by C. M. Decarnin
When Mulder got home the next night and turned after putting on the light he jumped out of his skin. On the couch, knees spread, slouched Krycek, glaring at him. The Russian traitor got up and moved toward him heavily, eyes fixed on him -- fixed, he realized as he backed into the wall, low, below the waist and then Krycek was on him, tearing at his belt, ripping down his pants as he fell to his knees, grabbing Mulder's hardened cock with both hands and plunging the end into his mouth and slurping around on it, deeper and deeper till it felt like it was going through a wet steamy desperate carwash -- mmm -- a vision of Krycek with a big happy kid grin, his face all over cum --
The vision disintegrated, leaving only the ghost of the Cheshire grin on his own lips.
Then he quickly put his arms over his head and stretched, to cover anything weird he might have been doing bodily.
The worried, are-you-all-right? look faded from Scully's face, replaced by her Mulder-you-ass look. She knew all his usual follies, but -- the smile tilted into sadness -- god knew she would never guess this one.
Ballistics had proved Krycek had not been the one who actually shot harmless Melissa Scully in place of her sister. But he'd been there, assigned to murder Mulder's beloved partner in cold blood. He'd abetted her kidnapping.
Mulder's father... he denied killing him one minute, then made excuses for it the next. Did Krycek even know what the fuck he had and hadn't done? He wasn't a loose cannon, he was a loose S.C.U.D. missile, and Mulder must be getting as crazy as Krycek was to collaborate with him, let alone get -- cellular with him.
Once -- that first time -- okay, he had an insane job, he was furious and hadn't had any in longer than he could even remember, and his hormones got their wires crossed. That happens (yeah, they call it rape, asshole) (couldn't happen to a nicer rat bastard then).
God this was so confusing. Reason and loyalty said just where he should stand on this. What he was actually feeling and doing came from somewhere so much more immediate, intuitive and undoubtedly fucked up.
He tried to follow what Scully was saying about work, so she wouldn't notice his guilt and sadness. Scully was the most important person in his universe. How could he be doing this? Working with Krycek, fucking Krycek, talking and laughing -- laughing with Krycek, surely that was the worst betrayal of all...
And before any of this could even start to be judged came the question at the heart of this mess: Was Krycek conning him? Again?
Mulder the Date Magnet. What better way to come after him than with sex? He's too smart to fall for a dropped hanky? Blindside him. Throw it at him from the last angle he ever would have dreamed of on this earth. Or off it. He thinks he's straight? Throw him a curve.
Put Krycek in.
His gut told him Krycek was at least in major crush with him. His head told him he was coloring outside the lines with a stone prostitute. Who also happened to be the most proficient double-agent he'd ever met, a paid assassin, quite possibly a traitor to the very human race.
Scully. Perfect lipstick, perfect hair, perfect orderly mind -- she was a perfect person and didn't even seem to have to try at it, it was all there. And what they had together was maybe the only thing he would accept as possible proof of the existence of God. Before she had come into his life he'd had no one, no one to rely on, no one to help him in his most wild-haired schemes, no one to balance him instead of ridicule him. Now he didn't think he could live without her. When she had almost been taken from him, he'd thought he might die himself of the grief and guilt. That her unselfish, blameless, hardworking life should be obliterated as if she didn't matter had enraged him to the point of insanity.
Krycek. All that was dark and ruthless; uncontrolled, effeminately macho, coiled, enmeshed, one with power, and untouched by conscience.
Though they did have the good grooming in common...
And they both gave him things he had starved for.
Scully, faith, partnership, staunchness.
Krycek, earthshattering sex -- all he could say for sure.
Scully from her pristine lab and Krycek from his sortees into the murk, both brought him truth.
Krycek had tried to kill Scully. In return, Scully had saved Krycek's worthless life. To keep Mulder out of jail.
"Scully." Her expression told him his rapt attention to her monologue was now being decrypted into not having heard a word she said. If she'd been wearing glasses she would have looked at him over the tops of them.
"I'm working with Krycek."
She didn't say a word.
"He's giving me all of it, Scully. Documented. Names. Dates. Locations. And where the bodies are buried."
She had herself in hand. "And you believe him?"
"I'm not" completely "out of my mind. But so far it all makes sense. You wouldn't believe where he's been, Scully. What he's seen with his own eyes, overheard, pieced together."
"The original fly on the wall."
"It's like somehow he got right in the heart of it almost when he was born."
She studied him, and he could see the image of a Trojan Horse in her eyes.
"I'm being careful."
"What do you want me to do, Mulder?"
"You expect me to pick up with him if he gets you killed?"
"Even if I would, to whom would I carry the message? Who in this government do you trust?"
He smiled, wry. "The head of state. "Of the people, by the people, for the people", Scully. Give everything to Frohike."
"Mulder, I can't believe you're being this naive."
"What else can we do? We can only trust that if we put the truth out there, someone will know what to do with it. I honestly don't see another option."
Mulder smiled. "Look on the bright side. We may be colonized by aliens before you reach retirement age."
He sat forward. "I only want you to know because -- I don't want you to be in the dark. If you want me to, I'll tell you where the backups are, you can dump it all straight onto Frohike's email if they take me out, then walk away. Or you can tell me you don't want to know. Either way, I'd never ask you to deal with -- him."
"Mulder, I would gladly take Krycek for everything he's got. I'm not afraid of him. I just can't imagine a situation in which I would be willing to believe anything he told me."
Mulder's insides winced. Scully on target as always with the logical heart of the matter.
Even if he described to her every moan, every gasp and sigh, what was there logically to offer as any assurance of truth?
Krycek's haunted eyes, when he first found him.
Krycek's shuddering orgasm under his kiss.
Krycek's fury. And forgiveness.
Krycek in the men's room at Dulles, kissing him with desperate gentleness. After a flight spent in separated seats, they had both headed for the one place they might touch each other, before they parted.
What in god's name am I doing...
How did I let this happen?
Did I always want him?
...Only since he betrayed me.
This time the wince made him drop his eyes away from Scully's. The ambitious little Bureau neo could have held no appeal for Mulder, other than, perhaps, if the thawing process had continued, as a friend. It was only when he turned his black-ops side up that Krycek attained the depth and shadows that created his beauty. And that "stupid-ass haircut", the burr that had so roiled Mulder's gut when he saw it. Emblem of Krycek's mutability, his submissiveness to the imprint of his role. Sprawled at Mulder's feet, snarling up at him, hurried claims to stop Mulder hitting him again, or jailing him.
Was some of the hate he felt then... this other thing? Was it only a bullet he'd wanted to put into Krycek's body?
And later -- after his father -- where had that rage of the greatest possible betrayal come from? You don't call it betrayal if your enemy rips out your heart...
Afraid to meet Scully's eyes lest she read his every thought, Mulder achieved his most pitiful excuse for a smile. "I can't tell you you're wrong. It's probably the safest way to approach him. All I can say is the information seems correct and verifiable."
Scully kept her silence, as he had, for a moment. He wondered what secrets she considered.
"I'll do it, Mulder. But only if you don't tell him where the backups are."
"Deal." It made every kind of sense. Two sets of backups was, in any case, his minimum for a trove like this.
His cell phone rang.
"Is this Biedermeyer's Fur Storage?" inquired a fluty voice.
"No, you have the wrong number."
"I'm trying to reach 855 --"
"No, this is 555."
"Oh. Sorry." The caller rang off. Mulder hardly dared to raise his eyes to Scully for a moment, every nerve in his body was singing soprano. A tune, he strongly feared, from "West Side Story".
End of Part 7, A Boy and His Rat