Chapter Ten

Something cold and wet dribbled down his forehead, and Krycek rose blearily
to consciousness, pain throbbing in his head and wrists. The familiar attic
room swayed around him, and when he tried to move he realised he was cuffed
to the chair. Mulder was standing over him, squeezing icy water from a cloth
held inches above Krycek's head, as though he couldn't bear to get any
closer. Krycek looked up and met his eyes. They were hard and flat and
furious, and they seemed to look right through him. He felt unconsciousness
welling up in him again and half-welcomed it, but Mulder snapped "Krycek!"
in a tone like the crack of a whip, and Krycek frantically seized on his
remaining shreds of consciousness.

"So it was you after all." Mulder's voice was cold and distant. "You killed
my father, and you've been playing me along this whole time."

"It wasn't like that, Mulder," Krycek croaked. "I had to - "

"I *heard* what Carter said. What you both said."

"Then you know that what I told him wasn't the truth! Mulder, I had to make
him believe! We needed resources we could only-"

Mulder punched him, hard, making the pain in his head flare sickeningly.

"And what were you assigned to make *me* believe? How do I know what the
truth is? I can't trust a single word that comes out of your mouth now. I
never should have in the first place. And my father - "

Mulder kicked the chair and it went over backwards. Krycek's throbbing head
hit the floor and he heard himself cry out helplessly at the pain. Fighting
back nausea he gasped, "I wasn't playing with you, Mulder, but he was. He
was using you for his experime-"

"Shut the *fuck* up!" yelled Mulder, and Krycek was cowed into momentary
silence by the wildness in the other man's voice. "*He* used me? What about
you? You never wanted to stop this thing, did you? You just wanted your own
piece of the action. And I was your way in." He laughed bitterly.

"No!" protested Krycek. "It wasn't like that! At least, not once I - look, I
- I haven't been telling you the whole truth, Mulder, and I want to, please
just let me tell you - look in the files he gave me, in *his* files, he
wasn't really  -"

Mulder kicked the chair again, jarring Krycek's head once more, and Krycek
gagged on his words. Mulder was pacing the narrow room now, his face
twisted, hands gripping his head as if he too were in pain. Then he spun
towards the table and kicked that over too, scattering his papers around the
room.

"Mulder!" Krycek called, and was appalled at the thin cracked sound of
desperation in his voice. He tried to summon the instincts that had always
guided him through times like this, but all he found in himself was
exhaustion. He could tell Mulder the truth, but what difference could it
make now, now that he had lost whatever trust Mulder might have put in him?
He could hear defeat in his voice already as he said, "He wasn't really your
father, Mulder."

And then Mulder was standing over him again, fists clenched and face livid.
"Liar!" he said contemptuously, and spat on the floor next to Krycek's face.

That hurt almost more than the blows, and Krycek tiredly closed his eyes,
waiting for the blows he was sure would follow. Waiting.

And waiting. And at the sudden sound of Mulder's running foot-steps, opened
his eyes again, to see the door hanging open and Mulder disappearing down
the stairs.

*  *  *

Mulder stared down at Krycek on the floor, watching the eyes in the bruised
face squeeze shut, his features pull tight with pain and tension. And
suddenly it was like he was right *there*, back at the ski lodge, staring
down at Krycek in the skylight, rage and shame and unthinkable desire
roiling through him as he caught sight of the hand that clutched his jacket.
And then, as the scene played itself out in agonising slow motion in his
mind, there came the moment that he had tried so hard to turn his mind from,
the moment of realisation that his father would never know this new shame
and failure, would never punish him again because Krycek ...

Krycek had killed him. And the emotion that had swept through Mulder at that
moment hadn't been anger or loss but one wild triumphant rush of... relief?

And the thought knocked the breath out of him like a blow, and he ran.

Down the stairs and out the front door he hurtled, with no thought for
surveillance or pursuit, fleeing Krycek's bruised face and his own sudden
terrible knowledge. He knew he should stop and think, that the things he had
discovered today changed everything. But he didn't seem able to stop his
feet, and he let them carry him on until he found himself standing at the
corner of Skinner's street. And even though he knew it was foolish he kept
going, let his feet take him the rest of the way into Skinner's building.

Skinner opened his door quickly to Mulder's furious pounding, then took an
involuntary step back, and Mulder wondered vaguely just how crazed he must
look. Then Skinner pulled him inside and slammed the door behind him,
exclaiming, "Mulder! What's happened?"

"Krycek killed my father!" said Mulder angrily, "He - I followed him, and he
met with Carter, and Carter said - " he tried to go on, but his voice had
disappeared, and Skinner was looking at him with concern.

"Slow down, Mulder. I don't understand what you're trying to tell me. I'm
not surprised to turn Carter up at the heart of something rotten, but Krycek
- you always said that Krycek killed your father."

"Yes - but ... he ... I ..." Mulder stammered, feeling suddenly bereft and
foolish, not knowing what to say. Skinner stretched out an arm towards him
and Mulder pushed it violently away, and at the look on Skinner's face it
all came pouring out. "Don't you see? I was *glad* that he was dead. Krycek
killed my father and I was *relieved* - I couldn't disappoint him anymore,
he would never get at me again because he was *dead*. And I must have known
that Krycek was lying when he denied it, I don't even think he tried very
hard to convince me. And I couldn't get the pants off him fast enough. I
might as well have killed my father myself. What kind of man - "

"Stop," Skinner commanded, taking hold of Mulder's shoulders. "Stop it. Your
self-inflicted guilt won't do anyone any good right now. I knew your father,
and I know it can't have been easy being his son. I think it would be more
surprising if you didn't have mixed feelings right now. But save your hate
for the men who planned this thing. *You're* not the one who killed him. And
as for you and Krycek - "

But Mulder shook his head stubbornly. "There's no excuse. No excuse at all.
God, I don't even know why I came here, or if anything I told you was real -
he could have just been setting me up this whole time!"

Skinner shook him slightly, making Mulder feel like a rag-doll in the grip
of those big hands. Then he slid his hands from Mulder's shoulders to cup
the younger man's face, forcing him to look at Skinner. "Look, Mulder, I
don't trust Krycek, and neither should you. But he hasn't just been lying to
you - the evidence shows that he's given you the pieces of something big,
and you can't let the way you're feeling interfere with what needs to be
done. We've all done things we regret, and I know it's hard to learn things
about yourself that you never wanted to know - "

"How would you know *anything* about it!" Mulder interrupted, and Skinner's
eyes flashed with sudden pain and he pulled Mulder's face to him and stopped
his mouth with a kiss.

For one moment Mulder went rigid with shock. Then he fell in against that
broad chest, so different from Krycek's lean and supple form. And then
Skinner's large frame was backing him gently but inexorably towards the
couch, warmth and pressure and those big sure hands leaving him breathless,
head spinning.

Mulder's calves hit the edge of the couch and he fell helplessly back onto
it. Skinner was kneeling between Mulder's thighs, stripping his shirt from
him, and Mulder felt the heat of the big man's body and the hardening bulge
at his crotch as Skinner leaned in, pinning him, and caught his mouth in
another fierce kiss...

...and it was strange to be mastered so sweetly, his body laid bare, pinned
down, commanded to helpless pleasure by the big firm hands. Shakily he
reached up to yank open Skinner's shirt, and the other man caught his hands
and anchored them while he bent his mouth to one of Mulder's nipples, making
him arch and gasp.

Skinner shifted his grip and Mulder hissed as his knuckles flared with pain.
But it wasn't Skinner who was hurting him, he realised foggily. His knuckles
were bruised from hitting Krycek, and the memory of Krycek's battered face
suddenly stopped his spinning head and made his stomach twist sourly. The
rage in those blows, he realised, had been aimed as much at himself as at
Krycek, and now, even as Skinner's mouth moved down his torso, his mind
clicked into overdrive, thinking of what Krycek had said to him.

Krycek hadn't told Carter the truth, either - why was Mulder so sure that
Krycek was betraying *him*? He had known, after all, that Krycek was getting
inside information somehow, and he had never even stopped to think what
price the other man might be paying for it.

No, he had just sulked like a child at his own inactivity and frustration.
And Mulder had a sudden painful vision of the life he had left behind and
the way he had moved through it like that same sulky child, making his
little gestures of rebellion but never truly leaving behind the authority he
had thumbed his nose at, always returning in the end for his father's
approval or the Agency's sanction. He thought of all the tantrums and
jurisdictional infringements and insane expenses he had thrown at Skinner
and the Agency, trusting that they would patiently clean up after him. And
now here he was again, as though Skinner could fix this too.

And suddenly all he could think of was Krycek's lean scarred body and
moonlit colouring, of their strange journey over the past weeks as they
worked and fought and slept together with no one there to pick up the
pieces. He thought of the way they struggled each night to leave their
crimes against each other behind, opposing sides forgotten as they gained
the charmed middle kingdom of each other's arms, that place where they
became some strange new whole that was more than the sum of its parts. How
that was terrifying, and so sweet.

He didn't know what the truth was, or even Krycek's story - he hadn't even
let him try to tell it. But surely he owed Krycek that much, owed him a
chance to explain himself. And he owed it to both of them to try and face it
himself.

"Stop!" he husked out as Skinner undid his belt-buckle. And then again, more
definitely, "Stop! We can't do this," and he gently but firmly took hold of
Skinner's shoulders and pushed the other man off him.

Skinner stared at him, pupils dilated, expression dazed, then pulled away
and rubbed at his face with his hands. "Christ," he said. "Oh god. I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to take advantage."

"You didn't,' said Mulder. "I'm here too. And I *do* have a gun." He gave
Skinner a lopsided smile. "But I think this would be a mistake."

Skinner stood up, rubbing his face again, and after a moment nodded
silently. There were a few awkward moments as they both simply looked at
each other, then Skinner cleared his throat and said "Well. Um - Carter.
What do you want me to do with this information? Alert internal security?"

"Too risky," said Mulder. "They may be compromised. Just keep your ear to
the ground, and be prepared. I think I have to follow through on some things
on my own."

Then on impulse he extended his hand, and Skinner, after a few seconds,
clasped it and shook it. It could have felt ridiculous, a *handshake*, after
all their hands had been doing to each other just moments ago. But it
didn't.

Then Mulder took a deep breath and walked out the door.

*                                 *                                  *

The door shut behind Mulder, and Skinner turned and walked restlessly to the
window, staring down at the hurrying figures far below. He could feel a
headache crawling up the back of his neck, and he consciously unclenched his
jaw, trying to head it off. He glanced over his shoulder at the drink Mulder
had interrupted, but oblivion held no more appeal tonight. He looked back
down at the streets below, but Mulder was nowhere in sight.

The apartment was quiet and dark and warm at his back, and he pressed his
forehead against the glass of the window before him, welcoming the slight
bite of cold. Strange that it had come to this. He was a middle-aged man
now, and before this year he'd begun to think that life held no more
surprises for him; he'd serve out the rest of his career behind a desk, he'd
retire and be left in peace with his pension, his books and his thoughts,
his small circle of old friends.

And now - he couldn't guess what the future held for him now. The Agency had
betrayed a lifetime of loyalty, and a plan was afoot, if Mulder was right,
that threatened even more than that. And he had to wonder how he had been
used, what unwitting role he had played in it all.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and he spun tensely from the window. Their
familiar rhythm gave him a sudden stab of panic; it was Degan.

After the debacle at the ski lodge, Degan had started to appear less and
less frequently at meetings with Carter. Skinner had noted this with
alternating dread and optimism - he didn't want to believe that Degan had
been involved in Bill Mulder's murder, but he knew he'd be foolish to
dismiss the thought, and he didn't know if Carter's displeasure was a good
or a bad sign - even before Mulder's news, he'd hadn't trusted the man.

So he'd brooded quietly to himself, conscious of all the ways that his
affair with Degan might have compromised him, but unable to bring himself to
end it. He wondered just who his words tonight had been meant to comfort,
Mulder or himself. And just who, in that first fierce kiss, he'd thought
he'd been taking in his arms.

Now he heard the door, and Degan's voice calling "Skinner! Mulder was
spotted on the security cameras in your building! Has he tried to - "

Then he came skidding into the room and took in the scene before him, the
disordered couch, Skinner's clothes in disarray, his lips swollen and face
stung red with stubble-burn. He halted abruptly.

"No," he said. "Oh no. No. Don't tell me. He can't leave me anything, can
he? Can't leave me one single thing!"

The last year hadn't been kind to Degan. He was thinner than ever, his
natural slightness grown nearly gaunt, his bones painfully close to the
surface of his skin. He glared at Skinner now, then turned as if to leave,
swaying unsteadily on his feet when Skinner shot past him to block the door.

"Oh no you don't!" said Skinner angrily. "No running off this time. This
time I want some answers."

Things had started to change after one of Degan's now rare appearances at
one of Carter's briefings. Skinner had been back in his own office, getting
ready to leave, when Degan had appeared and, without speaking, began to
strip. It was done with a jerky, deliberate viciousness - buttons torn from
their holes, tie yanked loose hard enough to snap his head forward, belt
pulled from his belt-loops with such force that the end whipped up and left
a reddening welt across his stomach.

Skinner had half-risen at that, itching to help, to take over with careful,
gentle fingers, but he was knocked back into his chair by the force of
Degan's glare, and could only watch, flinching and confused, until Degan
stood naked and reached across the desk to him.

It was the first time Degan had come to him this way, with no excuse or
demand, but it wasn't the last, and Skinner found himself drawn deeper and
deeper into something he knew was a danger to them both. Degan seemed
stretched as tight as the skin of a drum, a thin surface covering an empty
echoing space beneath, and as weeks went by he grew more and more intense,
almost desperate, casting his body against the larger man as if to batter
himself to pieces.

Skinner couldn't even imagine what reserves of strength Degan could be
drawing on to hold himself together, and he started to feel a grudging and
helpless respect for the sheer power of will involved. But he feared what
would happen when the younger man's reserves ran out. He had tried to get
him to talk about what was going on, what had rendered him so obviously
distraught, but Degan had disappeared for two weeks afterwards, and Skinner
was afraid to press further.

So he let himself go with it, riding out Degan's increasing frenzy, holding
him tight afterwards as the younger man collapsed against him, his breaths
so harsh they were almost sobs. And if he was honest, he had to admit that
it was exciting letting go like that, giving into a force that even he
couldn't control.

He had found himself staying later and later at work, half-hoping Degan
wouldn't come, half-sick with worry when he didn't. "This is ridiculous!" he
had finally growled one night, and Degan had pulled away, eyes suddenly
bright and dangerous. Skinner had caught his shoulders and said, "Don't try
to tell me you don't know where I live. And I'm sure that access is no
problem for you either. Why don't you just come there."

And Degan had, a handful of times, showing up without warning or explanation
and leaving again almost as soon as the sweat on his body had dried. Skinner
never questioned how he came and went, or what new level of danger this
represented for both of them. He knew he wouldn't like the answers.

Now Skinner glared down at him, wondering if it was knowledge of the plans
Mulder suspected that had given the edge to Degan's desperation. He had so
many questions - were Mulder's suspicions true? Who else was involved, and
how deeply was the Agency implicated? And what did Degan's comments about
Mulder mean?

Degan tried to push by him and Skinner grabbed him by the arms and growled
"What the hell do you want from me!?"

Both men blinked; it was not the question either one had expected. Skinner
was gripping Degan's arms so tightly it had to hurt but Degan made no sound,
just stared at him. More gently this time he said, "Degan - *Matthew* - what
do you want from me?" and to his horror the younger man's face crumpled in
grief, though his eyes remained dry and the voice that issued from his
twisted mouth was eerily calm and distant as he said, "You're hurting me."

Skinner snatched his hands away and turned his back, expecting to feel Degan
brush by him.  Behind him, though, was only stillness and troubled
breathing.

Then, unexpectedly, Degan's hands were on him, their slight tremor familiar
but not their sudden gentleness. They smoothed comfortingly down his back,
and then Degan's voice said softly, "I'm sorry," and this was nearly enough
to undo him totally.

"You're sorry?" he said, his voice sounding husky and dazed. This was so
strange it was disorienting, Degan apologising, Degan comforting him, and he
was suddenly at a loss, his eyes dampening in a sensation so long forgotten
that for a second he was simply confused.

Then he turned and caught Degan in his arms and the younger man leaned into
him with a melting boneless *give* he had never felt from him before.
Degan's voice was grief-stricken and ragged and somehow much younger as he
said over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry --  they wanted
your cooperation, wanted you implicated and I didn't know, didn't know that
it could be - that you would - that I -,"

His voice kept breaking incoherently, and Skinner stroked his back, saying,
"It's all right, it's all right," even though he knew it wasn't, that this
was if anything only a start to everything that had to be put right. But a
start was better than nothing at all and he took hold of Degan's hands,
running his thumbs along the strange bands of scar-tissue on his wrists, and
said for the third time, "What do *you* want from me?"

Degan pulled away gently and looked at him. "I'm in trouble," he said, "Real
trouble. Will you help me?"

"Yes," said Skinner, and then he pulled Degan back into his arms.

=====================================
To be continued.

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