Prone

AUTHOR:Sarah Ellen Parsons

DISTRIBUTION:Archive wherever you want, just keep my name attached because by 
god I want the credit/blame for this baby.

SPOILER WARNING:5th Season-ish post Red & Black, spoilers for everything Krycek- 
related that came before and then some.

RATING:NC-17!!! For goddess' sake, keep the children far, far away from this 
story!

CLASSIFICATION:A little something for everyone (twisted). Rape (there is NO 
violence involved), Story, Slash, Mulder Torture, Krycek/Scully, Krycek/Mulder, 
bondage, UST for everyone, A for Krycek, Chinese food, alcohol abuse, and H if 
you're evil and sick like me.

KEYWORDS:Run away. Away to the hills. Iiieee. Iiieeee. Iiiieeee.

SUMMARY:Krycek gets Medieval on yo' ass and waxes somewhat philosophical.

THANK YOUS:Thank you Punk Maneuverability for your awe-inspiring beta reading 
and fabulous advice and Thank You Dana1Muldr for your enthusiasm, beta, 
suggestions for further perversion and encouragement ever since I hit the 
newsgroup with my first story. Not to mention being cool enough to hang out with 
me in the middle of the night as I dumped paragraphs of this one to you over the 
e-mail as I wrote it.

NOTE: This story idea came to me as I was plowing through Traisa McDonald's "Covet" 
the same day I read a lot of the disturbing "Choirgirl" stuff by Jennifer Stoy (How 
did you ever get that from the Tori Amos dead baby album (Sequel to the Tori 
Amos breakup album, the Tori Amos bad relationship album and the Tori Amos 
pathetic self-image album)?). Anyway, in one part of the McDonald story she had 
Krycek say something I found rather interesting about doing Scully while Mulder 
watched. It was too much for me to resist. This also touches on some of the 
recent challenges involving Krycek abducting Scully in a car, though Rachel 
Anton already did a hell of a job with that idea in "My Way or the Hiway".

Note on verb tense: This was originally written in a mishmash of first person 
present tense and first person past tense (some of which remains - when Krycek 
talks about past events, of course) and I may not have corrected it all. My 
French is also probably incorrect, I haven't had French since 10th grade and 
that was a while ago. If you see a glaring error in any of it, please e-mail me 
and I will be able to correct it in subsequent versions.

DISCLAIMER:NOTE:None of the characters are mine. Like Chris Carter would ever 
allow this. Like I could earn money for writing it. Why bother to sue me?

Feedback welcomed at: se_parsons@yahoo.com.


Prone

prone \'pron\adj [ME, fr. L pronus bent forward, tending; akin to L pro forward 
- more at FOR] 1. Having a tendency or inclination; disposed (man is ~ to error) 
(is ~ to overlook such things) 2. Having the front or ventral surface downward - 
prone adv - pronely adj - proneness \'pron-nes\ n syn PRONE, SUPINE, PROSTRATE, 
RECUMBENT shared meaning element: lying down (entry from Webster's New 
Collegiate Dictionary)

Mulder drops his gun.

Scully will do anything to protect her partner.

I'm good at playing an advantage to survive.

It was just a matter of time before all of our natural tendencies 
serendipitously occurred in one another's presence.

And, being me, I couldn't help taking advantage of them. It was so easy, really. 
And I owe Mulder for all the crap I've taken off him in the past, for all the 
beatings he's given me, for all the times he was nasty when he really didn't 
have to be, just to show me how much he despises me.

He's so small sometimes. So petty. It makes me wonder why everyone considers him 
such a hero, a crusader, when he's really a lot more like that guy from Ivanhoe. 
You know, the Knight Templar, who everyone in the story thought was so pious, so 
proud and heroic when all he really wanted to do was fuck the little Jewish girl. 
What was his name again? Yeah, Brian de Bois Gilbert. And I guess seeing all 
Mulder wants is to kill me, that would make me the little Jewish girl.

And outside of betray him every chance I get, letting him get experimented on in 
Russia and double-crossing him every time he's trusted me, I really haven't done 
enough to make him want to do that. It was professional every time. I was doing 
a job for the people I work for. He should understand. But Mulder's made it 
personal. I guess it's because he's so sure I'm the guy who shot his father. He 
should actually give out a medal for that action. I mean, the old man was 
jerking him around so bad the day it happened you could tell it was the way it 
had always gone. All that guilt, all that weight, on someone who's your kid. It 
made me sick to listen to him. I couldn't stand to watch what he was doing to 
Mulder.

The old man was pathetic. Who could believe that anyone would even be like that? 
I mean, anyone who was supposed to be decent. Blaming someone for your own 
shortcomings, for your own fucking decisions. Consciously torturing someone else 
out of your own self-loathing. Letting him think he's guilty when you're really 
the one who is. And doing all of that to your own kid. Who you're supposed to 
protect and take care of, and love.

At least that's what they say on TV.

But Mulder doesn't know anything about that. And neither do I.

But he still blames me for offing the old man. I guess it helps alleviate the 
guilt at being glad he's dead.

And the funny thing about it is, that it really should be Scully who wants to 
kill me. I mean, she still thinks I had something to do with planning her 
abduction, when again, I was just doing my job with orders from higher up. She 
knows I was her replacement. She knows I've fucked Mulder over every time I've 
seen him. And he's the only thing that she really cares about in the world. I 
mean, she lives like a fucking nun just for the privilege of following him 
around.

Even when he abandons her every chance he gets.

Even when she gets hurt, kidnapped, experimented on, sterilized, is given cancer 
and then a child only to have it be murdered by the men who made it, too. Christ, 
she should be in a fucking mental hospital after all that. But she's not. She's 
here. With me. In the front seat of their departmental Ford Taurus, handcuffed 
and with her feet tied together with the belt from her trenchcoat.

Mulder's in the backseat, cuffed and unconscious. Pistol-whipped with the butt 
of his own gun. With a lump on his head the size of Rhode Island, which is where 
we're heading, incidentally. But I fucking owed him that for all the time's he's 
taken pleasure in beating the shit out of me just because he's crazier than I am 
and really likes hurting me. When I take great care not to do anything to hurt 
him.

At least nothing that doesn't need doing.

But it's Scully that should hate me, really. She's the one who should want to 
hurt me, even if only as the symbol, the minion of the people who did what they 
did to her. But I don't think she does. She's even saved me from him. More than 
once.

I appreciate that. I really do. It's not often anyone is kind to me. Especially 
when I know they don't want anything from it. And all that Scully wants is for 
me to go away and never show up again. That's all she wanted from the moment she 
first laid eyes on me, Mulder's new partner, her replacement.

I remember watching them as they talked down in the lab at Quantico, how they 
stood so close together, looking at one another, excluding everything else. It 
was like they fucking froze time so that they could stay longer that way. And 
they'd only known one another a year then. And it was so obvious to anyone with 
eyes. It was obvious to me.

And I hated them both, because no one has ever - no one will ever look at me 
like that. Especially not now. Not after what happened in Russia. Not with this 
fucking prosthetic arm that turns me into an object of pity, or scorn, depending 
on your point of view, instead of a man like any other. I know that Scully 
pities me. And I know that Mulder only lets himself feel hate.

Because he liked me before he knew what I was. He needed someone, and he was 
looking for that in me after Scully was taken away. He had become dependent. He 
couldn't do it alone any more. And he knows that I saw that - that I was willing 
to fill the void for him, for as long as it lasted.

And, for the record, here in my own head, I would have. I would have been his 
partner as sincerely as Scully ever was. It was my job to report on him, too. 
But I would have backed him up. I would have taken a bullet for him and expected 
him to do the same for me if it had been necessary. And I did fucking shoot 
Preacher down because I truly believed he had a gun and was going to kill Mulder. 
I wasn't under orders on that one. It did it all myself, like a big, big boy.

That's probably the one thing I hate the most. No one ever gives me credit for 
making my own decisions about things. I'm always a pawn of someone else. While I 
admit, I'm usually working for someone, it's the same as the way Mulder and 
Scully work for the FBI. You have a general mandate, but the rest is up to you. 
If they only knew how much of this stuff was my own idea, thinking on my feet, 
or pulling one out of my ass at the last second, they'd be totally amazed.

Like the bastards I work for actually got me out of that silo in North Dakota 
once the oil left me to phone home or whatever the hell it was doing. I did it 
myself. I fooled the stupid-ass anarchists. I used my contacts and found out 
about the courier and the rock. I busted those redneck fools to Mulder before 
they blew something up and killed a lot of innocent people. I got myself the 
hell out of the whole situation. Still intact, thank you very much.

I just wasn't as lucky once we got to Russia.

Damn Mulder for sucking up all the luck karma in the general Tunguska area.

If it had been him instead of me with that roving band of machete-wielding 
lunatics, we'd see how strong their partnership was then. We'd see how long 
Scully would hang around waiting for him to put the moves on her.

Scully's watching me as I drive the car. Lucky these big, American boats are all 
alike - automatics. She's watching me while I drive, like she watches him. Like 
I am him, her face turned toward me to map the changes in mine as we head down 
the road. She's also watching where we're going. Like it's going to help or 
something.

At first I really wasn't sure what I had in mind, just take 'em in to the bosses 
and see what we could do with them. But before I'd even gotten Mulder stowed 
away in the car I realized I wanted more than that. That it was payback time in 
a strange way. That I had to find a way to let them know what it feels like to 
other people to be around them - to people on the outside of them. That I wanted 
to let Scully know that the things I've done that have helped to hurt her really 
weren't personal, though Mulder insists on viewing them that way. That I've had 
enough of Mulder's contempt for me, when I really don't deserve it.

What I wanted was complicated and it was all tied up with a lot of things that 
make me uncomfortable to think about - even though I think about them all the 
time. I just really wanted to let them know what it feels like sometimes. And I 
wanted them to see me - me, Alex Krycek, not Mulder's vision of me which is as 
screwed up as anything else that comes out of his head. I want them to know they're 
wrong, even though they're probably the last two people on the earth who will 
ever admit as much.

I also had to find a way to make them look at themselves - to provide them the 
benefit of an outside observer, an interested observer, to teach them a few 
things. It was too good an opportunity to miss. And what they have is something 
too perfect for me not to want to mess with it - or to share it.

But that's not something I'll readily admit. Not even to myself. So I just let 
that thought slide on past and glance again at Scully watching me even as she 
watches the highway.

I brace my prosthetic arm against the steering wheel, fingers gripping to hold 
it steady. I reach my right arm out to touch the side of her face as she looks 
at the road ahead, just the lightest graze of my fingers across the soft skin of 
her cheek.

She jerks her head away, like she's been burned. "Hey, Scully, are you OK?" I 
ask, pretending it hadn't happened, placing my right hand back on the wheel with 
the fake one. "I mean, we've been driving a long time. Do you have to go to the 
bathroom or anything?"

She looks at me and I can see the wheels turning behind her blue eyes. She's 
calculating how easy it might be to try to escape me if we should stop. If she 
thinks she has a hope in hell, she doesn't really know me very well. But 
underestimating me is characteristic of most people. Which in a lot of ways ends 
up being another advantage for one Alex Krycek. But still, there's no reason for 
her to be uncomfortable. I'm not here to torture her. Really I'm not.

At least, not like that.

"I'm fine, Krycek," she says.

"How about Alex," I smile winningly at her. I know it's winningly because it's 
worked on a lot of other people before. And I can be pretty winning when I have 
a reason to be. And right now, I want to win her over. Oh, yeah, I definitely 
want to do that. "I'm not a "Special Agent" any more and I'm not Mulder. I don't 
have a problem using my first name."

"But maybe I do," Scully says. Just to be contrary, really. There's no reason 
she shouldn't call me Alex. She knows me better than a lot of people.

"Suit yourself, Dana," I say, just to make sure she's paying attention.

She gives me a dirty look. A patented, bona fide Scully dirty look. One that she 
usually reserves just for Mulder, so I'm perversely pleased. In fact, this whole 
thing I've got planned is pretty perverse when you get down to it.

But it's the only way I really have of showing them just how much I care.

No, really.

Whether they know it or not, Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully of the 
FBI are the closest thing I have on earth to friends. Scary, huh?

Because, well because of a lot of reasons, like, "the enemy of my enemy is my 
friend" and "a worthy enemy is as good as a friend" and "the true opposite of 
love isn't hate, it's indifference". Because of all those things and a lot more 
that are more subtle and complex than I can really line up and look at. They're 
all so loaded up with memories and feelings and other things that cloud the 
judgment. All I know is how I feel about them. And it's not indifference.

And they don't feel that way about me, either.

I mean, if Mulder was really indifferent, he wouldn't be trying to kill me all 
the time.

If he really hated me, he would just shoot me and not have to try to beat the 
shit out of me every time he sees me. He's a fucking psychologist and supposedly 
a brilliant one and he doesn't realize the reason he's got to put his hands on 
me? Even I can see it, and I don't have a degree.

He does it, well, because he wants to. And it's the only way he can allow 
himself to touch me. It's the only thing he can look at or live with in his own 
head.

The complex way the two of them make adjustments to not deal with how they feel 
never ceases to amaze me. Whether it's the way they juggle their feelings for 
one another, or for me, it's all part and parcel of the same thing. They can't 
let themselves look there, or go there, because they think it will make 
everything they've built come down like a house of cards.

Because, and this is the really beautiful part - their biggest weakness - no 
matter how much they talk and promise and vow to one another that they have the 
other's trust, is that they can't trust one another in the most intimate part of 
their lives. So they really did take the Informant's words to heart - Trust No 
One. Not even each other. How sad for them. How great for me. Because it gives 
me my in. Gets me on the inside like I had a pass, or in this case a Get Into 
Jail Free card.

And I mean to play that card today. Oh, you better believe I'm going to play it.

"Mmmmrrpph," a Mulder moan from the back seat. Scully turns immediately, of 
course. And I take my cue to find us a nondescript motel, and quick, before he 
wakes up enough to give me trouble.

I know Mulder's dad's place is nearby. But I won't go there. I don't want things 
to get cluttered. I want this to be about us.

Fortunately it's a resort area, and motels are thick as fleas on the sand. And, 
better still, a lot of them are pretty ratty and underutilized at this off-season. 
I select one that's middle of the road ratty and pull in.

I get two rooms, at the end of the second totally empty building of the motel so 
the proprietor won't be suspicious when he sees three of us. I claim my brother 
is sick from overindulgence in gambling and drinking up in Atlantic City. That 
explains the selection of this motel - we're broke. That explains Mulder's 
condition, and our need for isolation at the end of the building. Scully's my 
sister-in-law, of course. We're on our way home, from a long weekend, I claim, 
in case he notices the car has DC plates.

Mulder's still totally out of it, so I untie Scully's feet and usher her in to 
the last room of the motel, the end one. Then even if the other rooms fill up, 
my empty one will provide us with a sound barrier.

I can also hardly believe my luck. The room is furnished with two queen-size 
beds with heavy wooden headboards of the pukey Italianate style so over-used in 
the Seventies. They have big chunky spindles on their edges. Oh so perfect to 
tie someone to. I wonder at how much of exactly that has been done in this room 
since the headboard was put here. It seems chipped and worn enough about the 
spindles for me to imagine quite a lot.

Scully is staring at me and I realize I'm grinning like an idiot.

"I'm going to ask you again, do you need to use the bathroom?" I say. "We're 
going to be here a while, and you probably should."

"So it will take them a while to pick us up?" she asks, thinking this is about 
my bosses. If only she knew.

"Go on, I won't watch," I promise, uncuffing one of her hands and recuffing it 
to my own live wrist. I lead her to the bathroom.

Scully's not stupid and while it's a trick and embarrassing to use the toilet 
while handcuffed to a guy a foot taller than you, she does it anyway. And I don't 
watch. Not even a peek. There will be plenty of time for that later, and I don't 
want my first glimpse of her naked to be while she's taking a piss.

She washes her hands - with soap, and then I take her over to the bed and cuff 
her to it, both wrists, through the headboard that has to weigh as much as she 
does. While I'm at it, I tie her legs back together as well. I don't want her 
worming out of anything while I go back to the car for Mulder.

He is still a groggy mess in the backseat when I get there.

"Hey, Mulder," I tell him. "Put your arm around me, man. I 've got to get you 
inside."

"Fuuuuh, Krycek," he mumbles, his battered head dangling forward against my 
chest as I haul him toward the door of the Taurus. Totally fucked up and he can 
still manage my name. Exactly what I was saying before.

"Yeah, right," I say, hoisting him under the armpits as best I can with one 
stiff, fake arm. It feels a lot like it's going to break off, supporting as much 
of his weight as it is. Then I get a good grip on him with my real one and it's 
better. "Come on, I've got you."

He makes it up on his feet, still leaning heavily against me, his whole weight 
against my body. But then I get my good arm around him and he's ok. I shift him 
to the side and he's able to help me a little as I get him into the room.

He's too screwed up to be much trouble as I go back to the car, shut the rear 
door and go into the trunk for my bag.

Once I get back into the hotel room I'm almost at a loss. It's almost too much. 
Them and me, all here together, with no one the wiser and endless amounts of 
time and privacy.

My stomach growls, we haven't eaten since D.C.

"Chinese OK, Scully?" I ask, causing her blue eyes to widen in surprise. I guess 
she was expecting me to get Medieval on her ass, but then, there's always time 
for that later, isn't there? And I'd prefer to eat first. Got to keep up my 
strength, you know.

"Uh, yeah," she says. "But I'd really like to take a look at Mulder, if you don't 
mind. You hit him awfully hard."

"I know I did, but he'll be OK," I say, getting out the phone book from the 
crappy press-board bedside table. "Hard head, you know."

Mulder takes this opportunity to moan again and sort of flail around on the bed 
a little like a stranded fish, but with his arms cuffed behind him, he's not 
going to be any trouble for a while yet. Scully looks real concerned. She loves 
him.

I put down the open phone book and go over to the bed he's on - the one by the 
window. I really gently push back the hair that's flopped over his forehead and 
look at the bruise that's there. It's a dandy. Rapidly turning reddish-purple 
and with a really nice solid knot on the top, where the butt of the gun struck 
him just above the temple.

"I'll get some ice as soon as I order the food," I tell her. "He'll be all right."

I go back to the phone book and open it to restaurants. I flip through until I 
find the name of the restaurant I'd spotted just after we turned off the main 
highway a few miles back - Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant.

"Have a preference, Scully?" I ask.

"Nothing sweet," she says, hitching herself backward to rest more comfortably 
against the headboard. "And I tend to stay away from the pork."

"That's too bad, it's the best part," I say, hoping she gets the not-too-subtle 
innuendo and knows it for the ironic Mulder-ism that it is. "What does he like?"

"Things that give you heartburn," Scully tells me.

"Good. Man after my own heart," I reply, whacking myself in the solar plexus 
with my fist in the universal symbol for acid indigestion and then dial the 
phone.

I placed the order for a nice mix of Szechwan and Hunan - no pork - some chicken 
fried rice and vegetarian delight. I really like Chinese food and can't get 
enough of the nice, crisp vegetables, actually. Scully seemed surprised by the 
order. I guess she figured me for an eggroll and sweet and sour pork man or 
something. Yeah, the only people I know who eat that stuff are old ladies in 
their nineties.

I was promised delivery in twenty minutes to the empty room next door. Now all I 
had to do was kill time until it got here. I got the crappy plastic ice bucket 
and went out to get some ice and sodas so we wouldn't burn to death with the 
Chinese food.

Before I left the room I went through Scully's pockets to make sure she had no 
way to pick her cuffs or untie her feet and fastened Mulder to the headboard of 
his bed. I tied his legs to the Hollywood frame the mattress rested on. He was 
actually pretty comfortable that way, I think. At least his arms weren't still 
locked behind his back and he could get a little real rest.

I drove a couple of blocks away to a party store I'd also seen on the way in and 
bought us a couple of bottles of alcohol. I knew Mulder fancied Vodka like I did 
and I remember him telling me once that Scully didn't like it that much. So I 
got one bottle of Vodka for Mulder and me and another of Jack Daniels because I 
also like that and figured that since Scully was Irish she'd have to at least 
tolerate whiskey. I guess the choice also reflects the dual nature of my 
cultural background. The quintessential Russian and American liquors combined in 
tickling my palate.

I also grabbed some OJ and a twelve pack of Coke from the cooler. It doesn't mix 
great with Vodka, but it does with Jack and I figured that's how I could get it 
into Scully. I have no illusions about her cooperation, of course, but as I've 
mentioned I didn't want this to be torture. At least not physically.

I made it back to the ice machine and the room with the groceries and ice just 
in time to meet the guy from the Chinese restaurant. I paid for the food, gave 
him a nice tip and brought the whole haul in to the supine Special Agents.

I was proud to see Scully had gotten her feet free in the time I'd been gone. 
Her wrists were looking pretty sore as well, from trying to slip out of the 
cuffs. I'd have to do something about that.

"Thinking of going somewhere?" I ask. She just looks at me.

"I'm not mad at you, Scully," I say. "I would have been disappointed if you hadn't 
tried."

I went over to the little round table by the window that the management had 
thought to provide. It was wobbly, of course, but it did give me somewhere to 
unpack the food. It smelled good, and my stomach growled. This was a pretty 
decent restaurant. They'd provided Styrofoam plates and plastic utensils along 
with the usual cartons and chopsticks. Impressive.

Then Mulder mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Yeah, baby, I'll 
show you my eggroll," and reminds me that I'd promised Scully to take care of 
his head. Rich fantasy life, that guy has.

I take one of the plastic bags the restaurant had wrapped around the entree and 
rinse it out in the motel sink. Then I fill it with some of the ice I'd gotten 
from the machine and tie the end shut. I go over to the bed where Mulder is 
laying and put it on his head.

"I don't think it's going to stay on like that, Krycek," Scully tells me.

"It will for a while, so we can eat first," I tell her. I get out a Coke and 
pour part of it and a stiff shot of whiskey into a cup for her - ice and 
everything. And then get myself one of the same. I'm not in the mood for vodka, 
it turns out. I fix up a plate of Chinese food and get the plastic fork out of 
the little plastic bag it was in. I can't begin to explain what a pain in the 
ass it is to do all those things with a prosthetic arm - even one that can move 
the hand. Things that used to take me seconds are now minute-long ordeals. Of 
course I've developed more patience, but I really wish the Universe had found 
another way to give me that lesson, you know?

So I take the plate of food over to the bed and sit down next to Scully, with my 
back up against the headboard. She's kind of reclining against the pillows next 
to me, her arms fastened securely to the headboard, but mostly in a sitting 
position. She could eat without much trouble, except she can't use her hands.

I'll have to feed her.

It's difficult to contain myself and put on the appropriate hard-ass demeanor 
when I really want to gleefully clap my hands, hand? whatever and giggle like a 
teenager who just got a sight of his best friend's older sister taking off her 
bra. It was a moment like that. A momentous, developmental moment in my life, 
and whether Scully knew it or not, in hers, too. She'd have to accept help from 
me. That, or go hungry. I really hoped she didn't plan on the latter.

"What are you doing, Krycek?" she asks, in her typical, cold, Scully way. Just 
the kind of opening that she usually reserved for asking Mulder to explain one 
of his insane theories while he got off on trying to convince her to believe it. 
It was like Pavlov's bell, a question like that. It was for me, too.

"Well, I don't plan on untying you, and you've gotta eat, we're going to be here 
a while," I say mildly. "So, seeing I'm sure you don't want to put your head 
down in the Vegetarian Delight, you'll have to let me help."

"Are you suggesting that I let you feed me, Krycek?" Scully asks. She's quick. I 
love that about her.

"I don't have cooties," I say with a shrug. "And you saw the food delivered. It's 
not drugged. And to prove it," I pick up a piece of broccoli on the fork and eat 
it. I try to look thoughtful.

"Not bad," is the verdict. "I like it a little crisper, but the sauce is decent."

I stab a mushroom and a piece of water chestnut with the fork and offer it to 
Scully. She frowns, but when I slowly move the fork closer to her lips she opens 
up her mouth and takes it in.

I manage to maintain the presence of mind to remove the fork and go after more 
vegetables even while assimilating the visual details of Scully's pink tongue 
neatly capturing the vegetables while her full lips close around the body of the 
plastic fork. Lucky, lucky plastic fork.

I get down a carrot and piece of mushroom, myself, and then offer some broccoli 
to Scully. To say I was fascinated by watching her eat; her strong, white teeth 
biting down, her lips parting and then pressing together, her tongue capturing 
the dripping sauce, her eyes watching my face the entire time I carefully wield 
the fork so I wouldn't inadvertently spill anything or stab her, to say I was 
fascinated was the understatement of the century. I love Chinese food, but I've 
never found it particularly erotic. Watching Scully eat it?. I was glad I had 
the plate so I could cover up how hard I'd gotten.

I put the plate down in my lap and reach over to give Scully a sip of her drink.

"What is this, Krycek?" she asks after she drinks some.

"Coke," I tell her.

"And what else?"

"Jack," I say.

"Why?"

"I figure if I get you tanked, you'll fight less and sleep more," I tell her. "One 
arm is a fucking handicap, Scully. And I've got two of you to watch. When Mulder 
comes to, he's going to be a shit-load of trouble."

"So you think you can get me plastered and then, what? I won't help Mulder if it 
comes down to it?" she asks.

"I think it will just be a whole lot less trouble for both of us if I get you 
plastered," I tell her. "And it might even be fun. I've never had the 
opportunity to get drunk with you, Scully. And I've known you what, now, five 
years?"

"You make it sound like we're friends, Krycek," she says.

"Regardless of what you might think, we're not enemies," I tell her. "We're just 
on different sides. Sides doesn't mean it's personal, Scully."

"You killed Mulder's father, that's pretty personal." She says frowning.

"I didn't kill Mulder's father, Scully," I tell her. "But I was there. It was a 
total fuck-up. But Mulder's Dad got what he had coming to him. He played the 
game way too long to suddenly decide he wanted out. You just can't stop, Scully. 
You know that. Take another sip."

She looked at me a long time, and then she did. She couldn't know what was 
coming, but I think somewhere deep down she realized she'd need it. She already 
had things she didn't really want to remember all the way. It kind of hurts me 
to think I might be one more. It hurts, but it won't stop me.

I feed her some more Chinese food in easy silence for a while a bite for me and 
then one for her, rice as well as entree. She'll need those carbs to keep up her 
strength if things go as planned. She has a few more sips of her Jack and Coke, 
enough to finish the little motel glass. I'm only halfway through with mine.

I get up to renew our food and get her another drink. I come back with spicier 
dishes and a larger Jack to Coke ratio. She cocks an eyebrow at me when she has 
her first sip, but I just shrug and try to look innocent. I know she sees 
through it. That's the beauty of the whole thing, of course.

She knows what I am.

She knows, and she's still ok with eating food from my hand and sitting shoulder 
to shoulder with me on a motel bed. Because I say it isn't poison. Because I 
proved it. Because she and I, Mulder's partners, have suffered more shit from 
this whole damned thing than anyone else. We have an understanding born of 
suffering, Scully and I. It brings us close, no matter how much she'd like to 
set us apart. But even she can acknowledge it when it really counts.

I hope she'll continue to remember that later.

"I really can't eat any more, Krycek," she says finally, as I hold another 
forkful of the really very decent Szechwan chicken to her lips.

"That's hardly enough to keep a bird alive," I say, echoing the woman I'd been 
told was my Grandmother, until I'd learned different. "I know you're tiny, but 
you can't really eat that little?"

"I really haven't had a lot of appetite since?" Scully stopped abruptly and I 
knew what she meant.

"Since the cancer," I finished. "Those fuckers." I say.

"You work for them," she says, looking at me sideways from under her hair.

"Yeah, but I don't have to like them," I reply.

"But you're part of it."

"Only one kind of part," I say. "And, believe me, I don't get involved in that 
kind of fucked-up shit. And I don't like to see it done to people I know, either. 
But I don't have a say."

"Why not?"

"I'm just a soldier," I smile icily. "Ve ver only followink orders." I do my 
best German accent. It's actually pretty fucking good. I speak German, too, 
after a fashion.

"If you don't believe in it, why do you do it?" Scully asks.

"Because?" She makes me smile. "What else is there once you know? It's either 
one side or the other. I'm on the one I think has the best chance of winning, 
and, I'd remember that if I were you for later."

Scully doesn't look impressed. She licks her lips. They're dry.

"Here, have some more of your drink," I tell her and raise the plastic cup for 
her to take some. She moves her head forward a little fast and I miss a bit. She 
gets a good swallow, but some of the liquid drips out of the corner of her mouth 
to run down her chin and onto her neck. It pools up in the hollow right above 
her collarbone. The temptation of that proves way too much for me. I'm only a 
mortal man, after all.

I put down the glass on the nightstand and lean over to get rid of the mess I've 
made on Scully - the fun way.

Starting at the corner of her mouth, I suck up the spilled Jack and Coke, the 
sweet flavor totally obscured by the even sweeter one that is Scully. She tastes 
a bit like vanilla and a little like peaches underneath the sweetness of the 
Coke. She turns her head away immediately, but that only gives me better access 
to the flesh of her throat and the small pool of liquid on her collarbone. I 
take my time. I don't mark her, not yet, but I want her to get used to my touch.

She holds her body very stiffly, but she isn't cringing away and she isn't 
trembling. Decent. Not great, but decent.

"Krycek," she says. She has to clear her throat first to do it. "You're licking 
me."

"Yeah, I am," I mumble into the softness where her neck meets her shoulder.

"Stop it."

"Why?" I ask. I really want to know what she's going to say.

"Because I don't want you to."

She said, "I don't want you to", not "I don't like it" or "You're disgusting" or 
any number of other things she could have said. It's significant, I think.

"Why not? It's good clean fun," I say, giving her another of my winning smiles.

"Look, Krycek," Scully says, blue eyes narrowing like the eyes of a Siamese cat 
when affronted by a human sitting in its favorite chair, "Just because I ate 
with you, just because I let you feed me off the same plate, doesn't mean we're 
going steady. It just made sure you didn't slip me a Mickey or poison me, that's 
all."

"Aw," I say in mock hurt. "And just when I was going to give you my Secret 
Double Agent class ring and everything."

Scully tries really hard not to smile.

"It's OK if you laugh, you know," I tell her, grinning myself. "I won't tell. 
And it was funny. If you laugh it doesn't mean you like me or anything."

Scully smiles. And it's a smile she usually saves for Mulder, too. It's the, "You're 
a total lunatic, and I shouldn't be smiling, but you amuse the hell out of me" 
smile. I like it. I'll take it.

I pick up the plastic glass from the nightstand and offer her another sip. She 
takes a small one, and I offer another, but she shakes her head.

"What's this all about, anyway?" she asks, nodding at the Jack and Coke.

"I told you before," I say. "I need the help." I shrug my prosthetic arm, next 
to Scully on the bed.

"I don't believe you, Krycek," she says after looking at me for a long time. "What 
do you have planned? Where are you taking us? What's really going on?"

"I'm taking you here. There are a number of things planned. That's what's really 
going on," I say. "Have some more of your drink."

"I don't want it. I'm not thirsty," she says, after clearing her throat again. 
The Szechwan was pretty spicy.

"I know you are. So why not drink it?"

"You know why," she says.

"It's not like you have that much of a choice," I tell her. "I can give it to 
you in straight shots if you'd prefer. But you're getting good and drunk, so you 
might as well do it the easy way as the hard."

"Why?" she asks again. Damn her for knowing I'm lying. "Why, really, Krycek?"

This hedging is bullshit. I look her in the eye.

"I'm going to get you liquored up and take advantage of you, Scully."

Then she does laugh, a low, chuckling Scully-laugh, until she looks back at my 
eyes and realizes I wasn't joking. I offer her the glass again. She hesitates, 
and then she takes a sip. But now there's tension in her body that wasn't there 
a few seconds ago. And I know she's using what she knows of abduction psychology 
to try to prevent me from hurting her. Like that's what I had planned. Like I 
was some psycho serial-rapist and she was my 39th victim or something.

It makes me a little angry, I'll admit. But she's been brainwashed by the system 
she's a part of. By having to see those sickos time and time again doing their 
perverted things. What I do is clean by comparison. I don't know how Mulder can 
take it, getting into their heads. I don't want to know what people like that 
think. I just want to kill them. It's better for everyone that way. And they 
damn well can't do it again. No recidivism from the dead.

I open up the fingers of my prosthetic hand and put Scully's cup there, wedged 
in tight so it won't spill. Then I take my real hand and brush the hair away 
from her face, gently. She watches me all the time, like I'm a coiled snake 
ready to strike. Like I might hit her at any minute.

Maybe that's what she thinks right now. But she'll learn better. I need for her 
to know me better than that. Mulder already does.

"Don't be afraid, Scully," I tell her. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"You just said you were going to."

"No, I said I was going to take advantage of you when you were drunk, that's 
totally different," I explain.

"Really?" she says. "Both of them are called "rape" where I come from, Krycek."

"And where is that?" I snap, I'll admit the "r" word makes me pissy. That's the 
last thing I have in mind. "Land of perpetual virginity? Where every sexual act 
is a violation? Is that your problem, Scully? Because I know you haven't been 
fucking Mulder, and you would be in any normal universe."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she asks with a haughty outrage that's 
almost laughable to anyone who's ever watched them together.

"Oh come on," I say. "The first time I ever saw you in that autopsy bay down at 
Quantico I thought you two were going to go at it right there on the table, you 
were all over each other so much. But I know you haven't done anything about it. 
What is up with that? You don't have sexual "issues" do you, Scully? Or is 
Mulder the one with the problem?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Krycek," Scully says. She was being 
deliberately dense. Everyone who ever saw them knew what I was talking about.

"When was the last time you got laid, then?" I ask.

"That's none of your business."

"Too bad because I already know," I tell her. "It was March 1992, with your 
boyfriend Ethan, the week before you started on the X-Files. Totally uninspiring 
vanilla sex. You didn't come."

Scully looked really shocked. I felt kind of bad.

"I know because I was the guy assigned to keep you under surveillance at the 
time. To make sure you were the right one for the job," I tell her. "I don't 
usually go peeking in people's bedrooms, but I thought it was a total fucking 
waste, if you don't mind my saying. Same thing with Mulder. If I was your 
partner I'd have been fucking you silly since, well, since I'd gotten you to 
trust me. Do you have the slightest clue how hot you are?"

"You? you sound like Frohike?" Scully began and then stopped, licking her lips 
again which only drew my attention to them.

"Yeah, well I, too, can look past all those brains," I smiled at her again. I 
can't help it. Scully makes me smile. "Frohike's a man with a clue. Though don't 
ever tell him I say that."

I offered her some more to drink.

"No," she says.

"OK," I tell her, and put the drink down on the nightstand. "Then we'll just 
have to find another way to make you relax."

Scully's eyes get really wide as I take off my leather jacket. I was wearing a 
black T-shirt under it, the sleeve just long enough to cover the join of the 
prosthesis. I choose the T-shirts to be a little tight, so the sleeves don't 
ride up and show the join to what's left of my arm.

Then I unlock the handcuffs where they hold her to the headboard. Her arms are 
all saggy and asleep from being above her head for so long, so she can't do much 
to fight me. I'm able to get her blazer off without much trouble. She starts 
fighting in earnest when I go to work on the buttons of her blouse, thrashing 
left and right to get away from me. I just rehook her cuffs above her head and 
to the headboard, more toward the middle of the bed this time.

"You know, Dana," I say as I settle her in place, propping her up a little on 
the pillows as I had before. "I didn't want to have to cut your clothes off, but 
I guess it's going to have to be that way, isn't it?"

"Why are you doing this, Krycek? What do you want?" she says. Her voice holds a 
mixture of emotions. Anger, frustration, fear, and a few I don't really 
understand. But I hear the sadness there, too. I know why she's upset. The only 
guy who's wanted to fuck her for five years is me.

I don't let it hurt me much. I'll make it worth her while. I know that much 
about myself. And she'd come away with a different opinion when I was through. 
No matter what she wanted.

I go to my bag and get out my knife.

Some guys prefer switchblades and some like a good old-fashioned Swiss Army, but 
I prefer a long-blade hunting knife. The kind you use for skinning deer. I don't 
know why. It just seems like a knife to me.

Anyway, I get it out and I see Scully's eyes go wide again.

I smile. But I'm not happy.

I go over to the bed and use the knife to cut through the sleeves of her white 
pseudo-silk blouse. Then I unbutton it the rest of the way and it's off in next 
to no time. She has on a white silk bra with underwires cut rather low on the 
top to make her look like she has more cleavage than she does. It's not like 
Scully really needs underwires for support or anything. She's really rather 
dainty. Small busted, like the rest of her, but the French say that anything 
bigger than what can fit in a champagne glass is too much, and I'd bet that 
Scully would be just about perfect by that measure.

She was watching me warily.

I hear a groan from the next bed over. Mulder is waking up. I go over and check 
his restraints. They're fine. So I have nothing to worry about.

I go back over to the other bed and unbutton the top of Scully's slacks. Then I 
undo the zipper to reveal that she isn't wearing nylons. Only navy blue silk 
panties to match the color of her slacks. Very Scully, underwear matching 
outerwear, everything perfectly coordinated. It's easy enough to get them off 
her hips and down to her bound feet, even with the bum arm. Scully's tiny and I 
can lift her easily enough. With her feet tied together I can keep her from 
kicking me and also lift her up enough to remove the slacks. I was planning to 
cut the panties off.

"Krycek, you really don't want to do this," Scully says, glancing over at Mulder 
like he was going to be able to stop me or something.

"Oh, yeah, Scully, I'm afraid I really do," I tell her and then go over to 
Mulder and take off his tie. That, along with the one from her trenchcoat will 
be enough to take care of her legs. I don't want to use rope, too uncomfortable 
her wrists are already chafing from the cuffs. I want her to enjoy this as much 
as I'm planning to. Or at least as much as she'll allow herself.

I fastened Mulder's tie to the leg of the bed and then tied a good slip knot in 
the other end. Scully knew what I was planning, I could see it in how wide her 
eyes had gotten. She swallowed hard.

"I also told you I wasn't planning to hurt you, and I mean that, too," I say, 
moving over, sitting on her shins and untying the knot in the belt around her 
ankles.

"Then what's all this about?" she continued, trying to keep me talking.

"I explained it a minute ago. I know you were listening," I tell her. "Do you 
want me to go over it again for Mulder?"

He was really starting to wake up. Probably from me moving him to take off his 
tie. I could hear him shuffling on the other bed and mumbling to himself. "Why 
do you want to do this, Krycek? What have I ever done to you that you'd want to 
do this to me?" Scully asks. She still looked scared and hurt, too. She hated 
being helpless. She never allowed it, even with people she trusted, and I was 
the last on that list.

"Do what, Scully?" I ask giving her my best boyish innocent look. "Do you really 
know what I'm doing? Are you sure? Can you look inside my soul and see my true 
motivations?"

"And what could they be other than to hurt and humiliate me?" she asks.

"I'll show you," I say, freeing her feet only to remove the slacks, shoes, and 
those stupid knee high nylon things she was wearing instead of nylons and 
hooking her right foot into its new tie. Then I do the left one with her 
trenchcoat belt and survey my handiwork. A very bound Dana Scully clad only in 
underwear wearing a look on her face that mixed hatred, fear and despair. Not 
quite right. Too vulnerable to be the ass-kicking Agent Scully. I put her shoes 
back on. Navy blue leather sensible pumps with one and a half inch heels. I 
never thought I'd find them sexy, but they are really very Scully and Scully is 
pretty much sex on two legs if you know how to appreciate her. And I do. I like 
her wearing the shoes. I was going to like her wearing only the shoes even 
better. "I know you don't believe anything I say, so I'll show you instead."

I sit down next to her on the bed, facing her this time, to her right so I can 
lean on my good arm. I bend down and kiss her gently on the forehead, right 
where the cancer used to be. I wish I had been there to do it then, when she 
needed it and Mulder just ran around yelling at everybody instead of being there 
for her. Oh, I know I wasn't around, but I have my sources, too and I know what 
went on.

Scully tries to jerk away, but she's already propped up by the pillows and has 
nowhere to go. So she turns her head to the side, and I just turn my attentions 
to her exposed cheek and hairline, and the part of her neck just below her ear. 
I like that. I'm careful, gentle. I run my hand up under her neck to cradle her 
head in my hand and suck gently on her small earlobe.

"Stop it, Krycek," she says, but her voice has grown much softer and less 
vehement, more suited to the intimacy of the moment, really.

"Why should I? It feels good," I say into the softness of her neck. She turns 
her head again, trying to move my lips away, but the turn of her head allows me 
to capture her mouth briefly. I'm careful, again. I don't bruise or pounce on 
her. I let her get away when she jerks her head once more. But I don't stop. 
Wherever she turns, I find some other good place to turn my attentions, 
lavishing every bit of exposed flesh above her neck with kisses or tiny bites. I'm 
in no hurry. It will take as long as it takes.

Scully realizes that her attempts to move away aren't succeeding, so she takes 
the opposite tack and tries to lie completely still. That's even better for my 
purpose, however, and I begin working my way down her body with my mouth, 
trailing hot, serious kisses on her cool skin. Over her collarbones I go until 
my mouth reaches the swell of her breast where it emerges from the satin of her 
bra. It's time for that to go. I get my knife out again and make short work of 
the straps.

"You look better without it," I say, and I mean it. Scully really does have 
terrific breasts, to go with her lithe little body. Most of the time you don't 
notice what a great body Scully has because she's got it buried under some dowdy 
FBI-appropriate pantsuit. Often one cut way too big for her. But naked, she's 
really something. I'm planning on showing her exactly what.

I lower my head to her neck again showering her with kisses while running my 
hand up her naked side from the curve of her hip to her shoulder. She starts to 
squirm again, trying to get away from me, but she can't. I keep it up because I 
know it feels good, and that's what she's really trying to get away from. I move 
lower and take one perfect nipple into my mouth. I suck hard, then lick, then 
suck again.

Scully starts to moan, then stops herself immediately. I smile as I suck her 
other nipple, cupping her right breast in my hand, flicking my thumb over the 
one I'd already made hard. I keep my mouth on her breasts as I allow my hand to 
explore the rest of her, smoothing over her soft body, tracing its contours. I 
can feel Scully relaxing against my touch.

"Krycek!" Mulder shrieks from the next bed, totally breaking the mood and 
causing Scully to tense right back up. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What the fuck does it look like?" I ask angrily, turning to watch him take in 
the scene in its entirety through pain-muddled hazel eyes. He stares blatantly 
at the revealed flesh of his partner. Even I am embarrassed for her the way his 
gaze locks right on her breasts.

"Let go of her!" he orders. Like he always does. Like he can order me.

"Not a chance," I say, and turn my attention back to Scully's body. She was all 
tense again, now, and locking eyes frantically with Mulder.

"He can't help you," I tell her, kissing her gently on the cheek. "It's OK. I 
promise. Just ignore him."

"Fight him! Fight him, Scully!" Mulder roots from the other bed.

"She can't, you idiot, now shut up!" I tell him, trying to make Scully relax 
again.

"Krycek, I'm going to fucking kill you!" Mulder rattles the hell out of the 
headboard of his bed, rattling Scully at the same time. I can feel her trembling 
now, under my hand.

Mulder is really pissing me off. I get up from Scully's bed and go over to him, 
taking my knife along with me. I hold it down in front of his face to show him I'm 
serious.

"Shut up, Mulder," I tell him very quietly, very seriously. "The only person you're 
upsetting here is Scully. You know that I don't give a fuck what you think. Do 
you really want to make this difficult for her? Do you want to make her feel 
guilty, 'cause she's not?"

"I'm gonna kill you, Krycek," he spits out, eyes narrowed and wild like those of 
a trapped animal. "That's what you keep telling me, but I'm still here, aren't I?" 
I tell him. "Maybe you'll kill me someday, Mulder, but not today. Today I win, 
and you get to live with the knowledge for a while. But I'm telling you now, lay 
the fuck off Scully. Or I'll make you very sorry."

"You lay off her, Krycek, and we won't have anything to worry about," Mulder 
tells me.

"Not an option," I say. "I've waited a long time for this. Now shut up, or I'll 
shut you up."

Mulder looks me in the eye. He sees I'm serious. To his credit, he shuts up. And 
I go back to business.

I start us off again, just as slowly, just as carefully, winning Scully's trust, 
her relaxation against me over inch by inch of her flesh. Mulder watches us 
balefully the whole time, or at least he's watching, whenever I steal a glance 
his way. He was really mad, but his watching us was turning me on, well, way 
less than Scully was, but it was awfully satisfying to have this audience. And 
that's why I'd put him there, of course. Or at least one of the reasons.

I think it was actually turning Scully on, too. I haven't touched her below the 
waist yet, she is still wearing those stupid blue satin panties, but I can smell 
her arousal. And I'm sure Mulder can as well. Even over the stench of the 
rapidly cooling Chinese food.

I run my hand down her hip and up again inside her left thigh, just brushing the 
back of my hand lightly over her crotch and then down again inside the thigh. 
She was wet as hell. I get out my knife and cut through the sides of the panties.

"God damn it, Krycek!" Mulder cries, flailing against the headboard once more so 
hard that I'm afraid he's going to crack it in half, or pull it off the bed. He'd 
twisted himself around to face us so he could yell better despite my restraints 
and I can see that he's as hard as I am.

I don't feel sorry for him.

"What the fuck did I say before, Mulder? Are you deaf?" I snap, balling the 
panties in my fist. "Now you shut the fuck up, or I'll gag you to make sure you 
stay quiet."

And if he makes me gag him, I know just what I'll use to do it. I'll jam Scully's 
blue satin panties right down his throat. It would serve him right. Let him 
choke on them seeing he's neglected them for so fucking long.

I go over and check the ropes I have around his legs. I shorten them, fastening 
him firmly to the bed. I don't want him getting in my way as I begin the main 
event.

On my way back to the bed, I take off my T-shirt. The prosthesis is ugly as hell, 
but I'm not about to miss the feel of Scully against my chest just for vanity's 
sake. I take off my shoes and jeans as well. I almost leave my boxers on, but 
then I drop them. I don't want either of them to have any doubt what I'm 
intending.

Scully's eyes get really wide. I don't know why, really. I'm a realist, I know I'm 
not that impressive. A little impressive, but not that impressive. Maybe it's 
just so long since she's seen an erection that she doesn't remember what it 
looks like. But she's a doctor. Maybe it's just seeing an erection on me that 
surprises her.

I don't know why she should be surprised by any man who wants her. I bet she's 
got old AD Skinner playing with himself during staff meetings and he's about the 
hardest ass I know. I'm surprised she doesn't make the corpses hard when she's 
doing an autopsy. OK, maybe that's a little much, but she's really that hot.

I don't say anything, but I get back on the bed with her and start kissing her 
all over again. She relaxes almost right away this time and I enjoy the way our 
skin feels rubbing against one another. I know she does too. But there'll be 
more of that later. Right now I plan on making Agent Dana Scully of the FBI moan. 
I really want to hear that voice let out a good throaty one. I know she'll make 
the most fantastic sounds as she comes.

I move my mouth lower, down to the soft flesh beneath her breasts, following a 
trail blazed by the fingertips of my right hand. As I pay attention to the flat 
plane of her belly, I slip those fingertips up the inside of her thigh for the 
second time. Scully trembles, but not from fear, I know. It makes me smile 
against her stomach.

I move my fingers down her thigh again, teasing. Coming just so close, and then 
away once more. I dart my tongue in and out of Scully's navel at the same time 
running the back of one finger over the tiny tip of her swollen clitoris as it 
peeks out from the lips of her labia. Scully gasps, but no moan yet. Well, I can 
wait for it. I'm a patient man.

I move my mouth lower, trailing my tongue down her belly to stop just above her 
pubic bone while lightly slipping one finger inside her to stroke the ready nub 
of nerve endings that connect directly to her brain. It's always amazing to see 
a normally composed woman totally lose it when you do that. And Scully's no 
exception, though she tries her best to hide it. She didn't writhe like she 
really wanted, but she did make a little squirmy motion that increased the 
contact, while pretending that she was trying to do just the opposite.

Let her play her games with me. She'd been doing it with Mulder for years, but I 
wasn't like him. I wasn't about to take an insincere "no" for an answer. I wasn't 
going to accept it when she said "no" when she really meant "yes". I was going 
to listen not to her words, but to her body. That was the truth. The mental 
games were games she'd been taught to play, to rationalize her Catholic guilt to 
begin with, I suppose, and then to maintain some false notion of dignity that 
she had in her head. The dignity due her as a "serious" person.

Like coming wantonly in a man's arms and crying out his name could be anything 
but serious, anything but beautiful. Like it could do anything but make him feel 
like a god. There's the fucking truth. It's out there all right. It's just all 
the bullshit we do to ourselves afterward, all the rationalizations, all the 
fears that we've revealed too much of what we are, that hide the truth.

But sometimes you get to a point, or some of us do, when there's nothing more to 
hide. When it doesn't matter what you show or what you hide because, well, 
because no one believes either one. I've seen some people lose themselves 
entirely at that point, when the act becomes what they are, instead of what they 
do. But no matter what I do I know who I am. I know what I am. And it's OK if I 
show me to certain people. Scully's one. And it's not that I trust her, or 
rather, it's not like she won't bust me if she can, I mean, Scully is another 
one of the people who knows who she is. No matter what the mental games are that 
she plays with herself. She doesn't really care what other people think. She 
really knows Scully, even if there are things she puts aside. Things that she 
feels are too scary or inconvenient to look at. Those are just things. She's 
Scully and she knows Scully. Even if she doesn't want to admit it sometimes.

I watched her with her boyfriend Ethan, shortly after her birthday almost six 
years ago. I watched her play a head game with herself. The, "he won't ask me to 
marry him if he thinks I'm a slut" game. The "he won't take me seriously if I 
fuck him like an animal" game. And that asshole was so self-absorbed in getting 
off, he couldn't even tell that she was holding back, much less guess that it 
was for a reason. He used her like she was, well, like she was his hand, because 
it was like she wasn't even there.

After he was done, after he took his nap and went home to whatever pathetic hole 
he'd crawled out of, I'd wanted to go to her. I'd wanted to make love to her 
like she deserved, until she screamed and rode me like the mechanical bull at a 
cowboy bar in West Texas. I'd wanted to fuck the hell out of her and tell her 
that it was OK, that I still did respect her, that I still did take her 
seriously. After all the surveillance I'd done, I knew enough about her even 
then for it to be true. It's much truer now. But at that time we hadn't even 
been introduced. And I haven't spent more than a few hours around her in the 
past five years, either. But she's loomed large in my consciousness, and I think 
the feeling has been somewhat mutual. But mostly because of Mulder, I guess.

I met her because of him. She's loyal to only him. He's waiting for god knows 
what because of her, but he has to get his hands on me every chance he gets. To 
bury his fists in my flesh, to give himself some kind of release.

Oddly, that's always the way it's been for us. I was the one that came between 
them at the beginning of our relationship, Mulder has always worked as hard as 
he could to keep Scully and me apart. Maybe he's afraid we're going to compare 
notes, dish to one another about the little cruelties he inflicts with his 
indifference, or with his attention. But she means much more to me than just 
some appendage of Mulder. It makes me hope that he does it out of fear of what 
we might reveal to each other, not because he's really so narcissistic that he 
imagines everything is about him.

But right now, this is about Scully and me. Mulder's there. He should be, to 
watch and to learn, but he's not really part of it. Even if he wants to be. And 
I've already seen that he does.

He can't be part of it because I'm the one slipping one, then two fingers inside 
her tight vagina and pumping in and out. I'm the one running my tongue over the 
hot pink flesh of her clitoris. I'm the one making her squirm and gasp, even as 
she tries to fight the pleasure of it. I'm the one who can taste her sweetness, 
feel her heat, bury my face in pure heaven.

And Scully doesn't mind. Not really. She doesn't mind that it's me. And it doesn't 
have to be him. I think she was getting close to convincing herself of the last 
part. That's her lesson in all of this. Mulder's not the only game in town and 
there are plenty of other people out there ready, willing and able to play along. 
If she'll only let them.

I don't really mind that she keeps sneaking glances over at Mulder whenever she 
thinks I'm not looking. It's really part of it for me, too. Part of the reason I'm 
doing it the way I am. With both of them here. I mean, I could have taken her in 
the other room. I could even have taken her in the other room and left the door 
open so he could hear what was happening but couldn't see anything. But that 
wouldn't have been enough. He had to be there, or it just wasn't complete. Not 
for her, or for me, either. The lesson would be lost if he couldn't share. 'Cause 
in a strange way this is also about all three of us.

And I will admit it's also about power. That's one thing I have always lacked in 
my relationship with Mulder and Scully. Unless I have some information they don't 
or am actively jerking Mulder around, they have it all and I'm at their mercy. I 
don't like that. Mulder abuses the privilege.

That's another thing I have to show them. I don't. I know how to use power. I 
don't just fumble around with it like he does. Right now, I'm proving a couple 
of things.

One, that it doesn't have to be Mulder for Scully to feel good, and two, that in 
a lot of ways I'm a better man than he is for her. At least I can admit and 
express what I feel. And Scully can reap the benefit of that. What does she get 
with him? Fooling around with the shower massager and wishing it was Mulder? 
Touching herself on the other side of a hotel wall while listening to him 
watching porn next door? How sad. How pathetic. She deserves so much more, so 
much better. Hell, she deserves better than me, but I'm what she's got - a 
living human man who wants her.

And the fact is, she doesn't mind. She thinks she should mind a lot more than 
she actually does. It's a problem Scully has. She thinks she should do a lot of 
things when she really wants to do something else. It's her problem with Mulder. 
She thinks she shouldn't do Mulder, when in fact, she should. And he'd be 
totally willing - but here's the part that's impossible for Scully - he'd be 
totally willing if she admitted she wanted it. I don't know if she can admit she 
wants it ever but admitting she wanted Mulder to do her like Catherine the Great 
and her barnyard friend would mean she'd have to admit all sorts of other things 
that she's afraid to look at.

But the fact is, she's relaxed and has realized I'm not about to do anything 
kinky. OK, nothing kinkier than tying her to a hotel bed wearing nothing but 
sensible leather pumps and fucking her in front of her partner. And, because I 
do know what I'm doing, she's enjoying things way more than she would have liked. 
It's almost funny to watch her trying not to come, locked in some weird battle 
of will with me and with herself. But I'm not about to let her win. She has to 
come to remember what it feels like to be more than wanted. She has to come in 
front of him, and more than once, or I just won't be satisfied the lesson is 
going to take.

She's close, trying to keep her breathing even and tensing herself up so that 
what I'm doing won't feel as good as it does. It isn't working of course, and it 
only takes some minor adjustments to my technique and a hard suck on her swollen 
clitoris to send her over the edge. She keeps herself from screaming, just 
gasping loudly, but I would have known what was happening even if I wasn't 
feeling her contracting against my fingers or writhing against my mouth.

As Scully comes, Mulder moans on the next bed over. I can hardly keep myself 
from laughing at the mournful sound of it. But I wasn't done yet. Not by a 
longshot. It wasn't enough just to make her want me. I had to have her, too. So 
he'd have to remember that every time he thought of her this way. Every time. I'd 
be there, too. It's the ultimate revenge for all he's done to me, now that I let 
myself admit it. It's almost worth the arm because it cripples Mulder's ideal 
vision of his St. Scully Madonna in the same way. An intrusive fact to leave the 
perfect vision forever incomplete. His perfect Saint coming wildly underneath 
someone Mulder views as a lower life form and me missing my left arm - not quite 
a fair trade, but it goes a little way toward alleviating my pain, anyway.

I work my way slowly up Scully's body. Kissing her damp flesh with the attention 
it deserves. She is tiny, but God, she is perfect. I really could do this every 
day for the rest of my life and not be bored.

"Krycek?" she begins, but I stop her with a kiss, rubbing my very erect cock 
against her warm belly. I can hear Mulder hiss from the next bed, but he knows 
better than to say anything. Scully doesn't kiss me back, that would be too much 
to hope for, but she doesn't stop me this time, and I take full advantage, 
tasting her full lips at length. I would very much like to put my tongue in her 
mouth, but I know that would be really pushing it, and I don't much fancy the 
idea of her biting me. I wouldn't put it past her, even after she'd come like 
that.

But it is definitely time for some colossal fucking. And she's more than ready 
for me, I know that already. I kiss her neck and watch her look over at Mulder 
again. I know he's watching. It was absolutely the ideal moment. I change my 
position and lower myself between her perfect thighs.

I'll just say right now that it has been quite a while since I've had 
unprotected sex with anybody. But I know that Scully is clean, and I sure as 
hell am. You don't get infected with the black oil and not come out of it with a 
physical exam that makes some forms of torture look really good by comparison. 
Nobody was going to catch anything, and I couldn't make her pregnant. No 
consequences. You'd think it was the Seventies or something.

I bring us together slowly, allowing her time to accommodate me. I'm not the 
hugest guy on earth, but I'm definitely above average in the cock department. 
And Scully is small. And she hasn't been getting any for a good long while. I 
wanted to be very careful. She'll undoubtedly know she's had sex tomorrow, but 
there's no way I want to hurt her.

God it is good. Better than I'd imagined even with my fingers inside her. It's 
like burying myself in a fist full of warm honey. She'd been that sweet when I'd 
tasted her. It's the best thing I can think of, I can't keep myself from moaning.

Mulder swears into his pillow.

I begin slowly thrusting into Scully. The unfortunate necessity of having had to 
tie her up diminishes the pleasure of it, really, because she can't wrap her 
thighs around me and the sensation is necessarily localized, but it's still 
awfully damned good. And she thinks so, too, locking those blue eyes to mine and 
totally ignoring the small whimpers coming from the next bed over. Just like he 
was a lonely puppy separated from his mother instead of the guy she's supposed 
to be in love with.

I'm touching her and kissing her everywhere I can reach while I move inside her. 
And she's enjoying it as much as I am, though she tries to stifle her moans and 
gasps as she had the first time. Poor Scully, I really want her to let herself 
yell just once. I know she really wants to, but she fights all the while for 
control. Not of me, but of herself, like it matters to anyone. Mulder and I love 
her no matter what she does.

I establish a pretty firm rhythm and Scully responds in kind, lifting her hips 
mindlessly to meet my thrusts, not aware any more that she's supposed to be 
trying to get away. She's close again, and that's good because so am I.

I begin ramming into her harder and harder, our bodies connecting wetly in a 
primordial union, like we were the first man and woman on the earth to ever make 
love. Or the last. Or maybe we were simply the last people on earth who ever 
should have had this moment. But I'd made it happen. Not because it was 
inevitable, but because it was barely possible, and the hope of doing the 
impossible is something that I really need. I can admit that. Because I know 
myself.

I know it isn't going to take much more, so I merely adjust the angle of impact 
somewhat, like a ballistics officer cranking the howitzer up another notch and 
Scully comes again, this time moaning low in her chest in animal desire.

The contractions against my cock are also too much for me, I'm afraid. I was 
hoping to bring her off more than once before I was through, but I'd let myself 
get a little too into it. A little too into her. I can't maintain the detachment 
I usually cultivate when I'm doing it to prove something or to achieve some goal.

I moan again, matching her, my orgasm crashing on the end of hers, my body 
filling her just as it should. I let myself lose consciousness, not passing out, 
but losing awareness of everything but the sensation of her, of me, of us 
together. Together in the moment, with him on the outside for once.

I come back to myself to hear Mulder sobbing and cursing under his breath. 
Writhing in agony, or something, on the next bed over.

Scully was simply quiet, calm as she cradled me inside her. Her eyes meeting 
mine with understanding, or at least that's what I think it is. I raise myself 
up and kiss her again, while we are still joined like that, in the aftermath of 
passion. She doesn't kiss me back, but again, she doesn't stop me. I think she 
knows how much I need to do it, how much I need to show her what it really is, 
so that she'll understand me and the lesson. I think she knows it's not empty 
for me now, like it so often is.

You have to get good at a lot of things to do what I do. Sometimes your life 
depends on what you know how to do, and you never know exactly what kind of 
knowledge you'll need at any time, or what you'll have to do to get what you 
need to survive or complete your assignment. It's one of the things I like best 
about it, actually. I like having to be resourceful, to live by my wits. It's 
put me in a bad position or two, OK, a lot more than two, but I've really lived 
my life, you know? How many people can honestly say that?

And you also have to be willing to do things that most people wouldn't. Whether 
it's pulling the trigger, or going down on someone to get some information, you 
have to be willing to do it, and you have to be good at it, or you won't get 
what you need. And sometimes, if you're a pro, if you're really suited to the 
life, you even get to enjoy it. The doing things you wouldn't part. It becomes 
something a lot like art.

I mean, I've done things in my life that I never could have imagined even five 
years ago. It's mind expanding. Like a college education, or traveling the world, 
which is another benefit of the job, of course. I know a lot of stuff. I've done 
a lot. I have a lot to bring to the party. It makes partying with me more fun. 
It makes a lot of things more fun, actually.

And I was planning to make sure that both Scully and Mulder, no matter how 
reluctant they might be, benefited from my expanded horizons, my worldly 
education. They were responsible for a lot of it, weren't they? I mean, five 
years ago I had a cozy little job at the FBI, doing the same things they do only 
reporting to different superiors. Now? Well now I am what I am and I have them 
to thank for a lot of it.

Might as well share the love.

Of course that was really fucking flip. But it's also true.

Reluctantly, I withdraw from Scully's body. But I can't sever the connection 
just yet. Carefully, I pull myself up next to her and rest against the pillows 
by her side. I slip my good arm around her back so she can rest her head against 
my shoulder if she wants. Gently I kiss her forehead, and then her cheek and 
then run my lips over her jawline.

She just looks at me with those cool, blue eyes of hers. Like pools of glacial 
ice, really, unless you know where to look inside them to find the tiny, hot 
flame of her soul. She licks her full lips and I wait for her to say something 
snide. She has that look about her, the Scully waiting to pounce with a good one 
look.

But then Mulder whimpers again from the next bed over and totally wrecks it. 
That little whiny sound robs me of my just reward, and Scully of the smart ass 
thing she was planning to say to preserve what she feels is her lost dignity. To 
prove to us both just how little it had meant. When it actually had been fan-fucking-tastic.

Scully glances over at Mulder, trying to assess his state, I guess. I would rate 
it right around homicidal or maybe suicidal by now, if the guilt over not being 
able to spare her the desecration of my cock has taken him over. I just can't 
bring myself to look at him yet, not wanting that pathetic sight to wreck my 
closure with Scully. She's apparently satisfied with what she sees, though, and 
she turns back and looks at me again, blue eyes locking tight with mine.

Not wanting to upset him further, she doesn't say anything more, placing me in 
collusion with her like the parents of a sensitive child who had to be spared 
the knowledge that his favorite pet has just gone to hamster heaven. Apparently 
we are going to have to bury it in the backyard after he's gone to sleep and 
tell him it ran away. I don't want to do that. I want to tell him the little 
bastard exploded from eating too many hamster pellets, but Scully's eyes keep me 
silent. She has that kind of power.

The power to cloud men's minds, apparently. And right now I don't think there's 
anything I wouldn't do for her.

I pull her closer to my body and rest my head beside hers on the pillow, on top 
of her arm, still cuffed to the headboard. I shut my eyes.

I just want to see how long she'll let me lay there like that, reveling in the 
feel of her naked against my body, the warmth and scent of her. The comfort of 
another human presence.

She actually leaves me alone long enough for me to fall asleep, and it isn't 
until Mulder gives his headboard a good rattle that I wake up again. A quick 
glance at the clock informs me that I'd slept for about forty minutes. Not too 
bad, and now I'm ready for the next portion of the afternoon's entertainment.

Providing I have the stomach for it.

He's being such a whining sack of shit that I can hardly stand the thought of 
touching him. When the shoe is on the other foot, and I'm doing my best "Oh, big 
Mulder, please don't hurt me!" act, he's actually pretty damned hot. Even his 
slapping me around is enjoyable, providing he doesn't hit me too hard. But right 
now?

I have to admit, I don't like weaklings. And while I had been playing right into 
Mulder's biggest weakness, I hadn't expected him to turn into a quivering mass 
of Jell-O over it. Rather I had expected him to lay in wait for me like a 
trapped wolf, ready to gnaw off its own foot so it could take a chunk out of the 
one responsible for its pain.

Instead, whiner boy.

I give Scully a parting kiss and get up to see what I'm going to do with Mulder.

I walk over to the other bed and do a quick check on his restraints again. They 
are holding. And the headboard is still firmly attached to the bed, despite all 
of his rattling.

Mulder looks bad. The bruise on his head where I'd hit him with the pistol has 
begun to come out in earnest, dark against the smooth skin of his forehead. But 
the worst part is the partly dried tear streaks all down his face. He quite 
literally looks like he's lost his best friends, when actually all that had 
happened was that two of them had just fucked one another.

I actually feel sorry for the bastard.

And at least pity isn't disgust.

I go to the bathroom get a washcloth and wet it with cool water from the tap. 
Then I go over to Mulder's bed, sitting down on the floor about level with his 
chest, so I can reach him and we can talk.

His eyes are closed, but he isn't sleeping. I just think he can't bring himself 
to look at us any more. Very occasionally another tear spills out from beneath 
his closed eyelids. This man has quite a capacity for feeling sorry for himself, 
that's for damned sure. I know a lot of people think it's compassion, but he's a 
lot more sorry for himself than for Scully. He would have to be blind and deaf 
to not know she'd enjoyed it. He's sorry for his failure as a man. His failure 
to protect her.

That's what drove him so frantically after Duane Barry. It was guilt. He hadn't 
realized how much Scully really meant to him until she'd been gone a while. In 
their case, absence had indeed made the heart grow fonder.

But it still hadn't stopped Mulder from fucking that Kristin chick out in 
California. But, of course, I think that was as much about getting himself 
killed out of guilt as anything. But he'd still fucked her.

Oh, yeah, I know. My spies are everywhere.

It was the same old thing again, here. He was feeling sorry for himself because 
he'd failed again. Because he's not invincible. Because he can't stop people 
from taking away the things that matter to him. 

But what he doesn't realize is none of us can. Hell, if we could, I'd still have 
a left arm that wasn't made of plastic.

I take the cool, wet washcloth and carefully touch it to the bruise on his 
forehead letting the coolness seep into his skin. Mulder grunts but doesn't open 
his eyes. Carefully, I smooth the washcloth over his face, erasing the stains of 
his tears.

He looks at me, just as I brush the rough terrycloth over the corner of his 
mouth. I watch as his full lips twist in something a lot like hate.

"For God's sake, Krycek, would you put some clothes on?" he says, taking a good 
long look at my naked body, as I sit on the floor next to his bed.

I smile at him winningly in best doe-eyed Jr. FBI butt-boy fashion.

A light dawns and he has the wherewithal to drop some of the self-pity for a bit 
of fear.

"What's the matter, Mulder?" I say, pitching my voice low, putting my face right 
near his. "See something you like?"

Mulder actually cringes at the suggestion. This is going to be more of a 
challenge than I'd thought. He has apparently converted all of his repressed 
feelings for me into rage. Quite a dandy job of sublimation. Sometimes you can 
tell he has that psychology degree seeing he can work himself into such 
interesting states of mind.

"There's nothing I like about you, Krycek," he manages after a long pause to 
gather his scattered wits. But he isn't looking at my face when he says it.

As I figured it would, his gaze and sharp words are doing wonders for making me 
forget the whining from earlier. I loll back against the side of the bed, 
stretching out my legs and resting the back of my head on the edge of the 
mattress somewhere around Mulder's ribs, so I can still watch the expression on 
his face as he surreptitiously eyes my body.

I'm being pretty fucking obvious and I can see Scully's eyes go wide where she 
is laying on the other bed. I wink at her when Mulder won't see and am rewarded 
with those glorious eyes going wider still.

She knows I'm not going to hurt him. And I sort of want her to be in on it.

It wasn't like I had any big vision of the three of us passing around a Morley 
after a round of cosmic orgasms or anything, but my point had never been to 
upset Scully. And she's incredibly protective of Mulder. She knows she can take 
it herself, but she worries about him. With none of the irritating self-pitying 
bullshit that's so wrapped up in her partner's equally real concern for her.

However, she also has first-hand knowledge, no, even better, first-hand carnal 
knowledge of me, and she knows I'm not in it to hurt anybody. Humble, maybe, 
when it comes to Mulder, but hurt? No.

"I really think that the problem is that you've got too many clothes on, Mulder," 
I say lightly. "You're just jealous that Scully and I are more comfortable than 
you are."

"Yeah, I really expect to be more comfortable when tied to a bed in a cheap 
motel," Mulder replies. "You're just not very good at this, are you, Krycek?"

"You could ask Scully about that," I say mildly.

I'm rewarded by new thrashing from Mulder and a string of creatively hooked-together 
expletives that make him sound like an ABD in Literature that somehow wound up 
in the Merchant Marine.

Mulder threw himself sideways toward me again, hands grasping the air in a vain 
attempt to reach me. I just used the opportunity to get ahold of his belt, 
bracing with my prosthesis and unbuckling with my good hand.

"What the fuck are you doing, Krycek?" Mulder rages, thrashing as I hold him in 
place by the front of his trousers.

"What I said, Mulder," I tell him. "It's time for you to join the party and you've 
got way too many clothes on."

"Stop it, Krycek!" Mulder says, setting up a pretty steady stream of protest as 
I tug his shirt out of his pants and unbutton while he thrashes around, popping 
only two of the buttons as he pulls himself away from my grip.

"Look I can cut that suit off you if you want, but you won't have anything to 
wear later," I tell him. "So I'd calm down if I were you. You're gonna have to 
play and you're gonna have to do it by the rules I set. So you might as well 
give it up now, Mulder, because you are gonna give it up."

"So I guess we get to add "perverted" to the lying, cowardly, scum-sucking, 
traitorous, murdering, son of a bitch, then, huh?" Mulder says quietly, stopping 
some of his thrashing. That's one of the things I really love about him, you 
never lack for decent conversation, or clever comebacks.

"It does take one to know one, Mulder," I say, with my good little boy smile 
that I used so often when I first worked with him at the Bureau. Then I one-up 
him. "And that's perverted, lying, cowardly, *cock-sucking*, traitorous, 
murdering, son of a bitch, thank you very much."

He was so shocked he actually lay still long enough for me to climb onto the bed 
and plant a knee firmly in his back. I uncuff his hands from the headboard and 
set his left hand free. I peel his suit jacket and dress shirt off his lifeless, 
blood-deprived arm, before turning around and doing the same thing on the right.

Of course the bastard is also wearing an undershirt. Like he'd planned it just 
to thwart me.

I don't know what it is about Mulder. He's really got an absolutely fantastic 
body and he insists on covering it up at all times with as many layers of 
clothing as possible. Unless you give him drugs, from what I understand. Then he 
drops trou in no time flat.

But, I mean, he buries himself under three or four layers of fabric, acts like a 
spooky geek and he still has the gall to wonder why he never gets laid. It's 
kind of incredible when you think about it. I mean, who does he think he is, 
Cinderella? That someone's going to come along and pluck him out of his little 
pile of ashes and carry him off somewhere to a golden palace in the sky to fuck 
his brains out for all eternity?

No one in the world wants to work that hard.

Except Scully, and that's just because she's the same way, herself.

If they both weren't so god-damned repressed they'd probably have incredible sex-lives 
because they're both fucking gorgeous. Which is really quite an amazingly stupid 
observation even for me. Repression equals no sex, duh, Alex.

Anyway, the fact that I can appreciate Mulder's looks and even look forward to 
getting myself a piece of his tight, muscular ass, does not mean that I'm gay. I'm 
not. If I go into a room and am scoping it for a possible bed-mate, I still find 
myself checking out all of the women present first.

But, and this is the beautiful and mind-expanding part of the whole deal of 
doing what I do, if I don't find a woman I like, I move right on to checking out 
the guys. Because, boys and girls, contrary to popular belief, it doesn't really 
matter a whole hell of a lot whose mouth is on the other end of the head you're 
getting, or what bodily orifice you're ramming yourself into until you come. You 
still come. It's physiological as much as anything else, or masturbation wouldn't 
work. And when everybody's on your dance card, you spend a lot fewer lonely 
nights.

OK, so actually you don't. Or at least I don't, because I can't ever tell anyone 
anything about me, no one really knows me and a body is just a body. You get off, 
but you get no real connection with anyone. But this wasn't like that, because 
Mulder knows me. He might not like me, but he knows me. And that's what really 
does make a difference.

It might not be love, but it isn't indifference, either. And I want to feel 
something for once. Scully had given me the first hit of that, and like a junkie 
who's been clean for years, all I could think about was wanting more. More 
connection, with people who know me, I'm greedy for it. And what Mulder and I 
feel for one another is intense. And it is connection, no matter what else it is.

Ruthlessly, I hook Mulder's hands back up to the headboard. Then I go over to 
the nightstand to get my knife.

Mulder just looks at me calmly. Like he isn't frightened at all. He's good at 
that. I've seen him face down madmen in my time. He's a cool customer. But it 
sort of pisses me off that he is treating me like I'm Duane Barry or someone 
like him. He knows better than that. He knows I'm not a nutcase. I might be 
unreliable. I might double cross him, but it's always for a reason. I don't 
deserve this kind of contempt. Maybe other kinds, but not this kind.

I pull the undershirt out of Mulder's unbelted trousers and cut it open from hem 
to neck, taking care to draw the cold blunt edge of the blade along Mulder's 
flesh as I do. I want to fuck him. I don't want him to try to fuck with me, so 
the threat is necessary. Two short flicks of the blade at the shoulder seams and 
Mulder's undershirt goes the way of Scully's bra and panties.

Mulder glares at me, trying to stare me down as best he can face down on the bed 
with his arms tied above him.

"What do you think you're doing, Krycek?" he asks.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know, that's why I asked," he says.

"Oh, you know," I tell him. "You just don't want to look at it too closely yet. 
But you'll come around. Honestly, you will. You just need the right kind of 
lesson."

"Like you could teach me anything, Krycek," Mulder says bitterly.

"You'd be surprised who you learn things from in this world, Mulder," I tell him, 
grabbing onto his trousers again and half flipping him over so I can work on the 
zipper. "For instance, I've learned one hell of a lot from you."

This time he fights me, but he's in a very awkward position, with his legs still 
fastened to the frame of the bed. And the fact is, he has a messed up head, even 
more than usual for Mulder. A simple knee to the chest allows me to get the 
trousers undone. I let him flop back face down in an attempt to protect himself, 
but I soon have the trousers and his boxers over his hips and down to his knees, 
causing another round of thrashing and cursing.

I let himself wear himself out again, and then do the same thing I did to Scully, 
I sit on his legs and untie his feet enough to get the pants and boxers off him 
and onto the floor. Then I change my mind about what I'm planning and flip 
Mulder over onto his back. It's important that we are very clear about what is 
happening here, and I need to be able to see his face. At least at first.

The first thing I notice, is that Mulder is hung. I mentioned that I'm no slouch, 
but Jesus H. Christ! I'm actually really glad that I had no intention of letting 
him fuck me because that would take some getting used to to say the very least. 
The second thing I notice, causing a corresponding twitch in my own groin, is 
that he isn't entirely opposed to the idea of what I have planned no matter what 
sorts of names he calls me. Although maybe it was my definition of myself as a 
cocksucker that piqued his interest.

I bet it has been a while since anybody has had Mulder's cock in their mouth, 
and he, hetero-prejudices aside, is not minding the idea. Even if it's me. Or 
maybe because it's me.

Yeah, I know about where I rate in Mulder's grand vision of the universe. It's 
right around the same level as pond scum, but that isn't how it should be. It 
isn't really even where I rate in reality, just in the weirdo cosmology he's 
created for himself to - Put Things In Perspective. I want him to figure that 
out. I want to show him different and to know that he knows.

OK, now I had actually been afraid to stick my own dick into Scully's mouth 
because I couldn't be assured of her goodwill. But this is where I get the 
opportunity to show Mulder mine.

He'd have to trust that I wasn't planning to bite him. Just like he'd had to 
trust me to translate when we'd gone to Russia together after he and Skinner had 
taken great pleasure in insulting me and using me for a punching bag. And if he 
hadn't fucking gotten us caught at the Tunguska gulag, he would have found his 
trust not to be misplaced, either. But when it came right down to getting my ass 
out of there, or rotting in comradely torture with Mulder, it was no choice at 
all. My ass is the most important thing on earth. All else is secondary. Even 
Mulder.

I blatantly look right at Mulder's semi-erect cock and shake my head.

"Denial," is the only thing I say, and then I sit down on the bed next to him 
and look at his face for a while.

He is watching me warily. Waiting to see what I'll do. And he doesn't say 
anything, which is always significant for Mulder, because he's a talker. Talks 
fucking non-stop sometimes, maybe just to fill up the emptiness of his life with 
something, even if it's as ephemeral as words. I know. I've been there, myself.

I let him watch me for a while. We stare into one another's eyes, almost like 
lovers. Or maybe just like the cobra and the mouse, waiting for the movement 
that forces the strike.

Mulder lies very still and we just look at one another, but he gradually gets 
harder, and I'll admit I do too. Maybe it's the anticipation alone, but I really 
don't think so. Maybe it's just that it's been so long since anyone else has 
touched him, almost five years since Kristen, and she was the last. But if it 
only was that, there wouldn't be the intensity in his look. Mulder's an intense 
guy, but only about what he cares about. And he was looking at me like he was 
the cobra and I was the mouse, instead of the other way around.

Maybe he's thinking about what he would be doing to me, if our situations were 
reversed. Admittedly, the thought kind of turns me on, but I know he'd be 
kicking the shit out of me, whether he intended to fuck me later or not. 
Violence is a part of it for him, maybe because he hates the fact that he feels 
what he does.

And not because he's a homophobe. Mulder's pretty much not prejudiced against 
anything or anyone, especially not sexually. I mean, I've been in his apartment. 
I've waited there. I've seen his porno mags, and they contain all sorts of 
interesting things, some of them way wilder than anything I've actually done. I 
wonder how many of them he's actually tried, or if he simply contents himself 
with looking? Looking seemed to interest him enough with me and Scully. So his 
prejudice isn't sexual. Again, like Scully's it's a mind-game that he plays with 
himself. The good guys versus the bad guys. And I'm on the bad guy side, so he 
is compromising his loyalty if he has any truck with me. If he touches me. If he 
lets me touch him.

And the worst part of all, is if he actually wants me to do it. For any reason.

And he does.

And it's created the stalemate of the cobra and the mouse.

But it's my game. I'm making the rules. And the rules say that I get to be the 
cobra, no matter what else happens in the rest of our lives.

I reach out my right hand and touch his shoulder. The left one, and I let my 
fingers trace the star-shaped mark there left by Scully's bullet. The one she 
fired to save us both from Mulder's blind, drug-addled rage.

Mulder's head twitches and he looks infuriated.

"God damn you, Krycek!" he says quietly - with feeling.

"She was right to do it, you know," I tell him, still lightly running my fingers 
over his skin. "It would have wrecked your life to kill me. You've got to wait 
to do it somewhere where it won't make a difference. Somewhere you can get rid 
of my body without anyone the wiser."

Mulder actually looks affronted at the suggestion, though he's done nothing but 
threaten me since he woke up.

"Oh, excuse me for making a professional observation," I say sarcastically, with 
a not winning smile, but a genuine one.

Mulder relaxes slightly, and I let my hand move a little farther in its stroking, 
upward to the long muscles of his neck and back down to the shoulder again.

He gives me a rather shrewd look.

"If you think you're winning me over with this, Krycek, you're nuts," he says. "I'm 
just waiting for my opportunity."

"Yeah, tell yourself that, Mulder," I say. But it has worked, he's relaxed and 
isn't expecting me to hurt him. I grin, then. Subtlety is obviously not the way 
to go here.

Looks like Fox Mulder, Porno-boy, requires more of the direct approach.

Before he knows what hit him, I have my fist wrapped around his hard, thick cock 
and my mouth around it like a kid with one of those jumbo Pixy Stix things guys 
my age used to get when we were little. You know the ones with the stuff like 
crystallized Sweet Tarts or sugary Kool-Aid mix inside that you used to try to 
get down in one, big suck before the powdery nature of it made you choke in 
front of your friends and the cloying sweetness made you cough.

I keep my eyes glued on his face the whole time and the first thing that I see 
run over it is absolute panic. He probably figures I'm going to bite it off or 
something. But instead I slowly lower myself down on him as far as I can go. But 
as I mentioned, even though I've learned to suppress my gag reflex like a master, 
he's hung, so I have to wrap my hand around the base and apply some pressure 
there as well.

Mulder's eyes go wide. I think he's even more shocked to be doing this than I am. 
But what I like best about it is the way he keeps his eyes glued on me. Not a 
glance for Scully now, though I shoot one her way and find that she's paying 
close attention. Maybe taking notes for later, I don't know.

As I lower myself down, I apply some firm pressure to the underside of his cock, 
pressing my tongue against the ridge there and then licking upward like a guy 
with serious intentions on a popcicle. Mulder gives a gratifying gasp, much as 
Scully had when I was doing the equivalent to her. I run my tongue around the 
head of his penis and then very slowly take him down inside my mouth again, 
sucking hard as his eyes begin to close at the pleasure of it. He moans this 
time. Better and better.

His body is tense again, but this time in pleasure and anticipation, not in 
apprehension. I don't mind watching the ropy muscles in his arms pop as he pulls 
against the handcuffs, or the tension in his long thighs as he stiffens and 
fights against the things I'm doing to his sex. His vocalizations are in rhythm 
with my ministrations to his cock, and I really like the sound of his voice all 
husky with lust.

Unbidden, that scene in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" where Dr. Frank N. 
Furter seduces first Janet then Brad using exactly the same techniques and 
exactly the same script pops into my mind. I nearly laugh and drop Mulder out of 
my mouth. But I get control over my wayward sense of humor and buckle back down 
to the work ahead.

Or the work of giving head, whichever you prefer.

And usually it is work too, you know. Part of the job. Blow some guy to get what 
you want. I like it better when I let them blow me, but usually they want it. 
They like the looks of themselves with some guy young enough to be their son 
sucking on their cock like it was a Tootsie-pop. Makes 'em feel powerful. Makes 
'em feel young.

Same reason some guys go after thirteen year-old girls, I guess.

I'll never be into that.

I just want to be with someone who gives a shit, you know? I guess it's what we 
all want when we're not doing it for the job. Or for the power. Or playing sick 
little head-games with ourselves.

And Mulder cares - I'll give him that. Even though he doesn't want to. Even 
though his every moan is wrenched from him unwillingly, every thrust of his hips 
into my mouth is a betrayal of his self-control still he has to give it to me. 
It's my due. And that's what makes this not just another blow job for me, too.

I can hardly wait to fuck him.

I actually wish he wasn't quite so big, or that I had my other hand back. Like 
there's a second that goes by that I don't wish the latter, but I'm not really 
able to give his balls the attention they deserve without taking my hand off the 
base of his cock. I spare him a thumb, though, and look up to gauge the reaction.

Mulder opens his ever-shifting green-brown eyes and looks at me with my mouth 
wrapped around him. He's getting really close, I can tell by the way his stomach 
muscles are tensing and his breath is coming in rapid pants.

"So I see why it's always been so easy to kick your ass, Krycek," Mulder gasps 
out, a smart ass even when he's this close to coming.

It was a second-long debate whether to give him a scare with the teeth or to 
suck him off and make him come. But I could tell he was in a bad way, conflicted 
by how much he really was enjoying it, and I decided to go easy on him. Or to go 
down hard on him, actually, which is what I did.

To say that it didn't take long after that is a gross understatement. With the 
insult, Mulder blew his wad in more ways than one. And I, in much more 
politeness than the man ever showed to me or deserved from me, swallow.

With one more long lick, I slip my mouth up his length and crawl quickly up his 
body, still tensed and wracked by the force of his orgasm, to place a long, 
sweet kiss on his full lips - a completion of sorts for us. It's what I'd wanted 
to do the first time I kissed him, but I'd chickened out at the last second, 
fearing he'd grow too angry to actually listen to what I had to say and had gone 
for the cheek instead. I'd let him rationalize it as some sort of Eastern 
European thing to prove I was telling the truth. From me. Who was born and 
raised in America just as much as he was.

Like he doesn't know what's hit him, Mulder begins to kiss me back. Several long, 
wonderful seconds of real contact before he feels my cock brushing at his hip 
and freaks out. But I'm satisfied. It was a lot more than I'd gotten from Scully.

Mulder jerks his head to the side, severing the contact of our mouths.

"God damn it, Krycek!" he pants. "I can't do anything about your sick rape 
fantasies, but let's not pretend it's true love, OK?"

"You can pretend if you want to, Mulder," I say with a smile. He'd kissed me 
back and no amount of swearing or calling me names was going to erase the fact 
that we both knew it.

So I did what I'd done to Scully. I don't try again for his lips, but I 
certainly do pay a lot of attention to the sensitive skin of his neck, his 
earlobe, and the star-shaped scar on his shoulder that he'd gotten because of me. 
I touch his upper body with my lips and as much of the rest of him as I can 
reach with my hand. Running it over the hard planes of his chest and stomach, 
tickling the hairs that grow lightly over his body, I touch him the way he wants 
to touch me and can only sublimate into violence.

And, because Mulder is a human being with more than his share of sexuality, he 
just can't keep up the tension or the disgust at someone doing something to him 
that feels so good. Something that he likes. He does what I want him to. He 
relaxes.

But because I've taken my time, as I did with his partner, he was already 
hardening again against my thigh as I ran my own body over his on the cheap 
motel bed. My turn now.

And for the same reasons I didn't trust Scully, I sure as hell had no intention 
of letting Mulder get anywhere near me with his teeth. And, I'd come prepared. I 
wasn't here to hurt anybody, after all.

I look over at the other bed as I figure the best way to get Mulder into the 
proper position for what I want. Scully's frowning, but I can see her hips 
twitch slightly as I run my tongue over Mulder's nipple, and my hand over the 
washboard muscles of his abdomen. I idly wonder which one of us she's imagining 
fucking, or if she's hoping for a Scully sandwich of some sort. God knows, it's 
something to hope for, all right.

If only we could get Mulder to go for it.

But I don't want to let myself get distracted. Not before I'm done. There's 
plenty of time for more Scully later.

Trailing wet kisses down Mulder's body, I move back toward the foot of the bed. 
He's watching me, but calmly, openly. He has no idea what I'm going to do, you 
can tell. I think he's hoping I'll suck him off again.

But it's my turn now. Only fair, you know.

I leave the bed and get out my bottle of vodka.

"What are we going to do now, Krycek, flaming shots?" Mulder cocks an eyebrow at 
me sardonically.

"Just you," I say, pouring some into one of the remaining little, plastic cups. 
"Want it straight or with some OJ?"

"What's this about?" he asks.

"Krycek!" Scully says sharply from the other bed. She knows exactly what I'm 
doing. She looks frightened and glances nervously at her partner, who remains 
utterly calm, to his credit. But then, he remained calm with Duane Barry, too. I 
still can't shake the comparison. It's way too fucking unflattering, and so 
completely off the mark.

"Let him have a few, Scully," I say. "Really, it's better for everyone."

She looks angry but she doesn't argue. She knows it's better, especially for 
Mulder.

"Why?" Mulder asks.

"Because, you idiot, it makes you easier to control," I tell him, holding the 
cup to his lips. "Now you can drink it like a good boy, or I can make you drink 
it, and that will get messy. It's good vodka, the kind you like. Why not enjoy?"

"Because I don't enjoy anything that has anything to do with you, Krycek," 
Mulder replies.

"Could have fooled me," I say, cocking my head to indicate his once more 
prominent erection.

"It's a mouth on a cock, it's not love," Mulder says. "You could be anyone."

"Oh, hurt me some more, baby," I say, and put the vodka to his lips, about a 
double shot and begin to pour. Mulder drinks. It is good vodka, after all, and 
he knows he can take a lot more than that before he needs to worry. Why argue at 
the beginning? There's always time for it later.

I pour him another glass as soon as the first is gone and add an oh, so slight 
amount of orange juice. Mulder frowns as I hold it to his lips, but in true 
macho man fashion drinks it down without protest. Stupid.

I pour a third glass, adding a bit more OJ this time. I don't want him puking it 
all back up from alcohol poisoning, after all. I want it to hit his nervous 
system like a hammer so the only screaming I'll hear out of him is my name when 
he comes.

OK, so we all can dream.

I take a sip of it first, this time. Want to get the taste of him out of my 
mouth, I guess. Then I give the rest of it to Mulder, a little at a time. And 
then I get a fourth glass going. His eyes are starting to glaze a bit, but he 
keeps trying to stare me down. What an idiot. No, what a beautiful idiot.

He is beautiful, you know. I'm over the point where I can't admit that I find 
another man to be beautiful. It's aesthetic, really, looking at someone like 
Mulder naked, with that beautiful muscled body of his. Like looking at 
Michelangelo's David. If you call that beautiful, people don't look at you funny 
or call you a faggot.

Now if David was a real guy and you blew him or fucked him up the ass in the 
middle of the Galleria dell'Academia you'd probably get yourself in some trouble. 
Or maybe not. But I guess life really can imitate art, because Mulder has an 
even better body than Michelangelo's statue does. His head is in proportion, for 
one thing. Oh yeah, I realize Michelangelo did it on purpose because he knew the 
statue was going to be on a pedestal and he wanted it to look normal from the 
floor of the room, but it's still weird as all hell and it's something I notice. 
Another thing Mulder has all over on David, besides the fact that he doesn't 
stand like a transvestite hooker trying to pick up a trick, is that he has a 
much better unit. And while that's not the first thing I notice about a guy, 
Mulder's is nice to say the least.

But musing about fine art doesn't get you any, so I give Mulder another drink, 
and can see his head is really swimming now.

To test my theory, I move back up to the head of the bed and kiss him again. And 
damn me if he doesn't kiss back until he remembers he's supposed to hate me. But 
I had him for longer this time. The vodka really was a good idea.

So I head right back down to the foot of the bed and sit back down on his shins.

"Wha?" he says, intelligently. "What are you doing, Krycek?"

"Making adjustments," I answer. I get both his feet free. That's when I notice 
that Mulder has really big feet. I guess it is true what they say about the 
correlation. At least in his case.

Before he realizes what I'm up to, I get him flipped over on his stomach and his 
left foot tied back down. It isn't until I take his right foot and try to secure 
it to the other leg of the bed, leaving him quite nicely spread-eagled on his 
stomach and his pretty serious erection that he realizes what a dangerous 
situation he's in. He thrashes around a little bit and curses at me again for a 
while, but I wait him out and get the other leg tied down nice and tight.

Then I go back up to the head of the bed to see how he's doing. He just glares 
at me balefully.

"Krycek, are you fucking serious?" is all he asks. He looks a little scared. I 
wonder if it this is going to be his first time. It hadn't seemed to be when I 
was giving him head, but maybe that's as far as he's ever gone with another guy 
before. The idea of popping Mulder's cherry is appealing, to say the very least. 
I was planning to be a very good boy anyway and who knows where that might lead? 
Might make the next time we run into one another even more interesting than 
usual.

Unless he sublimates even more, 'cause then I might just wind up dead.

"Yeah, but it'll be OK, Mulder. I promise," I say, and brush the hair that's 
always falling in his eyes back out of them.

"It will not be OK, Krycek," Mulder says very seriously. He's very upset. He's 
shaking. I mean, you'd think I was threatening him with an uzi or something. I'm 
starting to get worried that this isn't going to work out like I've been 
planning.

"Hey man, calm down," I tell him, rubbing my hand over his shoulders 
reassuringly. "It's just my cock, OK? It's not, I don't know. It's not the end 
of the world or anything. You're gonna be fine. Really."

I can see the whites of Mulder's eyes. He's freaking.

"Look, there is no reason for you to lose it over this, Mulder," I tell him. "I 
always thought you were a lot more secure than that."

"Leave him alone, Krycek!" Scully says from the other bed. "Look at him. You don't 
want to do this."

"Yeah, Scully, I really, really do," I say, still running my hand over Mulder to 
try to ease some of the tension building into knots in his back and shoulders. 
What is going on here?

Mulder's looking frantically at me, and then back at Scully and then back to me 
again. Maybe that's it. He doesn't want me to do him in front of Scully. He's 
afraid she'll lose respect for him or something. I know she means everything to 
him. And the thought of the loss of that, of a chance with her, that would be 
probably the most devastating thing that I could imagine. That's probably what 
his problem is. Or maybe not. I hope I'm not stepping in something here. You 
never know what might have happened with people, and he does have that hang up 
about the way he feels about me. There could be more of a reason for that than 
his opinion that I'm a rat bastard. But I couldn't exactly ask him in front of 
Scully, and he probably wouldn't tell me anyway.

What I mean to do is rub his nose in the way he treats me a little, not fuck him 
up for all time. And the way he's reacting, or rather, overreacting is starting 
to get me really worried.

"Krycek, stop!" Scully says, looking rapidly from Mulder's face to my own, 
obviously nearly as upset as he is. It brought the weird Rocky Horror Show thing 
popping back into my mind for the second time already, the scene in the movie 
where everyone says everyone's name in shock over and over again? "Brad", "Janet", 
"Dr. Scott", "Rocky", "Ugh". It was like "Mulder", "Krycek", "Scully", "Mulder", 
"Scully", "Krycek", "Ugh".

"You can't do this to him," she tells me, when of course I can do whatever I 
want to him. "If you," Scully licks her full lips. "If you? if you need to? well, 
you can?"

Was this happening? Was she really offering what I think she's offering?

"No, Scully!" Mulder says, snapping right back to himself at what he viewed as a 
threat to her.

"Do you need to leave the room, Scully?" I ask, not liking the look on her face 
at all. She hadn't looked like that when it was happening to her. And her 
suggestion to, I don't know, sacrifice herself for him, it almost makes me sick. 
She knows better. She knows I'm not going to hurt him. She knows that's not what 
it's about.

Scully immediately looks at Mulder for her cue. To do what he wants her to do. I 
use my good hand to turn his face away.

"Don't look at him," I say. "You decide. You do what you want, not what he wants."

"Are you going to hurt him?"

"Did I hurt you?" I ask. I watch her closely and she gives a barely perceptible 
shake of her head. She still can't admit it out loud, but it is an admission 
nonetheless. She's doing better. "Then you have your answer already."

"Yeah, right, you're not going to hurt me," Mulder says bitterly into the 
bedspread.

"Only if you make me," I tell him. Like that was even part of the plan. Hurting 
him would screw the whole thing up. I want to do the opposite of hurt him. I 
want to fuck him and make him enjoy it, like Scully did. That's what this whole 
thing's all about. "Are you OK?"

"Right now, I'm OK," Mulder says. "Who knows what I'll be when you're done doing 
whatever your fucking sick twisted mind can come up with."

"Glad to hear it," I say and go over to my bag again. I unzip it slowly, letting 
him sweat a bit. He deserves it for trusting me so little. I could have fucked 
him ninety times over when we were in Russia, but I didn't. It wasn't 
appropriate. He was injured. I would have hurt him, when it should have been 
comfort. I waited for him to come to me, but then things just plain got out of 
hand. They always seem to do that when I'm with Mulder.

I mean, one minute we're digging under a fence side by side like two kids trying 
to get into the school ball field after hours and the next we're running away 
from a bunch of fucking cossacks bent on dragging us off to slavery. I mean, who 
else does stuff like that happen to?

I rummage a little and find what I'm after, my handy tube of lubricant. Gets you 
out of any number of sticky situations. Whether you're picking a rusty lock, 
silencing a door hinge, or fucking an FBI agent who's madder than a wet cat, you 
really need to keep the stuff on hand for unexpected events.

I squeeze some out of the tube and let it warm up on my hand. I was going to be 
extra careful with him, just to make him angrier. It would be worse if he had to 
endure me and be none the worse for wear. He couldn't put all the blame on me, 
then. The worst would be if I could get him to come again. And I knew I could.

Straddling his waist, I lean up and plant a big, wet kiss on the back of his 
neck. He writhes beneath me, but that only serves to rub my balls and erection 
against the middle of his back, so he quits it pretty quick.

"God damn you, Krycek," he pants over and over until it's nearly a mantra.

I move slowly. I want him to be ready. But I dearly wish for my other hand, so I 
could stroke his cock while I got him ready for me. Gay sex is an even bigger 
handicap with one hand than straight. Just for the record.

Rubbing my erect cock down over his tight buttocks, I carefully slip one well-lubed 
finger inside his anus. Mulder swears even harder and clenches down on me. Safe 
to say the boy is indeed a virgin at this. Or maybe just as out of practice as 
he is at everything not involving his right hand and a bottle of Jergens.

"Hey, now, it's OK," I say, and set up my own muttering of reassurance in time 
with Mulder's stream of profanity. It must have been quite a show from Scully's 
angle.

But God he was tight. God he had a fine ass, and damn if he didn't relax when he 
realized there was no getting away from me. Carefully and slowly, just as I 
would have if he had been one of those thirteen year-old girls the old men 
favored, I place a second finger inside him, moving gently, setting a careful 
pace, waiting for him to relax and open for me. More lube, carefully warmed, and 
then a third finger.

Mulder has obviously decided to endure and make the best of it. He squirms a 
little now and then, probably because he minds way less than he thinks he should, 
and is still looking to goad me into hurting him. But he calms down, relaxes and 
finally I remove my fingers and replace them with my lubed-up cock.

I don't think it's until I take his balls into my hand, stroking gently, that he 
realizes what he has inside him. He clenches down again then, sending a wave of 
pleasure straight into my brain. But I manage to stop all motion and whisper 
calming words to him until he's past the danger of my hurting him.

Then it's just a matter of time and motion. The feel of his tight ass around me, 
the feel of my hand on him as he envelops me inside his warmth. It's almost too 
good. It's what we should have done from the beginning instead of hitting one 
another. I mean fucking's a hell of a better way to solve disputes than by 
beating the shit out of someone. Hard to argue with a man with your cock in his 
mouth. Hard to fight with one that fucks you until you don't remember your own 
name let alone what you were fighting about in the first place.

It reminds me of bonobos.

There's a lesson for Mulder. He ought to stop watching so much porn and start 
watching the Discovery channel, because he could learn a few things. Like about 
bonobos.

Everyone's taught that chimpanzees are the closest things human beings have to 
kin on this earth. Well, that's wrong. Because if we share 98% of our DNA with 
chimpanzees, we share even more of it than that with bonobos, which are slightly 
bigger, slightly blacker primates that look, well, a lot like chimpanzees 
actually.

Well bonobos are not only a lot like human beings, they're also generally 
considered to be the perpetually randy horndogs of the animal kingdom. They don't 
just engage in sport fucking, like humans and dolphins. They don't just embrace 
homosexuality, bisexuality and about every kind of sexuality you can possibly 
imagine - they use it to settle conflicts.

Unlike humans and chimpanzees, bonobos are utterly peaceful creatures. They 
never kill anybody. They just fuck them into submission. If somebody gets upset, 
several of their friends, male or female, it doesn't really matter, will screw 
them until they forget all about whatever was pissing them off and everybody's 
happy again. If there's not enough food, they fuck whoever didn't get enough and 
then go to find them some. If someone wants to be dominant, they let them be on 
top. It's really that simple. Mulder could take a lesson from them. I mean, I'd 
let him be on top if it really means that much to him. All he has to do is ask.

And not hit me.

Mulder is a chimpanzee that way. I'm a bonobo.

Ok, I'm not. But I can admire the philosophy.

And the thing about "penis dueling" still cracks me up every time I think about 
it.

But I must admit, I'd much rather fuck Mulder than fight with him.

And not just because I usually let him win. Oh, yeah, I wouldn't lose like that 
if I wasn't letting him. I'm a professional assassin, remember? I could kick his 
ass if I wasn't always trying not to hurt him. It puts me at a serious 
disadvantage.

But I would much rather fuck his ass than kick it, especially the way he's 
pressing it back against me now, to meet my every thrust. And if he'd 
reciprocate, I bet he'd think the same thing about me. But I'm not getting my 
hopes up there. He's way too repressed for that.

But not too repressed, apparently, to refuse to enjoy what's happening right now. 
Not too repressed to have changed his angry cursing to moans of pleasure, still 
with my name attached, and definitely not too repressed to come again all over 
my hand, the bedspread and his own belly. That's about it for me, as well. My 
orgasm follows Mulder's, and he gasps again as I spill myself inside him, 
collapsing on top of his sweaty, muscular back with us still united.

Mulder's panting. I'm panting. It's just a matter of seeing who'll recover first.

"Get the fuck off of me, Krycek!" he manages. Apparently, it's going to be 
Mulder. But then, I've been the one doing all the work.

"OK, OK," I say, and drag myself out and off of him.

Now, I really hate the nasty wet feel of spent lube and semen drying all over my 
crotch. It's bad enough with natural lubricant and a woman, but the KY thing 
just does nothing for me. I'm willing to endure if my lover is being a good boy, 
but Mulder was glaring at me again and being anything but.

I really want to kiss him, but there is absolutely no way he will ever go for it 
at this point, so I know better than to try.

But then, there's always an alternative.

I look over at Scully for the first time since getting a piece of Mulder's hot, 
tight ass. To use an old, and very hackneyed phrase, she looks like she's been 
rode hard and put away wet. Obviously the action on the other bed has not been 
lost on her. I wonder how she'd react to the words "live sex show". Hell, at 
this point I was almost ready to say the word "threesome" but I just knew Mulder 
would spoil it. No way was he ever going to share her with anyone else the first 
time he had her himself. And I didn't blame him there one bit. She is more than 
worth someone's undivided attention.

And I think it's about time she has mine for a while again. She looks like she 
could use it. And while I know Mulder takes care of himself, I wonder what 
Scully does in those pretty purple pajamas she wears. I don't recall ever seeing 
her masturbate on the surveillance tapes, and after what she's just witnessed 
she has to be ready to fuck the starting lineup of the Green Bay Packers.

I wanted a shower. And there was no question as to who was going to join me 
there.

I go back over to the other bed and untie her feet. Then I take the cuff off her 
left wrist and cuff her securely to my right one.

"Come on, baby," I say, and kiss her deeply. She kisses back this time. I don't 
know if she is grateful that I hadn't hurt him and was trying to show me, or if 
she tasted Mulder on me and wanted to know what he was like by proxy, or if she'd 
just decided that it didn't matter any more, I don't know. But I sure will take 
it.

Scully's lips are as warm and soft as Mulder's, but she's sweeter. And her tiny 
body pressing against mine is quite literally the closest I'll ever come to 
heaven. I know it in my heart. I'm not quite at the point of being able to do 
much in the way of fucking again. Mulder has pretty much worn me out for the 
moment, but there are a great many other things one can do short of that that 
are eminently satisfying and downright fun.

It was time to give Scully a bath.

Mulder freaks again when I take her by the hand and lead her to the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" he shrieks, writhing against his bonds. "Where are you 
taking Scully?"

"It's just the bathroom, Mulder, for God's sake," I say. "I want a shower. I'm 
taking Scully with me. She's fine. She'll be fine."

"What are you going to do to her?"

"Nothing I haven't already done, and to you, too," I say. "Calm down, man. Do 
you need some more vodka?"

"I'm gonna kill you," he says.

"Back to that again, huh?" I shake my head and turn my back on him to see what 
the bathroom has to offer.

It's small and dumpy, like the rest of the motel. And because it's so old, it 
doesn't come equipped with all of the extra handicapped bars in the tub stall. 
Just the plumbing, a shower-curtain rod, and two towel bars along the back wall 
away from the showerhead and fixtures.

That doesn't leave me a whole hell of a lot of choice as to where to attach 
Scully's cuffs. I can't leave her attached to my wrist because I need that hand 
for the soap among other things. Figuring it's the sturdiest, I cuff her to the 
shower-curtain rod at about the center of the tub. Then I turn on the water and 
let it get good and warm.

"You actually weren't kidding about the shower, were you," Scully says.

"Gus Van Sant already remade Psycho, Scully," I tell her. "And it sucked. I have 
no intention of doing anything that redundant anytime soon."

"I haven't seen it, but Mulder and I watched the original just a little while 
ago when we were on a case out in nowhere Ohio. Nothing else to do."

"And, of course, you don't get enough maladjusted weirdos in your everyday life, 
so you have to watch them on TV," I smile and soap up a thin hotel washcloth.

Scully was smirking at me.

"What?" I ask, rubbing the washcloth over my face and then rinsing in the stream 
of water. Then I step backward and let it hit her full in the chest. She gasps, 
because I have it on pretty hard, but I love the way it makes her nipples harden 
after just a second or so of contact.

"I was just trying to think of the appropriate smart-ass comment to make, you 
left yourself so wide open," she tells me.

"Why not make them all?" I tell her, taking the soapy washcloth and running it 
slowly down her front. "It's been quite the afternoon of excess, anyway, hasn't 
it?"

"Do you want the whole list, or just the ones I thought of offhand," she asks, 
pretending to ignore the soapy circles I'm drawing over her breasts, her belly 
and her thighs.

"Oh, just the good ones," I say, moving closer to her and reaching around her to 
run the washcloth over her back now, her soapy front sliding slickly across my 
wet body.

If it felt half as good to her as it does to me, she isn't going to get very far 
on that list.

"OK," she says, her voice husky and somewhat breathless. I think it feels as 
good to her. "It takes one to know one."

"Obviously," I reply, dropping the washcloth to continue the circling washing 
motions with my bare hand.

"Maladjusted weirdos are my obsession, I just can't get enough," she says.

"Very nice."

"I've always got Mulder," she continues.

"Let's not go there right now," I tell her.

"Talk about art imitating life," she goes on.

"You're not that amusing," I tell her, and lower my lips to hers. She freezes up 
for a few seconds, but then I feel her little arm going around my neck and my 
heart nearly stops from the shock of it. Dana Scully was kissing me back, was 
she trying to work me? I open my eyes to get a look at her face, as much as I 
can with it attached to mine.

Her eyes are closed, she's pressing her hot wet body up against me, and 
incredibly despite the horrible pounding I've been giving it over the past 
several hours, my cock is springing to attention. I kiss her back, hard, and 
open her mouth with mine. I decide to chance it, but before I can plunge my 
tongue inside her, she's shoved hers into me instead.

Holy shit.

This is getting better and better.

I kiss her back hungrily and she actually moans into my mouth, the sound 
undoubtedly muffled by the pouring water running down us both. And then I 
realize that that is part of it. She can do this now because he can't see her, 
and probably can't hear her, either.

Poor Scully. Wants to get fucked by her partner, but is willing to take a 
substitute if he's persistent enough and her partner doesn't know. She's so 
lonely even with him around all the time. It makes me sad. But not enough to 
stop.

Because in a sick way we both are doing that. We can like each other because of 
him. We know each other because of him. We are isolated because of him. Our 
lives have been fucked six ways to Sunday because of him. We take comfort where 
we can. From each other.

But we have a serious problem and it's the height difference. I am at least nine 
inches taller than Scully, and both of us with no shoes, the parts are never 
going to fit.

Now if I still had my left arm, I would simply have lifted her up against the 
wall, but that's not happening in this lifetime - never again. I wished I'd 
enjoyed it more the last time I did it like that. And laying her down in the 
bottom of the icky old tub with most of the enamel worn away is not exactly the 
most appealing prospect.

She's rubbing herself against me in a way surely designed to make me completely 
lose my mind. And I would have, if I wasn't desperately seeking a solution to 
the height dilemma. And then the sex-addled wheels in the Krycek brain began to 
slowly grind forward again and I took a good look at the towel bars on the back 
wall - one on top of the other, the last one about a foot above the edge of the 
tub. Perfect.

I undo Scully's cuff and move it from the shower curtain rod to the bottom towel 
rack. "Krycek, what are you doing?" she says, somewhat disturbed that I seem not 
as interested in her as I might have been. The rod is low enough on the wall 
that even Scully has to bend her knees to keep the cuff from pulling her arm off.

"Trust me, you're going to like it," I assure her. You'd think the erection 
would clue her in that I'm still interested. But maybe she's seen so much of 
that today already that she needs further reassurance of my interest. I plant a 
hard kiss on her soft, full lips. "Assume the position," I say in my best hard-ass 
way. "On your knees, facing the wall." Of course the goofy grin spreading across 
my whole face sort of minimizes the impact, but what the hell?

Scully's eyes grow really wide at the suggestion, but then she does it. She 
doesn't say anything, but she simply does what I said, grabbing onto the towel 
rack with her other hand at the same time.

Oh. My. God.

I'm on my knees behind her so fast I actually crack my kneecap painfully against 
the grungy enamel of the bottom of the tub. I can not be sorry for it.

I slip my good arm around her waist and kiss the white nape of her elegant neck. 
Scully arches her back up against me and presses her bottom hard into my crotch, 
moaning low in her throat like a lioness in heat.

I didn't even bother to see if she's ready. It's so damned obvious. It was 
obvious before we'd entered the bathroom. The hotel room smelled like her. L'eau 
d'chaude mouille Scully. I can't think of a better perfume.

I thrust inside her, feeling her tight and sweet against me. She cries out a 
little at the initial penetration, more in triumph I think, than in any sort of 
pain. She's almost desperate for it, I think. After having to watch us, with her 
hands tied up, and no one to touch her.

I'm being careful, though. Scully's small, and no matter how much she wants it, 
I didn't want to hurt her. And this way the penetration is a lot more serious 
and deep than it had been on the bed with her legs tied down. I'm burying myself 
in her up to the hilt and each time she's pressing back against me, practically 
begging for more.

I thrust carefully in and out a few more times. Then I lean down over her again, 
and place my hand between her thighs, rubbing her clitoris gently.

"Is this all right?" I ask. "Is this what you want?"

"No," Scully pants, and thrusts her bottom against me hard.

"What is it? Tell me what you want?" I ask, nearly losing my mind with the 
pleasure of it.

"Harder," she breathes, the word seeming to be wrenched out of her despite 
herself. More self-mind-fucking bullshit, of course. But she'd still managed to 
get it out. And I'm more than happy to oblige.

I slam into her mindlessly for a good, long time. Bringing our bodies together, 
hard, just like she said she wanted it, the warm water beating down on our backs 
and no sound other than that and the accompaniment of our breathing and small 
grunts and moans as we pleasure each other.

I hold out a long while. The activity of the afternoon has taken its toll and I 
am able to last a good deal longer than usual for me. And I have decent stamina 
by anyone's standard, normally. But I'm able to make Scully come twice more 
before I just can't take it any more myself and come at last into the fading 
contractions of her final orgasm.

I grab onto the towel bar myself at that. I am really beat, actually. That's a 
lot of activity for anyone with no rest. And I still have to make my getaway. I 
really don't want to get picked up by some podunk Rhode Island vice squad 
sleeping it off after fucking two of the FBI's finest.

I hate the thought of leaving, though.

Especially when Scully and I seem to have come to such an interesting 
understanding.

I wonder if there will be any carryover from the events of this day. I know that 
Mulder will try to kill me. But then, he was always doing that, but Scully?would 
Scully shoot me or fuck me the next time we met? It was something interesting to 
think about. But I'd have plenty of time to do that later. Right now I had to 
make a clean getaway.

I remove myself from Scully's little body and let the water hit her full force 
for a minute so she'd feel clean again. As if water would help, really. Then I 
shut the water off and bring one of the not-so-fluffy white towels over and 
begin to dry her off. Touching her briskly, non-sexually now, making sure she's 
quite dry so she won't get cold. 

Because I intend to leave her just where she is.

I figure it will take her at least a half an hour to work the towel bar free 
from the wall. It's anchored quite securely. And then she'll be able to free 
Mulder and they'll be able to go home, none the worse for wear, and maybe a 
little wiser.

Sadder, but wiser. Like me.

"Krycek, what are you doing?" she asks.

I dry myself off, unhurriedly. Then I hand the towel to her.

"Here, you might want this for your hair. It's not that wet," I say.

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I say. There was no point in saying anything else, really.

"And you're leaving us here, like this," she says.

"You'll get out in a bit. And there's leftover Chinese food for Mulder," I tell 
her. "I doubt he'll mind that it's cold. I've seen his refrigerator. I'll bring 
the other towels over from the other room before I go."

She just looks at me, sitting with her legs drawn up in front of her and looking 
like a six year-old girl who's just lost her puppy.

I bend down and kiss her on the forehead.

"See ya," I tell her, and I go out into the other room to face the Wrath of 
Mulder.

"What were you doing to her in there, you fucking pervert!" he spat as soon as 
he saw me coming toward him. 

I went to my bag, got out fresh underwear and put it on.

"And what would you have been doing with a naked, wet Dana Scully in a hotel 
bathroom?" I ask as I put my jeans back on. At his baleful look I continue. "We 
were playing mahjongg, of course."

"I'm going to kill you, Krycek," Mulder says, his voice low and filled with 
anger.

"Give it up, man," I say. "Go read about bonobos, and you might just get it."

"What is this, the fucking Planet of the Apes?" Mulder asks.

"Maybe," I say, as I pull my T-shirt back on and shove all of my junk back into 
my bag. "But somehow I don't think Dr. Zaius would exactly approve of what went 
on in here today. He's too militaristic, even though he was an orangutan. No, 
you really need to check out the bonobos, Mulder."

"The next time I see you, your ass is mine," he hisses.

"See, maybe you'll come around yet," I tell him and give him an exaggerated wink. 
"I can always hope."

I go into the other hotel room and get the towels like I'd told Scully. I return 
to the bathroom and smile at her as I set them down on the toilet. She has my 
towel wrapped around her wet hair and is diligently working on getting the towel 
bar out of the wall. She just smiles at me, but doesn't bother to stop when I 
come in.

I smile back and walk back into the other room.

"Goodbye Mulder," I say, and run my hand over his shoulders and down the muscles 
of his back. He really is beautiful, even when he's hating me.

"Fuck you!" he says glaring at me over his shoulder.

I smile at him and squeeze the shoulder. I understand, Mulder, I really do. I 
understand your need to distance yourself from me, it's just the kind of 
rationalization for their own actions human beings are prone to make, because if 
things had been different you so easily could be me.

It really just takes the right circumstances and the desire to stay alive to 
make a man what I am. Mulder has one, but not the other. And he likes to think 
that even if he had both, he'd have made different choices. But you can never 
know that until it really happens. Until you have to make the choices that bring 
you to where you end up.

Neither of us knows where that's going to be, or what side it's going to be on.

Mulder likes to think he's on the side of the Angels. Whose angels is what I 
want to know? It's not just black and white. Not just good and evil. Sometimes 
it's both and you just have to do what you can and try to make it so no one you 
care about gets hurt in the process.

So, I shut the door behind me and walk out into the Rhode Island night. I get 
back into the official FBI car and drive away down the highway, popping open the 
Coke I'd taken with me to make sure that I don't fall asleep.

Yeah, it seems a little harsh to leave them there like that, doesn't it? Scully 
wet and cuffed to the bar in the bathroom. Mulder, covered in his own semen and 
mine tied spread eagled on the ratty bed.

But, remember, at the end of the day they still have each other.

And I have Alex Krycek.

-30-



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