by Noirceur
He was on holiday: an enforced one. The Bureau doctor
had insisted that he take some stress-free time and had
contacted Cassidy about it. Which had only added to
the stress he was under. His ulcer, he had fumed, was
his own business: to no avail. One month off, whether
he liked it or not.
And he didn't like it. Hadn't liked it.
Until yesterday. When he'd caught sight of a certain
ratbastard who was the main cause of his ulcer, of this
"holiday".
In spite of the doctor's suggestions, of Cassidy's
orders, he had stayed home, not gone anywhere. They
might be able to force him out of his office, but they
had no control over what he did once he closed his
office door behind him.
He spent the first week pouting in his apartment,
finally forcing himself to go out. To the gym, where
he worked out his anger. On long walks which filled in
the time. He wasn't much of a television watcher, nor
a reader, unless you counted those endless reports he
could never catch up on.
Which was another thing. Sure, he was supposed to
relax during this month off, but who the hell would be
reading all those damn reports that were accumulating
in his absence? No one, that's who. And when he
returned, he would have all those to read as well as
the ones that appeared on his desk every day.
He was muttering to himself when he realized he had
accidentally walked into a part of town where it really
wasn't safe to be caught walking. Still, he was
wearing his gym clothes, looking as ragged as anyone
else in the area. And the fact that he had been
muttering to himself angrily, well, that made him less
conspicuous in this part of town.
He was mentally mapping his way out when he saw him.
Krycek. Talking with someone on the street. Saw
something pass between the man and Krycek, then they
took off in opposite directions.
Skinner didn't know what made him follow Krycek. Maybe
his training. Maybe the fact that just seeing the man
made him feel the nanocytes, dormant as they were right
then, cruising in his bloodstream.
All he knew was that as he followed him a wild plan
began forming in his mind.
Krycek checked behind him now and then. Skinner wasn't
sure he did this because he knew he was being followed
or out of habit. He pulled all the training he hadn't
used in years back to the forefront, made sure his
weapon was easily accessible—just in case—and
continued the hunt.
Because that's what it was, a hunt. A chasing down of
the prey. With him as the predator.
Skinner felt a smile grow on his lips. One that sent a
wino pulling back into the shadows of the corner where
he was panhandling.
Krycek ducked into a flea-bag hotel and disappeared
into its gullet. Skinner waited a minute then followed
inside. The man at the front desk didn't even look up
from his racing form. Skinner watched as the old-
fashioned elevator noisily made its way to the top
floor. Right, he thought. The roof. An escape route.
His first impulse was to go up there, find Krycek's
room and beat the shit out of him. Fortunately his
cooler self prevailed. He took the stairs to the next
floor, just in case the clerk was paying attention,
went to a door and stood in front of it for a minute,
then went back out.
He found a spot where he could watch the front door
while he did some serious thinking. Krycek, like all
good rats, wouldn't spend much time in one place. For
all he knew, he might already have plans to move on to
another location. Maybe not.
Skinner pushed himself away from the doorway he was
lounging in. Well, he had nothing better to do, so
even if this plan went nowhere, it at least gave him
something to fill in the time.
One good thing about the gym he used to work out in, it
didn't cater to the Washington suits. Only a few
people there knew what he did for a living. He needed
some information and it would be easy enough to get it
back at the gym.
He was opening the gym door when he realized that he
felt better than he had in a long time.
Krycek was slinking among the shadows the next night,
on his way back to the hotel when something hit him in
the leg. He looked down, saw the small dart sticking
out of his upper thigh. He pulled out his gun, tried
hard to stay upright as he fought the tranquillizing
drug. He almost made it to the door when his body
crumbled to the dirty sidewalk.
Skinner checked out the area before calmly strolling up
to his inert enemy. Krycek would have been very uneasy
at the smile Skinner bestowed on him.
The building was vacant, falling apart. Squatters had
lived in it for some time but even they had moved on.
Skinner had chosen it for that very reason. No one
around and, even if there were, no one who would come
investigate.
He was thankful for those hours he had been putting in
at the gym. Krycek was no lightweight, even if he were
carrying him over his shoulder. And the building of
his choice was a good half mile from the hotel.
He dropped his burden on the floor, stretched, groaning
loudly. Yes, this was as perfect a place for what he
had planned as he could have found, given the time
frame he was working in.
He went to rummage in some debris and pulled out the
gym bag he had stashed earlier that day. He pulled out
the thermos of coffee and poured himself a cup. The
heat of the drink, plus the fact that it was liberally
laced with brandy, helped refresh him. A quick glance
at his watch told him he had about an hour left to set
the scene for this little drama before the drug wore
off.
Vengeance on Krycek was a delicate matter.
The man was passing them information that they needed
in order to take down the Consortium. Not that much,
but enough that he couldn't kill the man the way he
wanted. Krycek was probably—hell, not probably,
definitely—playing both sides. One day they might
be able to take him out of the game, but right now he
was still a player.
No, his revenge for the nanocytes that were controlling
his life, the attacks on his self-respect, even his
ulcer had to be less permanent than death.
He finished his coffee, recapped the thermos and set to
work.
Krycek revived slowly. The drug still cruising through
his bloodstream made it difficult for him to figure out
immediately what was going on.
He understood fairly quickly that he was naked by the
cold air he felt all over his body. He was standing,
arms tied above his head. The prosthesis was still
strapped on and he could feel something like tape where
his stump met the plastic of the fake arm. Someone was
making extra certain that the fake was going to stay
on.
He had to figure all that out because his eyes were
bandaged. He could feel the pads on his eyelids, the
binding that went over the pads and around his head.
Quickly he went through the rolodex in his head of whom
he had pissed off recently. Whichever name he came up
with, he didn't think he was going to like what was
coming. It surprised him that he wasn't gagged, but
concluded that wherever he was, his screaming wasn't
going to attract attention. He wondered why the hell
he wasn't dead. And if Cancerman had finally clued in
to the fact that his loyalty was no longer the
exclusive property of the Consortium.
From behind him, to the left, he heard someone move,
walk slowly to stand behind him.
"What the hell is going on?" Krycek snapped.
The body behind him said nothing. The steps slowly
circled the post where he was hanging.
"Oh, I get it. A guessing game. I'm supposed to guess
who you are. If I do, what's the prize? A quick
death?" Krycek was proud that his voice didn't betray
his fear. He sounded as arrogant as ever.
"So are we alone, or is there an audience I'm playing
to? Hey! If there's a camera, make sure to get my
good side."
The steps went off behind him to where they had
originated. And stopped.
Krycek rested his forehead against the post. The drugs
were still pulling at him. He found himself dozing
off.
So that he didn't hear the footsteps come quietly
behind and to the left of him. He only felt the sting
across his back. He yelped, more in surprise at being
roused than at the pain. It wasn't yet pain, but he
realized that it would soon be. He braced himself and
waited for the next shot.
There was no rhyme or reason to the whipping.
Sometimes the man concentrated on his ass, other times
any which where over his body. The only thing he could
do was swallow the screams.
Which he did for far longer than Skinner thought he
possibly could. He grinned when, finally, Krycek gave
in to the pain and screamed.
He was enjoying this. He was using a rider's crop that
he had purchased in a pawn shop that morning. He'd
never done anything like this in his life, had never
understood the attraction of it.
Now he did.
The long body at his mercy. The lines of pink and red
that appeared on it now that he was getting the hang of
the crop and what it could do.
It was like painting on a canvas except that Krycek's
body was the canvas and the crop was his paintbrush.
He found himself smiling as he figured out where to
place his next blow, his next line of paint. Would it
darken the hue already there, or fill in a corner he
had so far missed?
And the screams! So enjoyable!
Krycek's voice pitching upwards with curses,
inarticulate words, cries. All releasing a pressure
Skinner had had building within him for years, since
the X-Files and Cancerman had appeared in his office.
And so like music to his ears! All the curses, silent
cries he had had to sublimate, now echoing in the room.
He felt quite liberated.
Yes, he thought, yell, you ratbastard! For all the
things you've done to us! For Scully. Her abduction.
Her cancer. The death of her sister. For Mulder. His
father. For what the Consortium has driven him to.
For your betrayal of the Bureau. For the nanocytes
that control my life. For killing me. For bringing me
back.
With each item on his list he brought the crop down
harder and harder until he realized that the paint
dripping on his canvas was blood. That Krycek's
struggles were sluggish. That he sagged in his bonds.
Then Skinner pulled back. He found he was gasping for
breath, his body sweat-covered with the effort of his
vengeance.
He stepped back even further, waiting for the horror of
what he had done to hit him.
It didn't.
Instead he felt pleasure. Touched himself and was
pleasantly surprised to find that he had an erection.
The smile became a grin.
He tucked the crop under his arm, walked back to his
gym bag and rummaged around until he found his shower
stuff. He pulled out his shaving kit and from that the
condom he always kept there. Just in case. Not that
he had much opportunity to use it, but you never knew
when one would come in handy. Like a Boy Scout,
Skinner believed in being prepared.
He tucked the foil package into the fob pocket of his
jeans and went to check on the condition of his canvas.
Krycek was standing better, front of body leaning
against the post. His breathing seemed less laboured.
He was crying softly, as if unaware he was doing so.
Skinner touched him for the first time since the start
of the whipping. He stroked the hair now darker with
sweat. Gently, he pushed back so that Krycek's face
was revealed. Even the pads covering his eyes were
soaked.
"Fucking bastard," whispered Krycek, voice hoarse from
screaming. His throat hurt almost as much as his back.
The man touching him yanked back on his hair, hard.
The crop stroked from under his chin along his throat
to the top of his chest. Krycek tried to control his
trembling. Shit! Was the fucker going to turn him
around and do the front?
Skinner released Krycek and watched him work at controlling his body, at ignoring the pain. No, he
thought, don't think I want you to do that, boy.
He went to stand just behind the man, placed his hands
carefully on the man's updrawn arms and slowly, with
steady pressure, he began caressing the welted body.
Like a lover, his hands explored every inch of the
reddened skin, smoothing, stroking, hardly arousing as
Krycek moans grew louder as his gestures hardened.
Krycek's ass was beet red, with thin streaks of blood.
Skinner had spent lots of time on that part of Krycek's
anatomy, returning to it time and again. By the time
his hands grabbed the trembling muscles, he was smiling
again. He couldn't resist: he brought his hand up and
swung down on the beaten flesh with all the anger he
could still muster. The sound of his open palm on
flesh filled the room, drowned out only by the renewed
screams of his captive.
God! What a turn-on!
When his right hand wearied, he moved to the other side
and used his left. He stopped when he realized that
Krycek was beginning to keen, that his hands hurt, that
his erection was demanding attention.
Skinner pulled away, blew on his hand. The last time
he'd felt this way was back in Nam, stoned out of his
mind.
He unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down the zipper. Still
blowing on his smarting left hand, he used his right to
pull his hardened cock out of his underwear, already
wet with pre-com.
Eyes concentrating on his victim, he stroked himself a
few times and reached into his pocket for the foil
pack. He tore it open with his teeth, took it in hand
and rolled it over his erection.
Krycek felt him through his pain, standing behind him.
Braced himself for another whipping, for some other
torment.
Skinner placed his hands on Krycek's ass, thumbs
pulling his crack apart, revealing the puckered
asshole. The condom was pre-lubed and that was all the
preparation Krycek was going to get.
Krycek's scream echoed into the upper reaches of the
building.
Skinner cocked an eyebrow at hearing it. Who knew the
ratbastard had that much energy left in him. It only
made him harder. He used his hips to push Krycek
against the post and then preceded to try and pump him
into it.
He came, grunting his orgasm, the only sound he himself
had made in all this. Krycek didn't hear it over his
sobs.
Skinner was careful pulling out of the man, removed the
condom and tied it off. He remembered to toss it into
a towel in his gym bag: wouldn't do to leave any
evidence behind.
He took the time to drink another cup of laced coffee.
Thought he had never tasted anything so good in his
life. Probably would never taste anything this good
again.
Krycek's sobs diminished to hiccups. His entire body
felt it was on fire. It would be only sheer luck if
the bastard hadn't torn him up inside. Thank God it
hadn't taken him long to come. He tried to get the
sounds he was making under control. Concentrated on
finding the wherewithal within him to endure whatever
the fucker had planned next. Shit! When were those
supposed pain-deadening endorphins going to kick in?
Skinner picked up Krycek's shorts, jeans, got them on
his unresponsive body. Got his socks and boots on. He
released the rope holding him up, unbound his hands.
Got the t-shirt, sweater and leather jacket on him.
Apart from his uncontrolled tremors, Krycek was no
problem as Skinner hoisted him up onto a shoulder,
grabbed his gym bag with his free hand. He was barely
conscious as they left the dilapidated building.
Skinner felt totally revived, like it was nothing more
than a mid-night stroll as he carried Krycek back to
near his hotel. At the unlit corner of the building
itself, he dropped his load onto the sidewalk, removed
the blindfold, stashed it into his jacket pocket.
From a darkened entrance-way, he watched, waiting until
Krycek showed signs of life. Painfully got to his
hands and knees, used the bricks of the hotel to pull
himself to his feet. After he had safely staggered
into the hotel, Skinner went home.
He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting
for... something to hit him. Guilt? Remorse? Disgust?
His stomach, which usually hurt under the merest qualm
of conscience, was pain free. It felt better than it
had in years. He felt better than he had in years.
He reviewed his evening's work, worrying at it like a
kid picking at a scab. At least he should feel guilty
for not feeling guilty. Instead, as he imagined the
details, reviewed his actions, all he felt was his cock
hardening. Which only got harder the further he
progressed through his memories of the whipping, the
caresses, the rape.
He stroked himself into orgasm, enjoying the sensation
of the hot come against his cooler skin. He dipped his
finger in it, brought it up to his mouth and smiled as
he licked at it.
Maybe, he thought, as he cleaned himself off, maybe
next time he was beginning to feel the stress of his
job, of trying to keep the X-Files going, of having to
deal with Cancerman and his orders, maybe he would go
hunting again. After all, Krycek was known to recover
quickly.
Skinner pulled up the covers, rolled to his side. His
last thought before falling deeply asleep was that
maybe he had found the perfect treatment for an ulcer.
Part 2
Skinner's ulcer made itself felt soon after he had
returned to work from his month-long "vacation".
The therapeutic effects of his session with Krycek
hadn't lasted beyond his first week back to a desk
covered with reports, internal messages that needed
immediate responses two weeks previously. Not to
mention the trouble Mulder was causing again. All that
man needed to do was breathe near a military
installation and he was getting phone calls in the
middle of the night from some irate liaison officer.
He was making his way through the Bureau garage late
one Friday night when the pain hit.
Not the ulcer, though that had been certainly making
itself felt, but the nanocytes.
He had to use the car itself to prop himself up. Tried
to make it to the door when a jump in the pain level
dropped him to the ground, made him black out.
Krycek carefully checked the surroundings before he
came out of the shadows, walked over to the man lying
on the cement by his car. A quick frisk of the body
and Krycek was opening the car door with Skinner's
keys.
No one saw Skinner's car leave the garage with a
different driver. The broken camera in that sector did
not record Skinner's being manhandled into the back
seat of his own car.
The nanocytes meant Krycek. He'd clued in to that when
he'd realized that his hands were turning blue from
expanding veins.
That he was blindfolded, naked, arms above head, wrists
bond to a beam, ankles apart to some restraint on the
floor brought him quickly to the realization that
Krycek had figured out who his tormentor had been. A
deep breath and the sort of familiar smell of musty
unused space made him wonder if Krycek had found the
location of his torment. It would be wonderfully
ironic for him to use the same location to get his own
back.
He didn't know how long he'd been hanging: must have
been some time since his shoulders were beginning to
burn from the strain.
And it was Friday—or, at least, had been when he'd
left the Bureau. No one was really expecting to see
him before Monday morning. True, he usually spent part
of the weekend at his desk, but he doubted anyone would
really notice if he didn't.
Well, none of this was helping. He pushed all thoughts
from his mind, concentrated on discovering whether he
was alone in the building, the possibility of someone
else being around. If Krycek were replaying his
version of events, he should be sitting on some old
crate watching him revive while drinking coffee laced
with brandy.
The sound, when it came, did not come from behind him.
Came from beyond the room. Footsteps. Loud enough for
him to be aware that whoever it was wanted to be heard.
The footsteps entered the room with the same measured
pace and made their way around him. Twice. Before
going to the spot where he had waited for Krycek to
realize just what shit he was in.
His only consolation right now was that, as he could
not afford to kill Krycek, neither could Krycek afford
to kill him.
Some consolation!
Well, the best he could do was endure, and without
begging. For all his screaming, sobs, cursing, that
had been one thing Krycek hadn't done: beg. He could
do no less. His pride insisted on it.
He braced himself against the floor, tried to relieve
some of the tension in his shoulders and decided that
if Krycek wanted to play a waiting game, he could play
it too. It was a warm night and his being naked wasn't
much of a burden.
He hadn't been sleeping well lately but still, he
managed to surprise himself by yawning. That he did so
didn't seem to please Krycek. Skinner found himself
suddenly slapped hard by an open palm. Before he had
time to react, he was backhanded. He knew he would
have bruises where real and fake hand had hit him.
Skinner braced himself for more only to have the
footsteps walk away from him. When he wanted to,
Krycek walked to be heard. Irritation overrode
Skinner's sense of helplessness: when the hell was
Krycek going to get on with it?
The hand that took him by surprise was ungloved. Warm
fingertips sketched the outline of his face.
He clamped his lips together. Braced himself for a
slap, a punch, something other than the gentle caress
that he couldn't escape.
He tried to hide his face in his upraised arm but the
hand firmly gripped his chin, brought his face back to
the front. The tightness of the grip carried its own
message: that he was not to move his head again.
The hand became a finger that stroked his cheeks, his
chin, the tip caressing his lips. He opened his mouth
and bit down hard on the finger, got a back handed slap
with the prosthetic hand, hard, against his jaw. The
next time the finger played with his lips, he only
pulled his lips into his mouth. He thought he sensed a
silent laugh from Krycek at that.
The hand moved down his throat, gently, though the grip
was threatening. It wouldn't take much effort on the
part of that hand to choke the breath out of him.
Skinner automatically tried to pull up, but the hand
merely continued its way, as if not noticing.
It played along his collarbone, gently outlined the
taut muscles of his underarms. Fingertips combed
through the patches of hair there. A cool stream of
breath ruffled first one then the other. Though he
didn't make any sound, it tickled.
The hand stroked across his chest, avoiding his
nipples, returning to those with fingertips circling,
never touching. Back and forth between the right then
the left, threatening touch but never actually carrying
through.
Incredibly, Skinner could feel himself hardening.
Shit! He hadn't considered that. He forced himself to
concentrate on the pile of work waiting for him on his
desk. Almost sighed when he felt himself deflate.
Krycek must have noticed but didn't act on it. His
hand skimmed along Skinner's diaphragm, lightly teasing
the muscles until they trembled under his touch. Until
his cock, ignoring all images of reports stacked on
desk, responded to the fingertips approaching it.
Skinner tried hard to pull away. Unfortunately, the
position in which he was restrained didn't allow him
much leeway to pull back. Still, Krycek didn't pull
him forward, merely crouched until his mouth was at
cock level. A stream of air did anything but cool him
down.
The hand avoided the cock that was now almost fully
erect, the balls hanging heavy in their sac for the
inside of Skinner's thighs. Once more he tried to pull
back. He raised himself on his toes, moved his hips to
one side. The hand left his legs only to return to his
cock which was now weeping for attention.
The hand smoothly caressed, gripped until all he could
do was accept that he was eventually going to come in
Krycek's hand.
But the hand left him.
Skinner caught his breath, realized the footsteps had
made their way to behind him again and breathed a sigh
of relief. He set about cooling down his shaft.
His cock was almost back where it belonged when the
steps came behind him. He braced himself for something
like the feel of a crop, but instead it was only that
hand again. That infuriating hand that was kneading
the strain out of his shoulders, that smoothly glided
down his stretched muscles to the small of his back
where the tension was painfully building. Again the
hand only worked out the stress, dropped lower to his
buttocks. The hand kneaded, loosening up muscles
knotted by the position he was in.
So the finger making its way into his ass took him
totally by surprise. Still, it was lubed and its
penetration was done little by little, allowing him to
become use to its presence before it invaded him
further, ignoring his attempts to wriggle away from it.
When he had time to become use to that one, another
joined the first. This time, he couldn't prevent the
gasp of pleasure when his tormentor found his prostate.
For a moment, it cancelled all the pain, the tension in
his muscles and he nearly sagged.
His cock grew very appreciative once more.
The fingers slowly found a rhythm that pleased it, in
spite of his rationalizations. He couldn't prevent the
slight sound he managed to catch when those fingers
left his body. He had more success when that hand went
to play with his balls. At first. But his legs were
far enough apart that the hand could also slip under to
tease the base of his now rampant cock, return to roll
sensitive testicles until he could feel them rise
and...
Nothing.
Once again the hand left his body, this time painfully
on the edge of orgasm, to let him hang there, needing
release and not providing the last touches that would
bring it.
He was allowed more time to cool down. From behind him
he could hear the small sounds that he identified as a
thermos cap being unscrewed, the sound of liquid being
poured. He had a overwhelming urge to ask Krycek for a
share of whatever it was he was drinking.
The next time the hand touched him, Skinner thought he
was ready for the game: arousal without satisfaction
and then a cooling off period. Krycek didn't disappoint
him. He was driven to rise on the tip of his feet,
trying hard to convince that taunting hand to bring him
to completion. He gritted his teeth against the moans
that tried to escape his throat, nearer to begging than
either of the previous times.
And again, Krycek pulled away.
Though now, Skinner wasn't allowed the usual recovery
time. He had barely gotten his breathing under control
when the hand came back. This time the air was filled
with whatever curses Skinner could drum up, including
the few Vietnamese ones he had picked up in Nam and one
or two he remembered from his Russian grandfather.
Krycek actually laughed aloud at those.
And with that laughter, Skinner felt both hands on his
genitals, a series of cold metal rings slip onto his
cock, and he knew the game had changed.
Gloved fingers played with his nipples until they were
hard nubs, standing out, easy prey for the clamps that
clipped onto them. Then the fingers played with his
body until once more he wanted to scream his need for
orgasm. And again, they left him, cock throbbing in
its confinement, nipples aching in their adornment,
body pulsating in rhythm to his heartbeat.
The lubed finger that came to tease his perineum felt
like a burning ember against his highly sensitized
skin. It seared its way to his asshole, teasing the
entry into wanting to swallow it.
At this stage Skinner knew he was going to be fucked.
Wanted it over and done with. He pushed back into that
finger, offering it welcome. What he got was a lubed
anal plug rammed into him, large enough to burn on
entry, long enough to rub against his prostate. His
cry turned into a groan of pleasure as the plug was
pulled out slightly, pushed back in to again rub that
sensitive inner organ.
He was sure this time that, no matter what, he would
orgasm.
He didn't.
Krycek once more left him hanging there, letting him
regain some control over his body.
Skinner hung in his bonds, body slicked with sweat now
drying in the warm summer night air. He had trouble
locking his knees so that his legs would support his
body, now trembling from unrelieved sexual tension.
He'd heard of "dying to be laid", but the thought
crossed his mind that he might be the first to actually
die of the maladie.
Periodically, the hands returned to his body, to tease,
to taunt, to sensitize his skin to the point that a
breath caressing it edged on pain.
And every time—quicker and quicker with each
return—he came close to climaxing, those hands left
him to whimper, to moan, to sob his need.
By now, when he had the mind to think, he was sure from
the pulsating agony that his cock must be purple with
blood. If Krycek so much as fanned the air around it,
he screamed. That, in turn, was rewarded with a twist
of the plug, sending his prostate into paroxysms of
pain/pleasure. If a finger so much as hovered over his
nipples, the pain in his cock moved rapidly northward.
The skim of a finger was fire against his skin.
And every time, Krycek merely pulled back, gave him a
little time to recover before beginning his assault all
over again.
And not just the places that had been toyed with were
overly sensitized. The muscles of his thighs twitched,
the small of his back was a bundle of flaming nerves,
the nape of his neck echoed each throb of his heart.
Curses, cries, screams, sobs had roughened his voice to
the point that his throat ached as much as any part of
his body.
And still Krycek wouldn't let him come.
He approached Skinner who was barely aware any more of
his presence apart from his hands. He hoped that
Skinner's body hurt as much as his had. He smiled
nastily at the sound that broke through Skinner's mouth
as he realized that Krycek was once more about to touch
him.
"Please," the voice rasped, "please..."
What he had been waiting for!
Skinner begging.
As he hadn't.
He let his finger tips gently skim the over-sensitized
body, enjoying the pleas interspersed between the sobs
that Skinner could no longer control. He moved around
the man until he was behind him. His own cock had been
given satisfaction whenever it had demanded it
throughout this night, but he had no trouble getting it
to pay attention one more time.
He rolled a condom over himself, lubed it generously.
The lube he had put on the anal plug would be long
gone: Skinner hadn't torn him up too badly, he wanted
to return the favour.
This time, when he played with the plug, he pulled it
out all the way. Skinner barely noticed. He did
notice that what replaced it was longer, that its entry
battered already sore tissues.
Krycek wrapped his fake arm around Skinner to hold him
still while he pumped himself against his enemy. His
hand went up to release first one clamp and then the
other. The sensation of release followed immediately
by blood re-circulating nearly caused Skinner to pass
out. Krycek had to prop him up.
Skinner's cries only encouraged him to his orgasm.
God! That felt so good!
Just payment for every one of the stripes, the welts,
the cuts he had borne on his body during the days it
had taken him to recover from Skinner's beating.
He removed the condom, tossed it into the plastic bag
he'd been using for garbage.
With a malicious grin, he went to stand in front of the
man who had tormented him. Grabbed his swollen cock
with his fake hand, dribbled lube over it and, with
difficulty, enjoying every one of Skinner's cries,
manoeuvred the cock ring off.
Skinner screamed with the pain, sagged, moaning, into
his bonds.
Krycek gathered Skinner's clothes, dropped them on the
floor next to the man. With precise movements, not one
wasted gesture, he released him from his bonds,
watching as the man's body dropped to the floor. The
over-heated body contorted against the coolness of the
cement.
Krycek gathered the last of his things, stepped over
the now unaware Skinner and made his way to the hallway
of the derelict building. There he waited until he was
certain Skinner was reviving—he began controlling
the involuntarily sounds he was making—and left the
building.
Skinner's car was parked where he had left it, guarded
by several members of a local gang. They watched him
warily, nervously, having been an unseeing audience to
whatever had happened inside the building.
He reached in for his wallet, making the teenage thugs
jump back, ready for any action. He smiled, his lupine
smile.
"Another two hundred to see that the man gets in his
car and drives off okay. It may," his smile grew,
giving the hardened teens shivers, "take a while. I
wouldn't like to hear that the car wasn't in tip-top
shape, or that he was robbed when he tried to leave.
Is that understood?"
The jerky nods assured him that Skinner would be
leaving the area safely. Not in the same shape he'd
been in when he'd arrived, but hey! Life didn't come
with guarantees.
Part 3
Skinner could not believe this was happening to him
again. Fuck! Did Maintenance never double-check its
work?
The gun in the small of his back directed him to his
car where the passenger seat was already filled. The
gun that greeted him allowed the one behind him to
settle in the back seat. He sat there staring out the
windshield, both his hands—without having to be told
— on the steering wheel. One gun rested on the
shoulder of his car seat, the other held steady, both
pointed at his head.
The passengers were well dressed, looking very much
like any FBI agent, even down to the blackened
sunglasses.
"Very wise, Assistant Director Skinner. Now our orders
are to deliver you safe and sound to a certain address.
Please, don't force us to do otherwise. Just follow my
directions and all will be well."
As if he had a choice.
He went to start the car but was stopped by the gun
behind him. He returned his hand to the steering wheel
and waited while the man next to him turned the key in
the ignition.
He was certain they could have reached their
destination far faster had it not been for the
roundabout route he followed, as instructed. An hour
later, they pulled up to the side of what looked to be
an empty strip mall of four or five stores, battered-
looking, old and useless beyond its time.
Carefully the three men got out of the car and with
Skinner in the front, one of the guns behind him, the
other to his side, they made their way to one of the
doors. The man behind him took out a cell phone, hit a
button. "We're here."
There was the sound of footsteps, a small movement of
the ragged cloth that covered the square window in the
door, the click of a lock turning, and the door pushed
open from the inside. Skinner entered, barely glancing
at yet another suited man with a gun.
The room was large, had probably held ten or so desks.
The electrical plugs, the telephone jacks were still
there on the floor. Those, the badly stained,
threadbare carpet and a telephone sitting on the floor
were the only things in the derelict room. Whatever
windows there were were covered with heavy black paper.
Even with the lights on, no one from the outside would
notice.
There were two doors leading out; one probably to a
bathroom, the other maybe to another office.
Skinner stood very still in the middle of the room.
There was the smell of death in the air. What a
fucking place to die, he thought.
The three men watched him with no expression on their
faces. He was the only one startled when the phone
sitting on the floor rang.
One of the men went over to it, hit a button. "As you
ordered, sir."
Skinner easily recognized the voice coming out of the
speaker.
"Well, Mr. Skinner. It would seem that for the moment
your side has won."
Skinner heard the inhalation of Spender's ubiquitous
cigarette. He braced himself: the next few minutes
were probably going to be his last.
"And not without help," Spender continued. "Which
leaves me in a difficult position."
"Really?" Skinner made his voice as disinterested as
possible. Spender was the only one to have slipped
through their fingers. Well, the only remaining living
member of the group of men who met in New York. There
was also their assassin missing.
"Yes. Really. Imagine the irony of being betrayed by
someone trained to betray others. You and Mulder would
never have been able to succeed the way you have
without the help of Alex Krycek."
There was the sound of another inhalation, another
exhalation.
"I must admit that I did expect something from him.
Like the cat of the infamous song, he kept on coming
back. The man seems unkillable. Yet he managed not
only to betray me but you as well, Mr. Skinner. You
still haven't found the documentation on the nanocytes,
have you? Or the present location of the palm pilot?
You may not believe me, but neither have we."
Spender gave a little chuckle.
"That's our Alex. Always with an eye to his main
advantage. However, there does come a time when
advantages do run out."
Two of the three men moved. They went past Skinner to
one of the two doors, opened it and disappeared into
the room beyond. In a matter of seconds they were
back, dragging a man between them.
A one-armed man.
Naked.
Bloodied and battered.
A man whose wrist, whose stump were tied with ropes
that ended in the hands of each of the suited men.
Krycek was dropped to the ground in front of Skinner.
His back was welted, cut from what Skinner now
recognized as a whip. One of the men pulled his head
back by the hair and swollen, blackened eyes, a broken
nose, split mouth tried to pull out of that grip.
The two men stepped sideways until the ropes were taut,
holding Krycek up on his knees.
Skinner could see where the knives had cut the tendons
in his thighs. He hadn't been able to protect himself
from whatever sexual torture they had inflected on him.
Still, Krycek was Krycek. It took a moment or two, but
he stopped his head from wavering, held it
belligerently up.
"You see before you, Mr. Skinner, a man who has
betrayed us both. We did try to get certain
information out of him, but Alex has always been
stubbornly unreasonable. There are some secrets that
would be better dead than allowed the possibility of
further revelation. As there are secrets that would be
better left undiscovered. Do you not agree, Mr.
Skinner?"
"Get to the point." Skinner ignored Krycek for the
third man who was now smiling. He didn't like that
smile.
"Personally, I am too far away to see that the traitor
gets his just dessert. Much as I would love to do so
myself, I felt it far more important to see to my own
security measures than to provide some muchly deserved
justice. That's where you come in, Mr. Skinner."
As Skinner watched, the third man pulled a Glock out of
his pocket.
"I feel that you will make an excellent proxy in my
place."
"Am I to understand that you want me to execute
Krycek?"
Spender seemed to find the question amusing. "Yes, Mr.
Skinner, you understand correctly."
"After which," said Skinner, in the same unemotional
tone, "these three... people... will execute me."
"No, no. Mr. Skinner. I am disappointed in you. If I
had wanted you dead, you would be. No, I just want the
pleasure of hearing Alex Krycek die. At your hand.
Just punishment for his betrayal of us, of me and the
Consortium. Just punishment for what he did to you
last summer, as well as the nanocytes."
Skinner had started at Spender's mention of last
summer. He ignored that and ploughed on. "Am I
supposed to trust you?"
He heard Spender light up another cigarette.
"Interesting dilemma, isn't it? A chance to eliminate
someone who has made your life a misery at the possible
cost of your life. No, I'm teasing. I can assure you,
Skinner," Spender's voice had hardened, "when you die
it will be at my hand, not one of my men's.
"The decision is yours. The building you are in is
slated for destruction. It will be days, probably
weeks before anyone finds the body. And no one will
associate you with the execution style slaying of a
wanted felon. Think about it, Skinner. Vengeance at
no cost."
"Except the cost that you will apply to it."
"Ah, yes. Well, you can always hope that something
will happen to me, something that will make this cost-
free.
"Decision time. Mr. Skinner?"
The third man offered Skinner the Glock like a duellist
offering a sword, grip first, over the back of his arm.
Skinner looked at the weapon, turned and looked at
Krycek. He reached for the gun. Once in his hand, he
examined it, looking for potential weaknesses. He
released the clip, found it fully loaded. He removed
all the bullets, verifying that each was in fact a true
bullet. He refilled the clip, rearmed the Glock.
The third man grinned. "Your Mr. Skinner is not a
trusting man," he said for Spender's benefit.
"My Mr. Skinner has reason not to be. Is he
satisfied?"
"Yes." And the third man took up a position behind
Skinner.
Skinner said nothing. He weighed the weapon in his
hand, held it in a comfortable grip. He took the
proper shooting stance, feet apart, arms straight out,
holding the gun in one hand, his wrist with the other.
Carefully he took aim.
Krycek looked him straight in the face, steadied his
head.
Skinner lowered his gun.
"What?" The third man brought his weapon up.
"What's going on?" Spender demanded from the phone.
Skinner carefully made his way around one of the men
holding Krycek, went around to behind Krycek.
"Your Mr. Skinner doesn't like his victims to watch him
kill them," the man sneered.
"An execution," said Skinner, " should be done
properly."
He took aim again, took a couple of steps back.
The third man grunted.
"This," said Skinner, "is a new suit. I prefer not
having it splattered by gore the first time I wear it."
Two shots rang out before the third man had time to
fire his weapon. A fourth shot rang out.
"What the hell is going on!" Spender screamed from the
phone. A quick tug and that too fell silent.
Skinner quickly went to the man who lay face down on
the floor, pulled the ropes to him and managed to get
him over his shoulder. He dropped Krycek onto the back
seat of his car and sped out of the strip mall.
Less than a minute had passed since the death of three
men and a phone.
Joe Fischer wasn't happy to be called away from his
football game. More so at the sight of the injured man
his poker buddy had brought him.
"Jesus! Shit, Walter!"
"Yeah, I know. But I need him alive. And I need him
to live. And this is the only place where he has a
chance at both."
"Well, I can fix him up to the best of my ability.
Keep him here for a few days, until I'm sure he's going
to live. As for keeping him alive, that's going to be
your problem. I've got enough troubles of my own at
the clinic, I really don't need to import any."
"All right. I'll find him a safe house. Can you give
me a couple of days?"
Alex Krycek finished spooning up the last of his soup.
After four weeks, he was getting tired of the stuff.
Fischer had promise him he could go onto soft foods as
soon as his jaw had healed enough to be unwired.
Skinner had become quite creative with a blender.
Tonight's supper had started life off as some sort of
chicken noddle thing. It had been pureed to the point
that it was nothing more than a grey-looking sludge.
He ignored the television, looked out the condo bedroom
window. Seventeen floors up, there wasn't much to see
other than the occasional bird passing by.
Skinner took the empty bowl away and placed another on
Krycek's lap. Krycek sighed: his reward for downing
the soup. Chocolate ice cream. Nuked to soften it but
still cool enough to qualify as ice cream.
Krycek looked from the dessert to the man who had saved
his life, cared for him since Fischer had booted him
out of his clinic. "Thanks." It was hard to form
words with a wired mouth. His speech was thick and
muttered: yet, after all this practice, Skinner had no
trouble understanding him.
Skinner tucked the linen napkin a bit more snugly
around Krycek's neck. He realized it was important for
Krycek to feed himself, but it was an awkward, sloppy
job with a cast on his one arm.
He made himself comfortable in the armchair that he had
carried up from the living room. Stretched his legs
out, ate his own bowl of ice cream all the while
watching the football game with one eye, Krycek with
the other.
Fischer was quite pleased with the way his patient was
healing. Of course, he only saw him in the daytime.
He wasn't around at night when the memories of what had
been done to him had Krycek screaming, quite loudly in
spite of the wired jaw.
Still, he was getting better. Fischer wanted him to
start on physio-therapy next week. With luck, Krycek
would be able to walk without too much trouble. He
certainly had had more than enough of staying in bed.
They'd cleared the air about the nanocytes as soon as
Krycek could talk. The documentation and the palm
pilot had been found just where he said they would be,
in the library at FBI headquarters, in a hollowed out
"Meditations of Saint Jerome" that had been there since
1954, never stamped out.
Scully had taken the documentation for study. Skinner
had destroyed the palm pilot.
Whatever else Krycek had to tell them could wait until
he could talk clearly.
They had been able to track down Spender. Krycek
hadn't been his only betrayer. He had died in a hail
of bullets, at a cottage in some small tourist town in
Quebec. Krycek had expressed surprise that Spender
would have used the same hiding place twice. Extensive
DNA testing among many others had assured them all that
it was indeed Spender, and not a clone.
Later, Skinner helped Krycek get ready for bed. Since
Spender's death the week before, he really could have
been moved to another location, but Skinner never
brought the matter up.
There was one subject that had been nagging at Krycek.
He waited until Skinner had helped him lie down, turned
off the light before he broached it.
"Skinner."
"Yeah?"
"Why did you save my life?"
"Why not?"
"You hate me. You beat the shit out of me."
Skinner said nothing, just crossed his arms and
slouched against the bedroom door. He stared at the
man looking at him from his bed. Apart from the wired
mouth, the bump on the bridge of his nose, Krycek's
face looked pretty much back to normal.
He took a deep breath, released it. Wondered if Krycek
would understand even if it made no sense.
"That was between the two of us. He had no right to
have you hurt that way." He shrugged. "That's the
best I can do. Understand?"
Krycek's mouth relaxed, He attempted a smile. "So,
only you can beat me up. Is that what you're saying?"
Skinner thought about it. He nodded. "That about sums
it up, yeah."
"And you're going to do it again."
"Probably," agreed Skinner.
Krycek didn't seem too upset at the prospect. "Yeah,
you look the type to beat up on cripples."
"It'll be good physio-therapy," said Skinner. Krycek
merely raised his eyebrows in question. "Down at the
gym. Where I box. It'll help you get yourself back
together."
"Taking a chance, aren't you?" This time it was
Skinner's eyebrows that questioned. "That I won't be
able to beat you up."
Skinner laughed. "Yeah, I guess I am." He
straightened, went to close the door.
Krycek's mouth grimaced with a grin. "Good night,
Walter."
"Pleasant dreams. Alex."
January, 2000
kinner watched his prey carefully, still not certain
that he wasn't the one being led on a merry chase.
Skinner regained consciousness and found himself in a
familiar scenario. Except that the last time, he had
been the organizer of that little drama: now, he was
the central character.
