TITLE: The Ties That Bind
AUTHOR: D.W. Chong
CATEGORY: X-File, novel (515k) h/c, UST, angst, slash, Sk/K, MPTS
RATING: NC-17 for m/m, m/m rape, minor rape, sex with a minor, implied sex
with a minor, graphic violence
PAIRING: K/Os  Sk/K  implied M/K
WARNINGS: major squick warnings for explicit torture/rape, discussed
torture/rape; implied incest
SUMMARY: Krycek uses the nanocytes to force Skinner to involve Mulder
and Scully in the search for a serial murderer/rapist --using Krycek
as bait,  and in the process redefines his relationship with Mulder
and Skinner.
SERIES: This story is an expanded, stand-alone version of "Natural
Gas"
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, and yet, because I am writing them, mine anyway.
No imposition of copyright intended, no money being made.
ARCHIVE: anyone who wants it, just ask first
FEEDBACK: to chong@sisp.net
DEDICATED TO: Ursula, who asked. Happy 2002 Birthday!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To Josan, who betaed, without whom this story 
would have ended in a Chinese Restaurant, and to her sister, Max,
and to Peach, who had a better idea for the ending.

*****

THE TIES THAT BIND
by
D.W. Chong

###

CHAPTER ONE

#
"As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man
objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever."
--Clarence Darrow
#
F.B.I. Headquarters, Washington D.C.
Wednesday, March 8th, 2000
#

Walter Sergei Skinner, Assistant Director of the Criminal
Investigative Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, tried
hard to follow Special Agent William Ketchum's oral report.

It would not do to allow one of his subordinates to think he was lax,
uninterested, or incapable of following the nuances of the case being
presented to him, particularly since he had been the one who had
requested this meeting with the agent, after the weekly summary report
delivered by Ketchum's immediate supervisor, Special Agent in Charge
Hank Miller.

Skinner normally *was* more attentive than this, if only because
solving a Violent Crimes case meant one less piece of murdering trash
littering the landscape, terrorizing the innocent citizens of these
United States. And, since Walter had a Texan's attitude towards law
and order and the common welfare, he took his duties mighty seriously.

It was why he'd enlisted in the Marines the day he'd turned eighteen.
It was why he'd filled out an application to the F.B.I. the day he had
graduated from law school. It was how he'd justified all the overtime
that advancement up the ranks required.

And, since he usually *wasn't* this scatterbrained, he further
distracted himself wondering if he was coming down with something,
even as he mentally goaded himself to focus on Ketchum's somewhat
desperate narrative.

Skinner dutifully shuffled through Ketchum's paperwork on the case,
making notations on a separate pad of paper while waiting for the
other shoe to drop.

And then it did.

Skinner felt the excruciating pain of blood forced to a crawl by a
capricious host of carbon robots that had suddenly decided to hold
hands, making his normally clear vessels jam up like the Beltway Loop
on a Friday afternoon. It felt like boiling and freezing at the same
time. Starving for oxygen on a cellular level, he wondered if his life
would pass before his eyes, if *this* attack heralded his last breath.

Panic warred with the reasonable expectation that it wasn't anything
serious, that the man who possessed the controls of the hated bits of
radio-responsive, self-replicating carbon invaders had some use for
him, some nefarious purpose for him to fulfill. But it was one thing
to intellectualize one's salvation, another to live it.

He couldn't hide the buckle, the jerk, the sudden, relieved gasp for
air as the systemic obstructions faded, to be replaced by the sick
anticipation of being contacted and forced to do the will of a hated
triple agent.

He passed it off as the sudden arousal of an over-active acid gland
and begged Ketchum's indulgence as he retrieved a quart-sized carton
of buttermilk from his inner sanctum.

Skinner reclaimed his seat, opened the carton and took a hearty swig,
then, having used the time to collect his thoughts, he made his pitch.

"Agent Ketchum, the reason I called you in is to sympathize with your
situation. I know you're frustrated by the lack of leads on this case,
but everything in this report tells me that you have been meticulous
in your investigation; you've connected every possible dot, explored
every lead, properly preserved and catalogued every scrap of evidence.

"Despite this, your case has stalled. Left you with nothing to do but
wait for another victim to show up and provide a new set of clues. I
know it's frustrating. I know you're desperate. But don't let your
impatience make you sloppy. You can't afford to cut this perp that
much slack.

"If you feel you have to do something --anything but nothing-- I'll
cut you a voucher and you can go consult a psychic. They're not going
to solve your case for you --no matter what they come up with,
*you're* the one who'll have to find the proof-- but they might be
able to point you in a new, more fruitful, direction.

"Even if all you do is chase your tail, it'll be work of some kind. If
that's what you need to keep yourself sharp, then go for it.
Otherwise, you're just going to have to stay calm and pray that one of
his associates gets greedy for the reward money, or some honest
citizen lucks into some info he passes along. For what it's worth,
however you play it, good job, Agent. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you, sir. You'd really authorize the use of a psychic?"

"Anything to keep you focused. Shall I make out that voucher?"

"Umm, no. I'd like to look into the options, first."

"Good enough. Let me know when you decide. Any other questions? Then
you're dismissed, Agent."

As Ketchum departed Skinner punched his intercom button. "Kim? I'm
going to need about half an hour. Hold my calls."

"Uh, Unit Chief Phillips is here with his weekly report, sir."

"Have him leave it. I'll get back to him if I have any questions."

"Yes, sir."

Walter flipped off the intercom and leaned back in his chair, taking
the buttermilk with him. He took another swig. His ulcer *wasn't*
acting up, but the buttermilk was another legacy of his Texan
forebears. Other people used chocolate or ice cream. *His* comfort
food was buttermilk and he drank it even when he *didn't* need to
appease the stomach acid gods. Somehow, it helped him collect himself
for the confrontation ahead.

Not that Krycek always appeared immediately after triggering the brief
nanocyte rebellion that announced his proximity. But, if he didn't,
well, Walter could use the time alone to gird his mental loins for
when the Rat Bastard *did* show himself.

He sighed and rubbed his face. //I used to know who my friends were,
who my enemies were, who I could trust, who I could love,// he
reflected. //Now --hell!-- I don't even know who *I* am, what I stand
for, or would die for.//

Although the prospect of killing Krycek *did* occupy a fantasy or two.
He could wait until the assassin was standing right in front of his
desk. Mere feet away. Then shoot the bastard between the eyes, jump
over the desk and pry the palm pilot out of Krycek's dead hands before
the nanobots incapacitated him. Then he'd be free.

His moment of imaginary triumph was interrupted by thoughts of C.G. B.
Spender, one of Krycek's --well, he wasn't really quite sure *what* the
relationship between the two men was since the conflagration at El Rico
Air Base-- but he *did* know that if he left one of them alive, any
'freedom' he might gain by killing the other would be temporary at best.

He pouted a moment, remembering the charred bodies. After seven
blissful, demand-free months he'd felt reborn, renewed. Then, within
days of each other, both of his tormenters had shown up and danced him
to their tunes. He'd felt crushed. Doomed. So many dead, yet they
hadn't the courtesy to be among them.

Skinner entertained another fantasy. This time, when Krycek confronted
him, he'd tell him to go ahead and kill him, that he was through being
the Consortium's puppet.

Unfortunately, the things Krycek asked of him were so trivial compared
to the things Spender had had him do, that rebelling seemed pointless.
He always ended up doing as he was bade, to live and rebel in small
ways.

His ulcer churned.

There had been a time, back in 'Nam, when he'd lost his surety, as
well, but, once he'd come home, healed, cleaned himself up, he'd
gotten back on track. He'd gotten a law degree, a career, and a wife,
in that order.

He'd let Sharon push him to advance, even though it meant moving from
Portland, Oregon, where he'd been a resident agent for three years, to
Washington, D.C., where he started up the executive ladder with a
mandatory stint on the Inspector's Staff. Then it was four years as an
Assistant SAC in San Antonio --God, he'd loved it there!-- three years
as an Associate SAC in New York City, another three as the SAC of the
Phoenix, Arizona facility. Then it was back to D.C., where he became
AD of the CID when the then AD was promoted to Deputy Director in
1992.

It had been a flawless, if unspectacular, fifteen-year rise in a
profession that felt 'paper work' was something you did gratis, off
the clock, so you could devote 100% of your working time to 'real'
work.

He smiled. As Assistant Director he was lucky if he did anything
*but* paper work. What a difference time made. Over the years his
wounded veteran persona matured, turned espectable, went
establishment. Life had been good. Everything had made sense.

And then Special Agent Fox William Mulder had transferred into the
Inspector's Staff to escape Bill Patterson's Behavioral Science Unit
at Quantico. Burn-out was chronic with Bill's bunch. After the minimum
eight month stint there, Mulder finagled his way into Reggie Purdue's
D.C. Field Office Violent Crimes Unit.

Before Skinner knew it, Mulder had gone snooping into the basement of
the F.B.I. HQ and uncovered the X-files, the F.B.I.'s unsolved case
equivalent to the Black Hole of Calcutta and, for his audacity in
suggesting that he could actually solve the unsolvable, he had been
rewarded with a department of his own which, in 1993, was put under
Skinner's aegis.

Suddenly, shadowy government types the likes of which Skinner hadn't
seen since the bad old days of illegal black ops over the Laosian
border were slinking into his office, bulking up his inter-office
memos, cluttering up his e-mail --bugging his office!-- suggesting
this, demanding that, requesting updates and information and progress
reports --on the doings in the basement!

Before Walter knew it, he had an ulcer, an estranged wife, and a
choice to make: roll over for the shadowy Powers That Be and sacrifice
his integrity, or take a stand behind his quirky agent and kiss his
credibility good-bye. He'd actually tried to do both, with disastrous
results.

He'd lost his marriage to the secrecy, Mulder's and Scully's trust to
his waffling, and his peace of mind --and possibly his longevity-- by
pissing on one too many sets of shadowy shoes.

He told himself that he was too far up the F.B.I. food chain to have
to put up with this shit. He was an Assistant Director, for God's
Sake! There were only eight Assistant Directorships to be had in the
whole Bureau. Eleven thousand agents, sixteen thousand support
personnel, in fifty-six Divisions, all told, and only eight positions
--eight people-- held positions senior to his.

There were only three more career rungs he could conceivably ascend
and, of those seven possible positions, only two even vaguely
interested him: Director or Deputy Director. And, since the Director
was usually appointed from outside the Bureau, and the current Deputy
Director, A.I. Kersh, had only been promoted to the position in '98,
being the AD of the CID would be --barring a minor miracle-- the apex
of Skinner's long, if not so spectacular career.

There were no John Dillingers, no Ted Bundys, no Wacos or Ruby Ridges
in Walter's tenure. He put the 'bell' in 'bellcurve.' What, therefore,
had he ever done to deserve such ignominy?

As if cued by Skinner's dyspepsia, Alex Krycek, true identity unknown,
sidled in through the briefing room door, interrupting Skinner's
unhappy reverie.

Krycek, two manila folders tucked under his fake arm, crab-walked to
the main office door, beyond which Skinner's secretary toiled and an
unknown number of agents cooled their heels awaiting entrance, and
locked it. There would be no untimely interruptions from that quarter.

Walter sat up, set his mouth, and closed the flap on his buttermilk
carton, silently resenting The Rat who had belled him with a
potentially lethal dose of radio-controlled death. They were heart
attack, stroke, and embolism rolled into one techno-geek palm pilot
--currently clutched in The Rat's right hand, the better to keep his
real thumb on the digitally displayed, vernier-slide type 'trigger.'

It had been three months since The Rat's --and Cancer Man's-- last
visit. A curious time which had climaxed with unauthorized brain
surgery on one Fox William Mulder. Mulder, being Mulder, had gone back
to work two weeks after the clandestine operation. And now, six weeks
later, The Rat was back, his ultimate intentions as unknown as his
real name.

Skinner's hands fisted instinctively as he fought the urge to wipe the
smug smirk off his controller's face, that all too familiar sneer that
turned Krycek's pretty-boy features ugly, and wondered again why
Krycek and Spender couldn't have obliged him by being crisped along
with the other Consortium leaders, freeing him to act as he willed, to
once more be his own man.

"Wha'd'you want, Krycek?" he growled ungraciously.

Krycek's moss green eyes darted around the room as if counting the
listening devices. His nose crinkled as his smirk broadened to a grin.
"There's been a murder in San Francisco."

Walter arched an eyebrow. "And this concerns me, how?"

Krycek pocketed the palm pilot so he could grab the folders under his
arm and plop them onto Skinner's desk.

Skinner frowned but opened them. The first held the crime scene
photos, crime, and autopsy reports on the DB in San Francisco. A known
male prostitute, 36, brunet, green eyes, 6'0", 180 pounds, found under
a down spout in an industrial park near the South Wharf after a
rainstorm. He'd been wearing smokey emerald fishnet stockings, red
stiletto heeled pumps, a black, Farrah Fawcett-y type wig, immaculate,
water-proof make-up...and nothing else. Piercings in both breasts
indicated that he had been suspended from meat-type hooks, probably
for several hours prior to death. He had been whipped, cut, sodomized
with a four-bladed weapon, and had bled to death.

The second folder was from a case in New York City in 1988. A known
male prostitute. Age 22, brunet, green eyes, 5'11" 150 pounds. Found
in a dumpster in an alley in a residential district. He had been
wearing black fishnet stockings, red stiletto heeled pumps, a black,
Farrah Fawcett-y type wig, immaculate make-up, and nothing else.
Abrasions at wrists and ankles indicated that the victim had been
bound for days prior to death. He had been beaten, whipped, bitten,
and gouged internally, and had died as a result of his injuries.

"OK. I'm no Behavioral Scientist, but I know the work of a serial
killer when I see it. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Take these files to Mulder and ask him if he can write a profile that
would enable the police to capture the perp."

Walter snorted. "You're a little behind the times, Krycek: the X-Files
is no longer a part of the CID, it is now an independent office that
reports to the Deputy Director."

"You're still the head of the CID --call Kersh and ask him to loan
Mulder to you."

"And pull Mulder's nose out of whatever Consortium shenanigans he's no
doubt sniffing around? I don't think so."

Krycek snickered as if Skinner had said something hilarious. "Mulder
is currently wasting his talents on some two-bit magician in Santa
Monica. You'd be doing the tax-payers a service to rein him in and put
him on a case worthy of his talents."

Skinner snorted. "Much as the notion of you using your influence over
me to champion the good of the common weal amuses, what's in it for
you?"

"A merit badge for public sanitation," Krycek quipped. "What the Hell
difference does it make? He's scum. He deserves to die."

"And you think *Mulder's* going to kill him?" Skinner sputtered with
amusement. Mulder's reluctance to pull the trigger on anyone, no
matter how deserving, was legendary. Skinner sobered. "Of course not!
*You're* the assassin --you're going to use Mulder to flush your
quarry out of hiding so *you* can kill him!"

Krycek growled. "*I* am not doing any such thing! And I already *know*
where the bastard is!"

"Then what do you need Mulder for?"

"I need Mulder to track him down through means of a legitimate
investigation. *Then* I need the perp to be killed while resisting
arrest. If he just turns up dead, too many of the wrong kinds of
people will start asking troublesome questions."

"You just said you weren't going to kill him."

"*I'm* not. *You* are."

"What!? I'm no murderer!"

"You are if I say you are."

"*No!* I don't care how 'troublesome' it's going to be for you, I'm
not doing your dirty work!"

"It's not like I'm giving you a choice, Skinner."

"Do what you will, I won't be party to murder!"

"Yeah, right! Mr. Law and Order wants me to believe he'd rather die
than put down a vicious serial killer. What's the real problem,
Skinman? Not enough Brownie Points in it for the effort? Fag whore
victims just one step up from gang bangers on the 'who cares' meter?
Or maybe you're thinking: 'why stop him: the job's not done?' Hey,
they're just pervert low lifes begging for a beating, so why should
*you* care if some John got a little carried away? Is that it,
choirboy?"

Skinner stared at Krycek's agitated mien. He seemed genuinely
incensed. In all his years in law enforcement, Skinner had only known
three kinds of people to care about 'marginal' victims: bleeding heart
liberals; people who were related to or friends with marginal type
people; and people who *were* marginal types. Skinner figured Krycek
for the second kind, but he couldn't help a dig. "What'sa matta,
Krycek, he off your girlfriend?"

Krycek winced.

//He actually winced!// Skinner noted with awe.

Krycek's gaze dropped to brush at his toes. His shoulders sagged. He
nodded. "Yeah. I *was* intimate with the last victim. Happy, now?"

"Shit! You're *gay*?" Skinner blurted disbelievingly.

Krycek snorted. "Don't have a cow, Skinner. There are more gays in the
Bureau than you think."

"*You* weren't in the Bureau when you were *in* the Bureau," Skinner
said pointedly.

"I was good enough to fool *you* for five months."

Skinner sighed. "Why do I have to kill him? Why can't Mulder just help
the local PD capture him and remand him for trial?"

Krycek shook his head. "Been there, done that, still have the mug
shots. Seriously: he's been arrested twice. Both times he was sprung
with a State Department 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card, his record was
expunged and deleted from all official data banks, and the evidence
confiscated 'for reasons of National Security.' He's Teflon.
Untouchable. That's why it's got to be you, on the scene, making
the hit during apprehension."

Skinner frowned at the two files before him. Two in hand, two more
covered up and taken out of the system. In twelve years? Not likely.
"What's the head count to date?"

"Derek was the eighteenth," Krycek said softly.

"Jesus Christ!" Krycek was right about one thing: there was no way in
Hell Skinner was going to sacrifice his life to save the sick fuck. He
sighed. "You realize that, if I kill this guy, there's a possibility I could
be charged with murder? Even if I wasn't convicted, I could lose my
job, be demoted --worse, get myself killed! I wouldn't be of much use
to you, then."

"Who says you're of much use to me, now?" Krycek sneered.

"I'm still alive; you're still sniffing around asking for favors."

"You're just an investment that's yet to earn back its initial
out-lay."

"Meaning I'm a valuable resource that shouldn't be squandered,"
Skinner concluded.

"Meaning: if you're careful and make it look good, you'll get to come
back to your cozy little office and bask in the glory of a job well
done."

"Fine! But part of being careful is being prepared. I'm not sticking
my neck out just so I can get it chopped off. If I do this, I want
*everything* you've got on this guy. I want every file on every victim
in existence --confiscated or not; all the juice you can squeeze out
to smooth the way, and some way of reaching you, 24/7, in case I need
a favor."

Krycek shook his head. "No way. If Mulder 'spookies' my hand in this
affair, he'll foam at the mouth and start obsessing about ways to
catch *me* instead of Kapustcha, the Jerk Wad."

"If you feel that way about him, why use him?"

Krycek gave Skinner a look that clearly read 'Are you kidding?'

"Mulder may be a 24 carat Ass, but he's immune to Teflon. Hell! 'They
may as well wave a red flag at a bull as try to warn Mulder off a case
by citing National Security. Of course, he's easily distracted, but
he's also the only Flying Agent in the Bureau who'll actually become
*more determined to solve the case if they're stupid enough to try and
scare him off it."