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Title:  Exchange Rate

Author: GenieVB

Summary: Alex saves a dying man. Events
occur sometime during early Season 5.

Rating: NC-17

Legal Disclaimer: I own nothing related to
the X-Files. I will make no money from any-
thing related to the X-Files. FOX is rich.
I have holes in my socks.

Category: Krycek/Mulder slash.MSR too!!

Spoilers: None.




EXCHANGE RATE (This story is the sequel to
'No Return Policy' which can be found at MTA or
TERMA.)
--------------------------


What would be the exchange rate on a man's soul?
I cashed mine in a long time ago. My "banker" assured
me, as he blew smoke in my face, that it was the deal
of the century. A few odd jobs in exchange for the
truth and the chance to live. Live that is, as long
as his buyers stuck to the agreed upon deal.

Me and the smoker are getting to be so alike in
character, I may as well buy a pack of Morley's
and be done with it.

Alex Krycek, bought and paid for.

But Mulder...Mulder doesn't sell his soul at any price
to save his own ass. He did, however, sell his own ass
to save someone else's.

He sold it to me.

That's what I'd told him: "You or your sister."

And I've been fucking him ever since.

Yeah, I'm a lying prick. I wanted him for so long
and don't get me wrong, I love that firm, smooth
backside offered up to me whenever the desire
beckons. Kissing those goddamn soft lips is like
sucking milk chocolate.

I control him. My mouth eats him and my cock
whips him.

But sometimes having isn't as good as wanting.

Of course I still want the gorgeous, fucking
arrogant hot-ass. But I hate what it's doing to
him.

And I've only just lately noticed how bad he's
getting.

I've got an undiminished appetite but it's as if
something is starving him to death.

Last week I sent the car to pick him up and when
he entered the hotel room, it was like a heavy rain
pouring in.

These raunchy rendezvous's must weigh on him because
I know Mulder isn't homosexual (though I personally
think there's a little gay in everyone), but, I mean,
... he _agreed_ to it for Christ's sake!

Unless,...he didn't believe me, did he? when I said
we'd kill his sister if he didn't strip?

Who'd believe a story like that? Is he really that
gullible?

Not even a hello tonight and he's peeling off his clothes
already. He either wants it bad or he wants it
over with.

Not that I'll refuse his offer or anything, the sight
of a nude Mulder gets me harder than iron.

*

It was good - fuck - it was great, though he didn't make
a sound.

There I was, pounding him as hard and fast as I
could, loving the squeeze of his sweet interior
and the feel of his muscled back but I might
as well be fucking a corpse for all the reaction
I got.

I tried to talk to him but he didn't answer. Then I
wanted to bitch slap him upside the head for being
just a contrary son-of-a-bitch.

Until now, he always seemed to enjoy it. No one's that
good of an actor.

"What the fuck's wrong with you tonight?"

He slipped his long legs into his jeans and
buttoned them, looking at me but not looking
at me, if you know what I mean.

"Mulder. Part of the deal is when I ask you
something, you answer."

"Since when have you ever _asked_ for anything?"

That was true, I had to admit. "Just tell me what
the fuck is up with you before you piss me off."
I hated this silent shit. Even when we were partners,
he pulled this crap, ditching me in person or
in attitude.

"How much longer?" He asked.

I knew immediately what he meant, I'm not stupid.

"I told you a long time ago." (How long was it?
I did a quick mental calculation. I figured I'd
been banging Mulder for about a year and half),

"There's no return. This goes on for as long as
I decide and I'm not about to give up an ass like
yours anytime soon."

I indulged in a little mind fantasy that hearing
that would please him somehow, that he'd blush
and flash me that tiny self-conscious smile I'd
seen him send Scully's way on occasion.

He didn't though and my jealousy over his relationship
with her brought my anger quickly to the surface.

"You do what you're told." I snapped.

He went very still but said nothing back.


I was to realize later that it was the lack of
his biting come-back that had bothered me the
most.

**

I learned about it by accident.

Mulder thinks the whole world revolves around him
and his little conspiracy theories, that we're all
hanging on his every step, but in fact we don't keep
track of every movement he makes. He just isn't
that exciting.

Yes, he's important to the Smoker and my dink and
has been for a while now, for different reasons
of course. But we don't really care to know what he
eats for breakfast or what kind of toothpaste he uses.

So, as I said, I learned quite by accident of his newest
adventure.

If there was anyone on the whole planet who could
piss me off and make my heart ache, it was Mulder.

Thankfully, we still had Skinner's office bugged.

I turned on my tiny speaker, mostly because I was
at home and bored. Then I turned to stone when I caught
those first heart stopping words.

*"Why did Agent Mulder try to kill himself, Scully?"*

I recognized Skinner's angry baritone. He was no
pooch but my tastes ran to more refined specimens.

*"Don't you think I've asked myself that a dozen
times?!"*

Scully's tight-tones of anger and bewilderment.

I listened to the tape with balled fists and a hole
in my chest the size of a dinner plate. She should
have seen it coming. She lives with him for fuck's sake!
Or he lives with her. Part of the time at least.

*"You practically live with him, Agent Scully,.."*

I wondered how many around the halls of the shinny
bureau knew that besides Skinner. I wonder how much
Skinner suspects or how much he would interfere if
he knew Mulder was buttering his bread on both sides.

*"..you must know something."*

Skinner was no dummy.

*"Mulder doesn't talk to me much these days, sir.
I wish he did."*

*"I find that surprising to hear, Agent Scully,
considering how much time you spend together."*

I could feel over the wire the temperature in the
room spike.

*"What's that supposed to mean?"*

This whole conversation must have been off the record.
Way off.

*"Understand me, Agent, as far as I'm concerned what
you and your partner do during your off hours is your
own affair. Just know that certain individuals within
these halls would not approve of _some_ types of
activity."*

Whoo-hoo, how right he is. Lubing up for your worst
enemy would be right up there too.

*"I realise that."*

I was getting impatient for news of Mulder.

*"Mulder tried to eat a bullet, Agent Scully! Now I'm
at a loss to explain to anyone, let alone myself, what
would drive an otherwise dedicated and to all appearances,
at least for the last while, level-headed Agent like
Mulder to load his gun and place it under his chin!"*

Skinner's jaw was grinding out the words like nails. I
wanted to know the answer too. I wanted to yank on
Scully's dyed hair until she explained why she failed
to notice her partner falling apart. I needed to know.

*"He was drunk at the time, sir!"*

Oh.

That explains why he didn't finish the job. Why he's lying
in a hospital bed with I can only imagine stitches and
bandages on his throat, jaw and head and not in a refridgerator
with a toe tag.

Mulder was always somewhat inept with a gun, fumbling a
shot, losing it on the job. Looks like his luck had held.

None of this explains why he did it though.

*"Mulder's been upset about something, sir, for some time,
but he will not speak to me about it."*

*"When did you first notice it?"*

*"About a year ago. Something happened to him one night. I
don't know what..."*


He met me on a bridge, that's what happened. He met me,
then he met his sister, then I took him back to a nice
little room and fucked him several times. Made love
to him so hard, I don't see how he could have walked out
of that room straight.

Our deal.

His sister lives if his ass became mine. And just to
make sure he agreed to the deal, I showed him Samantha
so he would believe. So he knew she was real.

She was. I wasn't lying about that part. She's the real
sweet thing. And out of it, I got Mulder's sweeter things.

Ass, cock, balls, body, flesh, skin, hair, saliva, sweat,
smell. Smooth and consumable. I loved fucking him so much.
I loved what it did to me. I loved seeing what it did
to him. At first, he seemed to be enjoying our mutual
mingling of fluid.

*"...but I found him in a hotel room in a particular
state of distress. He never told me what happened, but
I have my guesses."*

Every time I sent the car, he came. Mulder never once
indicated to me that he couldn't stand it anymore. Was
that the reason for the gun under the chin?

*"Let me in on those guesses, Agent Scully. If you want
my help with Mulder, it would help me if I understood
what's been going on."*

I want to help him. I shouldn't show my face at the
hospital or the bureau or anywhere else, but I want to help
him. I've ridden the steed into the ground and now I can't
even watch him as he dies.

*"I think he was raped, sir."*

What? No.

No, it wasn't rape. That's _bull shit_!





My cell phone chirped right when Scully was
getting to her theories. Best thing, anyway,
they would have been wrong.

"ALEX. WE HAVE A SITUATION."

Goddamn leaf burning son-of-a-bitch!

"What?"

"FOX MULDER. I NEED YOU TO COME HERE RIGHT NOW."

Fuck. I had no choice but to go and see the
bastard.


As usual, he was dressed immaculately and, as
usual, his bearing was OVER-. He held himself
above me and his fellow associates like some
big, fucking volcano, spewing his stink out
over all of us.

"Fox Mulder has attempted suicide."

It wasn't that hard keeping my emotions from
showing on my face. And I was having them, but
I'd learned lying from the master himself.

"Really?" I managed with just the right amount of
surprise and contempt.

"I need you to look into this, Alex. Naturally, there
is speculation, but thus far no one seems to
know why he has done this. No matter. We cannot afford to
lose Mulder at this stage."

No. I didn't know what he was talking about. The
"C" man had always spouted his paragraphs of
Mulder's "importance" to the project, but none
of us on the lower slopes were ever allowed anymore
details than that. Then again, none of us had
a big, ugly alien with meat hooks for hands looking
out for us.

"Speculation?"

"Yes. We know he has been making regular trips,
overnight trips away from home. However, since
the Group has suffered declining interest in Mulder's
activities, we don't know with who or why.

I couldn't help it. I had to clear my throat but the
lump didn't budge. "When did this happen?"

"The day before yesterday. Circumstances," he continued,
"prevented Mulder from carrying out his action to its
conclusion."

That's fancy speak for Mulder fucked-up. C-Man was
always making excuses for Mulder. And he had in
the past found ways to circumvent the Consortiums
maneuvers to have Mulder eliminated. (I even made
the suggestion once and C-Man had neatly swerved around
it). Always, he found some way to convince them to
leave Mulder be on the pretense of Mulder's "importance".
Sometimes I wonder if there are other reasons, though.
Reasons C-Man wouldn't or couldn't dare tell them.

"What do you want me to do, specifically?"

"Watch him. And keep me informed of his progress.

I nodded, zipped up my jacket and left with my
usual sigh of relief. I respected, even on some level,
admired C-Man, but I also hated him. I was off to do
the dirty work once more, only this time I was
responsible for it, it was my dirty work. My hands
were coated in it, (even if I didn't understand why
Mulder would try to off himself), I was bloody.

I had turned out just like Cancer Man, I was exactly like
him so I hated myself too.

C-Man had no idea that it was me Mulder had been
meeting with. I can just imagine Ol' Stinkies reaction
if he knew what I'd gambled just to be able to do Mulder
up the ass.

Even the goons who'd accompanied me that night were
nobodies. Cheap scragers I'd hired on the side for
a good wad, (Mulder had cost me a bundle) and who, by
the way, never lived to tell the tale.

Yeah, Mulder cost me plenty.

Oh, and the story about Samantha being killed if he didn't
cooperate? Another lie. A pretty good one I'd thought at
the time, in fact, I was surprised Mulder �d bought it.

I guess.

But maybe he really loves her that much. Maybe he'd
rather die than lose her again. I never dared love
anyone that much. You can't afford those kinds of feelings
in this line of work. Hump 'em and dump 'em. Let the
physical take you away for a while in its sizzle, then
shrug off the heat. Let the thrill cool and harden like
grease out in the cold.

I never let myself get emotionally involved.

Until now.

Fuck me and Smokie _and_ his stinking cigarettes.


*

Oh, Christ.

The hospital was pretty deserted at this time of night.
A few nurses, a couple of doctors, most of the patients
asleep, their rooms in the dark.

Mulder lying there like a white fucking ghost, with tubes
sticking out of his arms and a plastic snake hanging out
of his mouth, doing his breathing.

Jesus.

With my penlight between my teeth, I read his chart. I'm
not a doctor, but best as I can make out, when Mulder
tripped in his drunken stupor, instead of the bullet
blowing his brains out the back of his skull, it
shattered his Ramus and then exited from just below
his right ear.

Lucky.

>From the looks of him, he lost a lot of blood, and from
what I can understand of the gobbledegook on this
chart, he hadn't awakened from emergency surgery over two
days ago.

Unlucky.

They riveted a titanium plate and jig-sawed his Mandible
back together but the coma they could do nothing about.

I found myself breathing very hard and wanting to punch
Mulder in the face. Keep the stupid asshole down for good
this time. For doing this to me!

I punched the pillow beside his head a few times but that
didn't do it. He didn't wake up and I didn't feel any better.

Touching him, though, felt good and I did. With my one good
arm I cupped his sick looking cheek and kissed his forehead
and his eyes and the one cheek that wasn't swathed in bandages.

I was pretty sure this was going to be the last time I would
be able to touch him, even if it wasn't the way I wanted to,
with my whole body.

I hated him for that.

But even dying, Mulder comes out again on the right side of
morality, and I am punished with his dying body that I'll
never make love to again.

I never really wanted to hurt him. I never meant for this to
happen. I underestimated his fragility, maybe, or his
craziness. Or maybe I'd overestimated my power over him, or
the worth he would place in being with me.

I never realized what an arrogant, power hungry, egotistical
son-of-a-prick I was.

Now I knew.

Upon hearing the click of a woman's heels approaching Mulder's
sick room, I also knew I was in deep if I didn't get my ass out
of sight, so I hid in the attached bathroom and hoped like hell
she didn't have to pee.

Of course, if it came down to a confrontation, I would deal
with it in my usual fashion. I never go anywhere without my gun.

Scully entered the room, followed by that stiff military statue
Skinner.

They were whispering. Barely enough to alert living or dead.

"Doctor Robb wants to bring in a neurologist from Toronto.
Someone he says is the best in the field."

That was Scully, thinking about the medical angle, wanting
Mulder to have the best treatment, wanting him to get better.

"Agent Scully. If- _when_..."

I heard his hasty correction. Good Skinner. Good marine.
Don't kill him twice.

"...when Mulder wakes up, there'll be an inquirery into his
fitness for duty. There'll be at least mandated therapy-"

"-I know that."

She's not an idiot, Flag Boy!

"If it's found that Mulder is incompetent..."

"They won't find that, sir. I don't believe Mulder tried to
kill himself. I think someone did this to him. Or drove him
to it."

"You got names attached to that theory?"

"Not yet."

Scully has that tight, angry pitch to her voice now that
shrinks the balls on a man.

But Skinner's ready to ship Mulder down the looney toon
highway and that pisses me off too!

"What makes you think Mulder isn't responsible?" Skinner
asked.

"I'll admit, he's been acting a bit odd these last few months.
But he showed no signs of suicidal tendencies. He wasn't
depressed, exactly, but he had something on his mind. And
every-so-often he'd disappear for a night and not tell me
where he was going. He always made the excuse he was "checking
out a lead" into a current case...or going off to see some
newest chapter of the Lone Gunmen..."

Oh, Mulder, you dolt. Scully's way too smart to fall for those
lame attempts at deception.

"...Anyway, whatever was bothering him would just seem to go
away and he'd be his old self again. For a while."

"But then...?"

"It would happen again, yes."

"You said before you thought he might have been raped."

"I don't know. If he was or if it was something else,
he couldn't talk about it. I wasn't going to push him."

Mulder had talked to me about it. But I didn't listen.
I turned off any misgivings while sliding in and out
and to and fro across the object d'art that was his body.

I couldn't get enough of him. When I was with him, I
filled him up and so he filled me. When he was gone,
I was so hungry for him, I ached.

Scully spoke aloud what was now pounding in my brain.
"I didn't want to drive him into silence."

Neither did I but I did. Don't it always seem to go,
that you don't know what you've got 'till it's gone?

(Songs in my head. Blood on my hands. Hole in my chest.
I'm doing just fine as a lover.)

I hadn't heard Mulder when he asked me 'how much longer?'
I had instead listened to my own self serving thoughts.
Believed in my own attraction. Worshiped myself.

It was that simple.


Eventually Scully and Skinner left Mulder's room and
I waited until I could no longer hear the soles of their
shoes on the hallway floor.

Eventually, I found myself once more staring down
at the face of my only satisfying retreat.

The only times I'd felt close to anyone (even if it was
almost exclusively in the physical sense), the only times
I'd felt wanted, (even if it was in a resentful way),
the only times I'd felt remotely a decent human being,
had been with this man who'd almost died by his own hand.

By my hand. _MY_ hand. My liability. I was culpable,
if not in the legal sense, certainly in the moral,
of Mulder's near death.

I'd fucked him into a corner and as much as I'd enjoyed the
ride (and had imagined him enjoying it as well), I'd worn him
out somewhere inside. Somehow, he couldn't handle the guilt
of his actions of fucking the enemy who'd threatened his
sisters life. He could no longer accept the torment of lying
to his partner and lover who bore his silence with barely
disguised fright.

Mulder was a prisoner of his ethics. He took a hundred swigs
from that Forty-Sixer, released the safety on his Glock, and
decided to take himself out of the game and end all of their
miseries.

My hand was dipped in his blood just as surely as if I'd been
there and pulled the trigger for him.

I fucking love him. Goddamnit, I fucking _love_ this
son-of-a-bitch. Fuck him to hell for it!

That's my biggest problem, I guess, in seeing him like this.

I can't tell you how many times in our tumultuous past I've
wanted to kill him because of my love _and_ my hatred both.

There is a fine line between the two, didn't you know? No one
is so vulnerable than when their heart is tied up with another.
No one is so weak, or utterly destroyed when that trust is
shaken or shattered.

To love someone is to take them at their word and hope like hell
they're not lying. And, really, hope like hell your heart will
be able to see it if they are.

But sometimes, though, your heart lies.

See how fucked up it all is?

I hate that my arm got cut off because of him dragging me back
to Russia.

I hate the power his body has over my good sense.

I love all those things too. He's a tenacious and as stubborn
and as insanely determined in seeing his choices through as I am
in mine.

We're a fucking right pair of animals, we are. We hate and
respect each other. We'd circled around each other for years,
looking for a place to strike, like a wombat and a snake.

We ended up drinking alcohol on ice and falling in bed together.
Then he tries to kill himself to get away from me.

Neil Diamond described it best:

"Hows that for love on the rocks? 'Aint no surprise."

(Songs again. Christ!)

Mulder's eyes have opened. I didn't know that I'd said that
last sentence aloud but I fantasize that it was not
the words but because of me, my voice, my presence in the
room that made him want to awaken. I secretly daydreamed
that I had profoundly affected him, changed him and charged
him, and now there was no going back.

I dreamed that he'd opened his eyes just for me alone to see.

Ha. Your turn to "wake up" Krycek.

But I wanted to give him a reason to live again. Some kind of
gift that, if it wasn't compensatory (nothing could make up for
what I've done, and I know there's a god who will someday make
sure to remind me of this), an offering he can use to exchange
the bloody pulp I'd made of his spirit for something fresh and
living.

(It was rape. I _had_ raped him, over and over. Mind, body, soul,
spirit. What's left? I'd taken it all and figured he was okay with
that.)

My hand touched his fevered chest through the hospital gown
and remembered other feverish encounters in better circumstances.

I had loved fucking him.
I'd loved his sound and length and solidness under me.
I loved shoving my dink deep inside him and playing my
fingers back and froth on his abdominal muscles, like
a pianist caresses ivory keys. Those muscles were intensely
erotic.

Sometimes, my favorite thing would be to lay across his back
length to length (we were the same height and this made the it
possible for me to touch so much more of him at once), while
I moved around inside him, and then with him on his knees, I'd
reach around and stroke him until he came and came, and came
again.

Other times, I'd just lay on top of him and kiss his back over
and over, while pumping gently, stretching the experience to
its limits, to our limits, to the limits of linear time.
My cock would tease his prostate and I'd listen to him breath
and we'd break the barriers of the clock. Everything would still
in the universe, then stop and stare at _me_ fucking Fox Mulder,
pouring myself into him until he overflowed.

The odd time, I'd hear his breath catch and release in rhythms
of pleasure and knew I was where I wanted to be - should have been -
all those years I tailed him (no pun intended but funny isn't it?,
the expressions that come back to haunt us and, at other times,
become the fore tellers of our future?!) followed and watched him,
knowing it was forbidden to touch.

I was the worlds greatest fucker (Mulder would hear that last as
a noun, not a verb). I was a musician paying his favorite tune
on his prized instrument for all the world to hear and envy.

Those were the times I wished I had two hands.

But, even if I was reduced to using a sole wand to stroke his
incredible sex, it made me a god. But I broke my instrument.
Snapped the strings. Cracked the mouth piece.

Enough about my faults.

I loved loving Mulder. I imagined now, as I see him, that I'll never
love anyone else the way I do him. (Maybe that's a good thing for
that next, poor nameless shit out there.)

I love Mulder. Fuck me.

Enough about my dink.

Mulder was looking up at me in astonishment, weariness, (wariness?)
with eyes so tired I actually almost, damned near, just about but
not quite, shed a tear.

Time to give back the sacrifices he made to me just to save
this woman (in reality this near total stranger) he calls his
sister. Sacrifices he made in good faith to a false being who
cares for no one but himself.

Time to save him. Time to show him that occasionally, even
a false god knows what love is and can even demonstrate it
if circumstances prod.

I put my lips to his perfect ear and whispered it:

"You're free, Mulder." I said. "You're free and Samantha will
not die."

He would have to choose now, whether to close his mind to my
gift or trust the words of, and I quote, 'a murderer, a coward
and a liar'.

Then I kissed his cheek like I had that night I sent him off to
Wiekamp, only this time he didn't turn away from my touch.

I hadn't lied then either.


*****


"Mulder?"

Scully sat beside him on her couch watching the televison. An
old Seinfeld rerun, she noticed. George the screw-up had taken
a job under false pretenses and was now trying to fake his way
through it. Mulder was staring at the screen as if hypnotized.

"Mulder?"

He blinked, then turned to her, "Scully?"

Mulder's therapy had been going well, but he'd told her not one
scrap of what went on during the sessions. He seemed to be
better. Less tense, less sad, less withdrawn into silence.

"We're okay, aren't we?"

"We're okay, Scully."

"Are you okay?"

He nodded once, then frowned, tapping his bottom lip with
a finger as he often did when contemplating and interesting
twist in a case.

"It's just a crisis of conscience now, Scully. What do I tell
you? How much do I tell you?"

"You can tell me anything." She said with resolve.

He turned a peering gaze on her. "Are you sure about that,
Scully? Maybe you won't want to hear some of what I have to
tell you. Maybe some of what I have to say will be too hard."

"If we love each other, that's enough."

Suddenly Mulder laughed aloud, his head thrown back against
the cushion behind his head, but then he quickly quieted and
turned an apologizing face to her. "I'm sorry I did that,
It doesn't mean anything."

"What are you afraid of?"

He didn't answer directly. "Have you ever loved something,
Scully, so much that you did something you knew was wrong,
that was absolutely the wrong thing to do even though it
was vitally necessary at the time? Because if you didn't do this
thing, those things you loved would be gone forever. Has
that ever happened to you?"

"I think it happens to everyone of us at some point or other
in our lives. Is that what you were faced with? Did you have to
do something you didn't want to do but had to?"

"No." He said softly. "I did something I didn't have to do but...
I did it anyway." He looked directly into her eyes that had
tiny lines of worry at the edges. "And that's what I need you
to forgive me for. I can't ever tell you what I did."

Scully swallowed, afraid. "Did...you kill someone, Mulder?"

He seemed to be considering her words. Someone died, he
thought. For certain, one of us died. Which one?

Or was one of us reborn? Is that what the gift was?

"Yes. Someone died. And someone was saved. Someone I hope
you'll be able to meet someday."

Murder, Scully thought.

She promised herself to never, ever ask him any more
details than that. Perhaps some things are better left
unsaid. And unknown.

Scully took his hand and closed it in her trembling ones. "So
are you all r-right?"

"Yes." He smiled and said. "Maybe for the first time in my life."

It was enough that Mulder was there with her, alive and fighting
for a second chance. One thing she did need to know, that the
death, however it occured, the sacrafice made, whatever it was,
had not been in vain. That it had been for something at least
equal to its loss.

"Was it worth it?"

Mulder reached out and fingered her hair (at the same instant
he felt small phantom fingers at the back of his neck twisting
in his).

"Yes. Every single moment."



*

END Genyah@hotmail.com