by Garnet
Sure, he had been free for a little while Or as free as anyone could be who
was on the run, always looking over their shoulder, just trying to survive.
Knowing the whole time that there was nowhere really that he could hide for
long, nowhere that they wouldn't eventually find him. He couldn't remember the
last time he'd had a good night's sleep. The last time he'd enjoyed what he was
eating.
And then there was that time that he couldn't remember at all. A great
aching blankness in the middle of his memory. From getting beat up on at the
airport in Hong Kong until he found himself puking up his guts in some
godforsaken abandoned missile silo in the middle of North Dakota. Not that he
had known that at the time.
He had almost died there. Down in the dark and in the cold. Even now, he
tried not to remember it too clearly, tried not to remember how close he had
come to being broken by it. How fucking grateful he had been to the man who had
finally turned up and placed a deal in front of him—work for him and live,
refuse and be left there to die. It hadn't been a choice. By that time, he
would have damn well got down on his knees and kissed the other man's feet just
for one single sip of water.
Which had eventually lead him to the militia group and back to Mulder and to
this balcony in the middle of the night.
To being left handcuffed to this damn balcony in the middle of the night.
He didn't know all the details of the plan, but then he was used to that.
Used to being used. To being a pawn in some greater game. He rarely bothered
to fight it anymore. His one brief fling at freedom was over and what was left
of his life no longer belonged to him anymore. If it ever really had.
Mulder was a pawn, too. But he kept fighting it. Kept resenting it. Even
when there wasn't a point to it anymore. Even when it hurt him to keep on
fighting.
He wasn't sure if he should envy him that or scoff at the futility of it.
The stupidity.
Still, Mulder wasn't the one stuck out here in the cold. Mulder wasn't the
one who'd gotten slammed in the stomach not once but twice in the last few
hours. And, most important of all—despite all their efforts, in many ways, in
the ways that mattered the most—Mulder still belonged to himself. He could
still have a future if he wanted one. Could have a life.
Krycek huddled deeper into his jacket, but it didn't help. The wind was
cutting up this high and he couldn't hardly feel his right hand or wrist
anymore, couldn't even feel the weight of his body dragging on them. Which was
probably a godsend—the skin there had already been scraped raw before he'd even
been dragged out here to enjoy the weather. Mulder hadn't been exactly gentle
with him. No more so than Skinner. While, Scully...those brilliant blue eyes
of hers had just looked the other way while her partner had taken out his
resentment on him. As if she got a vicarious thrill of her own out of it. The
cool little bitch.
He wasn't sure who hated him more. Oddly though, despite what they all
likely thought of him, he didn't hate any of them. Well, except maybe Skinner a
little. And even he wasn't sure why exactly.
Maybe he just had it in for authority figures these days.
Or maybe it was simpler than that; out of all three of them, Assistant
Director Walter
Skinner seemed the most probable to have the balls to actually kill him. Which
made him the greatest threat.
He certainly knew how to hit. How to intimidate. And he had been hit and
intimidated by the very best.
Krycek tried to curl up even tighter, but the wind seemed to get in under his
jacket anyway, to find its way down his collar, and he realized that, at some
point, he had begun to shiver. The movement made his shoulder twinge in its
awkward angle, made his stomach ache even worse.
He pressed his forehead to his knees and closed his eyes as tight as they
could go, tried to tune it all out. Tried to remember better days, better
things, but it eluded him. In the end, the only thing that came to mind was
something small, something he'd thought to have forgotten—the take-out meal he
and Mulder had shared in their New York hotel room back on that first case.
Mulder finally breaking away from discussion of Augustus Cole to tell him some
story of his time in Violent Crimes. Something that turned out to be a bad joke
in the end. And he hadn't seen it coming and had been caught out and Mulder had
actually smiled at him, hazel eyes slyly amused at his own look of surprise. Of
chagrin.
The smile had taken ten years off Mulder. Made him see just who he might be
if he didn't spend all his time being fixated and paranoid. Made him actually
like the man, an emotional response he hadn't been able to afford. Not if he
was to do what he had to do. And in the end he had done what he had to do and
perhaps it had been Mulder's fault that some small part of him had resented it
and felt...well, not guilty, not exactly, but...bad about it. About hurting the
man who'd smiled like that at him. Who had actually begun to accept him and
trust him despite his better judgment.
Who now spat his name at him as if it were a curse and hit him with the butt
of an assault rifle after he'd already surrendered.
Not all of it had been a lie, though he doubted Mulder would believe anything
of what he'd ever said to him after what had happened between them. But he had
respected the man, respected his work. Even briefly wished that brilliant mind
could have chosen something else to focus on, rather than having it lead him
right up against secrets that his own government wanted to keep under wraps.
Secrets that could destroy the very fabric of society if they were ever to get
out and be believed.
Secrets like the one he was leading Mulder to right now. Under orders. Not
knowing what the outcome might be. His death. Mulder's. Or the death of more
of what drove Mulder to do what he did, despite what it cost him. Another piece
torn from his still-breathing body. Another brick yanked away from the wall
that protected his sometimes suspect grip on reality.
He didn't want to destroy the man any more than he wanted to kill him. But
what he wanted didn't matter. Hadn't mattered in years.
He shifted again, trying to get comfortable. But there was no comfort.
Still, after a time, he thought he'd slept a little, because the next thing
he knew he heard the sound of a door scraping open.
And found Skinner staring out at him, his face as closed-off as it ever was.
Those dark eyes completely unreadable. Cold as the wind whipping across his
balcony.
Krycek flinched back before he could catch himself and his wrist jerked in
the
handcuff, making the chain rattle against the railing. Then he reached for that
still place inside him—the place he lived in when he killed, when he was made
to do what he didn't want to do—and looked back at the man with an equally cool
look on his own face.
Denying the unwelcome trickle of fear that ran through him. Shit, how did
the man manage to look so menacing in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms?
Skinner just stared back at him a long moment, then was moving towards him.
Everything about him controlled, neat and precise of motion. One hand folding
into the collar of his jacket and using it to haul him upwards as if his weight
meant nothing. Turning him and slamming him into the edge of the balcony before
he could even think about fighting back. Keeping him there with the force of
his own body as he slipped the key into the handcuff and unlocked it from the
railing.
Krycek knew his chance when he saw it and he snapped his left elbow back into
the man behind him in that instant, tried to turn and twist himself free. But
Skinner just took the blow as if it were nothing and caught him and slammed him
back again. Harder this time. A strong grip closed on his left wrist and used
the hold to bend his arm up behind him. High enough to hurt. Then he was
pushing him forward until he was bent over the edge and endless space yawned
before him. He gasped and then the last of his air was abruptly crushed out of
him as Skinner shoved him forward once more, as if for good measure.
His ribs scraped across metal and he bit back another sound, not wanting to
give the man the satisfaction.
A little more desperately now, Krycek tried to bring his right hand back
around, aiming low, aiming dirty, but Skinner caught it as it skidded across his
thigh and bent it up behind him as well.
Then icy steel closed tightly around his left wrist as well, trapping his
arms behind his back.
A moment later, the other man was leaning into him, deliberately shoving him
a few more inches out into the empty air that lay before him. Twisting his
cuffed hands up even higher, until his shoulders screamed from the pressure.
And he could barely breathe at all anymore, let alone find the means to curse at
him.
He stared down at the drop, at the streets so far below. Briefly wondered
what it would feel like to fall, to hit that pavement, to have it break his
body. Would it be instantaneous or would he feel it all first, know himself to
be dying.
Then the man behind him moved again, leaning into him. And warm breath
abruptly brushed across the side of his face. Close, so close.
"Told you I wasn't done with you, boy," Skinner hissed. Once more, he made
the word an insult. A threat. And backed it up with a sudden twist to his
cuffed hands, sending white-hot pain lancing into his neck and shoulders.
Krycek steeled himself and tried to twist away from that grip, tried to kick
back at the man holding him. But Skinner was immovable; the other man didn't
wince, didn't fight back, just let him struggle against that impossible
strength, that ruthless grip, until the pain finally proved to be too much.
Until Krycek was finally forced to quit, panting hard, his eyes half-closed.
"Done?" the older man asked then, a hint of impatience making the word harsh.
Not waiting for an answer, he yanked back on Krycek and turned him, shoving
him ahead of him towards the open door. Force-marching him inside. Then giving
him one great shove forward into the room that immediately swept his balance
away.
Krycek fell, instinctively trying to bring his arms forward to catch himself,
but only succeeding in landing with bruising force on his right shoulder, his
right hip. The rug burned at his face.
"Shit," he hissed. He flipped himself over on his back, trying to get his
feet back under him. But he had only gotten to his knees, when Skinner was
turning back to face him, the balcony door now closed behind him. Locking out
the night. Locking him inside with him.
Krycek paused then, glancing upwards at him, as the other man took a step
towards him and stopped, the light from the distant stairwell just touching him,
revealing the impassive look on his face. Skinner paused then, too far away to
launch an attack, too close to attempt to make an escape, and folded his arms
over his bare chest.
Dark eyes moved to stare down at him, not even the masking lenses of the
glasses managing to make the man look mild. Civilized. Anything other than the
threat that he was—a man who felt he owed him something dear and was more than
willing to take it out on him in blood and pain and humiliation.
Then the corner of Skinner's mouth curved up, not enough to make it a smile,
but more than enough to make Krycek's blood turn cold. Make his stomach clench
around itself.
"Looks good on you," he said, that deep voice sounding almost amused.
Almost. "Not that prayer will do you any good."
"Fuck you," Krycek spat back. Then felt the coldness spread through him as
even that thin edge of a smile vanished. He realized that he was shivering
again, though the room was warm around him.
"A fine recommendation, agent," Skinner replied. "I'll be sure to take it
under advisement."
Krycek swallowed. Then he straightened and got himself back under control.
Let a slight smile of his own grace his lips. Kept his eyes fixed cleanly on
the other man. "Mulder needs me," he said evenly. "Needs what I know. You
can't kill me."
Those dark eyes didn't blink. "Agent Mulder is used to disappointment. A
state that you've helped to engrain in him, I might add. Besides...who says I
won't get the information he wants out of you first."
Krycek gave a little sharp shake of his head. "You could try," he said,
making sure his tone revealed how futile that effort would be. At least, that
was one thing he was sure of, one thing that had been learned entirely too well
and painfully. Skinner might be able to hurt him, might be able to make him cry
out, even to scream if it came to that, but he'd never break him. No one would
ever break him again.
No one could possibly hurt him enough to match what the silo had done to him.
Those long days of cold and thirst and hunger and sheer loneliness and waking
despair. And even that hadn't broken him. At least, not that one last piece of
him that had held out against it, against trying to do himself in before he lost
the strength anymore. It had been close. Closer almost than he could bear
thinking about, especially late at night, when he found himself similarly hungry
and cold and exhausted. But, in the end, he had survived and nothing Skinner
could do to him could match that. Could make him give that up.
Skinner's eyes narrowed a little as well. "I'll do more than try," he
replied and his voice was suddenly softer and even reasonable. Entirely too
reasonable. He took in a deep breath and his head tilted, the distant light
reflecting off his glasses, hiding those eyes. "But where are my manners? You
must be cold. Maybe even hungry. Thirsty."
They weren't exactly questions and Krycek didn't bother to answer. Fuck, the
man must see how he was shivering even from there. As much as he probably knew
that Mulder hadn't given him anything to eat or drink in the last ten-twelve
hours. Hadn't let him out of his sight for that matter. As if he were afraid
he'd simply vanish into thin air the second he took his eyes off of him.
The velvet tone peeled back from a corner of the steel then and Skinner took
a small half-step towards him. "Get up." The words left no room for argument.
Krycek struggled back to his feet, hating the awkwardness of it. How it must
make him look. Finally, he lifted his head and fixed his eyes just over the
other man's shoulder, waiting for him to give his next order. Waiting for the
violence to resume.
Skinner took another step towards him and he tensed despite himself. God, he
couldn't stand to be hit in the stomach again. Not tonight. Especially as hard
as the older man could hit.
But the other man only took him by the arm and yanked at him again, almost
hauling him off his feet, hauling him after him as if he were some errant child.
They walked across the living room and into a room across from the stairway.
Without any warning, Skinner hit a switch and a couple of overhead fluorescent
lights came on.
Krycek winced away from them, momentarily half-blinded, but his captor didn't
respond. Not even to blink his eyes. Then he was hauling him across that room
as well, sliding a chair out from beneath the table and shoving him roughly in
its general direction.
"Sit down," he said. "And shut up."
Krycek closed his mouth on the sharp retort he was about to make and sat on
the edge of the chair offered to him. A sudden spike of rage drove through him
a moment later as he realized and resented just how quickly he had responded,
obeyed that familiar tone, and he pulled at the cuffs, welcomed the ragged pain
as the metal tore at his wrists. He threw his head back and tightened his jaw.
Glared up at the other man. Met his dark eyes with a harsh look of his own.
"Go ahead and fool yourself," he said in a low voice, almost whispering the
words. "Make yourself believe that you're better than me. That you're more
than just a tool. A puppet of their whims and their agendas. They play you,
Skinner, just like they play Mulder. Just like they play everybody."
"Even you?" The question was quiet, giving nothing away. No more than his
eyes.
Krycek let out a soft sound, something not even close to a laugh. "Fuck,
yeah." He dropped his gaze a little then, deliberately letting the other man
think he could no longer meet his gaze. "At least, I have the guts to admit
it."
Skinner didn't answer. When Krycek looked up again he saw the other man had
gone over to the counter, was flipping a switch on the coffee machine there. A
red light immediately came on and it began to percolate. He opened a cupboard
and pulled down a couple of mugs and set them next to the coffee machine. A
container of sugar and a spoon followed.
"You take it black?" the older man asked. "Otherwise, I have sugar and might
even have a little milk if you'd like it."
Krycek shook his head, caught Skinner looking at him out of the corner of his
eye. Couldn't read him at all. Whatever the man was up to, though, he didn't
want any part of it. Skinner was never nice, had never been nice, even when
he'd been working for him on the up-and-up. Been acting the part of a legit and
respectable FBI agent. Not that he'd taken the
treatment personally at the time or thought it suspect; AD Skinner was well
known in the Bureau for being a hard ass, most especially to those agents under
his command. It was one reason the group had arranged for Mulder and his
X-Files to be assigned to him. They had thought he would help rein him in, keep
him out of trouble. Out of their hair. Yet another misjudgment on their part,
much like adding Scully to the equation later.
Both of them had only helped to make Fox Mulder more formidable.
Which is why he had been assigned to try and take him down. To tear it all
apart. To destroy all the fragile alliances that had been built and that now
served to support Mulder in his quest for the truth.
When, instead, when all was said and done and the dust had settled, the bonds
between them had only seemed to grow tighter with all their trials. Their pain.
Not that it really had surprised him by that time. Maybe the members of the
group had never read Nietzsche, but he had.
They hadn't been killed, so they had been made stronger.
Much like him.
If only he could stop shivering.
Skinner moved away from the counter and pulled out another chair, dragged it
around until the seat was facing backwards and straddled it. His legs spread to
either side, one arm laid across the back. He looked relaxed. Relaxed and
dangerous.
As if all it would take was one wrong word, one wrong move, and he would be
out of that chair and across the thin layer of space that lay between them.
Krycek forced himself to gaze calmly back at him, then to look around the
room, trying not to make it appear like he was paying any special attention to
anything in particular. Noting to himself the set of knives placed next to the
stove. The old glass and brass oil lamp sitting on a small side table. The
iron baker's rack across the room, just a few cookbooks and a plant sitting on
it. Not enough to slow him down if he thought to use it. To throw it at the
other man.
If the other man uncuffed him, even if for just a moment...
When he finally looked back at Skinner, though, the older man didn't look
worried. In fact, that veneer of amusement was back again. Making his eyes
almost look human.
"Now, who's being the fool?" he asked, his voice patently soft. "Agent
Mulder would never forgive me if I let you get away. Besides, you've had your
chance at me already, haven't you? Made the most of it. As if kicking a man
who was down was something to be proud of."
"It was just business," Krycek responded, then couldn't help but add a slight
sneer to his tone. "Nothing personal."
Skinner nodded. "I can see that."
The smell of brewing coffee had begun to fill the room and Krycek thought
he'd never smelled anything so good. His stomach began to bitch about its
emptiness rather than the punches it had taken lately. He swallowed before he
could catch himself. Turned his eyes away before he could reveal anything else.
Still, he saw Skinner shift slightly. "Just so we understand each other,"
the older man went on. "Tonight..." He paused, waiting until Krycek couldn't
help himself, had to look at him again. "Tonight is personal."
Krycek looked into those dark eyes and suddenly it was as if all the distance
separating them had abruptly vanished, leaving him nowhere to go, nowhere to
hide. The rest of the room fading back into some dim and unimportant world, one
that couldn't touch him anymore, couldn't even come close. All he could see was
those eyes, that regard, heavy and hot and almost cruel in its sheer intensity.
He retreated before it, damping away all his feelings, his fear, every bit of
himself that could get in the way of his survival. Of finding a way to kill
this man if he had to. His new boss wouldn't like it, wouldn't approve,
especially if it screwed up his plans for Mulder, but he would deal with that if
and when he had to.
He shut himself away and hardly felt a stir even of fear, this time, as
Skinner suddenly rose. Just followed him with his eyes, feeling as if his face
were a mask now. And, maybe, the older man could see it, too, because he was
moving forward and fingers tore into his arms and hauled him upwards. Hauled
him against the other man and he could feel the heat of him even through his
clothes. The anger, restrained and not restrained. And he readied himself for
another blow. To make close acquaintance with the floor yet again.
But Skinner didn't hit him. Instead, he spun him abruptly around and slammed
him forward into the edge of the heavy kitchen table. Shifted his grip and
pushed his upper body down on the surface of it, then slid a hand up to the side
of his head and pressed that down, too. Held him there, fingers digging into
the shape of his skull.
The older man leaned down over him, spoke right into his ear—a thinly veiled
reprimand. "Pay attention, Agent Krycek. Didn't they teach you that back at
the Academy? Or did you just forget? Like you forgot you were supposed to be
an FBI agent. Forgot you were supposed to be working for me and not against me,
lying to me, spying on me. Maybe I should go ahead and give you a refresher
course in proper respect for your superiors."
As an emphasis then, he lifted his head a little and slammed it back down.
Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to hurt anything.
"Do you hear me? Boy?"
Krycek closed his eyes, not answering. Not responding. Not even fighting.
There was no point to it so he just held himself still, waiting.
Skinner's fingers tightened and then he was being hauled back up off the
table and that big fist was coming at him again—too fast to dodge—and pain
exploded in his gut again. Hot and electric and consuming. It bent him over,
slowly sent him down to his knees, gasping for air. His vision dimmed by the
shock of it, by his efforts to breathe, simply breathe.
Rough fingers grabbed him by the back of the neck and forced his head up,
forced him to look into the face of the man standing over him.
"Do you hear me?" Skinner repeated the question.
This time, he nodded. But it wasn't good enough. Dimly, he realized that
the other man was on the verge of a real rage, the first time he'd ever seen him
like this.
"Answer me," Skinner all but snarled.
Reluctantly, feeling nausea rising up through him at the same time, Krycek
nodded slightly. "Yes," he whispered, gasped.
But the grip only tightened, digging mercilessly into his flesh. Yanking his
head back even further, straining his neck to the point of pain.
"Yes...what, agent?"
Krycek stared back up at those furious brown eyes and knew what the other man
wanted him to say and not only didn't he want to say it, he couldn't say it.
Couldn't give in, couldn't give him that, no matter how much it might end up
costing him. Even if Skinner
killed him right the very next second.
And somehow, from some depth far beyond the pain—from some dark and frigid
place that felt suspiciously like one he had known not that long ago, wasn't
ever likely to forget—he found it within himself to smile. It couldn't have
looked like much, but there it was.
Skinner's eyes narrowed at the sight, his fingers closing down on him,
twisting a little as if they were about to snap his neck. But an instant after
that fury peaked, it somehow damped down again. As Skinner obviously and with
great effort reined himself in.
The other man cocked his head at him and, amazingly, gave a little smile
back. Or something approximating a smile, if the very act of smiling was
something that was made up only of lips stretching over bared teeth.
"Stubborn son-of-a-bitch," Skinner commented softly, with hardly any emotion
in his voice. Hardly any force at all. Just a hint of something that sounded
strangely like regret.
He let go of him and Krycek almost fell again. He slumped down and closed
his eyes, desperately clenched his teeth and began working on clamping down on
his breathing, on controlling it, on controlling the lingering sickness and pain
in his stomach. Distantly, he heard the other man walking away from him.
Walking over to the kitchen counter. Pouring out something, the scent of coffee
rising again, the aroma even sharper this time. Richer.
"Sugar or milk?" He heard Skinner ask again, a polite question, as if
nothing at all had happened between the last time he'd asked and now. "Last
chance."
Krycek swallowed hard several times and managed to straighten up a little.
The pain in his stomach knotted with the effort and he had to force down another
surge of nausea. He did not want to think of what Skinner would do to him if he
spewed his guts out on his clean kitchen floor.
"Sugar," he whispered. It felt more like a concession than he was really
comfortable with, but he definitely didn't want to chance getting hit again. At
least, not in the stomach. Not with that pile driver that his ex-boss called a
fist.
"Sugar," Skinner repeated, once more with that soft voice.
Krycek glanced over at him from beneath his bowed head, his half-closed eyes
and watched the big man put a spoonful into one of the cups, stir it around
briefly. The clatter of metal on ceramic sounded overloud in the room.
Skinner picked up the coffee, then, and moved back to the table. Sat down in
his own chair, right way round this time, and placed both cups in front of him.
He lifted the one on the right and drank from it, appearing not to even glance
at the man left kneeling on his floor, appearing to be completely absorbed by
enjoying the steaming hot liquid.
Krycek didn't trust it for an instant. Didn't trust him. He knew just how
quick Skinner could be back out of that chair and smashing his face in if he
really wanted to. If he gave him cause to.
More cause than he had already given him.
But Skinner continued to sip his coffee quietly, seemingly glancing off into
nowhere, and finally Krycek rallied himself and slowly got back to his feet. It
took him several tries, during which he began to wonder if there wasn't any part
of him left unbruised. Any point to this exercise at all.
Finally, though, he made his way back over to the chair that the older man
had shoved him at earlier and sat down in it again. Let out a long breath of
something caught between relief and resentment. And still Skinner didn't look
at him, said precisely nothing, not even to comment on the sweat running freely
down his face.
Krycek didn't care; it was all he could do not to betray to the other man
just how bad he was feeling right now. His face and eyes seemed hot, burning up
even, but the rest of him felt frigid. His stomach one great knot of black ice,
black pain. If anything, he felt worse than when he'd first been hit, been left
out in the wind.
'Think warm thoughts...' The fucking bastard. He'd kill him for this, for
all of this. Someday. Somehow. He'd hurt him. Hurt him as much as he'd been
hurt and then hurt him again.
Still, Krycek couldn't quite suppress a shudder as he leaned back in the
chair and finally looked over at his host. Shot a quick and what he hoped was a
circumspect glance at him. His hands looked even more massive wrapped around
that cup, didn't even look the least bit bruised by what he'd done tonight.
What he'd done to him.
Krycek's eyes fell to the second cup—his cup—sitting there so serenely just
a few inches from circle of Skinner's arms. Far out of his own reach, even if
his hands were free to actually try and snatch it up. And he was thirsty,
thirstier than he had realized, but he doubted his stomach could handle it right
now even if it was actually in the cards that the other man would give it to
him.
Skinner lowered his own cup a fraction, held it as if he were warming his
fingers with it. "Drink up," he said mildly. "Can't let it get cold. Nothing
worse than cold coffee."
Krycek closed his eyes again, then opened them. "You fucker," he said, but
without any real heat.
One eyebrow went up a little at that. Skinner took another brief sip, then
set his own cup down. Stared pensively down into it. "Maybe," he said quietly,
so quietly Krycek wasn't sure if he'd really heard the word. Certainly wasn't
sure what he meant by it.
Then Skinner rose and took both cups away with him. Set them on the counter
and brought out a glass instead. He filled it from the tap and brought it over
to him, stood there looking down at him.
Krycek thought about kicking him, but the thought of what Skinner would do in
retaliation made it seem far too costly an effort. Besides the water he was
holding right now in front of him looked too damn tempting. He swallowed around
a suddenly dry throat. Then looked up at the face of his former almost boss.
As if a man could really serve two masters.
"Tell me one thing," Skinner finally said quietly. "And you can have this."
Krycek knew it was likely a trick, that he would probably end up regretting
it, but he couldn't see any harm in asking.
"What?"
"Did you kill Fox's father?"
Krycek closed his eyes, turned his head away. Whatever he had been
expecting, he hadn't been expecting that. Maybe a question about why he'd
beaten up on Skinner so hard that day. A question about who he worked for.
What he was up to. Where the DAT tape might be. Professional questions,
questions that pertained to this man and what he had done to him, how he had
fucked him around. Fucked him over. But not that question again. Mulder's
perpetual question. His eternal accusation.
It didn't hurt him—didn't touch him—when Mulder asked it anymore, but
Skinner...
Why the fuck did he want to know that of all things? And why the fuck was he
using
Mulder's first name? The name he sometimes found himself whispering in the
middle of the night—that he had held to himself those long and unlamented hours
in that metal coffin, shivering and dying so fucking slowly he couldn't hardly
stand it—a name that he'd never had the chance to say in the day. Not even to
get himself reamed out for it by the man who hated it so very much.
"Well?" Skinner abruptly asked. "Do we have a deal?"
"No," Krycek found himself spitting back at him before he could stop himself.
Stop himself from revealing too much.
"No, we don't have a deal or no, you didn't do it?" A reasonable tone.
Entirely too reasonable.
"No, we do not have a fucking deal," he replied, his own tone far too harsh,
too tight.
"Too bad," Skinner said. He lifted the glass of water to his own mouth and
Krycek watched him drink it, drink it all, with evident enjoyment. With a
dramatic play that struck him almost as hard as one of the other man's blows
had, making the blood pound in his head, behind his eyes. His hands clenched
and a sharp pain seared his wrists as he realized that he was twisting them
inside the metal cuffs, shearing and straining at the unrelenting steel.
Skinner lowered the empty glass, gave him a mild look through those glasses,
one that abruptly infuriated Krycek beyond caring anymore about what the other
man may or may not do to him. His control snapped and he kicked out at him,
aiming for his knee.
But the other man stepped back out of reach with a swiftness that belied his
size and Krycek's foot hit empty air and the miss unbalanced him. He and the
chair went in opposite directions, but he somehow managed to catch himself at
the last second, turn it into a roll and end up back on his feet. Without
hesitation, he immediately surged towards the other man and, this time, hit him
before he could react, taking him hard in the stomach with the edge of his
shoulder.
Skinner hit the counter and slid down it a little before he could stop
himself, a look of surprise on his face. The glass in his right hand dropped to
the floor and shattered beneath their feet. But Krycek was already pulling
back, spinning around, aiming another kick and, this time, it connected. Not as
well as he would have liked, but it connected.
And it was the older man's turn to crumple, to fold around his abdomen. To
let a sound half-way between an exclamation and a curse.
But he recovered swiftly, Krycek had to give him that. Because, as he spun
again, trying for his knee again, aiming for real pain and disablement, Skinner
reached out without warning and snatched his foot out of the air. Caught it in
a unbreakable grip and twisted it, twisted him half-sideways and down.
Krycek landed hard, his right elbow striking the floor a glancing blow, his
head clipping one of the table legs. Clipping it so hard he actually heard the
sound as well as felt it, the dull shock of it, as if he had actually taken a
dive off the balcony and ended up on that pavement so far below. His vision
greyed out and for a few long moments he forgot how to breathe. Forgot
everything.
When he remembered again, Skinner was already kneeling over him, shoving him
onto his back. Holding him there with one hand to his shoulder, while the other
slid around the side of his head, combed through his hair. And air came rushing
back into him at the touch, air and pain as bright as a lightning bolt—tattered
scattered bits of things he couldn't quite call thoughts, couldn't quite call
feelings. He just stared up at the man and couldn't move, couldn't
get his mouth to work. Couldn't think of one word, let alone try and string
them together.
Skinner mumbled something and belatedly Krycek found he could recognize that
word at least. Could certainly commiserate.
"Shit."
Skinner's fingers moved away from the back of his head and the older man
stared at them, then shook his own head. Cursed again.
There was blood on his fingers. Not much, but enough.
Enough to seemingly bring him back to his senses, to make him look down at
Krycek with something that looked suspiciously like concern. It blanked out a
moment later, though, when he met his eyes and Krycek blinked up at him. Opened
his mouth and, this time, found he still did know how to speak, how to find the
words he needed.
"Is...all of this...off...or on...the record?" And found he really did have
it in him to hate the man as he added, a half-beat later, a sharp and clipped.
"Sir."
For a long moment, he thought Skinner was going to haul off and hit him
again, then the older man only frowned at him. A pensive look—one he thought
he remembered having seen before—the kind that Skinner took on when he was
being forced to make a decision between two less-than-perfect options.
"C'mon," the older man said at last and hauled him up, not quite as roughly
as before, but not at all gently either.
The movement still made Krycek's head spin and he seriously thought he might
not be able to keep from throwing up this time. Still, he fought it down,
breathing as slowly and carefully as he could. Skinner held him through all
this and Krycek found himself concentrating on those hands, those fingers,
twisted into the front of his jacket. Despite the fact that Skinner had ridden
a desk for a good many years, they were a working man's hands—blunt and thick,
with the nails clipped off square and short. Neat hands. Big hands.
Hands he had made the uncomfortable acquaintance of a little too often in the
last few hours.
Finally, he managed to straighten a little and Skinner must have been waiting
for this, because he immediately turned with him and pushed him towards the door
back to the living room. A wave of dizziness instantly swept over him again and
Krycek felt like he might have fallen again, except that the older man kept one
hand on him the whole time, guiding him across the room and towards the stairs.
He balked at the bottom, leaning against the wall and half-turning to look at
the other man, but Skinner's face was giving nothing away. After a second, his
grip tightened, though, and he nodded at the stairs.
"I'll carry you if I have to," he commented quietly. "But I don't think
you'd like that."
Krycek didn't answer, but after a few long moments, he let his eyes drop
again. He didn't know what Skinner was up to and, right this very second, he
wasn't feeling much up to caring. Not much up to fighting, either, when it came
right down to it. Maybe, he should play along, hope that the older man would
relax a little, give him a chance. A chance for what, he wasn't exactly sure;
he wouldn't get very far in these cuffs, with no i.d. and no money. With
Skinner and Mulder and his new boss after him for skipping out on them.
No, he had to stay. Had to be here for Mulder in the morning. That was the
plan. That was his job, the one he'd taken for the price of his life.
He just hadn't known, at the time he'd taken it, that it was going to hurt so
very much,
physically at least. Other hurts, he'd been more than expecting.
Expecting. Not anticipating. The brief time he had spent with Mulder as his
partner and secret Judas had taught him the essential difference between the
two.
He made it half-way up the stairs nearly on his own power, before the steps
decided to tilt slowly sideways on him. Dimly, he felt Skinner's arms go around
him and then a brief blankness fell on him like a wet blanket, suffocatingly
heavy, dragging him down with its weight alone.
The next thing he knew, he was somewhere far too bright and white and he
couldn't quite keep his eyes open and his stomach was coming up in shearing
little waves of pain and sourness. The last time he'd felt this way, felt this
bad, it had been dark and he'd thought he'd been dying, had been wishing himself
dead.
It went on and on and then finally released him a little, enough for him to
suck in a few ragged gasps of air. To try to straighten up. But it was too
soon, too much, and another shudder ran through him and was immediately followed
by a half a dozen dry heaves, each one worse than the last. Red-laced light
beat behind his closed eyes this time with the sheer effort of it—heat
lightning flashing in his brain, turning his thoughts increasingly black around
the edges—and was followed by the bare edges of panic. It wasn't going to stop
this time...wasn't going to stop until he was dead, until his insides were
splashed all over the floor.
Until there was nothing left of him. Nothing...
Krycek struggled, but was held, restrained, a deep voice talking to him.
Words that sounded almost soothing, certainly aiming to be calming. And,
slowly, slowly, the spasms began to die away, leaving him feeling drained and
listless. His body a distant memory. His face pressed to something vaguely
cool. He swallowed a few times, his throat burning with the movement, his mouth
tasting bitter, his insides sore and hollow.
And then he was being lifted again, was leaned back against a solid body and
heat, and something soft and wet brushed across his face and mouth. He knew he
should be objecting to this, but it was a vague impulse, easily abandoned.
Besides, he couldn't seem to find his legs right now, let alone get them to
work. Breathing was about all he was up to at the moment, and even that was an
effort.
"Here," he heard that voice say, and then something was being held up to his
mouth. A glass. The rim clicked on his teeth as he opened his mouth a little
and then sweet cool water was washing away some of the sick taste. He swallowed
down several gulps, felt it soothing his throat as well, before settling deep
inside him. The hand took the glass away a moment later.
"Easy, easy..." He was chastised.
And for a few uncomfortable seconds, Krycek understood, as he thought he was
going to just end up losing what little water he'd drunk, but he desperately
held his breath and the feeling slowly passed. Only then did the glass return
and he took another couple of sips, more cautiously this time, before turning
his head away slightly. Refusing the rest.
Carefully, he opened his eyes again and the brightness wasn't so bad, this
time. He realized that he must be in Skinner's bathroom. That he was
half-sitting, half-kneeling on a blue and white tile floor, directly in front of
a gleaming white porcelain toilet of which he had made a rather personal
acquaintanceship with not that long ago.
That the half-empty glass of water had been set down on the floor next to him
and that one of Skinner's arms was still around him.
"Sorry," he whispered, though he didn't quite know what he was apologizing
for; it was Skinner's own damn fault, after all, the least he could do was clean
up after him. Though, it was rather more surprising, almost a touch disturbing
now that he thought of it, that he had. Maybe, Skinner was just doing a
good-cop, bad-cop routine on him all on his lonesome. Or, maybe, he was just a
fucking lunatic as much as Mulder was, but rather better at hiding it.
Either way, Krycek almost wished himself back out on that balcony. At least,
that way, he'd know what to expect, what his enemies were—old enemies, after
all—that of cold and fear and the dark that always seemed to come with them.
What waited and watched in the dark, knowing he would have to return to it
eventually.
"Krycek?"
He jerked at the sound of his name, his eyes snapping back open. It unnerved
him a bit that he hadn't realized that he'd closed them again, that he'd slumped
further down into the other man's arms.
"Yeah?" His own voice sounded rough, uncertain, and he worked to firm it
back up. "What the...fuck do you want now?" he said, a low snarl.
"Do you think you can get up?" The slow words seemed to rumble right into
the back of his neck and he realized that Skinner hadn't reacted to his tone at
all, that he could feel the other man breathing, a sure, steady movement, that
his own body was trying to unconsciously match.
"Yeah," he replied, managing to keep everything out of his voice, this time.
Managing to keep it expressionless. As if it were really a question, that he
had any choice in what Skinner did or didn't do to him. With him.
The other man moved away and Krycek sensed him getting to his feet, sensed
him standing over him. He closed his eyes a moment, gathering himself, then
opened them again and strained to get to his knees, to try and get his feet back
under him. Cursing the feeling of helplessness that grew in him as he
struggled, hampered by both weakness and the fact that his hands were still
trapped behind his back. He found himself swaying about half-way up, a dizzy
sick feeling swirling through him, and was on the verge of taking a dive back
down to that cool tile floor, when one of Skinner's hands reached out and nabbed
one of his arms, held him upright long enough for most of the sickness to ebb
away.
Krycek finally glanced up, turned his head slightly and inadvertently caught
a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the sink. Sweat was beaded on his
forehead and all the color had faded from his skin, even, it seemed, from his
eyes. They looked more grey than green right now, bloodshot and so very tired.
He looked like he'd been worked over by an expert. He looked like hell.
He tore his gaze away and, with a sharp little twist, wrenched himself free
of Skinner's grip. He turned around to face him and straightened to his full
height, suppressing the wince as the movement pulled at his tender stomach
muscles.
The older man stared back at him, and, after a second or two, a calm, rather
removed expression settled over his face. The look of the Assistant Director
about to receive the details of a report he really didn't want to hear about,
but was going to have to anyway.
"No," Krycek said at last, his own voice also calm, distant. The word almost
seemed to echo in the small room.
"No...what?" Skinner asked. His tone suddenly turned almost soft, as if in
response.
Krycek swallowed before he could catch himself. With an effort, he pulled
himself
up another notch straighter. Stared directly into those dark and relentless
eyes.
"No, I didn't kill William Mulder," he said. "Though I would have, if it was
what they'd told me to do. If that had been my orders. Sir."
The word fell like a stone between them, a sullen plunk of weight going down
into deep water. Tiny waves spreading and circling and cascading steadily
outwards.
"And you think I should believe you just like that?" Skinner asked quietly,
too quietly. "And, if you are telling the truth, do you honestly think that
admitting to this now, after all that's happened, absolves you in the least?
You betrayed your country, your training. You betrayed your partner." The
rest—the betrayal of Skinner, himself—remained unsaid, but Krycek heard it
anyway.
He shook his head slightly. "I never betrayed my country or my training.
Not until they betrayed me. Not until they—he—tried to kill me. Then, I
just..." Suddenly, he couldn't take it anymore and his eyes fell. He stared
down at the tile beneath his feet, at the ragged hem of his jeans. "I was just
trying to stay alive. That's all."
Skinner's voice seemed to deepen, his tone softening even further, turning
deadly. "And Agent Mulder?"
Another stone. One that dropped somewhere deep inside him, tearing through
layer after layer, all the protective walls he'd attempted to erect to protect
himself from what he'd had to do. What he had done. The hurt he had caused and
regretted so very badly sometimes that he couldn't even defend himself against
the man. Not even when he was hitting him, hurting him. Threatening to kill
him.
"Go on—do it, do it!" His own words suddenly crashed through him, bringing
with them the memory of having Mulder holding him hard against the bank of
phones. Bruising him with the gun barrel, the arm across his throat. The smell
of his own sweat and fear rising, circling and circling, waves as cold as ice.
Shame and despair and hopeless hunger. Eroding at the last of his control.
Making him yearn for it all to end, for the shock of the bullet, for the hot
spill of his own blood. Anything to alleviate what had become all too
unbearable.
He could have died, that day. He should have died. Mulder should have
killed him. God only knows, why he hadn't. It had been almost as if the other
man had somehow known what was going to happen to him—what fate awaited him in
that bathroom—and desired him to live long enough to meet it, to suffer a death
far more painful and lingering and lonely than he could have given him.
Not that even that punishment had proved to be enough. Not for him. Not
for...
"Mulder," he finally managed to say. Was mildly proud that he could get the
name out at all. That the word hadn't come out all broken and shattered pieces.
"Yes," Skinner said, his voice growing abruptly clipped again. Harsh. "You
remember Agent Mulder. The man you were assigned to assist. To protect. The
man you hung out to dry. Who you lied to time and again. Who your old boss had
drugged to the point of psychosis. And who finally trapped him in some train
car buried in the middle of fucking nowhere. Where he almost died when it was
fired to destroy the evidence. The evidence they didn't want him to have. That
they would kill to protect. That you've killed to protect." He paused
suddenly, let out a breath, and his voice dropped again. To something
disbelieving, hollow and shockingly tired. "Hell, according to his story, they
did succeed in killing him, this time. He told Scully he died, anyway. That,
somehow, he came back."
"And you believe that?" Krycek asked, knowing the answer was a no. And a
yes, at the same time. Much like most of Mulder's reports, his work. His whole
damn life.
He glanced up and saw Skinner shake his head, saw that the big man had
slumped a
little, the corner of his mouth turned down as if he'd bitten into something
sour, something rotten and bitter and unforgiveable.
Krycek dropped his gaze again as something sharp and jagged abruptly twisted
deep inside him, as if someone had just reached out and gutted him. Left him
dangling there on the point of that ragged blade. He closed his eyes and they
burned beneath his closed lids, a red haze growing to fill and blind him. As he
finally realized just why Skinner was so damn angry with him. That the rage
that moved him to lash out tonight, that was driving him to hurt him, wasn't so
much about himself, but about a certain agent under his command. A certain
agent that he obviously had feelings for—feelings that it seemed likely even he
didn't even realize the true extent of, let alone find himself capable of
expressing in any other fashion than that which was acceptable.
Skinner was lying to himself. Skinner was in love with Mulder. And Skinner
hated him for betraying Mulder and maybe even hated him for being partnered up
with Mulder in the first damn place, as if he knew, on some secret level anyway,
that Krycek had feelings for the man, as well. Feelings he had never been
allowed to acknowledge either, let alone give in to. Feelings he had had to
disregard lest it cost him his own life.
Where it had almost cost Mulder his.
Was still costing Mulder...
But Skinner was looking at him again and, though his voice had grown no
stronger, his eyes were deadly. A cold anger, this time, far more frightening
than the hot rage of earlier.
"I don't know what to think anymore," he said. "Or, like Mulder, who to
trust. No matter how hard I try, it all just seems to be slipping away.
Slipping right through my fingers."
"Skinner..." Krycek said softly.
But the older man was shaking his head again. "But not this time. This
time...you aren't going anywhere. Not if I can help it. And, this time, you're
going to pay for what you've done. Even if I can't make the rest of them pay."
Krycek swallowed back the rest of what he was going to say. Entirely too
aware that all it was likely to do was dig him into a deeper hole. One that
Skinner was likely to be eager to fill in once he'd hit bottom. He let his head
fall slightly while he looked around the room from beneath half-closed eyes,
trying to find a way out. A weapon. Anything.
But there was nothing and when the attack came, it was not as he'd expected.
The hand that came towards him wasn't aimed at his stomach at all, but instead
grabbed him by the collar and half-turned him, knocking him off balance. He
fought to remain standing, but Skinner just put his other hand to the back of
his neck and thrust a leg between his, took him the rest of the way down in a
half-controlled fall.
Krycek had barely hit the floor before he was being dragged forward by those
same hands, his knees skidding across the tiles until they hit the side of the
bathtub. Then Skinner's hands shifted on him, pushed down on him, bending him
far forward—his ribs scrubbing hard across the rounded surface—until his whole
upper body was pinned over the edge. His head half-way down in the tub.
Completely out of balance. Completely helpless.
Nausea stirred inside him again, but he fought it back. Fought it down.
As he fought down the sound that tried to escape as his cuffed wrists were
grabbed again and twisted up higher behind him. Twisted until his shoulders
screamed.
And, now, Skinner's breathing was no longer calm, no longer steady, as he
shifted around behind him, as his whole weight came down on his back, on his
bound arms. As the older man pressed his groin up against him and ground it in,
letting him feel the massive knot of his cock. Letting him feel how hard it
was.
And Krycek realized with a dismay almost as sharp, almost as crushing, what
the other man was up to, what he was intending, as a hand snaked around and
began fumbling with the front of his jeans.
"No," he hissed, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he angled back and forth,
trying to get out from under him.
But the older man ignored his protest, ignored his renewed struggles, as he
yanked the zipper down in one rough motion, making Krycek wish for once that
he'd worn underwear. Making him wince as the teeth caught and tore hair in
passing, vainly hoping that it wasn't tearing skin as well. Other, more vital,
parts.
Then he clenched his jaw to keep back a gasp as the hand moved, as Skinner
reached inside and, with as little finesse, grasped what lay within. Closed
hard fingers around it and gave it a sharp tug, one that Krycek felt all the way
to his eyes. As if every nerve in his body had suddenly been pulled half out of
alignment.
"No?" The other man breathed into his hair. "But isn't this what you do to
him, Alex? Yank his chain? Lead him around by the balls? By his need to
know?"
Another tug, harder than before, then those fingers were tightening,
squeezing, twisting at his cock. And he couldn't stop the sound, this time, the
groan that crested and broke from the back of his throat. He stopped
struggling, frozen in place by the shocking intensity of the pain. Afraid to
move for fear Skinner would twist it right off. Or try, at the very least.
"Well?" Another minute twist as emphasis.
"Yes," he answered, the word more sob than sound. "Yes..."
"That's right," Skinner replied. "You fucked him over, but good. Which
makes it only fair, wouldn't you think, that the gesture be returned."
He didn't know the other man was expecting an answer, until those fingers
yanked again, pulling and twisting at the same time, making him jerk
involuntarily, wrenching an actual cry of pain from him this time. A whimper.
"Well?" Skinner repeated.
"Yes," he whispered, the single word shaking, breaking apart at the end.
God, please...
"Yes," the other man echoed. "I knew you'd agree."
And then he let go, pulling back from Krycek so fast, he almost fell
face-first into the tub before he could catch himself. It was all he could do
to slide back and to his knees. To just sit there on bent legs. Gasping for
breath. His stomach churning again. His cock throbbing with each beat of his
heart.
Still feeling the imprint of those fingers on him. Hearing that silky-rough
voice. That cruel question.
Worst of all, feeling the humiliation of being forced to agree to his own
rape.
"Get up," Skinner ordered.
Krycek closed his eyes a moment, then slowly and awkwardly pushed himself to
his feet. He fought to stand up straight, a bout of dizziness coming over him
again in the process. Christ, he felt like shit. And it didn't seem like it
was going to stop anytime soon, either. If it wasn't Mulder, it was Skinner.
Not to mention all the other "old friends" out there who wouldn't mind if he bit
a bullet. Who would be happy to do the job.
Skinner took a half-step back, gestured with his head at the bathroom door.
"Move."
Krycek shot him a glance, unable, in that moment, to keep the anger and
resentment from his eyes, but the other man didn't react. Just stood there,
waiting. Watching.
As if entirely assured of his own obedience.
Of his control over the situation.
Krycek bowed his head again and played along, knowing he had little choice.
At least, for the time being. Not that he would make it easy for him. He'd do
what it took to survive, that was all. That was ever all.
He shuffled forward and out into the hallway beyond, sensing Skinner falling
in behind him. There was a doorway right across from him, the door standing
partially open above white and grey speckled carpet, but it was pitch dark just
beyond and he could see nothing of what lay past the first couple of feet.
"Go on," Skinner added.
He'd hardly walked inside, when the door slammed shut behind him, sealing him
in the dark. Sealing him in with just the sound of the other man breathing.
The dizzy feeling immediately returned, riding on the wings of a sudden and
almost overwhelming panic, and he stumbled a little to the side. His leg
impacting with bruising force into the sharp corner of what felt like the edge
of a table. Something fell over on top of it. Fell off of it.
Dark, oh God, not in the dark...not like this...
But Skinner's hands were already catching at him, throwing him across the
room. This time, his shoulder hit something hard and he fell, landing half-on,
half-off a more yielding surface. The other man's bed, and he desperately
snatched at the idea, held onto the thought that maybe he should be grateful for
small favors, after all; the man could have chosen to do it to him right there,
on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, rather than taking it to the bedroom.
Except that, then, it would have been light.
He needed the light.
Krycek surged back to his feet and tried to make a run for the thin line of
light pouring out from between the bottom of the door and the edge of carpet.
Only to have Skinner come out of nowhere—a darker shape within the
darkness—and slam him back with an unforgiving fist to the shoulder. The punch
spun him back around and right into a second blow, this one landing almost
directly over his kidneys. A cry tore free of his lungs as unbelieveable pain
spiked through him and he fell, face-first, back down in the bed, started to
slide down over the edge. Unable to stop himself, hardly able to breathe, his
vision blanking out.
Vaguely, he realized that if the man had wanted to, he could have killed him
right then and there. Just a little lower, just a shade harder, and it would
have all been over.
He almost wished it would have...
He didn't fight, couldn't fight, except to stay conscious, as Skinner took
him and yanked him back up onto the bed, his legs hanging over the side. As he
immediately began stripping his jeans down in rough little gestures, finally
leaving them bunched up inside-out down around his feet. Not bothering to try
and take his shoes off.
Cool air rushed across his naked legs, then stole away the warmth hoarded
between them as a hand came down and ruthlessly shoved his thighs apart. Spread
him. Fingers pressing and kneading at his buttocks. Cupping and compressing
his balls with both a familiar and impersonal touch, rolling and pinching at
them. Finally letting them go with one last great squeeze that wrung a gasp
from him despite himself.
Krycek buried his face in the sheets below him, closed his mouth on one
tangled fold. Trying to damp his panic in the smell of faint sweat and fabric
softener. The smell of the man who was here in the dark with him, hurting him.
Who was about to rape him.
And Skinner must have stepped back and away, because he couldn't feel his
heat anymore, could only hear soft rustlings in the dark somewhere behind him.
He closed his eyes against it, against all of it, and tried not to let out the
swelling tears. The pain in his lower back had settled down a bit, to something
slightly more manageable, but it still hurt worse than the sullen pain in his
abused balls, his aching cock. Worse even than the couple of slugs to the
stomach that he'd already taken tonight. Not even Mulder had played so dirty
with him. And he'd had opportunity and more than enough reason to.
A drawer rattled open somewhere, slammed and shut again, and then he heard
the sound of something ripping and the other man was back. The bed tipping
beneath him as the older man put his whole weight down on top of him, one arm
pressing up across the line of his back, fingers grabbing the nape of his neck
and pushing his face further down into the bedclothes. A hard length rubbing up
between his thighs, larger even than he had expected. Terrifyingly large.
"I'd rather do you bare," a voice licked hot across his right ear. "But you
probably take it up the ass from every old fart in your little boy's club, don't
you?"
He hadn't known it wasn't a rhetorical question, until those fingers
tightened, dug into the tendons of his neck, then relaxed a touch once more.
"Go on," that relentless voice half-snarled, half-whispered. "See if you can
actually tell the truth for once."
Krycek pulled his head further to one side and Skinner let him. He spat the
cloth out of his mouth, spat back the answer with as great a lack of care. "No,
no one's ever fucked me, okay? I fuck people over. Not the other way around.
That's my job—my real job, you shit—and I'm good at it. I'm fucking great at
it." He paused for breath and then let it all out, uncaring in that moment what
he might end up having to pay for it. "I fucked Fox Mulder over and that little
bitch of his, too, and, someday, I'm gonna fuck you over, too, Skinner. Worse
than the rest of them. I'm gonna make you wish you were dead."
"Don't hold your breath," the other man responded, seemingly unconcerned
about his threat, his voice a sweet little tickle at the back of his neck.
"It'll hurt either way."
And then he was shifting around, spreading his legs even wider, and Krycek
felt the head of that great cock slide across his inner thigh and center. Felt
Skinner start to push. He instinctively winced away from it—shit, the man
hadn't even put any lubricant on the fucking condom—but the older man grabbed
his left shoulder and held him. Pinned him in place.
Began forcing himself inside.
Krycek bit his lip, hard and harder, tensing up despite his best efforts, as
the man's cock stretched and split him, tore at him, working its way in tiny
little increments past the tight muscle. Working him open. His stomach turned
over and he felt sick again, blindly sick, and he couldn't do anything other
than hold his breath, wish that the rest of it would at least be over quickly.
That the man would just ream him out and then, finally, leave him alone.
He opened his eyes, but there was nothing to see. He could only feel. Could
only hear. The increasingly harsh breathing of the man on top of him. The
weight pressing down on him. The impossible strength of those arms as they
enfolded him, held him tight and helpless to the cock being shoved slow and slow
inside him. And he hated that feeling, hated the dark and the memory of the
dark, worse than the pain of being penetrated against his will.
Because he had been helpless then, too. Trapped beneath another's need.
Lost in the shadows. Blind in his own head. And he had screamed and screamed
and no one had heard. No one had even known, not even Fox Mulder. The one man
who should have heard, should
have known. Who still wouldn't have helped him, even if he had figured it out.
Not after what he'd done to him.
To those he'd loved.
Skinner pushed harder, grinding himself down full on top of him, and Krycek
felt a pulling, a desperate cramping, growing and twisting inside him. Felt the
other man begin to fill him, sliding deep and deeper. Sliding on a sudden heat
that could only be his own blood.
"Please." He heard a voice whisper in some far distance. Heard it pleading.
"Please...stop...don't..."
But it went on and on and he hadn't remembered until now and he realized now
that he didn't want to remember, but it was too late. It was all welling up out
of the dark where it had hidden itself, where it had lain as if waiting for him,
for this moment, and he couldn't stop it. Couldn't hardly stand it...
He remembered the woman in the bathroom and her eyes and the blackness that
had swirled within them. How she had held him with arms even stronger than
Skinner's and kissed him and all that blackness had come pouring up out of her
and into him, rushing and choking, and it had hurt and he couldn't fight,
couldn't get away, couldn't even scream, and he was drowning in it. Going down
and down, like water down a drain, until he couldn't feel anything anymore.
Just his own fear. The nearness of his death. The last bit of him huddling
tighter and tighter, cowering, crying out for something. For anything to help
him.
For anyone. For the man who had sent him in here in the first place. Who
had abandoned him...
"Please," he whispered again.
But Skinner wasn't stopping and it hadn't stopped either. The cold and
merciless and inhuman thing that had taken him and used him and consumed him
without care or pity or even a moment's pause for his pretense of defiance. His
final feeble begging.
And when time had resumed again, when he had come back to himself, it had
only been to the same dark and the same cold and he had been so weak and so very
tired, and they had hadn't even bothered to grant him the courtesy of a bullet.
Hadn't even stayed to watch him die. Had only left him alone. Always alone.
Somewhere in the dark, a harsh voice cursed and a weight shifted on him,
fingers biting into his flesh, and then all the memories were torn apart,
shattered and scattered to needle-sharp pieces, as the pain inside him surged
and peaked. As the other man slammed himself completely inside him with one
final push. As he held himself there—one, two, three impossible seconds,
achingly huge and hard, too large to manage, to bear—before teeth closed on his
shoulder, a hand forced his head further down into the bedclothes again, and
then the other man started at him once more, began pounding into him with
increasingly sharp and brutal strokes.
Krycek's throat closed up as tears stung at his eyes again. His whole body
shook with Skinner's efforts, shook with his own effort to control himself and
not cry out, not give the other man the satisfaction. Of that, at least. He
closed his eyes and, this time, when he whispered, it was a name. A name that
hurt him almost as much as what the other man was doing to him. More, maybe.
Mulder had left him to the embrace of that black and alien thing and the slow
death it had led him to. Mulder had brought him here and tendered him over to
Skinner like an offering. All the while, taunting him time and again with his
disgust and his constant
accusation and the intensity of the pain in those hazel eyes. With icy distrust
and burning hate and though, sometimes, he felt that it was something he
deserved, that didn't mean that he had
to like it. That it still didn't hurt to hear it. To see it. To know that he
had fucked up with the one man in the world who might actually mean something to
him.
But he couldn't blame him. Couldn't hate him back. That was the worst of
it. If he could, he would be able to move on. To forget about him. To kill
him if it became necessary. To do what it took.
Like he had, once before.
And regretted now, regretted more than he could bear thinking about.
Krycek felt something break loose inside him and he couldn't keep the tears
back anymore, couldn't deny them. He cried into the bedsheets, silently and
softly, as the other man kept on thrusting into him. Pounding into him. Sweat
and blood slicking between their bodies. Hot pain knotting inside him.
Sickness rising again, jamming up sour and feral at the back of his throat.
But Skinner was speeding up already, spitting almost incomprehensible words
at him—maybe his name, maybe just swearing, maybe nothing at all—in-between
increasingly shallow gasps. Fingers dug into his left shoulder, down almost
under the bone, as he shifted yet again. Trying for a deeper angle, trying to
spread his legs even wider. As if he wanted to crack him wide open.
And Krycek could feel it gathering in him, could sense the coming storm, and
pushed his own face down into the bedclothes. Used the sheets to try and scrub
his face clean. Whatever else, he couldn't—wouldn't—let Skinner see that he
had made him cry. Couldn't let him know the horror of what he had made him
remember. The hurt of the betrayal he himself felt regarding Fox Mulder. A
betrayal that had crashed into him with all the force of a runaway train, that
occurred now everytime he saw the man. Over and over again.
He locked it all away, locked it back into that dark and cold place, even as
other man rose up on top of him and pushed in one last time. Pushed in hard and
deep and rough and let out a sound that was eerily triumphant and disappointed
at the same time. And Krycek felt a greater heat flood him even through the
thin barrier of the condom. Felt fingers closing on his flesh again, holding
him to that heat. Forcing him to suppress a shudder at the thought of Skinner's
seed spewing out inside him, filling him. Marking him.
The older man collapsed on him, boneless and wet and heavy. "Alex..." he
said, the name almost more a gasp for air than anything else.
Krycek didn't bother to turn his head to one side, this time. "Done?" he
asked, his voice low and even and utterly contemptuous.
Skinner seemed to gather himself at the sound of it. "For now," he said. He
raised himself up and Krycek felt him pull his still-hard cock out with a
nonchalant gesture. Caught back the wince as the movement ripped at him. A
trickle of something slithered down his inner thigh.
He ignored it, as he ignored the weakness in his legs, in the pit of his
stomach, as he half-turned and slid off the edge of the bed. Somehow, managed
to get to his feet and stand there, looking and not-looking at the older man in
front of him. The shadow of him in the dark, still breathing hard, a ragged
sound.
Almost as ragged as his voice. "Krycek, I..."
"Don't," he responded. Pain threatened to make his own voice tear at the
seams, but he held himself away from it. Ruthlessly commanded it, subdued it
with the thought of how he
would make this man hurt someday. Make him pay.
Both for hurting him and for loving Fox Mulder. For making them one and the
same.
"You got your jollies," he added. "Now, leave me the fuck alone. Sir."
There was a long silence. Skinner's voice firmed up, though it seemed to
have lost that cruel edge of before. "Turn around," he said.
Krycek did as he said. Standing there, stiff and contained, as he heard the
other man walk across the floor. Heard the door open behind him, light spilling
across part of the carpet, illuminating the edge of the bed he'd just known.
Tasted. No doubt, stained with his blood. White sheets and a deep grey and red
comforter, bunched up and likely smelling of him now as well as of the man who
usually slept there.
Who maybe even dreamed of Mulder, there. Of repressed desires. Secret
needs.
Footsteps sounded and then Skinner was behind him again, telling him to hold
still. As if he could be any stiller. And he was obscurely proud of the fact
that he didn't move, didn't make a sound, as the other man cleaned him up.
Wiped away the blood and the sweat and maybe even some remnants of spilled
semen, all the evidence of what he had done to him.
The outward evidence, anyway.
He didn't move, didn't say anything, until Skinner had pulled his jeans back
up. He turned around then, without being asked, and looked out across the room
as the other man worked the zipper. Straightened his shirt and jacket with a
couple of quick gestures.
Nothing surprised him, nothing touched him, until the older man turned again
and picked up something from the table he'd knocked into earlier. A glass of
water. Without meeting his eyes, he held it out to him. To his lips.
And Krycek drank—not seeing any reason why he shouldn't, knowing he needed
it—ignoring the fact that it felt a little like a peace offering. A faint and
not very successful apology. Earlier in the evening, he might have considered
spitting the last of it back at the other man, but he just felt too tired right
now. Felt too distant from it all. From even the pain that continued to burn
and pull inside him.
Mulder would be coming for him in the morning—he had to—and there was a job
to be done. His price to be paid.
Skinner stepped back. "Move," he said, his tone suddenly flat again. As if
he were already regretting even this lapse.
Krycek walked, winding his control up even tighter as it hurt, as his legs
tried to spill him back down to the floor. The stairs were an exercise in
agony, but he managed them. Just barely. Feeling the other man right behind
him the whole way, not wanting to have to have him hold him up again, to help
him.
Still, he was unprepared for the sudden shove between his shoulder blades and
he stumbled half-way across the living room before he could catch himself again.
Could pull himself back erect.
Skinner moved past him and pulled the glass door to the balcony wide. Stood
there next to it and looked back at him an expression he couldn't even begin to
understand.
Krycek tilted his head slightly and amazed even himself by the smile that
suddenly crept across his face. "'Think warm thoughts,'" he repeated,
enunciating each word carefully and separately. "Why, sir, one would never
suspect you capable of such kindness. Of caring anything for those men who were
once under your command. Who still are."
The corner of Skinner's mouth twitched, but his dark eyes only hardened.
Which was no more than Krycek had been expecting. No more than he wanted.
"Don't worry," Krycek went on, lowering his voice to something approximating
a conspirator's whisper. "I'll keep your dirty little secret, Skinner. I've
kept so many others, what's one more. We're practically comrades, after all. I
used to work for them and you..." He licked suddenly dry lips, not sure if he
should continue, but unable to stop himself. "You took it up the ass from them
and never even fucking knew it. For all I know, you still are."
The other man raised his head and his glasses hid his eyes again, though they
couldn't hide the repressed anger in his voice. In his manner.
"Outside," he snapped. "Now."
Krycek felt his smile slip and didn't bother to reclaim it. He'd gotten to
him, the rest would just be the icing on the cake. And he could live without
that.
He might as easily not live with it.
He moved forward and back out into the cold, into the wind, and focused out
across the city, staring at the lights and the incipient dawn, as Skinner
adjusted his cuffs once more, freed his left hand and reattached the right to
the railing. He didn't turn back around or sit until he heard the door close
again behind him. Until he felt the other man leave.
Then he let himself sink down, wincing as particularly tender parts came into
contact with the frigid metal of the floor. He studied the torn skin and
bruised flesh of his left wrist for a moment or two, then tucked the hand away
under his jacket, huddled back up against the curve of the wall. Felt the once
again familiar pull on his right wrist and shoulder from the angle they had been
forced into.
Felt a faint wetness already starting to cool beneath him and ignored that,
as well.
He may bleed, but he wasn't going to bleed to death. At least, not before
morning. Before Mulder came back to collect him.
Not before the game continued. A game that he might lose, but not before
Skinner had lost it as well. Before he insured that the other man paid as much,
if not more, than he ever had. For his ignorance and his pride and his damn
holier-than-thou attitude. For making him remember...
His worst degradation. His greatest loss. The man that Skinner also loved
and lacked the courage, hell, the fucking conviction, to do anything about.
He didn't have to look up to know when the older man finally turned away from
the window. When he went back upstairs and off to that lonely bed. Though he
did wonder what Skinner saw and what he thought when he got there. When he saw
the stains of what he had done laid out on those pristine sheets.
Would he deny it, as he likewise denied Fox Mulder, or would he accept this,
at least. Accept the fact that he wasn't as he would have the world believe.
That...this too, they shared.
Their similar pain. Their similar need. And all the lies that surrounded
it.
One more dirty little secret.
rycek's stomach hurt and he was cold and miserable and wondering if he'd ever
get his life back under control. His control. Not somebody else's.
