Part III
But something was wrong. The voice, Mulder's voice, was harsh and
ragged, and the soft smell of the sheets was overlaid with a copper
tang. Something was wrong.
He made himself let go of the comforting darkness and fought his way up
to where his uncooperating eyes could be forced open and he could see.
And hear. A fist drew back from the wall beside the bed and slammed
into it again, and those knuckles were torn and bloody. No! Oh God no,
this was horrible. He had to stop it. He had to—
His arm didn't seem to be working very well, but he managed to reach
out and catch at that moving fist. Please—God, what was the word?
"Pazhal'sta—P-please, no—"
The fist stopped, opened, but the face that looked down at him was
racked and wet with tears. Yes, Mulder, it's all right, you can hate
me, but that snarl was not aimed at him. Oh, this was so wrong.
"M-Mhll'rrr, lyubmoy—" English. He only speaks English, you idiot.
"Mhldrr, no. Don' hurr' yourselh." But those swollen eyes stared at him
blindly, uncomprehending. Try again. This time the words came clearer,
though he felt his lip split and bleed again. "Mulder, stop it."
"Are you all right?" that voice asked stupidly, and he smiled up at
Mulder as brilliantly as he could. Yes, he was all right; everything was
all right.
Then there was no one beside him, and miles away only the coughing
spatter of someone being very sick.
Oh, Mulder, no— and he tried to pull himself upright to go after
him. As always when waking, he forgot his truncated arm, and this time
he didn't have the coordination to stop himself from skewing to the
floor. The fall jolted his head, and for a moment darkness dragged him
under. Oh God, don't make a sound; you don't want Mulder to worry—
But there were arms around him, tense but gentle, and then the pillow
was soft against his cheek.
"Krycek?"
Alex, he wanted to correct him, but this time there really were no
words, so he caught that bloody hand before it drew away, and brought
it to his lips. It's all right, Mulder, he tried to say as he
kissed the blood from those poor knuckles. It's all right that you
hurt me.
And then that beloved face contorted and broke, and Mulder was choking
on sobs that shook him like the blows of a fist. Oh, Mulder— and
somewhere there was strength to raise his one arm and draw the
shuddering dear body down to his own. Wet heat spilled onto his
shoulder, and those lips said broken wordless things against his neck,
and everything was going to be all right.
Sometime later, he surfaced again as Mulder began to roll away. No,
don't let him go; he'll hurt himself again!
Murmuring endearments he could only say in Russian, he found Mulder's
hand again and drew it across his body to rest under his cheek. Then,
reassured, he fell back into sleep.
Somewhere there was a sound, a beeping that might be a phone, but he
held tighter to Mulder's hand and let the words drift over him. Another
darkness, and a sharp voice that didn't belong there, angry. Scully?
It didn't matter. All that mattered was Mulder. But Mulder's voice was
hurting, bitter and ugly with the same wrong sound as the fist hitting
the wall. No!
"Nyet—Nyet, lyubmoy," he tried to say, and reached up with his free arm
to comfort him. But there was no arm to reach with, and all he could do
was turn and press his lips against the captive hand.
A sharp breath, and more words, meaningless noise, and then a stinging
smell and something cool was touching his cheek. He ignored it, even
when he felt the needle tugging against the torn flesh of his cheekbone,
the gentle fingers probing his scalp. He'd been stitched up before; one
of the perils of his trade. It was just pain, and not important.
But when those slim gloved fingers tried to pull Mulder's hand away so
she could work on the other side of his face, he fought her desperately,
heartbroken, until he felt Mulder take his hand with equal gentleness
and hold it between his own.
And then everything was all right again, and he drifted there in the
shallows of the dark, barely hearing the voices above him.
"Scully, please—"
"—How can you expect me not to report—"
"—You know they'd kill—"
Kill who? Not Mulder, please God—
"—totally unconscionable, Mulder! Your behavior—"
She was yelling at Mulder. Don't hurt Mulder; he's already in pain.
Got to make her stop. English words, I need English words—
"Lea' him alone!" he managed, and heard a sharp breath. Then there was
another darkness, and the slamming of a door.
But the hands that held his were warm and gentle, and he was not alone.
Later, her voice was back again, and the smell of food, and more
meaningless words.
"Scully, why isn't he—"
"—Not concussion, but—"
"—Why should he come around, Mulder? He probably feels safer—"
"—Scully—"
"—Call him. Maybe your voice—"
And the door closed again, but did not slam, and he was glad because she
had stopped yelling at his Mulder.
That voice pulled him from the depths, as it would have pulled him from
the grave. "Krycek—Alex?"
I'm coming, Mulder—
"Alex?"
What?
"Alex, come back. I need you to come back."
Needed, he let himself surface entirely, though the light was harsh and
reminded him of too many things. "M-Mulder?"
"Alex, can you swallow? I need you to drink some soup."
He felt himself grinning. "...Swallow for you anytime, Mulder," and
thank God he saw that mouth quirk into something besides bitterness at
last.
"Glad you're back," Mulder said dryly. Yes, this was right, this game
of catch and throw. This was the only language they had ever shared.
"'S the soup," he said. "I came back for the soup."
And Mulder actually laughed as he brought the spoon to Alex's mouth.
What the hell am I going to do? Mulder wondered in furious despair.
Bastard seems—whole, somehow, as if he finally found God or something.
But I—
It was simpler when Krycek was sleeping. That young face, bruised and
torn, had such an innocent vulnerability that Mulder could pity him.
Last night's fury seemed distant and unreal, like a drunken brawl or a
cruelty remembered from childhood. And he could hate himself cleanly for
what he had done.
But now, watching the traitor return to himself—hearing the voice regain
its cockiness, watching those eyes slowly harden into their usual one-way
glass, and the hand on the cup find again the steadiness with which he
must have pulled the trigger and watched Mulder's father fall—Mulder
knew it wasn't over. God, he hated this man, hated him even more because
he wanted him, and he needed so badly to hit him that it made him sick.
Christ, all these years and he'd never known this about himself, never
wanted to know that he could feel like this. That he could find such
intense pleasure in the crunch of bone as he made red ruin out of a man's
face. That spilling another man's tears and blood could make him harder
than he'd ever been.
That—that if it was just hate, he wouldn't feel this need to tear him
open and spend himself in the man's slashed throat, his stuttering bloody
heart.
God damn it, why hadn't he just shot them both before he involved Scully?
Now she was in it too; he'd dragged her into his own destruction and even
if he ended this quick and clean with a bullet, two bullets, he'd ruined
her. 'Agent Scully, would you like to explain why you performed
unlicensed surgery on a known felon... did not report his presence...
your partner's actions... why you permitted this sick behavior to
continue?'
Maybe I should just ask Krycek to set us up a car bomb, he thought,
and a wave of deeper sickness passed over him as he realized the younger
man probably would. Smiling.
Oh, Christ, what have I done? What AM I?
Mulder had to get out of the room before... before he couldn't cope at
all. Taking the empty soup cup from Krycek's hands, careful not to touch
even his fingers, he turned away. "I'll be back," he said.
But somehow Krycek's hand closed on his other wrist before he could get
out of range. "No, you won't," that infuriating voice said from behind
him..
"What?" Mulder snapped, fighting the impulse to turn and backhand the
rat bastard in the face.
"You won't be back," Krycek's voice was bland. "Not if you walk out now.
You'll come up with some excuse not to come back and deal with this.
Probably take off running 'to clear your head' and then brood for hours
about whether to shoot me or yourself, or turn one or both of us in, and
maybe even manage to get yourself mugged to prevent having to think about
it."
Mulder ground his teeth, but tried to keep his voice level. "So?"
One of those long fingers traced the vein on his wrist, radiating a
maddening warmth. "There's no way out of this except forward."
Goaded, Mulder turned on him with a snarl. "Bullshit! The only way out
of this is to walk away from it. I don't know what kind of sick game
you're playing, but I don't want any part of it."
Krycek said nothing, but in the space between that green gaze and his
own, Mulder could see the unspoken response. It involved a knife in
Mulder's hands, and the cold barrel of a bloody gun rubbed down the
length of a man's erection. And it was unanswerable.
With a curse, Mulder lashed out with the empty cup, trying to smash that
knowledge out of those watching eyes.
But he had gotten too used to Krycek's immobility, and forgotten how the
man had survived. Down suddenly on one knee, staring at his unvacuumed
carpet, he found that he wanted very much not to have his fingers bent
any farther. And then Krycek kicked his leg out from under him and his
mouth was full of dust.
"Mulder, you asshole. Have you always been such a fucking coward?"
Even now, trying not to scream from the sickening pressure on his hand,
he wanted to silence that hated voice any way he could. "Like you're one
to talk, rat bastard. How many sinking ships you run from?"
The hiss of his own breath startled him as the grip on his fingers
tightened, but then he could swear he heard the bastard laughing. "We
sound like a couple of schoolboys. Give it up, Mulder, we're gonna talk
if I have to find you a straitjacket."
God, the son of a bitch was right; Mulder was just making a fool of
himself. "So," he said, with a deliberate return to his usual manner.
"I gather your offer to die at my hands was a little premature?"
The abrasive chuckle was almost regretful. "Shoulda taken me up on it,
Mulder. A good night's sleep, a cup of soup, and I get reminded I'm
needed on the job. You never know, though; you could probably get me in
the mood again."
"I'll pass," said Mulder dryly.
"Will you?"
"Look, can we lay off the arm wrestling? I've taken a religious vow to
stop snorting dust-bunnies."
A worn leather boot shifted into his line of sight. "Mulder, you're gonna
laugh yourself sick when I say this, but we have to talk. This is not a
truth we can afford to play our usual games with."
"YOUR usual games, you mean." God, his voice sounded bitter.
"Yours too, Mulder. How much of the time we actually worked together did
you spend bullshitting me or just plain lying? Or like the black rock
business, hitting me when I tried to ask questions?"
"What the hell do you want, Krycek?"
A weary chuckle. "I refuse to answer that on the grounds that it might
incriminate me. But right now, I want to talk without you either stalking
out or hitting me."
"Even if you beg?" God, Mulder, where did that vicious tone come
from?
Krycek refused to take offense. "Well, it would be a little distracting."
Mulder was not happy with Krycek's solution. Sitting cross-legged on the
floor with his arms cuffed behind him was not his idea of fun. But Krycek
was right; it certainly did lower his ability to move quickly.
"Well, Krycek, you happier now?"
"It'll do."
"Like fuck it will. I'm not into being handcuffed."
"Oh, Mulder, would you just shut up. I said WE need to talk; that'll be
a little hard if I have to tape your mouth shut."
Tossing the handcuff key absent-mindedly in the air and catching it
again, Krycek lowered himself stiffly to sit on Mulder's couch. Just
looking at his cocky face, even through the bruising and stitches, made
Mulder ache to smash something again.
The dark, puffy sockets only made those eyes greener. Christ.
"Krycek—"
"You called me Alex last night," the roughened voice teased.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" God, Mulder, don't let him get to you. "Listen
to me, you son of a bitch. Okay, you want to talk, let's get a couple of
things straight."
"Like what?"
"Like you can damned well stop baiting me for a little while, you
suicidal little fuck."
"Mm." Krycek was noncommittal, but Mulder thought he'd scored.
"And second—" Christ, I don't believe I'm going to say this.
"Don't look at me."
"What?"
"Look, every time you meet my eyes I want to smash your face in. Could
you just fucking look at the wall or something, get a little distance
here? It might help."
Krycek said nothing, but his turning head was response enough.
"Okay, so what did you want to talk about?"
"Us."
"There's no us, Krycek. There's me, and there's you, and you're the
fucking traitor who killed my father. Got that?"
"Yeah, asshole, I got that. I just don't believe it."
"Well, you can—"
"Mulder, shut up." Krycek shifted position on the couch, rolling his
neck around to loosen sore muscles. "Look, we both know there's something
here. You could have killed me, let's see, about seven times now? But you
didn't. You could have had me arrested. But you didn't. You just beat on
me, strangle me, cuff me, wrestle around with me, and now you rape me."
"That wasn't rape, Krycek."
"Are you really lying to yourself, Mulder, or just to me?"
"Rape suggests I got something out of it, Krycek. But you're the one who
gets a hard-on when we go hand-to-hand."
"Mulder, I can guarantee I'm not the only one."
"Bullshit." Keep it cool, Mulder.
"Mulder, I'd ask you how you felt when you shoved that fucking knife-hilt
up my ass, but you'd just lie to me again. Hitting me gets you hard. Or
maybe getting hard makes you want to hit me. Hell if I know."
Krycek turned towards him again, although he was careful not to meet his
eyes. "Mulder, look at my face."
Involuntarily, Mulder did, seeing the purpling mass of cuts and bruises,
abrasions and welts that he himself had made. He said nothing.
"And now, look at my arm." Casually, as if it were nothing, he pulled his
shirt over his head with his right arm and draped it over the end of the
couch. Mulder looked away.
"Damn it, Mulder, I said LOOK AT MY ARM!" The harsh ice of the younger
man's voice surprised him, and he looked without meaning to. The
truncated arm was a hideous mass of scars, some fading to white with
time, others still livid against his pale skin. The unspeakable marks of
the hot knife; the re-mutilations of a surgeon's corrective work; the
chafed sores where the straps of the prosthetic galled him.
"This is your work, Mulder. You did this to me. No, look at it. You did
this to me, and it hurt more than you'll ever know in your fucking life,
and you don't want to look because it makes you cream your boxers to know
that you did this."
Oh, God, it was true. He hated himself for it, he wanted to be sick, but
the sight of that battered face, that mutilated stump, went through him
like a live round and burned so hot that he thought the cloth over his
dick would smoulder into flame. He couldn't tell which was clenched more
tightly, his cuffed fists or his aching balls. "No—" he heard himself
protest.
"Oh, yes, Mulder. You're as sick a piece of shit as I am."
Light glinted off the gold ring he'd ordered Krycek to get, and he could
see the nipple was swollen and dark where the piercing was slow to heal.
Oh, shit, why did that have to make him hotter?
He was just too tired to keep his head up any longer.
"You asked me last night whether it was just you, Mulder, or whether I
just got off on being hit. It's you. If other people hurt me, I just hurt
'em back, or kill 'em if I can. Hell, I don't get much of a charge out
of them in bed, either. I mean, I can perform, it's part of my job, but
it's a long time since it meant much more than sneezing. You, I can get
hard just watching your fucking car go by, okay? It's a stupid fucking
weakness and it's gonna get me killed, but that's how it is.
"But now it's my turn to ask the question. Is it just me, or do you get
off on hitting just anyone?"
Mulder couldn't dredge up anything to say. He wished his hands were free
so that he could block out some of the light beyond his tired eyelids.
"Mulder? Answer me."
Just go away, Krycek. I don't want to be here.
"Mulder, if you don't answer me, I'm going to answer for you. I don't
think you get off on hitting anyone else, except maybe for that desperate
rush we all get when someone who tried to kill us is down and and we're
still breathing. But I don't think you've ever wanted to hit someone the
way you want to hit me. I think you've never felt this way before, and
it scares the shit out of you.
"That right, Mulder? Speak up, or I'll continue. No? Okay, I don't think
you get much of a thrill out of sex either. If you have any, aside from
your famous videos. I mean, you're working with a kickass redhead and
you haven't made a move on her in over five years. And your boss is the
studliest piece of muscle a man's seen in a long time, and it doesn't
tent your shorts.
"I think I'm the only person you—the only person who fires your blood
anymore. I don't think you even know whether you want to kill me or fuck
me, or maybe get fucked by me. But I don't think you can even think
straight when I'm around."
Bullshit. Mulder tried to shut out the sound of that voice, those
endless words. Just go away, Krycek.
"Mulder, I know you, remember? We were partners. And you're a good guy;
a boy scout; a knight in somewhat dented armor. You burn yourself out on
endless quests, trying to forget you have a body or a fucking heart, and
you can tell yourself that your hands are clean.
"But now, what the hell are you going to do? You can't torture and rape
a man and walk away from it without staining your monk's robe."
"God, Krycek, would you just. Shut. Up." He was too tired to even be
angry.
"Mulder, if I walked away right now, you wouldn't live a week. You don't
deal with this and it's going to eat you alive. And I haven't spend half
my life trying to keep you alive just to watch you eat your own gun."
"Krycek—" The light was harsh on his opening eyes. "I'm not going to
kill myself over you, you rat bastard. You deserve everything I did to
you and more."
"Sure, Mulder, I know. But what I am isn't the question; the question is
whether you can live with yourself."
"So, what, you offering to shoot me? Thanks, Krycek, but I'll pass."
"No, asshole, I'm saying we're stuck with each other. Okay? It's a stupid
fucking thing, and we'd both rather it wasn't true, believe me. I wish I
could just shoot you and be done with it. But it'd just be worse if you
were dead."
That's just you, Krycek. I could shoot you and walk away. And then
I'd—I'd—then I'd be happy and free of you and—and my father would
still be dead, and I'm just so fucking tired.
"Mulder, I don't see any way out of this."
"Unless?"
"Unless we just screw and hope it goes away, all right? Hell, I don't
know; maybe if you jam my ass you'll get it out of your system. Maybe if
I, I don't know, blow you or hose your ass I can walk away. But we've
got to do something."
Mulder shook his head to dispel the images this called up. It wasn't
working. "Krycek, no fucking way do I want to have sex with you. You're
crazy."
"Hell, Mulder, of course I am. Like you're the model of sanity?"
"Famous for it." There. Try joking; anything to deflect this stupid
business before—before—Oh, hell.
"Look, Krycek, forget it. So I've got some wires crossed. But sex with
you? No way."
Krycek only chuckled indulgently, and Mulder wished he had his hands
free to break the asshole's nose. "Okay, Mulder, have it your own way.
Tell me that in five minutes and I'll believe you."
"Five minutes, five years, whatever. No."
"Five minutes. Don't move."
"What—"
But Krycek didn't move towards him, as he half feared. Instead, the
traitor just leaned back and stretched, working his shoulders back and
forth and rolling his neck, wincing. The light gleamed on the sparse dark
fur under his arms and the flexing muscles of his chest, and sparked
brightly off the gold ring embedded in his swollen flesh. Mulder hated
himself for noticing the dark rose of his other nipple, the tracing of
shadow down his stomach.
Krycek opened his hand briefly like a bird's wing, and then reached up to
trace the line of sutures down his cheek. Oh, God. Then, lightly,
he touched the swollen ruin of his lips, and licked the blood almost
absently off his fingertips.
So fucking obvious, Krycek. Why don't you just take up strip-dancing
and be done with it? It must be disgust that made his stomach roil
like this. Disgust, and the memory of that hand warm against his cheek.
Krycek stared at his hand for a moment, as if it were strange to him too.
Then he cupped the end of his stump and kneaded it as if it were cold,
and Mulder was somehow having trouble breathing.
Still obedient to Mulder's earlier request, he didn't meet his eyes;
those long dark lashes drifted against the bruised flesh as if to paint
it with a darker stain. Mulder waited with something like scorn for him
to start playing showily with his nipples, but instead Krycek trailed
his hand upwards and up the long column of his throat. Those long fingers
felt for the pulse, closed lightly around the windpipe and tightened for
just a speculative moment. Mulder felt himself tighten too.
Then Krycek let the hand drift downwards to his chest. One finger trailed
across his unpierced nipple, but his thumb and his main attention were
on a white dime-sized dimple where a bullet wound must have healed a long
time ago. Mulder's breath came shorter.
With a sharp sigh, Krycek broke off, his hand curling convulsively into
a fist against his breastbone. "Oh, fuck this, Mulder. Walk if you want
to; I don't feel like putting on a show." God, were those tears that
glittered against that bruised cheek?
Mulder clamped his teeth shut too late to keep from speaking. "What do
you feel like?"
The younger man ran his hand angrily through his hair. "Do you care?"
Jesus, the man was mercury between the fingers: elusive, maddening,
and ultimately lethal. "Krycek, you just spent ten minutes telling me
I did. Make up your fucking mind."
Krycek's surprised laugh was bitter. "Jesus, that's the problem, isn't
it? Neither of us can make up our mind; we want so many different things.
What do I want? I want to swallow your gun and feel you pull the trigger.
I want to pound your ass apart while I tighten the wire around your
throat and feel your last convulsions around me. I want to hold you and
just cry like a baby. I want you to carve your name into me with that
knife. I want—Oh, hell, Mulder, I want everything."
Fuck this. "Krycek, come over here. Now." His voice was harsh.
That torn and swollen mouth was locked in a snarl, but Krycek spat out a
Russian curse and got to his feet. "Yeah?" It was a challenge.
Mulder stopped trying to be rational and just let go. "Come over here,
get down on your fucking knees, and give me your arm. No, you asshole,
the one with my name on it."
Krycek's fist was clenched so tightly that the knuckles looked like an
anatomy model, but he presented Mulder with his stump as if at gunpoint.
Silently cursing the handcuffs, Mulder leaned forward and bit down hard.
Krycek's convulsive moan made his heart pound, but the shaking flesh did
not withdraw. Slowly, knowing he was insane, Mulder licked the swelling
blood away and then ran his tongue over the clotted mass of scars. Oh,
God, this was sweet and sick and so hot he didn't think he could wait
much longer. His starving mouth moved, his lips read every fissure and
swelling and puckered line, and the taste of the man's sweat and fear was
more than he could stand.
"Okay, Krycek, this is what we're going to do. You're going to take these
fucking handcuffs off me, and I am going to fuck your mouth so hard
you'll wish I WAS using a gun. You hear me?"
Krycek heard him. He expected the younger man to get up and walk around
him, but instead he dragged the handcuff key out of his pocket and pulled
Mulder up into his arms, pressing against him as he reached around to
open the cuffs. Mulder felt one cuff click open, and then he had had
enough.
Still trailing the metal bracelet from his left hand, he grabbed Krycek
roughly by the back of the neck and held him close as he explored those
pulped lips with his tongue. "Okay, you rat bastard, open up for me."
He'd planned to stand up; he'd planned to pull on that nipple-ring until
the traitor screamed; but somehow he was still holding too tightly as he
felt Krycek's hand claw his fly open, and all his own strength was in his
hands and in his cock as he fell back and forced the traitor's mouth down
to draw the poison from his blood. Oh, God, the feel of him, that wet
heat around him and moving, and Mulder knew how much he must be hurting
him but that just made him harder and he couldn't stop pounding upwards,
slamming that vise-clamped head down against him again and again...
"Alex!" he screamed in rage and something else, and shot into him so hard
that he knew his own bones were breaking. Burning, exploding into that
bloody mouth and gone. Gone.
Oh, God.
Then there was nothing but the feel of that head in his boneless hands,
and their breaths slowing together. Jesus, wherever he had gone, Krycek
had gone with him all the way.
With him.
Together.
Hilt
by Nonie Rider
Crossguard
Something was hurting, somewhere in this drifting darkness, but
something deeper told him it was all right. His breath caught in a
long, contented sigh, and he smelled a laundry-soft scent that matched
the gentle feel of sheets around him. Home. He was home, wherever that
was. Home was where he could hear that voice speaking.
