductive glance from beneath those incredibly long eyelashes and then slide to
his knees, hands at the small of Mulder's back as he licked a slow and meandering
pathway along the length of his impressive erection.
Krycek smiled at the groaned curse that issued from between the other man's lips.
He opened his mouth to take in Mulder's shaft, ready to laugh at the ridiculous
power he had over such a man. Mulder was fighting himself, undreamt of pleasure
within his reach, but too close for comfort. The sensation of Krycek's hot tongue
flicking over the tip of his penis, mouth exerting a gentle pressure carefully
calculated to blow Mulder's mind, did. He grabbed Krycek's head and pulled him
close as his back arched and he came, the younger man swallowing every drop of
his offering, then standing to share a deep kiss with the object of his
affection.
Mulder was wiped, verging on comatose. Krycek steered him to the bed, threw back
the sheets and dumped him on the mattress. Mulder sighed contentedly. "If you're
looking to get anything else out of me, you're going to be sadly disappointed."
Krycek smirked. "Wanna bet?"
Mulder watched with mounting interest as Alex began unbuttoning the silk shirt,
running his hands over the slippery material, over his chest and nipples, then
lowering one hand to palm the erection that was tenting his pants. His eyes fixed
on Mulder, he let the shirt fall to the floor and slowly ran his tongue along his
lower lip. As he unzipped and pulled off the leather pants, Mulder let out a deep
breath. Krycek wasn't wearing underwear, and despite his recent climax, the very
idea was almost enough to make him come. The younger man made his way to the bed,
naked, hard and beautiful. He crouched on the mattress, leaning over Fox, inching
his mouth closer to its partner a fraction at a time. When their lips finally
touched, it burned like electricity. The single, chaste kiss left them gasping
for breath, Krycek's soft voice husky with desire.
"Fuck me, Fox, please."
Mulder studied him uncertainly, "Alex, are you sure you —" then stopped as Krycek
sucked his index finger into his mouth then reached back to slide it into his
asshole.
Mulder swallowed, and he bit his lip against the raw need that was threatening
his sanity. "Turn around."
Krycek complied with alacrity, presenting himself on all fours in front of
Mulder, his legs spread in lewd invitation.
"Lube?"
Krycek groaned with impatience. "Will you just fuck me?"
"But —"
Krycek turned to him, flushed, and wearing the expression of a man rapidly
reaching the end of his tether. "You couldn't hurt me if you tried. Now spit."
Mulder complied, mixing pre-cum and spit to lube up his cock. He glanced at
Krycek, who was breathing heavily. He crawled forward until he was kneeling
between Krycek's legs, and laid one hand on the man's thigh, using the other hand
to guide his cock to Krycek's asshole.
The moan this provoked was encouragement enough for Mulder, who quickly pushed
himself into the tight hole. He stopped halfway, trying to catch his breath, and
Krycek, impatient with need, leaned back to impale himself on the rest of
Mulder's length. Mulder groaned at the velvet heat surrounding him, and knew that
this wouldn't last long. He gripped Krycek's hips and began thrusting into him,
each breath catching in his throat as he withdrew and sank back into the
delicious heat with increasing fervor. He changed the angle of penetration, each
thrust now hitting Krycek's prostate as he reached down to take the rigid cock in
one hand, stroking it in time to his driving thrusts.
Krycek arched and twisted below him, pleasure mounting inexorably with each
scrape across his prostate. He writhed, pressing back against Mulder as he cried
out, surrendering to the white hot tendrils that burned through his body until
pain and pleasure mixed, leaving him shivering in the aftershock of orgasm as
Mulder, tense above him, reached completion.
The two men fell asleep in each others arms, the moon slanting onto their
pillows, filling the room with sensuously twisting shadows that danced in the
darkness.
'Violent delights have violent ends.'
Mulder woke suddenly in the knowledge that he was not on his couch at home. He
reassured himself that at least he could feel all his limbs, and no one was
standing near him saying 'You hold his arms'. Wherever he was, it could be worse.
As he cautiously opened his eyes, memory returned. Shit.
A note was lying on the pillow that had been Krycek's. 'Fox' had been hastily
crossed out and replaced with:
Mulder, sorry, had to go out for a while. I'll be back soon—don't go, I think
we need to talk. Alex.
Mulder dropped the piece of paper and leaned back. 'Need to talk'. Possibly the
understatement of the decade.
He sighed. Got up, showered, dressed in clothes borrowed from the closet in
Krycek's study and was drinking coffee at the kitchen table when he heard a key
turn in the lock.
Krycek entered, wearing tight black jeans, a black t-shirt and the familiar
leather jacket. He raised tired eyes to Mulder's face and disappeared into the
bathroom, reappearing moments later swallowing Tylenol. He dumped the jacket on
the sofa and sank into a chair opposite Mulder. He winced, and stood up.
Mulder watched him incuriously. "Where've you been?"
Krycek's expression was carefully blank. "Business."
A wave of anger washed over Mulder as he looked at the younger man. Remembering
the feel of his body beneath him, the heat of two bodies melded as one.
The blow was unexpected and landed Alex on the floor, hand to his bruising
cheekbone. "You're mine, Alex. No one touches you but me."
The colour had drained from Krycek's face. "So I'm your bitch now, am I Mulder?"
The FBI agent drew his breath in sharply. He bent down and took a fistful of
Alex's t-shirt, dragging him up to eye level. He punched his one-time lover again
and dropped him to the floor.
Alex knew what was coming; could hear it in the breathing of the man above him.
Lacking the strength to fight the inevitable, fight what he told himself he
deserved, he shut his eyes tightly, waiting.
Fired with bone-deep rage, Mulder began tearing at the other man's clothes,
peeling the skin-tight jeans away from ivory skin that shivered from his touch.
Mulder unzipped his pants and pushed them down, only wanting to punish this man
for not being his, wanting to remind him of what he was, hurt him for not being
the only one hurting.
He buried himself in Krycek's ready lubed ass in one harsh movement, forcing a
groan from the man below him, a hopeless sound that ended with a choking cry,
released more out of disbelief than pain.
Driving rapidly into the unresponsive body, Mulder was enjoying the dubious
pleasure of possessing one so frequently, so recently, possessed. Physical
pleasure was quickly overshadowing his revulsion at Krycek's acceptance of such a
'business'.
His thrusts became harder and faster as he approached orgasm, finally releasing
his pleasure with a wordless cry of pleasure. Krycek was glad there were no
words. Words, to him, were more damaging than any physical abuse. Slumping over
Krycek's back Mulder withdrew and rearranged his clothing, kissing Krycek's neck
with an intimacy that, to Krycek, was more painful than any unwilling consent.
Breathing deeply, Mulder collected his briefcase, his clothes, and left, the only
evidence of his crime lying on the floor.
As he heard the door click shut, Alex finally opened his eyes and very quietly
began to cry. Gentle sobs shook his tortured body, soft disturbance in the
clawing silence of the empty apartment.
Mulder threw himself down on his couch. Bastard. Stupid, violent, fucked
up fag. Rapist. He ran for the bathroom. Tore off the clothes that smelt of
Alex. Turned on the shower and washed vigorously, as if to cleanse himself of
guilt. Rapist. Turned off the shower and toweled himself dry.
Rapist. Put on clean clothes and sat at his desk. Rapist. Read
through autopsy reports and re-read them. Rapist.
He went jogging, but the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the concrete
sidewalk repeated the word again and again in an inescapable taunt. He ran
faster, sprinting until the rhythm was lost and his head spun, until every breath
cut his chest with pain. Think you're hurting? Think what Alex feels.
He slowly retraced his steps, back to his apartment. Read the paper, read Fortean
Times, watched TV, trying to waste time he was unused to having free. He
eventually fell asleep on the couch, and woke staring down the barrel of his own
gun.
"Don't you fucking move."
A young voice. Eighteen or nineteen perhaps. A woman's voice. He slid his gaze up
from the steady hand gripping the gun, up one bare, slender arm to her face.
Narrow and fine-boned, but with a nose that reminded him of his own. Brown eyes
slivered with vivid green.
The chin was tilted up in a gesture of defiance he knew well. The stance was the
same as well; that self-assured way of letting everything in the room become
background to her. He watched as she flicked her head, sweeping long, dark hair
from her eyes, gun never wavering. Too many reminders. Too much, too soon.
Mulder's temper frayed and snapped.
"Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?"
Her voice was low, thick with hatred. "I'm Alexei's sister. I came to see him,
and found him where you left him."
Green-brown eyes narrowed. "After you raped him."
"Or maybe you don't think it was rape." She shrugged. "After all, how can it be
rape when he's a whore, right Mulder?"
He flinched. "Don't talk about him like that."
"No, I don't suppose you want to think about it, do you? You want him, but you
don't want to share him. You're not the first to try it."
She swung the gun over her trigger finger, offering it to Mulder as her brother
once had.
"There's a reason Alexei does what he does. He won't be doing it much longer. I
came here to say that if you so much as ring his doorbell while I'm around, I'll
kill you. Alexei might have doubts about doing it, but I sure as hell don't."
He believed her. Gingerly taking his gun, he watched her walk to the door and
away, leaving him alone with memories of pain.
Six days. Six days of staring into space, of writing reports, of confusing
Scully with disinterest, of eating food that at best tasted of cardboard, and of
putting off questions with shallow smiles and empty words.
Six sleepless nights. If he slept at all, he dreamt not of Samantha, but of Alex.
Alex twisted beneath him in languorous pleasure, Alex's tired face as he walked
in the door, Alex silent on the floor. Friday night, a night when depressingly
cheerful TV comedy made Mulder switch the radio on for company. A night when
every song reminded him of what he'd done.
Modern music, that usually had so little meaning for him, gained it unexpectedly.
Another sentimental argument
He fiddled with the dial and found the local Golden Oldies station. One of the
tracks from John Lennon's 'Imagine' album.
I didn't mean to hurt you
He changed stations again, finding Pink Floyd. He tried to relax to the sound of
breaking glass and screams.
Up to the bedroom in the suitcase on the left
The music swooped and fell, sickening him.
Why are you running away?
No. He turned the radio off. Enough violence. He changed quickly into
jeans and a t-shirt, checked the holsters at his hip and ankle, grabbed his
leather jacket and went to look for Alex Krycek. At the risk of being arrested
for curb-crawling, Mulder drove slowly around the area he'd found Krycek last
week. There was no sign of him, so Mulder came to the conclusion that he was
either at home, or out on 'business'.
He began the drive to Krycek's apartment. What's the worst thin that can
happen? He parked outside the tall apartment block. His sister can shoot
you.
Reasoning that she'd probably had to go back to whichever of the seven circles of
hell from which she'd arisen, Mulder picked his way through the main door and
walked up the stairs. He paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and
knocked.
There was a vociferous argument going on inside, hurriedly curtailed. The door
opened to reveal the slight figure Mulder recognized from six days ago. Krycek's
growling tone came from across the room, questioning in Russian.
"Kto tam, miysh?" [Who is it, mouse?]
She turned to look at her brother.
"Eta voy lisitsa, Alexei." [It's your fox, Alexei.]
Mulder could see Krycek over the girl's shoulder as he was grabbed and hauled
into the apartment. The younger man looked almost scared.
"Nyet, miysh." [No, mouse.]
She shut the door and began searching Mulder.
"Da, krysa." [Yes, rat.]
Mulder allowed the search, grimacing as she found the ankle holster. Having
confiscated both weapons, she turned to her brother, speaking calmly and
reasonably.
"I can't shoot him out in the hallway. People might hear."
Mulder struggled is way from her grip. "I came to apologize."
"Apologize?!" The dark-haired girl snarled. "You're not up in front of the class
for smoking behind the bike sheds! You raped him!"
Nose to nose by this time, Mulder was courting disaster by yelling at her. "You
think I don't know that? You think I haven't spent every night remembering it?
Wishing it had happened the other way around?"
His voice broke.
"Missing him?"
He pulled away, whispering to himself. "My fault. I'm sorry. My fault."
Temper changeable as summer weather, the girl Krycek called 'miysh' laid a gentle
hand on his arm.
"It's not your fault. If anyone's to blame, it's me."
Krycek, who hadn't said a word throughout their exchange, grabbed her firmly by
the arms, fingers digging painfully into her flesh. "Don't, miysh."
She twisted, trying to escape, and when he only tightened his rip she pressed
delicate finger to the pressure point on the inside of one elbow, making him
curse and release her.
"It's true! None of this would have happened if it weren't for me. You'd still be
at the FBI, you'd never have had to kill anyone, you wouldn't be whoring for
capitalist fat-cats, and he wouldn't have raped you!"
She was crying by this time, and Mulder passed her a handkerchief which she
accepted unthinkingly, blowing her nose loudly as Krycek spoke.
"If you believe that, miysh, then why not make it Anna's fault for loving
Sergei? Or her fault for bringing me to America in the first place? I don't blame
you. If it comes to that, I don't blame him either."
Mulder watched them silently.
"Why not, Alexei?"
Krycek looked away. Her expression softened, and she slipped into Russian so that
Mulder would not know what she said.
"Lyoobof?" [Love?]
He shrugged. "Mochet biyt. Kak ya mochetyeh znat?" [Maybe. How can I tell?]
She patted him vaguely on the arm, then crossed to the kitchen on silent feet and
retrieved a bottle of vodka from the freezer. She passed it to her brother.
Mulder watched as they talked and drank, feeling strangely alone in their
company. They discussed him without passion, debating his fate.
"What do you want me to do with him?"
"I don't know."
She frowned at his indecision. "Kick him out? Shoot him? Torture him?"
The tall, dark-haired man looked down at her and grimaced in a parody of B-movie
horror. He hunched a shoulder and rubbed his hands together, cackling maniacally.
"I've created a monster! Ah hah ha ha ha ha!"
Mulder's laughter dragged Krycek from the dank castle dungeons and the lightning
rod and back to reality. He turned to his sister.
"I think we should explain it all to him."
The girl choked on a mouthful of vodka. "Why the hell should we?"
Krycek's tone was cold. "We've discussed this. Please don't argue."
She raised her hands in a gesture of submission. "Fine. fine. I'll make coffee."
Krycek threw himself into a seat at the kitchen table and Mulder seated himself
opposite. Miysh began spilling instant coffee into mugs, trying to ignore the two
men. They've got issues. Leave them alone.
Tension curling in his stomach, Mulder mouthed "I'm sorry" across the table.
Krycek's gaze slid away as he shrugged.
"Milk, Mulder?"
He jumped, having almost forgotten her presence in the small room. He turned to
the girl, who was standing patiently, milk carton in one hand.
"Oh, um, yes. Please."
Three mugs duly arrived on the table, and Krycek began to talk.
"Understand, Mulder, what I am about to tell you, I tell you because I trust you.
I trust you not to use the knowledge to hurt me."
Mulder nodded, and Krycek continued.
"I was born in St. Petersburg in 1966. My father died when I was very young; I
can't remember him at all. My mother—"
Mulder interrupted. "But I thought you and —" he gestured at the girl sitting
beside them. "- her were brother and sister. She's too young, surely?"
Krycek set his chipped mug down on the table. "If we'd ever been properly
introduced, you'd understand. My full name is Alexei Mikhailovich Krycek. Hers is
Yeliena Serghyeevna Arkadina. You're a well read man, Mulder; you presumably
understand the Russian patronymic system, whereby you take your father's name as
your second name. So, she is my half-sister. May I continue?"
"If her name's Yeliena, why do you call her 'miysh'?"
"It's a nickname; the Russian word for 'mouse'."
He grinned at her. "It suited her better when she was little."
She scowled at him. "Svolach."
Mulder remembered the growled conversation at the door.
"What does 'krysa' mean?"
Miysh smiled. "Rat."
Mulder almost laughed, but Krycek was becoming impatient, so he gestured to the
younger man to continue his story.
"My mother decided that prospects in the USA were infinitely better than those in
the Soviet Union, so when I was ten my mother brought me to live in D.C. She got
a job translating for the International Monetary Fund here, also Russian books
for a publishing firm."
He stood up and walked to one of the bookshelves by the bed, retrieving a
battered paperback. He turned a few pages and passed it to Mulder, pointing.
"That's her."
Four words were apparently all that remained of Alex's mother. Merely 'Translated
by Anna Dimikovna'.
Sitting down again, Krycek resumed his story. "To abridge somewhat, five years
after we came here, my mother had a brief affair with a man who worked, still
works, with the Department of Justice. Maybe she loved him, maybe she was just
lonely, I don't know. Anyway, Anna got pregnant and Miysh was the product of
their liaison. As soon as he found out about that, he stopped seeing Anna. He had
a career to consider."
Krycek spoke the last sentence bitterly, tiny flame of resentment still
flickering.
"Anyway, Anna brought Miysh up alone, and I was glad of the company, not really
belonging here." He smiled. "Anna was magical. She never talked of her family,
but we always thought they must have been aristocrats. She taught us to waltz and
mazurka —" he broke off to snatch his sister by the waist and waltz her rapidly
around the room, her skirt swirling before he dropped her back into her chair,
laughing and out of breath.
"We spoke Russian at home, French at table and English outside. She told wild
stories of Czarist Russia and sang us strange Russian folk songs."
Krycek's blank, emotionless mask slipped gently and almost imperceptibly into
place. "When I was twenty-nine and Miysh was thirteen, she was stabbed to death."
He drew Cyrillic characters on the table with dribbles of spilt coffee, staring
through it all into the past. "It looked like a mugging gone wrong, but I'm now
more inclined to believe that it was part of some elaborate Consortium plot."
He raised his eyes to Mulder's for the first time.
"She didn't die quickly, Mulder. We sat in the hospital for five days, watching
her die, and when she did I had no idea what to do. I was unemployed, trying to
get accepted at Quantico and terrified that Miysh would be taken away by social
services. I was approached by a man who offered me everything I wanted; a place
at Quantico despite my Russian parentage, money I needed badly, and, if I made
the FBI, fast track on the profiling circuit."
Mulder watched the younger man over his coffee mug. "And in return?"
"In return I would give my services to an agency apparently concerned with
national security at a very high level. I agreed. Graduated well out of the
Academy and got assigned to work with you. The rest you know."
"How'd you get out of the Consortium?"
"After the Wiekamp incident, they got rid of everyone who might be compromising
security. I never held a particularly exalted position, Mulder. I was little more
than a glorified errand boy, whatever ideas you might have regarding my
involvement with the group. I did what I was told, and I didn't ask questions. My
life was my reward for being a good boy. They shot me up with something and I
came round on the street with nothing but my clothes. Now, when I try to think of
names or places, anything useful, it all slides away from me. I can hope I'll
never see them again, but I know if I have something they want, they'll come and
take it."
"Okay, so what now?"
Krycek blinked in surprise. "You tell me. I mean, you either came here for my
take on 'The Truth' or for a fuck. You've got one, and you're sure as hell not
getting the other."
Diffusing a potentially dangerous situation, Miysh shifted and stood up,
gathering the coffee mugs and dumping them in the sink. "Alexei, I'll have to go
soon. I don't want to miss my train."
Krycek slammed his hand down on the table. "Damn! I'm sorry Miysh, I have no idea
what to do."
She wandered around the room, collecting scattered items and packing them into a
shoulder bag. "It's okay, I'm sure we'll work something out eventually."
Mulder turned to Krycek, confused. "What is it?"
Miysh answered for her brother. "He can't pay the fees for my next year at
college. My grant only covers so much, so he pays the rest, but there's not
enough money. He's already sold the bike, but we don't know where to get the
rest."
Krycek stood up and began helping her pack. Mulder watched them for a while.
"Sell the apartment. Move in with me."
Well that came from way out of left field. Krycek turned slowly to face
Mulder. "What?"
Mulder repeated himself, as if talking to a rather slow child. "If you sell the
apartment, you can pay her fees. If you move in with me, you'll have somewhere to
live."
Krycek looked at Miysh, then back at Mulder. Miysh had her eyes shut, and Mulder
was watching him. What choice do I have?
"Okay, Mulder. Fine. I'll move in with you."
Miysh let her breath out in a long hiss, then dragged her brother into the next
room, whispering furiously. "Are you insane? You know what he wants."
"Yes, I know exactly what he wants; he wants to fuck me. But if he's fucking me
then no one else has to, and I'd rather whore for one man than for one hundred,
alright?"
"I know that, but he'll fuck with your mind too, won't he? Because he can."
Krycek sounded desperate. "What choice do I have, Miysh? What else can I do?"
"I'm sorry." She buried her face in his shirt. "I'm sorry. But please, Alexei."
She looked up at him, pale and tearstained. "Please be careful."
He nodded and kissed her quickly. "Now hurry, before you miss your train."
She ran, grabbing her bag and giving her brother one last glance before she left,
the door creaking and then slamming shut behind her. Krycek stared at the door
for a moment. He was alone. Alone with Mulder.
When he finally summoned the courage to go into the living room, he found the
lights switched off and Mulder curled up in bed. The older man greeted him with a
weary "Hey."
Krycek turned away, undressing hurriedly. "Um, Mulder, can we just sleep,
tonight, please?"
"I didn't really think you'd want to do anything else, Alex. Not after—y'know."
Krycek nodded and crawled into bed, rolling over to face the window as Mulder
curled around him, draping one arm over his chest.
"I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you." He sounded sleepy, muffling a yawn
against the pillow. "I'll never do it again. I won't hurt you again."
Alex relaxed into the arms that held him, watching the moon spread liquid
patterns on the clouds that sailed across her face. Yes you will, Mulder.
Yes you will.
END.
Cigarettes and Alcohol
by Isayeva
'To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days.'
and bitter love
Fucked without a kiss again
dragged it through the mud.
I'm sorry that I made you cry
I didn't mean to hurt you
I'm just a jealous guy.
you'll find my favourite axe
Do you think that I could fly?
Do you think it's time I tried?
Why are you running away?
