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Lost 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes by Broken Angel

Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes
Total Parts: 2
Status: WIP
Pairings: M/K
Rating: R
Spoilers: All episodes are fair game, including Season 7.
Series: Lost #1
Summary: A threat to Mulder's life brings Krycek back into the game full-force.
Author Notes: This is my first attempt at fanfic, so be gentle. I live for feedback, so pleeease send it to me!
Warnings: Rated R for violence, languange. If m/m interaction bothers you, go elsewhere.
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, unfortunately - they belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Even though they're not being used with enough imagination in some ways... I PROMISE I'll put them back when I'm done, and I'm not making any money out of this. Anyone you recognize isn't mine - all others are mine.

Lost 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Broken Angel

     I never wanted to be a hero. In fact, I can't think of anything I wanted to be less - except dead. Maybe. Yes, I wanted an exciting life, but one that ended quietly, in peace, full of respect, power, and wealth. Instead, here I am at thirty-two, with nothing but the clothes on my back, hunted, tired, dirty, and alone - not to mention missing my left arm. It's raining now, grey, dismal drops running under the collar of my leather jacket, soaking my already filthy white t-shirt, chilling me more than I had ever thought possible. Ducking into a nearby doorway, I watch the rain fall, harder now, reflecting orange light from the neon glow of the city, and splashing into ever-growing puddles at my feet. I can't stay sheltered here for long - despite my solitude, I have obligations - but at least I can stay out of the worst of the storm. My immune system has already been compromised by fatugue, stress, and lack of decent nutrition, but perhaps if I watch out, I can stay alive a little longer. Leaning against the doorframe, I feel myself sliding into oblivion, into the darkness of unconciousness, which eventually transforms itself into a restless sleep.

     I awaken sometime later. The rain has stopped, and the neon glare of the city gleams wetly on the pavement, and in the scattered pools of rainwater. My neck is sore, and the ache in my back speaks eloquently of cold and stress. I straighten, and step back out onto the street, pulling my collar up in defense against the rain, heading towards the one place where I know I will find peace - but whether it will be the peace of refuge or the peace of death, I do not know. One way or another, however, this ends tonight. There will - must - be an end to the hostility between us - and if my death is the price I must pay, so be it. It takes - or seems to take - less time than I'd thought it would to travel thirty-seven blocks in this dark, sleeping city, and his apartment building looms in front of me before I am prepared. Not that I will *ever* be prepared for this. I let myself into the building, and walk up the stairs to his door. I avoid enclosed spaces whenever possible - a phobia carried over from my time in the silo. Outside his door, I pause. The number gleams mockingly at me, and every instinct in my body screams at me to turn and run, to get as far as possible from this man, and from the effect he has on me, to flee the violence thatt will undoubtedly erupt from our meeting - because we are truly opposites. Each of us is represented in the other - the light of his spirit is the gaps of my darkness, and I am the absence of light in his soul. Trust no-one.
     I want to believe. Two opposing - and yet similar - statements that sum us up with a shocking accuracy, and as conflicting as they are, as conflicting as we seem - I trus no-one, while he wants to believe, and yet when I crave belief, he refuses to trust - as conflicting as we seem, we are somehow, shatteringly the same, connected, as are light and darkness - one is not, can not, be the same without the other. But what wisdom is there in bringing us together? And what foolishness lies in keeping us apart? I fear that the simplest answer is none, that only in our absence from one another lies the key to sanity. For the violence caused by our combined presence, by his swift, vicious reaction to me, and my submissive response to his rage, could be enough to destroy us both. And yet - it must be done. With luck, he'll hear me out, listen to me, and perhaps let himself be convinced. Because so much - literally the world - depends on what use is made of my information. Whether or not I survive is, at this point, of little importance - although my fragile ego doesn't like to admit it. My life could end, and no-one would care at all - although sometimes, I dream of something different - of fighting by his side, of mutual respect and need, of forgiveness and acceptance, and of shared desire. Pulling my mind away from these thoughts, I realize that I have been standing here for over five minutes, and that the door will not open unless I do something to make it do so. With a sense of surreality, of reaching out and changing my fate forever, I raise my hand, and knock at the door of Fox Mulder's apartment.

                    * * *

     He was almost asleep when he heard it - a loud tapping at his door. He tried to ignore it, but whoever it was knocked again, more insistently than before. With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet, and went over to the door. He opened it - and barely had time to recognize Alex Krycek as the man who stood on his threshold before the world erupted into action. He heard the faint decompression of a silenced gun, saw Krycek's face twist into a mask of controlled pain, and then the door burst inward as the other man threw himself inwards, knocking them both off their feet. The brunt of the impact knocked the breath out of Mulder's body, and he lay stunned on the floor, with Krycek on top of him. He felt the tension in the other man's muscles, the intense heat that radiated from his body - and then Krycek rolled off of him, rising to his feet in a barely balanced series of motions that revealed the anguish his movements caused him.

     "Get up, Mulder." The other man's voice was low, ragged with the edges of physical pain. He felt a grip of iron close around his arm, and he was hauled abruptly to his feet. The bone crushing grip released, and abruptly, Krycek held a gun in his hand, and was pushing him towards the fire escape. "I can only hope they didn't think to cover this exit. Damn it, I thought I was in time!" Krycek followed close behind him, his gait uneven. A quick glance backwards showed Mulder a liquid trail of black that would be crimson in a brighter light.

     "What the hell?" he gasped. Krycek took his hand off of Mulder's shoulder, held it up, and fired. The window exploded outwards in a spray of glass, which fell downwards in a shimmering spiral of sharp edges. A sharp shove on his shoulder called him back to himself, and he felt himself shoved upwards and outwards, onto the fire escape, and into the night beyond his window.


Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost: Lost 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes
Total Parts: 2
Status: Complete
Pairings: M/K
Rating: R
Spoilers: All episodes through season 7 are fair game.
Series: Lost #1
Summary: A threat to Mulder's life brings Krycek back into the game full-force.
Author Notes: This is my first attempt at fanfic, so be gentle. PLEASE send feedback!!! Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.
Warnings: If m/m interaction bothers you, go away.
Disclaimer: They're not mine - they'd have lots more fun if they were.

Lost 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Broken Angel

     Down the fire escape and out into the night he went, Alex Krycek pushing him from behind every step of the way. The barrel of the man's gun was flat against his back, as if Krycek had to push him with his gun hand... his mind shied away from the implications of those thoughts, and from the memories they evoked within him. Instead, he concentrated on running, on the actual physical feel of the pavement beneath his feet, the air burning in his lungs, the sting of the rain, lashing against his face, and Krycek's hand spurring him ever onwards, farther away from home with every step. He was so intently focused on the physical sensations that he missed the other man's words the first time they were spoken, and had to gaspingly ask for a repetition.

     "I said," Krycek snapped, barely out of breath, "turn left!" Despite the ease of his speech, Mulder could hear the repressed pain in his words. He felt the pressure on his back increase suddenly, shoving him left in a sharp turn, with Krycek right behind him, like a shadow. They turned into an alleyway, and he might well have kept running, in a mixture of adrenalin and confusion, but Krycek's hand stopped him, pushed him against a wall, and held him there. The hand shifted to cover his mouth, the grip of the pistol pressing into his cheek, while Krycek's body pressed against his, pinning him where he stood. For a brief instant, Mulder considered biting the other man's hand - hard - but dismissed it as a petty trick, not to mention slightly ridiculous. Especially since Krycek was barely winded from the run, despite whatever injury was putting that sharp edge of pain in his voice, and the hint of tightness at the corners of his eyes. Instead, he reached up, and flung Krycek 's hand away from his face with an angry gesture.

     "What the hell!?!" he snapped, rage pitching his voice more loudly than was wise - and Krycek's hand slammed back over his mouth with a force that stung, and a persistence that irritated him. He reached up once more, to shove Krycek away, but froze as he heard the soft sound of footfalls in the street beyond the alley. They were not the steps of a late-wandering law abiding citizen, or even a harmless drunk. He could almost *sense* the purpose in these footsteps, and the menace that those muffled noises communicated returned him to utter stillness, and total silence. His eyes locked on Krycek's face, on the familiar, upturned nose, the tightly compressed lips, the new, faint lines of worry on his forehead, the lines of pain around mouth and eyes... eyes. Those jade-green, endlessly deep eyes. He felt himself drowning in them, sliding deeper and deeper into a sea of emerald... and then - a brief glare of illumination broke the neon-lit darkness of their refuge. Then, Krycek's hand was off his mouth and moving, but not outwards, as he had expected, but sideways, along the side of his face, and those jade green eyes were liquid pools in the shadowed night, and then - and then Krycek's lips were on his, pressing them open with insistence, with strength, and warmth, and Mulder was too shocked to fight back, too shocked to do anything but reack to he kiss with his lips, with his tongue, with both hands, running his fingers through the other man's short, rain-soaked hair, wrapping the other hand around the back of his neck. Krycek's mouth tasted of spice, and of something without a name, like fire, only darker and more intense, and despite the danger, despite the incongruity of being in an alleyway kissing *Alex Krycek* in the middle of the night, while would-be assassins hunted them - despite all of that, he found himself lost in the sensations of tongue on tongue, lips on lips, and of Krycek's hand, still holding the gun, pressed against the side of his face. When Krycek broke the contact - the kiss - stepping back as though nothing had happened, he almost whimpered, taking a step forward before he came to himself again. Shock and - he refused to call it longing - were replaced by anger, and paralysis by the swift, violent movement of his fist towards the other man's face, stopped only by the animal-like reflexes of Krycek's trained body. Mulder felt his back hit the wall again, and Krycek's face was suddenly only inches away again, the intensity from those shadowed eyes slamming into him like thunderbolts.

     "Don't ever touch me again," Krycek hissed. Those five words, repeated as they had been once, in a Russian gulag, sent rage shooting through him like fire, and he would have lashed out again, except that Krycek's hand had somehow shifted position, and was pressing *something* on his neck that sent pain through him, and held him perfectly still. "Sorry to *violate* you, Mulder," his sarcasm cut like a knife, "but it was the only way to convince *them* to move on." Krycek's voice was bitter, anger and paindripping from every loaded syllable. But only for an instant. The next moment he was again out of arm's reach, again cool and collected, his voice as cold as the rain that still fell endlessly from the sky. "Now - I know somewhere safe we can stay for the night. I'll *try*" sarcasm again "to explain in the morning, but for now..." He stopped talking, and moved away, out of the alley, leaving Mulder with no choice but to follow.


Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost 2 - Though the Brightest Fell
Total Parts: 1
Status: WIP
Pairings: M/K
Rating: R
Spoilers: Everything through season 7 is fair game.
Series: Lost #2, sequel to Something Wicked This Way Comes
Summary: A threat to Mulder's life brings Krycek back into the game full-force.
Author's Notes: This is a continuation of Lost 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes. Beta is provided by the wonderful vldd - any mistakes remain through my own stubborness. Pleeease send feedback to
Warnings: If you don't like m/m interaction, why are you here?
Disclaimer: They're not mine. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions - even though they'd enjoy themselves much more if they were mine. I promise I'll put them back none the worse for wear.

Lost 2 - Though the Brightest Fell
by Broken Angel

I can't believe I did that.

I was so sure that we were going to be caught, was so certain that the end of my life was mere seconds away, that I did it.

I kissed Fox Mulder.

And by some miracle, our pursuers overlooked us.

It was more an act of surrender than a gesture of passion. I'm not *quite* twisted enough to be excited by my own imminent demise. I did it almost out of reflex - a stubborn refusal to die without having kissed him at least once.

I never imagined that he'd kiss me back.

I was certain, however, once my brain took over from my hormones, that he would try to hit me.

Ironic, isn't it - or maybe just typical of my life - that I was far more prepared for violence than for returned passion. In a way, I was grateful when he swung at me - it returned my life to the expected track it's taken for the past 32 years.

I'm beginning to feel the pain in my wounded leg as the adrenaline in my body diminishes. But that's okay - my hiding place is just around the corner.

I slip down the narrow stairway, and turn to make sure that Mulder is still following me. He is, rather to my surprise.

Putting my gun away, I fumble in my pocket for my keyring. I hate being defenseless, and with only one arm, it happens often - whenever I have something in my hand except for a weapon, actually.

I stoop briefly to make certain that the little wires that I leave in place to alert me to unauthorized entry are unbent. They are. It's safe here.
The keys finally come free, and after a brief struggle to find the right one in the dim light, I have the door open, and am inside, turning on the lights.

I turn again, and he's still standing there, rain pouring down on him, the light from the doorway casting his features into strange shadows.

"Well?" I say.

He comes inside, moving almost mechanically, and his eyes are flat and angry.

For an instant, I am afraid that he was shot back there in his apartment, and I didn't notice in the rushed darkness. But the only blood on the floor is mine - he is unmarked, merely tired and angry. Once inside, the dull rage in his eyes changes to malignant curiosity.

"What's this, Krycek?" he almost hisses. "One of your rat-holes?"

"Bolt-holes," I shoot back. "And be glad of this one, *Agent* Mulder - it's keeping your sorry ass alive for at least one more night."

Is there as much anger in my voice as I think I hear?

He doesn't answer. Instead, he looks around, his eyes taking in the slightly dusty interior, the simple table and chairs, the couch, the TV - and the illegal black box on top that I use to steal the best cable channels. I've never been one to pay for what I can simply reach out and take.

Surprisingly, he doesn't comment on the black box, but continues his scan of the premises, noting the doorway that leads back to bedroom and bathroom.

There are no windows, and the doors are made of steel - both the one behind him, and the other one that he can't see, because it's in the back.

This is one of my most secure bolt-holes - I can hold it for as long as necessary. Aside from the two doors, there are two crawl spaces - each big enough for two people to hide in - and one tunnel hidden by a trapdoor in the back. It leads to the building across the street, and to safety - just in case I'm ever discovered.

"Come on in, Mulder," I say, and move behind him, kicking the door shut with my good leg. The left one - the one that's been shot - buckles under me, and I stagger a little bit before I catch my balance, pain shooting through me.

His eyebrows furrow in concerned surprise. "Are you hurt?"

"What clued you in, Mulder?" I ask sarcastically. "The blood on the floor or my wincing with pain?"

Slipping my right arm out of my jacket, I shrug it off of my left shoulder, letting it fall to the ground. I walk into the bathroom, flicking the lightswitches as I go, trailing blood from my injured leg.

Once in the bathroom, I reach for the medical kit I always keep under the sink in my bolt-holes and prop my leg up on the sink, so that the blood drains into the sink, rather than the floor.

Opening bottles of hydrogen peroxide is difficult - if not impossible with one hand, and I am still struggling with it when a long, slender hand takes the bottle from me.

I didn't even notice him coming. Shows how good *my* survival instincts are, right?

He opens the bottle, and is about to pour the peroxide on my leg when a disgusted frown crosses his face.

"Krycek, take your pants off."

Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost 2: Though the Brightest Fell
Status: WIP
Pairings: M/K
Rating: R
Spoilers: Anything through Season 7 is fair game
Series: Lost #2, sequel to Lost 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes
Summary: A threat to Mulder's life brings Krycek back into the game full force.
AuthorNotes: *Please* send feedback! Flames will be used to make fake dragons with. Beta provided by the wonderful vlbb - any mistakes are left because I'm too damn stubborn to change them.
Warnings: If you don't like m/m interaction, go away.
Disclaimer: They are, sadly, not mine. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. *pout* I'll put them back after I'm done, I promise.

I look up at him, startled. I'm certain that I look like an idiot with my mouth hanging open.

"Why?" My voice is shaking. Irritation still shows in his face, and for a moment, I wonder if he's just going to throw the bottle of hydrogen peroxide at me. It wouldn't suprise me.

His cell phone rings, and the irritation fades as he answers it. He's still holding on to the bottle of peroxide and I feel a brief flare of jealousy. *He* can still hold two things at the same time. I force those thoughts down - the pathway of regret leads only to madness.

Someone told me that once, a long time ago, when the blood of my first kill was still gleaming wetly on the floor in front of me, and I've lived by that maxim ever since. It keeps me sane.

Belatedly, I tune in to Mulder's conversation. I *definitely* don't want him to reveal our location - if he even knows it. That would compromise this bolt-hole and I'd have to move. Besides, I like this place.

"-no, honestly, Scully," he says, "I'm not hurt." There is a brief silence, and then, "You wouldn't believe it." He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "Krycek." He has to hold the phone several inches from his ear at that, and even I can hear her exclamation of anger, undiluted over god only knows how many miles of airspace.

He returns the phone to his ear. Apparently, she's still talking, because for the next few minutes he merely nods his head, murmuring his assent into the phone on occasion. When she finally lets him speak, he flicks a slightly malevolent glance at me.

"Actually, I don't know. No, he hasn't told me." He listens again, then, "That's a good idea." Putting his hand over the mouth of the phone, he turns to me. "Krycek, where is this place?"

Abstractedly, I notice that I am beginning to feel faint from loss of blood. The actual bleeding has slowed, but I've already lost a lot of blood. I don't answer Mulder. I *really* don't want Scully around if I'm not in perfect condition. To be totally honest, I don't want her around then, either. She's never had the same ambiguity towards me as Mulder does. Her hatred is uncorrupted, plain detestation -- to be honest, I don't like her either.

"He's not answering," I hear Mulder say. It's only then that I realize that I have closed my eyes. "Shit, Scully," he says, "I think he's passed out." He sounds disgusted.

I want to open my eyes, to tell him that I'm still awake, but I'm too tired and can't be bothered. I do manage to shake my head a little, though.

"No, he's awake... What happened? He got shot and he's lost a lot of blood." A pause. "No, not yet." I can actually understand Scully's words this time. Something about his irresponsiblity in letting me bleed to death. I smile faintly. There is no doubt in my mind that she'd be happy if I died, but the doctor in her refuses to allow Mulder to kill me through irresponsibility and/or negligence.

"432 Desert Circle," I mutter.

"What?" Apparently, he didn't hear me.

"Give me the phone."

"No." His tone is stubborn. "Scully? Yeah, I'm still here. The rat-bastard wants to talk to you." Again, a pause. "You're sure? Okay." He hands the phone to me, glaring.

"Hi," I say.

"Krycek?" she says. Her voice is angry, but not uncontrollably so. I've always admired Scully's self-control. "What do you want from him?" I sigh. Of course she doesn't trust me. She's not stupid. But it would be nice if *someone* trusted me, at least once in a while. It would make my life *so* much easier.

"I don't want anything from him, Scully. In case you didn't know, I'm sitting here bleeding into my sink from a bullet I took while saving his life."

"You?" I can almost hear her eyebrows raise.

"Yes, me. And I'll even tell you where to find us - on three conditions." Mulder is glaring at me again. He obviously doesn't like me talking to Scully. Too bad.

"What conditions?" she asks, giving the word a distasteful spin.

"First, that you don't reveal this location - to anyone. Second, that you come alone. And third, bring medical supplies."

"And you trust me?"

"Not really."

"Then why are you telling me this?" She's being sarcastic, but I ignore her.

"432 Desert Circle, Scully. And - just to make sure that you don't violate the conditions, I'm holding him at gunpoint. One wrong move, and I'll put a bullet through his head."

"After all the pains you took to save him?"

"Yes," I say, and hang up the phone.


Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost 2 - Though the Brightest Fell
Status: WIP
Pairings: M/K
Rating: R
Spoilers: Anything from season 7 is fair game - except Requiem.
Series: Lost #2, Sequel to Lost 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes
Summary: A threat to Mulder's life brings Krycek back into the game full - force.
Author Notes: Much thanks to vlbb for the incredible beta. Any errors remain due to my own stubborness. It has become an AU due to necessity - "Requiem" never happened in this timeline. Pleeease send feedback!
Warnings: If you don't like m/m interaction, go away.
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me - although I wish they did.

When I look back at Mulder, he's glaring at me again, as if hoping that sheer willpower might make me drop dead on the spot. The anger in his glare scorches my soul, and I want nothing more than to apologize, to wrap my arm around him and kiss that look off his face.

Instead, I close his cell phone and throw it back at him. It takes him by surprise, but he still manages to catch it. Of course he does - *he* still has two hands. He bends to place the peroxide on the floor and when he straightens up, the anger on his face has not faded at all.

"Why don't you point your gun at me, Krycek?" he says. The bitterness in his voice is a scourge. "I thought that was how we were doing things now."

"Why not?" I sigh. I hadn't wanted to hold a weapon on him until just before Scully came. I don't like threatening him - it destroys that confused aspect of our relationship and makes it clear that we are opposites.

He's still looking at me, so I pull my gun and point it in his general direction. I'm not terribly concerned about it - Scully's on her way and he's not going anywhere. Besides, I'd really prefer to save all physical exertion for protecting myself when she shows up.

He's studying me with an intent, inscrutable look on his face, and I have to resist the sudden urge to cross my eyes and stick my tongue out at him. It would be amusing, but it would only make him angry, and as entertaining as that would be, it's not *quite* worth it.

"What happened to your arm?" he asks suddenly, as if he's trying to startle me into a coronary. Possible answers fly through my head - everything from the smartass approach - 'Arm? What arm?' - to absolute silence.

I open my mouth, intending to speak only some clever lie, but all that comes out is, "Remember Tunguska?" I don't say anything else. From the look on his face, I don't have to.

To be honest, I'm surprised he didn't realize it already. But then, he wasn't expecting it. Funny - neither was I.

His gaze drops to my empty sleeve, and the sudden expression of pity and sympathy on that glorious face is almost too much to bear.

"Don't," I choke.

At the sound of my voice, he looks up, looks straight at me. I don't want to know what he can see in my face. All that I can think is that I *have* to break away from that haunting, sorrowful gaze.

I close my eyes, and lean my head back against the wall.

My life is, from necessity, lived entirely in the present, and his eyes are pulling me back into a past I cannot bear to think about. If I even glance at it, I know that I will drown in 'might have beens,' in guilt, and in what I have irretrievably lost.

And I don't just mean my arm. Yes, it hurts to think that a part of my body is rotting somewhere in the Tunguskan forest - it hurts like hell. But it's the loss of my innocence that hurts the most - the knowledge that I can never again believe in the goodness of human nature, that I will never again sleep without nightmares or fears, that I will never - *never* - feel safe without a gun in my hand. That is what threatens to submerge me, to send me spiraling downwards to destruction. It's hardly surprising that I choose not to look back.

The first indication that I have that he has moved is his touch on my good shoulder. I open my eyes, and am startled by his nearness - he is less than six inches away from me, his face so intense that it burns, lips slightly parted.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, so softly that I can barely hear him. I feel the warmth of his breath on my face and I inhale slightly, pulling his air into my lungs. For almost a full minute we stand like this, as close to an embrace as we can come without actually kissing. His hand on my shoulder burns like a lead ingot, and the space between us practically *hums* with electricity. He runs his tongue across his lower lip. I think I'm going to faint from pure pleasure.

When he tilts his head towards mine, it is so imperceptible that I can barely tell at first - merely a minute shifting of muscles, a small slope of chest and shoulders downwards towards my face. And then - he closes the last few inches between us so swiftly that I barely have time to realize what's happening. Suddenly, his lips are on mine, his hand is curling around the back of my neck, and his tongue is caressing mine. The taste of him, like spices and heat, is so wonderful that I feel I am going to die from ecstasy.

He pulls back slightly, and gently kisses my lips. I flick my tongue across his lower lip. It is just as exquisite as I had dreamed it would be, tasting of rose petals and spice - like his mouth, only subtly different, far more delicate. I lean into him, burning with *something.* All I know is that I have *never* felt this way before. I'm not even sure if I want to. It is as though I am melting, warped by the fire of his kiss. I need it to end - I never want it to end. He pulls away first, a heart-wrenching combination of confusion and want in his eyes.

I move forwards again, putting my lips on his, losing myself in his mouth, in his scent, in the feeling of my tongue on his. Again he returns my kiss, and the wonder of his response almost overwhelms me. I am about to take it a degree further, to move it into my bedroom, when I notice a red glow through my closed eyelids.

Breaking away from him, I open my eyes. As I feared, the red light above my door is alight, meaning that someone has entered the alleyway. It's probably Scully, and I want to swear or hit my hand against the wall - hard.

Mulder opened his eyes when I broke away from him and is eyeing the red light with alarmed curiosity.

"Someone's coming," I say, pushing him out to arm's length and bringing my gun to bear on his chest. The hurt in his eyes makes me want to turn it against my temple and shoot myself in the head.

I walk him to the door and, holding him at gunpoint, look through the peephole at the street. It's Scully, and she's alone. I guess she took me seriously.

With a sigh, I turn the locks and open the door.


Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost 2: Though The Brightest Fell
Status: Complete
Pairings: M/K
Rating: R
Summary: Missing part of Lost 2
AuthorNotes: I just realized that this part, although up on my homepage, was not up on the Basement. Sorry about that.
Warnings: If you don't like it, go away.
Disclaimer: They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Any lawsuit will get the suer all of my worldly possessions, which consist of ten pairs of dirty socks and a half-smoked pack of cigarettes.

"And I will never leave you, until we can say this world was just a dream -
we were sleeping - now we are awake..."
      -Live, "Run to the Water"

"Oh, no - not me - we never lost control. You're face to face with the man who sold the world."
      -David Bowie, "Man Who Sold the World"

It's surprising how gentle Scully can be, particularly when I'm the one she's being gentle *to.* After all, I did help Cardinale kill her sister -even if I didn't mean to - and I *was* partially responsible for her abduction.

I suppose that she considers herself a doctor first and foremost, and hatred comes secondary to her Hippocratic Oath.

Mulder is still glaring at me, and I want to tell him that if he keeps making that face it's going to stick that way.

But I think he'd probably hit me.

I settle for raising an eyebrow at him instead - he *hates* that - and for following the eyebrow with a particularly annoying grin.

His frown deepens, and for a second, I think that he's going to get up and hit me after all, but he remains seated on the bathroom floor.

I can't deny that I'm glad about that - I'm really in no mood to be hit -not even by Mulder, whose violence I tolerate because it's the only way to be near him, to tell him what he needs to hear, and to drink in the intoxication his presence provides.

My damned leg is still hurting. It turns out that the bullet grazed my calf, leaving a half-inch furrow in my leg - one more scar that I will wear until the end of my days.

Scully finishes bandaging my leg, and looks at me. Her bright blue eyes are cool, but I think there might be just a hint of concern lurking in their depths. Probably just traces of gratitude left over from my rescue of Mulder.

"Are you all right Krycek?" she asks. Her words surprise me.

Before I get a chance to answer her, Mulder interrupts.

"He's fine, Scully. I don't think the wound was that deep."

Ignoring him, I answer Scully.

"I'm fine." I shrug. "I've been worse."

Those sapphirine eyes flicker towards what used to be my left arm. She has more tact than Mulder, though, and doesn't mention my glaring disability.

"So, why did you show up tonight, Krycek? Don't tell me you knew about the hit and wanted to save my life - I won't believe you."

"You won't believe anything I say, Mulder, so I'll stick to what I can prove. I came to give you information. I didn't know about the hit - my appearance was a coincidence - I just happened to have some free time on my hands tonight, and some information I needed to give you as soon as possible."

"Then give me the information so that we can get the hell out of here."

He won't be safe if he leaves, with or without my information, and neither will she. I don't have much of a conscience left, but the shards of human decency his presence forces into me refuse to let me endanger them further.

The only thing I can do is to keep them here until we - the three of us -can act on what I know. I hadn't wanted to involve either Scully or myself, but circumstances have dictated otherwise - damn them.

"If I tell you now, you'll take off, and you aren't going anywhere tonight -it's not safe."

To emphasize my words, I gesture slightly with my gun.

Neither of them are happy with the situation, but they really haven't got much of a choice. Even though I let Mulder throw me around whenever he feels like it, I *am* a trained killer, every synapse in my body programmed to react as efficiently and as fatally as possible.

I set Scully up in the bedroom. The surprise in her face when she sees the shower and full-length tub is almost worth the irritation of having her here, in what I consider my sanctum.

I give Mulder the couch - he's used to it, after all - and ignore the look he shoots my way. I guess he's going to pretend that we never touched.

He can pretend all he wants - *I'm* going to remember it for the rest of my life.

While the two of them settle down for the night, I grab a spare blanket and pillow. With a final warning not to try anything in the middle of the night, I wrap myself in the blanket and rest my head on the pillow.

Memories flood my thoughts, memories of the soft tone of his voice as he spoke, of the feel of his mouth when he leaned in, so gently, so--- no, Aleksandr. That way lies madness.

Closing my eyes, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, and the metallic tang in my mouth is almost strong enough to banish the taste of him.

I should never have been so stupid as to let him get so close to me - to get under my skin, like a virus, a rash that will never heal.

"Never let anyone get close enough to steal your wallet," although cliched, is still one of the best pieces of advice I've heard. Of course I was too stupid to pay attention.

It's the eyes - those terribly intense hazel eyes that broke through the defenses that my childhood carefully beat into me, the eyes that pick out, unfailingly, the lingering humanities of a soul steeped in blood.

The temptation of swallowing a bullet right now is viciously tempting.

I don't know what's happening to me. It used to be a simple matter to shake off the loneliness - I used to take pride in being able to rely only on myself.

But the desire to trust someone is weighing me down, pulling at my soul with the combined weight of all my sins.

But trust is a dream of innocents - and I am no longer innocent. I don't think I ever was.

~~The fire burns a dull red, and I can see its reflection in their eyes as they silently close in around me, moving infinitely slowly, but with a singleness of purpose that terrifies me.

I try to get up, to escape, but something has frozen my limbs in place, and I can not move.

I can barely breathe.

One of them is bringing his hand up, and I can see the white-hot heat of the blade, can feel it as it moves slowly, closer and closer to my flesh. My skin begins to blister, and I can smell myself burning as the knife hisses against my arm.

The pain sweeps through my arm in waves, intense and ragged, and I can feel the nerve endings in my hand begin to sever, can feel the sharp, stinging agony as my synapses communicate the last sensations that my left hand will ever know, the touch of dirt and pine needles in the frost-cold ground as my fingers cling to the Russian earth in their death agonies.

I feel the knife slicing through tendons and muscles, each layer of my anatomy a different type of pain, twisting into a hard knot in my stomach as I thrash against the dozens of un-matched hands holding me down.

I can hear the harsh, grating sound of the blade sliding along and *through* the bone of my arm. The noise of superheated steel on bone is worse than anything one can imagine, and the smell of burning flesh - *my* flesh -clings to the inside of my nostrils and to the back of my throat and I'm gagging on the smell of my own incinerating skin.

A scream rips itself from the depths of my soul, tearing its way past years of self-restraint.

And they are gone, vanished like so many wraiths into the night, leaving me there alone and bleeding, *dying* like I never have before, far worse than the smooth, cool, sanitary death of the silo, all darkness and emptiness, my voice echoing around and around the walls, reverberating itself into madness while the *thing* within me pours out of my nose and eyeballs and my pores, twisting my conciousness while the darkness and the thirst and the violent, aching hunger burn through me, and I scream, and scream, and scream...~~

I jerk upright, the hoarse noise from my throat that I barely recognize as human still ringing in my eardrums. My gun is in my hand - how did it get there? - and my breath is coming in ragged gasps, tearing at my throat. I can taste oil in my mouth, smell the blistering of my skin, and the remnants of my arm burn with renewed pain, throbbing with the remembered heat of a fiery blade on a frozen Russian night.

Nausea wells up within me, bile rushing to the back of my throat, and I am up and moving before I can think, towards the bathroom, towards solace, and the pure white oval of porcelain that will wash away the acidic traces of nightmare.

I haven't eaten anything in the last 24 hours, so it is pure acid that I choke on, fiery traces of sins etching their burning path along my throat, while behind me, my body wracks itself in convulsive heaves, muscles tensed and spasming, my hand clasping the sink the only thing holding me up, a white-knuckled link to reality, preventing my soul from following the acid burn of bile down into swirling oblivion.

He comes up behind me, unusually silent, and he is the very last person I want to see me like this, weakened and shaking, doubled ingloriously over the toilet while everything I haven't eaten comes back up in nightmare-induced sickness.

I straighten and turn, determined to meet him standing. And he's doing it again - looking at me with that dreadful gentleness in his eyes. I don't understand him. Less than two hours ago, he was sniping at me, making cruelly stinging comments - and now, there's such a strange mixture of concern and bewilderment in his face that makes my vision go blurry.

"I don't know why I feel like this," he says, so softly as to be barely audible, "I don't understand it. You killed my father - you helped them take Scully - but I don't hate you for it anymore. Maybe it's because I trusted you, once, a long time ago, maybe it's because you saved my life tonight, but I can't hate you anymore - not after what they took from you. Maybe it makes up for it somehow, maybe it's a type of atonement - I don't know."

I'm left reeling under the quiet assault of his words, dizzy from the tacit forgiveness I have craved for so long, and I open my mouth to speak, but he continues to talk, rationalizing the death of his hatred for me, and all I can do is listen.

"It's six in the morning, and I haven't slept at all. I've been trying to convince myself to hate you again, that you're traitorous scum, but it doesn't seem to matter anymore. I don't know your motives, and I can't judge them until I do. But for now, you seem to be helping me, and I don't know why I should accept your help - after all, your last plan didn't work so well - but I know I will, and I know I can convince Scully as well. Why I'm going to do it, I don't know - but I will."

He falls silent, and is about to turn and walk off, when some impulse makes him turn around again. He reaches one hand out, and traces one finger along the thin white scar on my cheekbone. It is a gesture that I don't quite understand - but it seems to fufill something within him, and he retreats to the shadows beyond the antiseptic light of the bathroom, leaving me alone and burning with the memory of his touch.

Author: Broken Angel
Title: Lost 3: A Shadow Like An Angel
Status: Complete
Pairings: M/K
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Any through Tunguska/Terma
Series: Lost #3, sequel to Lost 2 - Though The Brightest Fell
Summary: Krycek leads Mulder and Scully to some information that will help in their search for the truth.
AuthorNotes: Okay, I realize that the spoilers have changed - I decided to change the timeframe of the story (especially after the events in "Requiem." Oh, and *pleeease* send feedback - I live for it!
Warnings: If you don't like this stuff, then you shouldn't be here.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. (Damn it!)

Lost 3: A Shadow Like An Angel

"You dozed, and watched the night revealing / The thousand sordid images / Of which your soul was constituted; / They flickered against the ceiling."
    -T.S. Eliot, "Preludes"

"Expecting always / Some brightness to hold in trust / Some final innocence / Exempt from dust..."
    -Stephen Spender, "What I Expected"

"And we are here as on a darkling plain / Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, / Where ignorant armies clash as if by night."
    -Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"


I don't know how long I've been sitting here, staring into the blackness of my thoughts. Ever since Mulder went back to bed, I have been alone with my fears and uncertainties.

What I am about to give them is, for lack of a better word, dynamite. Combined with Mulder's notoriously obsessive stubbornness, this could collapse the Consortium around the nicotine-stained old bastard's ears.

But I am afraid. I'm putting them in danger, and if he gets hurt - or killed --

A soft sound behind me interrupts my thoughts, makes me turn. It's Scully, and despite the fact that she's probably slept in her clothing, she looks immaculate.

"Hey, Scully," I greet her. She nods a distant acknowledgment and sits in one of the ratty chairs, fixing me with an icy blue stare.

"What are you up to, Krycek?" Her voice is winter-cold.

"I'm paying a debt, Agent Scully. To both of you." She raises one eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

"I told Mulder the first day we met that I believed in him. I wasn't lying."

"For once."

"Yes," I admit blandly, "for once. I *do* believe him - I've seen proof." An involuntary shudder runs through me at the memory of cold black oil sliding inside me, infiltrating my thoughts and memories. I've never been able to remember anything from that time, and some of my memories of other times have been destroyed too.

"Proof of what?" she asks.

If she wants honesty, fine. She's not going to like it, though.

"Proof of extraterrestrial life. Proof of an international conspiracy to accommodate colonization by an unfriendly and non-human group. Proof of human experimentation. Proof of the deliberate production of a virus, that if spread, would decimate the human race. Proof of perjury, government cover-ups, lies, murder, and deliberately created chaos stemming from those in the highest levels of power. Mulder's right, Scully. He's *been* right. The conspiracy that he's constantly mocked for believing in *exists.* Don't you understand? Melissa's death, your cancer, Samantha's disappearance - all examples of a conspiracy right in front of you, if you'd just *open* your *eyes!*"

The stunned look on her face is vaguely satisfying. I get up from the couch and leave her sitting there alone.

I go into Mulder's room. He's not asleep. Instead, he's sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at me with an expression that pierces me to the soul.

"I heard what you said," and he looks troubled. "Did you mean any of it?"

"Would you believe me no matter what I told you?" The bitterness in my voice twists along my syllables so audibly that even I can hear it, hanging heavily in the air between us, the tension almost unbearable. I drop my eyes finally, and run my hand over my hair.

I don't know if it's the awkwardness of my movement or the pain in my voice when I spoke, but he stands up, placing one hand on my bad shoulder. It takes all of my control not to flinch away from his touch as he moves his hand down along the scarred remains of my arm. I look up at him, drawing air between my teeth in a breath of trepidation. His eyes are terribly gentle, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth in concentration. He pulls my shirt-sleeve up and looks at the scars, then puts out one finger to touch the marks left by a peasant's heated knife.

"Stop," I hiss. I can't bear to have him looking at my arm, at the proof of my loss. He ignores me, and I grab his hand, forcing it away from me.

"I said stop!" My voice is shaking. "I don't need your fucking pity!"

"Did it hurt?" he asks. His voice is not spiteful - it is soft and terribly compassionate, as though he actually cares, as if it matters to him what I feel, felt, want...

The sharp pain as my fist slams into the wall brings me back to myself, and Mulder steps back, eyes wary. I can't afford to let him get closer to me, not while all of this is going on. Afterwards...

But afterwards, all of my sins will have been dragged naked into the cold light of judgment, ripped away from the shaded ambiguity of my relationship with this quixotic, neurotic, beautiful wreck of a man.

"Come on," I say, relieved to hear that my voice is steadier. "Scully's waiting, and we have things to do." And I turn and walk out of the room.

                            * * *

"Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? / Was it perversity that I longed to talk to him? / Was it humility to feel so honored? / I felt so honored..."
    -D.H. Lawrence, "Snake"


He didn't know what to make of Krycek. The man had no discernible loyalties, and his only apparent motive was self-preservation. He was like some half-feral creature, both in actions and physical resemblance, slim with whip-like muscles and deadly reflexes, and cat-like green eyes that never rested for long.

He wasn't about to deny that he'd been, at least on some level, attracted to the younger man since they'd first met, but FBI rules, then blinding rage, had kept him from pursuing that attraction.

Shaking his head, Mulder went out to join Krycek and Scully.

The car ride was uncomfortable. Krycek didn't seem to want to talk, and Scully was concentrating on driving. Mulder sat in the back seat and tried to distract himself from the tension in the car by replaying scenes from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" in his head.

He was half-way through the dismemberment of the Black Knight when Scully parked. Startled, he looked up. They were in a wooded area, parked on a gravel road, and there were glimpses of a white building visible through the trees.

"We'll get out here," Krycek announced. "Scully, you take the car back to that hotel we drove by earlier and wait for us to call." She opened her mouth to protest, but he looked at her, and she closed it. Mulder grinned. If Krycek could shut Scully up that easily, maybe he should keep the younger man around.

Scully pulled away, her wheels crunching on the gravel, leaving him alone with Krycek.

                            * * *

"Let me be no nearer / In death's dream kingdom / let me also wear / such deliberate disguises / Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves / In a field / Behaving as the wind behaves / No nearer..."
    -T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"


I can tell Mulder's not happy. He's got that almost numb look in his eyes that he gets when he absolutely does not want anyone around him to see that he's upset. It's also the same look that lets everyone around him know something's bothering him.

"Nervous, Mulder?" I ask softly, and he shoots me a flat, nasty look.

"Y'know, Krycek," he says, "if you'd like to make this any easier, telling me what's going on might be a good way to start."

"Fine, but only if we can find some cover first." I move quietly back into the woods, away from the building, and we sit with our backs to a large rock, with the building behind us, ominous and silent.

"Nervous, Krycek?" he mocks me.

"Yes," I tell him, "and you should be too. That building is one of the storehouses where the Consortium keeps documentation of experiments, cover-ups, and other phenomena. And that's where we're going."

He starts to get up, and I grab his arm, pull him back down.

"*Later,*" I murmur. "For now, we have to wait. Quietly." He sits reluctantly, sinking to his heels on the soft forest floor.

"How long do we have to wait?"

"Maybe half an hour."

"Then why did you have Scully drop us off so early?" He sounds irritated.

"Because there are no guards at the end of that road until about half an hour before dusk, and I really didn't want to have to deal with them."

He's still not happy about it - I guess he doesn't want to sit on the ground in his Armani suit - but my explanation seems to satisfy him. To be honest, I don't feel much sympathy for him, partially because I'm still wearing my torn, bloodstained jeans from last night, and my cotton t-shirt is far from warm.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"Northern Virginia, near Arlington."

"It's cold."


He looks at me speculatively. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Don't play stupid," he says disgustedly. "Why are you helping me? Why are you betraying your masters?"

"They've *never* been my masters, Mulder."

"You know what I mean."

I look at him. Big mistake. He is burningly intense, eyes narrowed in curiosity, and the desire to kiss him is almost overpowering. I have to force myself to sit still, not to reach out and caress his face with my hand, press my lips softly against his eyelids and cheekbones. He is so clean, so untainted, that he seems almost otherworldly sitting there on the ground, and he has placed himself so clearly in my mind that this memory will haunt me in the darkness of my soul.

"Well?" he says, dragging me out of my thoughts.

"Well what?"

"Why *are* you doing this?"

"Because I owe you," I say.

"Owe me what?"

"Mulder, I really don't want to get into it right now," I tell him. But the psychiatrist in him won't give up, and he's looking at me with an obstinacy that I know will not fade.

"Fine," I sigh. "You heard what I told Scully?" He nods impatiently, waiting for me to continue. "That's it," I tell him. "I don't want to live in a nightmare any more than you do, Mulder, and my record is such that no-one would accept this type of evidence from me. So I have to turn it over to you and Scully, and hope that you do the right things with it."

"Like what?"

"Expose them. Burn them so badly that all of their plans collapse into flames. Release the proof to the world so that *no* place is safe for them to hide, so that any possible refuge they may have is destroyed."

The sheer enormity of my words stuns him, and he rests his head against the rock behind him, closing his eyes.

"Is what's in there actually *that* damning?"

"Possibly even more so."

"Are you mentioned anywhere?" His tone is noncommittal, and I can read nothing in his eyes.

"Probably," I say, carefully bleaching all emotion from my voice. "You wouldn't think it, but that cancerous old bastard is obsessive about keeping records, and that means that I'm almost definitely mentioned."

"And incriminated?"


"Maybe we'll be able to get you some type of immunity in exchange for your help."

The sheer, absurd innocence of this statement is enough to make me fall in love with him all over again. It also makes me laugh until I am leaning weakly against the rock, my stomach muscles aching. He looks mildly hurt, and more than a little surprised.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"You are," I gasp.


"Even if your government would grant me immunity, I'd probably be killed in less than a month." That gets to him - I can see it in his eyes, the sobering realization that I probably won't live to see the end of this, to see my revenge completed.

"Witness Protection?" he asks.

"No, not a chance. Your government would never grant me immunity - probably not even a plea bargain."

"What did you *do,* Krycek?"

"Mulder, I was a pawn and player in the game for almost seven years. I've killed people. I've stolen secrets from your government. I've covered up evidence, lied to law enforcement agencies around the world, and otherwise increased the level of international chaos. And that's just recently, during and after I worked for the Smoker."

He's surprised by the intensity of my outburst, but even so, he is working to figure me out, to profile me. It's more than what he does - it's what he is. Despite his fascination with the X-Files and his obsessive paranoia, he is still a profiler at a very basic - almost instinctual - level that even he doesn't understand. It is his gift, much in the way that sparking havoc and unrest is mine. We are alike in that respect. Both of us are naturally gifted in certain areas, and use our abilities unconsciously to further our own ends. It was merely the toss of the dice that set us both on the same course, but it was our souls that directed us to use the opposite routes to achieve our ends.

"Just recently?" is all he asks, and I know that I've said too much, revealed too much, and given him things that he could use to find out who -and what - I originally was.

I don't answer him, and he reaches out and grabs my arm.

"Just recently?" he repeats, his hand gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises.

"Yes," I say. "Since 1991."

His eyes grow distant, as though he's trying to fit a final piece into a puzzle, and I am suddenly afraid of his judgment. He lets go of my arm and relaxes back against the rock.

"I think it's time for honesty, Krycek. Who *are* you working for?"


"But you weren't always."

"No. I used to work for the Smoker."

"And before that?" This is what I was afraid he would find out.

"The KGB."

He nods, slowly, as though he had been expecting my answer, and his eyes betray nothing.

"So how does a KGB agent end up working for the Consortium?"

"It's a long story."

"We have time." His voice is flat and hard, trapping me with words. It's odd. I've been in places and situations that most people can't even imagine. I've withstood professional torturers from the Consortium, and from other agencies around the world, but for some reason, I can not remain silent with that gaze upon me.

"I came to the USA in 1989, right after *pestroika* began. There was a group inside the KGB that was opposed to Gorbachev's policies of openness with the United States, and this group was planning a coup. My uncle, Ivanov Arntzen, was a part of this group, and so I was brought in because of that relationship. They sent me overseas, along with about nine other sleeper agent so that we would be in place to activate all KGB agents in the States in a strike against the US after the coup. But there was informer in my uncle's group, and they were turned in. All but two were sent to Siberia - those two were executed. My uncle was one of them. This was in '91. Control of the sleeper agents was passed to a man named Petrov Arkadeovitch, who ran us to suit his purposes. Eventually, the other nine were recalled to the U.S.S.R., but I was ordered into Quantico, where I was brought to the Smoker's attention."

I pause and look at him, and I can see the intense interest in his unguarded face.

"The Smoker approached me," I continue, "and recruited me just before the U.S.S.R. collapsed. He threatened to reveal my nationality and status as an active KGB agent to CIA men he knew unless I did as he directed. The next day was the official collapse of the U.S.S.R., and I agreed to his demands. I finished at Quantico, and began my work with you in '94." I glance at him. He's looking at me, and his eyes are unreadable.

"Well?" I ask him. Every muscle in my body is tensed, waiting for his judgment, and I don't know why I care so much. It's done already, all of my sins unredeemable, unalterable ghosts that will haunt me always, and I suddenly want to cry.

"Did you kill my father?"

"Yes," I tell him, and have to turn my face away to hide the sudden sting of tears.

"Why?" Not looking at him, I answer.

"Because they would have killed you if you'd learned what he was about to tell you - and because he knew that - he wasn't a stupid man."

I risk a glance at him. His face is still closed, heavily guarded against anyone who might dare to try to read his emotions.

"Why did you help them take Scully?"

"It was either her or you. And if I hadn't stopped that tram, it would have been both of you."

"Duane Barry?" He is slowly cataloguing every sin I may have committed against him, waiting to judge until a reckoning has been given, and the gratitude I suddenly feel is as profound as it is absurd.

"No. He was poisoned by someone else in the Smoker's employ."

He nods once, neither believing nor disbelieving, merely acknowledging.

"Melissa Scully?"

"Cardinale. We were there to look at the chip, and..." My voice trails off and I turn away again.

"There's just one more thing I want to know. Why'd you let them... experiment on me in Russia?"

"Because they were testing the *working vaccine* in that gulag! Even if the black cancer gets loose, you'll survive, you and everyone else who received that treatment."

"God *damn* it, Krycek," and his voice is suddenly rough with emotion, "why didn't you ever *tell* me?"

"Mulder, every time I saw you, I could barely breathe between punches. You never gave me the time to explain why I was there, let alone tell you my life story."

He is quiet, and the silence stretches uncomfortably between us. I want to know what he's thinking, what he feels about me now. Probably nothing, and I'm deluding myself to even imagine he might feel something besides hatred. For the second time today, tears sting at my eyes. I wipe them away angrily, trying to conceal my action from him, but he is sitting on my right, and sees my movement.

"Krycek... are you crying?"

"No," I tell him.

"You're lying," he says, but there's no rancor in his voice. I feel his hand warm on my shoulder, then his fingers, feather-light on my neck, little flaring spots of heat that shiver down my spine. He runs his fingers up through my hair, one finger caressing my ear, sliding over the delicate flesh, electricity burning along my skin where his finger touches. I turn my head to look at him, startled by his caress.

His face is intent, and when our eyes meet, he slides the palm of his hand over my face, curls his fingers around the back of my head, and tilts my face up towards his.

"Alex," he says, and his voice is terribly gentle. "Alex, don't cry."

"Why do you care?"

"I don't know," he says, "but I do."

And he kisses me.

His lips are soft and warm, and there is a tenderness there that I had not believed he could show to me. Under the gentle pressure of his tongue, I part my lips and slip my tongue into his mouth. There is no battle, just the ease of two mouths that fit perfectly together. We instinctually know the patterns of each others kisses, know just how to place our lips, and know the rhythm of tongues that belongs solely to this intimate an embrace. There is passion in this kiss, but not the searing type that can not distinguish between hatred and lust; rather, it is almost a promise. I can not bring my hand up to caress his face because I am using it to prop myself up, and oh, god I want my arm back. But not - never - as much as I need this.

The deep kiss turns softer, a caress of lips only, then he kisses the corner of my mouth, my eyelids, and finally my ear. His tongue tracing the path his finger made earlier. I shiver, and a soft moan escapes my lips. He pulls away, and I am afraid that I've ruined it, that he's remembered who and what I am, and all of the murders that lie black on my soul.

Instead of pulling out of reach, however, he kisses my forehead once, then smiles at me.

It is a genuine smile, too, not the smirk he usually gives me, and there is a warmth in his eyes that he's never directed at me before.

"Alex," he says, then again, "Alex," as though he is tasting my name, "we'd better get going." He's right - it's gotten dark - and I unzip the black backpack I've brought with me. I take out a Glock and hand it to him, then pass him a silencer.

"I have a gun," he reminds me.

"I know - but this one can't be traced back to anyone." Comprehension dawns, and is followed by a quick grin.

"You think of everything."

"Somebody has to." Pulling out two Berettas, I put silencers on both, then secure them in my ankle and shoulder holsters. I grab my lockpicks, shove them in the pocket of my jacket, then pick up the empty backpack and hand it to him as we get to our feet.

"Is Alex Krycek your real name?" he asks softly. I don't know why he picked this particular time to ask, but something in his tone tells me that it's important.

"Yes," I tell him. "Aleksandr Nikolay, if you want the whole thing." A flash of white teeth in the dusk is my answer, and I grin back. "Come on, Mulder. Let's go."

We move quickly through the gathering darkness, Mulder following me, both of us walking as quietly as possible. The building looms in front of us, huge and white, like some obscene kind of misplaced egg. A twist of apprehension squirms in my stomach. The events I'm about to set in motion will probably kill me. There's always a chance, though, and if I'm lucky, I'll live to see that cancerous old bastard beg.

Fifty feet from the door, a slight movement catches my eye.

"Down," I hiss, and we slowly lower ourselves to the ground as I pull the Beretta from my ankle holster.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

Ignoring him, I take aim at the indistinct shape, then carefully squeeze the trigger twice, one shot to the head, another to the heart as the man drops silently. The muffled noise of the gun firing seems terribly loud in the unnatural quiet. We wait, perfectly still, for three or four minutes until the lack of other movement convinces me that this death went unnoticed.

We move to the door, and I drag the dead body into the woods. Covering him with brush, I return to Mulder and pull my lockpicks out of my pocket. Kneeling on the ground, I slip one into the lock.

"Watch for anyone coming," I tell him. The lock is complicated, and it takes a good five minutes for me to open it. When the door finally opens, Mulder lets out an explosive breath.

"That took long enough," he says.

"I have *one hand,* Mulder." It might be my imagination, but he suddenly looks ashamed of himself.

"Sorry." I shrug his apology off, and we go inside. Ten steps later, we have to stop at a set of glass doors. There's a keypad for disabling the alarm, and I punch in the code my informant gave me. The red light flicks to green, and we go through the doors together.

Not wanting to risk a light, I pull a small flashlight from my pocket and turn it on, keeping the beam low on the ground. The building beyond the doors is a maze of antiseptic-looking passageways, and the glimmer of my little flashlight barely makes a dent in the darkness.

The corridors that lead to the file room slope downwards, and the further underground we go, the closer the walls seem to be, the closer my panic hovers. Memories of the silo, of hunger and thirst and screaming myself hoarse while I slam my hands into the door again and again in a futile attempt to be heard threaten to overwhelm me. Distantly, I am aware of my breathing, which has become harsh and irregular, and I realize that I am shaking, the beam of the flashlight dancing back and forth across the walls as my hand trembles. I can't *do* this. The darkness, the closeness, are palpable, living, unfriendly forces that close around and choke me. I drop the flashlight and turn to run, to flee back to the open air of the woods -and bump into Mulder. For one brief, terrible instant all I can think is that I can't get out, that I'm trapped and am going to die here in the dark and the closeness. And then he grabs me by the shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.

"Alex, what's wrong?" He sounds worried enough that it reaches me, even in this state of near-panic. "What *is* it, Alex?" I shake my head. To talk about it now, in this place, would bring the deep, unreasoning panic screaming out of the corners of my mind. At this point, with his hands on my shoulders, I can fight it, but if I open my mind to the memories, I will be lost.

Instead, I concentrate on the feel of his fingers gripping me. Breathing becomes easier, and the walls seem to loom less closely. If this man's touch can hold back even my fear of small, dark places...

I pull away from him and retrieve the flashlight.

"I'll explain later," I tell him, and my voice is rough. He's still bewildered, but I push onward anyway. The darkness and closeness still press on me, but they are controllable for the moment. "Oh, Mulder?"


"Thanks." He doesn't answer me, and we go further into the twistingly sterile passages of a conspiracy that stretches over three generations and holds the entire world in its claws.

We stop in front of a door so nondescript as to be almost unnoticeable.

"Here," I say, passing him the flashlight. I drop to my knees in the passageway and take out my lockpicks.

This lock is even worse than the other one, and at least fifteen minutes go by before the door swings gently inward. When I get to my feet, I'm trembling, and my face is sweating.

"Sorry," I tell him. "That's one of the major disadvantages of having only one arm. He helps me to my feet.

"I feel like I should apologize to you," he says wryly. "After all, if I hadn't dragged you to Russia..." I shrug his arm off mine, and go inside. He follows me in - and then stops. He's staring around like someone just let him into Heaven. The rows of filing stretch on for what seems like an eternity, and each one contains enough of his Truth to keep him occupied for years.

"Over here," I tell him, gesturing towards a section of filing cabinets that stand just a little apart from the rest. He looks regretfully at the others as he joins me. "These," I say, "are the ones that have to do with the actual conspiracy. Take what you can - we have about fifteen minutes before we need to head back."

He nods, and starts opening drawers, pulling out files and putting them into the backpack. I stand guard, occasionally directing his attention to the more incriminating sections of filing.

He fills the backpack quickly, pulling files out seemingly at random. At one point, he stops, looks more closely at the file in his hands, then gives it to me.

The label on it reads "Krycek, Aleksandr," and I know without opening what it contains. I give it back to him, and he starts to put it in the backpack, then stops and rips it into four pieces before shoving it into his pocket. I blink away the sudden sting in my eyes.

Even after the backpack is full, he continues to pull out files, stacking them neatly on the floor. We're almost out of time when he stands up, the backpack heavy on his shoulder, then bends and picks up the stack from the floor.

"Let's go," he says, and we do, wiping fingerprints off of cabinets and handles, locking the door behind us.

The journey back to the outside is not as bad, but I'm still gasping, desperate for open space when we close the last door. We move back into the woods, traveling away from the guarded perimeter.

Once we've passed through the most dangerous area, I reach over and pull his cell phone out of his suit jacket.

"What's Scully's number?" He gives it to me, and I call her to tell her where to meet us. She sounds worried when she answers, but her voice slides back into ice-cool registers when I tell her that Mulder's fine.

After I hang up, I turn to him.

"The road's about 500 yards that way, and she'll meet us there. You need to stay out of sight until I make sure it's her. We *don't* want to get caught, especially at this point." He grins at me, an infectious Mulder-grin that tugs an answering smile on to my lips. When we reach the road, hanging back in the shadows to wait for Scully, I take advantage of his full arms to lean in and steal a kiss.

I can feel him stiffen at first, uncertain what to do, and then his entire body softens, relaxes into mine, and we lose ourselves in the oh-so-intimate rhythm of mouths, gentle and burningly fierce.

Headlights cut through the night, and I pull away from him reluctantly, motioning to him to stay back as I go towards the car. It's Scully, and a gesture to Mulder brings him out of the woods, loaded down with files, an armful of truth with which to set the world on fire.

Once we get into the car, the tension breaks, and Mulder and I are grinning like idiots and laughing in relief. Scully merely looks at us and smiles, the picture of adult tolerance.

"We got it, Scully!" Mulder tells her.

"Got what?"

He turns to me. "You didn't tell her?"

"The fewer people who knew beforehand, the better. I didn't tell you either."

"True," he says, then turns back to Scully, explaining where we've been and what we were doing there. I notice that he leaves out our conversation by the rock - and our kisses.

As he talks on, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes, letting their voices and the noise of the car wash over me as I fall asleep.

                            * * *

"Or be you in the gutter where you stand,/Pale, rain-flawed phantom of the place/With news of all the nations in your hand/And all their sorrows in your face."
        -"Six O'Clock in Prince's Street"


Alex Krycek was sleeping, curled up in the back seat of Scully's car as the three of them drove through the night towards Washington D.C.

The double - triple? - agent seemed dead to the world, head resting on his arm, the torn remnants of his left shoulder concealed by the leather jacket he had pulled over himself. With his eyes closed, the lashes spilled over his pale skin like fine black silk. His eyes moved under closed lids, and Mulder wondered what he was dreaming about.

"Earth to Mulder," Scully murmured, and he turned, startled.


"I was just wondering what you were thinking about." It was the lateness of the hour and the momentous events of the day that kept their voices low, rather than any consideration for the man asleep in the back seat.

"I was trying to decide how far we could trust him," he told her.

"I don't know that we can."

"Look at what he's given us, though."

"But we don't know his motives," she said, mildly irritated. "A week ago, you would gladly have killed him. What's different now?"

"He saved my life," Mulder said quietly, and she sighed.

"That's true," she admitted. "To be honest, I think that we *can* trust him - at least for now."

He nodded in agreement, and he was remembering green eyes wet with tears, and the taste of Krycek's mouth on his, warm and gently desperate.

"I need to stop for gas," she said as they pulled into a Texaco. "Do you want anything?"

"Sunflower seeds. And some water." She nodded as she got out of the car, closing the door quietly behind her. Mulder went back to his contemplation of the sleeping Krycek.

He was thin, almost painfully so, and despite the soothing effect of sleep, tension was still visible around his mouth and closed eyes. Whatever Krycek was dreaming about did not appear to be pleasant. A muscle along his jaw twitched as his eyes moved fitfully around a dream landscape only he could see. The hand pillowing his head was clenched into a tight fist. Mulder reached out and lightly touched Krycek's face. Green eyes snapped open, and Krycek sat up.

"Where are we, and what time is it?" he asked, looking around at the gas station as he tried to make the necessary adjustments to time and distance.

"It's ten thirty," Mulder told him, "and we're about ten miles from our destination. You woke up just in time if you're hungry."

Krycek shook his head. "Where are we going?"

"To stay with the Lone Gunmen." Krycek recognized the name, apparently, because one corner of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile.

"I bet it took some fast talking on your part to convince Scully to go there," he said.

"Actually, it was her idea. I'm beginning to think she may return Frohike's affections."

"A match made in heaven," Krycek said, and grinned.

Scully, of course, chose that instant to return to the car. Eyeing the two of them suspiciously, she tossed Mulder a packet of sunflower seeds and a bottle of water.

"Thanks," he said, and became suddenly aware that he hadn't eaten all day. In his haste to open the sunflower seeds, he spilled some on the seat. Scully rolled her eyes.

"Try not to *completely* destroy my upholstery," she told him, and he grinned at her while picking sunflower seeds out of his lap. He offered some to her, and to Krycek, but both of them refused.

"So, we're going to stay with the infamous Frohike," Krycek said. Scully shot him a dirty look in the rearview mirror.

"For tonight," she said. "Neither of our apartments are safe, and we couldn't think of anywhere else."

"It's as good a place as any," Krycek told her.

                            * * *

"Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would/take me/up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,/In the moon that is always rising/Nor that riding to sleep/I shall hear him fly with the high fields/And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land./Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,/Time held me green and dying/Though I sang in my chains like the sea."
     -Dylan Thomas, "Fern Hill"


The last few minutes of the car ride pass in silence, and we pull up to the Lone Gunmen "headquarters" with a crunch of loose gravel.

I'm out of the car before either of them. Cars make me a little nervous because of the enclosed space, and the night air feels unbelievably good on my face. They walk to the door, Mulder's arms still full of files, and motion me to stay back until the paranoiacs within open up.

I've been here before, of course, and their security systems, though impressive, aren't quite good enough.

Scully knocks on the door, and I hear her reassuring the people inside as to her identity. The door starts to open, and I move forwards quickly, stepping into the light and sticking my foot into the door in one movement. The troll-like little man holding the door squeaks and tries to shut it, but it merely slams into my foot. I smile as reassuringly as I can. Mulder, who seems to be trying not to laugh, introduces me to the troll - Frohike -and to the suit - Byers - and the stoner - Langly - who have joined him.

"Alex Krycek?" Langly asks. "Dude, what's *he* doing here?"

"He's with us," Mulder says, "and all three of us need to crash for the night."

Byers nods. "Fine. Frohike, Langly, get what you need and move it into my room. Agent Scully, you can sleep in Frohike's room; Mulder and Krycek can share Langly's - it has a couch."

The other two are moving almost before Byers finishes speaking. The tree of us stand in the living room, surrounded by expensive electronic equipment, Dungeons & Dragons paraphernalia, and back copies of their conspiracy newsletter.

"Okay," Frohike says as he returns, "the rooms are ready. Agent Scully?" Mulder hands her some of the files, and she turns to follow Frohike down the hall. Mulder and I look at each other, and there's a grin in his eyes that he's doing his best to keep off his face.

Langly approaches us, and he looks so nervous that I have to resist the urge to say "Boo!" and see how high he jumps.

"Um, bed's this way," he says, and Mulder and I follow him gratefully. The room is cramped and small, with D&D posters and Grateful Dead memorabilia all over the walls. The double bed, however, looks absolutely comfortable, and I sink down on it in sheer relief.

Mulder puts down the backpack and the rest of the files and looks at me.

"Who says you get the bed?" he asks indignantly.

"I have a gun."

"So do I!"

"Yeah," I tell him, "but I have better aim." He glares at me. I grin at him impudently and kick my shoes off, making it quite clear that I'm not going anywhere.

"Hey, Langly," I say.


"If I give you money, sizes, and styles, will you run out and get some clothing for me? Also a toothbrush, some shampoo, and a razor," I tell him, running my hand over my chin.

He nods. "There's a Wal-Mart about ten minutes away," he says.

I turn to Mulder. "Do you need anything?"

"Yeah," he says, and we write out a list. I hand Langly some money and tell him to see if Scully needs anything. After he leaves, Mulder walks over and shuts the door.

"Come on, Krycek, get off the bed."

"No. You sleep on the couch at home all the time anyway."

He sighs and sits next to me on the bed.

"Can we share?"

"Sure," I tell him, and look away. His physical presence is almost a threat in its intensity, his tall lankiness transformed into an elegant sense of being from which all clumsiness and awkwardness have vanished. When I look back at him, his eyes are intense on my face, scrutinizing every flicker of muscle, every minuscule change in expression. I am suddenly very aware of how close we are, and of how much I need him.

He turns so that his body is angled towards me, facing me directly. He reminds me of a classic painting, perfect in every detail, and worn in just the right places.

"Krycek," he says, "tell me why you do it."

I know what he means, and I sigh, closing my eyes against the brilliance of his stare.

"Because it's necessary," I say, and glance at him.

Our eyes lock on one another's, and the electricity that hums between us burns me. The moment stretches, seems to last forever, our eyes trapped in each other's and unable to look away.

Langly's return shatters the moment as he comes in and dumps shopping bags onto the floor.

"Here you go," he says, handing me some change. He seems oblivious to the stifling tension in the room and he turns and walks out. "Goodnight," he calls back as he leaves.

Mulder gets up and examines the bags. He tosses me my things; clothing, shoes, toothbrush, razor - and disappears into the bathroom.

Langly has somehow managed to get decent looking clothes. They're mostly black, at my request, but there are a few white shirts and a pair of green sweatpants that I take an instant liking to.

The shower starts in the bathroom, and images of a wet and naked Mulder flash through my mind. I want to go in and join him, to open the shower and step in, grab him and fuck him until neither of us can move anymore, until our bones turn to water and run down the drain along with all of the filth and blood that stain my soul so that I will be pure and he can want me.

Instead, I take out my gun and break it down, clean it, reassemble it. It's difficult to do with only one hand, and the mixture of my clumsiness and the arousal coursing through my veins almost makes me give up. But I finish the damn thing, and look up just as the water shuts off and Mulder comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped carelessly around his waist. My mouth goes absolutely dry, and I have to tear my eyes away to prevent him from noticing that I'm staring.

"My turn?" I ask, as casually as I can manage. "I hope you didn't use *all* the hot water." Putting away my gun, I go into the bathroom.

The mirrors are steamed up, and his suit is lying in a puddle, soaked through. I pick it up and re-enter the room.

"Hey, Mulder," I say. He looks at me, and I toss the disgusting mess of wet Armani at him, then duck back into the bathroom.

Closing the door, I take of my socks, then strip off shirt, pants, and boxers. Starting the shower, I simply stand there under the water, enjoying the feel of being clean. I'm going to throw away the clothes I was wearing.

Washing one's hair is an underrated pleasure, and I stay in the shower until the water suddenly runs cold. Getting out, I dry myself as best I can, then try to wrap the towel around my waist one-handed. It doesn't work. I open the door and stick my head out.

Mulder is stretched full length on the bead in a pair of blue sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his glasses on, reading over one of the files. I pause for a moment to enjoy the view before interrupting him.

"Hey, Mulder?" He looks up. "Can you pass me some clothes?" He hands me some boxers, the green sweatpants and a black t-shirt, then passes me the razor and toothbrush.

I shave, brush my teeth, and pull on boxers and sweatpants. The t-shirt is too much to bother with, and I toss it over my left shoulder as I go back into the room.

He looks up from the file again as I walk in. "Krycek, this is *amazing!* I'm almost afraid to ask what we *missed!*" I walk over and sit on the other side of the bed.

"Which file are you looking at?"

Wordlessly, he offers me the file and I glance at it. It's the information on the Tunguska experiments that the Consortium has managed to gather, and in my mind's eye I see the dismal grey compound on the edge of the world where a few dedicated scientists work to save mankind. I hand the file back to him.

"To answer your question, I don't know how much we left behind. But what we managed to get should be enough to ruin them, especially if Skinner decides to get involved."

"And you?"

"I'll stick around for another day - maybe two - and then I'll disappear again."

His voice turns cold, sharp. "Saving your own skin, Krycek?"

"You and Scully aren't safe with me around, particularly now that you have the files. They'll want to kill me, and they *will* try. They may even succeed," I tell him cooly. "To be honest, I'd prefer not to expose you to a group of incompetent thugs. What you have here," - I reach out and touch the file in his hands, "is too important to risk for the pleasure of my company - or for the pleasure of taking me to prison."

"I still don't understand why you have to leave," and now he's obstinate, not angry.

"To protect you. Don't you understand? I've been trying to protect you since we met."


Because I love you, I want to say.

"Because you're the best hope for the survival of the human race," I tell him. I pull the covers over me.

"That's a hell of a thing to tell a guy right before bed," he says, but he's not upset anymore, and I have to smile.

"Sorry," I say, "but you asked."

He takes his glasses off and puts them on the bedside table, rubbing at his eyes with the other hand. He puts the file on the floor with the others, reaches up, and turns off the light.

"Goodnight, Krycek," he says.

"Goodnight." I close my eyes and slide into sleep.

                            * * *

"In what distant deeps or skies/Burnt the fire of thine eyes?/On what wings dare he aspire?/What the hand dare sieze the fire?"
     -William Blake, "The Tiger"


Soft sounds gradually woke Mulder from a dreamless sleep. He became aware of Krycek beside him when the younger man moved fitfully in his sleep. Raising himself up onto one elbow, he turned to look at Krycek. The other man was twisted in the blankets, and his face was turned away from Mulder. Krycek's bare shoulders and back were knotted in tension, and Mulder could see the muscles rippling under his skin. Krycek was making small noises in his sleep, and suddenly turned over in a swift movement that left him exposed to Mulder's eyes.

The covers had slid down around Krycek's waist, and his smooth, well-muscled chest was like pale moonlight in the darkness of the room. The shadows under his lashes and at his cheekbones emphasized the thinness of his face and the soft blackness of his hair, grown back now from the buzz-cut he had worn in Russia. His ravaged arm was painfully visible, the defined muscles of his shoulder ending in a mass of angry scars that marred the smooth flesh like lines of flame. Krycek's lips were slightly parted, revealing even white teeth, and despite the pain visible around his mouth, he looked innocent, even vulnerable, like a child tormented by bad dreams.

The memory of Krycek's anguish the night before flared through Mulder's mind, the memory of Krycek shaking from a nightmare that had brought terribly dark shadows to the surface of his eyes.

Krycek whimpered quietly, and something in Mulder refused to leave him to his nightmares any longer. Whatever demons tormented his sleep had tortured him enough.

He reached out and ran a hand through the softness of Krycek's hair, enjoying the silken feel of it against his fingers. He stroked Krycek's ear with his thumb, then ran a finger over the other man's lips, eyelids, and cheekbones. Krycek's eyes fluttered open, and despite the darkness of the room, Mulder could see their emerald glitter.

"Mulder-" Krycek started to say, but a finger held to his lips silenced him, and then Mulder leaned down and kissed him, long and deep and slow. He brushed his thumb along Krycek's cheekbone, curled his hand around the back of Krycek's neck, and ran his fingers through the short hair there.

Krycek leaned forward and caught Mulder's lower lip between hi teeth, sucking it into his mouth and tracing it with his tongue, nipping gently at it with even white teeth. A shiver ran along Mulder's spine, pooling in his groin like tendrils of flame. They rolled over, and Krycek's weight was muscular and lithe on top of him.

The younger man kissed his way along Mulder's jaw, licked at his ear, then brought it into his mouth, warm breath, soft tongue and sharp teeth all exerting a gentle and maddening pressure along the sensitive nerves. Pulling away, Krycek gently kissed his ear, licked at the spot under the lobe, then slid his lips down Mulder's jaw, scraping stubble gently over his cheek, then moved his lips to Mulder's neck, kissing it with a fiery combination of teeth, tongue, and lips that spasmed along his nervous system in trails of need that burned along every inch of his body. Krycek slid his hand under Mulder's shirt, running his fingers over muscle and ribs, pulling the shirt off in one smooth motion. They lay chest to chest for an instant, bare skin creating a friction of want between them that shortened their breath and heightened desire.

Krycek lowered his head and kissed Mulder's chest, swirling his tongue around Mulder's nipples, trailing his fingers along the definition of muscle and bone, then followed his fingers with his mouth, nipping at Mulder's skin, dipping his tongue briefly into Mulder's navel, kissing down to the waistband of his sweatpants before moving back up to kiss the older man with a fiery heat that scorched him to the bone.

Mulder kissed him back eagerly, running his hands along the length of Krycek's body, cupping his ass briefly, stroking his inner thighs, tangling Krycek's legs with his own, and sliding bare feet along muscular calves in a caress that utilized every inch of their bodies. He slid one finger down the length of Krycek's spine, and the younger man arched against him. He kissed Krycek's neck and jaw, then sucked gently at the spot where the man's neck and shoulder met. He could feel the shivers running through Krycek's body, and could feel the other man's erection hard against his own.

He slid one hand down between their bodies and gently stroked Krycek's length through the sweatpants, running the palm of his hand along the other man's shaft, then circling the head with his fingers before pulling his hand away. Krycek gasped, his breathing harsh and irregular, and ground his hips into Mulder, their erections burning against one another.

Then Krycek was kissing his waistband again, pulling his sweatpants down over his hips, then all the way off, kissing his way inch by inch back up along Mulder's legs, licking softly at his inner thighs before he finally touched his mouth to Mulder's erection. He traced the vein underneath Mulder's cock with his tongue, kissing gently along the length of it, caressing the head with tongue and lips, and then taking Mulder all the way inside his mouth, muscles and heat of throat and tongue working in a powerful rhythm that swept the older man over the edge. Every muscle in Mulder's body tensed as he came, thrusting deep into Krycek's mouth in an orgasm that brought sparks and blackness swirling before his eyes.

Krycek slid back up to rest his head on Mulder's shoulder, his hand tracing invisible patterns on Mulder's naked body. Mulder turned his head and kissed the younger man, gently at first, but with renewed passion soon burning between their mouths. Krycek was still rock-hard against him, and Mulder lightly stroked his erection through the cloth of his sweatpants before pulling them off and sliding down to take Krycek's cock into his mouth.

He ran his tongue over the head, tasting the slightly bitter precum that gleamed there, then kissed and licked at Krycek's erection, tracing veins and imaginary paths with his tongue until the younger man came with a hoarse cry, his hand trembling as it clenched and unclenched in Mulder's hair.

Moving back up to lie beside Krycek, he ran his hand over the younger man's hair. His head rested against the muscles of Krycek's good arm, and the younger man stroked his back gently until he fell asleep.