by Moco
"Sir?" I asked, looking up to see the Director standing in the door of my
office.
"It's 6:30. Tomorrow's a holiday. Go home."
I didn't need this shit. I took off my glasses and massaged the bridge of
my nose trying to alleviate the headache pounding at my temples. This also
resulted in giving the Director a softer, less defined look. A definite
improvement.
"Christmas Eve is not a holiday," I pointed out.
"It is this year. Go home."
"I have reports—" I begin.
"That will keep until Monday." We stared at each other. "I'll make it an
order if I have to."
I put my glasses back on. "Another half hour and I'll pack it in," I told
him, returning my attention to my desk. This dismissal would constipate
seasoned agents. The Director was unmoved.
"Now, Walter. And I don't want you back here until Monday. You haven't
been away from this office for a full 24 hours in four months. Not since
you took off to bail Fox Mulder out of the Denver County Jail."
"Sir?" This was something he should not know.
"You're not the only one with old Army buddies." I opened my mouth to
protest, but what was there to say? "Yours cover things up," he said, "mine
rat you out."
I knew when to concede defeat. "I'll walk out with you."
"Thought you might," said the Director.
Holidays sucked. At least I was spared the obligatory family function this
year. My parents were on Maui. They'd sent me a ticket, too, but when I
begged off their surprise gift, giving work as my excuse, they invited my
ex-wife. I didn't begrudge Sharon; she was better company anyway.
Truth be told, I hadn't wanted to spend Christmas in Texas either, and I
definitely hadn't wanted my folks to come here. At home, they'd set me up
with divorced daughters of their friends. Here would be worse: my mother
would fuss about my impersonal decor and my father would lecture me about
moderation and balance. As if the rowdy old bastard had ever spent a
moderate day in his life.
I think my own reserve is a direct result of adolescent embarrassment
caused by the old man's hard drinkin', hard fightin', hard livin'
lifestyle. I swore that no woman of mine would ever suffer like my mother
had. So what'd I do? Put Sharon through almost 20 years of another kind of
torment.
What the hell did I know about anything? Mom seems happy, and Sharon had
always liked my father.
Now I was faced with three days of solitary Christmas cheer. The Director
hadn't even let me fill my briefcase with work to take home. So I made one
stop on the way to my townhouse and filled cases of another sort.
Heineken and Glenfiddich will get me through the weekend in a nice
alcoholic haze. If I do it right, I won't even notice Christmas. Being the
lazy sort and not wanting to make more than one trip, I balanced my
briefcase on top of the beer, hooked my fingers through the half-gallon
bottle of Scotch and entered my kitchen from the garage.
I flipped on the kitchen light with my elbow and heard a voice from the
darkened living room say, "What? No vodka?"
I didn't need light to know who belonged to that voice. "Krycek," I
snarled. "What the fuck do you want?"
A smirking demon walked into the light wearing black leather and faded
denim. He held a large semi-automatic. "Merry Christmas, Walt."
"Fuck you."
"Happy holidays?" Krycek came close enough to peer into the box.
"What. Do. You. Want!" God! I don't want to deal with this.
"Ah, come on, Walt. It's Christmas." The rat bastard took on a whining tone
and was practically pouting. "You can put that down and give me your gun."
He gestured with his gun.
I complied, counting to ten. Losing my temper now would only get me shot.
Or worse. I almost dropped the Scotch when the doorbell rang.
"It's here!" Krycek said excitedly. "Hurry and answer it!" He was
practically hopping up and down. "You'll have to pay. Do you have any
money?"
"Pay for what?" I yelled. It was bad enough being held captive by a
professional assassin, an insane assassin was just too much to tolerate.
"The pizza!" He pulled my gun out of its holster and prodded me with it.
"I'm hungry! Aren't you hungry?"
"Christ on a cracker," was the only thing I could think to say.
I answered the door with real trepidation, but there was indeed just a
pimply faced teen standing on the front porch holding a very large pizza in
a red insulated pack. I paid with a fifty dollar bill, telling the kid to
keep the change in what I knew was a futile attempt to call attention to my
plight.
Taking the warm cardboard in both hands, I kicked the door shut and turned.
Krycek was close behind, reaching for the pizza. I shoved suddenly,
knocking my captor off balance, then used the box to knock the gun away.
Both pizza and gun went flying and we both dove for the floor.
I came up with my own gun, wondering where the hell Krycek's was. Spinning,
I located my enemy. Krycek was kneeling by the pizza box.
"It's okay," said the assassin. "It landed right-side up."
I lunged and landed on him, sending a knee to the small of his back,
knocking him flat. Keeping the full of my weight concentrated on his
kidneys, I disarmed him, finding two handguns, a switchblade and a set of
brass knuckles.
"Don't move," I warned in my best growl, backing off to find something to
tie him up with. A handy extension cord would do just fine; I never used
this lamp.
The rat bastard obeyed me, more or less, seemingly content to stay on his
stomach...eating pizza. He was propped on his elbows, snuffling through the
box like a pig after truffles. I've heard of one-track minds, but this was
the kind of obsession I expected from Fox Mulder on the scent of an alien,
not an opportunistic hired thug like Alex Krycek with a craving for junk
food.
A dark rage filled me. I hated this man. He'd betrayed his profession and
his colleagues, hurt people I cared about and murdered me. That he'd also
revived me was irrelevant. He'd infected me with technology that allowed
him to control me, and I hated him for it. I hated the betrayals he forced
me into and the compromises I made because of him. I hated that I wasn't
strong enough to let him kill me.
That he was here like this was either an unprecedented opportunity or, more
likely, another of his fucking games.
I tied him quickly, hands behind his back, smacking his head first to make
him drop the pizza. It occurred to me that he might be able to release his
prosthetic and get loose, but I wouldn't be leaving him alone any time
soon, so I didn't worry about it.
This was really too easy, and that thought worried me. His only protest was
at losing the food, and it occurred to me that he was drunk. Either that,
or this really was a set up. I pulled him up to his feet by the back of his
jeans, scooping up the pizza box with my other hand. I'll be damned if I
want grease seeping through the cardboard onto my carpet.
Pizza was tossed on the coffee table, thug on the couch. I looked at him,
wondering what to do next. I knew what I wanted to do, I wanted to make him
hurt. I wanted to make him pay for everything that had gone wrong with
anyone anywhere in the world. I wanted for once an enemy with a face that I
could touch. I wanted...God help me. I wanted to hear him scream.
"Why are you here, Krycek?"
He just looked at me, all big green eyes and dark eyelashes. Christ! He
looked like a jilted debutante. It pissed me off how pretty the
motherfucker was. I felt like one of the Presbyterians of old, that evil
should be ugly. This man's sins should show, somehow. It wasn't fair that
he could do what he did and still have the face of an angel.
I slapped him. Hard and sharp. He just looked at me with those big eyes. So
I hit him again. It's a gift, you know? I can beat a man half to death and
not leave a mark. I learned how before I was old enough to drink.
I hit him again and again, asking the same question: "Why are you here?"
Why? I hit him. I'd be hitting him still, I think. But he leaned into it,
greeting my strong right hand like a lover into a caress. It...Jesus! I
can't describe what it did to me, him doing that. I felt like I'd put my
hand into a pile of maggots and wanted nothing more than to scrub it off.
It was disgusting, this feeling, and I wondered why my cock was hard.
"Why?" I gave up hitting him and shook him instead. "Why!" I shouted. I
could see my spittle on his face, and felt the hysteria. I pushed away from
him. "Why?" I whispered, desperate for an answer. My balls ached.
"I woke up," he began, looking at me. His eyes slid away, like oil on
glass. "With my gun in my mouth. It scared me. Oh, not that I had thought
about it, had even tried, but that I hadn't. That's what scared me. I'd
have done it then, finished it. But I didn't want to give them the
satisfaction." He shrugged, as much as he could with his hands tied behind
him.
"But why are you here?" My voice was soft, the rage banked.
"It's Christmas." I could only stare at him while his eyes flicked to mine
then skidded away. "I couldn't stand...I had to be...I needed to be with
someone who knew me. Who felt something for me." I felt my jaw drop. He
saw
it, too, smiled briefly and said, "Hate's a feeling."
When I didn't say anything...I couldn't...he continued, almost whispering.
"Even if you put a bullet in my head, at least you'd know my name. There'd
be some passion behind the act. I wouldn't be just a job."
"Jesus, Krycek!" This had to be a set up. The alternative was unthinkable.
I turned away from him. I had to. "Don't move," I growled and left the
room.
I returned in half a minute with a gadget Fox Mulder had given me during
some crisis or another. It was a home-made bug finder he'd obtained from
those geek buddies of his. Turn the switch one way, and it was guaranteed
to locate any device that operated on ac, dc, battery or solar in a 10-foot
radius. Turn the switch the other way and it emitted a white-noise that
blocked sound from being picked up in the room. Handy.
I checked the obvious places visually then rechecked with the gadget,
starting in the living room. Dining room, kitchen, bathroom followed. Then
up the stairs to the bedrooms and master bath. Nothing. No blip on the
gadget, not a thing out of place.
So what the hell was his game? No Palm Pilot exploding my veins. No
surveillance in place to record any peccadilloes. No witnesses to anything
I might do to him? I didn't believe it for a minute.
'Go to the source,' my father always said. The old bastard might be a son
of a bitch, but he wasn't stupid. I headed for the source.
The rat had kept himself busy while I was off looking for electronic
vermin. It didn't appear as if he'd tried to free himself. Instead, he'd
spent his time...eating pizza.
Again, I marveled at the single-mindedness. Even with his hands tied behind
his back, he'd managed to open the pizza box. I stood watching. He was bent
over, face buried in toppings. When he straightened, his nose, chin and
cheeks were dotted with sauce. I had a strong urge to lick him clean.
Where the hell was that coming from! Wherever it was, it pissed me off. I
slammed him back onto the couch and slapped him. The shocked, hurt look he
threw me sparked a cold rage, and I wanted him gone.
"How much better would my life be with you dead?" I whispered through
clenched teeth. I wanted to put my hands on his neck and squeeze.
"Not much," he said. "I don't work in a vacuum." He looked sad.
"So you're here on your own." He nodded. "No one else knows you're here?" A
nod. "I can do whatever I want with you?" Another nod. "So what's really
going on, Krycek? You just here to be my Christmas bitch?" I was
whispering, so turned on I could hardly think straight. The violence in me
was a tangible thing, and it tasted like blood.
I wanted to hear him scream.
"Stand up," I ordered and flicked his switchblade open. The fear in his
eyes felt good. He stood slowly, transfixed on the knife. He flinched when
I turned him around, then stilled, determined to take whatever I dished
out.
We'd see about that.
I sawed through the cord binding him wondering how a one-armed man dealt
with the urge to massage the blood back into circulation. I was vaguely
disappointed when he merely flexed his hand a few times. He seemed to cope
with his loss well. I felt my jaw clench; I didn't want to admire him, not
for anything.
"Clothes off," I ordered tersely. I don't know what he thought about my
motives, but I just wanted to inspect his clothes. They were the only
things left I hadn't checked. Really.
His eyes were wide and expressionless. He shrugged out of the leather
jacket and handed it to me silently. I ran the geek-gadget over it.
Nothing. I searched it by hand. Inch by inch. In the lining I found a
garrote and seven lumps I took to be gems. Nothing electronic, though.
Nothing nefarious.
I dropped the jacket and looked at him. He peeled off his t-shirt and
handed it to me. Nothing. No place to hide anything. I dropped it on top of
the jacket. I gave him another look, and he toed off his shoes. He bent to
pick them up and handed them to me. Nothing. Then socks. Again nothing.
Watching him unzip his jeans was a torment of sorts. He didn't seem to be
flirting, or drawing out the strip tease, but I reacted as if he were. And
was enraged. Damn my body!
His shorts were the last things off, and not surprisingly, they were clean.
Electronically speaking. He stood before me, naked and unashamed. My anger
was a wild thing. I wanted him humiliated. Embarrassed, at least.
"Now the arm," I said.
His prosthetic was not state of the art. It was held on by straps and
Velcro. He undid it by feel, his eyes never leaving mine, and it was a hard
thing to watch. Creepy. This almost happened to Mulder, this maiming. I'd
known this man whole. To see him maimed, up close and personal as it were,
was hard, even though this was someone I hated. It was tough, seeing him
like this.
My anger increased, if that were possible. I didn't want to see him as
human, as someone vulnerable who'd been horribly hurt. He didn't deserve my
sympathy, not a bit of it. I didn't care what awful thing had happened to
him.
I stared at him, willing myself to keep hating, and he grew hard under my
scrutiny. One armed with a rampant erection and a bleak, green-eyed gaze.
He held out the arm, never breaking eye contact. Nerve. The boy had nerve.
The arm was just an arm. I don't know what I expected. Something James
Bondish, maybe. I'd stopped thinking coherently several items of clothing
ago, and was running on instinct. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to fuck
him. I wanted to hear him scream.
I stepped forward and reached for him. His cock felt hot in my hand. Hot
and smooth. Silky. He filled up my hand; no big gun, small dick cliché
here. I jacked him slowly, watching his face. A battle was waging there. He
didn't want to give me anything, and yet... It took some time, but
eventually I had him on the verge. He wanted to come; he didn't want to
come like this.
How long had it been since I'd held another man's penis? Twenty years, B.S.
Before Sharon. It felt good. There's a freedom to sex with men. We're not
expected to behave any other way but as men.
So, what to do, what to do? Keep him on edge and frustrate him or push him
over and humiliate him? I opted for humiliation. He threw his head back at
the last moment, mouth stretched wide. The tendons on his neck stood out,
and he came, silent as death. Knowing how sensitive he'd be now, I worked
him until he whimpered.
I dropped him then and smeared the come I'd caught onto his broad, smooth
chest. "Upstairs," I ordered.
If you could ignore the missing arm, the back view of a naked Alex Krycek
climbing stairs was a sight to behold. Sturdy and muscular, he looked like
Sunday dinner. My mouth watered. The lust in me was alive, and it wasn't a
nice thing.
I steered him away from the master suite, reckoning that would be the room
to bug. Just in case Mulder's geeks were as inept electronically as they
were socially, my little used back bedroom seemed the best place to
perform...well, whatever it was I was going to do. I certainly had no idea
what I'd do next.
It was used for storage, mostly. Boxes of books I couldn't part with, old
photos too personal for hanging where strangers might see them, a plain
gray metal desk, practical and ugly, and my grandmother's ancient iron bed,
its brass plating worn through in so many spots it looked marbled.
Perfect.
I pushed him face down on it, as much to feel the solid muscles in his back
as to position him where I wanted him. He was quiet and obedient. Eerie.
I'd have welcomed a protest, a reason to hit him, but he gave me nothing.
Only himself.
Duct tape is a homeowner's best friend. I buy it in 12-roll lots. It'll
stop a leak, keep a car running and easily immobilize a naked, one-armed
thug. I taped him spread-eagle, loose enough to stuff a pillow under his
hips if I gave into my urge to fuck him and tight enough so he had no room
to maneuver.
"I'm going to hurt you," I told him softly while I taped his right wrist to
the iron slats of my grandmother's bed. "I'm going to hurt you real bad."
It must've been a rhetorical kind of statement, because he didn't reply,
just looked at me.
I couldn't even put words to what I wanted to do to him. Visions ran
through my mind, dark fantasies of scalpels slicing through living flesh,
of white-hot ash falling from a $50 cigar onto a writhing body. I could
smell searing meat, taste his fear and pain in the back of my throat while
I rummaged through the desk for makeshift instruments of torture. A nicked
exacto was the closest I could come to a scalpel, although I did find a
cellophane-wrapped stogie with the words, "It's a girl" imprinted on it. I
scrounged through my storm-kit for candles and matches.
It was enough for a start.
I gathered up my tools and moved to the side of the bed. He held my gaze
while I unwrapped the cheap cigar, spit out the end and lit it. I puffed
dramatically, although my grimace at the rank, stale taste probably took
away from the theatricality of the gesture. At least he didn't smile.
Why didn't he cringe? I wanted him to beg me, to plead with me. I
wanted...no. I needed this. He and his damned nannites had unmanned me
and I intended to return the favor.
I puffed on the foul-tasting cigar, getting a nice hot ash going, and
inspected my canvas. The first burn should be special, I thought. Back of
the knee, maybe. A tender spot that would hurt for a long, long time,
someplace that wouldn't heal easily.
I turned the bedside lamp on, the better to see details, and found that
someone had gotten there first. Old scars, perfectly round and smaller than
my cheap cigar. Someone in his distant past had used him quite liberally
for an ashtray.
Based on the burns on my own body, these were a good 15 to 20 years old.
He'd been about 10 then, when he'd been tortured the first time. Parents, I
wondered? Or a sadistic pedophile? Are these what created this pretty
monster? I looked at him, thought about the look on his face as I lay dying
at his hand, and all I could see was a green-eyed boy covered in burns.
It was that cheap cigar that turned me pale and sent me galloping for the
bathroom. I should've known better than to try and smoke something that
old. I emptied my stomach and laid my head on the cool porcelain. This was
becoming...complex.
He was watching for me when I returned to the bedroom. "It's a bitch, isn't
it," he said.
"What is?" I barked. I wasn't a happy camper.
"Being a decent man."
Oh, well fuck me. Just. Fuck me.
It's how I thought of myself. What I aspired to be. A Decent Man.
Everything I thought my father wasn't. He was one of those good old boys
who told jovial stories of terrorizing Mexicans and killing gooks. I
remembered sitting in a Saigon brothel telling those same stories.
Different gooks, different war. Same stories. I'd hated my 19-year-old self
then, and I wasn't too fond of my 47-year-old self now. Fuck me.
Alex Krycek hadn't cringed from my scavenger-hunt torture tools because
he
knew what I had just discovered: I was neither a rapist nor a sadist. Son
of a bitch was the best—or worst—I could hope for.
I glared at Krycek, blaming him for being human. "I'll be back," I said
tersely, hoping I sounded like Arnold.
About a half an inch of snow had fallen when I pulled back into my garage.
It's really amazing what you can find open at 9 o'clock on Christmas Eve
eve. It took me a few more trips from the car to the kitchen than my
original trek, but I didn't mind. I was in a great mood. Giddy almost. And
I hadn't even started to drink. Yet.
Once everything was inside, I decided I had to rectify that. Good Scotch
over filtered ice and a twist of lemon. Life doesn't get much better. Plus,
I had a sexy naked enemy tied up in my spare bedroom, waiting for my tender
mercies.
We'd already established that I wouldn't really rape him, and I couldn't
torture him. But that was torture torture. There was still torture, and I
could do that. All he had to do was tell me he wanted to leave. I sipped my
drink, made another and then another while I put away a long weekend's
worth of groceries.
When I left work earlier I'd stocked up on booze, but I'd neglected food,
figuring any nutrients I couldn't get from liquor I'd obtain from take-out.
But that was before I knew I had a house guest. My mother hadn't raised a
slouch.
So there was food, more booze (I hadn't figured on two of us) and...toys. I
smiled at the toys. I'd had no idea you could actually go into a store and
buy things like this. I thought things like that had to be purchased over
the Internet. Amazing what you can find in the Yellow Pages. Cool.
So I freshened my drink, poured a vodka over ice, snagged a bag of toys and
headed upstairs, whistling "Jingle Bells."
Krycek started yelling when I hit the top of the stairs. "Skinner! Skinner,
you bastard! Let me go!" He was pulling at the duct tape, struggling. I
loved it. "Skinner!"
"Why would I let you go?" I asked him congenially.
He glared at me. "Because," he bit off. "I have to take a piss." He glared
some more.
I smiled. How humiliating would that be? Pissing himself? But pissing
himself on my grandmother's bed? "Fuck!" I pulled out his handy little
switchblade. It was sharp as a razor and easily cut through the duct tape.
He was up and out the door in a flash, running sort of crab-like, muscles
stiff from being tied.
He made water for a long time, and I couldn't help but feel good about his
discomfort. I smiled when he walked back into the bedroom, moving much
easier. He came back voluntarily, knowing I wanted to hurt him. Oh yeah.
I know I was smiling, and his impassive gaze was just a little bit off.
It'd do. I gestured towards the bed, as if I were inviting him to sit in
the parlor. He looked at me all the way to the bed, laying on his stomach,
spread eagle.
I just looked at him a moment. Damn, but he was pretty. "On your back," I
told him.
When he turned over, there was a definite question in his eyes. I took out
the duct tape, pulled his right hand to the far spindle on the headboard
and taped a single layer around it and his wrist. He could get out of this
if he tried. I did the same to each of his legs.
He stared at me, and there was question, if not concern, in his eyes. "I'm
a decent man," I told him. "Doesn't make me a nice man."
"Fuck," he whispered. It was the first thing he'd actually volunteered all
night.
"Only if you ask nice," I whispered back, sitting down next to him.
I brought my bag of goodies with me and smiled happily. If he wanted out of
this, I'd win. If he didn't, I'd definitely win. I took out a large tube
of cinnamon lube, edible and designed to heat up when blown upon. I
squeezed some out on my finger and spread it on his lower lip. Without
thinking, his tongue snaked out and licked it, spreading heat.
I considered covering his eyes, so he wouldn't see what was coming, but I
enjoyed looking at those long-lashes. I'd use the blindfold another time.
It was going to be a long weekend after all.
I leaned over as if to kiss him and blew gently. His eyes widened at the
sensation. Oh yeah. I did kiss him then. Nice. His lips were pliant, his
tongue active and he tasted of cinnamon. I felt quite fond of him. Sipping
my Scotch, I contemplated my next move. Watched him watching me. I lifted
his head and gave him a drink of the vodka that I'd bought for him. No
sense in either one of us being sober.
The ejaculate I'd smeared on him earlier was dry and flaky. That wouldn't
do. I cleaned him off with a nice warm wash cloth while he moaned in
appreciation; it must've itched. Now I had a nice clean canvas on which to
work.
I dribbled some cinnamon lube over his nipples. They grew into hard little
peaks when I licked and blew on them. Very suckable, so I did. Suck and
bite and lick and blow. He was soon writhing, and I really liked the sounds
he was making. He screamed when I put the clamps on. Music.
The purple-haired woman at the sex shop said they were training clamps,
very gentle as those things go, but the lube and I had turned his nipples
into screaming nerve endings. He cursed me as I soothed him, running my
fingers through his thick, soft hair. He wasn't quite begging. Quite.
"I guess I need to give you something else to think about, don't I?" He
cursed me, I think. Russian maybe?
So the task at hand was to distract him from the pain in his nipples. I
drizzled lube on his cock, smeared it around and then blew gently. It grew
slowly, giving a whole different twist to the phrase 'blow job.'
Once his cock was fully erect, I abandoned it for another of my 'toys.'
This was a brand new feather duster, a garish orange. I tickled the insides
of his thighs with it, making him quiver. I brushed the underside of his
cock and then attacked his balls. He cussed me. The volume and intensity of
his curses increased as I moved the feathers down the inside of his leg
toward his ankles. I wondered at this; few people have ticklish ankles.
An experimental brush up the bottom of his left foot caused a shriek. My
torture of his foot almost made him tear lose of the duct tape, so I
grabbed his ankle and held it still while I tickled his foot. He was almost
in convulsions by the time I let go of that foot and moved around to start
on the other one.
"No, no, no, no!" he chanted. "Skinner, you bastard!" This was said at
least two octaves above his normal speaking voice. It was great. I'd
totally taken his mind off his clamped nipples.
I stopped tickling his feet once he'd lost the ability to speak. "Want a
drink?" I asked, coming back up to sip Scotch. He glared at me, panting,
then nodded when all I did was sip and smile. I held his head again, and he
drained the vodka.
The 'rocks' I'd poured his vodka over had melted to small, smooth pebbles.
I fished out one and set it in his navel. He called me something
unflattering. I 'tsked' him, fished out another cube and ran it over the
head of his cock. He hissed through clenched teeth. I grinned and slipped a
corner of the cube into his piss slit. His squirming sent the ice cube in
his navel sliding down his side. "Fuck," he cried in a strangled voice.
This was fun. I picked up the last cube and feinted with it, dripping it
willy nilly over his chest before I offered it to his lips. He sucked it
in, along with two of my fingers. I knew a bribe when I was offered one and
was sorely tempted. But I had plans for my achingly hard cock, and his
pretty mouth wasn't part of them. Not now, anyway.
I kissed him and took back the ice cube, crunching it between my teeth.
I was going to come in my pants if I didn't get this show on the road.
The next item out of the goody bag looked like some kind of oven mitt. One
side was fur, the other, loofah. I flicked a nipple clamp while I thought
about the most effective use of the mitt. I'd made him scream, but I hadn't
made him beg.
"Skinner! You shit!
"Potty mouth," I replied and flicked the other clamp.
"Asshole!"
"Okay." Using the loofah side, I lightly rubbed down his chest, carefully
avoiding the clamps, to his stomach. I paid close attention to his ribs,
noting that he was more ticklish on the left than on the right. The rough
loofah seemed to wake up all his nerve endings. This was a good thing, I
think, considering how he serenaded me with moans and entreaties.
I loofahed his whole body. He couldn't keep his hips still once I reached
his balls, so I concentrated on stimulating that area. His reaction when I
switched to the fur side of the mitt was...satisfying. He couldn't seem to
say anything but my name. The fur seemed to be a hit.
I polished the head of his cock, and he learned a new word. "Please," he
whispered. "Skinner, please."
"Please what, Alex?" I inquired politely, engulfing his cock in the mitt.
"Fuck me," he pleaded, almost inaudible.
"I'm sorry. I didn't quite hear that."
"Fuck me!" he yelled. I raised my eyebrows at him. "Please!" This last was
through clenched teeth.
"Okay." Out of the goody bag came condoms and non-flavored lube. I flicked
open the knife to cut his legs lose and he obediently bent his knees and
held them up to give me access. Nice.
I gently smoothed lube in an around his anus. If he wondered why I was
being so gentle, he kept it to himself. I wasn't sure myself. I was still
running mostly on instinct. I entered him slowly, being careful to give him
time to adjust to me. God! He felt good. Tight and hot and oh, so sweet. My
enemy. The man who'd killed me. How could someone I hated so much feel so
damned good?
I fucked him thoroughly, I think, while he worked his cock in time with my
strokes. He wrapped his legs around my waist, pulling me closer, so I
obliged, pounding him hard until I could feel his internal muscles begin to
tighten. I unclamped his nipples then, right as he began to come, and he
screamed with the sensation. His screams pushed me over the edge.
"So good, so good," I murmured, collapsing on top of him. He was breathing
hard, almost sobbing. I wondered if I'd damaged him. "Shh," I tried to
comfort him, reaching up to release his still taped hand. I massaged
feeling back into it for him, nuzzling his neck.
He drew back and looked at me, slightly puzzled frown mirroring the
expression I felt on my own face. "I didn't expect this," he whispered.
I considered him for a moment. "Me neither," I conceded finally. I sighed,
rose and pulled him up after me, herding him down the hall into the
bathroom. I took him again in the shower, engulfed by a desperate horniness
I hadn't felt since Viet Nam. Then, I fucked to spite Death. Now, I was
fucking Death.
He was pathetically acquiescent.
Afterwards, dressed in mismatched sweats, we went back downstairs to
salvage the pizza and drink. The glow came back easily. We didn't speak
until the Scotch worked its garrulous magic and I finally had to ask.
"Krycek, if you don't like anchovies, why'd you order them?"
He shrugged and flicked furry fish off his current piece. "You look like an
anchovy kind of guy."
I grunted, unsure how to react to that. We ate in silence then, each lost
in his own thoughts.
"Ice," he said, startling me.
"What?"
"Do you want some more ice?" We each had bottles by our side, but ice was a
melting commodity. I contemplated my almost empty glass and nodded,
handing
it to him.
"How come you have lemon vodka in your freezer?" he asked returning with
the ice-filled glasses.
I freed my glass from his two-fingered grip and shrugged. "You look like a
lemon vodka kind of guy."
He pursed his lips, looking amused. "You need a tree."
"I have a tree."
"Then you ought to put it up."
"Christ."
We hauled boxes in from the garage, and I assembled the expensive
eight-foot Scotch pine and draped it in lights. Then I drank my expensive
Scotch whiskey and watched while a one-armed assassin trimmed it with my
ex-wife's designer ornaments. Once the red plastic ornament boxes were
emptied, he stepped back, cocking his head critically. "Kind of sterile."
"Yeah." I'd always disliked how this tree looked, so perfect, like
something out of Martha Stewart.
"What's in this?" he asked, indicating a tattered cardboard box.
"Old junk."
Like a kid, he opened it anyway and, like a kid, he was charmed by what he
found. "Now these are ornaments!" He pulled out the hand-made creations-
my
mother's mostly—as if he were handling porcelain. There were glittered
pine cones and raffia stars, sequined elves and felt stockings. He frowned
at one item, puzzled.
"It's a reindeer," I said, identifying one of my creations that had begun
life as an egg carton. He turned it this way and that, straightening the
pipe cleaner "antlers" and smiling when he finally saw it. "Cub scouts,"
I supplied and he grinned.
This was surreal, watching Alex Krycek decorate my Christmas tree. I tried
to generate some outrage, but couldn't quite make it. I felt better than I
had in a very long time. Amazing what good sex, bad food and old Scotch
would do.
He finished and seemed to like the results better this time. He stacked the
emptied boxes neatly, and I took them back out to the garage.
I flipped off the lights when I walked back into the living room, so the
only illumination came from the tree. Nice. We sat on either end of the
couch. In the dim light, he was hardly visible. His presence, much as I
tried not to think about it, was welcome. I was glad not to be alone.
I wished he were someone I could trust. I'd loved Sharon, but the majority
of my life, my working life, was something I was unable to share with her.
I could share it with him, if only... It made me so sad. Why the hell did
he have to be a traitorous rat bastard? "Why?"
He didn't ask me to explain my question.
"You know what I've done. What the repercussions of my actions have been.
No question but I've done some heinous things. What's not so obvious are
the things that would've happened if I hadn't done what I've done." He
spoke quietly, not looking at me. Almost as if he were talking to himself.
And maybe he was.
"You expect me to believe you infected me for some kind of higher good?"
Vague feelings of outrage flared, but the Scotch and the sex dulled
everything, even the hate.
Krycek shook his head. "It was my idea to kidnap Scully and put her into
one of the testing groups." My fists clenched. "They were planning to kill
them both, making it look as though the X-Files was a front for, shit, I
don't remember, something awful. The idea was for the scandal to be so bad
that the repercussions would be felt throughout the entire department.."
"They weren't even working together then. The X-Files were closed."
He made an amused sound. "They were working on X-Files. They were working
together. Just unofficially. Everyone knew Mulder wouldn't be stopped by a
mere demotion. A department-wide scandal would effectively neuter you,
too." He grinned at me, a wolfish, feral grin. "You didn't stay bought."
I wanted to protest that I'd never been bought, but that was a lie, and we
both knew that. What I hated was the implication that if I'd kept the
unfaith, so to speak, nothing bad would've ever happened to Dana Scully.
And wasn't that what he was saying? How can you prove a negative? That
something didn't happen because of something you did? Or didn't do?
Of the hundred or so explanations I wanted from him—Melissa Scully, Bill
Mulder, hell, he even looked good for Diana Fowley—there was only one I
had to know. "The nano-technology you put into me?"
"They wanted you dead. I convinced them to kill you this way. Then I
brought you back to life and, gee, it seemed a good idea to keep you that
way and under control."
"Why, Krycek?"
"I like you, Skinner."
I shook my head. "What's really your agenda? What are you trying to do?"
"Save the human race. Save myself." Even in the dim light, I could see that
hateful smirk that always made me want to punch him. "Not necessarily in
that order."
"If that's true, why all the subterfuge? Why not just approach us directly,
let us know what's going on?"
"Oh, like Fox Mulder does? Even with his pedigree and track record, he's
dismissed as a crank. Who'd listen to me? Believe me? Would you? Do you?"
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
Did I believe him? Yeah, I did. Did I trust him? Not for a New York minute.
I stood up, wavered a bit. "Come on," I ordered.
"Where?"
"Upstairs."
"Why."
"I want to go to bed." He stood and faced me. "I want to fuck your brains
out," I told him.
"Tonight? Again?"
"Yeah." He snorted. "Maybe." Another snort. "Maybe not."
We slept in the master bedroom and made love once again. He let me take
him
even though he must've been sore from the first two times. He'd have let me
kill him, I think. Just because it was Christmas Eve and just because it
was better than being alone.
I'd heard that revenge was sweet, but had no idea it could be like this.
And this amazing lovemaking was revenge. My kindness would kill him a
little the next time he had to bring me to heel. My love would make him
bleed. He knew it, too. It was a great gift.
I woke up late Christmas Eve morning ejaculating into Alex Krycek's pretty
mouth. I usually wake up instantly and fully aware, but then I usually have
blood in my brain. I first felt ecstasy, then fear when I realized I was
lying naked with my greatest enemy, then memory flooded in. "We're fucking
insane," I said when I could speak.
He grinned at me. "Followed shortly," he said, "by insanely fucking."
Sounded like a plan, so I reached for him, tasting myself on his still
glistening lips. There was no way I could get it up again anytime soon, so
I returned his favor, feeling a man's dick in my mouth for the first time
in two decades. Delicious.
I left him sprawled and half unconscious while I went downstairs to make
coffee. Looking at the tree we'd left plugged in gave me a warm, friendly
feeling. Better, I hated to admit, than sterile emptiness.
The phone rang while I was whipping eggs into an omelet, and I was
surprised to hear my father's booming drawl.
"Merry Christmas, boy!"
Christ! "It's Christmas Eve, Dad."
"Yeah, well, I wanted to remind you to call your mother tomorrow. It'll
make her feel good."
I fought down the defensiveness the old bastard always generated, feeling
much too good to let him fuck with my head. "Where is mom?"
"The girls went down to the beach to a Tai Chi class."
"The mind boggles," I said, chopping a jalepeno and trying to picture my
dumpling of a mother practicing a martial art.
"Don't it though. You still working through the holiday?"
My mouth formed the lie that yes, I was working. Duty calls, yadda, yadda,
yadda, but I couldn't let it out. Something about fucking an enemy
afflicted me with a bad dose of honesty. "Nah, the Director kicked me out
of my own office yesterday. Won't let me back in until Monday."
"'Bout damn time," the old man said.
"Reckon?"
He ignored my question. "So you gonna spend the weekend brooding and
swilling booze?" I heard the popping hiss of a beer can opening.
"That was the plan." I added the jalepeno to the onion I'd already chopped,
then went looking for the mushrooms. "Plans change."
"Oh yeah?" I could almost see his ears perking up. "You get yerself a house
guest?"
"Yup."
"Gettin' laid?"
"Yup." I folded the mushrooms, peppers and onions into the egg batter.
"She good lookin'?"
Now how to answer? "Good lookin'," I agreed.
"You had to think about that," said the old man, trying to tease.
"Not the good lookin' part," I shot back, feeling ornery. Let me fuck with
his head for a change.
There was silence on the phone. I heard him swallowing beer, then another
popping hiss. "This what happened between you and Sharon?" There was no
tease in his voice now.
"No." I made my own popping hiss noise and added half a can of beer to the
eggs, chugging the rest and belching quietly away from the phone.
"Mid-life crises?"
That hadn't actually occurred to me. I considered the question while I
dropped butter into the hot skillet. I never did like eggs cooked in bacon
grease.
"Don't think so," I finally answered. "More...uh, situational."
"Well, hell," he said. "I ain't never been fussy. Don't know why you should
be."
Now that was interesting. But come to think of it, homophobia had never
been one of the old bastard's shortcomings. I made an interrogatory noise,
which he chose to ignore.
"He a good man?"
The object of our discussion walked into my kitchen and snagged a stray
mushroom.
"That is a question," I told my father. "Is he a good man?" Alex raised his
eyebrows at me. "He's more than good at what he does. He's got the ethics
of a gutter rat and the survival instincts of a cockroach." Alex grinned
and poured himself a cup of coffee.
"You tell me he reminds you of me and I'll be on the next plane east and
come kick your ass."
I barked a laugh. "No, I'd never say that, Dad. He's not nearly as
annoying."
It was the old man's turn to laugh. "Fuck you, boy," he said jovially.
"Ya'll have a good Christmas, you and your good lookin' friend. And don't
forget to call your mother!" He hung up laughing, not giving me a chance to
reply.
Merry Christmas, Dad, I said to the dead phone. Funny. I couldn't remember
enjoying a conversation with my father more. "You're a bad influence," I
told Krycek.
He grinned wider, looking delicious. There were bite marks all over his
chest and his lips were swollen. This endless weekend suddenly didn't seem
long enough. But there was always next week's holiday. I wondered what
depressed thugs did on New Year's Eve. I'd feed him first and then find
out. We'd worry about repercussions next year.
end...
o home, Walt."
