Monday

by Sebastian

Pairing: Mulder/Vic, Krycek/Mac

Rated: A, Slash

Disclaimer: Yes... don't ask me who, but I'm grateful, anyway

Summary: Everyone but LiAnn has a pretty bad Monday.

Warning: Hey, I wrote this... do you need to be warned? But for those not familiar with my themes, it's pretty mild... just a little rape.

Beta: Thanks Dr. Ruthless, so much, for the instant beta

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"But I don't wanna go, and I won't!" growled Vic as Mac pushed him into the bedroom, threw a holdall at his colleague, and adopted a firm stance, folding his arms, and peering over his dark glasses menacingly until the older man relented, and shrugging, placed it open on the floor to begin filling it with a selection of clothes.

"My vacation," he grumbled, almost inaudibly, "My fucking vacation, the first few days I have off in months, and we have to go down there?" He shot Mac a resentful glare, and pulled an innocuous drawer open viciously, snatching socks out of it, one by one, with no regard to pairing them, and throwing them into his bag as if he could perforate its base and dent the floor beneath.

Mac tilted his sunglasses, and stared at Victor over the top, a tiny smile curling the corners of his wide, sensuous mouth. He said nothing, waiting for his partner to persuade himself into agreement. "The Director's idea of a joke, I guess," he continued, looking around for his trainers, dropping to his knees to delve under the bed. There was a sneeze, then another, and he wriggled back out with a worn shoe in his outstretched hand. Mac's glasses slid a little further down his nose as his head tilted forwards, the better to appreciate that gyrating butt. Not that he was going to tell Victor how cute it was, or how he'd have liked to slip off a shoe and put his foot on that interesting piece of his anatomy to get the full touchy-feely experience. No way. How sad was that, to get the hots for your partner, your way older partner, your fucking male partner? Not an option, he told himself, placing a finger on the nose piece, and pushing the sun-glasses firmly back to cover his tell-tale eyes. No, not an option.

The trainer joined its match in the bag, and Vic stomped into the bathroom. "Where d'ya say we're going?" The voice was counter-pointed by the slam of the bathroom cabinet, and a tinkle of bottles, toothbrush against glass, and the sound of spray into still water.

"If you've got to go, shut the door, why don't ya?" said Mac, giving it a fierce shove. The guy was too much, sometimes - all the time - gullible, sincere, crass... No, he told himself, not sweet, appealing, like a puppy whose feet are a bit too big, so that he keeps tripping over them. I'm not thinking that. Mac Ramsey, undercover operative, suave, debonair, does not have thoughts like that.

Vic's head appeared round the door, glowering. "I've got tickets for that concert, on the fifth. That's a week away. Think we'll be back? I've waited fucking years to see them." It retreated, and the voice continued. "Towels... there'll be towels, won't there. We're staying in a hotel or something, aren't we? I'm not washing in shitty restrooms again. She can stick her job."

"The concert," sneered Mac, rolling his eyes heavenward in despair. "I'd managed to forget that. Thanks a bunch for reminding me... You've made my day." His eyebrows rose. "Did you say 'tickets'? You've persuaded some other retro freak to go with you? Who's the hot date?" he added with a snicker. "Nathan?"

The tall figure emerged from the bathroom and tipped an armful of odds and ends on the bed. "D'ya think they'd have lasted this long, if they weren't good?" he growled. It had taken him several days to realise, when he'd first heard the announcement the band was coming to Vancouver, that Mac's reception of the news was cool; well, maybe, to be truthful, permafrost would be hot by comparison. "And the hot date," he added smugly, "Is LiAnn."

Mac's head drew back and his eyebrows shot up. He smiled slowly, then broadly, the near-dimples appearing in his cheeks. "You're kidding, right?"

Vic gave him a steady stare.

"You are kidding," he repeated, less certainly.

Vic shook his head slowly.

"But you didn't tell her the band, did you?" He grinned as a hint of irritation passed over Vic's face. The guy was like a kid, couldn't hide his emotions if you caught him unawares; it was one of the things which made him endearing. Did I just think endearing? thought Mac, horrified. Fuck... get a grip. Something's way off here.

"It's a surprise," muttered Vic, resentfully, zipping his bag closed fiercely and turning to pick up his gun and leather coat.

"It'll sure be a surprise," agreed his partner, trying to concentrate on the image of their colleague's elegant features overcome with dismay and disbelief as Victor ushered her through the doors of BC Place and she discovered they were to be entertained by Duran Duran. But Vic's charms kept pushing back into his thoughts, and wouldn't be budged. In fact, he almost found himself resenting the fact that Victor had invited LiAnn and not himself as he studied his broad back, nicely displayed by the snug v-neck knit he wore.

Mac had never denied that Victor Mansfield was an attractive man. Right from the first time he'd set eyes on him in Li Anne's apartment he'd acknowledged that to himself, and, God knows, he wasn't a prude that way. But Victor had turned out to be a rival for Li Anne's affection, the girl he'd always thought of as his. Then he'd been forced to work with him, and although Vic had been just as pissed about it as he was himself, somehow his resentment against the Director got transferred to him, especially if he screwed up. And Vic was straight... straighter than a laser beam in the interstellar void, so, apart from dragging him into the occasional fantasy when he'd run out of supermodels or male tennis players to jerk-off with, he'd forgotten about his initial reaction. Until recently, that is. The last two or three months. Until he'd started getting these lovey-dovey ideas... started *doting* on him... wanting to spring an occasional bunch of roses on him, like he did on Li Anne.

It wasn't natural. Maybe it was his hormones, or his age? Did guys get stuff like that, like girls did? Maybe he was sick? It couldn't be stress, or some big change in his life, making him look at Vic in a different way. Things were much as they'd always been since he moved to Vancouver. Whatever... it was pointless and inconvenient, and it'll get you nowhere, he told himself, as he led his still-grumbling partner out to the car, and set off for the airport.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"You're getting fat."

The amused words stopped his hand short, left it hovering over the plate of scones. Mulder looked up, sharply, and frowned.

"Am not!" he replied, unthinkingly.

"Oh yes, you are," replied the husky voice.

Mulder sat back and looked at his companion in surprise. Where the hell had the Rat-bastard sprung from? The irritatingly pretty face and rough-trade look stood out against the chintz and brass like a dirty hand-print on a bridal gown. He panned the room, expecting the other customers suddenly to have changed, but they remained stubbornly appropriate. Chattering ladies, their legs hidden by bright carrier bags; tourists, Japanese, American; senior citizens muffled in hats and scarves against the grey damp summer's day, all were oblivious to Krycek's presence. Not a single curious look was cast at the tall, leather- jacketed man, who was casually lifting a gilt-edged porcelain cup to his smiling lips.

He'd been alone. There'd been no second tea-cup. There'd been no wide shoulders and short-haired head blocking his view of the quaint street, the old buildings in warm tan stone, the thatched roofs framed by the diamond-paned window on the opposite side of the 'Tudor Rose' Tea Room. Krycek shouldn't be here. Why was he here? Broadway... Oxfordshire... Krycek didn't belong here. It's better to ask him, before shooting him, thought Mulder.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

"To tell you you're getting fat, Spooky. You wanna lay off those scones, and the cream. C'mon, man, you look like a walrus."

Now he knew the answer, it was the most logical thing in the world to get to his feet, pull out his gun, and fire it straight at the lying cocksucker's head.

There was a wisp of smoke, and the bullet sailed out of the barrel in a leisurely glide. Krycek gave a white-toothed smirk, leaned sideways, and the bullet missed his head by half a foot, passing clear across the room to smash noisily through the window. No-one's head even turned to look.

A tight band of terror wrapped itself round Mulder's chest and squeezed. The Rat stood, un-hurried, still smiling, and his hand descended over the china teapot in front of Mulder. It was white, with a florid frieze of roses in red and yellow, and gold trim, matching the tea-cups. Krycek's hand seemed too bulky, too large, around the vessel as if it would crumple the brittle china. That's gotta be hot, thought Mulder. He'll burn himself. Krycek lifted the pot, drew back his arm, and threw it with all his might at the FBI agent. He can't do that, thought Mulder. You shouldn't throw china, it breaks.

It wasn't odd that the pot moved so slowly that he could watch a trail of tea ribboning from its spout, breaking into amber droplets. Neither was it odd that he, too, moved easily aside, his eyes panning the missile, following its progress as it drifted past to smash into a hotch-potch of white shards and a steaming, golden-brown torrent. But when the liquid reached him, drenched his clothes until he was soaked and shivering, and the sound of smashing china went on, and on...

...Mulder woke up.

Wet.

His alarm was screaming at him, and he was soaked to the skin. Slamming his hand down on the clock, his face grew hard. It was Monday. He'd dreamed of Krycek again. His sleeping thoughts had called him a cocksucker... a lying cocksucker, and it was all too true. Every fucking Monday morning since that night, for weeks, Alex Krycek had been in his dreams. The situation changed, their interaction changed, and thank God, none of them had been erotic, but since the Sunday more than three months back, the one when Krycek had... His mind faltered from the words, but he had to face it. Just as on every Monday morning, he had to admit that...

...Alex Krycek had raped him.

It was the first time he'd woken in a cold sweat, though, he thought, disgusted.

However the silence hanging after that clamorous alarm, the endless minute when his dreams were vivid, and real as memory, was disturbed this morning by a slow ticking, and as he rolled to look for the source of the unfamiliar sound, there was a splash and he realised that he wasn't simply wet, he was lying in a pool of water.. Jeez... the waterbed! The fucking waterbed was leaking.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Alex Krycek awoke shivering that Monday too. He wasn't wet, but if he'd been told that could make him feel any worse, he'd have disagreed. He was cold, aching, and so hungry he'd nearly forgotten the taste of decent food. The concrete floor was chill, even where he'd lain there was little warmth. He tried to sleep sitting upright, to save his body heat from leaching into the ground, but inevitably he was prone by the morning, and wondered each time that he had woken, that he hadn't been lulled by the lying warmth of hypothermia into a slow death. Exercise might have warmed him, but it would use calories, and he couldn't afford calories.

He couldn't imagine why he was in this place. What she wanted with him. Why she was even bothering to keep him alive, minimally alive. Scratching his stinking body through his greasy clothes, he shambled over to the bucket, and relieved himself. There was water, plenty of water, from a tap in the wall, and he dribbled out enough into his shaking hands to take a drink, turning it off quickly so the floor would stay dry. The tiny drain beneath was nearly useless, blocked by years of rubbish, and he'd learnt a wet floor took hours to dry in the cold basement room. It had been damp for three days when he'd first been here, when he'd tried to flood the area in his initial wild outburst of frustration and anger. She'd turned off the water for two of those days, and he'd kept awake, too, fearing to lie on the puddled floor to sleep. But he'd been stronger then, and defiance seemed worthwhile.

Smearing the damp from his hands over his bearded face, he tried to come to attention, to go over the events, to try to think of a way to reach her. For the thousandth time he searched his memory, hoping to find a means to bribe her or persuade her to free him. Even, now in his extremity, to tell him why he was to die in this dingy slum basement.

He supposed it had been more than a month ago when he'd walked into the bar in Washington's business district in search of a beer. There was a biting wind, and flurries of snow, and he'd abandoned his old familiar leather jacket in favour of a dark blue pea coat, long enough to come down over his ass and keep his back warm, but the bar was a warm fug and in moments his fleece beanie was in one pocket and his gloves in the other. The low room was packed... mostly suits, briefcases at their feet or under an arm as they sipped at spritzers, or designer water, Alex supposed contemptuously.

A party left, and he eased onto a stool at the bar, downing the second half of his drink in a gulp and calling for another to replace it. It stood, golden, glitter bubbles rising and popping as he daydreamed, half noticing his blurred reflection in the mirror that backed the shelves of whiskeys and bourbons, rums and brandies that ran the length of the wall. He slowly realised that another pair of eyes was tracking his from along the curved bar, and turning, he caught the open gaze of a slim oriental girl who smiled gaily at him, and nodded. Slipping from her stool, she made her way towards him, gracefully weaving through the crowd. Alex saw her jet hair advancing above many of the heads, and it occurred to him that she must be tall; even without her heels, she'd be almost a giant against a Japanese or Chinese.

Close up, he discovered that he'd underestimated. The girl was easily six feet tall, slim as a reed, perfection and elegance in her tailored suit. Her hair was short, cut in a practical bob, and her wide dark eyes and cherry-blossom complexion combined with the delicacy of her features to make an excellent package.

"Hello," she said brightly, her teeth showing briefly in a smile that make Krycek want to push his tongue past those pouty lips, and crumple her poised flawlessness in a bruising grip that would mark her right away as his territory. Instead he lifted his eyebrows in enquiry; enough to indicate surprise, but not discouragement, and tilted his head to the side, giving a whimsical smile.

"Do I know you?" he said, lightly. "Because, if not, I'd like too."

"Oh," she replied, drawing back sharply, biting her lower lip, her smile flickering uncertainly for a few seconds. Krycek fancied then, and had speculated later, that she'd mistaken him for someone else, but she regrouped quickly, and chuckled. "Oh, no. No, you don't. But I was lonely, and you didn't look as if you were waiting for anyone." His eyebrows shot up at that, and she chuckled again. It was warm, a truly happy laugh, thought Alex as she explained, "You didn't check the clock, or your watch. You looked nice, and I'd like to get to know you too, if you're free this evening."

"If I wasn't free five minutes ago, I am now," he replied gallantly. "My name is Alex, and... ?"

"I am LiAnn." She held out her hand, and Alex shook it carefully, feeling the slide of spare bones under her warm silken skin.

The evening was charming; both well-travelled, they exchanged memories and anecdotes of remote countries, quaint and illogical bureaucracies, parasite ridden hotels, giggling together until it was inevitable that she'd put her hand on his shoulder in helpless gales of laughter, and he'd find her mouth, and sink himself onto it for a luscious, lingering kiss. He was careful to touch her softly though, wrapping his hands carefully round her arms to draw her closer, alert for any reluctance or misgiving. But there was none. Unhesitating, she later asked him to come back to her home for the night, and unsuspecting, eager, he accepted, knowing that soon he'd be able to despoil that cool beauty and leave deep bruises on the ivory skin, to turn the white cherry blossom into exotic orchid blooms of mauve and midnight purple.

He hadn't a car, but hers was nearby, the sparse snow settled in crescents against its window-frames. It was bare inside, smelt of carpet and new plastic; a rental, he guessed, confirming it by a glance at the thick plastic tag that hung from the ignition key. They hadn't talked of business, of their purpose in Washington, but if she was a stranger here, so much the better. When he left her broken and torn in the morning, he'd be unnoticed; out of a hotel door or a temporary apartment without any busy neighbours to wonder who the pretty Chinese had brought home that night. He looked over at her, at her smooth forehead puckered in a tiny frown as she concentrated on the dark street through the blowing veils of snow, wondered if she'd survive to see how the scars he'd put on her enhanced her beauty, and felt his cock stir at last in anticipation.

They drove for a while, and the prosperous offices gave way to drabber, older buildings, commercial blocks with obscure, shuttered shop-fronts below, storage, offices, occasionally a dwelling, above. She seemed out of place here, but he didn't question when she pulled up outside one, so like a hundred others that he hadn't even noticed the name on the shop's facade, and said, shyly ducking her head, "I apologise for the location, Alex. It's nice enough inside... It's our family's shop... one of a chain, and I'm expected to use the apartment here, to stay here, when I'm in town. Tradition, huh?" and she shrugged uneasily.

"Your family live here?" he asked, disappointed.

She giggled. "Oh, no. At night, there's usually no-one here. There are just a couple of rooms kept to stay in... a convenience when a member of the family is in Washington on business. My father believes in the virtues of thriftiness. His company thrives, so we don't question. And it's handy, practical."

She led him down a narrow passage to a door at the back, and, fumbling with the keys in the gloom, opened the barred door and ushered him into a room cluttered with the shadowy bulk of cartons and packing cases. The orange splash of streetlights reached a feeble glow towards the thick darkness in the rear of the room, and he could hear her sure footsteps as she crossed the floor to quieten the urgent bleep of the alarm. "Stairs to your right," she called, "I'll just get the lights... have to override the timer." He moved uncertainly towards them, shuffling his feet to feel for obstacles. Later, he realised that she must have removed her shoes, and crept silently upon him, to hit him with measured force on the back of his skull, but at that time all he knew was he never reached the first step.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Mac Ramsey and Victor Mansfield had been kicking their heels in Washington for two days when the call finally came from the Director, explaining their mission.

Vic had dragged them round sightseeing - as he reminded Mac, it should have been his vacation.

"It's not palm trees, and white coral beaches," he gritted, when Mac protested. "But I haven't been here - on a cop's wages I hardly went anywhere - so I'm going to see it, even if the weather is even more shitty than Vancouver's."

"Alright, but no bus tours, I'm no way doing a bus tour."

"So you'll agree to read the map, while I drive the hire car," he said, lifting his brows, and tossing the garish publication in Mac's direction. The ex-thief plucked it out of the air, and tossed it right back

"No, I'll drive, you navigate."

They were still arguing about it when they reached the parking garage, and Mac saw the ugly compact that had been provided for them. He snatched the map from Victor and scrunched his lanky body down into the passenger seat as deep as he could, burying his face in the unfolded paper. "You drive," he said tersely. Even this far from home he wasn't about to compromise his credibility driving that style-disaster.

Victor pressed his lips together in a tight grin and climbed behind the wheel. "First stop, White House, please," he said, crisply, as he eased them into the traffic. "She could call any time, so I'm planning to do my tour in order of importance." He reached into his jacket, and brought out a small book, and threw it into Mac's lap. "Page 56... things you *must* see."

Mac picked up the "Rough guide to Washington" and looked at it incredulously. He turned his open-mouthed stare on his partner. "You - have - got - to - be - kidding," he stated.

Vic's face stretched into a wide white-toothed grin, and he shook his head slowly. "You wanna sit around in the hotel, watching Nickelodeon, or are you coming with me?"

One side of Mac's smiley mouth quirked upwards. "You present a good argument, Victor, my man." Slipping his dark glasses over his eyes, he leaned back in his seat and gave a resigned sigh. "Take a left at the next junction."

Two days later, neither of them wanted to see a 'must see' ever again. Still, mused Mac, the hours had had some advantages. The allowance they'd received would stretch to two rooms in a mediocre hotel, or one... with two beds... in a luxury establishment. They'd chosen the latter, preferring the comfort; at least, that was Victor's innocent reason, Mac had already admitted to himself that it was because he preferred the view - the view of Victor.

And some view it had been. Grandiose enough for Mac to have to keep himself covered so that Victor wouldn't discover his appreciation. Pretty enough that he could only just resist grabbing a handful of that view as it passed his bed, its tight butt flexing as it walked. Getting away from Vancouver, he'd discovered, had also freed him from his reluctance to admit he wanted - he needed - to jump Victor Mansfield's bones.

But at last the Leather Mistress called, and issued orders, and now it was Monday morning, and the holiday was over.

"I wish LiAnn were here," said Mac, as he checked his gun for bullets, and then checked his hair in the mirror, smiling with satisfaction at his appearance. "It's quite an area to keep an eye on. There's more than one exit, and several roads to cover."

"We'll stay inside the bank," stated Vic. "If the hold up happens outside, we won't have much chance of preventing it anyway, we may as well leave that to the local cops."

"Yeah... She must be packing up to come home by now," continued Mac, as the bronze-glassed elevator drifted them to the lobby. Maybe it was her prolonged absence that had let Victor's assets work this... love spell on him.

Did I just think 'love'? Mac thought, with a shudder. But with her away in Hong Kong for so many weeks, it's been smoother with Victor. She acts like sandpaper... causes friction.

His dimples appeared briefly as he studied Vic's profile in the tinted glass. He sure was cute. With her gone, he realised, I don't take the opposite stand when he expresses an opinion. I don't try and earn points by getting her to side with me... and neither does he.

They were led into the bank through a side door just after 8am by a worried-looking manager. "Can't believe that anyone's going to try anything," he grumbled. "Security's been hiked 'til it's tighter than Fort Knox." Looking around the near-empty building, with its numerous windows, Mac was inclined to disagree. But then, he preferred the surreptitious approach when acquiring other people's property; walking in with guns blazing and a mouthful of threats lacked panache. Maybe they *had* taken extra precautions against the Uzi brigade.

"So, how big's the package?" Victor's husky voice broke through the muttered complaints, and the man stopped and turned to him, shrugging.

"Not more than a foot square... maybe two inches thick. Quite light."

"A necklace, right?"

"You haven't seen a picture? Yes, a diamond and emerald necklace; would be quite pretty, apart from the huge stone in the pendant." He shook his head in disapproval. "It may be worth a great deal, but I think it looks vulgar," he said, prissily.

"Hey, are you calling Mrs. Chretien vulgar?"

"Is that who's to wear it?

"Some big dinner for heads of state, right?"

"It's not my place to ask." The manager's tone was dismissive. "My responsibility starts and ends with its period at the bank."

Victor and Mac grimaced at each other, and looked back at him expectantly.

"So, do we get to see it?" asked Mac. Victor glared at him, knowing old habits are hard to break.

"It's in the vault," said the manager, mildly surprised. "We won't release it until 10.15, when the escort comes. Do you want to look over the building, and decide where you'd like to position yourselves?" He moved off across the wide waiting area with the slow stately assurance of a funeral cortege, and Vic followed. Hanging back, Mac studied the fit of his tight jeans appreciatively.

I'll take up my position right behind Victor, thought Mac. Right behind, where I can rub my cock up against that hot butt. Damn... what are you thinking? he asked himself. More and more, innocent phrases were twisting themselves into innuendo in his lust-fevered mind. Telling warmth flooded his groin and he felt a tightening as his cock hinted its interest. He stifled a moan - what hope was there of getting past this infatuation when he was standing here, so close to millions of dollars, hundreds of strongboxes, and instead of regretting lost opportunity, all he could think of was swiping his tongue over the soft skin of Victor's firm butt-cheeks? You are turning into a total loser, he told himself sternly. Is this the person you really want to be?

He'd wondered sometimes if Victor had noticed him checking out sexy guys, as well as the girls they both ogled and commented on. Maybe, because he wasn't that way himself, he hadn't, or he'd have been sure to make heavy-handed jibes about it, especially around LiAnn.

However, after exploring the bank, they found no perfect place to foil a robbery that was going to be carried out by an unknown number of people, using an unknown method. Simply knowing *what* was going to be snatched wasn't a whole lot of use in the forward-planning arena. Mac and Vic had debated what could be running through the criminal's mind even to try this robbery, there were plenty of easier and more valuable targets available than a necklace presented to the Canadian government by some foreign potentate and reserved for the first lady of the day to use. Mac had concluded that the jewels were probably being stolen to order. The Director was never big on information, but she had revealed that, recently, there had been a series of robberies worldwide involving large emeralds. It could have been coincidence, the modus operandi was different in each case, but because this was the first time the necklace had left Canada for over a year, it was considered a high risk target.

Mac left Victor and the manager to prowl the building once more. As far as he could see there was no point in planning, given such flimsy information. Choosing a comfortable chair, he sat back and propped his feet on a desk, pulled his sunglasses over his eyes, and settled down to pass the time checking out the bevy of smartly-dressed employees who were just arriving for their day's work.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

At the start, an hour in that dank room had seemed like a day, and Krycek's every sense had been alert, on edge, waiting for a chink, a crack, a moment of inattention to effect an escape. But as the hours bunched into days, and the days into weeks, his will and his vigilance had eroded until time passed swiftly, punctuated only by sporadic meals, and the urge to shit or piss.

She'd barely favour him with more than a dozen words when she fed him. He knew no more of her now than on the night they'd met; inscrutable, unflappable, no insult or threat affected her. He'd stopped trying - was it a week ago? He couldn't remember when was the last time he'd pleaded with her, or even spoken to her, or shouted pleas or curses into the dusty silence. Now, he couldn't remember how his voice sounded, and he feared to try to speak, in case his had become the voice of a stranger.

There was a noise in the corridor, and in an instant he was crouched by the door, hand outstretched through the wide gap beneath it, hoping she'd feed him. Pride was a luxury he'd abandoned, along with cleanliness; hunger and cold had seen to that. Only survival was important.

"Do as I say, and you leave here today," she said, her shoes scuffing on the gritty concrete as she placed a paper cup just within his reach, and, next to it, a warm parcel wrapped in a paper napkin. Saliva flooded his mouth as he carefully dragged the coffee towards him, putting it safely aside as he groped for his food. He didn't comprehend her words... starving, chilled, the hot meal was manna, and he greedily unwrapped the onion-laden hot dog, crammed it into his mouth and began chewing. "Did you hear me?" she asked. "You can leave."

He froze. "You can leave." That's what she'd said. His mouth was stuffed overfull, he couldn't swallow, and he couldn't reply. Spitting the macerated wad to one side, he repeated, "Leave?" His voice scraped the air, a rusty whisper.

"If you do as I ask, you may leave." The words were reiterated lightly, no element of condescension or threat; a simple statement. He knew better than to ask for an explanation, or to hang back, hoping to hear her terms.

"If I don't, you'll go, and you won't be back." He was ashamed to hear a catch in his voice, he was ashamed that he wanted to thank her, babble promises - anything rather than die here, and die in ignorance.

She was silent; only a luxuriant rustle of silk on silk betraying that she was waiting. "Yes," he replied. Yes - the word went through his brain like a spasm of sexual joy, as if she'd taken a probe and spiked it through his pleasure centre, and turned on the juice. Yes, I'll do anything. Anything. And for Alex Krycek, anything wouldn't be a problem. She'd know that. She'd mapped him now, knew who he was; her brevity, her disinterest had spurred him to reveal secrets that harsh questioning would have left unanswered. Her silence had revealed one fact, however, one morsel that he examined over and over in his mind, hoping to interpret it. She'd expressed no surprise or interest at who he was, what he did, and for whom. All these had been laid out before her as he hoped, vainly, to frighten her into releasing him. She'd been unimpressed, and unsurprised. She'd believed him. 'I know of these matters,' she'd said one day, to quieten him. 'They are irrelevant.'

She bent again, and pushed a large plastic bag beneath the door. "Put this on," she said. "And if you wish to live, don't meddle with it. When I'm satisfied you've fastened it, I'll explain."

He looked at the bag suspiciously, sipping at his coffee, then dragged it across the floor towards him and reached inside. It was a tough canvas vest, the sort a huntsman or fisherman would wear, but instead of pockets full of oddments there were a series of identical pouches containing bulky blocks of material and wires, neatly looped and sewn between them. The garment had a stout zipper down the front, from which an open padlock was dangling.

"It's a bomb," he said flatly. His guts roiled, and suddenly he felt as if they'd been flushed from his body, to gurgle down the throat of a putrid, stinking drain. "It's a fucking bomb," he shouted desperately, cheated at last of any hope he would live. Rage, like thick, red-hot lava, erupted, and he screamed, "You sadistic bitch! How long you gonna let me live before you blow me to kingdom come, you frigid heartless cunt?"

"You have a chance to survive." Her words cut, cool and precise, through his impassioned tirade. "If you die, it will be by your own disobedience, or misfortune. You are not stupid, Alex Krycek, and you don't seem to be hampered by conscience. Do as I say, and in a few hours you may be free. Listen... "

He took a deep breath and clenched his hands into painful fists, knowing he had no option. Anger was also a luxury. Time enough for revenge if she was stupid enough to let him live. Unexpectedly, a memory of Mulder surfaced. Mulder helpless, whimpering, splayed across the hood of his own car as he'd thrust remorselessly deeper and deeper into that hot, virginal, asshole. Cold, calculated revenge - the sweetest.

"Tamper with the bomb, and it will explode. Anger me enough, and I'll leave, and detonate it remotely. Return it to me, and I'll leave you to starve. Or put it on. It seems to me that there's no debate."

"No," he agreed, resigned. "I'll do it." He stood and sloughed off his coat. He had worn it so long and it was so filthy it lay on the floor like a deflated snakeskin, remembering the folds of his body. Lifting the heavy vest, he carefully put it on, and, seeing no alternative, he zipped it... But his hands wouldn't obey him when he lifted the padlock to secure it, they shook violently, and feeling as if he'd been asked to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger, he couldn't find the strength to push the hasp down against its spring, and snap it shut.

"You'll..." His voice faltered, a harsh croak. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands together, pressing his fists into his forehead just above his eyes, and his body cramped as he tried to suppress the shudders coursing through it. A small part of him realised that his reaction was a result of his body's mistreatment, and his mental deprivation, but he felt weak, impotent to resist, or to think of escape. He cleared his throat. "You'll have to get the padlock. I can't make myself do it." Closing his eyes, hoping she wouldn't simply walk away as she had before when he didn't follow her instructions to the letter, he added, pathetically, "I - I'm sorry."

"I understand," she said. Again there was no judgement in her voice and he was grateful that she'd left him his dignity. "Move to stand against the far wall."

He knew she could see him, there was a tiny camera in one corner of the room, far out of reach of a solitary man in a bare concrete box. He obeyed, leaning his body against the wall weakly, emotions in turmoil as the key turned in the lock of his door, a door that hadn't been opened since he awoke, weeks ago, on the rough, cold floor. The door swung inwards, and there she stood, relaxed and confident, the gun in her left hand pointed unerringly at his chest. Somehow, the human face was unfamiliar now, alien, he'd have to learn again to interpret its expression. Never before had he felt such a victim, so helpless. He knew he should be looking for an opening to take her, escape... but it was too much trouble. Stockholm syndrome? he asked himself, desperate for a name. It can't have happened, I can't be dependent. But he trusted her... her consistency, her predictability. And he stood, motionless, watching the disgust flit over her face, her chest rising and falling in the most shallow of breaths, as she tried to avoid the scent of her cruelty, the undeniable stinking evidence of his incarceration.

Watching Alex warily, she crossed the room, her eyes darting, birdlike, to the neat pile of rubbish in one corner, the precise positioning of the buckets she'd allowed him, the crabbed and minute text, low on the wall, where he'd inscribed his epitaph.

"The transmitter which prevents detonation is hidden outside, set to a two minute delay." Her voice was informal, disconnected. "Attack me, or restrain me, and you'll be dead in an instant." It was the truth. She tucked the gun in her waistband, clicked the padlock shut, and it was done. He was her tool. The certainty was almost a relief. "Come."

And she turned her back on him. It was an insult unlike any he'd experienced, yet he savoured it, stored it in the grievance bag he was accumulating, to sort and to evaluate at his leisure if he survived. He looked at his hands impotently, as if they were a mirage, holograms, powerless to grip her, to compel her. At the door he hesitated, wary of stepping into the unknown. Meanwhile she collected a small, silvery device from a niche and thumbed a code into it, then turned to him and said, with what might have been a smile, "I'm glad we can work together. I have no grudge against you as a person, Alex, you were just convenient, that's all. My apologies for your discomfort."

That's one way of putting it, he remarked to himself, smiling, and with that he knew it wouldn't be long, with reasonable food and sleep, before he'd found himself once more.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Mulder arrived at his office late, flustered, and angry. His bedroom - virtually the whole of his apartment - was a quagmire, and the vociferous spinster who occupied number 32 had awoken just after him, and complained immediately, bitterly, and in verbose detail, about the effect water dripping from the ceiling would have on her collection of early 20th century furniture.

He'd accepted the waterbed in the same spirit he accepted aliens, flying saucers, snake charmers and guys with yellow eyes and an over-fondness for liver. It had appeared, it was concrete; it had no explanation. Only fakes needed explanation, and the waterbed was no fake, despite its mysterious provenance. Still, strange sentients cost him nothing but his reputation. They didn't cause this sort of ruction with the neighbours and the building supervisor. He wondered if he should be thankful that the waterbed was the only artefact the fairies, the djinn of the lamp, or possibly the Klingons had materialised in his home. Regrettably, mysterious artefacts came with no warranty, or insurance against third-party damage. This could cost him.

And there at the office was Scully, early, chirpy and efficient, with news of a meeting for him, when all he wanted was to sink into the chair behind his desk and bury himself in the X-Files. By the evening, his apartment would be dry, and so would number 32, and the crisis would have metamorphosed into a civilised inconvenience. Luckily, his pay-check had arrived, providing him with an excuse to visit the bank and duck out of Scully's intuitive investigation, to spend a little longer with his own thoughts, and his slowly calming emotions. Reassuring her that he wouldn't be long, he scurried from the Hoover building, and set off down the street.

He paid little attention to his route. Mentally listing and evaluating the possible cost of the damage, and wondering how the conditions of his lease, and his and his downstairs' neighbour's insurance would stand on the accident, he left his body on autopilot until he was within sight of the bank. He was just about to cross the road, when a hoarse voice spoke to him from the car alongside.

"You heading for the bank?"

"Yes," he replied, before he'd had time to ask himself why someone should be asking. Turning to his questioner, he asked, "Why, do you want me to do something for you?"

The man in the car smiled, briefly revealing healthy white teeth that were completely at odds with his scruffy appearance. What the hell is a hobo doing sitting in such a smart car? Mulder asked himself. The guy was filthy, smelly, and his hair stood up in greasy spikes, which merged seamlessly into the wild beard that covered the majority of his face. Oddly, the hand resting on the window sill was clean, and the nails, though broken and uneven, showed no sign of grime.

"Banks can be dangerous," he commented. "There could be a robbery."

"I'll take my chances," said Mulder, with a quirk of amusement. "But thank you for your concern." Jeez, the smell of unwashed human was becoming overpowering, and he backed off a step. "Goodbye."

He turned again to cross the street, missing his advisor silently mouthing the words, "You're welcome, Agent Mulder."

Krycek's eyes followed Mulder across the street, and he pondered the mysteries of co-incidence. At least when he reached the pearly gates, St. Peter would have to acknowledge that he tried to do one last good turn... and for an enemy. However, he was somewhat more optimistic now that he would come out of this in one piece, assuming he could take LiAnn at her word, and avoid being shot in the next half-hour. Granted, he might end up in jail, but there were strings he could pull... Alex Krycek had been incarcerated before, but the prison had had the pleasure of his company for only a couple of weeks.

However, if he was blown into bite-size chunks, he'd at least have the satisfaction of taking the fucker with him. It was difficult to come to terms with that self-satisfied, big-headed flake continuing to meddle in matters that didn't concern him, and not being there to lead him astray. He hadn't seen him since the rape, and had been looking forward to their next encounter, to see Mulder's composure crack once more, and to gloat. If his masters hadn't given him such strict instructions not to harm Mulder, it might never have come to that, that assault. But resentment had been building inside Krycek for years, now. First, at his attitude to the 'rookie' when he'd had to work with the guy, later at Mulder's cavalier and disdainful treatment of the double agent. Christ, he must know there were wheels within wheels; but Krycek wasn't allowed to explain, or excuse his own behaviour. Just do his job, and take whatever Mulder dished out. If there'd just been a little respect from him...

Still, he thought with a smirk. I didn't kill him, and physically he's unharmed, too. I stuck to my orders. But I hope his fucking ego feels like it's been pushed right up his tight, self-righteous asshole.

He glanced at his watch. She'd returned it, along with his money, early this morning. Nothing else, though... no identification and obviously no weapons. There were five more minutes.

She'd told him he was to be a decoy, a diversion, while she robbed the bank... just one specific item, a necklace, was all she wanted. Apart from this, only his own role was explained. To ensure his compliance, she had her high-tech bomb. Of course, he could choose to disobey, and foil her plan, if he was prepared to die. There were two transmitters that could detonate the bomb... one hidden in the car, which would turn itself off in five minutes. He then had two minutes to get inside the bank, within range of the other transmitter, which she carried with her. He knew the device was sophisticated - it was his business, after all - and that it would perform as she said. To disable it, he'd need equipment, and even then, it would be risky. Going along with her promised a better chance of survival.

Once inside the bank, he could do what he liked, so long as people noticed him. She'd assumed he'd call for help, but the very fact of the bomb should ensure confusion and panic, at which point she'd strike. She'd promised to leave the transmitter for him as she made her escape. "I don't like to kill," she'd said, "Unless it's necessary. And don't try to find me, to take some petty revenge. I have a powerful family; you would live to regret it." He was sure she thought this was true; but somehow he would have retribution for what she had done to him. No matter that he'd accidentally placed himself in her power intending to take pleasure in hurting her... that was how he was, and didn't weigh in the scales.

The seconds ticked by to the appointed time, and Krycek gripped the doorhandle, palms sweaty, slick, as he considered the consequences of a lie, or a failure of her technology. Maybe he'd be blown up as soon as he left the car... that would provide a sufficient diversion for her purpose. Holding his breath, feeling as if his heart was petrified in mid-beat, he pushed the handle down, and climbed out. An instant... the world was still there, and the traffic was roaring past. He slammed the door, and walked briskly across the street. A man who is a walking bomb is impervious to being run over, he thought, as the gaps between cars appeared as if by magic, before him.

A security van stood at the kerb opposite, outside the bank, the guards vigilant, eyes questing for trouble. The stinking bum that brushed passed them was pointedly ignored; they averted their eyes, fearing he might accost them with a rant, or a message from the Lord... even the guard on the door looked at him with disgust, rather than suspicion. Alex raised his hand to push open the door, and the man shifted, pulling back his shoulders.

Krycek's eyes danced. "Eccentric millionaire," he said, smiling broadly. "Ask the manager." And with that, he gave the heavy brass-furnished door a shove, and strolled inside.

It was good to take the initiative again, to be in charge of his own choices, even under these circumstances. The bank was busy, and he continued to the centre of the floor, finally spotting Mulder in a line across the room. There were several security guards in evidence in two different uniforms, and a couple of policemen. Not enough to arouse suspicion that anything unusual was afoot, but obviously over-manned if you were looking for it. The important thing was not to be shot straight away, to establish himself in charge of the situation long enough to explain his predicament. He needed a shield.

Seizing a slight, elderly woman, he wrapped one arm tightly round her neck, praying she wouldn't faint on him and shouted, "I've got a bomb! Freeze!" He pushed back his coat to reveal the vest, the bricks of explosive, the wires. Even to his own ears it was a clich, but then he was a clich... the deranged and scruffy fanatic, prepared to blow himself and a hundred others to smithereens in the cause of animal rights, or victims of third world governments.

Almost everyone's eyes turned to him, and they became as still as a snapshot expanded to life-size for some advertising hoarding. With a few seconds the few small rustlings of paper, and quiet conversations had died, and he had their attention.

"There's a bomb strapped to me! If you shoot me it will explode." He had no idea if it was true, but it would make them pause. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see several of the guards reaching slowly for their weapons... Mulder, too, was feeling for his gun.

A little girl started crying, "Mommie, mommie," clinging to her mother's leg and sobbing desperately, and as the mother turned to him, ashen-faced, petrified, a draught of air passed his face, lifting the wispy hair of his captive.

Suddenly, silently, LiAnn was there, swinging gracefully past on a near invisible wire, black-clad and masked; a veritable Catwoman. She sprang, noiseless, as if she were leaping in lunar gravity, and before the majority of the hostages had recognised her existence, she scooped a small attach case from a bank teller's hand, and leapt onto a table, over the heads of the astounded group by the door and disappeared into the street. The roar of a powerful motorcycle confirmed her effortless escape.

Krycek was awed, dumbfounded. The robbery had been a ballet, an ephemeral pas seul, fleeting, exquisite, superb. He wanted to applaud. Forgetting his threat, several people were giving chase, and he took advantage of their momentary inattention to look about for a path to escape. Just then the woman in his arms began to struggle, no doubt thinking he'd release her and run, too, and as he glanced down and tightened his grip, he spied a small silvery box at his feet, with a key taped to it. She had kept her promise.

But he was still trapped in the bank, and, apart from throwing himself on the mercy of the police, he could see no way out. He slipped the transmitter into his pocket and yelled "Hey, I'm still here, I was her hostage. She made me do this!" Several people turned back to face him, the police and guards coming to attention once more, remembering the danger he poised. He looked over at Mulder, wondering why he wasn't giving chase, or rushing at the 'mad' bomber, and found he was staring, greenish- pale, wide-eyed, at the empty handed pursuers coming back through the door. Most of those who had given chase had sensibly stayed outside, but a couple of police officers had returned, and two armed civilians; an extremely tall man with dark, thick hair and a full-lipped sensuous face, and, walking next to him, unbelievably, himself. In total shock, he released his hostage, and raised his hands in surrender. Terrified, he questioned his sanity. After so many weeks alone, starved, deprived, had he only imagined he was this man, this Alex Krycek?

Mulder had watched the antics of the tramp and his bomb with amused anger. OK, it was a bad situation, people were probably going to get hurt, but whatever had got into the derelict to issue that oblique warning to him? Sometimes people were stranger than the X-Files.

And then suddenly a slim woman had swooped, seemingly from the sky, like a falcon on its prey, and was gone, with her prize in hand, within the space of mere seconds. It was obvious that the bomb threat had been a decoy, and possibly just a bluff. He didn't try to chase the woman, he was near the rear of the bank with a scattering of people directly in his path, but decided, while everyone, including the bomber, was still agog, to make for him instead. Before he could move two men pushed past him, causing him to stumble, and they gave chase, nimbly using desks and tables to avoid the bewildered crowd, as the woman had herself.

By the time he had got back to his feet, it was all over... too late to surprise the bomber, and too late to chase the girl, some of whose pursuers were already returning through the bank's portico. One of them was the guy who had shoved him, he was tall, maybe a head taller than many of the people around him, and his companion, who judging by his gestures, and his face, was annoyed with his friend, was sickeningly familiar to Fox Mulder. It was Alex Krycek.

The bank, the crowd, seemed to melt into soft focus around the form of his enemy, who was limned in light, advancing into the bank, closer and closer to where he stood. Like a rabbit crouching in terror before a snake, he was frozen, waiting for Krycek to notice him, to strike. It was as if he were in one of his own nightmares... possibly he was; the dream is real when you are within it, he told himself. He knew it was illogical, that what he had experienced at the bastard's hands, what Krycek had done to him was not his fault, that the harm was within him, not physical, and that he should have told someone, talked out his feelings. He knew all the theories, the correct procedures. But he still felt soiled, shattered, a worm beneath Krycek's foot, cringing before the power the too-beautiful man had over him. He suspected he could have coped with the damage if Krycek had been as ugly as his soul, but he was radiant in his evil, attractive as an exotic poisonous bug, jewel-like, irresistable.

Dazed, he watched the pair approach the bomber, who gave himself to them unresisting, almost eagerly. The taller man spoke to a police officer, and then the bank manager - Mulder was to far to hear what was said - and having shown the police some document they frog-marched the tramp from the bank. It was not until Krycek's back disappeared from view that Mulder found he could move his limbs once more.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Mac almost couldn't bring himself to lay a hand on the foul cloth of the tramp's coat to lead him from the bank, but Victor, with his usual phlegm and stolid by-the-book procedure, had tucked his gun away, and snapped a pair of handcuffs around the man's wrists. "We gotta get him out of here quickly," he hissed to his partner, "Before the local police or the FBI start breathing down our necks. The Director'll have our asses for this... gotta have something to take home to mommy." Mac turned his charm on the bank manager and also the senior police officer, who was keen simply to evacuate the bank, and leave Alex for the bomb squad to deal with. The manager had been told that they were undercover police, sent by the Canadian government, and with his help, and an embossed diplomatic passport, which Victor had never seen before, and suspected was a fake, they mollified the policeman. Taking the unresisting man by his upper arms, and with the police officer ahead to clear a path, they bundled their prisoner out of the bank and into the rear seat of their hire car, and drove away.

Alex had recovered his composure a little by now, and had started to think once more. The shorter man was Victor Mansfield, the taller Malcolm Ramsey - 'Mac'... he had heard them give their names to the inquisitive police officer. So he was still himself, he thought, with warm relief, not a delusional lunatic, and Victor was merely a double, astonishingly alike, but purely by chance. They were Canadian... he could hear it slightly in Victor's voice, a shift in cadence, though the timbre, the texture, seemed the same. The guy looked a little younger and slimmer, too, and wore his hair in a softer style, enhancing the innocent appealing look which Krycek himself usually tried to play down.

And he must be the reason why LiAnn had chosen him as her patsy. She knew this guy, maybe had a grudge against him, and, instead of picking a random member of Joe Public as her bomb-on-legs, he'd thrown himself in her path, and been chosen. Curious, he pricked up his ears, and surreptitiously slid the jackets toward him that they'd dumped beside him on entering the car.

Clearing his throat, he said, huskily, "I don't know if this is a real bomb, guys, but could you get it off me, please, quickly. I don't want to find out the hard way."

Vic, who was driving, said seriously, "D'ya think *we* do? That should be our first priority, Mac. We can't question the guy if he's a greasy smear all over the inside of the car."

"Has it occurred to you, Victor, that if he's interior decor, so are we?" His ready smile curled his lush lips with amusement, and he leaned round to look at Krycek. "Who are you, pal? And what's the story? You really get forced into this?"

Name! thought Krycek, What's my name? John Smith? Abraham Lincoln? Pee-wee Herman? Fuck! "Er... Scully. Dan Scully," he blurted. "Yeah... sort of... I said I'd work for her; didn't know it was a fucking Kamikaze mission, though."

"So you said you'd help her commit a crime, and she double-crossed you, is that it? Who is 'she' anyhow?" interrupted Victor's growl.

"She didn't tell me her name," replied Alex. "And she didn't tell me it was a robbery. She told me a job, is all."

Mac turned back to Vic, lifting a brow. "If I didn't know she was in Hong Kong, I'd say it was LiAnn."

Bingo! thought Alex with satisfaction, studying the two still harder. They could lead him to her, maybe even facilitate his revenge, and he wondered who had betrayed her enough to set them in pursuit.

"LiAnn doesn't do that any more. Anyway, she's my fiance... so enough with the insinuations, please, Mr. Ramsey. You breathe those words near the Director, and I'll make you eat them." There was anger in the voice. Either Mansfield had a very short fuse, or this was an old argument.

"Maybe." Mac smirked. "But then, she was going to marry me once, too, and that didn't happen. Look, in the weeks she's been away, we've got on really well. Why don't we leave quarrelling over LiAnn until she returns?" Alex saw that Mac was staring fixedly at Victor's profile, his tongue moving slowly over his lips, and his hand, which had been braced on the backrest of Vic's seat, shifted slightly, so that his thumb stroked with undetectable softness over the leather of Victor's coat. You've got the hots for him, thought Alex, amused. I wonder if he realises? Victor certainly couldn't be aware of the smouldering look Mac was throwing him at the moment, or he'd be blushing.

"I'm happy to quarrel with you over LiAnn anytime, buster," retorted Victor. "So keep her out of this, and concentrate on your job. Ask Mr. Clean back there a few more questions."

"I suppose you could say time is ticking away?" said Mac, dragging his eyes from his partner, and bathing Alex in his smile, instead. "Well, fella, are you ticking?"

"Nope. No ticks. She said something about a transmitter... maybe it's bogus. Hell if I know. I'm still in one piece." One piece, but no longer trapped inside the vest. The key had opened the padlock easily... he'd arranged it so that it still looked secure.

"And you just agreed to do this, no questions?"

"She never said nothing about no bomb," he replied, letting a whine creep into his voice. "She said it was an easy job... and I'd get five hundred... "

"So you knew it was illegal?"

Krycek hunched one shoulder, and looked down. "Maybe. But I got this little habit, you see." He gave Mac an uncertain smile and looked away again. "Y'know how it is. It seemed easy, and I needed a few dollars. I was... hurting. So I didn't ask any questions, I said yeah."

"And you just put it on?"

"Hey, man, I ain't stupid. She held a fucking gun on me." Krycek wondered if he were overdoing it, but his acting seemed to be going down quite well. He became more ambitious. "She ran out on me. I didn't get my money, not one fucking cent. Maybe you'd like to pay me - for what I know."

"So, you don't know who she was, you don't know what she wanted, you don't know anything, do you? How about what she looks like, huh? Can you manage that?"

"She looked like a chick, y'know? Bit tall, skinny maybe... tits... "

"And that's all you know, is it? Well, I think that rates about a nickel, eh, Victor?"

"He'll remember better once we get him back to headquarters. The Director'll be able to jog his memory for him."

"Look, I didn' take no notice. I got more important things on my mind. Maybe she had dark hair..."

"Dark hair," said Victor, sarcastically. "That'll be helpful."

"Look - a chick is a chick. They're pretty much the same to me, OK? She was good-lookin', she was young... she didn' wear glasses. I don't take much notice; I got the junk for company, y'know."

"So, you couldn't pick her out of a line-up."

Krycek shrugged, and tried a bit of bait. "Maybe. I didn' check her out. What you tryin' to make me say, eh?" He tried to sound a little angry. "You want me to say I didn' care what she looked like 'cos I couldn't give a fuck, anyway, huh? You want to hear that if it'd been a guy I coulda described him down to his fucking toenails, man?"

Mac's thick eyebrows almost mated with his hairline. "You're gay?"

"I didn' say that either. Where the fuck are you taking me, anyway? Who are you guys? You're not cops are you?"

"No, we're not cops," said Vic. "And we're taking you..." he hesitated.

"To Canada," supplied Mac.

"What?" said Alex and Vic simultaneously.

"What else would you suggest, Victor? Take him back to the hotel? Even if they let us bring him in, we can hardly bring out the thumbscrews in a hotel bedroom. We've got to take him back with us."

"No way am I going to Canada," protested Krycek, "I'm an American citizen. That's kidnapping, you motherfucker."

"I agree with him on that one, Mac. We've got no authority to do what we're doing now, let alone forcibly take him out of the country. How would you get him on a plane? And I'm sure as hell not driving for days in the company of a stinking junky faggot." Vic sounded annoyed, and Mac began to argue with him over the best action to take. Alex relaxed, listening hard, and, while their attention was diverted, working his way through the contents of the pockets of the jackets lying next to them.

After about ten minutes listening to them bicker, Alex reckoned he knew enough for his purposes. He had no interest in their mission, or stolen jewels, though finding out about exactly who they worked for sounded like marketable information. Alex's mind and emotions tended to focus narrowly on himself, and how the world affected him. Selflessness and altruism were words that could safely be struck from any dictionary that Alex Krycek used.

He had appropriated an old shopping list from Victor's pocket, written on the back of an envelope, and had found Mac's driver's license, so he had both their addresses. Their conversation had worked its way back to LiAnn, who, it seemed, was also an employee of the mysterious organisation for whom they worked. Can't be earning enough, thought Alex, amused, if she's gotta rob banks on the side. He had nearly decided on a plan to pay her back... through these two. He had thought maybe she had a grudge against Mansfield in choosing Alex, his double, as her unwilling accomplice, but it seemed she had a relationship with both these guys, and they cared for her. He supposed it was as she had said then, she'd needed someone, and he'd presented himself; for some twisted reason she couldn't resist using her fiance's lookalike as her helper. He found he really admired her style, and her efficiency... now that he was out of her power he could stand back and appreciate her talent. But she had to be punished, all the same, and, even though it was riskier than a direct move against her, he knew she'd admire and respect him more if he carried out a more subtle plan.

A wire twist-tag found its way into his pocket too; it would soon be time to take his leave of his new acquaintances, and the parting would be easier if he lost the handcuffs, and the bomb. He'd discovered a pair of tickets to a concert in Victor's pocket as well - and thinking it might be useful to know their whereabouts at a fixed time - pretended they had fallen on the floor.

"Hey guys," he said, waving the tickets in his cuffed hands. "If you don't want these, an' you're dragging me off to the arctic anyway, can I use one? Always wanted to see Mr. LeBon in the flesh, y'know."

Mac broke off his squabble with Victor and looked back at Alex, plucking the tickets from his hands. "You're in luck, Victor," he grinned. "If LiAnn turns down your treat, Dan here wants to go with you."

"Yeah," said Alex, lewdly, "If your girlfriend don't wanna do a few moves to Duran Duran, I'll go with you, honey. You an' me an' the 'Wild Boys' huh?" He broke into a chorus of 'Rio' as Mac grinned at him. That's a really great smile he has, thought Alex, his scheme knitting itself together in his mind. If I were Victor, I wouldn't be quarrelling with this guy, I'd be fucking him.

"She'd probably thank you for taking her place," said Mac.

"What the hell do you know about it, Ramsey?" snarled Vic, snatching the tickets from his partner, and slapping them down on the dash. What the fuck was Mac doing, playing along with this low-life punk? Christ, if he had to spend days with a queer heroin-addicted tramp, he sure didn't need Mac discussing his love-life with him.

They began to argue again. Alex noticed that they were approaching the limits of the Washington conurbation... a few minutes more and they would be on the freeway, and open countryside where it would be harder to give them the slip. Time to part company.

"I need the bathroom," he said loudly and clearly. "Jesus," said Vic, exasperated, glancing back at him briefly. "Can't you just shut up?"

"You wanted me to talk just now, man," answered Alex, testily. "Make your fucking mind up. I gotta go. I gotta go, soon, OK?"

"Just stop the car, why don't you Victor, at the next gas station? I'm hungry and thirsty, and we should get in touch with the Director and find out what she'd like us to do. And I could do with some fresh air." He looked back at Alex, biting his lip. "I don't like to be rude, but you are a tad... pungent."

Alex supposed he must be, and was itching - literally - to throw his clothes in the trash, and spend some quality time with a hot shower. But he'd been like this for so long he couldn't smell himself, for which he should be thankful, he realised. "Sorry," he said, sarcastically. "Get an air freshener too, huh? And I'd like a coke, and some chocolate, OK?"

Victor grunted. "Fine," he said, through gritted teeth, and swung the car recklessly into the forecourt of a small convenience store-come-gas station, screeching to a halt. "I'll get the food, you can escort Mr. Scully to the john. After his comments, I don't want to be alone with him. Gotta watch out for my virtue."

"Aww, don' be shy, cutie," Alex flung back at him over his shoulder, as Mac marched him toward the facilities indicated round the back of the building. "I won't bite... on a first date."

"Don't even joke about it," advised Mac in an undertone. "He'll just get mad... hates stuff like that. He's very moral. Tries to be tolerant, and does pretty well, so long as you don't get personal."

"How 'bout you?" asked Alex.

"Doesn't bother me," said Mac. "I had a... liberal upbringing."

"You... like him, don't you?"

Mac gave him a level look, and said nothing. Alex shrugged, and looked smug.

Alex thought he ought to make a point of asking to have the handcuffs off to use the toilet, but he was refused, as he had expected. However, Mac obviously thought he posed little threat, and chose to wait outside the door in the open air, after checking the building had only one tiny, locked window.

As soon as he was alone, Alex used his piece of wire to unlock the cuffs and the window. If that hadn't been available as an escape route, he'd been prepared to tackle Ramsey, but he preferred to slip away and get a head start on the two of them. He was going to leave the bomb behind, but it occurred to him LiAnn's fingerprints could be on it, and he didn't want her implicated before he'd had his revenge. Anyway, he was curious to see if she'd been bluffing.

Scrambling silently through the tiny window, he padded between the cars parked in the lot at the rear of the shop and climbed over the fence. He was panting as he dropped to the ground on the other side; his weeks of inaction and starvation had weakened him. He left the bomb there, out of sight, and retreated another fifty yards down a quiet street, and, taking cover round the corner of a building, removed the transmitter from his pocket, placed it on the ground, and stamped on it. Holding his breath in anticipation, mouth open against the blast, he waited.

There was an earsplitting crash, and the ground under his feet seemed to heave, followed by the noise of hundreds of panes of glass smashing to the ground in a crystal torrent. Krycek laughed, and walked away.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Victor stood on his threshold nervously, his hand rubbing against the doorframe, as he slouched, strangely silent, in front of Mac.

"Can I come in?" he whispered, the words curt, as if each had escaped from his mouth as if narrowly missing a trap.

"Yeah.... " said Mac, his eyebrows rising, and he stood aside and opened the door wide. He didn't smile. He'd known Victor long enough to realise he was troubled... really troubled.

Vic passed him, and stalked to the centre of his living room, standing there uncertainly. "Victor!" Mac bantered mildly. "You had a date?" Maybe he'd had a quarrel with LiAnn? That could be cause for celebration... He shut his front door, and studied his co-worker. The faded jeans, and white T-shirt, the scuffed leather coat and sneakers looked more than OK, but they wouldn't be what LiAnn was expecting for a night out.

Victor frowned at the floor, biting his lips. "Yes... " he answered quietly, and sat down on a sofa abruptly.

"You should be at the concert, not here with me! Where's LiAnn? What's wrong?" He was suddenly anxious. Victor had been making a fuss about this gig for weeks; irritatingly singing snatches of Duran Duran's hits... playing tapes in the car. The guy was obsessed for heaven's sake.

"Yeah." Less than informative...

Mac put a hand on his shoulder, and shook it gently. For all his teasing, and his rivalry with Victor over LiAnn, he cared about them both. Too fucking much, thought Mac fiercely.

"What's the matter?" he said. Victor looked up at him. He looked a little gaunt, tired, but above all, apprehensive. "What the hell's the matter? Is LiAnn OK? I haven't heard... she got back alright, didn't she? You're supposed to be going out tonight..."

Victor put his hand over his partner's, where it rested on his shoulder, and gripped it spasmodically, then released it just as abruptly to clench his fists in his lap. "Yeah... " he said, and paused, looking across at the wall. "Yes, she's fine, and yes, I know I should be at the concert." He looked up at Mac. "Could I have a drink?"

"Sure. Coffee? Beer? What?" Mac moved toward the kitchen.

"Something stronger... whisky maybe, if you've got it."

"Victor," he said chidingly, "you don't even like whisky. You're always down on me for drinking too much of it."

"This is a special occasion," said Victor, with an unsure smile.

That's really odd, thought Mac, pouring the other man a large measure, and setting it before him. He'd seen Victor let his hair down once or twice, but he was very careful about how much he drank these days, and rarely touched spirits. Sitting down beside his friend, and placing a drink in front of himself as well, he turned to Victor and said, "Come on... spit it out. What's wrong?"

Gotta be careful here, thought Alex. Let him lead... don't say too much. He took a sip of the drink and made a show of grimacing, then looked Mac in the eye and drank it down in a gulp. Placing the glass carefully back on the table, he coughed as if the liquor had caught his throat and said quietly, "I hope that wasn't good stuff... I just wasted it."

This was worrying. Smiling a little at his partner, he joked, "D'you think I'd give a Philistine like you my 20 year old malt, huh? Want another one?"

Alex shook his head. "Not just now, thanks... maybe later, if that one doesn't work."

"Work at what, Victor? C'mon, stop being Mr. Cloak and Dagger. Or is it just that LiAnn's stood you up and you're saving money drinking my booze to drown your sorrows, instead of buying your own?"

Alex shook his head, and sat in silence, staring at his empty glass, as Mac took a swig of his own whisky. At length, he muttered, "I've stood her up, Mac. I didn't want to go with her."

"Realised that she won't appreciate Duran Duran, at last, have you? Wise man. Hey, you're not here to ask *me* instead, are you? Because I'd rather go and boil my head in sump oil, given a choice," he quipped, grinning at Alex.

"It's not a joke," growled Alex, in imitation of Vic's belligerent attitude. "I didn't want to go, because I didn't want to go with her. I felt like a cheat, OK?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you've got another lady? That you've been two-timing LiAnn?" he said incredulously.

Alex shook his head, and fixed his gaze in the distance again, away from Mac. "I wish it were that simple," he said, his voice hitching just a little.

He stood, and looked toward the door. "I should leave. Find someone else to talk to... a counsellor, maybe."

Fortunately, he hadn't overdone the histrionics; Mac moved between him and the door and said, "Not until you've explained yourself. Are you sick, Victor? Is that it?"

"Yeah, perhaps that's it," he replied, with a crooked grin. "If I wait a few days, it might wear off. Can I have another drink, huh? Maybe if I'm soused enough I'll be able to talk. And I've got to talk... this is eating me up."

Mac was surprised. Victor hadn't seemed to have anything much on his mind apart from the shit they got from the Director over their failed Washington mission. But he was quiet and reserved about private matters that didn't involve LiAnn, so it could be so.

He poured him some more whisky, and Alex took it and sipped at it as he walked over to stand by the window. "I feel like a cheat because she's not in my thoughts anymore. Someone else is - and I think that someone thinks about me, too." He paused, waiting for Mac to say something, hearing only the man's low breathing and a quiet footstep as he approached his supposed partner. "I... I think it may have been creeping up on me for a long time," he added. "But I didn't suspect - know - until about a month ago."

He could sense Mac's warmth on his back, now. He tried not to meet Mac's eyes in the ghost reflection in the night-time glass lest he betray by the glittering anticipation in his green gaze the joy and satisfaction he was anticipating this evening.

"What do you mean, Victor?"

But Mac's voice insinuated he knew what Victor Mansfield meant, because Alex was telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. Alex turned slowly to the younger man, tilted his head back and let his eyelashes flutter a little shyly open, until his eyes, cool and fresh like the first flush of spring grass, captured Mac's warm brown regard, and he permitted a tiny open-mouthed smile to send an invitation from his sweet lips. As if mesmerised, Mac leaned down to Alex, his own lips tingling as if with pinpricks of elfin pins-and-needles, until they brushed gossamer light on that rose pink skin, on that mouth which had caressed him a thousand times in fevered dreams.

Alex reached up his hand, and, molding it against Mac's warm, curly-pelted head, pulled him closer, opening his lips so that Mac could possess and impregnate the man of his fantasies, show him there was no mistake, no error in his hesitant assumption. Mac's full lips were soft, caressing; his tongue gentle. It entered Alex's mouth like a warm, strong, yet heedful dog greets a long-gone master, loving, enthusiastic, yet shy and diffident. Alex heart lurched, and, fleetingly, he wished this devotion could truly have been for him.

And Mac drowned, dove deep into the green well of Victor's eyes, and, his whole body swarming with fiery, seething sparkles, quelled them in the deep, velvet billows of that first, yearning kiss.

Pulling back, licking aside the silken thread that still joined them, Alex looked at Victor's lover with the lie of adoration, and the truth of licentious greed, and breathed, "Will you take me, Mac? I... I can't do any more. Lead me, make me understand this is right, that I'm not... a... a... mistake, not contemptible."

"Are you sure?" Mac asked. It seemed unbelievable; every desire, reverie, every need about to be fulfilled as if the gods had drawn his name from a celestial cup, and declared henceforth he was to live amongst them.

"Yes, oh yes," Alex murmured. Truly, it wasn't hard to sustain his part. Malcolm Ramsey was a beautiful man; strong, muscular, sensuous, and so tall he made Alex want to be swept up in his arms, and carried off to that diamond sparkling Arctic fortress wrapped in his scarlet monogrammed cape.

"Good." It wasn't a reply, it was a declaration. Mac seized him breathless-tight, and raided his mouth, took it, explored it, and let his wide, warm hands roam under 'Victor's' coat, over his hard, rippling back, and pulled him in so that the undeniable bulk of his huge cock pressed hot against Alex's thigh. Alex felt light-headed, swooning with need. He wanted this man, Victor's man, and, already, he was unconsciously planning to keep him for his own.

"In the bed," breathed Alex. "Show me it's real, it's legitimate, not a dirty furtive groping. Make love to me, Mac, please."

"Yes," Mac's sigh brushed over his mouth, and lead them, giddy and flushed, thoughtless, into the dusky comfort of Mac's bedroom. Mac could not believe the last hour, it was not possible, and every moment was a jewel that in a flicker could melt into the dim mist of dream memory, in an instant to be a fleeting molten clasp on his heart before fading forever.

The warm twilight was perfect, thought Alex. He knew his body must differ from Victor's; he had his scars... possibly Victor had such momentos as well, and who knew how well this languorous giant had studied the subject of his fantasies? "Leave the lights," whispered Alex, letting the tip of his tongue brush the down on Mac's ear, "It'll make it easier for me... I'm sorry... "

"Don't be sorry," Mac's voice was honey, bathing him in desire. "Don't be sorry, Victor, I can feel it's you, hear it's you. If you knew how long I've wanted... wanted to be in here with you."

And you'll probably never get him, thought Alex, smugly, thumbing open a button on Mac's shirt with maidenly reticence, and brushing the springy hair on his chest with his palm.

Mac's hands cupped his face, framing it for a kiss that marshalled a glissade of deft ghost fingers down Alex's spine, to sweep silken hands round his hips, urging his cock to full and desperate attention. He slumped against the majestic form, feeling the size of Mac's throbbing member as it found a niche in the planes of his body, and knowing he had to have this man take him, possess him, fill him with the hot thrust of his superb shaft.

"Please, Mac... do it... now. I'm so ready, I... " Alex didn't bother to say more, left to his own devices, Mac would probably be so considerate that Alex would scream with frustration. He shrugged off his coat, and began to struggle out of his T-shirt, sighing with relief when he felt Mac grip it, and yank it over his head. Mac bent down, nipping at his neck with tingling kisses, and Alex arched back, inviting him to help himself to his body, and hoping that he would be too preoccupied or too unfamiliar with Vic's skin to notice the scarred trophies of Alex's dangerous life.

As Mac browsed over his shoulders and neck, Alex slipped the other buttons on Mac's shirt. It was dark, fine, expensive, its smooth drapery at odds with the hard furred slabs of muscle of Mac's wide chest. He pushed it from the broad shoulders, pulling Mac's arms from round himself, so that it could slide to the floor. Letting the fingers of both hands trail down Mac's stomach, he hesitated at his belt, as if unsure, too timid to take this further.

Mac drew back a fraction, hands resting on Alex's shoulders and smiled, the elusive dimples highlighting his merry face. "We can take this slower, if you want, Victor... or if you want to just stop... if you think this is a mistake? No pressure... "

"You want it, don't you?" said Alex, blinking with uncertain longing at the younger man.

"Yeah," he drawled, lowering his eyes, bashful to admit his need, but wanting to assure his new lover that this was more than just a passing urge, more than simple lust. "Yeah, I wanted it long before I realised what I wanted, before I knew I... loved you." As he continued, his voice faded to a whisper, the truth was too daunting to speak aloud.

A warm tide swirled over Alex's skin, and seemed to soak into his belly, leaving a glow of delighted anticipation. With care, his actions were going to screw up these men's lives big time, he realised, and hopefully LiAnn's too. There was another part to his plan, involving Mulder... one that should send a clear message to her that he had found her, and was restoring the balance of harm.

"There's no way I can deny I want this too," Alex assured him, reaching up to take Mac's right hand with his own, and pulling it down to press it gently against the hard bulge of his cock which was trapped inside his tight jeans. "Help me get there, Mac? I don't know, somehow, how to do this... to get through it... it's so strange, so exciting."

Mac ran his other hand along Alex's bare shoulder, and up his neck, to cup the back of his head in his splayed fingers. His mouth pulled into a lopsided grin as he replied, "Exciting and wonderful, babe," and he pulled Alex's head towards him, and fastened his lips to his supposed lover in a thorough, demanding kiss. Alex felt Mac's hand at his groin deftly unfastening his fly, and he toed off his sneakers as he helped the other ease his jeans and briefs over his ass, and down his legs. Mac's arms wrapped round his body and drew him in, crushing his swaying shaft between them. Alex could have sworn he felt the pulse pounding in Mac's cock as his own rubbed against it.

Letting Mac kiss him as he pleased, Alex slid his hands to the fastening of Mac's pants, and unzipped him, pushing them and his boxers over his slim hips to fall to the floor. Gripping Mac's ass, he ground himself into Mac's groin, revelling in the solid hardness of Mac's thick cock.

Mac's hands too slid downwards, sliding down his back to grip his buttocks, massaging the firm flesh before sliding one round his flank to take both their cocks, pressing them gently together in his fist, and then pumping them slowly. Alex gasped against his mouth, rising to his toes as electric tendrils twined from his groin and caged his belly in breathless delight. "Don't," he panted urgently, "Stop, I'm gonna come."

"That's the idea," breathed Mac. "That's where this usually leads."

Alex tore himself from Mac's embrace, chest heaving as he tried to calm himself. "Yeah," he chuckled, still gasping, "But not so soon, not like this." He wanted that splendid cock inside him when he came, not only for his own satisfaction, but also because he wanted Mac to think Victor was prepared to give himself up completely to his partner.

He climbed onto the bed, half-lying, and held out his hand. "Take me here, Mac... lover... please. I want you to... fuck me. I want to feel you in me."

Mac joined him, putting an arm round his shoulders to draw him close, and stroking Alex's cock with gentle fingers, drawing a cloudy drop of juice from the wrinkled tip of his foreskin which he licked thoughtfully from his fingertips. Jesus Christ, panicked Alex, I never thought... Victor might be cut. However, Mac didn't seem puzzled, so it looked like he had been lucky... or Mac had never checked Victor out.

"D'you know what you're asking me to do, Victor?" Mac murmured, lifting his own stiff penis away from his belly, and waggling it. "Do you really want to feel this thing up your ass? Even supposing I could force it inside you, it'd damage you, tear you... you've gotta work up to one like this. Even a much smaller one can be damn painful, if it's your first time, if you're tense."

Alex knew Mac had a valid point, and, caring as he did for Victor, was unlikely to give in to simple persuasion because he did not want to hurt him. He would have to use another lie, and hope his revelation would not be too out of character for the man he was impersonating. Putting a hand over Mac's where it held the thick shaft, he said earnestly "I don't think you'll hurt me, Mac, if you're slow, and careful. I'll tell you... something. It's embarrassing, but... I hope you'll change your mind."

"Yeah?" prompted Mac, curiously.

Alex looked fixedly into his lap, and in a low, halting voice, began, "When I started to have these... feelings for you, I hoped it was just temporary... just a phase or something, 'cos I've... thought about other guys once or twice, but it never lasted, y'know?" Mac's hand on his shoulder gripped sympathetically, reassuringly. "But it wasn't. It got worse, until I started thinking I had to do something about it, knowing I had to try it... and I had a pretty good notion that you had... something for me." He stopped, and took a deep breath before continuing. "But I thought, what if I start something, make a move, and when it comes to... it, y'know making out with another man, I just can't do it, or it's so bad or painful, that I just can't go on. It'd end up worse than if I'd never said anything."

"There are a lot of gay guys that don't like being fucked in the ass, y'know, Victor, that never do it. It's not unusual. You must know that... and you know there's lots of ways of making love, giving someone pleasure."

"Yes," said Alex, stubbornly. "But if I was going to go for this, make a move on you, I wanted to know that I could do it completely, not hold anything back"

Typical, thought Mac. The guy always has to commit totally, and see it through to the end. It's sweet, and admirable, but he sure makes things tough on himself.

"So... " Alex stopped, and tensed, as if he was scared to go on.

"C'mon, you've gotta tell me, you know that."

"So I tried it," he said, all in a rush. "With a dildo."

"What!" exclaimed Mac, with a snort of laughter. "You're kidding."

Alex shrugged Mac's hand from his shoulder, and began to roll over to climb off the bed, saying angrily, "Well, if you're just gonna make fun of me... "

Mac pounced on him, and wrestled him down, to lie beneath him. "I'm not gonna laugh at you, you just surprised me, that's all. And it's a pretty wild image, the thought of Victor Mansfield screwing himself with a dildo."

Alex glowered at him.

"Was it fun?"

"Don't push it," growled Alex.

Mac grinned at him, and dropped a light kiss on his tight lips. "OK. I won't mention it again. I'm pleased... I want to have you Victor, in every way I can. Yeah, I'd like to fuck you, but if you want to fuck me instead, that's cool, too. Or I can blow you. Hell, now we know, now we've started, we've got all the time in the world to do it all."

Alex let himself relax, and smiled up at him. "Yeah... so can we start with you inside me, please. I'm scared about getting involved in this, admitting I... I'm bisexual. I think I'll be more calm... at ease with the idea, if I can get through the biggie, first off."

"You may not enjoy it, the first time," warned Mac.

"You'll make sure I do, if you can, I know." Alex gazed up at him trustingly, knowing his pupils must be dilating at the thought of what was so near. Unconsciously, his legs parted to let Mac's heavy body settle between them. "Now, Mac. Now..."

Mac's mouth descended again for a long possessive kiss, then he let his caresses roam over Alex's chest, flushing his skin with blood in their wake. Each nipple was tweaked, and nibbled, and finally bitten just hard enough to send a pulse of almost pain to amplify the overwhelming arousal of his cock. The kisses trailed down to his navel, but as Mac neared his cock, Alex sat up and grabbed him, stopped him. "I'm so near, babe. Don't touch me there. Just get inside me and start fucking, OK?"

Mac knelt, his long thick cock swaying slowly, glazed generously over its deep purple head with pre-come. Alex gazed at it greedily, feeling the tell-tail tingle of pins-and needles in his hands as his body primed itself for this handsome man. Turning over on his stomach, he pulled his legs up beneath him, offering his ass to Mac in fervid supplication.

Mac rested one hand on the base of his back, and with the other, cupped Alex's balls, rolling them gently in his hand and listening with pleasure to the sighs of the man he thought was Victor. Stroking upwards, he circled Alex's asshole, then leant down and kissed it, licking at the tiny puckered vent, and urging it to open to him with little probings of his tongue. Alex moaned, settling back to open his thighs further for his lover.

"This is all I've wanted for weeks now," murmured Mac, "This is incredible... I keep expecting to wake up. You're so beautiful, Victor, so hot." He slipped from the bed to fetch the lube, kneeling down at Alex's head for another tender kiss. "You're sure?" he asked. "It's not too late... I'll understand."

Un-fucking-believeable, thought Alex. I'm not crouching here for any other reason, you romantic idiot. Out loud, he growled, "I'm completely sure. And I'm not made of glass, you know. Make me feel you, Mac... it's what I need."

He felt the bed dip as Mac climbed behind him, then the slick coolness of the lube as Mac applied it, sliding a tentative finger into his asshole, and then, when Alex attempted to wriggle himself back onto it, adding another, then carefully feeling inside for his prostate. Suddenly, a powerful jolt of pure golden delight slammed through Alex's belly, and he spasmed around the exploring fingers, groaning aloud at the feelings Mac was inducing. "Get in there, for fuck's sake, man," he sobbed.

"That good, eh?" said Mac, amused, and he pulled out his fingers, and carefully positioned his blunt headed cock at Alex's sphincter, and pushed steadily. Alex had supposed he'd have to make a show of resistance, of tensing his muscles so that entry would not be too easy, but Mac had been right, his cock was large even for a well-practised hole such has his own, and the force needed to push it in was every bit genuine. He felt spitted, cored out, and the shaft just went on diving deeper and deeper into his gut.

"Are you OK?" Mac whispered, concerned at Alex's silence.

"Oh, yeah," sighed Alex, who had been taking long slow breaths, to relax himself as the huge cock drilled into his bowels. The feeling was magnificent, awesome, an inescapable fullness that possessed him and owned him. "Yeah, I'm... Jeez... I'm... blissed-out."

Mac chuckled, and taking Alex's hips in a firm grip, gave a powerful shove, and thrust home. Alex whimpered, rolling his ass on Mac's weapon, and pushed back to feel Mac's heavy balls brushing against him. Satisfied that Alex was not in pain, Mac began to thrust, using short, slow strokes at first, brushing Alex's prostate, making him moan softly as the veil of rapture entwined him, took him away to float on a current of ecstasy. Slowly he increased the length, the speed; Alex's tight hole gripping his fat shaft in a firm, yet velvet soft embrace.

In the dim light, he could watch the shadows play over Alex's back as his muscles rolled, his body writhing in pleasure, the tendons in his neck taut, jaw set, as if in pain, as his whole being concentrated on the fire Mac was stoking in his loins. He reached round to grip Alex's cock, and pumped it, rolling his thumb over the sensitive end through the loose fore-skin. Alex bucked, groaned, and then gave way to animal grunts as Mac, concern and tenderness finally forgotten, slammed into him with deliberate, savage and self-indulgent force.

Already on the edge, a few brief seconds of this was enough for Alex. Screaming incoherently, Alex felt fiery spunk gush through his shaft, to spurt in magnificent, glorious relief over Mac's hand. His asshole clamped, vice-like, around Mac's thick, veined cock. Mac dug his fingers into his lover's flanks and immobilised him as he impaled him deeply with half a dozen violent thrusts, and came, Victor's name shuddering from his lips.

Alex let himself slump onto the bed as Mac, hot, slick with sweat, collapsed heavily onto him, his heart pounding crazily. That was one of the best, thought Alex, not just because of Mac's excellent body, and considerate lovemaking, but because of the sweet satisfaction of the deception he was practising. There was a reasonable chance he could do this again, but if not, if Mac found out what had happened, well, he might come back to gloat, or possibly, if Mac turned out to be just that little twisted, to offer himself again for Mac's pleasure.

He felt Mac peel himself from his skin, and leave the room. Shortly he returned with a damp wash-cloth, and tenderly, silently, he wiped Alex's ass and thighs, before rolling him over to clean Alex's come from his belly, and the bed-cover. Throwing the cloth on the floor, he pulled open the bed, climbed in, and opened his arms for Alex to snuggle beside him. Alex found himself wrapped in a warm, furry hug, and he looked up at Mac with a contented smile.

"Thank you, Mac." he whispered huskily.

Mac dropped a kiss on his head, and asked, softly, "Are you alright, babe?"

"Yeah, it was wonderful, but... "

"But what, Victor?"

"But I want to sleep in your arms, tonight. And tomorrow, and for a few days at least, could you not talk about this to me, pretend for a little while it never happened? I think I'm OK with this, but I'll need a little while to sort my feelings out, get it all untangled in my head. It was different when it was just a possibility, y'know, but this could be the start of a big change in my life, and now I've... done it, now I know how it feels, I need time to understand my own body... my own emotions, again."

"Yeah, sure, I'll just carry on as before. This never happened, until you want to remember it. If that day never comes, I'll be sad, Victor, but I'll do my best to understand. There's just one thing, though... LiAnn."

Yes... LiAnn, Alex thought smugly. He pulled Mac's face down for a lingering kiss, murmuring, "Don't worry, babe. I think she'll understand."

Take that, bitch... he sneered in his mind. Alex Krycek is not one to forgive, or forget.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Mulder sat in his hire car outside the apartment building and brooded.

In the few days since he had seen Krycek again, the confusion and self-hatred that had immediately followed the rape had returned in full force. His thoughts whirled in his brain, and the train of logic demanded by his puzzling job was interrupted over and over by that pretty devil-face, and that compact athletic body, by the bestial smell of Krycek's lust and the feel of the bastards hands on and in his body, leaving him soiled and worthless and vulnerable.

One factor was that, unlike most rape victims, he could not know he was completely guiltless. Krycek was scum, a criminal, but he knew, despite his personal feelings, he should have treated him with more detachment and professionalism. Not that he'd deserved rape, he told himself, and hot tears of self-pity pricked at his eyes once more. Dammit, he should be feeling angry, not weeping for his lost purity like the heroine of a melodrama.

He only half-knew what he was even doing here in Vancouver, or what he was going to do with the rat if the lead proved to be true. The anonymous e-mail had arrived just yesterday, an address and a name... Victor Mansfield. Alex Krycek is in Vancouver, and he calls himself Victor Mansfield.

He had run out of the office, and sped home, breaking every speed limit, and forgetting the two meetings scheduled for later that day, ignoring everything except to be where Krycek was. And here he was outside the very apartment, and he did not know what to do.

He had options, of course. He could kill him. But Krycek had information, was sometimes useful... and killing him would not make him suffer, would not make him suffer as he himself was suffering. He could hurt him... beat him; he had done that before, and knew the warm satisfaction of it, and how that gave way to inadequacy when the fever wore off, and he realised that Krycek let him gain nothing from his violence. He supposed he could even arrest him. But what would that bring? Shame and pity, maybe contempt, to himself... probably kudos to his attacker; the man that had raped a Federal Agent, a male Federal Agent. Crazy Spooky Mulder... probably walked right into it.

Or he could take the rape back to him, suck back the self-respect that Krycek had pillaged from his body, and bring this scale back into balance. Of course there were other issues between them, not so straightforward... the murders he had possibly committed, his treachery and God knows what else beside. But this was a clear case of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

He knew he could do it; he knew the violence in him was a sexual thing. Didn't he get hard when he had to fight? If he lost his temper with a suspect, and hit them? And with Krycek, when he punched that passive body or that shocked innocent face, the hard-on raged, demanded, so that he'd replay the blows later in his mind as he jerked-off. Could he have raped, as Krycek had raped? The terrible knowledge lay within him that he could, and it shamed him. Now Krycek had handed him an excuse to rape, almost an obligation, and he was fearful, not that he would accept it, but of how it would leave his soul.

It was early evening, and the light was on in the apartment he was watching. If he prevaricated too long his quarry might go out for the evening, and, left to think it over, he might persuade himself not to act at all. That would be the worst thing he could choose. Still without a plan, he checked his gun once more, the lock-picks, the cuffs, and before he could change his mind, climbed from the car, and locked it.

The apartment block was in a respectable middle-class area, well cared for, clean, and as Mulder made his way to the right floor he began to doubt the accuracy of the information he'd been given. It seemed an unlikely place to find Krycek, but then he remembered he'd posed as a legitimate FBI agent, with all the trappings that entailed. Then the door faced him, a couple of sheets of ply; all that separated him from Alex Krycek. He was trembling - lightheaded - hyperventilating, and still he had no plan. Drawing his gun, he knocked.

For a minute there was no response, and Mulder knew, as the seconds ticked by, that he hoped there would be none. But then the door rattled briefly and swung ajar, and he heard retreating footsteps, and that loathed husky voice saying "Come on in... You're early, I'm not quite ready yet."

He pushed the door wide open with his left hand, levelling his gun. Halfway across the spacious living room. Krycek stood, barefooted, in smart black pants and a deep maroon shirt, the weave only revealing it too was not black where the cloth folded, and caught the light from the dozen candles melting their warm light into the welcoming room. Next to Alex, on a table, a cascade of red roses fountained from a tall glittering vase. The man's head was bowed, the angles of his face caressed by the shifting flame-shadows, his white hands busy at his shirt-cuffs. He's beautiful, Mulder thought, entranced. And a vast sadness broke over him as he remembered, for all his outward perfection, this was vileness, wickedness personified. This was Alex Krycek.

He stepped into the room, and pushed the door gently shut behind him. At the latch's click, Victor looked up. His head drew back in surprise, and tilted questioningly, and he said, with an uncertain smile, "You're not LiAnn. Did you want me?" The man was tall, dark-haired... an interesting face, with nose just a little too large, a chin a little too small, and lips that were far too sensuous. He was neat. Even in his present outfit of warm tan slacks and a thick turtleneck sweater with a dark body- warmer on top he looked as if he belonged in an office, and Victor had never seen him before in his life.

The stranger moved toward him, the slight pout of his lips the only indication he had heard Vic's words. As he emerged from the shadows into the nimbus of candle-light Victor realised that the man's hands were clamped, white-knuckled, around the butt of a gun.

"Shit," he gasped, taking a slow, careful step backwards. Was he a mugger? An assassin? Probably not the last, or he would have been dead meat by now. Instinctively, he acted, feinting to the left, then dived, full-length forwards, and to the right, hoping to roll to his feet and trip the gun-man from behind. But the stranger was quick, too, and observant, because he jumped round and slammed his body on top of Victor's, before he could complete the turn that would have had him back on his feet. Bland-faced the man swung his arm powerfully, and viciously, agonisingly, bashed him on the jaw with the butt of his gun. Victor's head snapped back to crack against the floor, and a flood of thick, nauseating blood filled his mouth. Choking, stunned, he could only struggle feebly as the man rolled him onto his stomach and captured his hands, fastening them behind him with hand-cuffs.

Mulder straddled Victor's back and looked down at the coughing man with a hot, singing elation that built to a deafening belly- churning crescendo. He knew now he was going to do it. He hadn't needed to debate, to plan, because this was pre-ordained, and he shuddered with gratitude as his instincts and deepest feral drives took over his actions, and he gave himself up to his lust, and his desire to destroy. Licking his lips hungrily he watched the bruise creep dark across Vic's jaw and shaven cheek. He reached over and placed the gun on a low table, then brought his hand up to the other's scalp, and smoothed his fingers through the short hair before grabbing it tightly and hauling his head from the floor. A slick of bright blood, shaming the scarlet roses nearby, flowed from the side of his open, trembling mouth, and Mulder bent to taste it, daintily licking a few drops from Victor's lips with the tip of his tongue.

"I've come to pay you back, Alex," he murmured fondly. He didn't know where his conscience had gone, or his integrity, or even his knowledge that there would be retribution. They simply were not there; in their place was a gay, carefree anticipation of the hurt he could inflict on this handsome monster, and the sensual satiation in store. He knew he should be recoiling from these feelings, that he should be disgusted at his baseness, but the welcome contrast from weeks of uncertainty and self-hatred was heady, irresistible.

The man bucked weakly beneath him, sending a throb of pleasure through his engorged cock. In surprise, he laughed, he had not realised he had a hard-on, and circled his hips against Victor's flesh to feed it and enjoy it.

Victor spat the last of the blood from his mouth, the flow having reduced to a trickle, and took a difficult breath. He was livid, pounding with anger and mad that he had been overpowered so easily, and he could not now easily resist.

"What the hell are you doing?" he grated. "What do you want, you bastard?"

"C'mon, Alex, you know what I want," replied Mulder, calmly, dropping Victor's head to thump back on the floor. "I don't need to explain."

"Oww... I'm not your fucking Alex!" he spat, lurching to one side and almost throwing Mulder off. "You've got the wrong guy."

"Oh, no, I forgot," smiled Mulder, "You're Victor Mansfield, aren't you? Well, I preferred Alex Krycek, but I don't suppose either is your real name, so I'll just call you scum, shall I? Low-life, murdering, cheating faggot scum."

"What!" exclaimed Victor, chilled. There had been no mistake, this guy knew his name, but who the hell did he think Victor Mansfield was? And who was the other guy... Alex something? "Look fella... you have *definitely* made a big mistake, and you're gonna get yourself in a heap of trouble, because I've got visitors coming, and when they catch you, you're history."

If it had been any other woman, he would have said nothing, and once upon a time he would have treated LiAnn in the same way. But she'd more than earned his respect; her agility, accuracy and cunning made her a match for any man.

"I've got to admire your optimism, Krycek, thinking I'll swallow *that*," said Mulder. "But just in case, and so's we don't disturb the neighbours, maybe I should gag you."

Panicked, Victor began struggling wildly, cursing his attacker in every way he could imagine. Mulder held him down ruthlessly, and, snagging a clean sock where it waited by Victor's shoes, stuffed it into his mouth, binding it in place with his own handkerchief.

He got to his feet, picked up his gun, and hauled Victor up to stand, looking greedily at the tense, angry man before him. His green eyes glittered, catching the candle flames, and the drying skein of blood highlighted the elegant curve of his neck, leading Mulder's eyes downward to his expensive shirt and pants whose well-cut folds enhanced and flattered Victor's body. Who would have thought the rat would scrub up so well? thought Mulder. Before Krycek, he had never done it with a man, and, though the idea was not abhorrent to him, and he could appreciate attractiveness in other guys, he had never been tempted enough to try it. And I'm not really, now, he realised. This isn't about lust for Krycek... I'm getting a hard-on for the power, and the violence, and, if I ever was low enough to treat a woman like this, I'd get off on that, too.

Growling, Victor made a dash for the door, gambling that the intruder had things on his mind other than killing him straightaway. Mulder threw his gun down once more and leapt at him, throwing him against the wall, and pounding into him with his fists, at first wildly, then systematically, until Victor gave up trying to resist, to twist away, and slithered down the wall to curl in a flinching knot at Mulder's feet.

With a final kick, Mulder pulled away from the defeated man and looked down at his handiwork with warm satisfaction. The designer shirt was ripped, bloody, and Krycek's face a mess of blood and swollen bruises. He had not expected him to last for so long, it was more the fucker's usual style to take punishment stoically, not fight back, minimise the damage by immediate capitulation.

Rubbing his raw knuckles, Mulder smiled slowly, and looked around for a suitable place to achieve the second phase of his revenge. The sturdy table seemed ideal; he removed the flowers carefully, and heaving Victor upright, he staggered over to it, and laid him face-down across the surface, legs dangling off the floor. Victor barely realised what was happening, he blazed all over with throbbing agony, and lay, unresisting, half-conscious, as Mulder stripped off his pants and boxers, and then unzipped his own fly, to pull out a cock that had been rigid, leaking with nectar since he'd struck the first blow on Victor's flesh.

Victor distantly noticed his bare thighs pulled backwards over the smooth table-top, until his hips were canted over its edge. Then there was a pause, and fingers, slick with a cool cream, brushed over his ass, and touched his anus. Confused, he wondered if he'd been found, if the madman had left, and he'd been taken to hospital for treatment. But when the gentle fingers pushed roughly into his body, leaving his sphincter slimed and burning, and, in an instant, they were replaced by a blunt, solid object, he knew that he was mistaken and the assault was taking a new and terrible turn.

Shrieking into the gag, he tried to pull away, but strong fingers dug into his battered body, and forced him to be still as a seemingly huge cock was forced, with swift cruelty, past his tight muscle and right up inside his gut. In blinding pain he reared up, trying to get leverage with his feet to push Mulder off, but he was weakened so much already that his assailant barely noticed.

Mulder sank into the reluctant channel with delight and relief. This payback was all he had hoped, and much, much more. He couldn't have imagined the soaring joy as he threw away his inhibitions, and hammered into Krycek with more power than he knew lay within him. And now this, the culmination of his vengeance. The arousal alone had been paradise, screwing the motherfucker into the table would be more than heaven itself. The springy tissue inside Alex's body clung to his dick, massaging the shaft and sending tingles of electric bliss round his balls, into his groin and up his spine until his consciousness was centred solely on the thrusting pleasure he was taking from this man. Kneading the firm butt-cheeks before him rhythmically, he pumped ever harder and faster, jolting the whimpering man into the table-edge forcefully. He would have liked to linger, savour the moment, but all too soon he flew over the edge, and dived, as if soaring from a cliff into the endless blue, into the glory of a heart-stopping and magnificent climax.

Victor, by now, was only half aware of what was occurring. Dimly he knew that some men ejaculated when they were raped, the stimulation from their prostate betraying their bodies into unwanted collaboration. But all he felt was the torment of his injuries, and shame for his weakness, and the distant fear that he shouldn't wish this to be over, because then the man would have no use for him, and would kill him. At last he felt the man became still, and spasm, gripping his ass so tightly it felt like steel claws digging into his flesh, and a warm flood filled his gut, to dribble out of his abused and torn asshole and mingle with the smeared blood on his thighs.

Mulder released him, and, unsupported, fainting, he slithered from the table to collapse, moaning softly, on the floor. He lay, unmoving, as Mulder tidied himself, collected his gun and keys, and walked back to stand beside him.

"Thank you, Alex," said the indifferent, almost mumbled voice. "That was sweet."

A few drips of water fell on his face, and he looked up at the man. He had something in his hand - released it - and as Victor lost consciousness he realised he'd been strewn with the red roses.

The End

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