Skinner checked his watch, bent to click off the lamp on the
nightstand between the two beds, then retreated to the plain wooden
chair pushed against the wall separating the bathroom from the closet,
as the motel did not have any rooms with more than two beds.

Skinner rubbed his face with both hands and wished he'd had the
foresight to buy a bottle of scotch. Two days of being on the run with
two invalids was way more than enough. If he could only be certain
that the assassin that had forced them to flee in the first place was
in custody, he'd have bought that Scotch. But he didn't know. And
being drunk on duty was not an option.

//You only have to last the night,// he told himself, then wondered if
Krycek had had the same thought while he was at Kapustcha's mercy. One
thing for sure, Krycek had a whole lot more than two days experience
on the run, and he'd managed to survive five years of it with one arm.
But one arm and a colostomy bag?

Skinner figured the Rat may as well off himself, (something Krycek,
in the throes of pain, had already volunteered to do twice). //Who
says God doesn't have a sense of the absurd?//

Fartlessness and a carbonated soda had accomplished what one serial
torturer-killer could not, namely: sapping Krycek's will to live. Not
that Krycek was complaining any more than Dash. If anything, the pouty
Rat had self-mortified himself into virtual silence.

Skinner smiled, finding Alex's  abashment oddly endearing.

Krycek's next enema was slated to be two quarts, the one after, three
quarts, although the necessity for administering any of them hinged on
whether or not there were any results from the current flush in the
next three hours.

As a last resort, Dash had in his possession a syringe of a drug that
would stimulate the bowels --hopefully with lasting results. If *that*
failed, Krycek would have to undergo another surgery, and possibly a
permanent colostomy.

A long day behind the wheel combined with a full stomach and the
boredom of having nothing to do but listen for bubbles and stray
noises, caused Skinner to nod off.

Krycek did not choose to wake him. Frankly, if it came down to a choice
between dying, and trying to out-run Cancer Man with a colostomy bag,
he'd take the relatively easy death of an assassin's bullet.

Walter started awake. He blinked, stretched, checked his watch, and
moaned. "Any luck, Krycek?"

"No."

Walter sighed and lowered the bucket to the floor. Once the water had
drained all the way out, Walter went into the bathroom and prepared
two quarts of warm soapy water in the larger bucket for a thorough,
deep enema. He replaced the tube in Krycek's ass and held the bucket
high enough for the water to flow steadily into Krycek's bowels.

"Jesus God, Skinner! What're you trying to do: drown me from the
inside?"

Walter chuckled. "Good one. Just pray it works."

Krycek moaned piteously. "A bullet would be faster."

"Shh, shh, shh," Walter said soothingly, as the last of the liquid
disappeared into Krycek's bowels. He withdrew the tube and sat on the
edge of the bed. "You need to hold it for at least fifteen minutes."

Krycek moaned again. "I don't think I can."

"Let me help." Skinner began to run his palm over Krycek's abdomen,
massaging the water further into his bowels. "Better?"

"No," Alex said curtly. "Why don't you try squeezing my butt cheeks
together so I don't projectile-spew enema water all over the
mattress."

Skinner thanked God Krycek's face was to the wall, because he couldn't
help licking his chops at the prospect. "How about I stick my finger
up your dyke, instead?" he said, as his big paw obligingly pinched
Krycek's ass.

"Not big enough," Krycek said disingenuously.

"Hm. Would you rather I used my dick?"

"What?" Krycek looked back into Skinner's lust-filled gaze as if only
now realizing the direction the conversation had taken. "Oh, shit."

"That *is* the general idea," Skinner grinned.

Krycek let his head flop limply onto his bed. He knew when he was
out-maneuvered. "Whatever."

"Not 'whatever'," Skinner disagreed. "I'm not going to do anything you
don't want me to."

"Yeah, right," Krycek sneered. "I'd ask you to pull the other one but
you'd probably take it the wrong way."

Skinner shifted deliberately to allow himself a peek at Krycek's cock,
quiescent, if inviting, in its nest of dark curls. It lay on Alex's
thigh like a basking lizard, the tip of his glans gleaming from the
shelter of his puckered foreskin like the wary eye of an old world
chameleon.

Skinner remembered how it had looked in his hands, rampant and needy,
and swallowed. Hard. Krycek had given him the perfect set up. //Now or
never.// "You mean...," he reached out and seized Krycek's cock,
pulling the silken foreskin away from the glans and cinching his
curled index finger over the rim, back and forth, back and forth.
"...there's a wrong way to pull it?"

Krycek gasped and his ass clenched in reflexive excitement while his
penis flushed and filled, twitching like a fire hose when the hydrant
was first tapped. "P-please!" he pleaded. "Don't!"

Skinner's hand froze. "Too much like Kapustcha?

"Nuh-no," Krycek stammered. "Nothing like that. I- I'm just not in the
mood."

"So..., I simply repulse you on General Principals?"

"No! God, Skinner! I'm too sick to play sex games, OK?"

Skinner chuckled and resumed pumping Krycek's penis. It danced in his
hand as if eager for more. "I don't think your dick understands that
you're too sick to come out and play. Tell me, honestly: do you feel
worse than you did before I started?"

Krycek sighed. "...*No*.... But I don't feel any *better*, either!" he
said shortly.

Relieved by Krycek's confession, Skinner grinned and rubbed his thumb
over the slit of Krycek's glans till it was leaking pearls of precum.
"Then I'll just have to try harder, won't I?"

So saying, Skinner clambered onto the bed, bent over, and swallowed
Krycek's penis to the balls.

Krycek screeched and bucked into the moist hole with shocked pleasure.

Skinner sucked and pulled away till his lips hit the rim of Krycek's
glans, then he fluttered the tip of his tongue over the head and into
the slit before swallowing him to the root once more.

Krycek whimpered, but Skinner wasn't done by half. His left hand
fondled Krycek's balls, then delved below them, stroking the ridge of
perineum while his right hand squeezed the base of Krycek's cock with
a one, two, three, release, one, two, three, release finger roll.

Krycek's feet began rubbing against each other as if he'd transformed
into an amorous cricket, his breath ragged from his throat in husky
sighs, and his eyes clamped shut as he tried to ignore the internal
sloshing of water and the ache of trapped gas in his too full bowels.

Skinner's tongue was fluttering its way up the vein on the underside
of Krycek's cock. His left index finger pushed between Krycek's
buttocks to circle his twitching anus. Flutter, circle, suck; flutter
circle, suck. Krycek's hips began to rock in time with Skinner's
ministrations.

Skinner felt Krycek's balls draw up and intensified his sucking.

Krycek wailed. "Ahh! Gonna cum! Skinner! Gonna  --Oh, *God*!"

Skinner gummed Krycek's glans as it spurted load after load of creamy
cum into his mouth. It tasted sweet and salty, like well seasoned
farina with just a hint of essence of Krycek. Skinner rolled the stuff
over his tongue, savoring the flavor, texture, and sheer volume of the
portion, mixing it with his own saliva before gulping it down in a
frothy lump.

Krycek's tummy grumbled. Loudly. He grimaced and fought not to strain.
"Skinner! Oh, God, Skinner! Help me up, I've got to go,  now!"

Skinner hauled the hapless assassin off the bed and bustled him into
the toilet, and whether because of his help or Alex's determination,
not a drop spilled.

Skinner didn't just drop Alex on the toilet and abandon him, however.
He retreated to the doorway and stood vigil with him, as if to lend
him silent support.

Krycek didn't seem to notice. All his attention was on his grumbling
gut. One second passed, then another. Then the toilet bowl filled with
roar of expelled water. Krycek strained and gushed and moaned and
pushed and grunted and massaged his belly. The water trickled to a
halt. Krycek closed his eyes, took a breath, and strained again. And,
at long last, after six whole days, the clarion blatt of a firm and
commanding fart resounded in the bowl.

"Oh, thank God!" Alex cried as he slumped against the tank with abject
relief. "I feel human again," he said, then his breath hitched as he
heard his own words, and he hunched his shoulders, expecting the
obvious retort that would signal the end of their negotiated
truce...that didn't come. He looked up at Skinner wonderingly. The
A.D. was smiling at him.

"Congratulations, Alex. You've survived again."

Krycek smiled shakily, gratefully, genuinely. He dropped his gaze and
looked past Skinner to the third member of their party. "Guess I'd
better get dressed and get out of here so you can get Dash to the
hospital, huh?"

"You sure you'll be all right?" Skinner asked.

Alex nodded.

"OK, then." He stepped to the closet, hauling out the carry-all he'd
brought for The Rat, stuffed with his commemorative T-shirt and other
clothing Skinner had packed and purchased for him, along with Alex's
prosthetic, and his hardware.

Krycek wiped himself, flushed the toilet, washed, and came out to
rummage through the bag, pulling out a three pack of T-shirts, a three
pack of briefs, and a six pack of crew socks, all white, one pair of
blue jeans, a burgundy flannel shirt, a tan pair of steel-toed boots,
and --his breath caught--  a brand new black leather jacket to replace
the one Kapustcha had ruined.

Alex ran his hand over the jacket's buttery finish, clenched it to
inhale its tannery scent into his lungs, to smooth it over his cheeks.
The other stuff was necessary, but the jacket! The jacket was a
luxury. "Thanks, Walter."

"Hey. Nobody would recognize you without it."

Krycek grinned. "Yeah.... Thanks anyway. In fact, thanks for hauling
my ass out of the hospital before somebody smoked it. Too, uh, too bad
I'm not a nicer person or I'd return the favor. I leave here and it's
back to the same old, same old," he warned.

Skinner nodded. He hadn't expected anything less. Alex Krycek was not
the sort who gave up his advantages without cause, and having an
Assistant Director of the F.B.I. in one's pocket was too sweet a hand
to fold.

Fortunately, Skinner had discovered something important during the
three months they'd worked this case: Alex Krycek wasn't as big a rat
bastard as he made himself out to be. He actually possessed a spark of
humanity deep inside his treacherous hide, as well as a hither-to
unsuspected willingness to sacrifice himself for the greater good. He
hadn't had to offer himself up as bait, but he had, despite having no
guarantee he would survive. If he fought dirty, it was only because he
intended to win. That was an attitude --and a strategy-- Walter could
respect.

Because of Alex's machinations, Skinner had been moved out of the
enemy camp into the firm, grey void of no man's land. All things
considered, Skinner preferred limbo. There were worse things in life
than going down in the annals of history as the man who helped Alex
Krycek achieve his ulterior aims.

"Not *everything* will be the same old, same old, I hope," Skinner
husked in a come-hither croon.

Krycek gulped. This couldn't be his surly A.D. "You --you mean...you'd
want...*me*...again?" he stammered hopefully.

Skinner stepped forward and pressed his chest against Krycek's. He
gripped Krycek's bare ass and locked his lips to Alex's, tasting him,
exploring him.

Krycek froze for just an instant, then daringly thrust his tongue into
Skinner's mouth, tasting, tussling, running his hand up Skinner's
muscled back, down his sculpted ass, into his pants, and between his
crack.

Skinner kneaded Krycek's ass, bumped their groins together, rubbed
their penises to attention.

"Fuck me, Walter!" Krycek pleaded.

"No."

Krycek pulled away, suddenly suspecting he'd been played. "*No*?!"

"It wouldn't be fair to Dash," Skinner said with a simple toss of his
head in the nurse's direction.

Krycek deflated, but nodded acquiescence. "Yeah. You're right. Go on.
Get him to the hospital."

"No, you take the car. I can call 911."

"Krycek shook his head. "It's a rental. They wouldn't get it or their
money back unless you reported it stolen."

"Fair enough. I'll drop you at the bus station."

Krycek shrugged. "I'll need fare money."

Skinner hauled out his wallet and counted out two hundred dollars.
"There. That ought to get you back to D.C." Neither of them mentioned
the cache of funds hidden in the false bottom of Krycek's carry-all.

"But we drop Dash off at the hospital, first," Krycek said as he
snatched the money gratefully. "Last one to D.C. buys the beer."

"You're on," Skinner agreed.

###

CHAPTER TEN

#
"What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared
to what lies within us." --Ralph Waldo Emerson
#
Walter Skinner's condominium, Crystal City, Washington, D.C.
Friday, June 30th 
#

Walter Skinner opened his door warily. It had been three months since
he'd dropped Krycek off at the Barstow Bus Station but, at 5 p.m.,
when he'd been settling in for another long night of overtime at the
office, he'd been hit with a brief pulsing of nanocytes: Krycek's
signal to expect an appearance. When The Rat hadn't made his presence
known by 7 p.m., Walter decided to go home and damn the mess that
would greet him in the aftermath of the impending four day, July
Fourth holiday 'weekend.'

Skinner stepped into his condo and turned on the foyer lights, shut
and locked the front door, leaving his keys in the inside lock in case
he needed to make a quick get-away. Then he took his weapon in hand
and prowled the condo's ground floor.

Clear. 

He made his way silently upstairs. The door to his bedroom was ajar
and the lights were on.

Skinner placed the flat of his palm against the outer edge of the
bedroom door and pushed it wide, bounding through the opening, gun
aimed at the bed. The sight that greeted him brought him up short.

Krycek, wearing his no longer brand new black leather jacket, was
splayed over the top of Skinner's royal blue comforter displaying all
of his considerable physical assets to their best effect while
simultaneously balancing the four remaining cans of a six pack of beer
on his bare stomach. The fifth can was in the waste basket beside
Skinner's nightstand. The sixth can was in Alex's fist. The rest of
Alex's clothes were folded neatly atop Skinner's clothes bureau.

"You're over-dressed," Skinner commented idly of The Rat's single
article of apparel as he felt his cock stir to life.

Krycek grinned, noticing the tenting of Skinner's pants. "Just wanted
to make sure you recognized me."

"It has been awhile," Skinner agreed. "I see you remembered to buy the
beer."

"A wager is a wager." Alex took a languorous swig of brew and,
waggling his naked toes at the burly A.D., he dribbled some amber
liquid into the hollow of his navel. "Care for a taste? It's not too
bad for canned."

Skinner returned the smirk, holstering his weapon. "S'matter of fact,
I would --*after* I check the room for bugs."

Alex shrugged, not bothering to tell Skinner he'd already swept the
entire condo, but frowned at his navel. "The beer'll get warm."

"Hey, I survived England," Walter smiled. Satisfied that the bedroom
was clean, he returned to the foot of the bed and stared at his soon
to be lover lustfully.

Krycek responded to his blackening eyes with a moan. "Ohhh, Walter."
His penis flopped like a beached fish gasping its last.  "Can 'Sergei'
come out and play?"

Skinner growled wordlessly and stripped quickly, kneeling over The Rat
to slurp up the warmed dollop of booze in Alex's bellybutton before
liberating his own can of brew and popping it open. He chugged it
down, tossed the empty into the trash cavalierly, then planted his
arms on either side of Krycek's body and leaned down to capture
Krycek's mouth with his own. "Hmm.... Tastes good."

Krycek set the remaining beer on the shelf behind his head, where he'd
already laid out lube and condoms. "Wanna suck your cock," he murmured
as Walter came up for air.

Walter scooted up to allow Alex access to the requested organ. Krycek
kissed and licked it teasingly, until a growl from Walter impelled him
to attack it whole-heartedly. He sucked it rigid and pulled off.
"Hmm.... Been dreaming of this. Tastes so fine. Fuck me, Walter. Fuck
me now."

Walter availed himself of the convenient supplies, but took a moment
to explore Krycek's depths with a few, well lubricated fingers. He
could feel the ridges of scar tissue in Krycek's rectum, hard cords
amid the silky heat, so he slowed to work the tight passage loose, not
wanting to injure Krycek when he penetrated him.

Krycek snarled like a boneless cat. "Come on, baby, don't keep me
waiting."

"*'Baby'*?!" Skinner protested, but he obligingly positioned his
condom sheathed cock at Alex's hole and drove it home with a quick
thrust. "I'm nobody's baby."

Krycek gasped at the sudden fullness. "OK. Fine. Monster. Giant.
Leviathan."

Walter froze as well, trying not to explode on impact.

Krycek, sensing his distress, began to milk him with his inner
muscles, wanting him frantic.

Skinner growled again. "Stop that!" He squeezed the base of his penis
to force a little control over the situation.

Krycek grinned wickedly, but relaxed as ordered.

Skinner sighed with relief. When he felt ready, he began to move. In.
Out. In. Out. The ridges of scar tissue were actually stimulating,
like a built-in French Tickler.

"Oh, yeah!" Krycek crowed. "Make it burn!" He ground his own hips in
counterpoint to Skinner's. "Yes! Like that! Right there! Do it again!"

Skinner felt his balls draw up. He thrust harder, faster. Slamming his
balls against Krycek's ass. Again. Again. He roared, his ass spasmed,
his back bowed, his teeth clenched, and his orgasm spewed out of him,
filling the latex sheath.

Skinner collapsed on his bed partner and wheezed like an old steam
engine for a few minutes, then he clamped a hand around the top of the
condom and carefully pulled free with a grunt and a wet "smack."

Directly on the heels of his liberation, Krycek farted loudly, long,
and most foully.

Skinner leapt off the bed, fanning his arms, and rushed to open a
window. "Jesus Christ, Krycek! That was lethal!"

Krycek smirked. "Hell, Skinner, nothing's better than cooking with
gas!"

Skinner shook his head. When he deemed the air had cleared
sufficiently, he came back to the bed and claimed Krycek's mouth
again. "Hmmm. Wanted this. Wanted you."

"Yeah? Since when, Mr. Straight AD?"

"Since the night you came over here with those victim files of yours."

"Why?"

Skinner paused and rolled back to give himself a little assessing
space. "'Cause I'd finally figured out you were on the side of the
angels, and that night you let me see the real you. I like the real
you."

"How do you know it's the real me?"

Skinner nuzzled Alex's neck. "Hmm...'cause I asked Mikey and Irene and
Jack."

Krycek bolted upright. "You did what?"

Skinner sighed and propped his head up with an arm. "It defied the law
of averages, but once Mulder started thinking about you and Mikey, the
more he was convinced he'd seen you --or someone who looked an awful
lot like you-- on one of his past cases. You know Mulder. The minute
he got back to D.C. he started digging, and he didn't stop until he
found the x-file in question --and may I say that sheer dumb luck as
regards survival seems to run in the family? According to the file,
the year before you turned up at the Hoover, Mikey --full name Michael
Gleason-- was the only survivor/victim of some sex-changing, life
force sucking alien who left a trail of dead bodies all along the
eastern seaboard. He's a stock broker, by the way. A pretty successful
one, too, from what I could see.

"Mulder and I went to Massachusetts to make a positive I.D. the
week-end I got back to D.C. from Frisco--"

Alex gasped. "So *that's* why you were so anxious to leave! You knew
that Mulder was going to see Mikey!" //I thought it was me,// was his
bleaker, unspoken thought.

Skinner nodded. "I wanted to make sure I was there to keep a rein on
Mulder's mouth." Not to mention he wanted to see 'Mikey' for himself.


"Does that mean-- Mulder didn't-- You didn't tell Mikey that I
murdered Mulder's father, or about the Consortium, or that I lost my
arm?" Alex stammered.