From: antrim Date: 25 Jul 1998 03:28:19 GMT Subject: New: Devil's Bargain 1/2 (nc17 m/k slash) Devil's Bargain, an X Files story by Brenda Antrim. Rated NC17 for adult content, violence, language and sexuality. Set after the events of Red and the Black, and without taking into account the events of the X Files movie. No copyright infringement to CC & Co intended. Enjoy! This story is one of ten from the multi-fandom e-zine A Little Mystery at http://www.pe.net/~bantrim/index.htm -- drop by and check it out. Print copies are available for copy cost and postage -- e-mail bantrim@pe.net for details. Part 1 of 2 ~~~~~~~ He was used to skulking around in the shadows of the halls of power, not walking down the middle of the corridor with all the lights on. When he'd been working for the Cancerstick, he'd been a hired thug, directed here, beat this one up, steal that, shoot the other one. With the Dandy, as he privately called the well dressed old man who'd given him back his life after the mess with the boy Dmitri in the hold of a ship, he at least got to sleep nights. Some nights. Other nights, he'd just as soon stay awake. Alex Krycek checked the watch on his remaining arm and shrugged a little in the black leather jacket. The new prosthetic arm attached to his left shoulder was a cut above the pitiful thing he'd been given in Moscow, but it still made his back ache. The weight was all wrong. And it affected his balance. He actually preferred going without it. But while a tough in black leather and beard stubble was a common enough sight to pass without notice on city streets, a one armed man was remembered. And he survived much better, even in the light, if he went unremarked. Almost eight. The Dandy should be done any time. He'd been hanging around all afternoon, eavesdropping here, reading things he shouldn't there. He had to pick up information somehow, and he had to keep his skills sharp. He'd learned the hard way that information was power, and he didn't like being powerless. It could get a guy killed. Or at the very least, maimed. The thought made his missing arm itch. A lackey, a weedy looking boy with too-pale skin and too-small eyes wearing a too-perfect suit, slipped from the conference room and handed him a small envelope. Sealed. The boy didn't linger, turning and slipping back into the room immediately. Krycek wondered who he was sucking to rate the flashy wardrobe, then dismissed the kid from his thoughts and pried open the envelope. Great. An all nighter. Be back in the morning. Nine sharp. Turning toward the door, fingers automatically shredding the small note, he hesitated. He wasn't all that sleepy, after all, and the good jazz bars didn't really start to cook for another couple hours. While he was here, he might as well ... have a little fun. And add a little to the power base. The Dandy would know about it, of course. But then, the Dandy would also be disappointed if he didn't show at least a little initiative now and then. Making a left instead of a right at the corridor, he headed for the back office, and the computer he knew would be unattended this late in the evening. He'd been a decent hacker before he'd been sucked in by the Consortium, and his experiences since then had only further developed his talents. Less than fifteen minutes after booting it up, he was through all five security encryptions and both firewalls. They could follow him in, but he didn't give a shit. Let them know what he was looking at. Let them wonder why. As he pulled file after file of information on his targets of interest, snatches of conversation flowed through his mind, collating with fragments of text he'd read throughout the last four years. It made a strange sort of sense, but there were large chunks missing. Scully he could understand. She was an unsuspecting black pawn who'd turned out to be the white Queen in disguise. Skinner was a bit of an enigma, the Knight who was a suspicious shade of gray. And Mulder? Mulder was a fucking zebra King. There was no mixing of black and white with the man, but he had elements of both within him. Krycek's question was simple. Why was Mulder still alive? There had been too many opportunities to kill him that had passed untaken. Some had even come from him, personally, and had deliberately failed, on orders from on high. It didn't make sense. And in this game, something that important had to have a reason. It was too dangerous -- Mulder was too dangerous -- not to be protected for a purpose. Reading slowly, thoroughly, through the file on the Cancerstick, now re-instated, he paused at the medical information. Words drifted through his mind. "If you kill him, he becomes a martyr." To what? To whom? Blood type. Genotype ... dates. Repressed memories. A filched audiocassette with a regressive hypnotherapy session with a doctor ... more words floated past. "Mom? He scares me. He scares Sam." "You're quite a little spy, aren't you?" Text from a journal, hidden in a file, copied unaware. 'The label peeled back, and it was my name. Mine, not Samantha's. Why did they take her? Why not me?' Private correspondence, between a young FBI agent with a bad attitude and a crazy mother, and a man in the shadows. A visit to a hospital, to another older woman, with another son, who had an even worse attitude, toward the man in the shadows at least. A miraculous recovery, and a rift between mother and son that no one would explain. Another son. His hands paused over the keys. A reason to keep him alive. Well, yeah, as long as the Cancerstick was in a position of power with the Consortium. But that had passed to the point where they'd tried to assassinate the son of a bitch. For a fleeting moment, Krycek wished he'd had that assignment. He'd've really enjoyed pulling that trigger. And he wouldn't have left the bastard breathing to escape, either. Pushing happy fantasies aside, he returned to his conundrum. Mulder should have lost his protection when his father, for the Cancerstick was certainly his father, lost his power. Yet he'd remained alive, still a thorn in the Consortium's side. So Mulder, himself, must have something, hold some power of his own, of which he was probably completely unaware. And whoever had that power ... had a hold over the Consortium. Somehow. The key would be to figure out what that power was, and use it to the best advantage in the coming war. Hell of a way to treat one's allies, but when those allies are enemies to begin with, it only makes sense. He smirked to himself, remembering the last time he'd seen Mulder, then the expression froze on his face. He wasn't the only one interested in Mulder's comings and goings. Leaning forward intently, staring at the screen, he began to push buttons, following a very faint trail. As he traced it further and further, the trail grew bolder, and the intent became unmistakable. Someone, high up in the echelons of power in the Consortium, was after Mulder. No way. No fucking way. Not 'til he'd had his own chance at exploiting that particular resource. He wanted to find out what made Mulder so damned important, and how to use that to his advantage. He couldn't do that if Mulder was dead. So, Mulder would stay alive. He would see to it. ~~~~~~~ Dead ends, paperwork, no sleep, a dyspeptic Skinner, bad reruns on the late show (what was with all the goddamned Gilligan's Island? What happened to Man from UNCLE?), a pregnant Godzilla that looked like Alien on steroids and couldn't frighten a flea, Scully on a religion kick, and not a single fucking alien in sight. So much for war. Fox Mulder stared morosely into the carton of moo goo gai pan balanced on his knee and sighed. He was not thinking about Alex Krycek. He was not thinking of tying him to the door post and beating him until he stopped squeaking. He was not thinking of prying secrets out of him with the judiciously wielded end of a red hot poker. And he most certainly was not thinking of that bizarre Judas kiss the bastard gave him ... after giving him back his gun. His loaded gun. Which he, for some reason that he also was determinedly not thinking about, had not used to kill the rat bastard. He angled his chopsticks over the open container, trying to decide the best angle of attack to keep from ending up with hot noodles in his crotch, and the window exploded. Chopsticks went one way, he dove the other, and what was left of his carton of dinner decorated everything from his pants to his sofa to the opposite wall. Somebody shot his moo goo gai pan. From his relatively secure position curled up into a fetal position next to the television in the far corner of the living room, Mulder stared at the now completely silent mess that moments ago had been his apartment. Shattered glass coated the table and the floor in the tiny den, noodles, vegetables and sauce coated the couch (and his pants), one chopstick floated peacefully along the top of the fish tank, the end just starting to sag as the balsa wood became soaked through. A few feet away in the direction of the door, the murdered take out container lay, mute testimony to an assassination attempt gone oddly awry, a perfect hole drilled in one side of the carton and blasted out the other. A few stray noodles bled from the perforation like intestines trailing from a gutted corpse. Reaching shakily for his coat, staying carefully out of the line of fire, he caught a hanging sleeve and dragged it toward himself. A quick scrabble through a pocket and a finger poked the number one fast dial button. Please don't be at church, Mulder prayed silently, and was rewarded for his piety by a grumpy voice on the other end of the line. "Scully." "It's me," he croaked out, amused at the reversal in their usual roles. "Someone just shot my dinner." "That's usually done before it makes it to the table, Mulder," she snapped back. He could hear music in the background. Fuckin' A, he'd just managed to screw up another of her few and far between dinner dates. "This time it was post-prep, Scully. I'm in my living room. My Chinese food was just shot out of my lap." He swallowed, then forced himself to continue. "And my gun's in the room where the shot came through." She didn't actually say anything, but he could hear her teeth grinding together through the line. "I'll be right there, Mulder. Don't move." Or I'll kill you myself. Again, unspoken, but clear as a bell. He nodded agreement to the dial tone ringing in his ear. She made it in record time. She always drove faster when she was pissed. Of course, he had moved, and that didn't improve her mood any. He wasn't sure if the fact that he hadn't been shot at when he'd moved was a plus or just made her pissier. He supposed if he ever had a date for her to interrupt he'd be in a better position to judge. He could always pause the tape and start it up again later, so he was never quite as irritated at being interrupted as she was. At least he had something to do that night, since he wasn't sleeping anyway. Ballistics were a bust, no match to any pending weapon or criminal. He filled out more paperwork, nailed boards over the inside of his window, swept up glass, left the chopstick in the tank for a fish toy. He was hungry, and tense, and more than a little pissed off by the whole affair, until he walked into the office the next day and saw a report on his desk. Not ballistics, forensics. Not a bullet. His moo goo gai pan had an additional ingredient, a mushroom most fine restaurants would shy away from using in their dishes. There was enough amanita phalloides in the veggies to take down a healthy elephant. Whoever'd killed his dinner had saved his life. He was jumpy for days afterward. For a man who relied heavily on take-out food to survive, and who couldn't afford to lose any weight to begin with, it was a trying time. The Chinese restaurant hadn't a clue who'd added the additional garnish to his dish. The delivery boy had disappeared (Mulder hadn't thought the tip was that bad). He spent a lot of time hanging out at Scully's apartment, scaring off her dates and picking off her plate, until she told him to hire a taster and stop living under her dining room table. Eventually it passed, as all the weirdness in his life usually passed, and other than doing quite a bit more cooking than he ever had before (and finally figuring out how to turn his range on) life continued as it was wont to do. A month, two, a road trip to Minnesota to look at crop circles, another to Arizona to put away a tongue fetishist before he killed any more hitchhikers, another acre of trees killed to feed the ever-expanding appetite the FBI bean counters had for paperwork in quadruplicate. Nights spent with the VCR, weekends spent swimming and looking for the perfect poster for his reconstructed office, days spent chasing homicidal, possibly mutant, definitely disturbed headcases. Life was on an even keel. Mulder set out for his early morning run just like every other day he managed one, which meant, as usual, there was no set pattern to his activities at all and he didn't have a 'standard' time, route or destination. Which also meant that whoever the son of a bitch was, he, or she, was watching, and waiting. The bullet missed by a fraction of an inch, so close he felt the disturbance in the air current, heard the whine beside his ear before he heard the muffled crack of a silenced gun. Close, too close, both the bullet and the shooter. He dove, rolled, had his gun out and miraculously didn't drop it. Adrenaline pushing him on, he rolled to the side of the path into the bushes and listened hard. A cough, another silencer, this one sounded different, shorter, harsher. Not as close. He crawled swiftly around the side of the bushes, heading in the direction from whence the first bullet had come, eyes everywhere at once, breath echoing in his ears, competing with his heartbeat. He found the rifle first, but only because he tripped over the body. Well, he hadn't really been looking down. The shooter, a woman, was cooling rapidly, no evidence of a pulse to be found. Looking up and around, he saw a few scuff marks on the ground heading vaguely away from the body, but the prints weren't clear enough to make anything of them. He reached into his fanny pack, drew out his cell phone, and wearily punched a button. This time she was at church. He told her to go back to the service. She told him not to be an idiot. Besides, the priest probably wouldn't let her back in, since she'd already interrupted the mass once with a ringing phone. He stopped arguing, staring at the entry wound between the shoulder blades of the would-be assassin. It looked familiar. He told himself he was being paranoid, agreed with himself, and looked again. It still looked familiar. Ballistics confirmed the hunch. Whoever'd killed the assassin, Jane Doe of the filed off fingerprints and the utter lack of traceable dentition, had also slaughtered his magic-mushroom laden dinner four months earlier. It would seem that he had a guardian angel. Who used a nine mil Koch P7 with a silencer. And who had damned good timing. The rifle slug had only missed him by an inch. Mulder had too many enemies to pin these assassination attempts on any particular one too easily. But most of them weren't the shooting kind. More the kidnap, drug, freak out, videotape the results for posterity and mind-wipe type. Which led him to believe that it must have something to do with the Consortium, for hadn't everything truly strange in his life eventually been tied into the Consortium? He sicced the Lone Gunmen on the problem, brainstormed with Scully until neither of them had an unstormed brain cell left between them, politely begged Skinner to join the hunt, and came up empty handed all around. It was enough to drive a sane person nuts, and Mulder wasn't particularly balanced on the best of days. Happily, or frighteningly, depending on the perspective, it wasn't nearly as long between the second and third attempt as it had been between the first and the second. He was walking home after questioning a source, or a snitch, depending on the person describing the meet. It was a beautiful night, clear and crisp, a rarity in DC in the autumn. He could actually see stars. Which was probably why he didn't see the car that screamed out of the alley and very nearly turned him into Federal Agent Roadkill. Except for the strong arm that came out of nowhere, grabbed him by the back of the collar, and dragged him out of the way, nearly strangling him in the process. Both hands tearing desperately at the knot in his tie, trying to keep himself from being asphyxiated after just being saved from certain death by maniacal vehicle, Mulder twisted frantically to look over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of his guardian angel. Well, shit. Choking, he had time for the single, disgusted thought that he'd always assumed autoerotic asphyxiation presumed both nudity and erotic activity, then his head was swatted with singular efficiency against the side of the brick wall behind him, and all the lights went out. When they came back on again, he was lying in his apartment. He was sprawled on the sofa, shoes off, tie undone, a wet towel against the bruises he could feel on his windpipe, and a melting icebag propped under the goose egg on the back of his skull. The door was locked, the light was considerately off, and the only noise in the quiet apartment was the gurgling of the filter in the fish tank. At least now he knew who his guardian angel was. Which begged the question ... why was Alex Krycek working so hard to keep him alive? ~~~~~~~ It had started out as a means to an end. It developed into a crusade. Krycek had waited, and watched, and traced nearly invisible strings of influence back to the source, only to determine that it was one of the inner echelon of power in the Consortium who wanted Mulder taken out of the picture. Since this particular man, a monotonal, dead eyed, cold fish glutton, was on the wrong side of the battle anyway, the Dandy made no move to stop Krycek's little quest to keep Mulder safe from the Pig. Not that it would have done much good if he had. But still, it was nice to stay in the good graces of his patron for a change. He'd saved Mulder from at least five assassination attempts, and during two of them, Alex had come uncomfortably close to being caught. Then the fiasco the night before had hit. He knew he couldn't stay lucky forever, but he'd been enjoying himself, sort of, and he'd wanted to see how long it could last. So much for his fun. The gig was up. Mulder had recognized him, he'd known by the gleam in the bright, oxygen-deprived hazel eyes, and knew who was constantly saving his ass. There were many times Krycek cursed the overly enthusiastic Siberian peasants who'd sawed off his arm -- usually he cursed them on a daily basis -- but never so bitterly as times like that, when he really could have used one arm to pull Mulder out of the way and another to thump him so he wouldn't be able to look backward and see his rescuer. He sighed, resigned. Might as well get it over with. Pay him a little visit. See just how much he could get away with not telling, and just how much he could get in return for what he would tell. Besides, all that watching was making him antsy. Mulder had been a secret fantasy of his for years, ever since before they were originally partnered, and after watching him like a bug under a microscope for six months, he was ready to do something, anything, to get a little bit closer. Didn't help that he could still feel Mulder's skin under his lips, still smell him, after all those months. Didn't help that he did, every night, at least every night that he actually got any sleep. It also didn't help that he still hadn't figured out what made Mulder so damned special that the Consortium had been willing to protect him, until the division in power in the inner circle had splintered the goals of the group. The only thing he had been able to figure out was that Mulder was important, to the Resistance, and was a threat, somehow, to the collaborators. Which merely added impetus both to the Pig's timetable for killing the agent and Krycek's determination to keep him alive. Maybe it was time to put an end to the cat and mouse game for all sorts of good reasons. And maybe he was just justifying the approach to himself because his lips were itching. Didn't matter, in the end. Because it was time to strike a deal. ~~~~~~~ (completed in part 2) Part 2 of 2 ~~~~~~~ Mulder wore a turtleneck sweater under a blazer for the next three days and answered Scully's raised brow with a mysterious look. This, of course, merely amused her, and successfully distracted her from questioning him about the odd hickeys he was hiding under the high neckline. Too bad it was from a chokehold. He quashed that thought before it could develop into 'wish it had been lips' and threw out yet another email query to Frohicke. They'd developed quite a code, to the point where there were times when he wasn't completely sure what his paranoid little friend was telling him, but then that wasn't all that uncommon in the history of their friendship. So he didn't let it bother him this time. He was too busy checking his back trail. Of course, that didn't do him any good either. Coming home the Friday night after the attack, he unlocked his door and wandered in, wondering if he had enough munchies to sustain him over the weekend without having to make yet another run to the store (this cooking gig wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Food actually spoiled when one didn't cook it). Trying to look every direction at once, checking automatically to make sure there weren't any odd papers lying on the floor or clear lines of sight for riflemen (or women), checking behind the door before setting both locks and the chain, and peering behind the fish tank, he nearly tripped over the man coming out of his bathroom. Before Mulder could flick the safety off on his gun, the fine bones of his wrist were caught in a punishing grip and his arm was twisted up between his shoulder blades. He dropped the gun, of course -- he tended to do that when his fingers went bloodless and every nerve from his shoulder to his fingertips screamed in pain. He managed to bite back the instinctive agonized cry, but couldn't help the little whimper that whuffed out. Oddly enough, his attacker actually paid attention, and some of the pressure eased on his arm. "Calm it down, tovarisch. You're not going to shoot me, and I'm not going to hurt you." "Bullshit," Mulder tried to sound tough, but it came out a little breathless. He could feel Krycek pressed all along his back, and now that his arm wasn't being ripped out of the socket, the rest of his body was waking up to the possibilities. Trying to ignore those, as well, he did his best to bluster on. "What do you call what you're doing to my gun hand, then?" "Insurance." The flat tone had a hint of dry humor behind it, but there was no doubt that he meant it. There was a slight rustling sound, and he felt the thigh behind his move sideways as his gun was kicked into the far corner. "Have a seat. Get comfortable." Mulder was shoved not ungently toward the couch. Spinning slightly, rubbing his numb wrist, he started to kick back at Krycek only to freeze at the sight of the pistol aimed unwaveringly at his stomach. "Just a friendly little chat, hm, Alex?" Irony dripped from the words. He gave his best impression of nonchalance as he slumped onto the cushions, but the tension in his body gave lie to the image. Krycek took note of his attack readiness and perched just out of reach on the end of the coffee table. "We do have to talk, Mulder." "About what, aliens? Invasions that haven't happened? People shooting me and you shooting them? Why are you suddenly my bodyguard, Krycek? And where the fuck do you get off kissing me?" He froze again, aghast that he'd actually said what he'd been thinking. Somehow, all the internal censors slid off-line every time he had to deal with Alex Krycek. Scrabbling to fake a save, he plowed on, belligerently. "You shot my noodles!" Whoa, that hadn't been quite what he'd meant to say, either. "And that woman who was going to shoot me, you got her, too, and you nearly ripped my head off getting me out of the way of that runaway car. What the hell is going on?" His voice had risen until it was a full throttle yell. Krycek stared at him, fascinated, a funny little half smile playing at his mouth. Mulder had a nearly uncontrollable urge to belt him right across those curved lips. "Not to mention the rigged brakes that I patched on the car you rented on the trip to Minnesota. And the 80 milligrams of amygdalin in the Ben and Jerry's that disappeared from your freezer last month. Or the prussic acid that was ground into your gourmet coffee beans a couple weeks ago. Were you wondering why that didn't make it into your grocery bag? Or the 45 mils of methylene chloride in the Miller's that, uhm, fell over and broke in your refrigerator ten days ago." Mulder choked, and Krycek waited politely until the gag reflex had passed. "You just noticed the loud ones. At least this time there wasn't any LSD in the water supply. This was all just for you. Aren't you special?" "Why?" he finally managed to spit out, and couldn't make his tongue work properly to finish the question. It was probably just as well, as Mulder couldn't even decide himself whether he was asking why he was being targeted, or why Krycek was stopping the attempts. Or even why he might be considered special. By anyone. Thankfully, his enemy, or bodyguard, or ally, or whatever the hell he was, answered all of the questions asked by the single word. "I don't know yet," Krycek said simply. "I'm still working on that." They stared at one another for a long moment, then Mulder stared disbelievingly as Krycek gave an odd, one-shouldered shrug, uncocked his weapon, and reholstered it under his left armpit. "You got anything to drink that's nonhallucinogenic?" Mulder shrugged. "How the fuck should I know?" Krycek nodded. "Good point. I'd know better than you would." He rose from the edge of the table and wandered into the small kitchen, rummaging in the refrigerator and pulling out two cans of Budweiser. Tossing one to Mulder, who caught it instinctively then sat and stared at it, he lowered himself onto the couch and popped the top, balancing the can between his knees. Mulder opened his mouth to protest the casual hominess of his actions, only to have something completely unrelated fall out. "What happened to your arm?" Well, hell. Another synaptic misfire. "Siberian peasants chopped it off." There was a long, unpleasant silence. Mulder stared at the unopened can in his hand, at the fish still circling the sodden chopstick caught on the filter hose, at the carpet that desperately needed to be vacuumed. Anywhere but at the elegant line of Krycek's throat as he tipped his head back to drink down the last drops of beer in his can. Anywhere except at the awkward stillness of the left arm that wasn't really an arm. Anywhere at all that wasn't in those too-knowing, too deep, and too fucking believable green eyes staring back at him. It didn't work, of course. It never had. "I'm sorry," he finally offered. Krycek gave another off balance shrug. Before he could open his mouth and stuff his foot down his throat again, the other man moved. Krycek leaned forward, carefully set the empty can down on the table top, swiveled on the cushions and leaned back against the arm of the couch, staring at Mulder. It didn't take long to give him the fidgets. "Could've been a Russian thing," he suddenly said, and Mulder jumped a little. The non sequitor made no sense, and he began to run the conversation back in his head, trying to figure it out. "Might have been a Judas kiss." Oh! That. He swallowed, trying not to notice how close he and Krycek were sitting. When had that happened? "Could have even been the Kiss of Death, or a symbolic way to seal the pact, let you know we were both on the same side." Another shift, and those damnable eyes were closer now, and Mulder couldn't have backed away if his life had depended on it. "But it wasn't. Any of those things. And you know it." Mulder tried to shake his head, instinctively denying whatever it was that Krycek was implying, but he found he couldn't move. He was hypnotized by the low voice, the air of intimacy between them in the close confines of the darkened living room. "You knew I was going to kiss you. You flinched, all right, but not away. Toward me." He wanted to turn away, wanted to close his eyes. Wanted to be anywhere but where he was, leaning toward the truth he didn't want to admit. Truth shining out at him from wicked green eyes. "It was a kiss. Just a kiss. A kiss between enemies. A kiss between allies." By now Mulder could feel the brush of breath over his lips as Krycek leaned closer, until those eyes shifted out of focus, and it was only the voice, the scent, the warmth, that held him there. So close. "I shouldn't have kissed you," so close they were nearly touching, "on the cheek." So close, they did touch. Breath over his lips, into his mouth, making his tongue curl and relax. "I should have kissed you," and he did. For long moments there was only the sound of suction and release, as warm lips played with his, outlined his upper lip, drew in his lower, nipped at it and soothed it with a questing tongue tip. Mulder'd tilted his head sometime, somewhere along the line, to give him better access, to deepen the touch. A release, another breath over his sensitized, moistened lips. "Here. And here," as the mouth roved, along his offered throat, under his ear. "And here." Nipping along his jaw line. Someone, somewhere, was whimpering softly, and the hot breath over sensitive skin soothed, tormented, added impetus to the offering. Then it was gone. And he wanted it back. He was actually reaching out to pull Krycek back up against him when reality slammed into him like a brick to the head. His mouth worked, but once again his tongue failed him. "We need to talk, Mulder." At least the bastard's voice was unsteady. Small victories, but any cause for celebration was a just one, at this point, Mulder's mind gibbered at him. "So, talk." God, he'd sounded even worse than Krycek. Breathy. Low. Inviting. Like Kathleen Turner on downers. He shook himself. He had to get a grip. On something. "Right." For a second, Mulder thought Krycek was agreeing with him. Then long fingers reached around to grasp his chin and force his head up. A feather-light kiss was dropped on his mouth, then that voice threaded through his head again. "Make a bargain. I'll keep protecting you, and when I find out why they're trying to kill you, I'll let you know." "Who's they?" "Don't know yet." Another pecking kiss. It was really distracting. "What do you get out of the deal?" "You." No hesitation at all. Mulder tried to swallow, and found a tongue in his mouth. A tongue that didn't belong to him. For half a heartbeat he almost considered biting down. Then that tongue started to move, and the heartbeat skipped, and all thoughts drifted away again. He should be fighting this. Should at least be laughing at the bastard, or haggling with him, or beating him up, or something, anything, anything at all, except what he was doing. Which at the moment was cooperating, enthusiastically, in getting naked and horizontal together. His body finally decided that his mind was turning in too many circles to make any decisions, and animal instinct took over. There were a few snags, literally, when he got to the straps digging into the soft skin of Krycek's shoulder, but he was moving full steam ahead by that time. Other than taking care not to jolt anything, the prosthetic arm was just another piece of furniture to get the hell out of the way. At least, that's the way it felt to Mulder. Coffee table scraped on the carpet, the beer cans went over, the couch banged against the wall, and clothes ended up tossed from one end of the room to another. His mouth finally kicked in with the program, and he was suddenly voracious, licking and sucking from one end of the barely uncovered flesh to the other. Better than sunflower seeds any day of the week. Almost as salty, too, wandered through his brain, as he pushed down on Krycek's hips with both hands and swallowed him whole. From the strangled scream choked out a few feet above his bobbing head, that move went over well. He made a feast of Krycek, hands moving all over him, bruised ribs and scarred stump and callused fingers, soft throat and crinkled nipples, musky sac and straining shaft and ridged stomach. His mouth followed his hands, taking the other man by storm, carrying them both away in a welter of passion. As they slowly wound down from the peak, he thrust lazily into the mess splattered between them, not wanting to leave the strong arm wrapped around his neck, fingers worked into his hair, thighs clenching around his hips; the haven of the curve of neck and shoulder where he buried his face and bit, lightly, sucking the warm skin into his mouth over and over, marking it, living on nerve endings and residual energy, denying reality as long as he could. Still in a haze, he felt lips brush lightly over his temple, fingers caressing his scalp, heartbeat thundering under his chest. Closing his eyes, one final denial of the truth, he didn't notice when he slipped into sleep, still listening to that heartbeat coming down in time with his own. ~~~~~~~ When Mulder finally went out, he went out like a light. Krycek lay in the darkness, crushed into the couch cushions, eyes staring at nothing, hand quietly calming the shaking muscles along the clean line of Mulder's back. The shaking gradually faded into rhythmic breathing, the slightest suggestion of a snore from somewhere below his left ear, tickling slightly. He took a deep breath. Well, that had gone somewhat better than he'd expected. They were both still alive, they had at least the beginnings of a truce, and somebody somewhere had one hell of a surveillance tape. Knowing how well Mulder was watched, probably several somebodies in several places had every different angle possible of their recent lovemaking. His thoughts stopped, tripping over the term, then soldiered on. Okay. He could deal with this. Dandy knew he was watching out for Mulder. Pig would too, now, if he didn't already, which he probably did, given the accelerated pacing of the incidents. The alliance was struck, and the warning was out there. Mulder was marked. His property. His responsibility. He'd managed to lie about enough that the Pig might think he was still safe, so that would give him an edge, at least for a little while. He hoped it would be long enough. Long enough to stop the assassination attempts. Long enough to figure out what the hell made Mulder indispensable ... other than his obvious uses. Long enough to win this war, if there was any way it could be won. Krycek carefully disentangled himself from the human octopus clinging to him, smiling a little when Mulder didn't even stir. He dressed in the dark, by touch, as quietly as he could, and let himself out into the empty hallway, locking the door deliberately behind him. Mulder had fulfilled his part of the bargain, at least for starters. Now Krycek would keep his end of the pact, and forge the alliance between them until it was unbreakable, if that could be done. Judging by Mulder's response tonight, it wasn't going to be nearly as difficult as he'd feared. He'd just have to keep him guessing. Krycek grinned to himself and slipped out the side door, into the night. This was going to be fun. ~~~~~~~ It had been a long day. Unfortunately, not nearly long enough. Scully was off cutting up dead bodies, and he had distracted himself with paperwork all day, but by seven Mulder couldn't put it off any longer. He'd had to go home. To his relief, or perhaps disappointment, he couldn't be sure, there was no one lying in wait for him, as there had been the previous night. Just a stray pair of shorts, stuffed under the edge of the chair. An empty can, rolled under the television, bleeding a trickle of beer into the carpet. Semen stains on the couch. A manila envelope in the exact center of the coffee table. He looked up and behind him almost simultaneously, waiting for a sneak attack that didn't come. When his heart finally fell out of his throat back down into his chest where it belonged, he reached over, picked up the envelope, and felt along it carefully for any hidden wires. No signs of explosives, so he very carefully edged it open. A file. Two photographs. A print out. A thread in the fabric, not the whole pattern, but a corner of the tapestry. The colonization project. The hybridization experiment, some statistics, mortality, growth rate, immunology reports. A little something. In return for a little something. Mulder stared at the papers clenched in his hand, then at the incriminating stain on the couch cushion, then back at the photos. He'd struck a bargain with the devil, and he couldn't find it in himself to regret it. Even if the price turned out to be his soul. ~~~finis -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Brenda Antrim <*> bantrim@pe.net http://www.pe.net/~bantrim/index.htm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~