Triad

The apartment is redolent with the smell of cookies baking; small small hint of the normalcy I'll never otherwise know. I inhale, and guess at the recipe: double chocolate cookie mix, prepared with Bailey's Irish Cream instead of water, just the way I like them. I'd called from the airport, to let them know I was coming back... it warms me all through, that one of them actually took the time to prepare something nice for my arrival. As if my presence were wanted, instead of merely endured.

Then again, it could be pure coincidence. But I'm not proud, I'll take what I can get.

They're both looking at me. She, from her easy chair by the window; he, from his place on the couch. "Hi," I say briefly, and drop my knapsack onto the floor.

"How did it go?" he wants to know, all fierce intensity, and I wonder if I should tell him about the nights of cold and dark and hunger, the narrowness of my escape...

"Fine," I say instead, and nudge at my bag with my foot.

At once, they're both on top of it, digging through the somewhat battered files I managed to take out with me -- and I am forgotten; standing there before them, I am invisible. So much for the illusion of being wanted. I shrug out of my jacket, wincing as the leather scrapes against the raw skin of my last remaining arm, and in a burst of bright malice, toss the filthy garment onto the nearby loveseat. Creamy upholstery -- the dirt and the blood on my jacket will certainly stain that pristine fabric.

Metaphor, maybe? for the way I've stained their lives? Whatever. I'm too tired to wax philosophical.

"Looks good, Krycek," I hear him say -- then I feel his hands on my shoulders from behind, strong fingers, rubbing slightly. "You look like hell. Are you all right?" and the edge his voice usually holds when he speaks to me is abruptly missing; it almost sounds like genuine concern.

Almost. And yet, I can't forget the beatings, the casual cruelty... They endure my presence because I can bring them information that no one else can, and think that this means that I hold the upper hand. I've never seen fit to tell them that I'm working with them because I have nowhere else to go, no other chance of safety, and that I'd rather be anywhere else. Let them think I hold the upper hand; that's just fine by me.

Better by far than them knowing how I long for the kindness, the concern, that they show for each other...

"I'm fine," I say, trying not to show my anger; wrench myself away from his hands, and head for the bathroom.

Hot water is a blessing, a godsend. I stand under the steaming shower spray and let the aches, the pain, the tension, the fear, wash away from me. After a little while, I stop seeing the recurrent images behind my eyelids -- dark close spaces too much like that damn silo, crawling through them to achieve my goal -- and begin to see only my present reality: white tiles, gleaming chrome, nice clean American plumbing. His shampoo on the narrow shelf beneath the showerhead, her gingko-and-mimosa body wash on the edge of the tub... this is my home, or what passes for home in the absence of anything better.

They say that home is the place where, when you go there, they have to let you in. I suppose that by those rules, this qualifies. Never mind why they have to let me in... Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly depressed and vulnerable, I imagine that it's because they care for me. But I know better; and the fantasy dissolves into ash, bitter on my tongue.

Yet as I emerge from the shower and wrap myself in my towel, go upstairs to my room, I can't help but contemplate those facts. All I ever demanded was a place to sleep occasionally, a place to store a few personal belongings. Instead, they found this place, and gave me my own room, my own key to the front door. More than they had to do, and maybe more than I deserve.

As accustomed to living out of luggage as I've become, it's still a novelty to open dresser drawers and find my own clothing neatly stacked there, waiting to be worn. I find a pair of comfy sweatpants and slide into them, an old ragged t-shirt... The wound on my arm has opened up again, oozing blood, and it takes me about two seconds to realize that there is no possible way I can bandage it myself.

Gritting my teeth, hating it, hating myself, I go downstairs again in search of help.

But as it turns out, I don't even have to ask. She takes one look at my arm, inhales sharply, and the next thing I know, I'm sitting on the couch being properly tended to: stinging fluid, soothing cream, and finally a clean bandage taped securely to my skin.

And it feels so good, you know, being cared for, being looked after, that I have to hold myself very rigidly aloof to keep from sinking into that warmth.

As she finishes bandaging my arm, a tray slides into place before me on the coffee table -- he's brought me food: soup and a sandwich and oven-hot cookies and coffee just the way I like it -- and he sits down beside me and says, "You look like you could use something to eat," in that same edge-less voice.

I want to jump up and bolt out the door, run away as far and as fast as I can, because this caring is undoing me. They have no idea of the cruelty of this comfort, and knowing that at any moment it could all end as one of them remembers who I am, what I've done...

Fingers at the back of my neck, massaging, easing away the new tension. "Eat," he says softly, and I fight back the flight reflex, force myself to relax, and do as I'm told.

Soup from a can, plain ham and cheese and mustard and mayo on white, nothing fancy about this meal, yet it may be the best damn thing I've ever tasted. And his hand on my shoulder, and her hand on my leg, and why? what are they doing? Is this some grand new conspiracy to drive me slowly insane? Or maybe just to break my heart? No... not that last; they don't credit me with possessing a heart to be broken. But what, then? Why the hell are they being so nice to me?

The cookies are wonderful, and I say so, earning me a sweet smile.

She so rarely smiles, and it's a shame; she's gorgeous when she does. ...Or maybe she smiles for him, and it's simply not my privilege to be treated to that sunshine. But she's smiling at me now, and maybe it's wishful thinking, but I can almost feel the warmth in it.

"So what happened, out there?" he inquires softly, from my other side, and the hand on my shoulder increases its pressure, resuming the massage.

He's sitting on my left side. That bothers me, makes me feel insecure, because if this gentleness suddenly turns to rage, it'll be harder for me to fight him. I can't shake the feeling that the hand rubbing my back will suddenly clench into a fist and punch me. But then, subtlety has never been his virtue; there's never been any gradient to his fury. Do I dare trust that this strange new compassion might be as whole-hearted, as sincere?

But he's asked me a question, one that I don't want to answer. Instead, I shake my head. "It's over," I tell him, "I don't want to think about it."

A slight nod of his head, and he is silent; but the light massage never falters.

"You've brought us a lot of information, over the past months," I hear her say. "It hasn't been easy, collating the data; it's all bits and pieces, no coherent pattern..."

"I get what I can," I snap back, suddenly angry. How dare she criticize? Neither of them have any idea of the peril I place myself in, over and over, for these scraps of data.

"I know," she says soothingly, "we know," and her hand tightens, just perceptibly, on my leg. "It's just that it takes us awhile to put the pieces together."

"Some of the information you brought us in the beginning, we're still working on putting together," he adds smoothly, on the heels of her words. They can do that: two people, two voices, speaking as if they were a single being. It bothers me, because their unity excludes me so thoroughly, makes me aware all over again that I am an outsider here, unwanted and alone.

Big bad tough Alex Krycek; I should be above such things. I should be immune to such treacherous, syrupy sentiment -- and lord knows, I have tried to be. But in the end, I am only human. And it is not human nature to exist in a vacuum, and this endless solitude is a chronic ache that rivals the phantom pains from my missing arm.

"For example, we've only just finished collating the data about the incident in Waukegan," she says, her voice so casual that it actually takes a moment before the import of her words sinks in.

Waukegan. Shit. I could have died a happy man if I had gone to my grave without them knowing about that.

His hand against my back notices my sudden tension; fingers respond by digging deeper into taut muscles, trying to ease it away. "One question," he says, in that so-gentle voice. "Why?"

One question, one single word, and it is more than I can endure.

"You were ordered to kill us," she says, her voice calm and measured. Clinical, detached, which is the only thing that makes this bearable. "You could have. You didn't. Why?"

And I wait for the inevitable: you killed my father, you killed my sister, reminders of my status as subhuman monster in their eyes -- but there is only silence, and the unanswered question hanging in the air.

There are so many answers I could give. Their usefulness against the conspiracy, against the alien rebellion. Their usefulness to me, as a haven from the Consortium that wants me silenced. But you know, I'm tired. I'm so damn tired. And I am so sick of the lies that exist between us, dividing us... and all I can bring myself to tell them is the truth.

"Because I didn't want to." My voice sounds immensely weary to my own ears. My eyes close, locking me away from them in my own personal darkness. "Because I care. Why the hell do you think I keep coming back?"

Through the darkness, through the silence, one soft voice rises toward me: "That's what we thought."

Suddenly there are two sets of hands on me, massaging, caressing -- embracing me, oh god, the warmth...

Before I quite know what's happening, I'm on my feet, pushing them away, stumbling past the coffee table and knocking the remainder of my dinner to the floor. Flight reflex, instinctive urge to get away from danger; my heart is pounding like thunder in my ears.

I look back at them. Startled wide-eyed by my reaction, both of them, as if the possibility of my non-compliance was something they'd never considered. Damn them. And damn me, for being so fucking transparent.

"Did you think that was my price?" And I want to say more, hurl invective and fury at them for their presumption; but my heart is breaking, and my voice along with it, and the safest thing to do is get the hell out of there before I dissolve.

I go to my room. My room. Walls plain white, carpet nondescript beige, same as the day we moved into this place, because I've never bothered to decorate. Why set down roots, when this can only be temporary? And yet it's my room. My room, in their house.

I didn't see the point of buying furniture, so they bought some for me while I was away on one of my earliest trips. A nice new matched bedroom suite. I made the mistake of paying too much attention to one of her coffee-table books once, and when I returned from that trip, I found new framed prints on my walls. There's always a fresh box of Kleenex on the bedside table, the bed is always made up for me while I'm away, and most recently there's been a quilt -- handmade from the looks of it, somebody's family heirloom, covering my bed to keep me warm.

Goddamn them both.

I turn off the light, tug off my clothes, and slide into bed -- between clean cool sheets, heavenly luxury after the past two weeks of hell. Unbelievable, that only forty-eight hours ago I was sleeping shivering on the ground. To come home to such comfort...

Don't they know what they're doing to me? How can they not know?

My life is alien to them, my world is something they can't comprehend. Danger, death and despair dogging my heels: always too cold or too hot or bleeding, always pain, always fear, always sneaking and running and hiding. It's been that way for me ever since my fall from grace. It will be that way for me until the day I die.

And all I ever hoped for was a respite, a brief escape between bouts of danger, just short periods of creature comfort... but I can see now that it was a mistake. Having this luxury only makes the ache of forsaking it that much worse.

As for the two of them...

So I didn't kill them. So what? Does that make me some kind of hero in their eyes? Can they be so grateful that they'd prostitute themselves to me in return for these favors? ...Or is it pity? Do they see the way I can feel myself looking at them sometimes, envying the closeness between them? Am I really that pathetic?

I don't need their pity, nor their pretense of caring. Solitude may be lonely, but it's safe; and I can manage it quite fine, thank you.

I roll over, bury my face in the clean, soft pillow, and try to pretend that tears aren't streaming from my eyes.

Soft knocking at the door. I ignore it until it repeats; then speak, slowly and clearly, loudly enough to ensure that they can hear: "Go away."

The door opens anyway -- sudden flash of light from the hall before the door closes and resumes the darkness, and I bury my face more deeply in the pillow. It could be gunmen come to kill me, and I wouldn't care: just as long as they don't see me cry.

"Nice to see what a high opinion you have of us and our motives," says his voice, sardonic as always -- far more familiar than the so-gentle tones of earlier.

"Look at it this way," says her voice, "you already come and bring us the secrets of your former employers; why should we attempt to buy what we already possess?"

"So what the hell do you want?" It's a massive effort to keep my voice steady, when the tears are still leaking unhindered from my eyes, and the sobs threaten to choke me -- but they mustn't hear, they mustn't know how intensely they can affect me. They have far too much power over me already.

The bed tilts, shifts, as one of them sits down on one side of the mattress. Another, smaller shift, as the other sits on the opposite side. I'm surrounded, now, and I can't escape; and it terrifies me beyond words that there's a part of me -- a large and very vocal part -- that doesn't even want to try.

A small hand settles on my head, strokes my hair -- her hand; but it's his voice that speaks. "We want you, Alex."

Alex. They never call me Alex. And the rest of it... a long shudder races through me uncontrollably, though I manage to bite back the moan that wants to escape.

"The Waukegan files just put into writing what we've known for months," I hear her say. "However this arrangement may have started... we're so much more than that, now."

"You're a part of us." His hand, larger and heavier than hers, comes to rest on my back -- nudges the sheet down to expose bare skin, strokes me gently. "We're a part of each other."

"We miss you when you're gone." Calm recitation of fact; always the scientist, she is. "We worry about you. We wait for you to come home."

"And we have wanted, for some time now, to be able to welcome you home... properly." Small, wry twist in his voice -- sultry, seductive.

"We thought you felt the same way," she continues. "Were we really so far wrong, that you don't want this at all?"

Oh god, I can't take this.

Treacherous emotion, undermining me, sapping my strength. I should resist. I need no one -- I have to need no one, have to remain aloof, distant -- needing other people is a great way to get yourself killed.

I have to say no and make them believe it; I have to push them away, keep them at arm's length. I have to.

But I'm shaking so hard I can barely breathe, I sure as hell can't talk, and the momentary memory of both of them snuggled close to me is so acutely vivid that I ache for more of it.

I want, I want, I need, and I can't. I just can't.

His fingers tug the sheet down a little lower, exposing more of my back. His hands move down, smoothing circles over my skin. And hers are still stroking my hair, rubbing my shoulders... their touches trail fire through me, warming, burning, blazing bright and intense beyond imagining.

I've been so alone for so long. This is agony. This is paradise.

"Alex." Her voice, this time, smooth and satiny. "We love you, Alex."

"We love you," echoes his voice, smoke and velvet. "Let us love you..."

And the sound that wrenches itself from my throat is half-moan, half-sob, and all desperation and longing.

The hands withdraw, leaving me bereft. Sharp cool breeze across my skin as the sheets are pulled back -- they're sliding into bed with me, one of them on either side of me, tugging and pulling me into position; then I'm lying on my side, and all of her is pressed up against my front, and all of him is pressed up against my back, and the sudden sensory overload is almost more than I can stand.

I look down, into her eyes -- flash of compassion crossing her face in the dark; and she pulls my head down and kisses my tears away. Brushing of lips against my cheeks and eyelids, finally fastening on my mouth... lips and tongue, probing deeply.

And his lips, roving across my shoulders, finding the spot at the juncture of neck and shoulder and kissing, biting, sucking, and trembling passion searing through me at the feel of it.

And I'm helpless, utterly helpless against this onslaught of sensation, unable to resist or to assist as they make the final preparations and adjustments -- and then I am sliding into her, and he is sliding into me, one long slow smooth simultaneous thrust that overwhelms me completely with ferocious pleasure.

I hear someone howl, realize disjointedly that it's me.

"Alex." His voice in my ear, a husky murmur.

"Alex." Her voice in my other ear, sensuous beyond belief.

It's me. It really is me.

He moves, thrusting into me, driving me into her -- pleasure like sheets of flame slicing me apart with every thrust -- and I'm crying again, sobbing, unable to control my emotions or my responses, completely beyond any kind of restraint. Yet beyond my own cries, I can hear his soft whimpers and moans, her little breathy sighs; it drives home the realization of what is happening, makes it all the more overwhelming and intense.

I am between them, and they are making love to me.

And that knowledge is as vivid and gorgeous as the feel of her sweet pussy wrapped tight and hot around my aching hard-on, as the sensation of his cock driving deep inside me, filling me; as unbearably wonderful as their arms wrapped around me, cocooning me in warmth and passion and love.

I've been so alone for so long, oh god, so alone...

She cries out, suddenly, sharply, as orgasm sweeps through her -- all at once I'm right there on the edge, my whole body clenching into a knot, and he's moaning into my ear, just as close, and then it hits me -- and I scream, all of the aching loneliness in me pouring out into that scream, as waves and waves of ecstasy surge through me to take its place.

I have not ever in my lifetime known pleasure like this.

As the contractions ebb away, I realize that I am still crying, sobbing like a baby. I try to stop, and I can't; it's a hemorrhage of the soul, as involuntary as bleeding. And like bleeding, the tears are cleansing, washing away the last germs of loneliness that infect my wounded heart... but it's shameful, it's embarrassing, I'm a grown man, and I can't stop crying like a child.

But there are arms around me, pushing me onto my back, wrapping around me from either side, and two sets of lips kissing my face, my eyelids, my cheeks -- soothing me. Loving me. And embarrassment pales before the sheer unbridled happiness of being loved.

They take turns kissing me. Her lips, her tongue: insistent, demanding, requiring my response. A moment to catch my breath, then his lips, his tongue: lazy conqueror, claiming me, taking me as his own. Then her lips again -- then his -- kissing me, stroking me and cuddling me and all the while kissing me, until there is nothing left of me but a pliant, dazed mass of quivering nerve endings anxious for the next kiss.

It's been at least twenty years since I was hormonal enough to come twice in quick succession, but I can feel myself getting hard again, just from their kisses. He strokes my cock, calling her attention to the fact -- her hand twines around his to caress my balls; and as if choreographed, both heads dip down simultaneously to suck my nipples. I can look down and see the tops of their heads, one dark, one flame, as they nibble and suck at me... and the sight of that is more than I can take: up to the edge and over it, the orgasm coming on so fast and hard that I don't even see it coming, can only moan and shudder as it seizes me.

Afterwards, I can barely move. My limbs are leaden, my eyes closing of their own accord. I don't generally sleep flat on my back, but my body is so saturated with pleasure that I can't even look for another position.

Then I feel a head settling on my left shoulder, a head settling on my right shoulder, and arms wrapping around me from either side to entwine with each other across my chest.

My only lingering regret is that for all my trying, I can't stay awake long enough to properly enjoy it...

...But I wake up cold and alone, and my mind's first barely coherent thought is: //It was just a dream.//

Betrayed by my own subconscious; how cruel and vicious, to give me an image, a memory like that, then wrench it away...

Driven by my body's needs, I stumble out of bed and into my robe and out to the upstairs bathroom, and only as I am taking a piss does it register that I am sticky in some places and just slightly sore in others, and dreams rarely manifest themselves in quite such tangible ways.

As I am sleepily brushing my teeth and puzzling this out in my mind, there is a knock on the bathroom door, then the creak of its opening. "You'd better get back to your room," says his voice behind me, mock-stern and somehow playful. "She's making us all breakfast in bed, and she's gonna be pissed if you're not there."

Somehow retaining the presence of mind not to choke on the toothpaste, I spit and rinse my mouth and slowly straighten up and turn to look at him.

He gazes back at me steadily, unafraid. "Come back to bed, Alex," he says softly.

Then his arms slip around my waist and pull me close; he kisses me forcefully, and I've managed to convince myself that it was all a dream so well that for a moment I'm too startled to kiss him back.

And then I do kiss him back, and uncertainty dissolves like a bad dream against the feel of his mouth and the pressure of his body against mine.

When the kiss is done, he releases me -- but his hand snags mine, grips firmly, doesn't let go. "Come back to bed, Alex," he repeats.

I've been so alone, for so long... but not, apparently, from now on.

I smile at him, and let him lead me back to my room.

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