Part II
He saw Mulder's face suddenly tighten in realization, and as the FBI
agent reached for his holster, Krycek stepped fully into sight.
"Hello, Mulder." Krycek smiled, holding his face and his automatic
steady under Mulder's gaze. "So nice to see you again."
"Asshole," said Mulder.
"And you should know, eh? Come on, Foxfire, hand off the gun. Freud
would be ashamed of you."
Mulder just smiled. "I see those cuts have almost healed up. Back for
some more?"
Krycek let his smile go taut. "I don't think so, Mulder." Moving in, he
towered over the seated agent and let his gun rest against Mulder's
forehead. "You son of a bitch, you raped me. You raped me with the hilt
of my own fucking knife."
"Come on, Ratboy, this is Washington. I can neither confirm nor deny
having inappropriate sexual contact on the date in question, yadda
yadda. But if you think that was rape—"
"What the hell would you call it?"
"The answer to your prayers, apparently." Mulder continued to lounge,
as if there was only polite conversation between them and not a gun to
his head.
"You motherfucker!"
"Why, Krycek, I'm offended. I might almost think you didn't like me."
"Gavno'—Ebitskaya sila!" Krycek nearly tore a ligament trying to keep
his finger from tightening on the trigger.
"What's the matter, Krycek, bear got your tongue?"
Krycek grasped for the shattered remains of his English. "I am going to
kill you!"
Mulder's smile grew broader. "Bullshit."
Furious, Krycek realized he was gaping. Didn't this idiot realize—
And then Mulder's long fingers came up to close firmly around his wrist.
"You're not going to kill me because you're fucking stupid and you want
me."
"What—" But despite himself, Krycek found his arm moved lightly aside,
and somehow he couldn't prevent Mulder from taking the gun from his
strengthless fingers.
"I'm no rapist, Krycek. Last week, I was only going to threaten you with
the knife, see whether I could finally get you to tell the truth. But
no, you got hard just from being manhandled.
"Is it me, Ratboy, or do you stretch your shorts every time somebody
hits you?"
"You motherfucker!" Rage hurled him at his smiling tormentor at last,
but Mulder blocked him easily and slammed him back into the wall with a
forearm against his throat.
But Mulder's voice was still casually amused. "You wanted me. You wanted
me to hurt you. You wanted me to make you come. Shit, Krycek, all you
had to do was wilt and I'd have stopped. I'm not desperate enough to
grope boys on the street.
"So if it helps to tell yourself that was rape, fine. Be my guest. But
don't forget; I'm not the one who made it a sexual act. And I'm not the
one who came."
"You—" No, swearing doesn't help. If you're going to keep any
control here, you've got to hit him where it hurts.
"Mulder, listen to yourself, you fucking son of a bitch! You're the one
who studied psych. Can you really say 'You made me do it. It wasn't
really rape because you enjoyed it' and not hear the voice of every
fucking abuser you ever studied?"
"And you deserve better, Krycek?"
NO. "I—"
"You know, Krycek, I always liked you. Until you betrayed me, and sold
Scully, and shot my father. I liked you, but I would never have thought
of doing anything about it. But now that I hate you—"
His breath caught suddenly, and Mulder smiled.
"Oh, yes. Now that I hate you, you've done everything but rub yourself
against my gun and yowl. Well, I finally got the idea, cocksucker. I
hope you're happy. You look happy. And I'm going to make you even
happier."
That smile grew darker and more cruel. "I'm going to hit you now, Alex.
And you're going to let me."
And there was no air, he couldn't make himself breathe as Mulder clicked
the safety on with one hand and drew the cold barrel lightly down Krycek's
cheek
In sudden panic, he tried to claw his way free, but Mulder loosed his
throat only to grip his wrist and pin it to the wall above him. And the
long, trim body leaned in, heat against heat, trapping the prosthetic
between them.
"All you have to do is ask me to stop, Alex," Mulder's voice was
ruthlessly intimate, and Krycek was still trying to find the words when
the gun hand lashed in. Dizziness blinded him as his head slammed back
into the wall, jaw numb and aching with the kiss of cold steel. Heat
tickled his neck, and he realized the skin had split under the blow.
And he was hard, so hard, and he wanted to die—
"Is that what you wanted, Alex?" The smile was razored, the voice almost
gentle.
He fought to stay on his feet and not slide down the wall in utter
surrender.
"Answer me, Alex." Soft words, but the muzzle that came up under his
jaw was cold and hard. "Do you want me to stop?" The intruding metal
pressed up and in, half choking him, but it was the quiet voice that he
could not bear.
Then the gun was gone from his aching throat. "I'm going to hit you
again, Alex. Because you're going to let me, and because I want to. And
maybe I want to hit you until you're dead."
And he wanted to cry out, wanted to protest or submit or beg for a
bullet, but he choked on tears, and then there was lightning and
darkness and something had driven his head sideways against the wall
and his ear wasn't working right.
"Do you want me to stop, Alex? I'll stop if you ask me to."
Something was wrong, he realized with sudden clarity, something terrible
was happening and he had to stop it. But it wasn't the pain, though he
felt the gunsight tear his cheek to the bone as the next blow fell.
Oh God, it hurt, something hurt inside and it was wrong and he had to
stop it, had to fight against the aching surrender that tried to pull
him down. He had to find words and drag them out of the well of blood
and pain that was his heart. God—
"Do you want me to stop, Alex?"
Another shock and numbness, and the wrong was getting worse. He had to
do something—
"Do you want me to stop?"
Only the greatest need could make him speak. "Sst—" His mouth didn't
seem to be working right, and for a moment he was afraid he had not
been heard.
"Alex?"
"Sst—opph," he forced the word out, and oh thank God the world held
still for a moment while he tried to pull his mind together.
"Do you really want me to, Alex?" said the soft dark voice, and suddenly
something hard and cold stroked him there and God he was so hard but
that didn't matter, and the pain didn't matter, if he could only—
"Mhldrr—" he managed through lips that felt too thick and sticky to
speak.
He heard nothing over the roaring in his ears, the crashing echo of his
own breathing. Was he alone?
Need drove his eyes open, though they didn't want to move, and he saw
with relief that Mulder was still there. "Le'h go," he said, and felt
the grip on his wrist loosen and fall away.
But the voice was still cruel. "Well, Alex, I guess you don't want me
so much after all."
"Nn—" God, how could he find the words to stop this horror? Helplessly,
he reached out half blind and caught Mulder's wrist in turn. "Hi'h me if
y' wann—" he drew the hand back and brought it sharply against his own
cheek in illustration. "B-buh no gun, no' with y'r gun—"
"Not with my gun?" Mulder sounded incredulous.
Thank God, the man was listening. "Hann-zz. Hi'h me with y'r hanns. If
y' wann. Buh, buh I wann y' t' feel."
"What?"
"I wann... I wann you to feel me when you hi'h me. This, this's wrong,
wha' you're doing."
"Wrong!" Mulder's voice was scornful. "You fucking traitor, you
murderer, you're telling me what's wrong!"
Oh God how could he find the words with his head like this? "'S wrong
f'r YOU, Mhldrr. You don' wann do this."
Mulder laughed sharply, and he knew he hadn't understood. Desperately,
he caught Mulder's hand against his cheek and held it there, ignoring
the ache of battered flesh. The hand was warm.
"Mhldrr, you're hi'h—hih'ing me with your gun becau' you don' dare
toush me. You wann to toush me, so you hi'h me. An I leh you, becau' I
wann you to toush me. Buh—buh you hur' yourselh, you don' geh wha' you
nee' when you hi'h me with a gun. You nee', I nee' you, to feel me."
And he could find no more words, so he moved their joined hands along
his cheek and brushed the taut palm with his lips, offering even the
blood from his mouth to him. His heart knew the words in the language
of his childhood: Oh, Mulder, can't you see it's wrong to starve
yourself, cut yourself off from touching? These bruises don't matter,
but you must not hurt your hands with emptiness. Hit me if you want to,
kill me if you need to, but let yourself feel it as you do.
The hand in his jerked and tried to pull away, but he held it tightly
to his lips and drew it upward to feed it his tears. Warm against warm,
life to life, he held it, and then knowing he was now the stronger one
he slid their joined hands down to spread Mulder's fingers on his aching
throat.
My pulse is yours, my life. Feel it. I'm not afraid of death at your
hands, Mulder. I'm afraid of how deeply you cut yourself when you cut
me with cold steel between us. Feel me, and let go of the double-edged
blade that hurts us both. Let go and feel.
And then the hand on his throat moved inexorably away and he was
terribly afraid, but those fingers drew his in turn to rest against a
cheek as warm and wet as his own. And everything was going to be all
right.
Hilt
by Nonie Rider
Double-Edged Blade
Krycek watched from cover as Mulder picked up the unmarked envelope from
the floor, tossed his jacket over the nearest chair, and dropped onto
the couch. Those long, clever fingers tore the envelope open—clearly,
he had no expectation of useful fingerprints—and withdrew the credit
receipt. Krycek could almost see his eyes move from line to line: a Visa
statement from last week. Sandoro's Body Art. One gold ring, engraved,
with piercing included. And Mulder's name and card number, and a good
facsimile of his signature if Krycek did say so himself.
