Departure I

I awaken to pain.

Consciousness pushes its way past the ache in my arms, the hardness of the floor, the bruises, and I remember... a shadowy figure in my apartment, a swift brutal impact, falling and falling and looking up, seeing his face...

Oh, hell.

There are nightmares, and then there are nightmares; there are nightmares you can laugh at afterwards, like the one where I flounder helplessly in a sea of jello while goldfish nibble away at my toes, and then there are nightmares that scare the bejeezus out of you, even after you awaken...

...and I had awakened into my nightmare, had surfaced from bottomless sleep to find that the nightmare was real.

It's cold. Goosepimples ripple over my skin. The handcuffs binding my arms tightly behind my back are cold, freezing metal biting into my flesh. The floor I'm lying on is cold, radiating cold up through my bones. I shiver, I can't help myself, as the cold wraps around every square inch of my naked body...

And then I look up, and I see him, see the ice in his eyes.

He doesn't seem cold. Of course, he's fully clothed, and I'm not. Fully clothed, and in complete control of the situation. Of me.

Bastard. If only Scully had let me kill him when I had the chance...

Scully. She'll find me. Won't she? Okay, sure, I'm supposed to be on vacation. But I always call her, always keep in touch, and when I don't... she'll know that something's wrong. Won't she?

Won't she?

He stands there, just stands there, saying nothing, doing nothing, allowing plenty of time for the situation to sink into my brain. I am naked, bound, freezing cold and completely helpless. And he is standing there, looking perfectly ordinary, like any guy you might find walking down the street, not at all like the soulless murderer he is: tennis shoes, sweatshirt, absolute normalcy save for the gun tucked arrogantly into the waistband of his blue jeans. Arrogantly, in that he doesn't even have to point the thing at me. He has me right where he wants me.

Goddamn it.

"Mulder," he says finally, lingering over my name; and my hands clench helplessly, wanting to clench around his throat and strangle him, choke the arrogant superiority from him along with his breath.

I can't, of course. And he knows it: knows that I loathe him, knows that I am helpless to do anything but lie here and despise him. He revels in the knowing of it -- I can see it, in his eyes.

And something else, I see there -- something I have long suspected about him, something that has enabled me to feel contempt for him -- something that, considering my current helplessness, scares the living hell out of me.

I see it in his eyes because he is allowing me to see it. Because he knows that it will frighten me to know it. Because it makes his control of the situation more complete.

"Amazing, what some people will go through, just to get laid," I say -- brave words, bold words, spoken in a remarkably steady voice; and they do nothing to hide the fact that I'm scared out of my wits.

Krycek laughs. Not even a contemptuous laugh, but a sound of genuine amusement. As if my retort pleases him.

Which scares me even more.

"Yes," he says finally, "isn't it," agreeing with me, agreeing with me, stripping away the last of my hopes that perhaps I'm wrong about what he's planning to do next...

I turn my head away, because I am finally, completely terrified, and I don't want him to see it. I don't want him to know that he's gotten to me.

Even though he already knows.

The floor creaks with his footsteps as he approaches. Little sounds. Small sounds. Tiny little creaking noises. Insignificant sounds; and yet each one burns its way into my brain, sears into my consciousness, building my terror to a fever pitch. He's coming closer, closer, and when he reaches me...

No. I don't want to think about that. Won't think about that. No.

I feel his fingertips brushing against my shoulder, and flinch involuntarily away from his touch. I can't go far, though; and the fingertips follow, pursuing me.

Stroking me, stroking my skin. Caressing, like a lover...

No. Oh, God, no, I don't want to think about that.

I shut my eyes, but I can't shut away my awareness of his hands, gliding over me, moving down my chest to my nipples, tracing slow circles... I hate him, I despise him, I loathe him with everything I am, but how long has it been since I last jerked off? Too long -- and the touch sparks a response within me.

Now I can't keep my eyes shut; if I close myself off inside my skull, it's too easy to forget what's really going on here. I have to look at him, I have to see him, so that I can hate him, hate what he's doing to me... But he's behind me, now, and I can't see him at all. Only feel his hands, feel the slow caresses, arousing me against my will.

"Krycek, you rat bastard," I force out between clenched teeth, needing to remind myself... and he doesn't respond: won't give me what I want. I need to hear his voice, to have something to concentrate the hatred against. Something with which to ward off the arousal spreading through me.

Damn him. Goddamn him.

The hands move lower, lower, over my belly, past my groin... It's bad enough that I'm getting a hard-on, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let him know what it's doing to me. Fingertips brush against the head of my cock, just the lightest feather-touch, and I want more, need more, but not from him, not from him...

I hate him. I hate him. But my body doesn't know that, or care; and I feel my hips move, surging forward to meet his hand, begging silently for the touch.

A small breath of laughter -- just enough for me to focus on, to hate -- and somehow I force myself to twist away.

The laughter increases at this sign of resistance. "Ah, Mulder," he says, with something like fondness in his voice, "you always were a fighter."

And his hand closes around my cock, not too hard, just firmly enough to send waves of pleasure coursing through me.

Oh, God. I hate him. I hate him.

And it feels so good, his hand sliding up and down my hard cock, it feels so good that I want to kill him, I want to kill myself, I want to die for feeling this good.

His hand slips away, and I hear myself whimper, feel my hips thrust forward, seeking that lost friction -- and I hate myself for it.

No mocking laughter this time; he is too busy positioning me for his next move -- easy enough to tell, from the position, what move that will be; I try to resist, but there's not much I can do. My hands are cuffed behind my back, so tightly that they're starting to go numb, and my feet are shackled together, and my cock is throbbing and aching so badly that I can't ignore it. No matter how much I want to.

Believe me, I want to.

My cheek is pressed against the hard wooden floor, held there by the weight of my body being shoved forward and down as he spreads my ass cheeks, and... no, please no, not this. Anything but this. The fear rises up again and chokes me; I would plead with him, if it would do any good -- but no, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg. I'm not.

Distantly, I notice that my terror has caused my erection to shrivel up and wither away, leaving me thoroughly limp and unaroused. Which suits me perfectly.

I feel something cold and wet and slimy being spread between my ass cheeks, and my whole body clenches up tight as a fist at the feel of it, which is of course exactly the wrong reaction -- but I can't help myself.

I've had guns pointed at my head, seen my sister abducted, I've almost lost Scully on several occasions... and I have never been this goddamn scared in my entire life.

Then, his voice. "Relax, Mulder. It'll hurt less if you relax." Soft and soothing and oh, hell, seductive, as if he actually gives a damn whether he hurts me or not...

"Go fuck yourself," I grate out, because it gives me some small sliver of satisfaction to know that I can still resist, even with my face shoved into the floor and my bare ass up in the air; and because I know that I will need to cling to every shred of loathing I have for this man in order to survive this.

I realize, belatedly, that I've left him with the perfect opening for a comeback -- but he just laughs, the bastard. It amuses him, to hear me hate him.

And then I feel his finger, probing the clenched muscles, forcing its way into me.

It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. Just one finger, and it hurts like hell; what will it be like when... No. I can't think about that.

But I can't stop thinking about it, either.

And it's worse, somehow, that he seems to be trying to be gentle about it. To open me slowly, instead of just slamming home and being done with it. As if he doesn't want to hurt me, or...

...as if he doesn't want to damage me, so that he can have me again later...

No. I'm not going to think about that. No.

The finger slides in, spreading the lubrication inside; I feel the knuckle move past the ring of contracting tissue, and I can't help the involuntary clenching that makes it hurt even worse -- to hell with resisting: if I could somehow force myself to relax, I would, just to stop the pain. But I can't. And it doesn't.

I can feel his finger move inside me, flexing, touching parts of me that no one has ever touched, not even a doctor; hell, I went through all sorts of machinations to avoid that particular exam, just because I couldn't deal with even the thought of this happening to me, and now it's happening, and he's doing it to me...

His finger moves. Touches something. And white electric sparks of arousal jolt through me, blotting out the pain, the hate, everything.

Soft laughter. "Now you begin to understand," I hear his voice, as if from very far away.

I am hard again, hard as a rock and aching, my penis pressed up against my stomach, blindly seeking friction, a touch, any touch, even his touch, to soothe the desperate need...

And Krycek reaches between my legs and wraps his other hand around my cock, stroking.

Oh, God. I hate him. With every fiber of my being, I hate him.

But my body has its own agenda, in which hate doesn't matter, pain doesn't matter, nothing matters except relieving the hot, swelling ache in my balls.

The world narrows to a slender focus: his finger up my ass, massaging my prostate gland, and his hand rubbing my cock to the same rhythm. Heightening the intense desire, building the flame to a raging inferno. I'm so close. So damn close.

All at once, it happens: muscles tightening, contracting, the sudden furious fullness in my balls as my body tenses, as orgasm approaches, until I'm right on the edge, striving toward the moment of culmination when the world explodes...

...and the finger abruptly wrenches out of my anus, the hand around my cock disappears, leaving me empty and unfulfilled.

The loss of sensation is agonizing. I hear myself moan, and I don't care. My hips move, wriggling desperately, trying to find some friction, some heat, just the tiniest bit of contact to bring me back to that peak, and over the edge...

...And something wet and icy-cold -- terry-cloth, I think - - wraps around my throbbing genitals, pushing the imminent orgasm irretrievably far away, diminishing my hard-on to a shadow of its former self.

I bite my tongue, hard, because for just a moment, I was on the verge of begging him to make me come. Just for a moment: but that moment shames me beyond measure.

Then I feel his hands on me, easing me back onto the floor, on my side, into what would be a comfortable position if I wasn't lying on my painfully half-numb arm, and if I weren't still shaking with needing the orgasm he'd denied me. I feel something heavy and warm cover me, and realize with shock that he's covering me with a blanket, tucking the edges around me gently.

He moves into my field of vision, kneels before me; his hand strokes my hair with infinite tenderness, as he waits for me to speak.

"What do you want from me, Krycek?" My voice is hoarse, raspy, its control far more perilous than I would prefer -- it sounds as if I'm on the verge of crying. In fact, I am. But I don't want him to know it.

He smiles at me. Warmly, affectionately. "Someday," he says, "you'll call me Alex again." His smile widens, just a bit; his fingertips brush a strand of sweat-damp hair away from my face. "You'll call me Alex," he continues, his voice soft and honey-smooth, "and you'll beg me to make love to you." He adjusts the blanket, bringing it up to cover my shoulders. "And when that happens... then, we'll talk."

And he stands up and walks away, leaving me there; I hear the floor creak against my ear with his footsteps, hear the door slam securely shut, hear the click of a key in the lock.

And I lie there, bound and helpless, under the blanket he's covered me with, feeling my balls pulsating against my thighs, hating him. Hating him.

I have to piss.

I've had to for hours, now. Just a slight twinge at first, which didn't bother me until I realized what it meant. You don't think much about needing to pee until suddenly you can't... The need grew steadily stronger, more insistent; I managed to bring my legs up and squeeze my penis between them, and the pressure helped for a little while -- but it's not helping any longer, and it's all I can do to hold it back, now.

Bad enough to be betrayed by my gonads, but this... I've been humiliated enough already. The last thing in the world that I want is for Krycek to return and find me lying here in a puddle of my own urine. Proof positive that I am utterly helpless, that I have no control over my situation, nor even over myself.

Besides, I'll wet the blanket, and then I won't be warm anymore.

Just another few minutes, I tell myself, clenching muscles with every ounce of strength I possess -- but it's futile, and I know it. Sooner or later, nature will have its way. A bladder can only distend so much before the sphincter gives out... and I am at the very edge of my control. Bleak despair washes over me, at the knowledge that no matter how much I struggle to resist, it's a useless effort. I can't stave off the need forever; it's just a matter of time.

But I'll be damned if I'm going to let it happen before it has to.

A spasm hits me, and I grit my teeth hard, writhing desperately to hold back the flow -- oh, fuck, it hurts so much -- and that's when I hear the door open, hear his footsteps creaking against the floor.

Damn it. It would have been better for him to find me in that puddle of piss than to see me squirming like an improperly toilet-trained toddler.

"Looks like you've got a little problem, Mulder," and I hate him, I hate him. He could have beaten me, punched me and whipped me to a bleeding pulp, but instead he's chosen to strip me of every last bit of dignity I might possess...

And who knows? The beating might be next on his agenda.

He pulls the blanket off me, and the sudden onslaught of icy air clenches at my bladder, makes it contract painfully; I clench every muscle I have, but I can feel my control slipping. The pressure is just too great: I have to go, I have to...

I feel him pulling at me, maneuvering me upright, into a kneeling position, and helplessly I squeeze my thighs together, trying to stave off the inevitable loss of control for one more moment.

Then he produces a plastic bucket, reaches between my legs and aims my penis. "Go on," he says quietly. "You're not going to make it to the toilet."

Another demonstration of the control he has over me. First bringing me to the edge of orgasm despite myself, then denying me that orgasm, and now this, the most humiliating of all... If I could hold it back, I would. Anything to keep him from having that power.

I try... but I can't. I just can't hold it any longer.

My eyes close, to try to block the reality that this is happening to me -- but I can't deny the feel of his hand holding my cock, or the sensation of the hot fluid gushing from me, or the sound of the hard stream splashing into the bucket. Oh, God, I've been holding it for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like to not be desperate for a piss, to not have that awful pressure swelling within me... the sheer relief is incredible. Almost like an orgasm.

And it's Krycek doing it to me. Krycek, giving me the means to relieve myself without pissing all over myself, like a baby or an animal.

I hate him. I hate him. And I summon every ounce of that hatred to combat the irrational feelings of gratitude that well up inside me, uninvited and unwelcome.

It seems to take forever, and the longer it continues, the more amazed I am at the fact that I managed to hold it back for so long... I keep waiting for him to say something, to mock me, to taunt me, to humiliate me further. But he doesn't; just kneels beside me, holding my penis because I can't do it myself, and waiting while my overstressed bladder empties itself.

Finally, the ordeal is over; he gives my dick a little shake, the way any man would, to get rid of the droplets that cling to the skin, and releases me. "Feel better now?" he asks me.

I nod my head, clamping my lips shut against the absurd urge to thank him for his help.

"Good. Get up," and he comes around behind me, shoving his hands under my armpits and hauling me to my feet. My legs are nearly numb, and shackled together, and it's hard for me to stand -- he steadies me, keeping his arms locked around me, holding me close against himself as I fight for balance.

His body is warm against my chilled skin. I can feel the cloth of his t-shirt, of his jeans, against my back and the backs of my legs. More than that: I can feel the bulge of his hard-on, pressing into my ass, foretelling what is surely to come...

"Come on," he says shortly, and breaks the contact, guiding and supporting me as I shuffle along beside him.

He leads me out of the grim little room, down an equally shabby hallway, into another room. This one has a bed, a narrow mattress... It has a metal frame, to which have been attached some very sturdy-looking restraints; and I begin to have an idea of what is in store for me next.

There is also another doorway, leading to a cramped but serviceable bathroom. "Do you need to take a shit?" he asks me bluntly.

"No," I say, thankful for the fact, because the thought of him watching me do that is intolerable.

Silently, he pulls me over to the bed, pushes me backwards; off-balance and weakened, I fall onto the mattress. He follows me down, his body pressing against me -- the smell of him fills my nostrils, the feel of him searing into every nerve ending.

I want to be repulsed by the closeness -- but what I feel instead is even worse.

Then he reaches behind me, under me, finding the handcuffs that bind my wrists, unlocking them...

Now is my chance. He's so close to me that I could grab him before he could possibly reach his weapon. I could reach for him, gouge at his eyes, strangle him... But my arms have been numb for so long that they simply won't move; I can't even get them out from under me. Krycek has to do that: and he manipulates my limbs carefully, even gently, as he draws my arms upward, and closes the new restraints around my wrists.

Before I can even begin to attempt an attack, I am once again bound, this time spread-eagled to the bed -- an even more frightening position.

He shackles my legs into position just as easily, then moves to cover me with his body again. My cock is trapped between my belly and his denim-covered crotch, growing firmer in response to the pressure and friction... I try not to think about it, in the hopes that the response will die down.

No such luck. His crotch grinds against me, and my hips strain to mimic his movement as my cock grows more erect... "Look at me," he says softly, and I feel my eyelids open involuntarily, find myself gazing up into his eyes...

And then, the feeling begins to return to my arms.

Agony.

Not pins and needles: these are knives, lancing, slicing, stabbing with hot razor blades. Normally, you flex the muscles to abate that feeling, but I can't move, only strain helplessly against my bonds, writhing, biting back my screams...

I hear him mutter something under his breath, possibly Russian, definitely a curse from the sound of it; he shifts position, and I feel his hands glide along my arms. Fingertips digging into my flesh, massaging skillfully -- not to exacerbate the pain, but to ease it.

"Shit," I hear him grumble. "I didn't think... Mulder, I'm sorry."

The absurdity of hearing him apologize to me for having restrained me improperly is ridiculous. And yet I have to fight to keep myself from reassuring him, to keep from telling him that it's all right...

He keeps rubbing my arms, abandoning sexual conquest in favor of my comfort, and eventually the pain begins to subside. As it ebbs, I become conscious of other things. That scent -- sweat and pheromones and maleness -- permeating the world around me. The feel of his hands massaging me. A single drop of perspiration drips from his forehead and lands on my lip; without even thinking about it, my tongue darts out and licks it away.

His eyes, dark with fury and hunger and... and concern, and things I can't even begin to unravel.

What the hell is his game, that he should care so much whether or not I'm in pain? What does he want from me?

When he senses that I'm comfortable, he sits back -- adjusts his position, straddling me, so that my erection rubs up against the bulge in his jeans. The contact is frustrating, maddening; my hips move, straining to create friction, but his weight holds me securely in place.

And he sits there, watching me try to squirm, neither gloating nor contemptuous, just gazing down at me with that unfathomable mixture of emotion in his eyes.

Finally, I can stand it no longer. "What do you want from me?" I ask him again, in a tone that is far too close to pleading.

"You know what I want," he tells me softly. "All you have to do is say it."

Alex, make love to me. Please. The words race through my mind, but I banish them as swiftly as I can. To think it is to come one step closer to saying it, and I will not give him that satisfaction. I will not.

He presses his crotch against me, and I bite back a groan.

Then the insidious fingertip massage begins again, on my chest, my shoulders, my stomach. He licks his fingertips before applying them to my nipples, stroking and pinching in turn, sending harsh jolts of pleasure straight to my groin.

And all the while, my hard-on is rubbing against the fabric of his jeans, the heat of his erection -- I find myself wondering, irrelevantly, how he can stand it: if I had the use of my hands, as he does, I'd be jerking off like crazy. Yet he seems content with the tease, with tantalizing the hell out of me...

He moves back, away from me, kneeling between my legs, and for the first time reaches down to touch himself: a harsh motion of his hand against the swell of denim.

"Say it, Mulder," and one fingertip courses along the underside of my cock from base to tip, evincing a blistering wave of desire.

I won't say it. I won't.

I can't.

Then the fingertip finds a different spot, one still slippery from his earlier explorations, and begins to probe.

Oh, no. Not again.

It doesn't hurt this time -- not like before: only a twinge of resistance. His finger slides in, then withdraws -- and then there are two fingers, spreading the sphincter open wider, stretching me. That hurts, and involuntarily I clench up...

...and then the questing fingers find my prostate, and that white-hot pleasure sears through me again.

His fingers settle into a steady rhythm, until I can no longer restrain my moans -- and it isn't enough. It isn't enough. My cock is rock-hard, straining upward; my balls feel as full as my bladder had been earlier, stretched to bursting, throbbing... I want to come so badly, I am so close to coming, and I can't. I need a touch, just a touch, just the slightest touch on my cock and I'll go off like a rocket.

Without it, all I can do is moan helplessly as his fingers inside me bring me ever close to an ecstasy that he won't let me reach.

A ragged sound, a harsh indrawn breath -- I open my eyes to look at him; his eyes are closed, his head thrown back, and one hand is kneading furiously at the bulge in his jeans as he finger-fucks me. He's close, I can tell: as close to coming as I am. The difference is, he can do something about it, and I can only whimper helplessly and pray that my body will find the stimulation it needs to release me from this torment before he stops...

Krycek makes a noise like a strangled cry, shudders hard, squeezing at his crotch in rhythmic motions that give away what is happening; my own body shudders in response, straining as best it can toward those penetrating fingers, desperately seeking just a little more, just enough to bring me off...

...and his eyes open, and he looks at me, taking in my desire and my desperation in a single glance; and his fingers slide out of me as a cry surges forth from my chest in protest.

Alex, please... The words are so close to the surface, so close. As close as the orgasm I need so badly. All I need to do is open my mouth, and the words will come pouring out...

No!

There is no ice-cold washcloth this time to shrink my aching cock into submission. This time, he merely sits back and watches dispassionately as my hard-on ceases to throb and begins to shrink. It seems to take forever to subside, and it hurts; as my erection diminishes, the sensation of fullness in my balls grows worse. I taught myself how to masturbate at a very young age, and practiced frequently; I'd never really understood the term 'blue balls' before, but now...

I find myself fixating on the dark spot at the crotch of his jeans, where his ejaculate has stained the denim: the evidence of his climax. I try to tear my eyes away, but I can't stop staring.

"Can't you just beat the crap out of me, and be done with it?" I hear myself say.

Krycek, damn him, laughs. "Not my style," he says.

He climbs over me and leaves the room, presumably to change his pants.

And I lie there, chained spread-eagled to the bed, my semi-hard cock and aching balls throbbing helplessly, hating him.

Hating him.

Alone. I've been alone for... I have no idea how long; there is no window in this room, no source of light other than a single dim bulb in the ceiling fixture to the left of my bed.

Hours, it must be. Hours, in which I've lain helplessly in this bed, surveying as much of the empty room as I can see by turning my head side to side, straining my ears to catch any sound of movement.

Where is he?

It's warmer in this room, at least; I'm still naked, and uncovered, but the ambient temperature is high enough to be nominally comfortable. But I'm hungry, and thirsty, and I need to use the toilet...

Where is he?

He won't leave me here to rot, undiscovered, in some crappy little room somewhere. He wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of kidnapping me just to do that... would he?

I try to force my mind to work properly. I'm a profiler, dammit; I should be able to predict his next move. Trouble is, Rat-Bastard has never been consistent enough for me to profile adequately. Every time I think I know what makes him tick, he does something that changes all the rules...

And where the hell is the rat-bastard, anyway?

Faint, distant sound... I listen intently, and yes, it's footsteps, coming closer... Could it be Scully, coming to save me? No, that's a hope I dare not consider; the disappointment would kill me.

Sure enough, it's just Krycek, come to pay me a visit.

It bothers me to realize how glad I am to see him, after hours of unrelieved boredom.

"How's it going, Mulder?" he greets me, as if we were casual acquaintances running into each other in a bar or supermarket. As if I weren't his captive and sexual plaything.

I hesitate, steeling myself for the inevitable. It's humiliating, but I have to say it: there's no way around it.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I tell him.

His eyebrows rise; he stares at me without moving, without saying a word, and I know what it is he wants. And I have no choice: the alternative is to lie here and foul the bed, when my control gives way. Uncomfortable at the least, and far more humiliating than forcing myself to say the words...

"Can I please go to the bathroom?" forcing a sardonic edge into it, to preserve what little dignity I have left. For a second, I'm afraid that he'll reject the appeal; but he nods and moves toward me.

He changed his jeans, I find myself thinking, as he bends over me; then, This might be your chance, as I feel him doing something to the shackles that bind me to the bed. No such luck -- he fastens one side of a set of handcuffs to my right wrist before unlocking the restraints, forces my arm over so that he can cuff my wrists together before releasing my other arm.

And he's fast -- before I can gather myself to bring my arms forward in a crushing blow to the head, there's a gun muzzle shoved up firmly against my jaw. "Don't try anything," he warns me, in a deceptively mild voice, and I swallow hard and force my muscles to relax.

The gun stays trained on my head until he's out of reach, then he begins working on cuffing my legs together the same way -- with his left hand; his right hand holds the gun trained between my legs. He doesn't bother saying anything -- the message is clear: try anything, and kiss your swollen nuts goodbye.

And I'm weak from lying so still for so long, and from not eating, and the fact that I really really need to relieve myself is not helping, all factors that make my chances of actually overpowering him vanishingly small... so I lie very still, like a good little boy, while he finishes fastening the restraints on my ankles.

"Place your hands behind your head and keep them there," he says, firmly but dispassionately, still holding the gun aimed at my groin, and I obey. "Now swing around and sit up, on the edge of the bed." Do you have any idea how hard it is to do that, without using your hands? I manage, somehow. "Stand up," and I manage that, too, trying not to squirm even though the sudden onslaught of gravity has exacerbated my need to reach the plumbing facilities. "Turn around," and I shuffle in a slow semi-circle until I'm facing the bed, my back to him. The cold metal of the gun muzzle settles against my lower back -- if he shoots me now, it'll probably sever my spinal cord, which will be the least of my worries since I'll be dead from the gut injury before I even know that I'm paralyzed -- and then I feel cold metal wrapping around my neck tightly, locking into place, and a wrenching tug at my arms as he fastens the handcuffs to the back of the neckband.

"Inventive," I say, with grudging admiration; it's all I can do to keep my balance, and attempting an assault is thoroughly out of the question. Then a spasm hits me, and my thighs clench together, hard. "Can I please go to the bathroom now?"

"Sure," he says, keeping an arm around me to steady me as I shuffle toward the bathroom, the gun once more safely tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Time is subjective. An hour spent making love can seem like a minute. A minute spent edging at a snail's pace toward a bathroom that seems impossibly far away while your sphincters are fighting for preeminence against your body's need to evacuate waste products is an eternity. It takes several subjective eternities before I reach my destination, all the while thinking, and dreading the thought, that there's going to be a witness, and this witness of all people...

Finally, I'm within moments of relief, sitting on the cold toilet seat with my dick shoved between my legs and pointed south, to take care of both problems at once -- and to my extreme surprise, Krycek leaves me there, stepping out of the bathroom and out of my line of sight, leaving the door open but otherwise allowing me some small illusion of privacy.

I will not allow myself to feel grateful. I will not. I repeat it over and over like a mantra, willing myself to believe it. And yet, it would have been so easy for him to just stand there, perhaps holding the gun pointed to my head as I relieved myself...

Afterwards, I shut my eyes tightly and do my best to disassociate myself from my body as he wipes my ass for me, as whatever vestiges of gratitude I might have felt dissolve in the irrational fury that he's doing something so unbearably personal.

"You're starting to smell pretty rank," he comments, after that unpleasantness is finished, and gestures toward the tiny shower; I step inside, because I don't have a choice, and because even with my hands chained painfully behind my neck, the thought of being clean is too damned seductive to resist.

The first burst of icy water causes me to shiver; he mutters another Russian-sounding curse and begins adjusting the faucets, and as he is doing so, I realize what taking a shower is going to entail.

He doesn't seem to care that the spray is spilling past the boundaries of the shower, dampening his clothes. He merely takes the bar of soap and rubs it between his hands, creating a thick lather. I find myself watching in fascination, simultaneously dreading and anticipating the touch of those hands against my skin... Long, firm strokes, soaping my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my back. I hate him... but his hands feel so damn wonderful.

My cock is hard again, and the shower spray is tickling the head, just enough... maybe, if he doesn't notice, maybe it'll be enough...

He notices. His hands glide down my stomach and wrap around my genitals, encasing them in a coat of foamy lather. "Bet that feels good," he murmurs, gazing steadily into my eyes. "Doesn't it?"

Oh, yes, I almost say, but catch myself in time.

One hand remains wrapped around my cock, while the other moves around my hips, probing the cleft of my ass... He's standing in the shower with me now, clothes steadily getting wetter and wetter, and he doesn't seem to care, or even notice. He's too busy lathering me up, or pretending to lather me while he brings me to full arousal; I struggle to force my erection deeper into his grip, and nearly lose my balance in the attempt.

Quick as lightning, both arms are wrapped tightly around my waist, holding me steady. "Careful," he scolds me lightly.

And all I can think of is how close he is to me, how I can feel the hardness of his muscles and his cock pressed against me, how goddamn incredible it feels when he touches me...

His face. His eyes, staring intently into mine. His lips, so close... So close. He is so close to me, and I am utterly helpless. I hate him, I tell myself, but in that moment, I cannot believe it.

I want him.

The realization strikes me with shocking suddenness, as painfully as a punch in the face.

"What do you want from me?" I cry out. I have to know, I have to. This is getting too dangerous -- it's Stockholm syndrome, classic stuff, and I'm falling, falling, like hurtling over a cliff...

I make the mistake of looking at him. Of looking into his eyes.

He doesn't hate me. I know it, as surely as if I could look into his mind and read the truths of him there. This isn't about hatred at all, nor even the power play I'd thought.

This is something far more than that.

For both of us.

"Say it," he whispers, and all my newfound revelations disappear in the space of an instant's fury. I will not give in to him, I will not give him what he wants, no matter how much it might cost me...

"Go to hell," I growl at him, hating him.

Perversely, he seems pleased. "Atta boy, Mulder," he says softly, "don't make it too easy," and pulls me forcefully against him, grinding his hips against mine, so that my painfully hard cock is screaming with need... then releases me, leaving my hard-on bobbing helplessly in the too-gentle shower spray. "Let's just get you clean, huh?"

He finishes washing my body in a brisk, businesslike way, rinses the soap from me as carefully as a nurse might wash a patient, rubs me dry with a soft, fluffy towel -- lingering on the task of drying my genitals just long enough to drive home the fact that my sexual responses are his to command -- combs my hair neatly, then escorts me back to the main room. "Kneel," he orders me, and I do; then feel him fasten a chain between my neckband and my ankle restraints, effectively restraining me in the uncomfortable position.

A moment later, I find out why he has done so: he begins stripping the sheets off the bed, replacing them with clean ones. Again, I have to fight back a feeling of gratitude.

"Hungry?" he asks me when he's finished, and I nod; and he leaves me there, kneeling painfully, returning shortly afterwards wearing dry clothes and carrying several containers.

I don't know what I expected him to feed me. Something tasteless, I guess; something that would make eating a chore. Instead... the peaches are ripe and fresh and sweet, cut into little pieces easy for me to chew and swallow. The noodles are cooked to perfection, covered with sauce, warm enough to be tasty but not hot enough to burn my mouth. The chocolate pudding isn't the store-bought crap that comes in cans and reeks of preservatives. He feeds me carefully, conscientiously, spooning it into my mouth and giving me time to swallow, alternating with sips of cola through a straw, wiping my mouth when it's needed.

"Don't drink too much," he cautions me, as I sip from the soda can afterwards, "I plan to get some sleep, and I'm not going to set my alarm clock just to take you to the bathroom," and I know that I ought to summon up some wise-ass remark... but somehow, it just doesn't seem worth the energy. "Is that enough, or are you still hungry?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I say automatically -- and freeze on the last word, as I realize what I have said.

I've just thanked him. For doing me the courtesy of feeding me.

It was just a standard, reflexive courtesy, and yet... Dammit! I swore that I wouldn't... and I glare at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to realize his victory and gloat about it.

But the look on his face is not what I'd expected.

Startlement, and then... an almost shy pleasure. "It's a start," he says, in a voice that is almost sympathetic. As if he understands my chagrin at what I've done, as if he even agrees with it.

His hand reaches out, palm settling against the side of my face tenderly. "Let's get you into bed," he says. "You can't be comfortable like that."

I almost agree aloud -- stop myself, just in time. Any extraneous conversation is to be avoided, at this point; I'm in too much danger of falling into a trap I'll be unable to extricate myself from. My earlier realizations return to remind me: this situation is far more complex than I'd imagined. Whatever Krycek's plan is, it's not what I had thought.

He helps me to my feet, gets me into bed, reshackles me -- and only after he's finished with the complicated procedure do I realize that he'd never bothered to draw the gun, and that I'd passively allowed him to rearrange my bonds without even looking for an opportunity to escape. Dammit! Damn...

I settle myself into the most comfortable position I can find, considering that I'm mostly immobile, and wait for him to begin the tease: wait for the feel of his hands gliding across me, spreading pleasure and frustration in their wake.

And again, he surprises me: he pulls a sheet and blanket up over me, tucks them around me carefully, providing me with the psychological benefit of concealment along with the warmth.

"Get some sleep," he says softly, reaching out with one hand to stroke the damp hair from my forehead.

With that, he leaves, pausing briefly at the doorway to dial the dimmer switch down to a faint glow before locking the door behind himself.

I lie there in the near-dark, thinking. Forcing my brain to think, even though all I really want to do is retreat into the blackness of unknowingness and try to forget everything that is happening to me. I have to think; I need to. It's the only thing that might keep me alive, keep me from falling into the trap that lies open and ready to spring shut around me, the moment I falter.

Stockholm Syndrome. One of the first things I studied, and struggled to understand: the tendency of a captive to fall under the spell of his captor, to identify and sympathize with his captor's aims. To feel grateful for kindnesses granted during captivity. To accept, and even welcome, the power of one's captor over oneself.

I can't let myself fall into that trap. I have to be strong, I have to resist. No matter how horny he gets me. No matter what kind of food he feeds me, no matter how many times he has to wipe my ass after I take a shit. I can't let it get to me: neither the helplessness nor the kindness.

It isn't kindness, anyway. Krycek is a smart son-of-a- bitch; he must know as much about Stockholm Syndrome as I do. That has to be the game he's playing: he's trying to break me, to win me over. It makes perfect sense: the theory covers all the available facts.

But my intuition, the same sense that's brought me to solutions of so many intractable problems, tells me otherwise.

This isn't about winning me over to some cause, or about finding the answers to some problem he needs solved. This is about something else. Something more than the simple exercise of power.

I remember the look I've seen in his eyes, and in a flash of insight, it comes to me: this is about something that scares him as much as it scares me.

But what?

I wrestle with possibilities until my mind aches, until I'm so tired that my eyes will not stay open any longer.

And I hate him. I repeat to myself, over and over, all my reasons for hating him. All the things he's done to me, to Scully. I dwell on the hatred, reinforcing it, renewing it, building an endless loop of hatred inside my mind until I can think of nothing else but how violently, how intensely I hate him.

And finally, I fall asleep, hating him.

Hating him.

I awaken with a morning erection, a full bladder, and the smell of coffee permeating the room.

Turning my head sideways, I see him. He's brought a chair into the room, and a small table, without waking me; he's sitting in the chair, watching me, a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand, a second cup and a thermos on the table in front of him. "Good morning," he says courteously. "Which first: coffee, or bathroom?"

I weigh the enticing scent of the coffee against my physical need, factoring in the knowledge that the procedure of being unshackled and handcuffed and shuffling across the room is going to take a fair amount of time. "Bathroom," I respond.

He nods, gets up, and begins the procedure.

Some time later, after I've emptied my bladder, had my face washed and shaved and my teeth brushed for me, he escorts me back to the bed -- this time he secures me to the headboard sitting up, with my arms held away from my sides and a chain wrapped around my waist, leaving my ankles hobbled. It's nice to be in a different position for awhile, but I know better than to say so. To admit to comfort is a) to risk having it taken away from me, and b) to fall deeper into the sway of Stockholm Syndrome, hanging over my neck like a guillotine blade.

Krycek seats himself on the edge of the mattress, facing me, and pours coffee from the thermos into the remaining styrofoam cup. He brings the coffee cup to my lips -- it's scalding, and I wince. "Too hot?" he asks. "We'll wait a minute, it'll cool off," and sets the cup on the table, out of the way.

"How considerate of you," I say, in my best scathing tone. The night's rest has refreshed me; I feel more able, more willing to stand up to his control, to his insidious kindness. Whatever it is that the scumbag wants, he's not going to get it without a fight.

He seems unfazed by my tone. Maybe even a little pleased by it. "I try," he says modestly, smiling. A perfectly normal smile, an open, friendly smile. As if he were a perfectly normal guy. As if he was my friend.

"You're a real piece of shit, Krycek," I tell him, in a conversational tone.

"So I've been told," he answers, just as casually. But when I look in his eyes, I see the wall there: ice and fire, an impenetrable barrier.

He's used the night's rest as I have, I realize: to cement his resistance to me, to remind himself of the hatred that lives between us. Intuition tells me this, and I have no choice but to believe it.

But what the hell does he have to fear from me? He's the one holding all the cards. He's the one in the position of power. He's the one with the gun...

The gun. My eyes flicker over him, dance around the room to make certain: he is not armed. There is no gun.

Which, of course, does not change the fact that I am securely bound to an immovable object with sturdy metal restraints.

Krycek notices my scrutiny, and one hand moves in a blur, comes up holding a wicked-looking switchblade. "Don't make assumptions," he says, in the gentle tone of a friend. Another blur of movement, and the knife has disappeared to who-knows-where -- all my training, and I have no idea where he's stashed it. Back pocket, maybe? Maybe.

"Nice parlor trick," I say, feigning boredom.

"I'm glad you approve. If you're nice to me, I may show you how it's done." His smile turns briefly feral, for which I am thankful: it signifies a return, however fleeting, to the Krycek I know. This other man, this friendly person, is a complete stranger to me. "Then again... maybe not. I find that I enjoy having the advantage."

"I've noticed," I say, moving a little, so that the chain around my waist clinks in punctuation. "I always wondered how you got your kicks; I guess now I know." Perhaps I can goad him into revealing what this is all about. Maybe, if I get him angry enough to forget whatever plan it is he has in mind for me...

Something flashes in his eyes, and I realize that I may have made a mistake. There is that swift blur of motion again, and then the knife is in his hand, cold flat blade pressed against my throat... "So you think this is what turns me on?" he asks me, in a voice as soft and smooth as velvet. "Or... maybe this?" and his hand moves, descends, until I feel the barest bite of the sharp edge against the sensitive flesh between my legs.

It's a good thing he's already taken me to the bathroom, or the feel of the knife in that particular location would've emptied my bladder for me in about half a second.

"You tell me; you're the one with the knife..." Part of me is proud of my words, of my ability to face down the threat of emasculation with a flippant remark. The rest of me is gibbering in horror, asking me what the hell I think I'm doing, taunting a man who happens to be holding a knife to my balls?

Again, I see that flash of fury in his eyes, and I brace myself for the blow, wondering vaguely what it'll feel like to have my testicles cut off -- then the blaze of anger flickers, becoming something else entirely.

"You're a brave man, Mulder," he says, "very brave. Or maybe just incredibly stupid. Either way, I have to give you credit." The knife moves, away from my genitals -- I just barely manage to not sigh in relief -- he causes it to disappear in another of those swift, imperceptible moves. "The question is," he continues, returning his now-empty hand to the area, "what do you need?" and his fingers glide very gently over my balls, moving to encircle my cock.

Slow strokes, arousing me against my will... "Why are you doing this?" I ask him, while I still have at least nominal control over my voice. "What do you want from me?"

"You know what I want," he says, almost absently.

Please, Alex, make love to me... Surrender. Unconditional surrender, that's what he wants.

A sigh escapes my lips. "Could you at least let me drink my coffee before you start driving me up the fucking wall?" I hear myself ask him.

Surprise flashes across his face -- then he laughs: honest, hearty laughter. "Sure," he says, moving his hand away and reaching for the cup. "Sure, Mulder; drink your coffee."

It's cooled off just enough to be drinkable, and I take a couple of gulps before I remember coffee's diuretic effect: the last thing I want is to have to beg for another trip to the toilet, and run the risk of having him say 'no'. Even so, the few sips help clear the sleep-fog from my head. "Tha--" I begin to say, and bite the word off swiftly.

He looks at me oddly, studying me closely, surveying me. "Look, Mulder, I'm really trying here," he says, in a strange, husky tone. "It wouldn't kill you to say 'thank you'."

I remain mute, silently rejoicing in the fact that I have - - however momentarily -- found some means of leverage: some small form of power over him.

For another moment, he scrutinizes me. "Maybe I'm wrong," he decides, "maybe it would," and he gets up, heads for the door.

Suddenly, the anger, the frustration, the fury that has been building since my first moments of consciousness in this hellhole, all of it explodes at once into a scathing tirade. "Thank you? For kidnapping me? For chaining me to a bed and groping me like a ten-dollar whore? For wiping my ass for me after you cuffed my hands behind my back? You want me to thank you for trying, because you're too fucking insane to get your rocks off with a willing partner?" I have to pause then, to gasp for enough breath to finish spitting rage at him. "Thanks steaming loads, pal. Next time, just rape me and kill me and get it over with -- it'd be kinder."

He stops at the doorway, turns to look at me -- and his eyes...

"You're going to miss me when I'm gone," he says, very quietly, and departs.

The taste of victory is sweet. Such a small victory, but a solid one. I've gotten to him, I've hurt him, just as he's been hurting me, and no matter what it might cost me later, it's worth it. It's worth it.

I laugh aloud, savoring the sound of my laughter echoing in the empty room, hating him. Hating him.

I've lost track of how long I've been alone here. It's been hours.

Maybe it's been days.

I can't move, not even to shift position. My body aches from the enforced immobility. The mattress beneath me is a puddle of drying sludge, from when my bladder and bowels finally cut loose; the foul smell has been with me for so long that I've ceased to notice it. My stomach has gone past growling to a full-fledged roar; my mouth is so dry it feels like the Mojave in summertime. I can't rest my head against anything; once I fell asleep for a short interval with my head fallen backward, and my neck still aches.

He's not coming back.

He's left me here, locked up, chained to a bed in some hellhole that only he knows about, sitting in a pile of my own shit. He's left me here to die.

I try not to think about it. I try to make myself believe that I'll be rescued, that help will arrive, to save me... but hope has long since withered away, leaving me with nothing but despair.

He's not coming back, and I'm going to die here.

Oh, God.

Tears start leaking from my eyes again; I struggle to force my parched tongue through my lips, to lick the moisture as it streams down my face. It doesn't work -- I manage to capture one teardrop; the rest spill helplessly down my cheeks.

I shouldn't have provoked him. Stockholm Syndrome be damned; isn't living better than dying, no matter what you need to do to stay alive? But no, I preserved my pride, I won my victory over him, and now it's going to cost me my life. For the sake of seeing that wounded look in his eyes for a single instant, I'm going to die.

Stupid. Stupid...

Then the tears dry up in an instant: I hold my breath, struggling to listen, praying to a deity I don't believe in... is it my imagination again, tormenting me with a futile hope? Or are those really footsteps, in the hall?

It is. They are. Footsteps, coming closer, coming closer...

A fumbling of a key in the lock, and the door swings open.

Krycek.

His face is bruised, bloodied, torn. One arm is bound to his chest in a makeshift sling. He limps, staggering, to the side of the bed as if every step hurts. "Mulder," he says hoarsely. "I'm sorry..." and stumbles, collapsing onto the floor.

I wait for him to get up, to move. He doesn't.

"Krycek?" I manage, somehow, my lips cracking as I form the words. No response.

He's back, he's come back, and I'm still going to die here, chained to this bed in a puddle of shit with his body rotting on the floor beside me...

"Alex?" He wants to hear me say it so badly; maybe it'll break through, maybe it'll reach him. "Alex!" And still, no response.

And suddenly, helplessly, I realize that I am screaming, or at least, as much as I can manage considering that my tongue and lips and throat are as dry and inflexible as cardboard; screaming his name, over and over and over. "Alex! ALEX!"

I hate him. I hate him. I have to hate him.

But he is the only one who can save me now.

After an eternity, I see him stir; I try to stop screaming and I can't. I've been sitting here, with my ass turning into a solid mass of bedsores in a puddle of human waste, muscles cramping into knots, hunger eating me away from the inside, thirst drying me up, tormented by the knowing that there was nothing ahead of me but more of the same, hoping until hope died, the same way I was certain to die, a slow withering death, and all of it building inside me helplessly, minute after minute after hour after hour into a roiling mass of pain and fear and anguish, bursting forth now in the only way it can, the only power I still have over my body or myself: my voice, screaming and screaming and screaming his name...

He gets one arm under himself, levers himself onto his hands and knees -- one hand, two knees, crawling across the floor toward me, every movement contorting agony across his face. He reaches the edge of the bed, grabs the mattress and pulls himself up against it, oblivious to the foul mess that oozes and spills onto him and down his shirt. One hand fumbles to the table, to the long-forgotten cup of coffee still sitting there; he manages to grasp it, brings it to my lips, tilting it upwards -- it tastes awful, but I don't notice, I don't care; it is drinkable and I gulp it down, desperate for the liquid. It hurts to swallow, and some of the cold, stale coffee spills down my face, mingling with my tears.

As if from a very great distance, I hear his voice, raspy and harsh. "I tried... I went out. To cool off. Things happened... I tried to get back to you. I tried." The empty cup falls from his shaking hand, and I find myself staring at his bloodied face, into eyes as haunted as my own must be. "Mulder, I'm sorry," he says, his voice shaking as fiercely as the rest of him. "I'm sorry," and there are tears in his eyes, streaking the blood that stains his cheeks.

I hate him. I should hate him.

But the hell of it is, I believe him.

God help me, I believe him.

Sobs shudder through me; I close my eyes and bawl like a baby.

And I feel the mattress shift as his weight falls onto it; feel his arms wrap around me, feel his body trembling as his head comes to rest on my shoulder.

Time slows to a crawl and gradually ceases to exist. Nothing exists: neither pain nor hunger nor lingering thirst. Only Krycek, fallen against me like deadweight, shuddering silently. He has returned; I'm not going to die here, after all. I'm not alone anymore.

And God help me, I am grateful.

I am grateful. To Krycek. For coming back to me.

Damn.

I draw a deep, deep breath. "Thank you," I say, very softly.

He makes a sound that might or might not be a burst of bitter laughter. "Mulder, you really are a piece of work," he whispers into my ear.

Slowly, he pulls away from me. With an effort that is obviously painful, he reaches for my restraints -- hesitates, looks at me. "Don't try anything," he says tiredly. "I can still kill you with my bare hands, so just... just don't."

Without waiting for me to respond, he begins working at the bonds that hold me immobile, and shortly my arms fall limply to my sides. I summon up all my strength and manage to force one numb arm to move, to swing at him...

He catches the arm without even trying, shakes his head wearily. "I should've known," he murmurs. "You had to do that, didn't you?"

"Yeah," I say, as the thought crosses my mind that now he'll change his mind and leave me here, sitting in my own filth -- the tears begin again, rolling down my cheeks. "Yeah, I did," and the last word is eclipsed by the sob that escapes me.

Krycek sighs. "It's all right," he says. "I understand."

And lets go of my arm, turns to loosen the bonds that hold my ankles tied.

It takes both of us working in concert to get me off the bed and onto my feet, which steadfastly refuse to hold me - - his arms around me are my only support, and considering that he's only slightly more steady than I am, that's not a whole lot of help. By the time we stagger to the bathroom, we're both covered in filth; he disentangles one arm from me and jerks the shower faucets to full stream, and we stumble into the stall together. We cling to each other as the water cascades over us, rinsing away the muck and the blood and the stench, neither of us capable of doing much more than hanging onto each other to stay upright -- the pins and needles set in, assailing my limbs, weakening my legs, and I cry out as I feel them buckling under me... "It's okay," he murmurs, "I've got you," and manages to keep me on my feet until the worst of it passes, and I can stand on my own.

When finally that point comes, he lets go of me, starts fumbling with his sodden clothing -- I find myself reaching out to help, but he stops me. "Don't," he says, not unkindly, managing to do it himself. The shirt peels away; then he steps out of the jeans, nudges the pile of fouled clothing to the corner of the shower stall with one foot, and now he is as naked as I am.

I am exhausted, weak and aching, and now that the numbness is wearing off, the sores on my ass hurt like hell -- and yet, suddenly the only thing I can think of is the fact that I have never before seen him naked.

His body is a mass of scars, so many of them that I wonder how he could possibly have survived some of the wounds that caused them. The sight drives home a fact that I have only barely dwelt upon before: Krycek is a survivor. No matter what happens to him, somehow he manages to endure, to continue... I find myself wondering whether I could do the same. Whether I could be as strong. The prospect of dying a slow, wasting death alone had all but broken me; would it have even slowed him down?

I hate him. Yet I admire him, somehow.

The arm that had been held in the makeshift sling bears an ugly gash and barely congealed blood; he hisses in pain as the water hits it. With the other arm, he reaches for the soap, struggles to lather it... "Give me that," I say, and take the bar from his unresisting hand. Slowly, with limbs that are only nominally under my control, I work the soap into a lather, and begin to wash him, half expecting him to protest.

He doesn't. He stands still, silently, as my hands move hesitantly over his body -- his body stiffens, he inhales sharply -- and I look down, and realize that he is becoming erect.

I should feel triumphant, for having evoked a response; or perhaps disgusted by his evident desire for me.

But all I feel is a sudden bursting tenderness.

Danger signals are screaming through my head. This is everything I've feared; I'm losing myself, falling prey to the Stockholm Syndrome -- I have to fight, I have to resist, I have to press my advantage and escape!

All of this races through my head in the space of a moment; my muscles tense, preparing for flight...

My eyes meet his, and somehow I know that he is fully aware of what I am feeling. Yet he makes no move to restrain me, or to defend himself.

"Mulder," he says, very softly.

His face is bleeding, a cut under one eye reopened and oozing. For some reason, it affects me... I don't know what happened while he was away from me, what sort of fight he got into that marked him that way. I only know that he came back to me. Barely able to stay on his feet, fighting the unconsciousness that all but overcame him on the floor of my room... and he came back to me.

He wants to use you! He wants to control you, keep you under his power!

He came back to me.

"Alex," I hear myself whisper.

And he nods a little, as if sensing that the moment of my rebellion is past. "It's all right," he murmurs. "You can struggle again later," and takes the soap from my lax hand with his good one, begins to wash away the lingering traces of feces that still cling to my skin.

I reach out numbly and continue to smooth lather over his skin, wondering distantly: What just happened?

But I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

We wash each other, wash ourselves, until the water runs ice-cold and we are both shivering: as if no amount of cleansing is truly enough. Finally, pruned and shaking, we emerge from the shower. He struggles to wrap a towel around his waist one-handed, and I reach out and tuck the end of the towel into place for him; he pats my skin dry gently and applies antiseptic cream to the sores on my buttocks before attending to his own wounds. He cannot quite reach one abrasion on his back, so I spread the cream for him, with careful fingers.

When we emerge from the bathroom, he turns and escorts me out of the room that has been my prison, down the hall to another room. It is just as dingy, but larger and somewhat better furnished: there is furniture, clothing strewn hither and yon, signs of habitation.

Dispassionately, I notice that there are plenty of objects here that I might use as weapons: big things, heavy things, things that, if wielded properly, might render a man unconscious.

And I know, somehow, that I will not use them against Krycek.

Who turns his back on me, moves to the dresser with pantherlike grace, and retrieves something. Turns back to me, holding a pair of handcuffs. And looks at me.

Just... looks at me.

I could take him. Right here, right now. We're both injured, clad in nothing but towels; it would be, at the least, a fair match. At least a fifty-fifty chance that I might beat him, and escape.

Krycek holds the cuffs in his hands, and looks at me.

Cuffed, restrained, I have no choices. No options. I cannot fight him if he chooses to caress me, seduce me into who-knows-what with his skilled hands. My eyes might roam over the room, seeking a means of injuring or killing him, but I am helpless to act on such impulses. Bound, I cannot resist him.

He holds the handcuffs, and he looks at me.

And silently, I extend my arms, wrists together, to be cuffed.

I am lost, I think.

It occurs to me that this fact should bother me.

It occurs to me that I should hate him.

But instead I stand there, arms extended, and wait for him to cuff me.

His hands move with practiced skill, sliding the cuffs around my wrists easily, gently. Like a lover's caress.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

I cannot speak.

With immense kindness, he does not wait for me to respond.

"Get into bed," he says, gesturing, and I sit on the edge of the double mattress, swing my legs onto the bed, wincing as my weight rests on the sores. Instantly, Krycek is there, helping me turn onto my side, helping me find a comfortable position. He tucks the pillow under my head, eases the covers over me. The mattress is soft beneath me, the sheets cool and clean... blessed comfort, wrapping around me...

The next thing I know, his arms are around me, easing me upright, gently rousing me from a deep slumber; and the scent of food goes straight to my gut and renews the ache of hunger. "Slowly," he cautions me, as he brings spoonfuls of soup to my lips, "easy, Mulder," as the thick liquid slides down my throat, reviving me. His caution is well founded; nausea strikes me after a few moments, as my stomach rebels against the newly-unfamiliar sensation of being filled. With a few small sips of cold water and his hand rubbing my back in a slow soothing rhythm, I am able to keep from vomiting, and shortly the nausea passes, replaced by renewed hunger.

He feeds me soup and cool spring water, and when the nourishment passes through my digestive system with record speed, helps me to the bathroom adjoining his room, barely in time. Diarrhea, in painful gut-clenching spasms -- he cleans me afterwards, helps me back to bed, feeds me some more soup, until the cycle begins again. Hours of this, and he goes through it with me patiently, disregarding his own pain and fatigue, until my stomach has settled down. Until I can rest, untroubled by hunger or thirst or digestive difficulty. Until I feel almost human again.

Krycek fusses with my pillows until he is sure I am comfortable, then climbs into bed beside me. Next to me, facing me, but not touching. Wearily, he drags the remaining pillow under his head; his eyelids are drooping, yet he fights to keep them open for another moment, to look at me.

To look at me.

My wrists are cuffed in front of me; I am tired, but my strength is returning, and I could probably manage to get my hands up to his throat. I could probably injure him enough to make my getaway...

Instead, I meet his eyes, gaze back at him.

"Thank you," I say, feeling my voice catch in my throat.

And he smiles.

"Sleep, Mulder," he says, reaching out to touch my face. "Sleep."

I sleep.

I am awakened by the demands of a full bladder, and I twist uncomfortably in bed for a few moments before it occurs to me that only my hands are bound; that there is nothing preventing me from rising and going to the bathroom.

So I manage to get out of bed, levering myself with difficulty over Krycek's sleeping form and stumbling to the little room. Luxury: with my hands cuffed in front of me, I can hold my own dick while I pee. The very ordinariness of the situation, of needing to go and being able to go without complicated machinations or external assistance, is heavenly.

Afterwards, I stumble back to the bed, crawling over Krycek again and settling back onto my half of the bed, wriggling surreptitiously into a comfortable position -- carefully, so as not to wake him.

I am still tired; I can feel my eyes closing, as I slip back into slumber.

And then I realize what has happened, what I have done.

Krycek is asleep, snoring slightly; his injuries and fatigue have combined to send him under, so deeply that not even the shifting of the mattress or the feel of my body sliding over his has disturbed his rest.

My hands are cuffed in front of me. I am not restrained in any other way. I could search the room, perhaps find the gun, a spare set of handcuff keys; I could shoot the bastard, to wound or to kill, free myself and escape.

Yet I have not do so. It has not, until now, even occurred to me to do so.

What the hell is happening to me?

Stockholm Syndrome, I tell myself, but it is too easy an answer. Too facile an explanation. I'm stronger than many people think I am; I lived through the abduction of my sister and a correspondingly traumatic childhood, and survived to talk about it. I've crawled through the minds and psyches of some of the slimiest travesties of humanity the world has ever seen, and come out of the experience with nothing more than a few lingering nightmares. I should have been able to endure this captivity standing on my head.

But here I am, lying passively beside Krycek, when I could have been -- should have been -- frantically searching for a way out.

Even now, all it would take is a swift blow to his head with my cuffed fists -- hit him hard enough, and he'll never waken long enough to know what happened.

And I do not move. Instead, I lie here beside him, watching him sleep. His eyelashes flutter slightly, and I wonder if he is caught up in a dream. I wonder what he dreams, when he dreams; if they are fantasies or traumas, and whether he is pleased or sorry to wake from them.

What the hell is happening to me?

It's not too late. He's still sleeping. I could climb over him again, be off the bed and out of reach before he wakens. That gun must be around here somewhere. Or the empty wine bottle tossed carelessly into the corner: that would make an effective club. Smash it over his head, and if that isn't enough to do the job, use the sharp remnants to slit his throat...

Why aren't I moving? Why am I still here?

The answer comes to me in a swift flash of insight, of intuition; and the impact of it knocks me for a loop.

I want him.

I find myself remembering his hands on me and in me, caressing, arousing, igniting flames of desire... He hasn't hurt me; not deliberately, at any rate. He knocked me unconscious to bring me here, he's kept me bound, and yet -- he's cared for me, conscientiously. Even, possibly, at risk to himself.

Hell of a way to seduce someone. Maybe it's the only way he knows.

You'll call me Alex, and you'll beg me to make love to you... For the first time, I realize what an interesting choice of words that is. A man like Krycek, he knows all the street terminology as well as I do; better, I'm sure. Certainly, it would be more of a power trip for him to hear me beg to be fucked...

...but that's not what he wants.

And what do you want, Mulder?

The hell of it is, I don't know anymore.

No.

The hell of it is, I do know.

And the worst part is... the realization doesn't even bother me.

I am lost, I recognize, and right now -- just for this moment -- that doesn't bother me, either.

I lie there, thinking it through, turning it over and over in my mind and marveling at the convoluted psychology involved, his and my own, until his eyelids flutter open and reveal dazed, sleepy eyes gazing into mine.

The eyes remain sleep-fogged only briefly: he blinks, and comes to full awareness in an instant. He gazes at me blankly for a second -- then springs back, off the bed, to his feet, in another of those astonishing blurs of motion, staring down at me warily.

I know what is going through his mind, as those suspicious eyes travel the length of my body: that he has made a grievous error. He has left me barely-restrained and almost completely mobile, while he has slept -- a flicker of anger across his face, as he curses himself for the carelessness that could easily have killed him -- then ice in his eyes, as he glares at me, and waits to see what I will do next.

And I lie still, gazing steadily up at him, and wait while the second wave of realization passes through him: that I am still lying there, that I have not taken advantage of the freedom he's inadvertently given me, neither to harm him nor even to jerk off... that I have seen the depth and scope of his error, of his momentary vulnerability, and yet I am still lying there, gazing up at him.

I wait for the knowledge to sink in, give him the time to assimilate it -- and then I speak to him, quietly and softly and calmly. "I'm hungry," I say. "Can I please have something to eat?"

Amazing: his face is so still, never moving to reveal a thing, and yet I can see such a complex mixture of emotion in his eyes. Astonishment, most of all, as if he never actually expected to win this round: distrust mutating into hesitant acceptance, surprised pleasure at my willing complicity. Triumph mingling with tenderness, and behind it all, simmering desire... Time and time again, I have underestimated this man, and this time most of all: I know, now, why he has brought me here. I know, now, what it is that he wants from me.

I wonder if he knows.

And I wonder why on earth, after all that has transpired between us, I am willing to give it to him.

The slide-show of emotion behind his eyes slows, settles into a sardonic look; his lips twitch into a slight grin. "You mind if I take a leak first?" he asks me, and I quirk a grin back at him as he heads off toward the bathroom.

When he returns, he takes a length of chain and fastens my cuffed hands to the bedframe. It's all right, I think, as he locks me to the bed, I understand, knowing that the survivor in him will not allow him to repeat his previous mistake. As he dresses, I test the limits of my bonds -- the chain is long enough for me to move about in bed, shift position and even sit upright, if I am careful. It will not, however, allow me to roam around the room and search through his belongings for a weapon. A perfectly reasonable precaution -- and a concession, in its own way, allowing me a measure of freedom without compromising his own paranoia.

"Roll over," he says afterwards, "let me see your ass," and I obey, without pausing to reflect upon my ready obedience. Gentle hands examine my buttocks -- what had felt, hours before, like huge gaping bedsores must not have been nearly as bad as I thought, for there is only a slight ache there now. The feel of his fingers against my skin is not painful, but arousing... and this time, I don't waste my energy struggling to fight back the arousal.

The time for fighting is past. I know, now, why I am here.

"I think you'll live," he decides, after a few moments, and rolls me back onto my side, revealing my growing erection. His fingers encircle my cock, stroke me -- and the sensation wrenches a sharp gasp from me; I had forgotten, in the misery of abandonment and the subsequent recovery, how goddamned horny I am. All it takes is a few swift caresses, and I remember...

I want him.

"Say it," he says, very softly.

No. Not yet.

"I'm hungry," I say instead, injecting a note of pleading into it; giving him a taste of what he wants.

And he laps it up, devouring the helplessness in my voice and the smoldering desire in my eyes, with a sly little look that lets me know that he understands what I am doing, and why. He releases my cock -- and this time I let myself moan in unfeigned frustration, and he laps that up, too.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asks me, in that velvet voice.

I shrug one shoulder. "Breakfast?" I say.

He smiles. "Breakfast," he agrees, and leaves.

My cock is still hard, throbbing a pounding rhythm in time with my heartbeat. If I tried, I could probably contort myself into a position in which my hands would reach, and I could touch myself, achieve release... but I don't try.

Instead, I find a comfortable position, and lie there feeling the throbbing in my groin, the pent-up tension aching for relief.

And I wait.

He enters carrying two big bags in his arms, nudges the bedroom door shut behind himself with one foot. I watch in amazement as he begins unloading containers of carry-out food. "What'd you do, rob a House of Pancakes?" I wonder aloud.

"Close enough," he replies.

Eggs, cooked three different ways. Bacon. Sausage. Hash browns. Pancakes. Waffles. "Jesus Christ, Krycek..."

"I was hungry," he protests mildly, grinning.

In another life, in another world, we might have been friends. We might have been lovers from the beginning.

Here and now, we are... what?

I have no idea.

I don't want to think about it.

Yet it pleases me to watch Krycek, lithe and muscular and imbued with savage grace, as he moves about the room.

He settles himself on the bed beside me and begins to feed me, morsels of this and that and the other in turn, alternating spoonsful of food for me with cramming mouthfuls into his own face. I could probably manage to feed myself, even cuffed, and we both know it; but this possibility is never alluded to. Instead, I find myself leaning against him, leaning into him, resting my head against his chest while he feeds me.

Someday, I will regret this, with every fiber of my being. As time passes, the moment will come when I remember how to hate him, and despise myself for letting him humble me. And when that time comes -- I want to remember, as well, the bizarre peace of this interval: of resting against him, listening to his rapid heartbeat, as he gently brings the spoon to my lips.

My cock is in that halfway state between softness and raging tumescence, hovering on the edge of arousal. I let my eyes flicker downward, and note that he seems to be in the same state of almost-readiness. So close, we are, to crossing the line that separates us. So dangerously close to the cliff, into which we might both fall.

He knows it. I know it. Both of us are, in our own ways, helpless to stop it. And so we rest here, in this momentary haven, still and silent as he feeds us both breakfast.

When we are finished, there is more food left over than the sum total of what we've eaten. He tips the coffee cup up to my lips, and I drink, savoring the taste of it. "Thank you," I tell him gravely.

"Pazhaluista," he says absently; "vashe zdorovie," in a morose, slightly bitter tone as he drains the last of his own coffee.

"What does that mean?" I ask him.

A sardonic laugh. "Cheers," and he tosses the empty styrofoam cup toward the far corner of the room.

I understand, in that moment, that whatever we have come to, he and I, is the last thing he expected; and I sympathize, for I feel the same way.

He sighs. "Shower?"

"Please," I respond.

We shower, together. He soaps my skin carefully, and even handcuffed, I manage to reciprocate. Clumsily -- but it seems to surprise him, and please him, that I make the attempt.

Clean, dry and comfortable, we return to the bed; I settle myself down on the mattress, folding my cuffed arms behind my head, and wait, knowing what will come next. Knowing that it has only been a matter of time, since the beginning: just a matter of waiting for it to happen.

He touches me. Fingertips, drifting down my chest. Feather-touches, just firm enough to not tickle, yet light enough to tantalize. Touches me, his face serious and intent as he watches me gasp and tremble in response.

My head falls backward into the pillow, and his fingers stroke my throat; and all at once I want to feel his lips there, his teeth and tongue, sucking and biting the sensitized flesh.

Lower, and lower, over my stomach, my groin: detouring around my rising cock to my thighs, just touching me, and the sensation of his fingertips is incredibly erotic. I imagine his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake.

I want him.

Down my legs, my calves, all the way to my feet, then up again: slow feather-caresses, so gentle and so intense... I am rock hard and aching, and he has not touched my cock, or my ass, or my nipples. Over my stomach again, my chest, my arms, my shoulders, my neck, finally grazing my face, fingertips settling on my lips as if in lieu of a kiss.

"Say it," he whispers, breathlessly, as if his slow seduction of me is turning him on just as intensely.

I want him.

He doesn't wait for a response. Instead, he reaches out to the bedside table and retrieves a tube of something I assume is a lubricant. He parts my legs and kneels between them, slides a pillow under my buttocks as matter-of-factly as if this is something he does every day -- maybe he does -- then squeezes a thin line of gel from the tube, spreading the slick substance over his fingers.

I watch the preparations and feel the blood rush to my cock, swelling it even further, in anticipation of what is to come.

God help me, I want him. Desperately.

His fingers slide between my buttocks, past the ring of constricting tissue, inside me, and find the nerve center with unerring accuracy; I cry out, I have to, for the sensation is that intense.

His other hand strokes the underside of my cock, and I shudder; I'm so aroused, so close to orgasm, that I feel sure I will die if I don't come.

"Stop it," I gasp. "Stop..."

And he does.

It hurts like hell as he withdraws from within me, not the sensation of his fingers passing my anus, but the loss of stimulation -- I feel as if my whole body is throbbing in resonance with my cock, as if there is nothing left of me but my cock and balls and the endless aching need. It hurts, it hurts, and I clench my teeth against the hurting as I wait for the worst of it to subside.

He kneels there between my legs, eyes unfathomable as he gazes down at me.

"Alex," I say, and watch the barely perceptible tremor that races through him at the sound of my voice, speaking his name.

And I remember the feel of his hands, working at my aching arms and legs to relieve the pins-and-needles pain of long restraint. His hands, soaping my body in the shower, spreading salve over my wounds. His hands, combing my hair, stroking my face, caressing me. Giving -- maybe the only way he knows how. Or maybe just... the only way he dares.

"Make love to me," I say, and watch his expression alter, a thousand emotions passing like quicksilver across his face in the space of maybe a second.

I remember the bitterness in his voice at the brief toast, the single Russian phrase that signified his realization of how far things had progressed. His sudden knowledge that we had long since passed the point of captor and captive, and found something greater, something deeper... something that could not last, something that inevitably would pass into memory and be gone, before either of us could begin to grasp what it meant.

I remember his voice, as he held my arm, with which I had tried and failed to hit him: It's all right, I understand, accepting the strength and the weakness in me; the part of me that could never surrender, the part of me that already had. Knowing me for who I was, accepting and even admiring it -- yet knowing as well that because of who I was, and who he was, there could never be anything for us but this place and time, this moment -- and wishing that it could somehow be otherwise.

"Please," I breathe the single syllable: surrender, and acceptance in turn.

And Alex moves forward, leaning over me, fevered skin against my own, as his lips press against mine in a kiss.

The heat in that kiss sears me; I reach forward and stretch my still-cuffed arms to hold him in place, to pull him closer. Enough of the subterfuge, the attempts at resistance: I want this, I want him, and I am tired of pretending I don't.

His tongue fills my mouth, ruthlessly probing, taking possession of his conquered territory; his hard-on presses into me, pulsing, indicating a need and a longing that matches my own.

When he is finished exploring the inside of my mouth with his tongue, he moves away, evading my locked arms as I try to hold him in place. Firmly, he takes my arms and pushes them back, folding them behind my head once more. "Say my name," he orders.

"Alex," I murmur, letting my desire come through my voice, understanding somehow that by maintaining the hierarchy, the illusion of control over me, he is keeping the distance between us that will make it possible for him to survive when this interlude is over and we are strangers once more.

I look at him, and I can see right through him, into his mind, his thoughts; he looks at me and knows what I am seeing, and he doesn't care.

Again, he kisses me, this time more gently.

Then his lips and teeth fasten on my neck, sucking hard; I wonder if he is telepathic, or simply giving in to the primitive urge to leave the mark of his possession on my flesh. There's going to be a hell of a hickey there, afterwards -- not the bruises or scars I would have expected to take away from an encounter with this man.

I ponder the ironies of life, briefly, then stop thinking altogether as he begins to plant a trail of kisses down my chest.

This isn't what I'd expected. Screwing, certainly. A kiss, perhaps. But this, this is lovemaking... was this what he'd planned from the start? Or is he too caught up in the moment to adhere to his plans? Does it matter? Do I care?

He draws my cock into his mouth, and nothing else matters but the feel of it.

Oh, God. Never again will I use the term 'cocksucker' as an epithet. Whatever he's doing with his lips and teeth and tongue is unbelievable; obviously, he knows what he's doing -- it occurs to me, suddenly, that only another man truly could -- alternating tantalizing strokes with hard suction and bringing me quickly to the point of no return, until I feel every muscle in my body clench into a tight knot, and that first wave of sensation that signifies the beginning of the end, and...

...he does something with his hands at the base of my cock, and the impending orgasm recedes just out of reach.

This is more than I can take.

"No..." I hear myself groan, desperately arching my back, trying to force my hard-on back into his mouth as he pulls away; anything, anything to quench the raging need. "Alex, please...!" You promised, damn it; you son of a bitch, you promised... Did I really misread the situation that completely? Is this some part of the game I hadn't foreseen?

"Shhh." Quiet, his voice, soft, like the wind whistling over a deserted shoreline at sunset. "I'm not finished with you yet. And I want you to remember this... for the rest of your life..."

I open my eyes and look at him: at his flushed face, the haze of desire in his eyes as he gazes down at me. No, this isn't a game. Not at all.

One hand still holds my erection, just barely rubbing, enough to keep me going without bringing me off, as he reaches with the other for the abandoned tube of lubricant resting on the mattress... he spreads a liberal amount on his hard cock, and I shiver, because I know that no matter how much I want it, this is going to hurt.

"It's okay," and the hand on my cock increases its exertions, distracting me effectively, "it's all right..."

Fingers against my anus, gently probing, stretching. "I'm going to make you feel so good," he murmurs, and I close my eyes and try to will myself to relax.

He takes his time, easing me open so gently that I hardly notice the increments. Two fingers, then a third, finding the gland and sending sharp bursts of ecstasy through my body to counteract the pain. Massaging, smooth careful strokes, as his other hand strokes my cock, until there is no pain at all, only sweet pleasure. I begin to drift, to become lost in the sensations, so much more intense than anything I've experienced before.

Then he shifts position, and before I can really notice what's happening and tense up reflexively, the fingers are withdrawing, and I feel the head of his cock pushing into me.

For a moment, it hurts; and then he thrusts deeper, filling me, rubbing up against my prostate -- and the feeling is so incredible and so strong that I literally see stars, little flashing lights exploding behind my eyes, as a long whimpering cry emerges from my throat.

"Look at me," I hear him say.

I open my eyes and look at him, wonder what he's seeing in my face. In his, I see passion, and a kind of tight desperation that tells me he's using every ounce of control he possesses to keep from shoving into me and thrusting until his balls explode. I know that feeling; I've been there, poised on the edge of pussy and trying to be the kind, sensitive lover while my glands are bursting and screaming for release -- and I find myself wishing I had the words to tell him how much I appreciate his restraint.

"My name," in a hoarse, breathless voice that makes my cock stand up straighter. "I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you say it when you come."

"Alex," I moan, and feel him quiver.

He begins to move inside me, tiny thrusts, to get me used to the feeling, still stroking my cock until the thrusts start getting deeper, more forceful, and it becomes clear that he needs both hands to maintain his balance. "Touch yourself," he growls, and I bring my hands forward and clutch at my aching hard-on, struggling against the damned handcuffs to get the grip I need, pulling at myself in time with his rhythm. "Say it!" and I cry out his name, over and over, feeling the sound of it seizing him as strongly as my ass clenching around his cock, feeling the syllables tearing out of my soul as part of my surrender. Unconditional surrender, to the feel of him inside me, my body trembling helplessly as the long-awaited orgasm dances tantalizingly just out of reach, soft groans of pleasure wrested unwillingly from him signifying his own surrender, and then that sudden hard unbearable clenching-tight of every muscle within me...

I scream out his name as the universe explodes, endless waves and waves and WAVES of pleasure in sharp spasms, going on and on and on for what seems like forever; and just when the contractions begin to subside, I hear a hoarse sobbing cry and feel his cock shudder inside me, and it sets me off all over again, coming and coming and coming.

Finally, the universe ceases to explode, and a feeling of peace descends over me as I try to remember how to breathe. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears, the last tiny spasms of lingering pleasure twitching at my spent cock, and think: if I could only stop time and stay right here in this moment for the rest of eternity...

The muscles of my ass tighten involuntarily, then relax again as the intruder departs, its mission complete.

And Krycek leans over me and captures my lips in the softest, gentlest, most tender kiss I have ever imagined or experienced.

I feel the mattress shift as he gets out of bed, listen idly to his footsteps as he heads off to the bathroom, the sounds of plumbing and whatnot. I am too exhausted, too content, to pay much attention to his actions; they merely form a pleasant subliminal background. After a time, I feel a blanket being pulled up over me, and I open my eyes -- it is a rude shock to note that he is fully dressed, impeccably neat, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Get some rest," he says, his voice somehow harsh, and turns to leave.

"Alex?" I can't comprehend his sudden shift in attitude. Well, yes, actually I can. Not just sex, nor even love- making, but intimacy -- and I had seen it coming, had anticipated it; he hadn't. And because of that oversight, it bothers him, to realize how much he has shown me of himself: the knowledge is gnawing at him, tearing him apart.

He pauses at the door, turns to look at me, and his eyes are utterly opaque.

I don't want to speak, but it's as if the words have a life of their own, spilling forth beyond my ability to restrain them. "This is what it was about all along," I say, "wasn't it?"

The mask shatters, and all at once, there is nothing but anguish. "Don't you know?" he says, and the mixture of fury and pain in his voice is a terrible thing to hear. "It's always been about you, Mulder. Right from the start."

In another second, he is gone: the echoes of the slamming door still reverberating in the empty room.

I sigh, and begin the lengthy process of levering myself upright and making my way to the bathroom.

Hand on my shoulder, shaking me roughly, jarring me from a deep slumber. "Wake up," in Krycek's voice. "Wake up, Mulder."

I blink my eyes open, stretch tired muscles briefly, as he takes a quick step backward -- and abruptly realize that something rather significant has happened.

My arms are no longer bound. I am completely unrestrained.

He watches as I assimilate this new knowledge; before I can speak, he does. "I've made a decision," he says, in an oddly hoarse voice.

There is a bundle of fabric in his arms, and instantly, I notice that it is the same clothing I was wearing when he first took me, sweatpants and t-shirt, neatly folded. He places the pile of clothing on the table, next to my sneakers.

He draws the gun from the waistband of his jeans, flicks open the chamber long enough for me to note that it is fully loaded, and places that on the table next to the clothing.

Then, slowly and with uncommon grace, he takes three steps backwards, and seats himself cross-legged in the middle of the floor. And closes his eyes.

I wait, to see what he will do next: but he merely sits there, absolutely still, absolutely silent, eyes closed.

This has to be a trap.

Hesitantly, I sit up, then stand; the floor creaks under my weight, and still he doesn't move, not even a twitch. I make a small move toward the table, watching him like a hawk: I've seen how fast he can move when he chooses to, and any moment now, I expect him to lunge toward me in a blur...

But he doesn't move.

I slide into the sweatpants, without ever taking my eyes off him; shove my feet into the shoes, still watching him. He doesn't move. I wrap the t-shirt around my hand and pick up the gun, being careful not to leave any prints; I check the chamber for myself, and yes, it's loaded... he flinches at the sound, but still he doesn't move.

If anything, his eyelids clench more firmly shut.

It has to be a trap, it has to be. Why on earth would he do this? Leaving me with the means of escape... hell, I could point and shoot and splatter his brains across the far wall before he could stand a chance of stopping me...

Oh, God.

Giving, the only way he knows how... and this, the ultimate gift: not only escape, but a means of vengeance.

Escape.

I'm free...

I edge around his still form as silently as I can, reach the doorway, and slip out into the hall.

There is a stairway at the end of the hall, and light... All at once I am running, sprinting for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, all but flying down toward the light, which grows brighter with my every step.

I dash across the open space of the empty warehouse, toward the dirt-streaked windows, and the door -- I grab the handle and fling it open, squinting as the harsh rays of sunlight assault my eyes.

And then I stop, poised on the threshold.

Krycek -- Alex -- sitting cross-legged on the floor, waiting in darkness to see whether I'd merely leave him, or kill him on my way out. Probably expecting the latter. Maybe even hoping for it.

His fingertips, trailing over my flesh, bringing me almost to orgasm with the barest touch.

Resting my head against his chest, feeling his heart beating, opening my mouth to accept another mouthful of eggs and bacon.

Leaning on him in the shower, both of us bruised and aching, thinking of nothing more than how good it was to have him near me once more.

His hands, smoothing a warm blanket over me as I lay bound and shivering on the floor.

That last kiss...

I'm free!

Alex.

Slowly, slowly, I close the door.

I toss the gun into a distant corner, hear it land behind some old crates. Absently, I pull the t-shirt over my head as I retrace my steps, through the warehouse and up the stairs and back to the room where I'd left him.

He is still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor; his shoulders are slumped, his face buried in his hands.

As my footsteps creak across the floor, his back stiffens, yet still he doesn't move... I come to stand behind him, then kneel, so close now that he can surely feel my breath on the back of his neck.

"Alex," I say, and he recoils as if I'd punched him.

"Get out, Mulder," he says, his voice harsh and cold.

"Alex..."

"Kill me or don't; just get out!" and behind the anger, behind the tension, his voice is very close to tears.

"Oh, no," I tell him softly. "I'm not making it that easy for you."

He whirls around and lunges at me, fists flying at me. The blows are forceful, but driven by an emotion other than the urge to see his opponent dead -- and as such, not especially hard to avoid. I deflect one punch, duck another, finally just get myself out of his way before he can connect.

I stand, backing away from him, and he follows me. "Get the hell out of here!" he roars, and I don't hear the rage in his voice, nor the implicit threat in his words -- I look into his eyes, and see the anguish, the desperation, the agony, and the tears that he will not allow himself to shed.

He lunges at me again, and I intercept him halfway; I grab his shoulders and shove him backwards, until his back impacts against the wall with a loud thud. His hands move to push me away, and I catch his wrists and pin them, pressing my weight against him to hold him immobile.

And I kiss him.

I kiss him, forcefully, hungrily, with all the passion he's dredged up and ignited within me... and he doesn't even make a pretense of resisting me: he just melts into my arms, a small strangled sob choking its way past his lips.

I kiss him, jamming my hips up against his, grinding my swelling cock against him so that he can feel how hot I'm getting, just from kissing him -- his hips surge forward to meet mine, and he shudders and makes that incredible strangled, sobbing noise again, and climaxes.

I release my grip on his wrists, and he falls forward into me, clinging to me to keep from falling as the spasms rush through him; my arms lock around him, and I hold him.

Again, that small choked noise: and I kiss him, as gently and caringly as he kissed me after he fucked me; he succumbs to the kiss, then collapses against me as if the effort of fighting is more than he can muster.

And for a long while, we just hold each other, in silence.

"Why did you come back?"

I'm staring up at the ceiling, as if it holds the answers to the mysteries of the universe. He props himself up on one shoulder, gazes down at me, repeats the question. "Why did you come back?"

I shake my head slowly, side to side. "I don't know."

This, he seems to accept.

My turn. "Why did you take me?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "I was bored," he says, at last.

Disbelieving, I turn my head to meet his eyes. "You were bored?"

"I was between assassinations," he elaborates, in a sardonic tone. "I had nothing better to do. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And now?" I press him.

A longer pause this time, as he considers. "I don't know," in a very soft voice.

Silence.

We are lying in bed together. There is only one chair in the room, so lying in bed is the most comfortable place we could be; it's not as if we're not used to it by now -- and at any rate, ours is the sort of conversation that is most appropriately held in a bed.

More silence than conversation, really: but the silences speak as loudly as the words.

I wonder which of us will voice the inevitable question -- it is on the tip of my tongue when he says it, in a voice that is both bleak and wistful. "What are we going to do now?"

And I don't bother to answer.

There is no answer.

We both know it.

Instead, I roll over, shove him back against the mattress, pin him there with my body, and kiss him.

At least there is one thing between us that works.

He tries to push me off him, and I push back, and shortly we are struggling against each other: fighting, kissing, both at once, so that it is impossible to tell where the struggle ends and the sex begins.

"Fuck me," he gasps, between kisses.

I pull back, just enough to look at him, to gauge the look in his eyes.

"Fuck me," he repeats insistently, and to someone who knows how and where to look, it is a desperate plea.

So I start working at undressing him, while he half-helps and half-fights me; his hands grab the hem of my t-shirt and tear it off me, shredding sturdy fabric as if it were paper, and by the time we are both naked, we are both more than ready to proceed.

"Where's the..." I begin to ask.

"Don't need it. I'm used to this."

"But..." I've never done this before; the holes I usually probe are built for this sort of thing, and goddammit, I don't want to hurt him...

"Fuck me, damn it!" grabbing my arms, fingers digging into the flesh, leaving bruises.

He wants to play rough, obviously, so I break his grip, shove him back against the mattress as he moans and arches up toward me -- nevertheless, I spit on my fingers and rub the saliva on my cock to provide some lubrication, and as I enter him, I am as gentle as I know how to be.

Which is possibly the most difficult thing I've ever done: he is so hot, so tight, that I'm almost ready to come at the first stroke.

"Hold still," I growl at him, because all he has to do is move and I'll be there... and taking my meaning, he freezes in place while I catch my breath and struggle for control.

Our eyes meet, and the look in his takes my breath away: electric tension, desperation, and an enormous trembling need beyond my comprehension.

"Do it hard," he says, in a nearly normal voice, "don't hold back. I like it like that."

My eyes frame a question: are you sure? and he nods slightly, giving me permission.

So I pull back and ram it into him, as hard as I can; and his head tilts back as he emits a long sobbing whimper that all but brings me to orgasm.

I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke hard, milking a few drops of precum from the tip, withdraw and spread the juice around the base of my own cock to try to keep the dry friction from burning me, ahhh, yes, just enough for another thrust, and another, and he reaches for his hard-on and I knock his hands away because he is mine, now, he is mine, and I will own him the way he has owned me. Another stroke, to entice more fluid from him, spread it around, yeah, that's good; another thrust, finding the gland and shoving into it and hearing him yowl like a stray cat in heat -- that's the spot, that's how to get him there -- another thrust, and ouch, that hurts; hell with this, there's the tube, uncapped and left to dry out on the corner of the bed, grab it and squeeze it and spread it around, oh, yeah, much better. Another thrust, hard against the prostate, and another, and another, and this time when he reaches to grab himself I let him, because I'm just a little too preoccupied to multitask at the moment. Another thrust, deep and hard and fast, as he writhes and moans; another, and another, and another, and another, and dammit, Alex, you'd better be ready now, because I'm almost, I'm almost, oh hell, I'm there... his ass clenching tight around me as he throws back his head and howls, milking me as I shoot my load into him, his cock spurting ribbons over my belly and chest.

I withdraw shortly afterwards, before my erection dissipates and makes the task more difficult, and collapse onto him.

Sweat and heat and stickiness between us, his chest heaving under me, my own struggle for respiration -- I kiss his throat, he arches his neck to let me, and I suck and bite at the skin, to leave my mark on him, as he has done to me.

For a time, we rest like that, two bodies tangled and drained, moving only to breathe.

In the shabby, windowless room, the night stretches on forever.

We fuck and we make love, in turns, and we talk as little as possible. We shower together, we sleep together, waking up bathed in each other's sweat and clinging to each other tightly enough to cause bruises. He dresses and goes out and comes back with food, and when he returns I strip the clothes from him and fuck him and make love to him, and afterwards I nestle into his arms and he spoon-feeds me, as he did before.

We fuck, tearing at each other with swift brutality; we make love, in long luxurious interludes of tenderness; we collapse together afterwards, not speaking, not thinking, just gazing into each other's eyes.

And finally, we are sitting together on the bed, both of us showered and shaved and dressed; and we both know that morning has come.

"I have to leave," I say.

A slight movement of his head; a wince, perhaps. "Go," he says.

But I sit there, studying him, memorizing the lines and planes of his face.

In this space, in this brief interval of time, everything I had known about myself and considered commonplace and ordinary and right in my world has been turned upside down and shaken, so that nothing is certain anymore.

"How can I leave?" I ask him, hearing my voice quaver.

Slowly, he turns to me; his hands reach out and settle against the sides of my face -- I lean toward him, and he meets me halfway, and we kiss, deeply and thoroughly.

And then he draws back. Releases me. "Get out of here, Mulder," he says, very softly.

I stand up. Force my legs to move. Will myself to walk to the door.

Turn back, one last time, to see him sitting there, staring at nothing.

The hallway seems to go on forever. The stairs seem impossibly steep. The empty warehouse on the first floor echoes my steps back at me, mocking me, as I walk through the room.

When I pull open the door, I face the first tentative light of dawn, staining the streets with a fragile golden glow.

An ironic laugh escapes me as I recognize the street -- I am only blocks away from my apartment.

Blocks, and a universe, away.

It feels strange to walk down the street. It feels too normal. The world feels too ordinary -- when everything inside me has changed beyond measure.

I don't know who I am anymore. I can't even guess.

Dazed, I walk the few short blocks back to my apartment building. I walk upstairs to my apartment. I unlock the door with the key I keep -- stupidly, but usefully -- hidden behind the light fixture in the hallway.

I lie down on my couch, just as I had done on that first fateful night, when it all began.

Dawn turns into day, spilling bright light through the cracks in the blinds that shield my dirty windows.

And I close my eyes, and summon up the memory of the feel of that last kiss, and the image of a man sitting on the edge of a bed in a dismal little room staring into empty space; into the memory of something irretrievably precious, and irrevocably lost.

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