by Ganymede
Chapter One
I fumbled with the tiny cell phone. Hate these things. My first act, once I
retire, will be to throw my cell phone and my pager into the closest available
ocean.
"Skinner." Growling. Person on the other end doesn't like it, they shouldn't be
calling me before 5 A.M.
"Walter, it's me." Mulder. Definitely used to my growling by now.
"Where the hell are you, Mulder? You took off out of here with the disks like
the hounds of hell were chasing you." I really, really dislike hunting for that
man. So, of course, in some fit of cosmic irony, that's most of what I do. He
vanishes. I try to find him.
"I'm at the Gunmen's. How is our injured friend?"
Deep sigh and a rub of my tired eyes. "Where do you want me to start—top or
bottom?"
"Definitely top. I always start there, and work my way down."
Letch. Are you ever not thinking about sex?
"Starting from the top, but saving the best for last. He has a fractured skull,
a broken jaw, damaged trachea, compound fractures of the radius and ulna, six
broken ribs, and enough stitches in his abdomen and legs to make a patchwork
quilt." Mulder inhaled sharply in the background.
It had been painful to watch Krycek being wheeled out of the operating room. I
don't even like the man, and it hurt.
"So what's the best part that you were saving for last?"
"His trachea was badly damaged—crushed, to be precise. When he was carried in
here, he wasn't breathing. They don't know how long his brain was without
oxygen. He may very well have permanent brain damage. We won't know for a few
days, maybe longer."
"Fuck. That can't happen. I need to talk to him, Walter."
"What did you find on those disks?" Dammit, stop fooling around and tell me.
Mulder's shark smile was audible through the phone. "What did we find? The
motherlode. These disks have everything we need, everything we could ever want
to bring the Consortium to its knees. He was on his way to give you the head of
the serpent on a silver platter, Walter. By the way, were they the ones who
attacked him?"
More cosmic irony. God is, truly, an iron. "Nope. He was attacked by an Olds
Delta 88 four-door."
Alex `Indestructible' Krycek, survivor of alien possession, deep forest
amputations, and a million and one other shocks that flesh is heir to, was
finally brought to death's door by a car. Granted, the car had been traveling at
nearly 60 MPH when it hit him as he was crossing the street, but it still seemed
like such an ignoble way for the Rat Bastard to go.
"Is he going to survive?"
Was that a note of honest concern in your voice, Mulder, or is this just a bad
connection?
I shrugged. Doesn't work too well over the phone, I know. "They don't know. His
injuries are not life-threatening, but the hypoxia and resulting brain damage
could still kill him. If he wakes up, he'll probably be able to heal. It will
take him a long time, but they're all flesh wounds."
"How long are we talking here?"
"His jaw is wired shut, and he has a tracheotomy. He's in a cast up to his
elbow. The surgeon said six to eight weeks before he'd be able to take care of
himself."
"Fuck. Walter, what are we going to do?"
I thought of a million—no, a million and one—good reasons why we should just
turn Krycek over to the police and let them deal with him. Except that both of
us knew the RatBastard wouldn't survive the night in custody, especially in this
state. He had too many enemies for that. Very few people would cry at his
funeral. Two hours ago, I would have danced.
Now?
Now he lay injured, broken, all because he was trying to pass me information
that would give me my fondest wish—bring down the Smoking Man and his
Consortium cronies.
And Mulder wanted him alive.
And Mulder always got what he wanted.
I hate this.
I absolutely fucking hate this.
My one good arm—in a cast up to my elbow.
Jaw wired shut.
Sixty-two stitches.
Ribs taped.
More bandages than an extra on Nosferatu.
It's not the pain that's making me psychotic—hell, some people would say I was
psychotic long before I tried to french-kiss the bumper on an Olds Delta 88. I
know how to deal with pain. Pain and I are old friends.
No, what's making me climb the walls is the fact that I can't do fucking
anything for myself!
With my jaw wired, I can't eat solid food. It's only been a week, and I am
already sick and tired of puree. If I see one more bowl of soup, I'm going to be
forced to kill someone with a sharpened spoon. I want nachos, g_d damn it! I
want steak!
Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Silk ice cream, however, nuked until it's drinkable,
is almost better than heroin. Almost. Not that I can hold a spoon...
With two pins in my wrist and a cast from palm to elbow, I can't use my hand.
Can't pick anything up without shooting pains. Can't make a fist. Can't hold a
pencil. Can't even jack off. My one remaining hand—fucking useless.
Note to self—in future, avoid skull fractures. The double vision and headaches
afterwards are a real bitch. Reading's right out. Feels like someone's trying to
improve sinus drainage by burying an axe in my forehead. My eyes won't focus
right, and the room starts to spin. Watching TV isn't as bad—then it's the
content that makes me nauseous, not the concussion.
The pain isn't too bad. They're keeping me pretty well medicated. Repeat after
me, class—Demerol is your friend. They have to give me shots every six to
eight hours because I can't take pills with my jaw wired shut. They don't give
me so much that I feel no pain whatsoever, but just enough to take the edge off.
I feel... buzzed. Stoned. It's hard to think.
Maybe that's a good thing. I don't want to think. Every time I try to figure out
what the fuck I'm doing here, in this house, with them, someone starts doing a
rendition of the 1812 Overture inside my skull. I'm in no shape to make sense of
it. I'm really in no shape to beat some sense into the person who desperately
needs it. Especially since I think that person is me.
The worst part of all this isn't my arm. It isn't my mouth. It isn't being
strung out on painkillers for days at a time.
The worst part of all this is that I can't even whine about it.
I can't talk at all.
I'm under strict orders from the doctor not to talk. No whispering. No nothing.
My vocal chords were pretty badly chopped up in the accident and the ensuing
tracheotomy, and they need time to heal. The more I talk, the longer that will
take. Simple equation, really. Quiet now—regain the ability to talk later. So,
for the foreseeable future, I'm mute.
It's driving me insane.
I really, really hate this.
Lying here, in Walter Skinner's guest bedroom, surrounded by his scent,
pretending to sleep, waiting.
I can feel him standing in the darkened doorway.
Watching me.
Thinking.
Deciding.
Can't hear his footsteps in the thick carpet, but I can feel him move. I can
sense him. Echolocation. Wondering if I could before, if I concentrated hard
enough. Has he always been there, in the back of my head?
Feel the bed dip, then his body heat close behind my back. Lying on my stump,
trying to find a comfortable position for my cast, my taped ribs, my jaw, my
throat. It's a myth. More of a myth than those monsters Mulder and Scully keep
chasing. There is none.
Sleep is out of the question. Has been for days.
Pretending to sleep is the best I can do. Lying still, breathing deeply. Evenly.
Invisible.
"I know you're awake, Krycek."
Breath warm on the back of my neck, sending tiny electric spiderwebs down my
spine. Oxygen catching in my throat. Don't squirm. Don't move. You're supposed
to be asleep, remember?
Wearing nothing but a pair of his cast-off white boxers—too big, perpetually
threatening to slide down my hips. Sheets long since kicked to the foot of the
bed. He's propped up on one elbow. I can feel his gaze traverse every inch of
skin. Too much, too exposed.
Fighting to keep my breathing slow, even, steady. Fighting the squirms that are
building in my gut, warm throbbing between my legs. G_d, how long has it been,
Krycek? Months?
Can't even take care of it myself, not with my one remaining wrist broken, held
together by pins and plaster.
So hard it hurts.
Breath is back, warm along my neck, my spine, my shoulders. Can't stop the
trembling, the shudders that roll through me. I can feel, not hear, his low
rumbling chuckle.
He knows.
He always did.
I'm asleep... I'm asleep... I'm asleep... chanting my mantra.
Blown all to hell by one finger playing peek-a-boo up my spine. Gasping between
clenched teeth, back arched, squirming. Skin seeking. No contact but that one
tormenting finger, circling each vertebra before drifting higher.
Touch me. Please.
Sharp teeth sinking into my shoulder, nipping at the corded tendons. Gasping,
thrusting back, trying to find him, anchor myself in his skin, his warmth.
Nothing there, rolling over onto my back. Tugging on the stitches in my abdomen,
but I don't care at this point. Don't care about anything except that warm
liquid need in my gut.
Way, way too exposed now.
Obvious.
Liquid laughter pouring across my skin. "Still pretending to be asleep, Krycek?"
I open my eyes, gaze locked into his brown eyes.
He's still propped up on one elbow, eyes drifting across my body, laid out for
his perusal. Lingering around my waist. Big shit-eating grin. I'm expecting him
to start spitting out canary feathers any second. Immensely pleased with
himself.
"A question for you, boy." Voice honey-purr. "Have you always been this
responsive? Or is there something about being helpless, unable to defend
yourself, lying in your enemy's bed, that trips your trigger?" Leaning over
closer to my ear, whispering. "Does the thought of being my personal plaything
get you hard, boy?"
Something hot and red flares inside my skull. I'm pushing away, trying to get as
far from him as I can, before I give in to the impulse to hit, hurt. Inflict
pain to match the pain I'm feeling.
One large arm sliding across my waist, carefully avoiding the bandages, pushing
the elastic of my boxers down to my hips, holding me in place on my back. Skin
so warm, so close to where I'm begging to be touched...Squirming against the
sensation, searching for friction, anything.
Something.
Please.
My eyes traveling from the arm locking me in place back to his face, brown eyes
watching me intently. His gaze effective restraint on its own. I'm trapped here,
by my need.
Looking away. I'm too fucking vulnerable like this. The drugs and the pain are
making me slow, stupid. No defenses, no match for a Girl Scout, much less him.
The most dangerous of my enemies.
"Look at me, Alex."
Alex.
He's never called me that before. Always Krycek.
Honey-purr back, undertone of steel.
"This is the way it's going to happen. If you don't like it, I'll take my toys
and go back to my own bed." Gaze wandering back down below my waist, grin firmly
in place. "Having trouble taking care of that little problem with a broken arm,
are you?"
Glaring at him. He laughs, moves his restraining hand in small circles across
the hollow of my hip, through the soft cotton material, making me gasp.
"I'm not going to hurt you tonight, Alex.
I won't let you hurt yourself, either.
If you want anything to happen, you will do what I tell you. Exactly what I
tell you. No arguments. Understand?"
I can't meet his eyes. Looking away, anywhere but at him.
"Understand, Alex?"
Hard swallow, like gargling with razor blades. Something about the close
proximity to this man is making me stupid. Always has. Closing my eyes,
disgusted with myself. Nodding, once.
"This is the way it's going to happen, Alex. You will not talk. You will not
move. You will lie there, limp as a rag doll, and let me touch you. If I want
you to move, I'll move you. I will not have you opening up any of your stitches
or injuring yourself any more than you already are. Got it?"
Another nod.
Arm gone from my waist. "Just relax, Alex. Let yourself go limp." Eyes back on
the tent my boxers have morphed into. Another chuckle that danced across my
skin. "As limp as you can in this condition, anyways."
Trying to do as he says. Trying to lie as still as possible.
Hand gently stroking my face, barely touching the bruised and broken skin.
Impossibly gentle. Softer touch than I thought the big man was capable of.
"Close your eyes, Alex."
Complying, trying to slow my breathing. In through the nose, out through the
mouth. In through the nose...
Barest flitter of lips brushing against mine. Hand sliding up into my hair,
holding my head still. Quick cat-lick across my bottom lip, then gone. Gasping.
Teeth gently nipping at my lower lip, slowly rippling through my skin. I want
this, want to kiss him, want to feel his tongue dancing with mine, but with my
jaw wired shut, it's not possible. His tongue wanders across my teeth, then back
to lips. Making me crazy.
Bringing my cast-wrapped arm up to wrap around his neck. Need contact, need to
find his skin, his heat. Need to touch him.
Interception.
Mouth gone. Quiet whimper—it hurts but I can't help it.
Opening my eyes, finding angry brown eyes looking down on me, one large hand
wrapped around the cast over my wrist. Holding my arm in place, trapped,
immobile.
Caught.
"What part of `Don't Move' don't you understand, Alex?" Voice like razor wire
and broken rocks. "If you can't follow a simple instruction like that, then
there's no point in me staying here. I might as well go back to bed now."
No.
Please.
Don't leave me like this.
Begging him with my eyes, my entire body.
Pushing my arm back down, laying it on the pillow next to my head. Surrender
position. "Keep your eyes closed, Alex." Hissing in my ear. "And this time, do
not move."
Doing as he asks. Letting my muscles go limp. Boneless.
I can feel him smiling, as he looks over his prize. Body heat moving away as he
changes position, bed shifting under his weight.
Breath warm against my neck, over the bandages in the hollow of my throat,
covering the healing trach wound. Sensations leaving tracks on my skin. Lying
still, unmoving. Just as he asked.
Breath wandering lower, teasing my chest hair, passing over my collarbone. Then
it's gone. Still not moving.
"Good boy." Beside my right shoulder. "You catch on quick. I think you deserve a
reward for your exemplary behavior."
Don't even want to know. Don't even want to think about it. Don't even want
to...
Lips and tongue launch a silent assault on my right nipple. Fingertips
counterattack on the other flank. Electricity coursing through my body,
triangulating between my legs. Trying so hard to be good. Trying so hard not to
move. Teeth joining the attack, nipping at a hardened bud, one of the most
sensitive spots on my entire body.
Aw, hell.
Hips thrusting involuntarily, desperately, needing friction between my legs.
Back arched, shoulders barely touching the bed. Grabbing at the pillow with my
hand, squeezing hard. My wrist screams, and I don't care. Pain-filled nerve
endings being overloaded by the sensations in the rest of my body.
Writhing on the bed, hips bucking under the double-pronged attack. His mouth,
his fingers nibbling and pinching harder, almost to the point of pain. Sending
me into orbit.
Touch me, please.
Or I'm gonna die.
Then they're gone. Collapsing into the bed, muscles like rubber, skin vibrating,
gulping oxygen. Drenched in sweat.
He's changing positions again. Opening my eyes, trying to make them focus,
trying to track him down. Self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face.
Sitting up, legs crossed Indian-style, facing me, halfway down the bed. About
level with my waist.
I'm in trouble.
"I'll take it you like having these pretty little things played with." Leaning
over, blowing on the closest one. Cold air on wet skin making limp muscles
contract, bucking again without benefit of his touch. Another slow sandpaper
chuckle. "I bet they'd look really pretty decorated with a set of nipple
clamps..."
Stomach muscles clenching involuntarily. Trying not to squirm at the thought.
I've worn them before. With the right play partner, they could send me into a
frenzy.
Strong fingers carding through sweat-slicked hair. Closing my eyes, relaxing
into his touch. Being petted like a cat, like a panther or puma. Almost tempted
to purr, except I knew that any movement of my vocal chords would hurt like a
son-of-a-bitch.
"Oh, my, Alex. You're quite sweaty." Teasing me. "It won't do to let you get
overheated. Hmmm...I think if you were wearing less clothing you would
definitely feel cooler."
Looking up at him. He's leering at me. The only clothes I have on are his white
cotton boxers, currently tight, definite wet spot developing. His hand slides
out of my hair, meets its counterpart at the waistband of the boxers.
"Lift your hips up, Alex."
Trying to make the muscles in my legs and back work in tandem. Takes me a
minute. They don't want to respond to commands right now. No clue why.
Finally I manage to lift my hips off the bed. Sensation of soft cloth sliding
over my very erect cock and the shock of cold air on sensitized skin making me
gasp. Cloth sliding down past my knees, past my calves, and off.
Closing my eyes. I'm not sure I want to see myself right now.
Naked.
Exposed.
For him.
Velvet purr pouring over me. "Oh, my, Alex. You look so pretty like that. Don't
move—this is exactly where I want you. For now, at least." Slow chuckle. "I am
going to enjoy playing with you, boy..."
His body moving, body heat going away. Bed shifting. Gone from my side, bed
dipping again near the foot. Weight centering near my legs, off to one side.
"Relax, Alex. Go limp. I'm going to position you how I want you. Just be a rag
doll, and it won't hurt."
Strong hands behind my knees, gentle grip with steel muscles, spreading my legs
apart, until my hips and the stitches in my abdomen start to protest. Relaxed,
just an inch or two. Then the hands are gone.
He's moving again, mattress responding to the absence of his weight like I
respond to the absence of his heat—desperate seeking. Mattress shifting down
lower, sliding, then it stops. Centered between my legs.
I can feel his eyes traveling across my skin, feel his self-satisfied grin, as
he looks at me. My need on display. Vulnerable, open, for his pleasure.
More turned on than I have ever been in my entire life.
No contact. Just watching. Waiting. Screaming at him inside my head, touch me,
please, touch me. I need it. Trying so hard to lie still, be a rag doll. Be
good.
I've never been good in my life, but I will. For him.
Trembling. I don't know why. Working so hard at lying still, and the muscles in
my chest and thighs won't stop shaking.
"I know what you want, Alex." Dark, throaty voice, brushing against me. "I know
what you need. And if you're very, very good, maybe I'll give it to you."
Fingertips at the inside of my knees, slowly, agonizingly traipsing up my
thighs, until they reach the juncture of my hips. Stopping. Starting again
behind my knees.
Shuddering. His touch burns like acid.
Fingers stroking my abdomen, down, playing with my hair, down to my pubic bone.
Just millimeters from where I need it so desperately. Stopping again.
Gentle, slow stroke below my balls. Then gone. Then back.
Holding on to my self-control by the thinnest thread. But I know, I know that if
I move, if I do anything, he'll stop altogether. I don't get a choice in this
one.
I want to bite my lip. I want to thrash around under his gentle ministration. I
want to squirm. I can't.
Control disintegrating under his touch. One finger brushing the underside of my
cock from the base to the tip. Hips thrusting helplessly. Writhing.
Honey-purr. "I think you liked that a little too much. You're so sensitive, boy,
you might not be able to last as long as I want you to. I definitely think we
need to fit you with a cock ring."
Oh, G_d.
One of my play partners did that to me, many years ago. Made me beg for hours,
while he tortured me. When he finally let me have that orgasm he had denied me
for so long, I passed out. Most intense sex in my life. Until now.
Moving around between my legs. Reaching for something—plastic from the sound.
Wet, squishy noise.
Lubricant.
Can't stop the squirming. Hasn't even touched me, and I'm wriggling like a cat
in heat.
Cold, wet, slippery finger teasing my perineum. So close, so close, circling,
stroking the skin around my ass, never quite touching. Thrusting my hips towards
him involuntarily. One finger flicking across, and again. Pulses of electricity
sparking through me with every touch.
One fingertip barely inside, stroking the edge of the ring of muscles. Then out.
Then in. Breath coming in gasps, gulping oxygen. Heart pounding so loud in my
ears I can't hear anything else.
Smooth lubricated push, and all the way in.
Screaming, but all that comes out is a hoarse squeaky noise. Finger sliding
almost all the way out, and back in. Again. Back arched, pulling on the
stitches. Sharp, sweet sparks of pain adding to the pleasure.
Another slick finger easing its way in. Frictionless, lubricated slide in and
out. Thrashing my head back and forth.
Hand rotating, changing the angle. Crooking his fingers, bumping up against the
little bundle of nerve endings. Another squeak. Fireworks behind my closed
eyelids. Apparently he likes my reaction, because he does it again, and again.
I'm so close, so close...
"You are going to feel so good wrapped around my cock, boy." Husky, low. Out of
breath. "I am going to enjoy taking you apart, feeling you come while I'm inside
you. But I'm not going to let you come yet."
Fingers gone. Empty. Aching. Muscles nothing but overstretched rubber bands.
Buzzing.
"Go limp, Alex."
Easy command to obey. Muscles wouldn't work if I paid them.
Legs pushed together, hard muscular forearm under my knees, pulling my lower
back off the bed. Something soft pushed under my ass. Pillows. Back down onto
the stack of pillows, precariously perched on the edge. Legs spread again, even
more exposed.
More movement at the foot of the bed. Clothing rustling. Has he been dressed
this entire time? How long has it been? Minutes? Days? Something metallic
tearing, then a squishy sound. Condom and lube.
Please.
I need it so badly.
Gentle, blunt pressure on my sphincter. Sparse hair on his legs tickling the
inside of my thighs. Spreading my legs apart a little farther. Making myself
more open for him.
Tiny little thrusts, then pause. Another thrust, then pause. Hands gripping my
hips, firm almost to the point of pain, pushing me into the pillows, not letting
me move. Teasing me. A few more, feeling my body open up to him, the tip barely
inside. Stretching muscles that haven't been stretched in a very long time. P
leasure-pain-pleasure making me crazy.
Long pause, leaving me gasping, trying to squirm under the vice grip around my
waist. Then one smooth thrust, and he's buried all the way inside me.
Strangled squeal. Impossibly long, impossibly thick, filling me completely.
Lubricated slide, almost all the way out, just the head inside the ring of
muscles. Then back in.
Grip loosening. Letting me rock my hips back against him, an inch or so, in time
with his thrusts. Desperate. Needy. Want all of him.
Can't feel anything but that frictionless glide. No pain, no nothing. Hands gone
from my waist.
Bed shifting again. His heat blanketing me, strong arms on either side of my
shoulders. Filled, stretched, marking me on the inside.
Fire coil slowly building in the base of my spine, taser-fire arcing across my
skin. Heart jack hammering in my chest. Shifting his hips, stroking that cluster
of nerve endings with every stroke. I want to come. I need to come. I'm so
close...
"You belong to me now, boy." Snarl in my ear. "Mine." Heavy, hard body pressed
against me, abdomen rubbing against my cock, chest hair brushing my nipples.
Teeth sinking into my neck...
And I'm coming apart.
Exploding, shredding to fragments, from the inside out.
Darkness and silence for a long moment, then the world came rushing back in to
fill the void. Opening my eyes slowly. I'm lying on my side now, carefully
positioned not to put extra pressure on my broken arm, pillows gone, facing him.
Abdomen and thighs damp. Skin wiped clean. His hands stroking my hair, my
shoulder, my arm down to the cast. Lazy smile. He looks... sated. Like a lion
after a successful kill.
"Welcome back, Alex. Thought I lost you there for a moment. I'm not used to my
partners fainting on me."
I can feel the flush starting in the back of my neck, across my face, down to my
chest. He laughs, a slow, gentle chuckle. Almost affectionate.
"Will wonders never cease. Alex Krycek—blushing."
Closing my eyes again. Boneless, muscles limp, soaking into the mattress. Barely
awake. Slight movement, then a gentle brush of lips against mine.
Manhandled briefly, draped across his body, head resting on his chest, listening
to his heartbeat.
"Go to sleep, Alex."
And I let the blackness take me.
Chapter Two
Mulder really, really needs to work on his following-directions skills.
The instructions were painfully simple. He will call me on my cell phone every
day at 12:30. I've cleared my schedule for the noon hour, so I can be out of the
building and away from prying ears and stray eavesdropping devices when he
calls.
Apparently, that was too complicated for his little brain to comprehend.
Monday, he did fine. 12:30 on the dot.
Today?
10:45. 11:27. 12:02.
At 12:20 I'm sitting on a bench at the park across the street from JEH, drinking
an iced coffee and feeding the few surviving pigeons. Since the city set up
nesting boxes and released breeding pairs of peregrine falcons five years ago,
the remaining pigeons are very fast, very smart, and very lucky.
My cell phone chirps. I grab it before it can complete one entire ring.
"Skinner."
"Ve haff a breaktrrhough in zee communication front, Herr Skinner." Mulder,
doing a bad imitation of Colonel Klink from Hogan's Heroes. That or they've been
watching WW II John Wayne movies again.
"What did we agree on about phone calls? What time were you supposed to call
me?"
Audible grin. "I know. 12:30. I heard you the first three times you gave me the
instructions. But I have good news, and I thought I would break out of the rigid
western linear mindset and call you early."
I sighed. Unrepentancy, thy name is Fox Mulder.
"So, what is the good news that couldn't wait until the appointed time?" Had Ed
McMahon show up at my door and announce that I had won a million dollars? Had
Clinton have a sudden attack of conscience and resign? Had the little yippy dog
next door drop dead from a heart attack?
"Laptop." Still grinning. When I get home, I'm going to beat the grin off his
face.
"What about a laptop, Agent Mulder?" Letting a little bit of growl slip into my
voice.
"Alex can type. He can only use two fingers so it's excruciatingly slow, and
it's more than a little uncomfortable, but he can do it."
Wow. Damn. After a week and a half of charades and guessing, we can finally
communicate with the enigmatic Mr. Krycek. If that is his real name...
"So what have the two of you been conversing about this morning?"
Laughter. "Oh, you know. The usual. In the last twenty minutes, Alex has
maligned my fashion sense, insulted my parentage, and criticized my ability to
make a drinkable cup of coffee." Noise in the background. "Can you hold on for
one sec, Walter?... OK, Alex... I will... right now... Walter, Alex wanted me
to tell you that if you try to feed him applesauce one more time, he'll slit
your throat with a sharpened spoon. He wants spicy. One more mention of baby
food, and you die in your sleep."
Welcome back, Alex. It looks like things are about to get interesting on the
home front.
"Mulder, let Alex know that I will be bringing home something more to his liking
for dinner tonight. My last meeting starts at four, so I should be back to the
condo by six, six thirty at the latest." Flipping the phone close.
Walking back to my office, grinning. Alex Krycek is back. The fun is about to
start.
I spend a lot of time just watching Alex.
You have to watch him very carefully in order to see. He's been trained, or he's
trained himself, not to show anything in his face. He thinks he's the master of
Blank-slate Zen.
He's not as good as he thinks he is.
There are emotions, feelings swirling behind those smoky-green eyes. If you take
the time, and pay attention, you can see what's going on inside that pretty,
banged-up head of his. Do it long enough, and you can tell what he's thinking.
He doesn't like that. I can tell. When he catches me watching him, he glares at
me. I know, I know, Alex. `Spooky' Mulder's got you under his microscope again.
I need to get a life. I need to get a hobby.
Right now, Alex, you are my hobby. Taking care of you and figuring out what
makes you tick.
He...intrigues me. Fascinates. Mesmerizes.
He's a jungle cat, sleeping on the couch, wearing one of Walter's cast-off
T-shirts, sleeves and neck torn off, and my boxer shorts. Radiating energy,
barely contained intensity, even when his eyes are closed and all his muscles
are limp.
His body lies. Sprawled out in front of the television, eyes closed, breathing
deep and even, he wants us to think he's asleep. He's not. He wants to observe
us for a change, from behind closed eyelids.
Sometimes I let him get away with it. Sometimes I don't.
Easiest way to force him to reveal himself is to use your fingertips. Gently,
carefully run one finger down from the hollow of his throat to his stomach, over
the taped ribs, around the bandages. If he's really asleep, it won't wake him.
If he's only pretending, his body responds.
Beautifully.
My palms itch to touch him right now. I want to run my hands across every inch
of his skin, feel him shudder, squirm beneath me. I want to taste his sweat, rub
my chin against his exposed underbelly.
I want to make him want me as much as I want him.
I don't have much experience with this...this slow motion seduction. I don't
have much experience with men, period. All my previous encounters were
secretive, furtive, dark rooms and closets and quiet quiet don't wake up my
roommate.
This isn't like that. This is petting the dangerous animal that could turn
around and tear my arm off. Banking heat, letting it simmer, building a
conflagration.
I'm in physical contact with him as often as I can.
It's part of the job description.
He's a wild creature, recovering from surgery, unable to hunt or feed for
himself. One remaining arm casted, jaw wired, throat bandaged right where a
collar would sit, stitched and taped. Injured. Maimed.
He has to depend on us, on me. To feed him. To bathe him. To give him shots
that keep the pain under control. To change his bandages. To keep him alive.
He doesn't have to like it.
He doesn't like it.
I can see the frustration, the anger building up behind his eyes. Disobedient
broken body. Let him down again. Getting too old. Weakness that's going to get
him killed one of these days.
I know, I know. Get out of your fucking head. You don't have to shout at
me,Alex. I can hear your thoughts just fine.
It's the unable to speak part that gets to him the most.
He's dealing with it a lot better than I would be. I would have gone postal days
ago.
He wants to talk, if for nothing else than to tell me to fuck off. Leave him
alone. Quit taking him apart like a jigsaw puzzle. That and to say, yet again,
how bad my coffee-making skills are.
We communicate pretty well, considering one of us is functionally mute. Between
my mind reading and his expressiveness, he gets his point across. The laptop
helps too.
We discovered late last week that, while he can't hold a pencil, he can type
without too much pain. One finger, hunt-and-peck. Slow but serviceable. Works
best for essay questions, like how does your throat feel today and what do you
want me to pick up at the grocery store. Multiple-choice questions, like shower
this morning or this afternoon are best answered with the
tap-once-for-A-twice-for-B system. Charades just annoys him. Walter always wins.
Scully has stopped by every day since my weeklong slumber party at Walter's
started. Her pretext is to discuss cases with me and examine the patient. Her
real reason is to make sure Alex hasn't killed me in my sleep. Silly girl. Alex
wouldn't kill me in my sleep. He'd wait until I was awake.
I'm surrounded by people who believe that the workings of their brain are subtle
and unreadable, but are actually transparent as glass.
Take Scully, for instance.
On second thought, don't. The last time someone took her, they returned her
minus a few important pieces. Leave her right where she is, if you would be so
kind.
This whole situation is driving Scully crazy. She doesn't understand why he's
here, and not in a prison infirmary or a hospital. She can't figure out why
Walter and I are using our vacation time and rearranging our lives to take care
of him.
Somewhere, deep down, in the bottom of that lovely little brain of hers, she can
sense that something else is going on here. The idea that this is
somehow...untoward scares the crap out of her. She doesn't want to see it. She
has never wanted to see it, even when it's close enough to bite her on her
shapely ass.
That will always be the difference between us. I look at people and try to
really see them. She looks away. If that isn't enough, she covers her ears with
her hands, closes her eyes, and chants her mantra. "There is a scientific
explanation for this. There is a scientific explanation for this..."
The explanation you seek, Dr. Scully, isn't scientific. It's vascular.
It's a blood pressure thing. You wouldn't understand.
On the other hand, take Walter.
Please.
Once upon a time, I would have danced if the aliens abducted my boss.
Lambada'ed, even. He was the bane of my Hoover Building existence, a
stiff-necked pencil pusher who got immense joy out of reaming me a new asshole
every chance he got. No KY and a kiss, either. The fact that I had a raging
crush on him didn't help the situation.
Now, I know better.
I know him a lot better than he thinks I do.
Whenever he walks into the room, I start watching Alex, because Alex starts
watching him.
Eyes glued to the man, unreadable expression in his eyes. Somewhere between
evaluating the threat and...longing. Even when Alex is lounging on the couch,
eyes closed, some part of him is focused on Walter.
When Walter and Alex are in the same room, Alex gets very still, and very wired.
Wound so tight he vibrates. Walter notices it, too. It's pretty hard to ignore,
but I swear Skinner gets his jollies off of torquing Alex up even higher.
Meeting Alex's intense gaze, forcing Alex to drop his eyes, break the stare-down
first. Sitting a little too close, moving in his personal space with impunity.
Alpha, meet Beta.
Beta, here's your Alpha.
It took me better than a week to figure out what was really going on.
Walter "I-Eat-Sleep-and-Shit-Regulations" Skinner has been leaving his marks on
Alex in the most interesting places.
Hickeys on his neck.
Bite marks on the inside of his thighs, neck and shoulders.
Rug burns on his knees.
It looks like I don't need to worry that Alex is spending his nights cuffed out
on the balcony.
He's spending them in Walter's bed.
Chapter Three
Another morning, another shower.
Walter is up and out of the house before most civilized people have hit the
snooze button. 6 AM sees him in his Eagle Vision on the way to the office. 6 AM
sees me still snoring on his couch.
So, I have a religious aversion to sleeping on beds. So sue me. Anyways, this
particular couch is Alex's usual perch during the day. It smells like him, which
leads to some interesting dreams.
Alex usually drifts downstairs by 7:30, 8 AM at the outside. From his demeanor,
he's been awake for several hours already. Makes me wonder if Walter sends him
back to the guest bedroom before departing for work. Very discrete, sir.
Excellent subterfuge.
A cup of coffee or two, a few obscene gestures, more criticism about my coffee,
and off we go for our pre-shower ritual. Plastic bag over the casted arm, taped
closed around his biceps. Waterproof bandages over the incision on his throat,
the stitches, and the strapping tape holding his broken ribs in place.
The first day, I tried doing the whole shower scene a la Skinner—standing
outside the shower, bathing him. No dice. I got more water on the floor and me
than on Alex. Took six towels to dry me off and restore the bathroom to some
semblance of anal-retentive-ex-marine-standard-of-brain-surgery-on-
the-floor-cleanliness. Then I had to wash and dry all the towels before Walter
got home. Alex found the entire situation a source of endless mirth, pointing
and laughing for hours. It's a good thing he can't talk. One rude comment, and I
would have thrown him off the balcony.
If the consequences for failure include being forced to do laundry, I succeed on
the first try. The next day, I stripped down to my skivvies and jumped in the
shower with Alex.
Note to self—when showering with ex-Consortium assassins, do NOT wear boxers
with little alien head smiley faces on them. I think Alex nearly busted a stitch
or two laughing at me.
We got into a routine pretty quick. Hair rinse, hair wash, bad joke, careful not
to get any of the suds in his eyes when I ran my shampoo-laden fingers through
his hair, washcloth soapy, obscene gesture on his part, back wash, legs wash,
chest wash, hand him washcloth for the... ahem... other parts. Quick rinse, and
we're out.
Works like a well-oiled machine.
OK, maybe a slightly greasy machine. I'm a big believer in the old rule : If
it's stupid but it works, it ain't stupid.
This works.
That's how this whole trouble started, Your Honor.
We were in the shower, his back to me, head arched, enjoying the sensation of me
massaging the shampoo into his hair. I had found the spot he likes, scratching
slightly above those pointy little ears of his, and he was doing his best
imitation of a dog getting his chest rubbed, complete with involuntary leg
kicking. I was making bad jokes about taking home strays and getting him fixed,
and he was completely ignoring me. When I stopped to stretch my fingers, he
kicked me in the shin. That's Alex's subtle way of saying, "Please continue." I
got the hint.
He tilted his head to the right, eyes closed, as I massaged and ran my fingers
through the hair above his temples. His pointy ear was exposed, and relatively
un-soapy.
Lord, lead me not into temptation, for I can find it without any divine
intervention.
I couldn't resist. I just couldn't. If you could have seen him, Your Honor,
you'd understand. I had been so good up to this point, honest. Nothing even
slightly inappropriate, no matter what Scully's cold glares were telling me she
was thinking.
So, without further ado, I leaned over and nibbled on the top of his exposed
ear.
He tasted... good. Salty/spicy/clean. He smelled like shampoo and let out a tiny
little gasp when I worked my way down to his earlobe. Suddenly, I wanted more. I
wanted to get more than a strangled whimper out of him. I wanted to make his
knees buckle. I wanted to feel his whole body tremble under my touch. I
wanted...
Fingers still tangled in his hair, I gently tugged his head further to one side,
exposing a lovely column of neck and throat. He didn't fight, didn't protest,
just made another of those little gasps that was doing such a good job of
raising my blood pressure.
My teeth followed the line of his jaw down. By the time I nipped at the curve of
his chin, his eyes were closed, breath coming in pants through barely parted
lips, and leaning heavily on me like he would fall without the support. His ass
was pressed against my thighs, and I know he could feel the effect he was having
on me.
Then I realized that my hands and his hair were still saturated with shampoo. As
much as I wanted to pound him into the fiberglass wall, first things first.
I removed my hands from his hair and reached up to the showerhead, adjusting the
flow. He blinked, blinked again, not firing on all thrusters.
Alex, Alex, Alex, sex-stupid is such a good look on you.
Then the light went on behind his eyes, and he threw a look at me that I can
only describe as homicidal. The intent was way beyond clear. Stop now, and he'd
kill me with a bottle of conditioner. I didn't have the heart to tell him that
even he couldn't be properly intimidating with a head covered in white foam.
Quick rinse, and we were out of the shower.
Drying yourself off can be an experience all its own, when you've just spent the
last several minutes rubbing up against a naked, wet, aroused assassin in the
shower. Drying said assassin off is an exercise in self-control. The temptation
to find out exactly what kinds of noises he would make if I used my tongue on
him... well, let's say I managed to impress myself with my restraint.
There will be plenty of time for that particular experiment in a few minutes.
First things first.
First, get rid of all the bandages and plastic.
It's a very good thing that Alex doesn't have much body hair. If he did,
removing the medical tape that held the waterproof bandages in place would be a
daily agony of pulling hair out by the roots. I'd worn enough hidden microphones
and spent enough time in hospitals to want to avoid that little pain trip. I may
be a bottom, but that type of pain ranks right up there with slamming your hand
in the car door.
I was trying to be good, your honor. Honest I was. Dropping little kisses along
the line where I just yanked the tape off, tasting adhesive and Alex. I did the
tracheotomy incision in his neck last. Routine.
Alex was leaning up against the wall, arm loose at his side, neck arched, giving
me better access to the bandages at the hollow of his throat. He had slipped
into one of Walter's old bathrobes, a dark green terry one that lives on the
hook on the back of the bathroom door. The taste of Alex's skin in my mouth,
permeated by Walter's smell—I was doomed. Wearing nothing but a pair of soggy
gray boxer shorts and a towel wrapped around my waist, my cock threatening to
tear holes in the fabric. And Alex, standing just a few inches away, bathrobe
barely closed around his waist, beautiful body exposed to my gaze, my touch.
Wanting me.
I wanted him. I wanted him dizzy and squirming under me, surrounding me. I
wanted to make him clench, hear him cry out, feel him lose that steely Krycek
control, just for a minute. I wanted him to watch me as I fuck him. I wanted him
to know every second that it's my hand, my mouth, my cock that's doing
this to him. Not Walter's. Mine.
For a few moments, I wanted the illusion that Alex was mine.
Oh, fuck it. I bypassed his throat and went straight for his mouth.
Gently, gently kissing, mindful of the broken jaw and the wires holding his
bones in place. He tasted sweet, like coffee and Alex and need. I ran my tongue
over his still-stitched lower lip, barely brushing my mouth over the bruises on
his cheeks, his jaw, his chin. He hadn't moved, still leaning up against the
wall, but his fingers were digging into the wallpaper, and his breathing was
coming in little gasps.
I slid down, nibbling at the vampire spot right below his earlobe, bracing my
arms against the wall around him, surrounding him. Little lower, little lower,
letting my tongue caress the notch of his throat, I could feel him trembling
under me.
Alex, by the time I'm done with you, you'll be doing a lot more than trembling.
You won't be able to remember your own name. If Alex Krycek is your real
name...
So pretty. Sweat and clean skin and need. Would the rest of him taste this
intoxicating? Only one way to find out.
Kissing down across his chest, gentle, so gentle across the vivid hued bruises,
stark against the pale skin. Targeting a nipple, first teasing it with my
tongue, then a gentle brush of teeth. Quick gasp, head thrashing back and forth,
back arched, trying to rub up against me.Cat in heat...oh, definitely. A
dangerous jungle cat, squirming and writhing. So the cat likes being petted,
does he? How about if I pet him here?
Christ. How long has it been since I've had my hand on another man's cock? Hard
as teak, skin like velvet, hand slippery from shower water and pre-come, and
those little keening cries he makes keep pooling at the base of my spine, headed
directly for my cock. He's making my crazy, and I'm still wearing boxers and a
towel.
All his muscles that weren't tight to the point of shaking were limp instead. He
was melting into the wall, only being supported by my arm around his neck and my
hand between his legs.
Bed. Now. Or I was going to spin him around and take him against the bathroom
wall. Nice as that would be, it would be a little too athletic for someone in
Alex's condition.
I half-walked, half-dragged Alex out of the bathroom and down the short hallway
to the first available bedroom. Skinner's bedroom. Fucking Daddy's boyfriend in
Daddy's bed. So many dimensions of wrong here, I didn't know where to start the
list. Somehow, knowing we were about to get body fluids all over Skinner's bed
just made me hotter.
Alex didn't seem to care, or maybe he was too far gone to notice. I'll go with
option #2, Monty. Lying on his back, bathrobe barely on, legs spread, squirming
and thrusting up into the air, cock purple and sticky with pre-come.
Did I say pretty? Try gorgeous. Sex-god-gorgeous. Damaged and broken and
dangerous and nobody as deadly as Alex Krycek should be allowed to make those
sweet, helpless little noises when I touch him. Eyes open, glazed, staring off
into nothing, as my mouth followed the treasure trail downward, nipping and
sucking at his almost hairless stomach, the flat of his hips, carding through
his pubic hair with my fingers, coming so close to touching his cock, but
holding back.
I was so damn close, and I was still wearing my boxers. If I licked that little
jewel of pre-come off the tip of his cock, it would lead to other things, and
this would be finished in a couple of seconds. I knew neither of us were going
to last, but I also knew exactly where I wanted to be when the fireworks went
off—buried deep inside him, with only a thin layer of latex separating us.
Leaning over him, my chest hair tickling his nipples, cocks brushing into one
another, setting off an avalanche of sparks. "Alex, I want to be inside you so
bad it hurts. Let me."
It took a second, then he was back 100% behind those cat-green eyes. Confused,
uncertain. Like he was trying to translate the words from English into whatever
language he spoke when his brain shut down. Either that or...or this was the
first time anyone had ever asked beforehand.
Did Skinner ask, Alex? Or did he just take?
Would you even know how to say "no" if you wanted to? Was it ever an option,
deciding you just plain weren't in the mood? Or was fucking just another
survival skill you'd learned during your short and dirty life?
I realized that I knew absolutely nothing about Alex's life before his orbit
intersected mine. I had rumors, educated guesses, and a long shot or two, but no
hard facts. Would he even tell me if I asked?
I was distracted from my reverie when Alex nudged me over on my back. Apparently
I had been off in ponder-land too long, and he got tired of waiting. Even
injured, he still moved with cat-like grace, so much controlled power in every
motion, grinning the most mischievous grin I had seen since Dennis the Menace.
Careful of his broken wrist, he started to peel off my towel and boxers, before
I took over the job and quickly tossed the soggy clothing on the floor.
Catching his glitter-bright green eyes. "I'll take that as a yes."
Another evil grin, then I had an armful of squirmy, aroused assassin, rubbing
his cock up against mine, fingernails across my side, making me hiss and arch,
making him squirm even harder. Snarling. One of us was snarling, and I wasn't
even sure who. The air in the room was getting much too thin—either that or
his weight on top of me was interfering with my ability to breathe.
It just wouldn't do good things for my reputation if I passed out before I
fucked him. Gently, carefully, I rolled him over onto his side, lying on his
truncated arm. He responded by throwing his casted arm around my waist and
pulling me even closer, one leg draped over mine. Maximum skin contact.
More snarling. Or maybe it was purring.
Sweat and pre-come made our skin a smooth, frictionless slide—up and down and
rubbing against every inch of exposed skin. One hand buried in his thick, silky
hair, the other grabbing onto the headboard for dear life. No way in hell I'm
going to last like this. From the way his thighs are trembling, neither will he.
Long, slow arch, eyes clenched shut, every muscle in his body tensed and an
explosion of sparks between us. Scalding heat burning my thighs, my stomach.
Then the top of my head exploded.
I think I screamed. I'm not sure. When I finally opened my eyes, he was leaning
over me, watching me, unexpected expression on his face. It was somewhere
between self-satisfied smirk and stunned disbelief. His eyes wandered downward,
over my sweat-and-come-sticky body, to the sheets and blankets stained with
bodily fluids and wet from shower water, air thick with musk and sex-smell.
And I suppose you think I'm going to clean up this mess by myself? Try again,
Alex. You are going to help me clean this mess up, or it will be both our asses
on the line when His Royal Marine-ness gets home.
Chapter Four
Wright Patterson Air Force Base
Anytime I'm in the Midwest, I make a detour to come here. I don't know why.
Mulder would call it a sentimental attachment to an idea of childhood.
Walter... Walter would say it felt like home.
It was home. My family was here from the time I was nine until I was twelve.
Longest time we spent anywhere. When you're in a military family, moves every
year are in the job description. Where my father's job took us, wewent.
But this place...this is where I learned to ride a bicycle. This is where I had
my first date, my first kiss. I was happy here. Life was good.
I come back when I can, to try to get a taste of that happiness again.
I walked into the bar. I hadn't been back in three years. It hadn't changed. I
had. Last time I was here, I had both arms. One of the nice things about hanging
around military bases is that no one looks twice at an amputee. It is assumed
that you got your X chopped off in service to your country. Almost a badge of
honor. When people ask, I tell them I was on a peacekeeping mission. It was, if
you look at it in the right light. I was trying to keep the planet out of a war
we couldn't win.
He had already arrived when I got there. Gotta give the man extra points for
promptness. I was fifteen minutes early, casing the place out. Old habits die
hard, but at least I don't. He hadn't noticed me yet, s=
o I indulged in a moment or two of just watching the one person on the planet I
could call my friend.
Jarod. No last name. No family. A past that rivals mine. A future he was carving
out of limestone and bedrock with his bare hands.
We didn't talk about the past much. We both knew enough to understand that we
came from a similar place. Survivors. Been to hell and back, and still trying to
re-glue the broken pieces.
I met Jarod shortly after my arm got hacked off. When I got back to the states,
I went off the rails. Badly. I was living outside Las Vegas at the time. For a
couple of weeks, I did a pretty passable imitation of a paranoid schizophrenic.
Being alone, in constant pain, crippled, and on the run from an enormous
organization that wants you dead would make most people a little wacky.
Well, I finally did something stupid enough to attract the attention of the
local constabulary. They took one look at me and threw me in the loony bin.
Diagnosed as a danger to self and others, I was sentenced to a one month stay at
a very nice hotel with padded wallpaper and jackets that let you hug yourself
all day long.
Jarod was the psychiatrist assigned to my case.
The man is no more a psychiatrist than I am a ballerina. I took one look at him
and I could tell that. Wrong vibe. Wrong aura. He had the aura of someone who
was running for his life. Like me.
Note to Mulder—ya want a place where you can espouse your alien invasion
theories all you want and no one will look at you cross-eyed? Try the funny
farm. I lied to Jarod the same way I lied to everyone else I came in contact
with in that place—I told the g_d's honest truth. I told them about the
Oiliens. I told them about the bees. I told them about the shapeshifters. They
nodded, smiled, and wrote copious notes in my file.
Jarod listened to me.
Jarod actually picked up on the scraps of truth I was throwing out and ran with
them.
A couple of nights a week, he would come back to the hospital after lights-out,
and take me out into the garden. We would sit and talk until the sun came up.
The man had insomnia worse than Mulder. I told him about my life, about my
sister, about Mulder, about losing my arm... about everything.
He told me about being stolen from his family, about being used as a walking
computer simulation by an organization that makes the Consortium look like a
Quaker Meeting, about spending his life trying to undo the wrongs he had done,
about the quest to find his family.
We talked a lot about redemption.
We talked a lot about everything.
I needed him—to hear me, to believe me, to help me grieve for my loss. He
needed me to listen to his story, to accept him as a fellow traveler, a fellow
survivor.
When I left the hospital, he gave me his cell phone number. I gave him my
sister's number. He's the only person in the world who knew how to contact me,
aside from blood. I was the only living soul who kn=
ew how to get a hold of him. I was pretty fucking honored.
Jarod is my friend. He is the only friend I will ever have.
I spent a minute or two just looking at him. He's very good looking—tall,
dark, dangerous looking. In reality, he's about as dangerous as a flyswatter.
Should be a Buddhist, that man. Straight as the day is long. Not even a twinge.
Damn shame. Maybe it's not. This is one of the only good things in my life
right now. I'm not sure I want to screw it up by screwing.
He noticed my gaze, and looked up at me. Smiling.
Did I say good looking? I lied. He's effing gorgeous. And completely and utterly
uninterested in yours truly.
Sigh.
Nothing can ever be easy in my life. I walked over to the table he was sitting
at, carrying my beer with me. Plopped myself down in the chair next to him.
Leaning over conspiratorially. "So, who's the mark, Mark? What's the scam, Sam?"
He laughed, shook his head. "No scams, no marks. Just visiting with a friend.
The last time I spoke to him, he sounded like he needed someone to talk to. So,
here I am."
Do I need someone to talk to?
Probably. That or a crossbow through the skull.
I sighed. "My life is way too complicated."
"Always has been, Alex. That's part of your charm. Which part of your
complicated life has you in a tizzy?"
Another sigh. Oh, hell. Just tell him.
"I met someone."
Big grin. Surprised grin. With an eyebrow waggle for effect. "You met someone?"
"What—is there an echo in here? Isn't that what I just said? Yes. I. Met.
Someone."
He ignored me. "What's her name?"
"His name is Walt."
That little bombshell phased him for about a second and a half. Then he charged
right along. Jarod the Bulldozer. Wasn't he a character in a children's TV
show? "How long have you two been together?"
I shrugged. "I don't know if we're together or not. I see him sometimes when I'm
in D.C., we fuck, I can't get him out of my head. Togetherness that does not
make."
He was still grinning like a banshee. "How did you two get together?"
I looked away, anywhere but at his ridiculously happy face. "It's a long and
convoluted story."
Jarod leaned over, put both elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands.
"So? Un-convolute it for me, Alex."
Blowing my bangs off my forehead. "We were on the opposite ends of a war. He did
some nasty things to me, I did some nasty things to him. I always knew he was
closer to the side of the angels than I was. When things went to hell with the
Consortium, I grabbed my information stash and ran, planning to pass it to him.
Well, on my way to performing this good deed, I stopped to French-kiss an Olds
Delta 88 going 60+ miles per hour."
Jarod winced. "Ouch. How many teeth did you lose?"
"No teeth, but managed to break my one remaining wrist, my skull, six ribs and
my jaw. Oh, I also got a free tracheotomy for participating in the studio
audience."
"And this is how you met the man of your dreams?"
"In a roundabout, convoluted way, yes."
"I can see that I'm going to need a program to tell the players apart here.
Start from the beginning. I'll tell you when to stop."
So, I did.
"Hold on a minute, Alex." Traffic-Stop sign with his hand. "You were an invalid,
under Walter and Fox's care, and you were having sex with both of them? Starting
four days after you got out of the hospital?"
I mentally ran some more figures, tried to remember the number of sunrises. "Ya,
I think so. Four, maybe five. I was doped to the gills that first week."
Jarod looked at me. Hard. His words were low and quiet, and shot through with
steel. "Alex, one of these days, we need to talk about consentuality and
appropriate sexual behavior. Not tonight. But we will have this talk."
Disbelief and disappointment in his tone. Jarod, you need to have kids, bad. You
have the disapproving paternal tone down to a science.
What the fuck? "It was consentual! Neither of them forced me to do anything!"
Jarod's tone got even colder. "Fox is a psychologist. Walter has his law degree.
In both of these professions, there are very strict rules against having sex
with clients or patients. There is a reason for that. We are not going to have
this conversation tonight. Later. We. Will. Talk. About. This."
I raised my hand, mock-surrender. There was no point in saying anything when he
got like this. Jarod, the Protector of Innocence, Defender of the Weak and
Abused. One of these days, I would have to convince him that I was neither weak
nor abused. Innocent? Don't make me laugh.
He cocked his head at me. "Don't look at me like that. Just keep going with your
story."
"Let me see if I got this right. Whenever you're within a hundred miles or so of
D.C, you swing by and break into his apartment. He catches you and tries to beat
the crap out of you. You two fuck, then you sneak out and disappear the first
time he turns his back or falls asleep. Do I have the general gist of it?"
Jarod didn't like what I was doing. Not one bit. And he was making it abundantly
clear, not just to me, but to everyone else in the room.
I nodded, gave him my best sincere smile. Sincerity is so important in
interpersonal relations. Fake that, and you got it made.
"So, tell me, Alex—is it the sex that draws you back over and over again? Or
is it the beatings he administers every time you show up? Did you suddenly
decide you got off on pain?"
For just a second, I considered grabbing his tie and bouncing his head off the
scarred wooden table. I let that thought flash in my eyes when I looked up from
my beer mug at him. He saw it. I could tell by the way he broke my gaze and
glanced around the room.
"No." Voice barely a growl. "I am not into that shit. Let me introduce you to
a reality that differs from those magazines you keep under your bed—pain is
not erotic. Pain just hurts." I waved my mangled left arm around for emphasis.
"Then why? Why do you keep coming back to a man who, by your own admission,
tries to hurt you and acts like he doesn't even want you around? Why do that to
yourself?" Worry written all over his handsome face. The man was honest-to-G_d
concerned about my emotional well-being. When was the last time that someone,
besides my sister and my parents, actually gave a damn if I were dead or alive,
much less happy?
I looked up at the ceiling, maybe for divine guidance, I'm not sure.
"Jarod, I'm not sure if I understand it myself, much less can explain it to
you."
"Try." Pleading. "I'm an awfully intuitive guy. Maybe I can help you understand
it."
Deep sigh. Jarod, the things I do for you.
"He's..." This is pathetic. I've done nothing the past year but think about this
man, and I still can't put my finger on why he has this effect on me.
Another deep breath. Another try.
"He's not afraid of me. I can't run any of my usual numbers on him. He's this
huge mountain range of a man, so physical intimidation doesn't work. When I try
to bullshit my way through, he looks at me like he can see right through me.
Like he knows exactly what I'm doing, and he's not fooled by it for an instant.
And he calls me on it. Every single time. Do you have any idea how infuriating
that is?
He's bigger than I am. He's stronger than I am—and I've tested this fact many
times. Got the bruises to prove it, too. He's one of the smartest men I've ever
met. He's not one of those book geniuses, like Mulder, all brains and no smarts.
He puts two and two together fast. Scary fast. And once he has four, he knows
what to do about it.
I don't know what I feel for him. Obsession, maybe. When he's around, I can't
stop watching him. Even if I'm not trying to, some part of my brain is tracking
every move he makes. When he's not around, I'm looking for him. Seeing him in
strangers.
Whatever it might be that I feel for him, I know for a fact he doesn't feel the
same way about me. Oh, he feels something. He gets a hard-on every time he
realizes I'm in the room. But he doesn't like me. He probably thinks I'm a
sociopath with the ethics of a rat and the survival instinct of a cockroach. And
I'm sure as hell he doesn't like the fact that he's as obsessed about me as I am
about him."
Jarod's concerned expression, the one I thought was a permanent fixture on his
face when I was around, melted into a grin. A happy grin. I was scared.
"Are you sure about that?"
"Sure that he isn't secretly in love with yours truly? I consulted my magic
eight ball. It said don't count on it. You've got to understand, Jarod—this
guy is as clean as the driven snow. He's a fucking Eagle Scout. He's the
epitome of all that good shit the Boy Scouts have been peddling for years:
honest, clean, reverent, yadda yadda yadda. I've been dirty since I was
seventeen years old. People like me don't end up behind a white picket fence
with people like him."
"Why is it so hard for you to believe that a good guy could be in love with a
bad boy? Or is it impossible for you to believe that there is anything left
that's redeemable?"
"I – Don't – Know, all right?!" Slamming my fist into the table for emphasis,
making the beer mugs jump and spill. Quieter, trying not to attract the
attention of the barkeep and the scattering of men in fatigues. "I don't know
how I feel about him, but whatever it is, it's got me by the throat and it isn't
letting go. If this keeps up much longer, I might need your professional services."
Big, shit eating grin plastered across his handsome face.
Don't give me that look, Jarod. It makes the bottom of my feet melt. How dare
you be that fucking handsome, and straight, too?
"You want my expert opinion, Alex? You're a goner. He's the first guy you
couldn't lie to, bamboozle, or run circles around. He's strong enough to put up
with your baggage, and tough enough to make you deal with it too. Oh, he has feelings for you. You can bet the farm on that. That's why he keeps taking you back every time you disappear in the middle of the night. And that scares the crap out of you, doesn't it?" Looking up at me, still grinning. "Don't bother denying it. I know you better than
that. He wants you, and you want him. So, what's stopping you?"
I tried for my best innocent look, and failed miserably. "Oh, I don't know.
Could be that he's FBI and I'm a double-crossing murdering traitor."
Could be that Jarod has finally gone off the deep end and is channeling Cupid.
If he shoots an arrow into my ass, I'll break all his fingers.
"He doesn't believe that. If he did, you never would have made it in his front
door." He stood up and gestured towards the Exit sign. "Go. Go be with him. It's
what you want. It's what he wants. Do it." He looked positively wistful. "Go be
with the man you love, OK? And tell him that if he hurts you, I'll kick his
ass."
The image of Jarod, the most gentle human being I had ever met, pulling a Jackie
Chan made me laugh. I was still laughing as I stood up and pulled Jarod into an
uneven one-armed hug. "I will do that. Take care of yourself, OK? If you need
me, you know my number."
Life was OK. I had Walter. I had Jarod. What else does a guy need?
Chapter Five
It's been a long time
Nine weeks, two days, fourteen hours, and a few odd minutes.
Three blocks away.
Two blocks away.
One block away.
There it is.
Walking silently, drifting in and out of the shadows—my trainers would be so
proud of me. That is, if I hadn't killed them all. I hate it when that happens.
It makes it all but impossible to get a good employment reference that way. My
resume sucks.
It looks exactly the same. Big brick and wood box with windows. A very expensive
brick and wood box with windows.
Let's see what else is the same. Pattern recognition is a very valuable skill in
my profession. Hmm..yup. Just as I thought. Downstairs neighbors still forget to
lock their windows at night. Might as well send out a fucking engraved
invitation. And in I go, into the kitchen, through the living room, into the
foyer, unlock the deadbolt, and out the front door before anyone wakes up.
In the hallway, past the doorman, past security. Now I just have to look like I
blend in. Hard to do—the last place I blended in was a Tunisian prison. That
or a circus sideshow.
No elevator. Stairs. In the elevator, people feel compelled to talk to you.
Can't have that. Garroting them would just draw attention to myself, and make a
squishy mess on the carpet. That and the city has recently increased its garbage
disposal fee. It's hard for an honest independent contractor like myself to make
ends meet.
Up one flight. Take a left. Down two doors. Keep walking past the front door,
around the corner.
Voila. Kitchen door. Opens to the common trash room. Locked. Cheap-ass lock. He
really should know better. Not worth the trouble of pulling out the kit—where'd I put that credit card? Pop, slide, shimmy.and there it is. Open. I have
no idea how that happened, officer. I was just walking by, and the door just
popped open on its own.
Deep breath. Senses peeled. Dick hard.
Smells like him.
Smells like Thai food, freshly washed floors, his cologne. My gut is winding
tighter and tighter. The air is too thin here.
Get inside, you fucking moron, before some middle-aged hausfrau notices you
loitering in the hallway
Inside.
Heartbeat staccato in my ears. Sig in my hand. Feet silently navigating the soft
carpeting. Eyes catching on every unidentified shadow, every mysterious shape in
the dark.
Freeze.
Listen.
What the fuck is that?
Snoring?
Unidentified lump on top of another oblong lump in the middle of the room. The
oblong lump bears a striking similarity to a couch. The brunette lump on top
bears a striking similarity to.
Mulder.
My exasperated exhale sounds loud in the blanketing silence. What the hell are
you doing here, Fox? Don't you have an apartment? A child? Scully? Go home. I
don't want to deal with you tonight. I have things to do, people to terrorize,
bigger fish to fry. You'll just be in my way. Not like you haven't turned that
into a valuable career skill—being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your
insurance company is at the point of putting a contract out on you.
I stand for a long time in the silvery darkness, glaring at him.
Once upon a time, as all good stories start.
Once, it would have made a difference.
Once.
By the time you finally said the words, it was too late.
I didn't want to hear them from you.
I wanted to hear them from him.
And that, as they say, is how the story goes.
Or went.
Instead, I went.
And came back.
And left again.
Maybe tonight I'll only stay long enough to bury a couple of bullets in the back
of someone's head. Maybe I'll stay for the weekend.
The longest time was six weeks. Not my fault. Fractured skull, jaw wired shut,
shattered forearm, damaged larynx, five broken ribs. So many stitches in my
abdomen and legs I looked like a patchwork quilt. Double vision. Couldn't talk.
Couldn't feed myself. Couldn't go to the bathroom without help.
Help.
They did.
He did.
I've given up trying to understand. All it gets me is a headache this big, and
it's got Excedrin written all over it.
Skinner and Mulder. Don't ask, don't tell, doesn't make any sense.
And then there's me, on a crazy comet elliptical orbit through their lives. Oh,
and you can't forget about Scully. And the baby. Last time I saw William, I told
her he was obviously the latest reincarnation of the Dalai Lama.She didn't see
the humor in it.
Skinner's not here. I'd know if he was.
I'd be able to feel it.
Time to go.
I turn to sneak out the same way I entered. Disappear back into the sewer, where
I came from. Moonlight and darkness start coalescing in the space between the
couch and the entertainment center, taking form, creating mass. Moving.
It's alive.
It's Skinner.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Huge. Broad shoulders, big arms, muscular legs, tall. Strong. Found that out the
hard way. Several times. Fights dirty, too. Somehow, I always end up with my
face buried in the carpet, wrist twisted behind my back until it screams for
Amnesty International.
Just standing there, watching me, tiny amount of ambient light glinting off his
glasses, rendering his eyes white disks. Unreadable. Service revolver in one
hand, pointed at me. Pilsner bottle in the other.
Fuck.
I'm dead.
"Put your gun down, Krycek."
He always starts out with Krycek. Takes him a couple of hours to get to Alex.
Sometimes days. When I stay that long.
Only once did I stick around long enough to get to Cat.
I could try to shoot him, but by the time I got my gun into firing position,
he'd have already squeezed off a wounding shot. Then Mulder, the Boy Wonder,
would wake up, and we'd have a full-blown melee on our hands. Not that those
can't be enjoyable, when I'm in the right mood. It's just not often that I'm in
the mood for lacerations and blood loss.
It's not fucking fair!
Head shaking, disgusted with myself. I'm a professional, for christ's sake. I do
this for a living. I shoot more people before 9 am than most people do all day.
And I always, inevitably lose my gun to this man, this rank amateur. Why do I
always lose?
I think about it for a minute. Another minute. Then, slowly, I bend over and put
the gun down on the coffee table. Metal on glass makes more noise than I
thought, and two sets of eyes immediately glue to the sleeping form on the
couch. Nope. Still snoring. Boy Wonder could sleep through an alien invasion. I
think he did back in 1998.
"Now the other one." Low voice sizzling up my spine.
"I don't have another one." Trying for innocent and missing by at least a light
year.
"Bullshit, Krycek. Put the other gun down on the table."
One of these days, my smart mouth is going to get me killed. Big smile, wide
enough for him to see in the gloom. "And what if I refuse?"
A shrug, barely perceptible movement of the mountain ranges. "Then I make you
bleed. Your choice. Either way, you lose the gun."
That voice always goes straight for my gut, except when it goes lower. When I
was injured, he would spend hours sitting by my bed and talking to me. I
couldn't talk back—my throat was seriously screwed up and my jaw wired shut—and I think it was the first time he had had a silent captive audience in years.
He talked about his family, his life before the FBI, what he did in the war, his
opinion of the baseball strike. He would also read to me. Sometimes it was the
Post, sometimes a biography of a famous Civil War general, sometimes the latest
Spenser novel. His voice was my lifeline, as I was breaking apart inside and
gluing myself back together in the silence and the pain.
Mulder was...different. When it was Mulder's turn to do convalescent care, he
didn't talk to me much. I think my lack of conversational ability bugged him. He
preferred partners who were a bit, shall we say, mouthier. Like Scully. We would
spend most of our time in front of the TV, usually with my head resting in his
lap, him petting me like a kitten. Panther, actually. Boy Wonder had this
insatiable appetite for human contact. Always touching, always stroking,
cuddling, you name it. Made me wonder when was the last time someone touched him
when they weren't in the sack. Somehow, when Skinner would give me a shower, he
would end up reasonably dry after the entire affair, in spite of my cast. Not
Mulder. After the first time, he just took his clothes off and hopped under the
spray with me.
I'm a guy. I'm not a natural cuddler. Ain't in my nature to be. What I am is a
quick study. Give the Boy Wonder what he wants, and he's amazingly easy to live
with. If all he wants is some physical affection, I'm sure as shit not going to
say no.
Did I fuck them? Hell, yes. Sometimes one or the other, sometimes both. Skinner,
for all his words, never talked about it, never mentioned it in daylight. Just
big hands in the dark, surprisingly gentle, playing with me like the bandaged
rag doll I was, carefully manhandling me without doing more damage, giving me
what he wanted to give, taking what he wanted to take. Never harsh, never
cruel, just...certain. Force of nature. Apparently, I was better for chasing
away his nightmares than two fingers of scotch. If I could patent my dick, I'd
make a fortune.
Not Mulder. With him, it just...slid. From stroking my back while he changed the
bandages, to showering, to having his cock up my ass while we spooned on the
couch, watching one of his porn videos. Then there were Saturday nights.
They were both there every single Saturday night.
No matter where they spent the week, they were in the condo for dinner.
After dinner, after shower, after bandaging, they'd put me in the middle of
Skinner's huge bed, and follow me under the covers. One on each side. They loved
ganging up on me, two FBI agents versus one barely ambulatory cripple who
couldn't talk above a whisper and could hardly move without pain. Egging each
other on, taunting, teasing, daring each other to go one step further, milk one
more reaction out of my battered body. After they were through wringing me out,
they would pour me back into my skin, recheck the bandages, and Skinner would
carry me out to the couch like a blushing maiden.
That couch.
The couch Boy Wonder was sleeping on right now.
Flashing Skinner my best $50 hooker leer. "Maybe I like it when you make me
bleed." M y dick hard as a metal bar. The smell of this place enough to do that
to me. All I have to do is breathe around him.
Shaking his head. "Not tonight. Not this week. I have other things in mind for
you."
Not this week? What's up with that? I thought beating the crap out of me then
fucking me into the carpet was his favorite recreational activity. I'm hurt.
Rejected. Devastated, even. The magic is gone, Walter.
My confused look must have traveled well through the dark. "Put your gun down.
Or don't. I don't care at this point."
Turning on his heel—turning his back on me while I'm still armed!—and
walking away.
My poor impulse control is gonna get me killed one of these days. I'm two steps
behind him, closing fast. Reaching out to touch him, grab his arm, slow him
down. "Skinner, what the fuck is your..."
Body-slammed up against the wall. 6.2 on the Richter scale. I wouldn't be
surprised if the idiots downstairs lost a few of their framed Ansel Adams
posters. Ears ringing, head spinning. My one good arm pinned high over my head
by steel gripping fingers on my wrist, other hand grabbing where my stump meets
the prosthetic, hip against pelvis holding me in place. I'm gonna have some
major bruises in the morning.
"Krycek, do you have any idea what this week is? Do you have any clue why Mulder
is sleeping on the couch?"
I shake my head. Bad idea. The room tilts at a 45 degree angle and refuses to
shift back to a proper alignment.
"Earlier this week, Alex, was exactly two years from the day you were dumped at
the clinic, broken, barely alive, carrying a CD-ROM with my name on it."
Shit. Has it been that long? Has it only been two years? He remembers the exact
date. They both do. Fuck.
"Since then, you've been disappearing and reappearing in my life at random
intervals. You break in, stay for an hour, an afternoon, a day, and then you
vanish again when my back is turned. The only way I can be sure you'll still be
here when I get out of the shower is to cuff you to the bed before I go."
Involuntary shit-eating grin. One time I wasn't quiet or quick enough sliding
out the door, and he caught me. I spent the rest of the weekend chained to the
headboard, or the shower stall, or the leg of the couch. Forty-eight hours of
sex, and talking, and take-out food. He didn't let me go until he left for work
Monday morning.
"I don't want to play that game any more, Alex. Neither does Mulder. I don't
want to spend my time between visits wondering if you're alive or dead. I don't
want to have to frisk you for weapons when you do show up. I don't want you
running away before the sheets are cold."
"Shit, Skinner. I'm not a boy scout. You know what I am, what I do for a living.
What do you want from me?"
"I want a phone number. I want you here more often than every two and a half
months. I want to hear from you occasionally when you aren't in town." Voice
little more than a whisper, forehead pressing against mine. "I want you in my
life, Alex. If that's not what you want, then leave now. And don't come back."
Eyes closed, pinned to the wall, feeling his breath tickling my chin, I do the
only thing a reasonable man can do when faced with temptation like this. I give
in. Just a little arch of the neck, and his lips are touching mine. My stump is
released from its shackles, and then the grip of steel is on the back of my
neck, holding me still while he slowly, thoroughly, kisses me. That man can kiss
like a demon. I pour every bit of emotion I have into that kiss, into that
heartbeat I can feel through his skin.
I don't know what I am anymore, but whatever it is, I am his.
Battered and Bruised
hen the cell phone rang, it startled me out of my half-asleep reverie with such
violence I nearly fell off the hard plastic waiting room chair. After the night
I'd had, becoming entirely too well acquainted with the dirty linoleum floor was
not an experience I needed.
Mulder's Tale Part I
Mulder's Tale II
Wright-Patterson Blues
Outside of Dayton, OH.
Breaking and Entering
since the rock-n-roll
since the last time I was on this street.
