STORY NOTE - IMPORTANT!: This story owes its existence overwhelmingly to Xanthe. A while back, she commented that she was working on a story where ‘Krycek uses the nanocytes to force Skinner to have rough sex with him' and ‘Skinner discovers he enjoys it' or something to that effect. That story eventually became the amazing Shadowplay. However, she was taking *far* too long, and the images wouldn't go away, so I ended up writing my own...

So, tremendous thanks and credit to Xanthe for generously allowing blatant theft of her idea, and providing encouraging and insightful commentary into the bargain. The stories do have the same basic premise, but were developed independently and I think have some significant differences in the portrayal of the characters. There *are* also some eerie similarities, which are entirely coincidental. I wouldn't do anything to piss her off any more than I had to. She's terribly handy with the whips. :)

Much gratitude also to rac, for quick and thorough beta. It hurt, but I felt better afterwards. So to speak. All remaining nonsense is undoubtedly mine.

And last-minute thanks to Danni, who reads fast...

Only This, And Nothing More

It was time to go.

He had felt the pressure building for the past week now, at first tugging gently at the edge of his consciousness, then growing stronger by the day, welling up inside of him, demanding release. Unchecked, Alex knew from bitter experience that it would soon drive him to take careless risks, to stray closer and closer to the edge, seeking self-immolation. If he was to continue carrying out his assignments with any prospect of survival, he needed to blunt the edge of the blade, now, soon, before he turned it against himself.

Alex stopped to check his appearance in the mirror before leaving, for reassurance, not out of any sense of vanity. For the briefest moment, his eyes looked lost, haggard, the expression of a man tricked into a losing bargain with the Devil. Then he blinked and the familiar arrogance locked into place tightly, the mouth twisting in a confident half-smile. Now the green eyes stared back at him coolly, objectively appraising the dark hair, the smooth skin, studying with interest the harsh lines of cruelty only just beginning to show around the mouth.

He did not resent them, or the other sacrifices he had made for his survival. The loss of his arm, his family, his innocence; these were the consequences of war, of the things he had been forced to do in the name of a greater good. Although he realised all too well that few would understand the principles driving his actions, even if he could begin to explain them. And not even the most forgiving could ever condone them. Including himself.

Alex was a believer in sin, the last, tattered remnant of an Orthodox upbringing long fallen to pieces. And one of the basic tenets of his lapsed faith was that evil must not go unpunished. Somewhere, somehow, the scales must be put in balance. He turned away and made a final check of the contents of the pouch under his jacket, his head bowed as if in prayer, and then went solemnly into the half-light of evening to seek his absolution.

***

Skinner thought that a year ago he would have sensed the presence in the shadows immediately, would have felt the tension in the air, the difference between empty stillness and the hush of expectation. Perhaps if his head had been clearer. Or if he had cared very much for his own safety any more. The truth was, he was tired. Tired of running, tired of falling. Since the taint of his infected blood had been forced upon him, he had grown ever more fatalistic about his entire life, its purpose increasingly unclear. Mulder's recent incarceration had come as just another unsurprising blow.

Tired or not, the thing that disturbed him most in retrospect was that he had honestly no idea how long Krycek had remained in the shadows, waiting, or even exactly when he had gained entry. Skinner had arrived home after another week filled with administrative details; details that seemed increasingly petty and trivial in comparison to his knowledge of the greater game being played, and the constant reminder of his place in it. Falling back on familiar routine, he had taken a shower, cooked dinner and cleared away mechanically. He was upstairs in his room deciding between catching up on unfinished work or an equally pointless novel when he heard the knock at the door.

He headed down without a second thought, not bothering to reach for his service weapon; his thoughts detached, unsuspecting. It was not until his fingers closed on the door handle that he became dimly aware of movement behind him and realised, too late, that the danger was already *inside* with him. The noise had merely been a device to get him within easy reach. As he turned slowly around to face his visitor, the familiar adrenaline began to flow, his heart to race. He supposed that meant he wasn't totally numb to his fate just yet.

"Hands out to the side, Skinner, and move away from the door. Very trusting, aren't you? I'm disappointed."

Krycek stood just behind the couch, the hand holding the gun hanging casually at his side, not even aimed. It was a well-chosen position; even from his relaxed stance he would have a clear, easy shot if Skinner chose to move in any direction, or attempt to leave through the main door. Skinner grudgingly showed his hands empty, his weary brain attempting to come up with a useful plan of attack and failing miserably.

"I was wondering when you'd show up again," Skinner said, resisting the urge to hurl himself at the other man's throat.

"You're so unoriginal, Skinner."

Krycek stepped around the edge of the couch and drew a little closer, although still well out of reach. His eyes were bright; the eyes of a cobra focused on its prey, as bright as the glints of light off the steel buckles of his jacket. He burned with an unholy fire, and Walter Skinner was helpless before its heat.

"What do you want?" Skinner managed to utter from between clenched teeth. He made an small, abrupt move sideways, towards the desk, but instead of raising his gun, a small, flat box appeared in Krycek's other hand, and Skinner's vision blurred momentarily, making him stagger.

"Careful, big boy." Krycek snapped, and his casual air was instantly replaced by something altogether more menacing. Something dark and cold and very, very alert.

***

Skinner nodded his understanding and Krycek waved him around to the couch with the gun hand, positioning himself between Skinner and the door. Pocketing the box briefly, Krycek slotted the safety chain into its guide by touch, his eyes never leaving Skinner's, flickering, assessing. He had to be careful. Skinner was bloodied, as he had been many times before, but still unbowed, unbroken. It would do him well to remember that tonight.

Krycek registered the flicker of surprise in the dark eyes across from him at his dexterity, and smiled sardonically. The new arm, regrown using nanotechnology, pleased him very much, though lacking the familiar marks and freckles he still remembered. It was also not quite up to its previous strength, although he was working hard to correct that. Most of all, Krycek missed the scars, the fine network etched into his forearm, and the deeper ones leading upwards from his wrist, the ones he used to run his fingers over when he needed to remind himself of the day he had chosen to live, after all.

Still, it was a damn sight better than any of the prostheses he'd tried, and though he was still occasionally a touch clumsy, the doctors assured him that in time he would forget he had ever lost it in the first place. In a way, it made him feel invincible; a further proof of his animal nature; cut off a limb, it grows back. You can't keep a good rat down.

"Sit down." He ordered, his fingers wrapped once more around the grey case, his thumb on the manual controls. Skinner shot him a fierce glower, but obeyed, and Krycek breathed an inward sigh of relief. Despite the overriding control he held, Skinner was probably capable of doing a fair amount of damage to him before the nanocytes kicked in, depending on his sheer bloodymindedness. And he really didn't want to have to shoot Skinner; that would defeat the entire purpose of his visit. He would just have to keep him at a safe distance until his control was fully established.

To that end Krycek had quite a collection stored in a pouch under his jacket. Handcuffs, rope, and a few other... essentials. Business before pleasure, as the saying went, but he had often found it possible to combine his interests, in the past. He could easily have fulfilled his need elsewhere, under different circumstances, but he wanted this man, had wanted him since the night he had learned of Skinner's unexpected capacity for raw anger.

Krycek holstered the gun quickly, and freed the handcuffs from beneath his clothing in a single, graceful motion with the same hand, watching Skinner carefully all the while. The next few minutes were crucial to his success. He needed to secure the handcuffs to have any chance of retaining control over what was to follow, but counted on only an even chance of emerging victorious from a barehanded round with Skinner, possibly less. And under the circumstances, the concept of fairness played no part in the equation. There was really no hope for it.

"Sorry," he said, almost tenderly, and thumbed the button upwards, watching Skinner's face contort in pain as he slumped back against the couch, hands clutching at the fabric. Quickly Krycek moved in to cuff Skinner's hands behind his back. Even in his weakened state Skinner tried to struggle, to put up a token resistance if only to salve his pride, but it was a pointless exercise all the same. A few quick loops and his legs were tied together, the ropes passed back behind the body to loop around the chain of the cuffs, effectively hobbling him. The process took no more than a few minutes, despite the feeble resistance, and the awkwardness of trying to shift the weight of Skinner's body without his assistance.

When it was done, he released Skinner immediately from the nanocytes' hold. Contrary to popular belief, Alex had never derived pleasure from torturing the helpless. There was hardly challenge in that. His skills demanded that the element of danger be present, sharpening his senses with the knowledge that a moment's inattention might lead to ruin. How much sweeter the submission of an animal fully aware of its own situation, obeying out of what appears to be its own free will. How much deeper the anguish of that knowledge.

He sat beside Skinner as he recovered, not too close, but near enough to study him to his satisfaction. Skinner was obviously a man who dressed for comfort off-duty, clad only in an old pair of sweatpants, his chest bare as it had been that night two years ago. Alex had to admire the powerful hands and arms that had delivered the punch to his midsection, the chest and stomach heavily muscled and bearing the scars of a life spent in devotion to duty. Beautiful, even at his age. Since that night on the balcony, Alex had occasionally allowed himself to remember these things under somewhat different circumstances, and was pleased to note that the reality did not disappoint.

As Skinner gasped and coughed, attempting to get his breath, Krycek helped him sit upright and placed a hand in the centre of his back almost tenderly, stroking and calming him as if he were a wild thing in distress. Feeling the skin soft beneath the fingers of his hand; noting the play of muscles in the shoulders and the rise and fall of Skinner's chest. Only when he had settled the larger man once more against the back of the couch did Krycek let his eyes stray to the bulge at the crotch of the sweatpants. Lovely. And his for as long as it took. He had done his research well. Skinner was a solitary man, with solitary habits. No mistresses, no girlfriends. The nearest relatives were two states over and unlikely to drop in for an impromptu visit. No one likely to raise the alarm at an unanswered door.

Judging his moment carefully, waiting until Skinner had almost recovered, Krycek seized Skinner's chin and forced it upwards, to meet Krycek's avid gaze. Immediately Skinner tried to twist his head away, shaking it violently, but Krycek merely strengthened the grip in his newly-created muscles, and held him there. Then he kissed Skinner once, brutally, just for the fierce pride of possession, not minding for the moment that the lips closed tightly against him. The look of hatred in Skinner's eyes alone when he had done was worth it.

"What do you want, Krycek?" Skinner said again, finally, disgust mingling with uncertainty in his tone. Krycek knew that the kiss had done more to unsettle him than any number of restraints would have had. Then the eyes hardened again, as Skinner recovered his composure.

"Whatever your plans are, I'm not going to..."

Without warning, Krycek slapped him. Hard. Then soothed the blow with his hand, pleased with its heightened colour and Skinner's belligerent expression. But no, that wasn't what he was here for. He had found enough pleasure in mastery. Tonight, he needed to stoke the blaze, but no more. He smiled, gentle again.

"You haven't heard what I have to say."

***

Skinner's cheek stung where Krycek had struck him. But much worse than the fading glow of warmth was the humiliation of being held captive by this man, rendered helpless by the vicious and complete betrayal of his blood and body. His mouth felt dry. The son of a bitch had kissed him. Kissed him. He wanted to spit. Worse, he wanted to run his tongue over his lips to see if the taste of him remained. Krycek's action had sparked a small flare of heat in him, not for his tormentor, but for something, for *someone* else altogether. Another man's mouth, another man's eyes...

"I just want to talk, Skinner. I have a... proposition you might be interested in." Krycek continued as if nothing had happened.

Skinner had never dared act on *those* desires, and probably never would. But the thought of Mulder served to remind him of exactly what was at stake in their ongoing struggle. This, at least, was firmer ground, something he was prepared for.

"I'm not doing any more of your dirty work, Krycek, no matter what you do to me. I'm not going to play Judas for you again."

The accusation in Mulder's eyes still haunted him. Demands that had seemed relatively harmless at the time -- assigning a case here, taping a conversation there -- had once again spiralled way out of his control. Once again he had been drawn into the darkness, had felt it closing over his head. In his dreams, Mulder's desperate screams and Scully's contempt rang in his ears, reminding him of the folly of compromises.

"Brave words, Skinner. So that makes precious Agent Mulder your Christ, does it? And Scully the ex-whore. How appropriate. But you've got one thing wrong, Skinner. I'm not the Devil. I'm your God. I hold the power of life and death over you.'

Krycek began to chuckle softly at the thought, and a black fury in Skinner suddenly wanted nothing more than to have his hands free and wrapped around Krycek's throat. Something of this must have shown in his expression; Krycek's amusement cut off abruptly and the thoughtful, serious look returned.

"It must be a difficult choice for you, Skinner. Dead, you'd no longer be able to betray them. Only without your help, there might not be anything left to betray. Or don't you care what happens to your precious agents anymore? Decisions, decisions."

Consumed with disgust at his past actions, Skinner hadn't given much thought to the future. Assuming there would be one, for any of them. He was prepared to accept his own death, but the thought of what might happen to them -- *him*, his mind whispered -- showed him the futility of such a sacrifice. Krycek's logic was inescapable, unbearable. The logic of war.

"You've made your point, Krycek. I'll do whatever you want, but I won't be a party again to anything that might place them in any more danger."

"You'll do what I want because you'll have no choice, and in the end you'll never know whether they owe their lives or their deaths to you, Skinner. You're so noble it's tiresome. Haven't you ever wanted, just once, to tell them all to go to hell and leave you out of it?"

"No. I had someone different in mind for that." Skinner's eyes blazed with hatred. "I can't imagine what else you could want. You probably know Agent Mulder's been institutionalised, for God knows how long. Surely that's out of the way enough for you."

Krycek shrugged indifferently.

"I'm sorry about poor Mulder, I really am. It just shows you can't trust anyone these days. But love and war, as they say."

Something in his offhand tone sent a chill down Skinner's spine as vague, half-formed implications began to coalesce out of Krycek's words. Suddenly, desperately he wanted to hear no more about Mulder from this man. Krycek seemed to enjoy his look of discomfort, warming to his theme.

"Did you know he actually thought he loved me once? Even after he found out who I was working for. He never forgave me for his father, though. I must admit, he was... memorable."

The full weight of his revelation hit Skinner like a blow to the heart, and he shivered. No. Not Mulder. Please. Not with this man. All these years he had watched out for Mulder and covered for him and risked his life for him and asked nothing but that Mulder finally learn to trust him, as a friend. It hadn't been enough, but he had believed it was all he could reasonably hope for. With those words, it was as if all Skinner had ever felt for Mulder had been torn to pieces, rendered hollow and worthless by this, this... betrayal. He couldn't have, not after knowing... it would have gone against everything Mulder himself had worked and fought for. No. Please let it not be true.

Krycek could have been lying. But Skinner knew instinctively that his light, careless tone was proof beyond question. It was obvious he had been aiming only to anger, not to wound, and had struck deeper than he intended. God, Mulder, why? Skinner implored him silently, but no answer came from the depths of his memory.

***

"You were..." and Skinner stopped dead, but Krycek had already caught the indrawn breath of shock, the realisation in the eyes, the surge of anguish in Skinner's expression. He looked at Skinner in surprise. There was no mistaking the depth of the reaction, even though this was something he hadn't suspected. Skinner was good at keeping some secrets, after all. That particular one was going to make things a little easier than he had hoped. He paused to consider the new addition to his arsenal. In this case, there was nothing to be gained from lying. The simple truth would hurt Skinner far more than anything he could invent.

"Lovers? God, Skinner, you must be blind as well as stupid. If you were so interested, why didn't you ever ask? Mulder thought he was never going to get *you* into his bed, so he turned to the next best thing. At least that's what he told me." He began to laugh in an instant of genuine wonderment at Skinner's stunned expression, before the cruel amusement returned to his voice.

"So the stone-faced Assistant Director is human after all. If I'd known it was *Mulder* you wanted, we could have traded. Or even shared. Think of that."

He smiled at the idea. Skinner was trembling with rage and shame at his transparency, but could do nothing, bound as he was. Krycek began to take pleasure in his helplessness, taunting him mercilessly.

"Actually, I would have thought Scully was far more your type, Skinner. All that lovely red hair. It might even be natural. Wouldn't you love to find out? I would. I bet she's like a wildcat in heat. But it was Mulder we were discussing, wasn't it? It's a shame. I'm sure he would have appreciated your attentions, too. He's so... *responsive* to all kinds of... stimulation. Screams when he comes too, just like a girl. It was really a pleasure fucking him. A pity how things turned out for all of us, isn't it? Somehow, I don't think he'll be getting out of there anytime soon."

"I'll kill you, you son of a bitch..." Skinner whispered tightly, meaning it, finally pushed from all directions to the limits of his endurance.

***

"No." Almost a command. Cold and flat, all traces of mockery abruptly gone as if they had never been.

Krycek got up, and squatted down in front of him, using a hand at the back of Skinner's neck to pull him so close their faces were almost touching. Skinner tried to twist away furiously, but the grip was unyielding, and he was forced to stare into the sea depths of Krycek's eyes as he spoke.

"No, I think you're wrong about that. You actually want don't want to *kill* me, do you Skinner? If I gave my gun to you, let you use it, do you think you could shoot an unarmed man in cold blood? I really don't think so, not even if it was me."

Krycek relaxed his grip, certain now of Skinner's attention, and his fingers began gently stroking the back of Skinner's neck as his voice continued, soft and persuasive.

"I think what you *really* want is to beat me around a little, don't you? Bloody my face and give me a few bruises I won't be able to hide for a week. Pay me back for you, for him, for everyone I've ever killed or betrayed. Make me feel it for all of them."

He leaned in again, letting Skinner see for the first time the hunger in his eyes, hear the brutal truth of his soul. He saw the muscles of Skinner's arms bunch and flex reflexively as his suggestion took hold.

"I'll let you, you know. I'll take it all, and more. Then you can fuck me as hard as you want, make me bleed. Do whatever you want with me. I'll even let you pretend I'm Mulder. Come on, that's what you really want... isn't it? I'll be him for you, beg you to take me, even scream like him...

"Think about it, Skinner."

His voice had fallen to a hypnotic whisper. Skinner stared at him in confusion and disbelief, lost in the complex siren song of Krycek's words, held helpless in a maze of desires. Wanting to hurt and hate and hold and touch, and oh god, to take, to *have*, to pretend to own what he could never have, if only for a fleeting instant of time. He felt a sudden rush of blood to his groin, and willed himself not to become aroused at the vision of Krycek's body twisting beneath his own. Struggling to retain what little dignity he still possessed at this man's hands.

"I'm giving you the chance to have everything you want. Everything. Nothing to do with business. This is... personal." Krycek trailed off, waiting.

Skinner closed his eyes, and knew finally that he was being offered nothing less than an exchange for his soul. The pit yawned before him, deep, and inescapable. Like the whisky, like the whore, it would offer him no real comfort, only a dangerous, numbing oblivion. But there was little else left to him now, so little to believe in anymore. Once, there might have Mulder... but the man he had thought he loved had proved to be as easily bought and sold as the rest of them. The strength and purity of purpose Skinner had admired for so long just one more beguiling deceit, after all. Krycek was merely offering him a new, seductive illusion in place of the one that had been destroyed.

"You bastard, you bastard," Skinner said finally, brokenly.

***

Alex did not need any further sign to know that he had won. He carefully placed the control box on a side table, in plain view of Skinner, watching the dark eyes follow his movements with despair, knowing that Skinner would not, could not move to save himself at this point. Of course, Alex still had the gun tucked into his jacket and another, concealed, in his boot. The box was merely symbolic of the deal they had made. He smiled and cut the cords that bound Skinner's legs, undid the handcuffs and tossed them aside onto the floor. Then he stepped back.

Skinner got up slowly and stretched, unkinking the cramps that had formed during his captivity. Alex was spellbound by the object of his destruction, watching the muscles flex and contract, wanting the pain so badly he could taste it. He shucked the leather jacket and waited, ready for Skinner to begin. Skinner was regarding his eagerness with uncertainty. His hands opened and closed convulsively as it dawned on him that he was about to beat one of his worst enemies senseless. That the physical violence was what Krycek wanted. Worse, that his own hands itched to do it. It went against everything Skinner believed in to strike an unresisting man. And yet if there was one man who could overcome his qualms, that man was standing before him now, green eyes mocking his hesitation.

"Well, Skinner?" Krycek sensed the other man teetering on the brink and pushed unmercifully. "I *was* the one who killed Mulder's father, you know. I mean, they weren't close, but I'm sure your darling Mulder was still pretty upset, wasn't he? And Scully's sister too, well, I wish I'd done that one myself. And you... agh." His words trailed off as Skinner brought a heavy fist into his stomach in a repeat of that memorable night, pushing the air out of his lungs.

He felt the fire begin to blaze somewhere in the depths of his warped psyche. As he straightened up, smiling a grim, tight, smile Skinner punched him once in the mouth, drawing a neat trickle of blood. Alex laughed in his face and staggered in pain as more blows landed, seemingly everywhere at once, his stomach, in his side, his back. He let them fall without resistance, relishing the screaming of his nerve endings. Skinner was raining them on him unmercifully, and Alex could hear him panting hoarsely with the effort. Then the drumming of the blood in his ears blocked out sight and sound until he was a single mass of agonised sensation. It was like this, always like this, since he could remember, seeking the blood and the hurt and the pain and the pleasure. The forgetting.

He dropped to the ground and curled up into a ball as more kicks and punches followed. Skinner was at least kind enough to instinctively spare him the eyes and the groin, but then, that was part of why Alex had chosen him. On other occasions he had not been so lucky. Just once, he had been hospitalised. He had killed the man two days after he had been discharged. Since then, Alex had been more careful with his choices.

Now he felt the burning, the baptism of pain, as every inch of his skin seemed to pulse in time with his heart. Through the red haze came the dim realization that Skinner was taking it further than he'd anticipated, as blow after blow came with no signs of slowing. But that was part of it too, the thrill of pushing another man to his limits without knowing in advance where those limits were. A blow landed on his kidney and he gasped in agony. He wasn't sure how much more of it he could take without sustaining some permanent damage. Maybe Skinner in his uncontrolled rage would offer death to him, after all. He brought his hands up in a weak, warding gesture and had opened his mouth to cry out when a sharp stabbing pain in the back of his head drove all thought from his mind.

***

Skinner stood over the unconscious body of Alex Krycek, trying to slow his breathing, suddenly horrified with himself and what he had just done. Krycek's feeble gesture of protest had shocked him out of his frenzy as he was delivering the last, decisive kick to Krycek's skull. Now Krycek's head hung slackly to the side, his fingers uncurling as his body relaxed. At least he was still breathing, in shallow, rasping gasps.

Skinner wanted to slump onto the couch, to bury his face in his hands at what he had become, but instead knelt to shift Krycek into a position where he could breathe more easily. That accomplished, he shook him by the shoulder, absurdly careful now, murmuring his name, but his unfathomable enemy was out cold. Without thinking, Skinner brought one hand up, knuckles bruised and aching, and brushed the pad of his thumb gently against Krycek's swollen lip. Wondered for the first time at Krycek's demons, and how well they fit with his own. Then, wanting to avoid further reflection altogether, he pulled the unconscious man awkwardly into his arms, and carried him upstairs.

***

The first thing Krycek sensed as he came to was that the familiar weight against his heel was missing. His boots had been removed and his loaded insurance was gone along with them. Shit! he thought frantically. As his hands pushed for leverage against the soft surface, he realised Skinner must have moved him from the floor. His head was resting on something soft, a pillow or cushion of some kind. Couch? He tried to lift his head and open his eyes but nothing would focus. Everything hurt, especially his side. A tentative hand raised to his mouth tested gingerly the swollen bruise that was already forming. No stickiness. The blood must have already dried.

Then there was movement and a hand behind his head and the smooth hardness of a glass at his lips. He drank unquestioningly, and lay back down when he was done. He tried opening his eyes again, and Skinner's face was there, looking hard and set. Krycek laughed softly at the grim expression, the sound making Skinner flinch visibly. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither knowing what came next. Skinner abruptly turned and left the room, and returned with a damp washcloth. He sat on the side of the bed, then though better of it and got up again, thrusting the cloth roughly into Krycek's right hand.

Krycek used the cloth to wipe his face and jaw, the water cool against his burning skin, then tried to sit up, grunting slightly with the effort. Skinner took the cloth from him, but made no move to help him. Gingerly propping himself up against the headboard, Krycek realised suddenly that he was in Skinner's own bedroom, on Skinner's bed. Too personal for a spare room. Although still quite stark and spartan, there were framed photos on the dresser, clothes on the chair and books stacked neatly on the bedside table next to the lamp and alarm clock. Crowding the books stood a small pitcher of water, the glass thoughtfully left beside it. He grinned crookedly at his reluctant nurse, although his face felt like it was on fire.

‘Nice place you got here.'

‘Damn you, Krycek.' Skinner regarded him stiffly, arms folded. He had pulled on a dark T-shirt from somewhere, and looked ready to start in on him again at the slightest provocation.

‘Bit late for that now, don't you think?' His voice came out slightly slurred, but his words were clear, for all that.

Skinner stalked out of the room. Krycek waited a while, but he didn't return. Time to assess his injuries. Moving awkwardly, he tugged off the black T-shirt and jeans, the last of his clothing, to get a better look. Tender left ankle, bruising on the calves and a particularly nice one on his shin. His entire midsection would be black and blue for a week. He pressed his fingers into his side, relieved to feel only a strengthening of the ever-present dull ache, no sharp stabbing which could mean a broken rib or worse. His arms and shoulders had come out fairly lightly, and only the corner of his jaw was puffy. He might not even get a black eye out of this one. Finally, there was the lump on the back of his head, tender to the touch but with the skin unbroken. Not too bad as far as these things went. Concussion seemed unlikely; it seemed he had only been out for a quarter-hour at most.

Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, doing quite well, although he had to lean on the bed for an instant on his way up. There was a small mirror against the side wall and he hobbled over to take a look at his face. It really was nothing, the swelling would go down in a couple of days, sooner if he could get some ice on it. His haggard expression stared back at him, asking him the usual questions, Why Alex, why? Why pick this doomed man, this twisted path, this totally fucked-up life? As usual, he had no answer to give. He turned away, and Skinner was framed in the doorway, not quite looking at him, holding a small bag of ice in one hand. Krycek started towards him, not bothering to reach for any of his clothing, and Skinner tossed the bag at him, almost defensively. He managed to catch it in one hand, grimacing as he did so.

"Take it and get out, Krycek. Your other clothes are over there. I'm holding on to the rest." Anger and something stronger flickered in the brown eyes at the sight of his naked, battered body, proof that Skinner had not yet managed to reach equanimity over the situation. Krycek put the bag to the back of his head and looked at Skinner, evaluating his expression, weighing his chances. He made no move to obey. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was calm.

"There's still the other half of our... bargain, Skinner."

"I don't want anything more to do with you, Krycek. I don't even know why... how..." Skinner looked ashen, the muscles in his jaw tightly clenched.

"You did it because you *wanted* to, Skinner. You don't want to admit it, but it's there all the same. Like the way your cock gets hard every time Mulder comes to you and begs you to help him. The way just hearing his name in my mouth makes you want to tear my throat out."

"Dammit, get *out* Krycek, or I'll..." He took a step forward and stopped, realizing the hollowness of his words.

"Or you'll what, Skinner? It's too late for that now. A deal's a deal. Pleasure and pain, pain and pleasure. Your pleasure, my pain. Or is it the other way around?"

He looked Skinner straight in the eyes as one hand went to his own cock, stroking it gently into life. Smiled almost ferally as Skinner turned his head away after one involuntary glance, his voice harsh and tight.

"You're a sick, twisted bastard, Krycek."

Timing. Timing was everything. Skinner was at his most vulnerable in this state.

"I know. And you still want to fuck me through the bed." He threw the bag of ice to the floor and headed unerringly for Skinner's mouth, stroking his fingers under the tense jawline, the other hand drawing him into the kiss. At first, there was nothing but passive resistance, as the other man didn't lay a hand on him, didn't dare to add to any of his injuries. Then there was an almost imperceptible shift, a graceless surrender in the planes of Skinner's body, and Alex found himself plumbing the depths of Skinner's mouth greedily. He reached one hand down to Skinner's groin, and the evidence of his arousal was unmistakable.

***

"No..." Skinner whispered as Krycek broke the kiss, but there was no strength to his words. He closed his eyes slowly as Krycek began stroking him through the thin fabric, almost crooning to him in what he thought were nonsense syllables, then realized was Russian. "Tee-sheh," Krycek was saying, ‘be still.' It had been so long since someone had commanded him like that, had reached out for him and made him so defenceless against his own desires.

Skinner hadn't questioned the sharp stab of guilt that had made him give Krycek his bed instead of leaving him on the floor or draped awkwardly over the too-short couch. Easier to make him comfortable, to fetch and carry automatically than to consider the buried reasons behind his own actions. Better than having to confront the myriad tensions simmering inside him.

Common sense had screamed at him that this man would probably be better off dead, for both their sakes, while he had the chance. However, the cold, clinical detachment he would have needed was gone. Had been burned away in the damning trickle of blood from Krycek's mouth and the strange, heated confusion in his own brain and body. All Skinner had been capable of doing when his earlier madness had ended was to gather up the control box and weaponry downstairs and wedge it quickly into a half-empty desk drawer, in the hope of answers later, when it was all over.

When he had returned to find Krycek undressed, staring blankly into the mirror, his first impulse had been to turn away, even as his cock had begun to stir at the sight of him. He found it suddenly hard to breathe, his mind shutting down at the sheer absurdity of this man standing naked in his house, in his bedroom. He had tried to put up a feeble, last-ditch defence, but as usual, he had lost. Perhaps he had always intended to lose. Krycek was a still a threat to his own life, and the lives of others; to feel anything more than hatred for him was pure insanity. But even that sure knowledge could not distract from the overpowering heat spreading through him now at the insistence of Krycek's tongue, the knowing play of his fingers.

He stood helplessly as Krycek eased the elastic of his pants over his hips, making him shift his weight as they were removed, Krycek's hands everywhere, touching, teasing, tickling. Lifted his arms obediently as Krycek tugged the dark fabric of his T-shirt over his head. Groaned as Krycek knelt before him clumsily, taking him into that foul, talented mouth, tongue flickering with practised skill against the shaft. Instinctively his hands went onto Krycek's shoulders for balance, the muscles in his legs trembling as he fought for control. Suddenly Skinner was filled with a savage desire to fuck that mouth hard, to choke Krycek with his thrusts, but he needed to hold on to himself for a little longer, not give Krycek the satisfaction of seeing him break... then Krycek was pulling away, and the sudden rush of cool air on his cock made him gasp in surprise.

Krycek was smiling, as if he knew all the thoughts that had been passing through Skinner's mind, but when he spoke, his tone was merely businesslike.

"Wait."

Retrieving his jacket from the chair, Krycek found from somewhere in the pockets a small tube and a square foil packet. Tossing the packet casually to Skinner, he then knelt on the bed, warming the lube in his hands. As Skinner watched, transfixed, Krycek began slowly, methodically preparing himself, working the lube into his anus by degrees, first one finger, then two, rocking backwards onto them. His erection jutted out in front of him, but he made no move to touch it. Skinner swallowed convulsively, unable to move or speak. The show that Krycek was putting on was far more arousing than anything he'd ever experienced, and he was growing so hard it almost hurt. After a few minutes, Krycek was gasping softly as he pushed back onto his fingers, three of them now, seemingly oblivious to Skinner's presence.

Finally Krycek lay face down on the bed in invitation, pulling up a pillow beneath his hips, spreading his legs shamelessly. In a haze of unreality Skinner moved up to kneel tentatively behind him. Despite the brief, furtive encounters before his marriage, despite his long-buried desires, this particular intimacy was still outside his experience. But his body knew well enough what it wanted and how to get it.

Skinner covered Krycek's body gently, pressing his lips against the other man's neck, feeling Krycek's hair soft against his cheek, tracing the swelling he had inflicted earlier, running his hands over the lines and curves beneath him. He paused briefly to unwrap and slide the condom on as quickly as he could, making the contact with his hands as brief as humanly possible. Then he brushed his cock against the cleft of Krycek's ass, eliciting an answering moan from the prostrate form.

The cropped hair, the lean physique -- if he wanted, he could pretend it was Mulder lying there waiting for his cock, Mulder who would scream and beg and plead when Skinner fucked him hard. Mulder twisting under his hands... but he knew it wasn't. Would surely now, never be. He stilled himself enough to bend down and touch his lips to the hollow of the back before him, and felt Krycek shiver in surprise. No, it wasn't Mulder. It was Alex Krycek -- liar, traitor, murderer. Manipulator. And he wondered why he could no longer seem to care.

***

Skinner was surprisingly gentle. Alex was used to roughness and pain, even expected it, *wanted* it, but Skinner's penetration was gradual and careful. Despite that, there were the flickers of discomfort that came from his own tensions, his body's reluctance to submit without a struggle. God, he was big. Alex felt incredibly full, stretched to his limits. He wanted to look back over his shoulder, see Skinner's real thoughts reflected in his eyes, but he had promised his willing participation in this strange charade, and he thought he could at least manage to give Skinner that small satisfaction. As Skinner began thrusting slowly, somewhat hesitantly, Alex started to push back rhythmically against him, knowing how to angle himself to gain the most pleasure from each thrust.

"Fuck me Skinner, c'mon," and he winced as the fever began to take hold of both of them, the friction growing stronger. Alex felt the pain of his injuries enfold him, even as the pleasure flowered within him. The mixture was exquisite, better than it had ever been, and he arched his back, testing the limits of his body.

A few minutes more and he could hear Skinner gasping now, making the anguished, guttural sounds of a man unaccustomed to pleasure, so unused to it that he no longer knows the language. Felt him holding back through sheer will, trying to keep his thrusts short and even and it wasn't enough, he needed more to complete the circle of his redemption, to fuse the ecstasy with the agony.

"Come on Skinner - let go damn it - *do* it," he urged, every phrase punctuated sharply with his gasps. He was unable at last to resist looking back for a moment, wanting to see the transformation of desire in Skinner's features. Skinner's half-closed eyelids flickered open, and Alex realised with a sudden, wild surge of panic as their eyes locked that in that instant Skinner really *saw* him, knew him for who he was, what he might have been. But Alex was past the point where any of it mattered, and he pleaded wordlessly for savagery, for his punishment to be hard and fast and merciless. His desperation was finally answered as hands tightened on his flesh, and Skinner began to pound into him harshly with all the strength in his body.

"...pleasepleaseplease ohgod fuck me..." Alex begged, almost sobbing now with his need, and he wasn't sure anymore whether he was trying to be Mulder or not, he didn't care, it hurt so much, and was so good, so good.

"Fuck, oh Christ..." Skinner groaned, and there was no turning back now. The last supports of Skinner's control buckled and broke, his thrusts becoming ragged and wild, punishing Alex's already battered body without mind, without thought, without compassion. Alex arched his back and jerked his hand roughly over his cock, panting, the pain of his body mixing with the pleasure in an overwhelming wave. A final, hard thrust, and Skinner came, collapsing over Alex's body with a hoarse cry, like a plea for mercy. Moments later, Alex felt himself shattering into a million mirror shards, each bright and razor-sharp, and he screamed at his undoing, at his rebirth. And with it, finally, the tears came also, streaming down his face, mingling with his sweat, cleansing him with the taste of salt and regret.

They lay without speech, returning slowly to themselves against a musky, sweat-soaked background of harsh breathing and Alex's quiet sobbing, Skinner's cheek pressed tightly against his back. When the shaking had passed, Skinner shifted and pulled out slowly, disposed of the condom, and reached for the discarded washcloth on the bedside table. Without comment, he dipped it in the half-full pitcher and handed it to Alex, who scrubbed his face roughly. Skinner then made a half-hearted attempt to wipe himself down, passing back the cloth again for Alex to do the same. Alex's only thoughts now were for a quick departure, but even as he began to sit up, Skinner had moved up the bed to lie against the curve of his back, unexpectedly reaching an arm around him, pulling him close. Alex stiffened in surprise, but allowed himself to be drawn into the embrace.

"Why, Krycek, why this?" Only this time, Skinner's soft growl in his ear, instead of the harsh demand of his own reflection.

"Ya nye znaat'," he answered truthfully, in the language of a younger, more innocent time, and then again in English. "I don't know." He turned his head awkwardly to kiss Skinner once, regretfully, on the cheek, as close to an expression of real intimacy as he ever managed. For just the briefest of moments, Alex looked into his tired, confused face and thought he might even love this most brutal, most gentle of men. As much as he could love anybody. But he also knew that if he needed to kill Skinner tomorrow, he could do it without a second thought. Or a least, a third.

Skinner said nothing, made no protest or answering gesture. Strangely comforted by his silence, Alex closed his eyes again and, almost unwillingly, shifted a little closer. And for a few hours, they slept the easy, dreamless sleep of the already damned.

***

When Skinner woke, Krycek was gone, as he'd expected, and the gear, gun and control box expertly rifled from the desk drawer where they had been shoved in haste. Krycek had left behind only one thing, on the couch where Skinner had been bound: a worn, scissors-cropped snapshot of Mulder, bare to the chest. Mulder looked out of the creased photograph with an expression forever caught between annoyance and laughter, arms folded over bare skin, his hair tousled. Skinner dried a shower-damp hand on his bathrobe and picked up the photograph thoughtfully, then turned it over. There was nothing on the back.

He held it a moment longer, his fingers twitching uncertainly, wanting to preserve this remnant of a man he could no longer bring himself to hate, wanting to destroy this reminder of the man he could no longer bring himself to love. Finally, he reached for the nearest book and thrust the image roughly between its pages, then straightened the couch cushions briskly and continued on his way into the kitchen to fix coffee. Through the half-open curtains he could see the first, faint light of dawn.

***

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