From: MJR91 <mjr91@aol.com>
Date: 13 Jan 1999 04:20:39 GMT
Subject: "I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico" (1/11) MJ and JiM (M/K)



Title:"I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico" by MJ and JiM
Rating: R, maybe
Authors' Note:  This is all Kass and Torch's fault.  And we should never be
allowed to eat chocolate after 11pm while able to IM on AOL. It was a silly
idea - "let's write a hhjj for M/Sk/K without angst!"  We didn't know that it
wasn't possible...
Warnings:  Never blow dry your hair in the Jacuzzi.
Disclaimer:  Not our fault. 
Thanks:  To <deep breath>: Anne, Te, Dawn, Leila, Kass, Tom, Albert and
Tucker.
Foreword by Kass: First of all, I want to make one thing perfectly clear.  I
did not steal MJ
and JiM's story. <vbeg>  Nor, naturally, did they steal mine, but once we
got over the initial mutual horror of having the Out of the Cold stories
mirror this lovely, lovely tale, I promised them I would write a foreword.

(I like to think of these things as simply bottlenecks in the boyz' history
where there are only so many directions we can actually go before we begin
to consider similar possibilities.   Either that or poor innocent MJ and
JiM have joined the Meld--or rather, been assimilated.  And therefore have
no choice but to share a brain with me, Cici and a few select others.  I
try to look at it as more opportunities for winning awards.)

Be that as it may, they've created a wonderful, richly detailed story that
really doesn't even resemble my fluffy bits, despite our attacks of mutual
horror at the outset.  Please read it and send them mucho love, because
it's angsty, schmoopy, hot, and lots of fun.  *Kass*

Feedback: yes, please!  MJR91@aol.com AND JiMPage363@aol.com

****
"I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico" 
by MJ and JiM
(with apologies to John Berryman and tips of jaunty little hats to Torch and
Kass, whose fault this is).



* * * * *

PROLOGUE
 

The battered Dodge pulled in on the gravel paving outside the Rusty Bucket.  A
few yards further down the road, by the traffic light, was the turn for
heading up into Schoharie County.  If you bear slightly to the left, across
the narrow bridge, county route 324 leads you into Potter Hollow.  The Rusty
Bucket is the last watering hole between East Durham and Potter Hollow.
Everything else is trees, deer, and rundown wood-shake houses interspersed
with farmland, more trees, rusty Ford pickup trucks, and long-anchored mobile
homes on concrete slabs with propane tanks outside.  It is not an area for
night driving.  Especially not in the autumn, when the leaves on the road are
like a sheet of ice under your tires.  And especially not when your friends
from East Durham are right behind you, hoping to escort you out of town if not
out of existence.
 
The driver of the Dodge pulled as far over to the side of the parking area as
he could.  A fading sign read   "Home of the Fun Seekers."  `Fun' was clearly
a negotiable term up here at the base of the Catskill Mountains.  Damn if you
didn't expect to stumble over Rip Van Winkle up here every time your foot met
a branch, a log, or a tree root.  He made his way in through a side door of
the old wooden structure - did they have fire codes up here? - and squeezed
his way through a gathering of fun seekers to find a seat at the bar.  His
leather jacket was still zipped; the gun jammed into the waistband of his
jeans didn't show that way.
 
A bartender who appeared to have quit seeking fun several decades previously
worked his way toward Alex Krycek's barstool.  His plaid flannel shirt had
been washed to the point of wearing through at the stress points on the
fabric; at his weight, every part of his chest appeared to create a stress
point.  If he spit tobacco juice on the floor, Krycek thought, it would be no
surprise.   "Get you something to drink?"
 
"Yeah.  Yeah."  Krycek looked around.  Mostly bottles of beer there, some
drafts, some men with shot glasses.  Few if any mixed drinks; those seemed to
be the province of the few females present.   "I'll take a boilermaker."
 
"Jim Beam?  Jack?"
 
"Beam is fine," Krycek sighed.  He was exhausted after the collapse of his
business meeting; the finale had been ...bruising.  Pounding down several
boilermakers and getting shitfaced sounded like a plan.  Someone here had to
be from over towards Cairo; maybe he could get a lift in someone else's car to
a motel on the other side of East Durham.  

He surveyed the crowd as he downed his shot.  He recognized no one from the
meeting.  One guy in the corner looked vaguely familiar, a blond in a flannel
shirt over a Rensselaer Polytech T-shirt.  They weren't that far from
Rensselaer; that was right.  The guy must be some kind of overaged student
computer science geek who commuted. At least he asn't one of the damned Mick
terrorist wannabes he'd just severed relations with.
 
East Durham has the distinction of being the  "Irish Catskills".  An Irish-
American Museum lies down the road from the Shrine of Our Lady of Knock and in
front of the Irish Sports Grounds, where sheepdog trials are held.  If you
have ever wanted to swim in a shamrock-shaped swimming pool, the resorts of
East Durham can oblige.  Pubs lie down the road from other pubs, each trying
to outbid the others in their offering of Irish bands playing folk or
contemporary Irish music.  In the midst of this 365-day-a-year Saint Patrick's
Festival lies a more solemn note.  Shops and restaurants which elsewhere would
hang posters about the firemen's carnival or the Knights of Columbus spaghetti
dinner here advertise the latest Irish Republican Army fund raiser.  'Help our
boys in Belfast and Ulster'.  'Free the prisoners'.  'Wear the Green Proudly'.
Underneath the inncuous words of support, the real message lies: give money
for guns.
 
Krycek signaled the bartender to set up another.  Who the hell had gotten him
into this mess?  Good old cousin Vladimir, that's who.  The IRA sympathizers
had checkbooks.  They wanted rifles, grenades, ammo.  An easy deal, right?
Some former Eastern Bloc contacts with weapons to spare now that democracy had
invaded.  A few acquaintances with private aircraft.  He had called a few
markers in, and had gotten promises that everyone would come.  Then Vladimir
had to stand them up, promising to deliver only half of the Soviet rifles
agreed upon, at twice the price offered only two weeks before.  The IRA boys
were not happy.  Not one bit.  

Krycek could hardly blame them.  The only problem was the couple of younger
hotheads who were blaming him for Vladimir's shafting them.  He'd ducked the
Consortium.  He'd ducked the FBI, the CIA, the KGB - he had ducked the
alphabet soup of several countries and was happily alive.  Well, alive,
anyway.  The IRA boys, however, didn't play by the same rules - if they had
any at all.  And now he had their three letters to throw in the soup kettle of
people who wanted a piece of his hide.
 
The IRA, unlike the other acronymic groups he was ducking, was not part of a
government.  The government of Northern Ireland and the government of England,
rather, wanted the IRA.  These boys didn't want to arrest him and have a real
or imagined trial.  The bastards he had ticked off earlier today, like the
Consortium back in the good old days, just wanted him dead.  And he was
getting too old for the  "Wanted: Dead or Alive" deal.  Being down an arm was
an additional drawback with these types of assholes.  If he got out of this in
one piece, it might just be time to think about getting out of the game.
 
Deep in his thoughts and his beer, Krycek never noticed the blond man's trip
to the rest room, cellular phone in hand.
 

 *   *   *   *   *

"I found him...  Yes, I'm sure it's him... He's at a bar called the Rusty
Bucket.  He sidestepped the boys on his tail, but they'll come around again
soon enough... This place only looks like it's off the beaten path.  Oh - he's
drinking...  Like a fish, man.  You're coming in?  Okay, I-84 to the
Throughway.  Exit 21 - Catskill.  Are you writing this down?"
 
By the time Krycek decided to relieve himself in the decidely unspacious and
unsanitary facilities of the Rusty Bucket's men's room, the blond was off the
phone and heading back out to a bowl of pretzels and a pitcher of cola.  A fun
seeker indeed.
 

 *   *   *   *   *
 
Krycek walked relatively steadily back to the bar after his second trip to the
men's room and ordered another boilermaker and a ham sandwich from the kitchen
for ballast.  The blond's cellular phone rang.  Krycek heard it, but couldn't
tell who had the phone; he returned to the chips he was munching.  The blond
stepped outside.
 
"Yeah... shit... look, I called, but we're talking Massachusetts, not next
door... you're sure?  Positive?  No... not more of them... anything we can do?
I don't think so, just monitor... damn, they'll be here any time ... look,
thanks... hey, Frohike, think I ought to tell him?"
 
A ham sandwich with more chips and a large pickle wedge was being slid under
Krycek's nose as the blond wormed his way up to the bar.   "Uh... Krycek?
Alex Krycek?"
 
Krycek nearly jumped out of his skin.  He slid his hand into his coat before
turning to answer.  "Who wants to know?"  
 
"Look, Krycek, my name's Langly, Ringo Langly, and I'm a friend of Mulder's."
 
 Mulder?  Oh shit.  A name hadn't let himself think of in more than a year.
What the hell was going on here?   "Yeah?"
 
"Uh, look, I just got a call from another buddy of mine.  That IRA jerk who
was looking for you is heading back this way, and it sounds like he's checking
every place open."
 
"What do you know about all of this, Langly?"
 
"Never mind what I know, I'm trying to save your neck.  Give me your car keys;
I'm stashing your car in a barn down the road.  At least they won't see your
car.  I went Rensselaer undergrad; I know my way around up here.  Look, take
my car keys - it's a blue Chevy with a rental sticker around back.  Don't
leave if you don't have to, Krycek - if you have to split, here's a spare
phone and my number.  Call as soon as you get someplace and we'll get you."
 
"What the hell is this?" Krycek asked, astonished.
 
"It's a rescue operation.  Let's just say word got out that your deal was
going South.  You're messing around with some goons that you don't want to
tick off, and the feds want them nearly as badly as the UK does.   I'll be
back in about forty minutes.  Hang on tight."
 
 Langly ducked out the side door as Krycek looked on in amazement.  It was
definitely time for another boilermaker.
 

 *   *   *   *   *
 
Five men filtered into the Home of the Fun Seekers.  The bartender headed to
their table and took their order.  Odd; the East Durham Irish crew usually
ignored the Bucket.  He went back to the bar and began pulling a pitcher of
beer.   "Blasted Irish tourists," he grumbled.
 
"Huh?" Krycek grimaced, coming alert.
 
"Sometimes these Irish guys heading to or from East Durham pull in here
thinking this is part of the tourist trade.  Then they make trouble when they
find out they were wrong.  Some nasty fights from some of the soccer fans,
especially."
 
Wonderful.  Just goddamn fucking wonderful.  If it isn't the IRA, it's the
soccer fanatics trying to kill you, Krycek thought.  Leaving sounded like an
excellent idea, even though Langly was now back and had been for a while.  How
long had he been in this dive, anyway?  It seemed as if it had been hours; it
was definitely at least two hours by now.  He decided to check in with Langly
about the new bar patrons.  Rising from his stool, he turned and headed
towards Langly's corner.
 
A hand reached out to grab his jacket.   "Not so fast, Krycek."  It was the
anxious Billy.   "I don't believe you're going anywhere unless you go there
with us."
 
"Really?" Krycek blasted.   "Care to join me in the men's room, then?"
 
"Aaah, who are you calling a bloody fruit, arsehole?"
 
Krycek had never been above resisting obvious bait.   "If the shoe fits,
O'Keefe..."  

That did it.  A backhand from Billy O'Keefe straight into Alex Krycek's jaw.
The only possible response was a heave of Krycek's left shoulder, as his solid
prosthetic arm caught Billy squarely in the gut.  The idea of checking in with
Langly or of ducking out to the rental car was forgotten; Alex Krycek had
himself a barroom brawl.  What more could he want out of an evening?  Billy's
beer mug went flying as Krycek sidestepped, only to have to slam Billy's
originally more rational buddy with the prosthetic as well.  Who was tugging
at his jacket?  Well, kick backwards at them, then swing.  A few more mugs
whizzed past the table; since Billy's first pitch had landed at a table of
local rowdies, it was interpreted as a sign for them to join in.  Krycek
considered going for his gun as he ducked a local redneck's swing; no, not
worth it.  No point shooting any of the non-Irish, and in these quarters that
only left trying to pistol-whip his way through the crowd.  Might as well
leave it in place, like it or not.
 
Langly watched Krycek slugging and ducking his way through the donnybrook,
then ducked outside for another call.   "Byers, are there any cops around
here?"
 
"Just the State Police," Byers replied on the other end.   "Why?"
 
"Because those goons are here and Krycek's cutting loose with them already.
Krycek's armed and I can't imagine that they're not."
 
"All the Staties that aren't doing Throughway patrol are over at a hazmat
accident."
 
"Shit.  The road down here isn't blocked, is it?"
 
"No, fortunately.  Stay calm and for God's sake stay out of the way."  

Glass flew out into the parking lot; beer mugs were meeting windowpanes.
"Jesus, Langly, it sounds like the Rodney King riots."
 
"And me without my video camera."  A few rednecks who had been fighting inside
were now out the door and intro the parking lot swinging at each other.
"When the hell is the pickup?"
 
"Soon.  Should be anytime.  Does the phrase 'bat out of hell' mean anything to
you?"
 
"Yeah - it's how fast I want to be out of here."
 
"Just keep your eye on the package, Langly."
 
 Langly ran back to the side entrance and forced his way back into the bar.
The IRA boys were doing their best to wrestle with a crew of anti-Irish locals
who had found them, as Krycek wriggled out of the melee.  Langly flagged him,
and they met at the bar.   

"Some fun seeking, huh?" Krycek asked as he wiped a trickle of blood from his
temple.  Langly winced as he viewed the temple, apparently hit by a mug, and
what looked all too much like a split lower lip.  Krycek wasn't well equipped
to defend against head injuries while fighting with only one arm.
 
"You're drunk," Langly accused.  
 
"Not as drunk as I will be.  I'll take another boilermaker," he called to the
barkeep, waving a twenty to encourage the man.   "By the time I get this in
me, O'Keefe will have gotten loose, and I want the painkiller in me first."  

The prediction wasn't far off.  The better part of the tussle moved towards
the bar as one of Billy's mates called out a hearty  "There he is!"  Krycek
chugged the beer and lobbed the nearly empty can towards one of the Irishmen.
Billy O'Keefe broke free of the crowd and lunged back at Krycek.  Kneeing
Krycek as hard and as quickly as he could, O'Keefe hooked his leg around a
barstool and brought it down on Krycek's ribs with a jerk of his foot.  
 
Langly ducked back towards the men's room as Krycek worked his way off of the
floor and the crowd started pressing around the bar.  A chair flew across the
back of the room.  Krycek collared one of Billy's companions only to find
Billy and one of the others grabbing his shoulders from behind.  As he
concentrated on kicking hard and on feeling no pain in his rib cage, he
suddenly realized that Billy had crumpled back to the floor.  Apparently
someone else had figured out how to fight effectively, or had at least sobered
up sufficiently to pack a punch.   "Thanks, man," Krycek gasped.
 
"No thanks needed," came the response as Krycek felt a cuff snap onto his
right wrist.
 
"Mulder?  What the hell?"
 
"Langly told me you were down here, Krycek."  Mulder elbowed several drunks
out of his way as he made his way to the door, Krycek cuffed to his left
wrist.   "I broke the landspeed record on I-84 hauling ass to get you out of
here.  Of all the idiots to get yourself mixed up with, you had to find
O'Keefe."  

Mulder and Krycek kicked a few more drunks and one of Billy's friends out of
their path as Mulder pulled Krycek along to his car.  He quickly uncuffed
Krycek and shoved him in the passenger seat, then climbed in himself.   "And
behave, Krycek, or I'll cuff you to the door."

"What is this, Mulder, a nostalgia trip?"  Krycek snarled and lunged for the
handle of the passenger door, only to stop short moaning and holding his head.
Mulder hit the power locks and said,

"It's more in the nature of a rescue, Krycek.  If you throw up on my
upholstery, you're cleaning it."  He spun the big Wagoneer in a tight circle,
then peeled out of the parking lot as several of Alex's disappointed Irish
playmates came spilling out of the `Rusty Bucket'.  Sliding back onto Rt 324,
Mulder ignored Krycek's wretched groan and hit a speed dial on his cell-phone.
Krycek only dimly registered Mulder's conversation with the Lone Gunmen.

"No one following, Byers?  Are you sure?  Yeah, yeah, I trust you.  Yes, I
blacked out the plate.  OK, we're heading back to I-84.  I'll call you from
home.  Thanks again, guys.  Great job.  I really appreciate it."  He signed
off and looked over at his passenger.

Then he reached over, snapped on the map light and took a closer look.  "Well,
you look like hell, Krycek.  What the hell happened to you?"

The solid blows he'd taken to his ribs and head and the kick to his groin had
left him feeling weak and nauseated.  Krycek slumped against the window with
his eyes closed, desperately trying to hang on to whatever was still left in
his stomach. He just turned and pressed his battered temple against the cool
glass, then said,

"My arms deal just went to hell, I was double-crossed by my own cousin, I'm
broke, I've had the shit kicked out of me TWICE tonight, I'm drunk and you've
kidnapped me.  And that scenario worked out so well for me last time."   

Mulder snapped off the light and said nothing, just kept driving.  Tact or
guilt, Krycek wondered and shifted so that his split lip was now against the
cold glass.  The darkness was thick and unyielding, almost a solid thing
clawing and grasping at the car as it raced by.  Krycek sank into a bruised
doze filled with the jagged edges of memory and distant voices.  


 *   *   *   *   *

"Mexico" (2/11) by JiM and MJ (M/Sk/K)

He was awakened by Mulder shaking him gently.  His former partner had the
passenger door open and was standing beside him.  The height of the car put
them almost on level and Krycek tried blearily to focus on Mulder's concerned
features.  He flinched away and groaned when Mulder shone a bright light into
his eyes.  Warm fingers took his chin and firmly pulled his face back into the
light.

"I think you've got a slight concussion, Krycek.  You're lucky, they were
trying to give you more than a headache."

"I'd noticed," he muttered, then blinked and tried to sit up and take notice
of his surroundings.  

They were in a rest area off the interstate, lit by garish orange lights that
stabbed at his eyes. It was nearly empty except for a couple of idling
18-wheelers.  Krycek figured that he could take Mulder down with one sharp
blow behind the ear that was offered so obligingly to him as his former
partner rummaged in what looked like an EMT's jump kit on the floor at his
feet.  Then steal the keys and...dump Mulder or take him along, cuffed to the
door?  Payback time, he thought and began to try to coax his battered body
into going along with the plan.

"Krycek, if you even think about hitting me, I swear I'll beat the shit out of
you, then sell you back to those IRA geeks for a six-pack of green beer."
Mulder's threat was delivered without heat as he laid out gauze pads, tape and
antibiotic ointment, breath steaming in the chill night air.

Krycek saw the flash of his hand and heard a sharp smack! just as he flinched;
he was frankly surprised when he realized that Mulder hadn't hit him.
Something blessedly cold was laid against his bruised forehead - a chemical
ice-pack. He automatically put up his hand and adjusted it, taking it from
Mulder.

Krycek had to admit that he probably wasn't up to an escape yet; besides,
Mulder's actions had him bewildered.  They'd been together for at least half
an hour and Mulder hadn't hit him once, was...helping him?  he wondered
vaguely just how hard that last shot he'd taken to the head had been.  He
blinked as Mulder wet a gauze pad with antiseptic and began dabbing at the
various cuts on Krycek's face with an absorbed expression on his own.

His various cuts and contusions were taken care of in that same gentle,
impersonal manner.  "Anything else?" Mulder asked.  Without thinking, Krycek
answered truthfully, 

"I think I've got a couple of cracked ribs and I could use another one of
those cold packs for my groin."  

He shivered suddenly and gasped as his abused ribs complained firmly.

"Nothing I can do about the ribs until we get home.  Here," there was another
smack! and another cold pack was laid on his thigh.  "I'm not applying it for
you," Mulder grinned that intensely annoying grin that used to make Krycek
grit his teeth during their too-brief time as partners.  Mulder took the spent
cold pack from Krycek's forehead and waited for him to gingerly apply the
fresh cold pack to his abused crotch. Then Mulder pressed a couple of pills
into his hand and held out a bottle of spring water.

Krycek stared suspiciously at the innocuous white tablets until Mulder started
laughing. 

"They're Tylenol-3, Alex, nothing more insidious than that, I promise.  Some
Tylenol, some codeine -- come on, take them.  You'll feel better," he coaxed. 

Krycek foggily noted that Mulder actually seemed to care whether he felt
better or not.  Sheer astonishment carried the tablets and water to his mouth.
The water seemed like a blessing flowing down his throat and he drank until
the bottle was empty.  When he lowered it, Mulder was watching him, a
calculating look on his face.

"Here's the deal, Krycek.  I'm not into kidnapping.  If you don't want to be
here, you can leave this ride right now.  I'll even give you enough money for
the bus.  The Springfield bus stops here at 6 am.  Or... you can come home
with me and let us look after you for a while.  Food, rest, quiet.  No one
will find you, I promise.  What's it going to be?"

Krycek blinked and shivered with chill, certain that he was caught in another
of his surreal Mulder dreams again.  He looked directly into Mulder's eyes and
was shocked at the ... hope? that he saw there.

"Why?" 

Mulder looked away, stared toward the lights of other late-night travelers
passing them by on the highway.  "Call it paying a debt, if you like."

Alex's flight response wrestled with his exhaustion and pain.  He was so tired
of running; he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept the night through.
He'd begun to slip; if he were honest, he'd admit that he'd lost his edge.  It
went when the last of his enemies lay dead, when the last of his one-time
controllers was splattered around a gray cell somewhere distant and unmapped.
He was so far gone that he had nearly let a couple of Mick bully-boys with
delusions of adequacy take him out, only to be rescued by his dearest enemy.
If it weren't so embarrassing and if it didn't hurt quite so much, he'd laugh
himself sick.

And now that enemy was offering shelter, a quiet place to heal, sanctuary.
'Well, he reasoned fuzzily to himself as the tablets started to take hold, 'if
I'm going to die, it might as well be Mulder.  At least he has good reason to
want me dead.'  It was a measure of how far gone he was that this seemed like
logic to him.

"Truce?" he asked.

"Truce," Mulder agreed, relief smoothing his face into a smile. "No assault,
no lying, no stealing.  You want to go, you leave.  Fair enough?"

Krycek was so tired, he could only nod.  He vaguely realized that he had made
a key mistake, taking codeine on top of all of that alcohol; it was knocking
him out.  His eyes kept drifting shut and he felt a brief flare of instinctual
desperation which flickered out when he realized that he really didn't care if
Mulder was going to kill him.  At least he didn't hurt quite so much any more.

He dimly registered Mulder fastening the seat belt around him again, then
slamming the door.  A second later, Mulder was saying something as he
clambered into the driver's sleep, then Alex Krycek was sliding cold miles
into dreamless sleep.


Somewhere on the Mass Pike, Alex woke up for a few moments.  He shifted stiff
muscles and immediately wished that he hadn't.  He couldn't move his arm and
he jerked in panic until he realized that he had a thick wool blanket tucked
around him.  Ribs, head and groin all began to throb in a muted cacophony and
he moaned.

"How do you feel?"  

Mulder's eyes were fixed on the highway in front of them as they sped through
the night.  The green dashboard lights gave the former FBI agent a pale,
demented glow and Alex felt the desperate panic rising in him again, to become
tangled with the pain from his physical injuries.  He whimpered in confusion
at the rush of conflicting impulses and didn't realize he'd even made a sound.
Mulder handed him an open bottle of spring water.

"Drink that.  It'll help.  I can't give you any more painkillers for a while,
not with that concussion."

He drank, then gathered his wits sufficiently to ask, "Where are we going?"

Mulder smiled briefly and said, "Home."

"Oh," Alex said.  "Timizzit?"

"4 am.  We'll be there soon."

"Where?" Krycek asked fuzzily.

"Home."

"Oh," Alex said, then handed Mulder the half-empty water bottle and went right
back to sleep.

 *   *   *   *   *

CANTO

Mulder smiled at how easy this had been. Finding Krycek had merely been a
matter of putting the Lone Gunmen on the case and promising them exclusive use
of the house during a prime summer weekend.  Then it had been a waiting game,
waiting for Krycek to use any of his aliases, a credit card, a calling card;
waiting to hear about a one-armed man wheeling and dealing on the murkier
edges of society.  And sure enough, a mere two months later, up he bobbed.
And now he had him.  Finding him had been the easy part; getting him home was
proving to be trouble-free as well.  But Mulder had no illusions - the real
fireworks would start as soon as he got Krycek home.

Home.  Home was a hundred year old two-story gray-shingled Cape house, set low
in the dunes of Eastham, facing the sea.  Home was a tall man with scars on
his belly, an iron jaw and hands that could soothe him from the darkest of
nightmares.  Home was the ragged kitten cradled in those big hands, rescued
from beneath a demolished shed last autumn.  Home was also the easy-going
setter puppy Skinner had accepted as payment in kind for weather-proofing a
poor family's home before the tough weather set in.  Home was lying for hours
on the couch, watching the fire and listening to the wind and Walter's low
voice reading aloud to him.  It was the first real home he'd had since he was
twelve -- and he was going to bring Alex Krycek, liar, thief, murderer,
traitor, collaborator, resistance fighter, spy...the man made a profession out
of being an unknown factor... into it.

He sighed and hoped that Walter hadn't had too hard a night.  A sleepy
tractable Walter Skinner would definitely be an asset here.

 *   *   *   *   *

Walter Skinner had had a miserable night.  A night that had begun early
yesterday afternoon with a general call-out for the entire volunteer fire
department.  It had rapidly escalated into a four-alarm blaze that had
mobilized fire companies from all over the Cape.  He had spent the last 14
hours racing from site to site as the wind blew the brush fire up the
seashore, treating firefighters for smoke inhalation, dressing minor burns,
doing triage on one major burn case, and trying to pump fluids into every
firefighter he could find.  Sometime around 3 am, he had even taken his turn
on the fire line, shoveling earth into the fire's greedy maw, trying to choke
it out before it ate another neighbor's house, scarred another firefighter.

The tide had turned shortly after that and they had all been sent home as
fresh volunteers arrived from Hyannis and Brewster.  7 am and he was finally
dragging himself up the front stairs of the house, hoping that Fox had some
coffee going.  No such luck, he was probably still asleep.  Walter dropped his
boots by the door and stripped off his outer shirt, grimacing at the sooty
mark it left on the counter.

The dog came trotting in, his red fan of a tail swishing gently in cheerful
welcome.  Skinner patted his head absently and opened the fridge.  Only now
was he realizing how thirsty he was himself; he grabbed the orange juice and
fumbled for a glass before muttering "The hell with it," and drinking out of
the carton.  He hated it whenever Mulder did that and he felt a pleasurable
jab of rebellion.  He finished the carton, standing in front of the open
refrigerator, then threw it away.

Mulder's cat showed up, jumped onto the counter, then up onto the top of the
refrigerator where it sat looking expectant. "No. You were fed. Go catch a
mouse."  The cat, recognizing this as the first volley of their daily battle,
merely blinked and chirped sociably at him.  He ruffled its ears, then trailed
upstairs to find Fox and a shower, not necessarily in that order.

No Mulder in the bedroom.  Skinner stripped, dropping his filthy clothes in
the hamper, then wrapped a towel around his waist before wandering into the
bathroom.  Which was occupied.

It took his exhausted and smoked brain a few seconds to register what...*who*
he was seeing in his bathroom.  When all his synapses finally connected,
Skinner thrust himself backwards into the bedroom, bounced and rolled over the
bed, snatching his gun out of the bedside table.  He found himself covering a
battered, half-dressed Alex Krycek, who had been sitting slumped on top of the
toilet with his head in his hands.  The bleary eyes were now fixed on Skinner
and on the unwavering weapon in his hands.
 *   *   *   *   *

"MULDER!" 

Two voices came floating down the hall to him-- one was a demanding roar and
the other a plaintive yelp. So much for the sleepy and acquiescent Skinner
he'd been hoping for.  Dropping the blanket on the bed he'd been making,
Mulder sprinted down the hall and skidded into the bathroom.

Sleepy.  Tractable.  Right.  Walter Skinner looked about as tractable as a
brick wall.  As did the Glock he gripped in both hands, aiming the muzzle
directly at Krycek's head.  

Mulder took a deep breath.   "Uh, Walter... put it down, okay?"
 
"Mulder," his lover said coolly,  "in case you hadn't noticed, Alex Krycek is
in our bathroom.  Tell me how this is a good thing."  The gun remained
pointing steadily at Krycek's throbbing forehead.   "I admit he looks like
something the cat dragged in from the dunes, but he's still Alex Krycek.  Now,
give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw him out with the rest of the
garbage."
 
Tired but steady, Mulder reached a hand out to Skinner's arm, pushing down on
it, forcing Skinner to move his aim, however involuntarily, to the floor.
"Because I brought him here.  We got in about half an hour before you did."
 
Skinner set the gun down on top of a wicker hamper, just beyond Krycek's
reach.  He leaned against the glass door of the shower.
"You brought him here," Skinner said levelly.   "May I ask why you dragged
Alex Krycek into the house and stashed him in the bathroom?"
 
"He's here in the bathroom because I haven't finished making the guest room
bed and because I want to get a good look at a couple of his injuries.  I'd
rather have you look at them, actually; you're the one who knows what he's
looking at.

"He's in the house because I went after him.  He got mixed up in a small IRA
blowup down in the Catskills; the Gunmen called me yesterday afternoon while I
was writing and asked me if anything ought to get done.  Considering that the
O'Keefe boys were involved - remember those cases we had involving Brady and
Connor O'Keefe? - I figured that getting him out of there was the easiest
solution.  So I drove down and picked him up.  They apparently hadn't heard
I'd left the Bureau because Connor and little cousin Billy looked pretty damn
scared to see me.  I hardly had to beat anyone up to get to him."
 
Skinner stared.   "So you brought a Russian ex-Consortium agent who's got
enemies in the Irish Republican Army sympathizers and likes to murder people's
relatives into my house.  Wonderful."
 
"It's our house, Walter.  I paid two-thirds, if I have to remind you."
Mulder's voice was steady.  The remark was cutting, but not incendiary.   "I
think I've got a say about who stays here.  And you know as well as I do that
he didn't kill Scully's sister."
 
"Excuse me," Krycek said.   "Can I have some more codeine?  "
 
Mulder glanced at his watch.   "Yeah, I guess you can handle some more
Tylenol-3."  

Knowing that he probably didn't want to know the answer, Walter Skinner asked,
"What's wrong with him?"

"Some bruised ribs, a couple of cracked ones I think, but he's breathing okay
and I don't think he's got any internal bleeding.  I'd rather have you check,
though."
 
A practical medical emergency delivered to him on a platter was something that
Walter Skinner found easier to assimilate, despite his exhaustion, than the
surreal possibility that Mulder had Alex Krycek, triple agent, stashed in
their bathroom.  After another hard stare at Mulder, Skinner grabbed his robe
off the back of the door and belted it around himself before starting to line
up first aid supplies on the vanity.

Mulder looked nearly as relieved as he felt; his lover had shifted into
"coping with an emergency" mode.  If Skinner could handle the medical end,
Mulder could handle Skinner.  Skinner began easing off Krycek's shirt.  Mulder
heard a  "Jesus H. Christ" and a low whistle from Skinner as he began to
examine the wounded man.  

They had come a long way, in a very short time, from their days at the FBI.
 
 *   *   *   *   * 

PROTHALAMION


Fox Mulder, jacket and tie off, had been slouched sideways on the couch, his
long legs lying across Walter Skinner's lap, on an April evening two years
before.  Both men had been putting a serious hurt into a bottle of Skinner's
best scotch after the events of that day.  You couldn't have paid Fox Mulder
to believe that the Consortium would collapse on itself even a few months
before this. But internal rifts on policy and procedure among the Consortium's
members, the abandonment of their allies and their enemies, not to mention the
Mulder assassination debate which had played out for several years, had
finally caused it to implode as member turned on member.  The final member
assassinations had produced a sensational set of hearings.  Only today Mulder
and Skinner had stood in a packed federal courtroom as a cancer-riddled older
man whose name had finally been disclosed was sentenced to life in prison for
treason.  The war, unbelievably, was over.
 
"I'm tired," Skinner sighed to his companion, who was idly playing with the
television remote control.
 
"Did you want to turn in early?" Mulder inquired.
 
"I don't mean that kind of tired," Skinner replied.   "I'm sick and tired.
I'm tired of bullshit.  I'm tired of lies, conspiracies, backstabbing, double
dealing.  I'm tired of the garbage.  The paperwork.  The fucking Bureau one-
upsmanship.  The whole damn thing.  I'm not enjoying myself any more - not
that I ever was - and I'm sick of it."
 
Mulder sat up straight and looked at Skinner.  He'd never heard this from
Skinner before, but the man appeared to be perfectly serious.  In the several
years they had worked together, in the few months since they had begun seeing
each other, Mulder had never harbored any doubt that the Bureau was Walter
Skinner's life.  He could see himself leaving the Bureau now that the
Consortium was down, now that he had found out what little could be learned
about the secrets in his own family, but he would never have thought it of
Skinner.  Still, he didn't appear to be lying.   "You mean it, don't you?"
 
"Yeah, I do.  Mulder, I want out.  I've given them my twenty years, and I want
the hell out of there.  I want to go live on the beach in a shack, make
furniture, and shoot at anyone who comes to bother me.  I've got enough money
coming to me to live on, especially if I sell this place."  He downed the rest
of his tumbler of Scotch.   "I've been thinking about it for a few weeks now,
and it's going to happen.  I can have my resignation on the Director's desk at
the end of next week."
 
Mulder sipped thoughtfully at his drink.  They had been together only a few
months, and some issues had never been addressed between them.  It might be
time to raise them.   "Are you serious?"
 
Skinner nodded.  "I've never been more serious in my entire life."
 
"Then I only have one question for you."
 
"What's that?" Skinner inquired as he reached for the bottle.
 
"Where are we going and when do we leave?"
 
Skinner set his glass down firmly.   "Did you say, 'we'?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Are *you* serious?  I mean, really, Mulder?"  

There was a very pleasing light coming up in Skinner's eyes and it made
Mulder's voice a little rougher than usual as he said,
 
"Absolutely.  I've got nothing left here at the Bureau now.  And I might as
well leave while I can rub the VCU's and Behavioral's respective noses in the
dirt.  Looks like old Spooky was right all along.  I can stay and never have
this kind of triumph again or I can go out in a blaze of glory and leave with
you."
 
"You could write your own ticket if you stayed, Mulder.  You're so hot right
now they'd give you my job if you wanted it."
 
"Yeah.  Or I could leave, write a pile of magazine articles for the science
and paranoia journals, and hit the talk show circuit.  I got a call before I
left the office today.  I've been offered a book contract."
 
Skinner looked at Mulder with something akin to awe.   "No shit."
 
"They want a book about my investigation into the alien coverups.  I could be
speaking at sci-fi conventions for the next ten years.  Do college campus
tours speaking about the government and the little gray men; they'll pay me a
hefty speaker's fee for babbling about the same stuff that used to get me
kicked out of bars.  Or I can stay at the Bureau.  Do I look stupid, Walter?"
 
The other man grinned, then dragged Mulder into his lap again.  "And to think
all I was going to do was find a shack on the beach and do my woodworking," he
said meditatively nuzzling at Mulder's ear.
 
"You could still do the woodworking.  It's just going to be a really nice
beach shack.  And I think I know just where to find one."
 


 "I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico (3/11) MJ, JiM (M/K/SK)



Eastham was as close to home as Mulder cared to get.  Home, as it had been
called, was a town with too many bad memories.  But he had always liked
Eastham, and had played with his sister and with his friends along the beach
there many times.  It was at the candy shop in Eastham that he had his first
"date" many years ago, taking a girl there for an ice cream cone.  He had been
all of ten, flush with money from helping clean the attic.  She had been nine,
the daughter of some summer people.  The romance had lasted all of three
hours, or so family recollection went.  

The old Morris place, up in the dunes, had been one of his favorite haunts.
Looking every inch an abandoned house, he and his friends went by to see if
the ghosts at the Morris place really did come out at night and dance in the
dunes.  Mrs.  Morris was dead these twelve years.  Her children were in
California now; his mother had said that they never came back to the Cape.
Two days after he and Skinner had placed their letters of resignation on the
Director's desk, he had bundled Skinner into the car for a drive to the Cape.
The Morris property had, as Mulder recalled, a couple of ramshackle
outbuildings on it.  If they were still standing, surely one could be
refurbished into a carpentry shop.  The thought of fitting out the other for a
place to hook up his computer and set up shop writing hadn't escaped him.  
 
 *   *   *  
 
Scully had looked at him in astonishment when he told her. 

"You're resigning.  You're leaving DC. You're writing a book. You're moving
back to Cape Cod.  You're moving to Cape Cod where you just bought a house
with Walter Skinner.  Mulder, this is more information than my brain can
process at one time."  
 
"Gee, Scully," Mulder chuckled.   "Which part was too much for you?"
 
"I know you want me to tell you that it's the part about you and Skinner.
It's not, Mulder.  I'd suspected something like that.  Give me some credit;
I'm not blind or stupid.  What gets me is, I've read your reports -- and you
really think you can write a book?"
 

But she had been glad for him, in the end.  And it was with something like
relief that she had pulled a file folder out of her desk drawer and shown him
the contents -- her own resignation paperwork.


 *   *   *   *   *
 
Skinner dried his hands on one of the towels.   "Looks like the codeine's
kicking in," he told Mulder.   "Krycek's ready to sleep.   He's going to hurt
like hell when he tries to sit up, though; he's got two cracked ribs.  A very
minor concussion, bruises, contusions, the usual.  But he's pretty worn down,
Mulder.  I'd say he's exhausted, about 20 lbs underweight and he's going to
have a winner of a hangover when he wakes up."

They were back in the bathroom, having gently manhandled a semi-conscious
Krycek into bed in the guest room.  Skinner had treated Krycek's wounds
without a word, unless it was to ask if something hurt and how much and how to
unstrap his prosthesis.  He hadn't missed the new scars, the poorly healed
ones, the evidence of a hard life lived too fast.  
 
"Speaking of waking up, can I take my shower and get some sleep now?" he asked
pointedly.

Mulder nodded and picked up the towels and washcloths they'd used.   "I need
one myself.  Want me to set up the coffee pot?"
 
"Might not be a bad idea.  Right now, though, all I want to do is crawl in and
sleep for a couple of days.  That brush fire job was nasty.  Too many men
down.  Smoke inhalation.  Thought we were never going to get it under
control."  Skinner was usually terse; this degree of brevity, however, was
reserved for when he really was bone tired.  Or maybe it was a sign of how
much Skinner was trying *not* to say.

Mulder put an arm around his lover, kissed him quickly, and took the towels
out of the room.  Skinner headed for the shower.  The setter, Casey - the
prior owner's children had already named him - trotted into the bathroom to
see what was what.   "Good Casey.  Quiet, boy.  I know it's daytime, but
people are sleeping.  No barking.  Go back downstairs and bother the cat."
 
The dog gave a small "whuff" of understanding and went trotting back
downstairs with an air of determination that made Skinner laugh.  The dog had
been trying to get the better of the huge Maine Coon cat for a year; it was a
low-level war, more noise than actual damage and the participants seemed to
enjoy it immensely.

Back in the bathroom, he finally got to climb into the hot shower he had been
craving since sometime late yesterday.  Walter let the water pound on the back
of his neck and wash away the acrid mixture of smoke and sweat and fear from
his skin.  His over-tired muscles relaxed into the warmth and he felt the
adrenaline high that had begun with the instant he recognized Alex Krycek
finally seeping away.

Krycek.  Mulder had actually brought Alex Krycek into their home and he was
behaving as if this were a good idea.  Mulder had even made up the guest room
- no balconies for Krycek this time.  What the hell was going on?  Walter
briefly considered the possibility that he was hallucinating, but the water
was growing steadily cooler as he stood there - they needed a new water heater
- and that lent a brisk lick of reality to the entire insane incident.

Which meant that Mulder wanted him here for a reason.  Skinner reviewed the
facts as he knew them to date, while toweling himself dry.  One: Mulder had
had the Lone Gunmen looking for Krycek - Skinner didn't believe for an instant
that the three paranoia fiends would just happen to stumble across an IRA arms
deal on their own. Two: Mulder had gone and rescued Krycek out of the teeth of
the O'Keefes, without official sanction, support or backup - memo: Strangle
Mulder for doing anything that stupid without him. Three: Krycek was suffering
from more than a simple beating; the man was exhausted, way underweight and
had a collection of poorly tended scars that would have made a Marseilles
dockworker proud.

Skinner wandered into the bedroom and looked longingly at the bed - king-sized
flannel sheets and a down comforter caroled a siren song- but his mind worried
away at the problem like a terrier on a rat.  No sleep yet, not until he knew
what the hell was going on here.  Sighing, he pulled some sweats out of the
bureau and winced a little as over-strained muscles reminded him that he
wasn't a kid any more and he'd worked too damned hard last night, all night.  

Going over the facts again as he dressed, Skinner was faced with two working
theories.  One: Mulder knew something of what Krycek had done for him and this
was his way of repaying him.  Two:  Mulder had finally lost whatever was left
of his questionable sanity and had decided to open a shelter for abused and
unwanted assassins.  

There was a faint but tantalizing scent of fresh-brewed coffee in the air.  He
followed it downstairs, pausing beside the half-open guest room door to check
on their guest/prisoner/stray cat.  Krycek was lying on his side, curled into
a near fetal position.  He frowned in his sleep, as if unable to fully relax.
His hand lay outside the covers, clenching and jerking; whatever Krycek's
dreams were, they weren't pretty.  Skinner pulled the door closed firmly and
went downstairs to tackle Mulder.


Mulder greeted him with a cup of black coffee and a determinedly innocuous
expression on his face.  "French toast in a minute," he said and waved Walter
over to sit at the set kitchen table.  Resigned to his fate, Skinner sat down
and waited for his breakfast and the bad news.  After a couple of restorative
sips of coffee, he said, 

"Mulder - the Donna Reed thing is *not* you.  Although you do have a nice hint
of June Lockhart in there.  Just tell me why you want Alex Krycek upstairs and
not in a federal lock-up.  And stop *bustling*," he added irritably, pinching
at the bridge of his nose.

Mulder smiled wryly.  "Busted," he agreed, then divided the french toast onto
two plates and brought them over to the table, ignoring Casey's hopeful look.
He sat across from Skinner and there was a pause while Mulder went through the
elaborate ritual with butter and maple syrup that Walter had become familiar
with in the past three years.  Once everything was swimming in calories and
cholesterol, Mulder looked up and said,

"I owe him, Walter."

Ah, so it was Theory One, then.  Mulder was indebted, not insane.  Some
comfort. Skinner sighed and reached for his fork.  They ate in silence for a
time.

"You're not even going to argue with me about it?"

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?  You know what he is, just as much as I
do.  He's hurt you, and me, and Scully in ways that no one else has or ever
could.  Yet you still want to help him.  OK - you must have your reasons.
You'll tell me when you feel you can."  Skinner could feel his jaw starting to
clench and he worked hard on relaxing it.

Mulder let his breath out in a whistle.  "Jeez -- when the hell did you get to
be the grown-up around here, Walter?"

He shrugged and chased the last piece of toast around in his syrup.

They sat, unspeaking for a time.  Skinner watched the gray Atlantic swell and
crash onto the beach below the house.  Rain started to fall, churning up the
sea and darkening the sand to pewter.  Mulder finally spoke.

"He was the one who kept sending all the information on the Consortium
members, Walter.  He *gave* us the Smoking Man on a platter."

"I know."

Mulder looked confounded.  "How?"

"I had them take prints off the packages.  We found one partial thumb print on
one tape and got a pretty good full index finger from the flap of another."  

Skinner wanted very badly to smirk at the sight of Fox Mulder with his mouth
hanging open in shock.  Instead, he drank some more coffee.

"You had a forensics team go over MY evidence?!"

"Yes," he said simply but with relish.

"Why?  Didn't you trust me?"

"Mulder - in six years of working together, when did you and Scully ever give
me the full story, unvarnished, without obfuscating, lying or omitting crucial
facts?"

"That's not the point!"

"That's exactly the point.  And, speaking of points, weren't we discussing our
house guest?"

"Fine.  Be reasonable," Mulder snarled, but Skinner could see the gleam of
humor in his eye as Mulder realized that he had been outmaneuvered. "We'll
come back to the trust issue later," he promised.  

We usually do, Walter thought with a touch of grimness.  "Can we take this
somewhere more comfortable?" he asked.

They ended up on the couch in front of the fire that Mulder lit.  They sat
unspeaking at opposite ends of the sofa for an entire five minutes before
Mulder sighed loudly and threw himself at Skinner.  After a few breathless
minutes of pushing, prodding and kissing, they wound up with Skinner lying  on
his back, Mulder draped all along his length, head tucked beneath Skinner's
chin.

"So, about Krycek...?" Walter prompted, one hand stroking down Mulder's long,
muscular back.

"He gave me back my sister."

Ah.  That was the true debt, Skinner thought.  Fox had found his sister again;
the two were as close as he could have wanted for them.  She and her family
were frequent visitors and gave his lover a kind of foundation, a stability
that nothing, *no one*, else could ever achieve for him.  And Walter had to
acknowledge his own debt to Krycek; Samantha was as much his sister now,
teasing and loving him, accepting his place in her brother's life without a
word.

"Damn," he whispered into Mulder's hair, giving in.

"Hmm?"

"How long is he staying with us, Mulder?"  He could feel Mulder's smile
against the skin of his throat.

"I don't know, Walter.   He's pretty beat up.  Maybe a couple of weeks?"

Walter sighed and shifted Mulder's weight slightly.  "Fine," he grumbled.
"But we are not opening a Home for Wayward Spies, got it?  No more strays."

"Hey!  Who brought home the cat? And the dog?"

"Neither of whom are wanted by the FBI nor the O'Keefes.  Speaking of
which..."

"The FBI got them last night - Langly and Byers dropped a dime on them as soon
as I got Krycek out of there.  And, before you ask, no one followed us and no
one got our plate number.  I had it blacked out  until  I was over the
Connecticut border."

Skinner sighed and tried to count the number of felonies his lover had
committed last night, then gave up.  "So the IRA isn't going to be showing up
here any time soon, nor our old friends from the FBI...is anyone else after
him?"

"Not that the Gunmen could tell."

"Oh good.  We don't have enough spare rooms."

Mulder leaned up and stared down into Skinner's face.

"You're taking this rather well," he accused.

Skinner only smiled and pulled Mulder back down onto his chest again.  He was
feeling tired and warm and well-fed and loved, and he wanted to enjoy the
sensation.  No, he had to be honest with himself; he wanted to store up this
memory against the lonely time he could see just ahead, just around the curve.

Mulder and Krycek had always been circling around one another, always drawn
together but unable to complete the circuit that whispered and sung between
them.  All those years ago, Skinner could see it, Mulder's fascination with
his younger partner.  It had never dimmed, not even through the betrayals, the
reverses, the revelations.  And now, Krycek was upstairs, hurt and helpless,
claws sheathed and fangs hidden.  The man who had given Mulder all that he had
ever wanted, revenge and redemption, lay sleeping under his roof and all
Skinner could do was tighten his hold on the man who was slipping away as
surely as the rain drops ran down the windows.

After a time, they slept.

* * *

When Krycek came downstairs, early in the afternoon, the first thing he saw
was an oak plank coffee table, yesterday's paper and a copy of "Discover" with
Mulder's name on the cover tossed carelessly on it.  There was a paperback
copy of "The Unsuspected Aliens", Mulder's second book, peeking out from under
a tsack of Enquirers.  An end table which matched the coffee table caught
Krycek's eye.  

There was a group of framed photos grouped on it. A large silver frame on the
table held a Christmas photograph of Samantha Mulder Cummings, her husband,
and their twins, Jessica and Courtney, familiar to him from his occasional
private surveillance activities.  A smaller photograph on the table showed
Mulder and Skinner with the girls.  Mulder and Skinner, Krycek thought.
Thinking was a feat he was barely capable of handling, hurting and hungover,
but he knew he was missing something.  

Mulder and Skinner? 
 
The pain engendered by thinking nearly sent Krycek back to bed, but the smell
of coffee in the kitchen compelled him to push onward.  Then he saw the living
room couch.  Skinner was still draped across the couch, sprawling on it
comfortably, with Fox Mulder curled against his chest.  There - that was what
hadn't registered. Krycek blinked twice and pursed his lips, leaning against
the doorframe.

When had Mulder and Skinner  become lovers?  He had been aware that Skinner
had retired after the Consortium hearings, had known that Mulder had quit to
take up writing; how had he missed this?  His grapevine wasn't what it had
been once, any more than his reflexes were what they had been.  

He moved silently through the living room - at least he still had that skill -
and on into the kitchen.  Finding a stoneware mug, he poured himself coffee
and reviewed the food.  After some consideration, he decided on a bagel as the
least threatening to his delicate condition.  The dog came over, sniffed his
hand, licked it happily.  The cat glowered from the top of the refrigerator, a
looming feline monstrosity with bright eyes.  Huge, luminous greenish eyes,
making him think of Mulder again.  The cat had to be Mulder's.  Cat and human
could not be more like one another.
 
So Mulder and Skinner were lovers.  A bit of a surprise, that.  And a
disappointment.  Why had Mulder rescued him?  Once, when they were partners,
Krycek recalled, there had been the intriguing possibility of claiming Mulder
for himself.  The Consortium had moved too quickly on Scully, destroying that
dream.  That Mulder had still had feelings for him he knew only too well;
Mulder's harassment of him had always had a heavily sexual element to it.  

A few years ago, when he had led Mulder to the UFO pilot, there had been a
moment... the only time he had ever had the chance to kiss Mulder.  The look
on Mulder's face had told him everything then; the feelings were still there.
Last night, when Mulder had rescued him from the O'Keefes, he had allowed
himself to imagine that those feelings might have had something to do with the
rescue effort.  But Skinner and Mulder looked far too settled, far too
comfortable, for that to be likely - and it was plain that Skinner didn't
relish Krycek's presence in what was obviously their home.  

Propping his feet up on one of the other kitchen chairs in a vain attempt to
ease his aching ribs, Krycek ate slowly, nursed his coffee and watched the
rain through the kitchen window.  If he could manage it, a walk on the beach
might be in order later.  There was no better way to think.  And, no matter
how much it hurt, thinking seemed to be required now.
 
 *   *   *  

 "Mexico" (4/11) JiM, MJ (M/Sk/K)

The cat stepping on his face wakened Skinner.  He growled at it, took a half-
hearted swipe and then blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember why they
were sacked out on the couch.  Memory gradually seeped back in and he shifted,
trying to wake the man who still drowsed against him. 
 
"Mulder... we'd better wake up...."
 
Mulder shifted.   "Why?  I'm comfortable."
 
"Yeah, but it's two o'clock.  And we ought to check on Krycek."  Skinner
wriggled beneath Mulder emphatically to provoke movement.   "Besides, Casey
probably wants to go out."
 
"I already let the dog out."  

The voice came from the armchair across the room.  Krycek was slouched in it
with a plastic bag of ice against his right side, reading a section of the
Boston Globe.  A mug was balanced on the chair's arm.  

"I made more coffee if you want any.  Mulder, you must have made that last
pot.  Your coffee sucked when we were partners and it hasn't improved much
yet."
 
"Gee, thanks, Alex."  Mulder sat upright and stretched.   "Still raining?"
 
"No, it stopped about half an hour ago."
 
Skinner drew himself up slowly, grimacing as sore muscles complained. He was
trying hard to ignore the prickle of unease he felt at the idea that he and
Mulder had been sleeping peacefully with Alex Krycek sitting across the room,
watching them.  

"Krycek, you ought to be back in bed.  I'd like to check your temperature,
too."  Skinner got up and headed for the stairs.

Alex Krycek, too bewildered by any show of concern from such an unlikely
direction, made no reply as Skinner left the room.  Mulder still sat on the
sofa, blinking.  He was rumpled and adorable looking and Alex felt something
twist inside himself.  Mulder ran a hand through his hair and looked up to
catch Krycek watching him.

"What?"

"How long have you two been an item?"
 
Unfazed by the other man's bluntness, Mulder said, 

"Don't ever let Walter hear you say that.  I think that he thinks people might
not know.  Hell, the whole town knows it.  And it's not like we don't live
near Provincetown or anything.  

"How long?  Pushing three years now.  We'd started seeing each other just
before the hearings started.  By the time they ended, Walter decided he wanted
to take his twenty and retire.  And I wasn't ready to stay in DC without him.
So here we are.  He's got his woodshop, I write; it works for us."

"Wood shop?"  

"Yeah.  Walter decided to take an old hobby of his into full time work.  He
does furniture, some house carpentry, odd jobs around town.  Mostly furniture,
though.  He did the tables in here, and the kitchen set.  There are a couple
of outbuildings here; one was a large shed of some sort, and one was a
kitchen.  Walter made the shed over into a woodworking studio and I do my
writing out in the old kitchen."
 
"Jesus.  The Boy Wonder of the FBI and his boss turn into artists' colony
residents.  Guess I'll have to take up pottery if I stay here."
 
"No, but basket weaving's in big demand right now, and so is tole painting."  

Krycek grinned and was half-surprised when Mulder smiled back, eyes gleaming.
Had they ever been this relaxed with one another?  He didn't think so.

"You're in love with him?" Alex was surprised to hear the words coming out of
his own mouth. It had to be the drugs.
 
Mulder didn't seem fazed by the question, though. "God, what a question.
Absolutely.  I wasn't sure until the day he told me he was retiring.  But when
I realized that he really  *could* throw it out the window and walk away from
the Bureau... well, I figured that I needed to be with Walter a lot more than
I needed to be with the FBI.  So I handed my resignation in the same day he
filed his retirement papers.  Then we came up here and bought the house.  I
knew this place when I was a kid."
 
"So how did Scully take the news?"
 
"Which news?  That I was leaving or that Walter and I were running away
together?  She was a lot happier about one than the other... but she finally
did accept that forensic work really is her best thing.  She's a medical
examiner in Philly now; teaches part-time at Penn.  Her husband's a professor
of psychiatric medicine at Penn.  Nice guy; I like him.  They came up at
Easter and I think they're coming for Christmas."
 
"Fox Mulder goes domestic.  I can't believe it.  You know, Mulder... back when
we were partners... did you ever wonder..."
 
"Constantly," Mulder chuckled as he flipped through the television listings.
"You wanted me bad, Alex.  I knew damn well that you were drooling on the
floor every time I turned around."
 
"I was drooling?  Hell, I caught you checking me out enough times, even with
that geek haircut I had back then.  Come on - that time in Hong Kong?  You
could have had a piece of me faster than McDonald's sells burgers and you knew
it.  So why didn't you ever move on it?"
 
"Why didn't *you*, Alex?  You had plenty of chances, and the only times you
ever got close to trying were in Tunguska and that night in my apartment when
you actually kissed me.  Not great examples of romantic timing.  Now, why I
didn't go after you - you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
 
"Try me."
 
"Nope.  Can't do it.  You'd never buy it."
 
"What are you gonna do, Mulder - claim you were a virgin?" Krycek could feel
his mouth hanging open.
 
"Took the words right out of my mouth."
 
"Liar."  But Mulder, unbelievably, was blushing.
 
"I said you wouldn't believe me, Alex."  He had obviously had enough of
playing 'True Confessions' for a time.  He ran his hands through his hair
again, then stood up and asked, 

"How do you feel?"

Surprised again, Krycek answered honestly.  "I feel like hell."

"You look like it, Krycek." Alex started at the sound of Skinner's voice,
jerking his gaze from Mulder's.  The big man moved surprisingly quietly.  He
had dressed in jeans and a navy river driver's shirt that seemed to emphasize
the muscles in his arms and chest.  His expression was neutral and Alex
couldn't tell how much, if any, of their conversation he had heard.  Mulder
smiled gently, touched Alex once on the shoulder, then rubbed against Walter
on the way out of the room.

Krycek was left to Walter Skinner's tender mercies.  "Let's get you upstairs."
He slipped an arm under Krycek's good shoulder and walked him slowly back up
to the guest room.  Once there, Skinner had him sit on the bed. At Skinner's
terse direction, he slowly took off his filthy shirt and allowed his sore ribs
to be poked and prodded, then his head.  

"You weren't actually concussed.  But I'll bet you have a hell of a hangover;
you smelled like a brewery this morning."

Krycek nodded, then decided to stop.  The Tylenol had helped with the headache
but he still felt fragile.  And confused.  If he had been asked, only
yesterday, he would have said that Walter Skinner was high on the list of
"Those Who Most Wanted to Kick the Shit Out of Alex Krycek" - definitely in
the top five. 

Still pondering, he pursed his lips around the thermometer Skinner had shoved
into his mouth.  Skinner slid a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.  He
considered further as the cuff squeezed, then loosened with a hiss.  

He wondered vaguely if Skinner knew how much he had wanted Mulder, once upon a
time.  How he had fantasized about that body, those eyes, that voice speaking
softly to him, only to him.  Definitely not, he decided.  If Skinner had
known, Krycek had no doubt that he would be occupying a damp hole somewhere
out in the dunes.

Skinner was putting away his equipment.  Krycek started to shrug back into his
shirt.  Skinner reached an impersonal hand and took it away from him.  He held
out a fresh flannel shirt.  Alex took it and slowly began to pull it on.
Skiner reached over to help ease it back over his shoulders, looming over him.
There was a warm, spicy scent this close to Skinner's body and Krycek felt his
dizziness rising again.  "So, doc, will I live?"  he tried for an impudent,
light tone.

Skinner smiled down at him as he straightened the collar. "If you're a good
boy and do everything I tell you."  For some reason, something in that smile
made Krycek shiver.

Everything had really gone to hell the moment Mulder had shown up.  Before
then, it had been a blissfully simple equation - Alex Krycek snarling and
snapping his way through a hostile world. Not bright, not very pleasant, but
it was all he had come to expect.  In some ways, he knew it was what he
deserved.  The gun Skinner had pulled on him this morning had been expected,
familiar, almost a welcome relief in what had become a bewildering scenario.
But all hope of a return to SOP had faded when Mulder had gotten Skinner to
patch him up.  Then, all the cozy domesticity he had witnessed ... he shook
his head, trying to clear it.

"Head still hurt?" Skinner asked, holding out a small glass of something
amber.

"A bit," Krycek admitted, taking the glass and sniffing it. Scotch.  He looked
up to see Skinner watching him.  "What?"

"Let's just say that this is not what I expected," Skinner said with a wry
twist to his lips.

"I'll drink to that," Krycek said fervently.  They solemnly raised their
glasses to one another, then drank.  Krycek felt the excellent single malt
rolling through him, spreading warmth and pushing back that fragile feeling.

"So, what happens to me now?" 

"Now?" Skinner repeated.  "Nothing.  Whatever you want.  You eat and sleep a
lot.  Heal."

"Why are you doing this?"  Krycek couldn't help the bewildered whine that
crept into his voice.  The scotch must be hitting him, he thought.

"Because Mulder wants it," Skinner said simply.


Shortly after that, Skinner had taken away the glass and eased Krycek back
into bed.  He had pulled the covers over the younger man, proppsed a pillow
against the damaged ribs and left without saying another word.
 


* * *

CAESURA

The next few days were a codeine blur to Krycek.  His injuries sapped whatever
remaining strength he had and he spent most of his time asleep.  Mulder would
awaken him and he would dress in borrowed clothing.  Then Skinner would check
him  over and he would stagger down to eat whatever was put in front of him.
Then he  would retire to the couch to read, eyes flickering over the same page
again and again before falling asleep there.  Or, if the weather were mild
enough, he would wrap up in  a borrowed parka and sit for hours on the front
porch, staring at the sea.  

The evenings  were quiet, spent watching TV, reading, listening to music.
Their conversation was light,  studiously avoiding any potentially explosive
topics. Alex frequently found himself falling into reveries, staring into the
driftwood fire or watching  Mulder's hand  meditatively stroking Maxie's fur.
When startled out of them, he could never remember what he had been thinking.
 
Mulder and Skinner were surprisingly restful, non intrusive companions, coming
and going in regular patterns like the tide.  They gave him space and quiet,
demanding nothing from him.   More than once he had been awakened by one of
them tucking a blanket around him, or removing the book from his lax fingers.
More disturbing were the times that he awakened to find traces of their care.
He took it as simply more proof that he had lost whatever edge he had once had
that he could sleep through someone *touching* him.

Skinner was frequently gone during the day doing his odd-job carpentry in the
towns up and down the Upper Cape.  Mulder spent most of his time writing, or
staring into space and avoiding writing. Krycek quickly grew familiar with
Mulder's work habits, they weren't so different from his work habits at the
Bureau.  Two hours of time-wasting followed by six hours of intense
productivity.  Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, he usually remembered
to eat lunch; when he did, he fed Krycek too.

If Skinner were working at home that day, meals were more regular.  Alex was
amused to discover that Skinner was the more concerned with making certain
that Krycek ate;  he had even politely inquired as to Krycek's favorite foods.
When they began appearing at breakfast and dinner, Alex felt vaguely guilty
for merely tossing out some names.  The man had gone to some trouble for him,
but how to explain that he didn't much care what he ate?  That nothing had
much savor any more?  That without the constant low-level headache, the ache
in his ribs, the tenderness in his groin, that without these, he wouldn't have
been certain that he were awake?  

It was an odd sensation, being taken care of. Swallowing the vitamin tablets
handed to him, allowing his temperature to be taken, gentle hands taping his
ribs, impersonal hands helping him shower. It was unsettling to be the focus
of so much politely distanced concern and it made him sullen and snappish.
Except at night.

At night, the concern was no longer distanced and he hung onto it desperately.
The nightmares banished all pride, all caution, all possibility of sleep.  It
was the same story every night.  He went to bed when his hosts did, around
midnight.  Within two hours, he always found himself bolt upright, throat
hoarse from screaming and face stinging from the slaps needed to bring him out
of it.  The worst of it was, he could never remember what he had dreamed - the
terror was nameless, faceless, limitless.

No - the worst of it was that it was Mulder who woke him.  Mulder who saw him
screaming and gasping, tears pouring down his face.  Mulder who held him until
the shaking stopped, who never said a word about the episodes in the daylight.
Mulder who never said a word at night, but who lightly kissed his forehead as
he left him,  soothed into silence.  Who never knew that Alex lay, unsleeping,
staring at the  shadows on the ceiling until dawn.

So Alex caught up on his sleep during the day and tried hard not to notice the
dark  circles under Mulder's eyes.  

One night it was Skinner who brought him out of it.  For a  wonder, he awoke
without his own hoarse screams grating in his ears.   He swallowed dryly and
stared at Walter Skinner, who loomed among the other shadows, real and
imagined, in his room.

"You were dreaming again. I happened to hear you before you could really get
going."   He stood beside the bed, wrapped in an old flannel robe. Without his
glasses, he  seemed both more human and more remote.

"Good.  Mulder could use one night's uninterrupted sleep," Alex said and wiped
the  sweat from his face on the sheet.

"Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"  The voice, cool, interested
but  not pressing, soothed him like water.

"No.  I never do.  It's all dark. Nothing to see..." his voice trailed off.
After a moment,  Alex said slowly,


"You know, when I was on the run, I never had nightmares?  All those years - I
never  had a single bad dream.  Slept like a baby any time I could.  I only
get them when I'm  not in danger.  Like there's some conservation of horror in
my life.  If there's enough  on the outside, the shit inside takes a break.
Here's the punch line, Skinner - you'll  like the irony - it's only when I'm
somewhere safe that I can't sleep."  He smiled bitterly  up at Walter Skinner,
expecting him to share the joke. 

Those dark eyes were unreadable in the moonlit room.  Then Skinner flipped
back the  covers.   "Get up."

Krycek looked at him, uncomprehending.  Skinner put one hand on Krycek's bare
shoulder.   "Come on, get up."

Without understanding, Krycek slid out of bed, shivering in his borrowed
shorts.  Skinner's hand propelled him out of his room, down the hall and into
the master  bedroom.

"Skinner, what's going on here?" 

"I'm going to help you get a night's sleep, Alex," the deep voice told him.
The hand on his shoulder pushed him gently toward the large bed.  He could see
Mulder curled  asleep on the far side of the bed, burrowed under the
comforter.

Without understanding, Krycek allowed Skinner to push him down onto the bed.
At  Skinner's shove, he slid over, under the comforter, closer to Mulder.
Then he lay  down next to Krycek, not touching him, but cowing him with the
sense of his strength and mass.   The warm flannel against his chilled and
sweat-soaked skin made him shiver.

That deep voice rumbled in his ear. "You're now in the most dangerous place in
the  world, Krycek.  You're in between me and Mulder.  You ought to be able to
sleep just  fine here...just fine.  Pleasant dreams."

Then the comforter was pulled up to his chin and he listened to the man beside
him settling, pushing the pillow into a better position, sighing as the warmth
gathered him  close.

Walter Skinner, a man he had beaten and robbed, lay beside him.  Fox Mulder,
the  man he had betrayed and beaten, lied to and loved, lay beside him. If he
stretched out  one hand toward him, Skinner would know in an instant.
Mulder's crisp fragrance and  Skinner's spicy scent wrapped around him, making
his head swim. Best to close his  eyes until the dizziness passed.  Within
moments, he was asleep.


 "Mexico" (5/11) MJ, JiM (M/SK/K)



Somewhere deep in the night, Krycek awoke.  No terror, no screaming, no
adrenaline rush, just a gentle slide into a warm wakefulness.  He was curled
on his side, the soft sheets and heavy comforter a sheer pleasure, something
solid and warm at his back. He dimly recognized that it had been the soothing
touch of fingers brushing across his  forehead that had awakened him.  He
opened his eyes and met Mulder's questioning  gaze from across the pillow.  

"Alex?"

"Skinner's idea," he whispered back.  He tipped his head slightly, mutely
asking for that soothing touch again.  Mulder's fingers brushed through his
hair again and he sighed in pleasure.  "When was the last time anyone touched
me with kindness?" he  thought and was appalled when his eyes filled.

"Alex?" Mulder asked, whisper deep with concern.  There was no way Krycek
could explain what was going on in his head; fear, gratitude, loneliness,
longing, affection, despair.  He could only slide a few inches forward and
kiss Fox Mulder.  Gently, sweetly, the way he had always wanted to kiss him.
Well, *one* of the ways he had wanted to kiss him.

After a startled moment, Mulder kissed him back, long fingers threaded through
his too- long hair, curving gently around his skull.   He wished he could pull
Mulder closer to  him,  but he was lying on his arm.  So he settled for
licking and nibbling at that tender  bottom lip until that dark, sweet mouth
opened for him.  Lost in the taste, the feel of Fox  Mulder's kiss, Krycek
never even noticed the shifting weight behind him.  He never felt the bed dip
as Skinner leaned up on one arm and took in what was happening beside him.

The first hint Krycek had that Skinner wasn't safely asleep and oblivious was
the large hand that closed over his left shoulder. A slight tightening of
those fingers, then he was pushed onto his back.  Mind blank, he could only
stare into the shadowed face above him.

"Walter..." Mulder started to say miserably.

"Shut up," Skinner snarled, then leaned across Krycek to kiss his lover
fiercely.
 
Krycek wasn't certain whether he was gasping due to fear or the mass of man
that was pinning him to the mattress.  Or was it the sheer hunger that he saw
above him?

Skinner broke their clinch and leaned back.  Mulder's eyes were dazed and his
mouth swollen.  Smiling grimly at the evidence of his skill, Skinner turned
his attention to the smaller man still partially pinned beneath him.  

"I told you this was a dangerous place, Krycek.  But  you just had to push,
didn't you?"

Krycek gasped, trying to draw breath to deny or defend himself.   His ribs
ached where Skinner pressed against him. The voice growling in his ear
shivered through him and he couldn't even bring up his arm to defend himself.
'Great,' he thought,  'one stolen kiss is going to do what years of lying,
double-dealing and murder couldn't - I'm going to die.'  He closed his eyes in
sheer irritation at himself.  The feel of Skinner's mouth covering his own
shocked them open again. 

This was a kiss of domination; Skinner was not brutal, but he was implacable.
Alex never had a chance of resisting.  Large hands came up to hold his head
still and Skinner's tongue forced it way past his still stuttering lips.  The
sweet taste of Mulder's mouth was burnt up in the sheer power of Skinner's
kiss.  Without warning, all of Krycek's defenses went down; he found himself
clutching hard at the muscled arms that held him pinned and moaning with need.
Burning -he was burning up and it felt so good after the days of numbness, the
months and years of cool detachment.

Skinner pulled away suddenly and he whimpered, not caring how needy it
sounded. 

"Damn!  I forgot about your ribs."

"The hell with my ribs!" Krycek groaned and tried to pull Skinner's head back
down.  The larger man resisted, catching hold of Krycek's wrist and pressing
it back down onto the bed.

"No, Alex.  We're not going to let you hurt yourself and we're not going to do
it for you."

Skinner ran his hand down Mulder's arm until he came to the hand; squeezing it
once in reassurance, he placed Mulder's hand on Krycek's.  Even as Mulder
looked at his lover in complete bewilderment, his fingers laced with those of
his former partner.  The hand in his trembled; Mulder turned his attention to
Alex, lying there on the knife-edge.  This time, he licked and nibbled until
he was allowed inside that mobile mouth.

Alex Krycek tasted of the sweet smoke of a driftwood fire; all the colors of
need sparkled in his hungry kiss.  Mulder drank him in, trying to ignore the
sheer relief that twined throughout his growing desire.  Finally, he had this
man in his bed; perhaps he could uproot him from the dark places in his soul
now.

He felt Krycek stiffen beneath him, body going rigid.  When he looked up, he
saw Walter running his hand gently up and down the left side of Krycek's body.
He watched in fascination as that large brown hand skimmed up Krycek's smooth
chest, over the strapping tape, gliding up the strong column of his throat to
slide down the shoulder and down the ruined arm to brush across the scar
tissue before reversing its direction and beginning the circuit again.

Krycek's eyes were fixed desperately on Skinner's face. "Don't," he whispered,
moving restlessly between them.

"Shh," Skinner said and repeated the caress with the barest brush of his
fingertips.  Mulder found his hand mirroring Skinner's touch; as his lover's
hand skimmed up the left side of Krycek's heaving chest, his glided up the
right side.  Again and again, they mapped out twin routes across his torso.
Krycek's breath shuddered out as broad blunt fingers and long cool fingers
circled his flat nipples.  His skin was smooth and beautiful and it shimmered
in the pale moonlight.  Then he went rigid again and Mulder looked up from his
fascinated stare.

Skinner was nuzzling the point of Alex's shoulder, gentle kisses and licks,
small bites that raised gooseflesh.  And he was sliding lower, always coming
closer to that ruined flesh, the ugly truncation of Alex Krycek's beautiful,
abused body.  Skinner's big hand was rubbing in comforting, restraining
circles on Krycek's belly.

Krycek's moaning became more desperate than aroused.  Mulder put a hand on
Skinner's jaw and gently pulled his head up.  Their eyes met.  The
calculating, cruel light of seduction that Mulder saw there took him aback. 

"Go easy on him, Walter," he whispered and watched as that cold light went out
and the man he knew and loved returned.  Skinner kissed Krycek's panting mouth
gently, apologetically, soothing him with fingers stroking through his hair,
caressing his face.

Reassured, Mulder let his hands slip down Krycek' torso, delighting in the
silken smoothness beneath his fingers.  The occasional ridge of a scar was no
deterrent; it only emphasized the sleek skin beneath his hands.  His hands
caught on the sharp hipbones, thumbs slipping beneath the loose flannel boxers
he had lent Krycek for sleepwear.  The hard rise of Krycek's cock was visible
beneath the cloth.  Krycek's hand fumbled then seized on Mulder's thigh,
stroking and squeezing with a tactile entreaty that Mulder couldn't deny.

He slowly slid the boxer shorts down Krycek's hips, easing them over the jut
of his straining cock, then away.  Krycek shimmied, working them down his own
legs and kicking them away.  His energetic squirms had caught Skinner's
attention and the dark-eyed man leaned up to survey the length of Krycek's
body laid out in silver between them.  He and Mulder looked into each other's
eyes and grinned in pure animal appetite.  

"Jesus, you're beautiful, Alex," one of them whispered, then their hands began
caressing him from shoulder to thigh.

Those hands were burning him, skimming over him, never touching where he
needed them.  Mouths devoured him, tearing at his rational cool persona,
leaving him naked and alone at the center.  Ah, this was cruelty and he
couldn't, wouldn't lift a hand to stop it.  Let Mulder have his pound of
flesh; he was owed.  Skinner - he ran his hand over the raised scars on the
big man's abdomen.  Once he had beaten and kicked Skinner, aiming for those
scars, those points of vulnerability.  He owed Skinner, too; let him take what
he wanted.  He had no more use for himself.

He was gently turned, first to his side, then to his stomach.  A large hand
cushioned and braced his cracked ribs and he was distantly grateful that no
minor aches would be allowed to distract him from the storm of sensations.
Then those hands and mouths were back, caressing and stroking.  Mulder's
mouth, he recognized it now, was nipping across his shoulders, tongue soothing
the welts he was leaving.  Alex's back arched as Skinner's teeth counted coup
down his spine, the hot breath of that mouth sending his own sweat trickling
down his sides.

His hand fumbled out, searching for something to anchor himself to.  All he
found was Skinner's leg, muscles like iron beneath his flexing fingers.  He
slid his hand up and down, not caressing but exploring the solidity, the
sparse hair, the stolid reality of him.  Alex knew now that, if he were ever
struck blind, he would always be able to identify this man in this way.  He
almost grinned at the absurd picture of himself as a street beggar, running
blind fingers up and down a multitude of legs until he found ... the fantasy
blew away with a gasp.  A hot tongue was running up and down the crack of his
ass.  The sharpness of teeth along the curve of his buttock made all of his
muscles clench.

The leg under his hand suddenly slid away as Skinner moved down the bed.  His
legs were pushed apart and he was even more vulnerable, waiting.  The scrape
of night beard along the inside of his thighs made Alex gasp and throw up his
head.  His face was immediately seized by Mulder and he was dissolving in the
laser focus of Mulder's kiss, fist knotting in the sheet.  The shocking first
touch of Skinner's tongue to his asshole almost caused him to convulse,
pulling painfully on his ribs.  Mulder threw a leg across him and Skinner's
large hands held his hips down, elbows locking his thighs open, leaving him
exposed.

Mulder recaptured his head and pressed a gentle kiss onto his mouth just as
Skinner's tongue began to gently lap at him again.  He moaned and began
trembling.  Mulder nuzzled his way across Alex's cheek to his left ear and he
began lightly tonguing it, unknowingly mimicking his lover's motions.
Drowning in the sensations, Alex could no longer tell them apart.  The two men
were connected somehow, using his body to communicate, telling each other the
things they could never say aloud.  Skinner's tongue pierced him and he could
only moan.  Mulder's hand reached above and across him and he threaded his
fingers through Alex's, allowing him to grip as hard as he needed.  His lips
moved against Alex's temple, whispering and slick with sweat.  The words were
kind and gentle and impossible t o hear as Alex writhed and moaned.

A cool, slick finger entered him and he went rigid.  Neither man moved until
he slowly relaxed.  Then Skinner resumed slowly stroking gel into him and
Mulder kept caressing and kissing him.  His cock was digging into the mattress
and it hurt but he felt no urgency about relieving the pain.  He felt a dim
trust that his two tormentors would strip away that pain, too, as they had
inflicted and taken away every other sensation.

Then Skinner slid back up along Alex's trembling length and rumbled, "Who do
you want, Krycek?"  

It took a few moments for the meaning of the soft words to penetrate.  Was
this a trick question?  Two hands stroked up and down his back, waiting for
his answer.

"Mulder," he gasped.  "Please..."

"Ok, Alex.  Hang on..." Mulder sounded breathless.  There was the sound of a
drawer being fumbled open, then a tearing noise, which he vaguely identified
as a condom being unwrapped.  Careful Skinner, he thought and wanted to smile
but couldn't remember how.  Bodies shifted around him and he spread his legs
wider, hoping for a solid weight to settle on his back and anchor him within
his body.

"Mulder - wait.  His ribs can't take it like that."  A warm, implacable hand
sliding under his right shoulder, pushing him up onto his left side.  He
whimpered in protest and Skinner's hand came up to cup his face, a broad thumb
against his complaining lips. 

"I told you, Alex, we won't hurt you, whether you want us to or not."

Bastard, thought Krycek, without heat.   You should have just shot me -it
would have been kinder.  Look at me, begging for you to touch me again,
praying that Mulder will slide into me and never leave.  Finally knowing just
how big the dark and empty spaces are; and nothing to fill them but the crumbs
you two have thrown me from your table.  You should have just shot me.

Then Mulder was spooned up behind him, a long thigh thrust between his own and
a hard length forcing its way into him.  He was filled with Mulder's heat and
strength and he was still so empty...

"Skinner," he rasped, hand slipping down to the man's hip, pulling him up.
Skinner silently slid up until Alex could pillow his head on one hard thigh.
His eyes slid up until he met Skinner's gaze.  Then Skinner nodded and Alex
dropped his attention to the heavy, purple cock that waited for him.  Sliding
it into his mouth was a simple pleasure, uncomplicated in the sea of
sensations in which he was drowning.  Alex barely had time to register the
salt-bitter musk and solid silk of him before he felt Mulder slide all the way
home and lightly brush his prostate.  It took all his training to neither cry
out nor bite down as flashes of light crossed his vision.  One of Skinner's
hands came down to clasp the side of his head, fingers threading into the dark
hair.

"Alex," Mulder whispered and began to move gently within him.  Skinner stayed
stock still, so Alex let Mulder's movements rock him slightly up and down
Skinner's length.  He fondled the heavy balls that were already drawn up tight
against his body, then he slipped his hand up to trace the scars left by
shrapnel and gunshot.  The hard muscles under his fingers trembled slightly
and he knew the big man was close, so close.

Mulder was moving faster now, fingers digging into Krycek's hip, and it was
good, so good.  There were no more empty spaces within him.  He was anchored
and warm, burning and filled.  He wanted nothing more.  Then Mulder's hand
slipped down to stroke his cock and the world disappeared in a sheet of flame.
He would have cried out if Skinner hadn't been filling his throat, his come
pumping out hot and silent, like his own.  A few more strokes and Mulder cried
out and went rigid within him, teeth scraping against Krycek's shoulder.

He didn't know how long they all lay there, sweat turning icy on their skins,
slowly slipping away from one another.  His head was still pillowed on
Skinner's thigh, Skinner's hand rhythmically stroking his hair. Skinner
himself was slumped against the headboard.  Mulder had rolled onto his back
behind him, but his hand was also patting Krycek's hair, occasionally tangling
with Skinner's.

After making one or two abortive tries, Skinner slid Alex's head away and
clambered to his feet.  A little unsteady, he made it to the bathroom and
wrung out a couple of washcloths in warm water.  Then he filled a glass with
cool water, grabbed a towel and staggered back into the bedroom.  He tended to
Mulder first, disposing of the condom and wiping him down, then giving him the
dry towel.  Mulder smiled his thanks and touched his hand.

Krycek was still lying where he'd left him and Skinner wondered if the man had
passed out.  He gently wiped away the extra gel and his own semen, then gently
pushed him onto his back and reached for the towel Mulder passed him.  He ran
the towel lightly across the pale skin and was concerned to see  a fine
tremor.  Krycek was shivering - it wouldn't do to have him get chilled.
Skinner looked up to tell him to slide under the covers; the man was crying.
Tears were cutting silvery streaks into the hair at his temples.  Strangest of
all was his total lack of expression.  Eyes open, staring at the ceiling with
tears pouring down.  Skinner tapped Mulder and made him take his arm from over
his eyes before silently pointing to Krycek. 

Post-coital haze was blown away from Mulder's expression in an instant.  He
sat up and tapped Krycek on the shoulder.

"Alex?"

"What?" Krycek asked in a perfectly controlled, normal voice.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh yeah, Mulder, I'm fine.  It was great. Thanks."  Chilling, those words, so
calm and clipped, and the tears still sheeting down, unnoted.

"Then why are you crying, Krycek?" Skinner finally asked.

The assassin's eyebrow's knit in a puzzled frown.  "What are you talking
about?"

Skinner drew one finger across one of Krycek's tear-stained cheeks and held it
up, glinting in the moonlight.

"Mulder?"  Krycek looked to Mulder automatically, confusion and fear seeking
answers.

"Let's get you warm, Alex. We'll worry about it later, all right?"

And stranger still, Krycek allowing himself to be tucked under the comforter,
passive as a small child, those silent tears still flowing.  Mulder brought
Krycek's head down to rest on his own shoulder.  Skinner slid back into bed
behind Krycek and pressed up against the shivering back.  Krycek gave a small
sigh of animal contentment as he burrowed into the warmth on either side of
him but didn't speak again.

Mulder met Skinner's concerned gaze with a small shrug and a raised eyebrow.
He had no idea what was going on either but didn't seem unduly worried. So
Skinner merely mouthed the words "Love you," to Mulder and settled down to let
his exhaustion take him, one hand on Krycek's bony hip.

Krycek, lying there between them, wondered how he would die now.  Until this
night, he had always assumed that it would involve a bullet - perhaps a lucky
shot or a careless move on his part and he would have found his instant
retirement plan.  He regretted it.
Before this night, at least, he would have remained himself as he died.
 
Now, between them, Mulder and Skinner had completely annihilated anything he
had been used to calling `Alex Krycek'.  What was left?  The empty spaces
inside seemed so much larger now.  What was left?