Chapter 5
The next year brought chaos to the agency. The incident at the ski-
lodge had brought internal tensions to a head, and a byzantine tangle
of factions, alliances, plots and counter-plots surfaced until no one
knew for certain what had been intended for whom. The orders that had
paired Mulder with Krycek and sent him to Quebec were traced to one
of the assistant section-heads. A day later he was found dead in his
office, his own gun in his mouth. That was the first suicide. Two
more followed.
Mulder barely noticed. A thick haze of misery had settled over him
and it was all he could do to force his eyes open each morning, to
keep going as though he still meant it.
Scully had been restored to him with a few gruff words from the
Director. "Scully's back," he had said. "You'll be working together
again. Wasn't my idea to split you up in the first place. Hope you're
feeling better."
He supposed he should be grateful. It was as close to an apology as
he was likely to get, and he actually believed the man, knew he had
gone to bat for them more than once.
But he found it difficult to care. He had tried to pick up his leads
on Dr. Himmelman again, more determined than ever to discover the
truth, but his efforts were thwarted at every turn. He sensed
Scully's growing frustration with this obsession, the way it
distracted him from their other work, interfered with the once easy
give and take of their partnership, but he refused to give up.
It seemed like someone was playing with him, always a step-and-a-half
ahead, there just before him to obscure the trail. All proof would
disappear except for a few taunting scraps, leading him only to
another dead end, telling him that had he been there sooner, thought
faster, he might have found something. As it was he found only
defeat, and the walls closed in on him a little more each day.
His father's death had never been satisfactorily solved. Ballistics
said that the gun in the dead agent's hand was the one that had
killed Dr. Mulder, but he didn't seem to have a motive of any kind
for the killing. Mulder's accusations against Krycek were ignored in
the rush to get both of them to hospital, and by the time he could
get anyone to listen, Krycek had disappeared. No one had seen him
since.
No one, that is, except Mulder. He was haunted by the man. He saw
reminders of him everywhere, each time his investigation came to yet
another halt. He'd glimpse those dark eyes in a crowd, catch the
distinctive silhouette of his head and shoulders disappearing round
a
corner, see the pale, high cheek-boned face caught for an instant in
the lights of a passing car. He mentioned these appearances to
nobody. He was beginning to think he was losing his mind.
The doctors had declared his collarbone healed but it still ached by
night, keeping him awake, leaving him to watch the minutes flash by
on his alarm clock. He couldn't forget the sight of his father's body
lying at Krycek's feet, limp and still and suddenly old without the
force of personality that had always radiated from him.
But he thought too of what his father had done to him, a cruelty
never, now, to be dealt with. Confusion filled him. He felt like he
didn't quite fit back into the life he had carefully built for
himself. Sometimes he thought about Matthew, about the scene he had
witnessed in the train, but it all seemed distant from him now. His
body felt dead, wooden, nerveless.
And through it all a sense of vague dread hung over him, as though
something had been set in motion that night on the train, something
that had not yet played itself out.
* * *
That night as he walked into his darkened apartment and a gun barrel
pressed into his back he felt neither fear nor surprise. He supposed,
distantly, that he'd been waiting for something like this. He knew
who it was even before he spoke. "Mulder," Krycek's voice said softly
in his ear "We have to talk."
Mulder thrust his elbow backwards, knocking Krycek's arm aside and
driving into his stomach. He grabbed for the gun but Krycek's other
arm swung round and clouted him on the side of the head surprisingly
hard, making him see stars. The hand was artificial, he realized, a
cleverly life-like model constructed of something harder than human
flesh could be.
He was still struggling but Krycek didn't fire, just knocked him to
the floor and pinned him with the weight of his own body, clamping
Mulder's wrists above his head with the unnaturally strong grip of
his prosthesis. His eyes stared into Mulder's from inches away.
He looked different. The agency uniform was gone, replaced by black
jeans, a leather jacket. His face had done some catching up with his
eyes, new lines and a certain gauntness aging him. His eyes were more
shadowed, and though they still held the mocking light he remembered,
there was something else in them now, something that looked strangely
like entreaty. "Mulder!" he said "Just hear me out."
Mulder remembered the same phrase from their conversation on the
train, his feelings at finding someone who thought like he did, who
understood. Then he remembered his father's body, the barrel of
Krycek's gun bearing down towards his skull, the way he had left his
presence at every failure, every misfortune, every set-back that had
befallen him since.
A wave of emotion so intense he couldn't put a name to it swept
through him, blotting out his vision for an instant, and he found his
mouth pressed to Krycek's, teeth seizing his full lower lip. Krycek
gave a grunt of surprise but then his mouth opened too and his tongue
thrust hard against Mulder's. Mulder felt Krycek's breath fill him
and his body responded violently, its wooden nervelessness banished
as his own breath grew ragged and his cock hardened, his mouth still
glued hungrily to the other man's. At once aroused and appalled, he
arched his back to throw Krycek off but the gesture only brought
their bodies tighter together, groin against groin, telling him that
Krycek too was hard. The dark-eyed man ground his pelvis against
Mulder's with a growl from deep in his throat and Mulder's stomach
flipped over, a red glow of anger and lust coiling through him.
Then Krycek pulled away, false hand still anchoring Mulder's wrists,
gun in the other now digging into the flesh beneath his chin.
Krycek's lips were red, wet and swollen and his eyes glittered
beneath a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. Mulder couldn't read
the expression on his face. He wondered if he was about to die.
There was a small sound from the gun and he braced himself but after
a long moment Krycek spoke and the weapon was removed from his
throat. "I didn't come here to kill you," he said. "If I had, you'd
be dead already. We have unfinished business, Mulder. I need your
help, and believe it or not, you need mine." He let the gun dangle
for a few seconds from one finger then sent it sliding away across
the floor.
Anger swept through Mulder again and he jerked his body sideways,
trying to escape the weight of the man above him, the pressure heavy
on his chest. Krycek reared back and hit him once, hard, across the
face. "That's for my arm". Then he leaned forward, grasping the hair
at the back of Mulder's head, and kissed him again.
Mulder responded despite himself, sending his own tongue plunging
past Krycek's sharp white teeth, a fierce heat rising inside of him,
burning away the dull haze of the last year. He groaned into Krycek's
mouth and felt his wrists being released, the other man tensing for
a
moment as he let go. Thoughts of escape had left him though and he
yanked at the leather jacket that Krycek still wore, pushing his body
against him.
The other man struggled out of it, his mouth on Mulder's face,
roaming over cheekbone, eyelid, jaw. Then he tugged at the front of
Mulder's shirt until it tore, his hands so pale they looked faintly
luminous against Mulder's golden skin as they slid down his body. He
began to lick the side of Mulder's neck, breathing against his
speeding pulse.
Shivers of sensation, both pain and pleasure, traveled through Mulder
from where Krycek's teeth nipped at his neck, from where his hand
tugged hard at his nipple, twisting it. He groaned again, louder this
time, and felt lips wrap hot and wet around his already abused
nipple. Krycek bit it sharply and Mulder arched his chest up against
the other man's mouth, hands fisting in the fabric of Krycek's shirt.
He pulled it loose from his pants and ran his hands over his back,
feeling the heat of his skin, the play of his muscles. His fingers
found the raised edge of a large scar running down from Krycek's
shoulder, and he felt him flinch ever so slightly as he touched it.
Then his conscious thoughts scattered as his fly was unzipped and
Krycek reached in and grasped his already erect cock. He ran his
thumb slowly, teasingly, around the head for a moment, spreading the
liquid that leaked from it, and Mulder felt his limbs go weak, his
head roll helplessly from side to side on the floor. This touch
traveled through him like lightning, stimulating nerves he hadn't
known existed. Gasping, he tried to summon rage to his rescue, the
knowledge that these hands had killed his father, but to his horror
the thought only wound him tighter, making his cock pulse in Krycek's
hand.
Krycek slid further down Mulder's body, mouth trailing across his
stomach in paths of wet heat that chilled quickly in the night air,
making Mulder shiver and moan. Then Krycek reached his cock and
paused. He held it still in his hand and Mulder could feel his hot
breath on it, a tickling touch that was torture in itself. He didn't
know what he wanted more at this moment, for this not to be happening
at all or for it never to stop.
His hips thrust upwards, involuntarily, answering his own question,
and he heard Krycek laugh softly before he lowered his lips to play
over the head of the hard shaft before him. He teased it with his
tongue, then lowered his head inch by inch to take it all in. Mulder
felt the silky warmth engulf him, Krycek's throat muscles undulate
against him, and heard inarticulate, imploring noises come from his
own throat. He grabbed at the muscles of Krycek's shoulders like
handles, tendons moving as Krycek's head slid back and forth in time
with the electric jolts of stimulation that traveled up his spine,
curled through his stomach.
It was more than he could stand. He knew he was going to come soon,
felt it irresistibly building, felt his hips bucking, his whole body
writhing, galloping towards climax. Krycek was teasing him, trying
to
keep him right on the edge, but Mulder's senses were overloaded and
he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. When the moment came and
it
burst out of him he was blinded, the tangled emotions within him
ignited, exploded, and purged, leaving him for brief transforming
moments in a still, dark place where he simply existed. Just himself,
no secrets, no mysteries, no anger or betrayal.
Then reality crept back in. He became aware of Krycek watching him,
his face for the moment unguarded, filled with questions. When Krycek
saw he was back the familiar mocking look returned and he said "So
does this mean you'll work with me?"
The spell of the moment was broken and Mulder lunged at him angrily.
Without protest Krycek allowed himself to be knocked over, making no
move to defend himself as Mulder straddled his chest, pinning his
arms with his knees. The gesture pushed his shirt up and the brush
of
his smooth skin against the naked backs of Mulder's thighs made a
spiral of desire start once more in Mulder's gut. "What the fuck
are
you talking about!" he demanded. "I'm supposed to work with you? I
need your help? You killed my father and you tried to kill me!"
Krycek was shaking his head, holding Mulder with his eyes, and as
Mulder's voice grew louder he spoke in a soft determined tone,
forcing Mulder to listen closely. "I didn't kill the man who was your
father," he said, with a curious exactitude, an odd emphasis, "Do you
think I'd be here if I had?"
Mulder sneered wordlessly at him, and Krycek's face hardened. "Fine,
you can believe whatever the fuck you want, but we still need to
talk. This is bigger than your father, Mulder, more important. And
O.K, I did try to kill you, but that was business, Mulder, nothing
personal, and I was as misled as you were. But listen to me now, just
listen, I can tell you some of the truths you wanted to know. I've
been working on this too. You know I have - you've seen me."
Mulder felt his face do something strange at the realization that
those glimpses had actually been Krycek, and the other man looked at
him oddly. "You never reported that, did you? What, did you think I
was a ghost or something?" He looked at Mulder a little more closely.
"No, not a ghost, you thought I was a figment. Poor Mulder, all
alone, thinking he's losing it." His voice mocked and caressed.
"No, I really was there, there waiting for you most of the time. I
can tell you about Himmelman, Mulder. They've been using me for their
dirty work, and I've listened and learned . . . we were right,
Mulder, something big is going down, something, something bad
. . .
" His thin face tightened and his voice died away.
Mulder wondered what "bad" could mean to a man who apologized for
attempted murder as if it were a minor lapse in etiquette.
Krycek went on. "We have to stop them - I've seen things on this case
. . ." His eyes darkened from indigo through violet and he shut them
momentarily. "I know you don't trust me but I'm here because I
thought you'd listen - it's all connected. Dr. Himmelman, the aliens,
maybe even the children, and I think there's a way we could work it
out to our advantage as well. Besides, I think we've demonstrated
there's a connection between us."
Mulder put his hand over Krycek's mouth to stop him from talking and
pushed his head roughly sideways, shivering at the feel of the other
man's lips against his palm. Despite himself he was being calmed by
his voice, drawn into the dark eyes, keenly aware again of Krycek's
skin against his own nakedness. The smell of sweat and sex rose from
their bodies, and he was losing himself in it, losing his
concentration. He tried to force himself back on topic, to understand
the implications of what Krycek had just said.
"Advantage? Profit? Power? Is that what you want out of this? You say
you know truths? Who knows what truth means to you! And all that
we've demonstrated here is that you're a - "
Caught up in his anger he had shifted his weight and now Krycek
flipped him, stopping his words with his mouth and struggling with
his own clothes, noisily kicking his shoes off. Then they were both
naked and Krycek's cock was rubbing against Mulder's stomach. Mulder
felt the heady weakness of pleasure flow through him again and he
fought it, sought the mass of scars on Krycek's shoulder again and
dug his fingers in angrily. Krycek jerked back, sucking air in
through his teeth, and pushed Mulder's hand away.
Mulder simply looked at him for a moment. Yes, he was thinner than he
had been a year ago, more worn, but still striking. In spite of his
dramatic colouring and his smooth, soft skin, he still looked
dangerous, predatory. It radiated from his stance, his posture, the
coiled readiness of his muscles. He was circumcised, his cock long
and dusky with blood compared to the milky paleness of the rest of
his body.
With his good hand he was massaging his truncated arm. The scars
started on his shoulder, some neatly surgical, their suture marks
clear, and others ragged, delineating the harsh paths the glass had
cut through his tissue. They grew thicker and more closely twined
further down his arm, then disappeared at the elbow beneath the flesh-
toned edge of his artificial arm.
"Take off your arm," said Mulder. Something dark flickered in
Krycek's eyes, and he made no motion to detach it.
"I'm serious. Take it off. Or I don't listen to anything else you
have to say."
With a few economical movements, Krycek detached the arm, letting it
fall to the floor with a heavy clunk. His mouth was twisted but
Mulder could see that his cock was getting harder.
He reached out a hand and touched the scars again, gently this time,
tracing their path down his arm to the stump, which he cupped in his
hand for a moment, feeling the slickness of skin grafts, the calluses
of the prosthesis. Then he raised it to his mouth and tasted it.
Krycek shuddered silently.
Mulder's own cock was fully erect once more and his body burned with
heat, though he knew it was cold outside, knew his apartment was
drafty and chilled. Krycek's hand flashed out and grabbed Mulder's
cock again, and Mulder's hips arched, once, helplessly, into his
touch. Krycek laughed, humourlessly.
"You're not so very different from me, are you? You talk about truth
all the time, you've made it your own personal grail, but what've you
been hiding from yourself? You judge me, but you've hunted for power
too, for control. How many people's lives have you marched all over
in your precious search for truth?"
Deliberately he reached out and ran the smooth end of his stump down
Mulder's chest. "Look at you, this is turning you on, the thought
that you took my arm."
He squeezed Mulder's cock nearly tight enough to hurt. His words
touched a sense of unease deep within Mulder, a doubt about his
actions that he hadn't even known he felt. He thought about Scully,
drawn away from her family at his whim time and time again, about the
petty secrets he had proudly uncovered in some of his investigations,
without any thought to how such revelations might affect people's
lives.
He moaned with protest as much as pleasure as Krycek continued to
stroke his cock, but Krycek didn't let up. Mulder's limbs had gone
weak and Krycek moved in on him again, his stump against his chest.
"You like that, huh? I bet I know what you really want, what you've
wanted from the start. This is about power too, you know."
Krycek worked the pre-cum that was leaking from him down the length
of Mulder's shaft, making it slick. Then he moved over him until the
head of Mulder's cock rubbed against his cleft, nudged at his
entrance. Slowly he lowered himself onto it.
Mulder cried out as the first resistance gave way and the head of his
cock slid into the tight hot grip of Krycek's body. His own body
tried to take over, arching sharply, but Krycek stopped moving and
pinned his hips. Struggling for control, Mulder kept his eyes glued
disbelievingly to his former partner's face.
Krycek met his gaze, taunting, mocking, aroused. As he lowered
himself further, though, as Mulder felt the heat and the deep inner
pulse of his body close entirely around him, Krycek's expression
changed. A grimace of pain crossed his features and his eyes went
flat, haunted, inwards, as if this pain called up old ghosts, echoed
internally in a way he almost welcomed. Then it was gone and he
grinned down at Mulder again, lips wet and voice roughened as he said
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
As Krycek began to move Mulder sucked in air in a gasp. Every twitch
and shift of Krycek's body drew him deeper into a descending spiral
of pleasure that drove the air from his lungs, darkened the edges of
his vision. His whole body started to sweat and it stung him, his
skin felt raw, as though a layer had been peeled from it. Krycek,
face tight and concentrated, raised and lowered himself slowly, once,
twice, three times, until Mulder was panting, but the red glow was
flashing through him again, lust and anger and the feel of Krycek's
body pinning him down.
When Krycek rose again Mulder pulled himself upright and shoved him
hard in the chest. The other man fell sideways and Mulder grunted as
his cock bent painfully and then slid free. He grabbed Krycek's good
arm and twisted it up behind his back, forcing him forward on his
knees until his head and shoulders touched the ground. Still holding
his arm he plunged into him again.
Krycek cried out but didn't attempt to get away and this somehow made
Mulder even angrier. He grabbed Krycek by the neck, long fingers
reaching half way round his throat, and thrust into him harder,
hearing guttural sounds coming from deep in his own chest. The red
light climbed higher, rose up before his eyes, distorting his vision,
and he pressed Krycek's neck harder against the floor, fingers
squeezing until he heard the other man's breath rattle obstructed in
his throat and suddenly realized what he was doing.
There was truth to what Krycek had said, truth he had kept from
himself for too long. All these years he had worked to be right, to
be righteous, to be the one who knew and understood and was in
control. And all along he had understood nothing.
He was suddenly aware of Krycek's heartbeat striking counterpoint to
his own, the desperate rhythm of the other man's straining breath,
the tension of the body twisted beneath him. He released Krycek's
neck and pulled his limp and sweat-slicked torso up against his own
chest. He dipped his tongue into the channel of the other man's
spine, tasting salt and musk, and Krycek shivered, breath still
rough. Mulder started to move again within him, still urgently but
without the punishing brutality that had seized him for those
frightening moments.
As he listened to Krycek's breathing, felt the movements of his inner
muscles around his cock, a strange thing happened to him. He felt the
boundaries between his own body and Krycek's melt away until he
couldn't tell, in the rising crests of pleasure, where his own ended
and the other man's began.
"Come on," gasped Krycek again "This is your chance, go on, hurt me,"
but Mulder kept his pace, speeding up only as their bodies quickened
in unison. When he reached down and began to work Krycek's cock he
could tell by its hardness, by the shift and pull of his muscles as
he moved back against him, that Krycek was deeply aroused. This was
no sacrifice he was making. He fastened his mouth to the back of the
pale neck, flesh firm between his teeth, and began his finishing
thrusts, rocking his partner's body fiercely with his own.
Krycek came first with an animal moan, the shock waves that ran
through his body pulling Mulder over the edge too, firing deep inside
him for what seemed like a very long time.
It was less annihilating this time but deeper, slower, more seismic,
as though the geography of his body were shifting, changing. He felt
Krycek collapse beneath him and fell with him to the floor, where
they lay in a panting heap, legs entwined.
Mulder's arms circled Krycek's chest, and neither made any move to
pull apart as their bodies slowly cooled. Mulder felt sleep like
oblivion start to creep over him and did not fight it, giving in to
Krycek's presence there and letting himself drift. His sleep was deep
and dreamless.
*
*
*
Krycek didn't sleep. He lay there, hardly believing what had just
happened, watching Mulder's curled fist slowly relax in his sleep.
Watching Mulder. He had been assigned to watch him over this last
year, a punishment, he supposed, for the near-disaster at the ski-
lodge. "Keep close to him," his masters had said, "watch what he
does, where he goes, who he talks to. Find out what he knows. Find
out what he *thinks*. But don't touch him. If he gets too close,
shift our operations. We need him alive."
So he had stayed close, always near but hidden. And he had watched
Mulder, first dutifully and then with a kind of careful attention .
.
.
The man could be a bastard, he could, stubborn and selfish and single-
minded to a fault. He was a penance as a partner, leaving Scully half
in the dark until the inevitable call in the wee hours of the morning
that dragged her out to some obscure location where he needed her.
And as for his conduct as an agent, Krycek couldn't believe the
Director hadn't disciplined him years ago - he seemed to bring
nothing but trouble to their section. He could be arrogant and
ruthless in a way he didn't even seem to notice, ignoring the havoc
his obsessive quest wreaked around him.
It was this unexpected streak of ruthlessness that first captured
Krycek's grudging respect, and he had started watching him more
closely, watching him hunt blindly for answers, struggling against
forces he had no conception of. He watched him hit obstacle after
obstacle, frustrated time and time again but never giving up.
He watched the shadows beneath Mulder's eyes grow darker, the misery
in his posture increase, his face grow more haggard with tiredness
and defeat.
And finally he found that he was simply watching *him*, the way he
moved, that long-limbed rangy body, the distracted brush of fingers
through the hair that always fell in his eyes. Watching the way his
face changed, long nose and mobile lips and those slightly slanting
eyes. Sure, he could be a bastard, but he had in him some hard bright
core of purpose and integrity that Krycek could see more and more
clearly.
He began carrying an image of him, carefully, delicately, in the back
of his mind, an image that illuminated the murk and shadow he moved
through, the dark picture of the future he had glimpsed in his
master's plans. He had seen things, *done* things in their service
that had turned even his stomach, and as he tried to block them out
at night to sleep he found his mind returning to that image of Mulder
and his refusal to give up, no matter how misguided his quest might
be, how much he suffered for it.
He started to leave him hints, crumbs of information, not enough to
alert his own employers but something to take him just a little bit
further, let him know it wasn't windmills he was tilting at.
Mulder owed him more than he would ever imagine. The old men wanted
him alive but they weren't above a little rough discouragement,
sending someone to hurt him badly enough that he might give up his
search. Krycek had spotted their man waiting in an alleyway and
cheerfully slit his throat for him. Then he had waited in the
alleyway himself, watched Mulder arrive safely at the warehouse,
watched him register the signs of recent occupancy, the torn shipping
label from a certain medical supply company. Washing the blood from
his leather gloves that night Krycek had felt almost virtuous.
Sometimes, as one or the other of the old men touched him, as he
played their games, he would let himself imagine it was Mulder's
hands on his body, Mulder's mouth. The thought had brought strange
shivers to his nerve-endings, unaccustomed noises to his lips. He had
not allowed himself that fantasy very often.
He had never imagined anything like this.
==================================
Continue to next chapter.