Tainted Love, by Sebastian

Tainted Love

by Sebastian

Disclaimer: This is a homage to the shows, not a profit making occupation.

Pairing: A M/K Slash, Cory? X-Files, Highlander

Beta: Thanks Candace, for post birthday beta

Summary: An excuse for bent sex. The plot is all Cory's fault.

Dedication: For Sue

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"You can use this Mulder."

The fat file thumped onto my desk like an elephant with an apoplexy. "Thank you Scully. I'm sure I can. A doorstop? Fuel for my barbecue? Or maybe you'd like to take it home, and employ it to reach those cupboards in your kitchen where you keep the junk food?"

"No thank you, Mulder. I'm quite happy that only you can reach them." She was tart, but there was mischief in her eyes. I looked down at the monster that had flattened my expense claim, puzzled.

"There's no dinky little 'X' on this file, Scully," I said, resting my elbow on it. "You've got the wrong agent, here."

She pursed her full, red lips, and shook her head, slowly. Why she comes to work, looking like a pocket-sized whore in a business suit, I've never understood. Perhaps it disconcerts the people we deal with, causes them to reveal more than they realise. It disconcerted me at first, but now I suppose I don't see her anymore, she just is... is Scully.

"Open it, Mulder," she ordered, raising an eyebrow. "You won't be sorry."

"Anyone ought to be sorry to have half the Amazonian rainforest confronting them in processed form." I tried to look pious, and uninterested. "How many *years* has this file been growing, to reach these proportions? I'm not sure I've got time to bale out some inept department with a case that they've allowed to get this bloated."

"Just two months, that's all. The perpetrator has been a really busy bee. Eleven separate crimes. Robberies."

I pushed it back towards her. "Do I want to know? Someone's stealing mummies? Or... pickled pancreases? Or... let me see, now? Bus stations are disappearing? Something totally outlandish, and the guys upstairs thought to themselves, let's see if ol' Spooky will get a hard-on for this one, and you've put ten dollars on it, eh?"

"Mulder!" she gasped, smiling. "But I would have been tempted by the bus station robberies." She pulled her chair over and sat beside me, to whisper dramatically, "It's not *what*, it's who. Take a look."

I opened the cover of the file. Sure enough, robbery reports; hold-ups of antique shops and pawnbrokers, all in the San Francisco area. A few fuzzy photographs from security cameras... dark haired white male, tall... Not identified from fingerprints, or witness descriptions.

Scully shifted beside me, and pulled a sheaf of paper out from about half way down the stack. "There's a clear picture of his face in this one. As luck would have it, there's an agent in the local office that used to work here, and thought he recognised the man. He mailed a copy to me, and I asked him to send over the whole file, because I *knew* you would want to take this one yourself."

With a flourish, she placed the photograph in front of me. It was Alex Krycek.

I must have sat there silently for seconds, gazing raptly at Krycek's face, for Scully eventually regained my attention by placing her hand over the picture. I turned to her blindly. God knows what she must have seen in my eyes, how she must have interpreted my feelings, what malicious thoughts she assumed I harboured, for she gave a smug smile, and, tapping his image with one perfect scarlet nail, said, "It feels good, doesn't it, Mulder, to know he'll be spending the rest of his life seeing the world through a set of bars?"

I swayed sickly, gripping the edge of my desk. It had been nearly three months since I had seen him. Three months that felt like forever, a marathon of willpower and loneliness. "If you can catch him," I finally succeeded in replying. My voice shook. Scully picked up on it instantly.

"I'm glad you're pleased... but don't let it get too personal. We don't want him escaping what he deserves over some technicality."

Scully, I thought, how can it not be personal when my heart races and I feel faint when I see his face; when I'm full of joy you've brought me this file not because it can put him in jail, but because it means I have an excuse to see him. It doesn't get more personal than love.

I pushed the photo back into its place and shut it back into the file.

Drawing a deep breath, I looked across the room; I didn't dare meet Scully's eyes. "I'd like to take this home and study it. And... try to get my thoughts in order about Krycek. You're right, Scully... personal feelings..."

I scrambled to my feet, emptied my briefcase hastily onto my desk, then stuffed in the unwieldy file. Ridiculous ideas of throwing it in a river and saying I'd been mugged crossed my mind. But there was certain to be a copy, and the evidence... What was I going to do? Burn down the local FBI office? Slaughter the witnesses - to eleven crimes?

I wasn't going to do any of those things. I wasn't even planning to read the file here, or at home, just yet.

I was going to run straight to Alex.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Alex Krycek is cynical, cruel, hard-hearted, and a tease. I am a fool. I don't dispute these facts.

I'm not quite enough of a fool to have told him that I'm in love with him, or that I pine for him. I hope - I pray - that he thinks I'm merely a slave to lust, and have a craving for dirt. We've been having sex... fucking... for some while now; it's been years, if I'm honest. Every time I tell myself I won't do it again, but I know, and he knows, that I will.

He's not loathe. It's a game to him. From the very first time that I finally stopped pretending all I wanted to do was to beat the shit out of him; when I slammed his face against that wall, and, instead of searching him for weapons, rested my hand on his hip and brushed my hard-on against his butt, he's laughed at me, and encouraged me. It makes him feel *so* fine that Agent Fox Mulder is another one of his conquests, that I compromise my principles, my job, for a roll in the hay. There's the matter of what he's done to Scully and me, as well. He knows how it looks... that he murdered my father, and Scully's sister, he knows I think he did those things. Another reason for him to regard me as a weakling - I haven't demanded answers from him. While the matter is ambiguous I can almost excuse my moral degeneracy; I can make excuses and justifications for his existence, for *our* existence.

He makes sure I can find him when I have to have him, when I can't hold out any longer. I know, pretty much, his whereabouts all the time. He calls me, or e-mails me to let me know, so that I'll be taunted and tortured by my own body's betrayal. Sometimes he tells me about other guys he's been with... he does that when we're together, too, just to make me wild, or... maybe to make me cry. I haven't given in to the latter yet, though I've come close.

So, that day all I had to do was head for the parking garage, jump in my car and find a map. I knew the address... I think I can remember nearly all of them, but the current one is always a mantra in my brain. It whispers to me quietly sometimes when I'm trying to concentrate, it screams at me if I'm in the neighbourhood. Turn... find me! it thunders, you don't have to stop, just drive past, it will be enough. I know full well that it won't.

My hands were shaking as I spread the map. Not just from the thought of seeing him - irrationally I was also worried that Scully would race after me with some forgotten fact, or paperwork, and see me pouring over that map, and ask me where I was going. I would be guilty, tongue-tied.

The route memorised, I fumbled with the keys to start the car. My hand was so slick with sweat that I could barely grip the hand-brake to release it, and then had to pause and think over the procedure for getting onto the road, something which is so familiar I am usually half-way home before noticing I've left work at all.

I gave a wry shrug. I'd left it too long. It's the look on his face when I eventually knock on his door... that fleeting smug smile. I swear to myself that it will be the last time I give him that satisfaction; I try so hard. I don't want to be just another of his guys, the ones he uses and trashes. I've held out against asking him to live with me. There has been a procession of men like that. The addresses he gives me are rarely places he's rented, he's usually got some doting faggot in tow, someone with a good apartment, and money to waste on him.

Maybe I'm just scared he'd refuse me because I can't afford him.

I don't know what happened to me the day I met Alex Krycek. There's someone in the world for everyone they say; if you're lucky, you'll meet them. I'd had many lovers before him. Sometimes it was a meeting of minds, sometimes just physical. Well, whatever, they were fun and amusing for a while, but, at last, unimportant.

It wasn't love at first sight, though it was certainly lust. I was overwhelmed by the sight of him. It didn't matter that he looked as if he had been dressed by a cut-rate clothing catalogue, that his hair was an abomination, I thought he was that cliche, a walking dream, and wished, dreamlike, I could have stripped him and fucked him across my desk, right there. The rest of the room would have gone about its business, ignoring the new agent pinned under my body, squealing at first for help, and then for me to ram him harder, for me to make him come.

It took me a whole twenty-four hours to realise that he was the one that had been born especially for me to love.

If he'd been the man he'd pretended to be, perhaps by now we'd have been cohabiting. House in the suburbs, dog, dinner parties. I'll admit the idea leaves me cold, even bilious, but, who knows, if Alex *had* been him, that's what I might have wanted.

I'm thankful now that I'm not impetuous with relationships. Imagine if I'd admitted my interest, asked him out, been sincere and thoughtful and open with him. I don't give a shit about laying myself wide about my work and beliefs, but my feelings... my romantic feelings... are hard for me to admit. After he'd revealed what a traitorous scumbag he was I expect I would have wanted to kill myself. He'd probably have derided me until I did.

His present abode turned out to be a penthouse apartment... the block didn't look wildly expensive, but it was a good area. As I climbed from the car, I realised I had no idea at all what I was going to say to Alex. I knew the true purpose for my visit; the tiny hint of damp on the front of my pants was evidence of that, but what was I going to propose about the activity he'd been engaged in? Offer to try and sabotage the investigation? Warn him to run away? My brain just wouldn't work.

With every foot the elevator rose my heartbeat pattered faster, and, leaning against the cool mirrored wall, I slipped my hand in my pocket and gripped my cock, praying he'd be home, and alone. Five minutes, I told myself, that's all, and that first desperate coupling will be over, and you'll be able to think again, enjoy being with him, enjoy his gorgeous body and his pretty face and feel his husky voice bring you up in goosebumps like Space Dust popping all over your skin, as it tells you things about yourself you didn't want to know.

The elevator doors hissed open onto a deep-carpeted foyer, rich with shades of deep green and bronze. I stepped out onto the floor gingerly, wanting to turn tail and run, but dragged inexorably forwards. I've lost count of how many times I've done this, violated some stranger's privacy in search of Alex. I touched my finger to the bell, hearing a soft chime, and stood, passing my briefcase from hand to hand, wondering what inanity I would say to the unknown man who opened the door. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, trying to ease its sudden constriction. My lips felt swollen with anticipation; my nipples aching and hard, chafing against the soft cloth covering my chest.

Alex opened the door, and there was the smile, and he said, slowly, "Come in Fox. I've been expecting you."

He backed away a couple of paces. I didn't see my surroundings... all I could see was Alex. His hair was a little longer than the last occasion, a dark lock brushing his forehead, his clothes were formal - dress pants and a cream shirt, but those details faded as I ravished his lips and his eyes with my gaze. I stumbled forward, as though he had tugged me to him, and waited, speechless, wanting so much - not knowing how to begin.

He lifted his hand - the false one - and reached over my shoulder to fondle the back of my neck. It's another of his teases. It says, you are corrupt, Mulder. Feel your corruption. I shivered, and arched into its touch. The fucking thing has become a fetish for me; this is another secret he knows, and knew before I had overcome my shame, and admitted it to myself. Bringing it back round, he offered it to me to kiss. I pressed my lips to the smooth black leather, gasping as the sensation flashed from my lips to my cock. Then he trailed it over my throat, arching a brow at the soft moan I hadn't meant to utter. It continued down my chest, across my belt and over the hot throbbing bulge of my penis. My hips twitched, and he laughed softly. My head was swimming with desire; I was flushed, then shivering, his long-lashed eyes growing huge in my vision - I was faint with arousal.

There was a noise, and past Alex's shoulder I saw a door open. I flinched, but Alex ignored the intrusion and gently ran the hard knuckles of that gloved hand over my trousers. Spellbound by his presence, his attention, I let him continue, though through the door came the man I supposed was Alex's latest lover, whose home I was in. I looked at him, my lips parted with silent apologies, and his eyes met mine, a moue of surprise and amusement twisting his distinguished features. He too was smartly dressed, his expensive suit hung well on his tall, slim body. He was grey-haired, I guessed in his fifties, though he could have been older.

He looked at Alex questioningly, and cleared his throat. I watched him, appalled, yet so mesmerised by Alex's touch it didn't occur to me to move. Alex didn't turn to him, his eyes remained unwaveringly on me.

He smiled at me, mocked me. "Donald, this is my little pet, my Fox... I told you about him. Do you remember?"

The gloved hand pressed harder, sending fiery tingles through my groin and up my spine. My skin felt hot; I suspected I was flushed red with embarrassment. I gasped, and reached to grasp the prosthesis, to stop the torment. His right hand pounced, and seized my wrist cruelly, making me wince with pain. I knew my expression was begging him to let me be, but he shook his head, and with a smile that might have been friendly on a barracuda, drawled, "Oh no, Fox. Donald knows what you are here for... and we were just on our way out, so I'm going to have to make this quick."

It was degrading to let him continue, but more so to make a fuss, to have him ridicule me. I was so out of myself, so chained by his influence and my own need that I don't think I could have moved away anyway, unless he had ordered me to. My breathing was shallow now, ragged. Wide-eyed I watched Donald come up to Alex, and put his arm around him. Alex leant into his hold, and a ripple ran up his body, almost like a cat rubbing itself against his owner, but his eyes, dark, thinly edged with cold, pure green, remained fixed on me. He placed my hand at my side, and let go of my wrist, and then, slowly, Alex unzipped me. I licked my lips. My skin was burning; I was aflame with mortification, but more excited than seemed possible. Do it, Alex, I thought, and closed my eyes against the truth of the moment, the amusement I was providing for Alex and his lover.

"Open your eyes, Mulder."

I shook my head, swallowing nervously.

"Open them." The growl was low and dangerous. I blinked helplessly at him, and the man at his shoulder.

"Good," he purred. I stared for a few seconds at his confident expression, wishing he would come to me, kiss me, shut out Donald's intent and greedy face. His fingers reached inside my clothing, freed my swollen cock from my pants and boxers and led it carefully out into the light, gripping the shaft firmly in his warm, possessive hand. He wasn't going to allow me to abjure responsibility for what I was silently asking him to do.

His skin was smooth against mine; he held me confidently, knowing his control over me was total, at that moment. I saw the tip of his tongue slip from his mouth, just touching his lips, pinkly anointing them with a sheen of saliva, and felt a coolness as he smudged the liquid oozing from my cock with his thumb, smearing it to evaporate from my heated skin. My lips were parted, wantonly offering themselves to him, hoping, pleading, that he would kiss them.

He began to tug at my cock, working the skin over the shaft indolently, just circling it firmly enough to tease, but not to arouse me further. The sides of his mouth curled slightly; I knew inside he was laughing at me. He would give me just enough that my own desire and imagination would cause me to come; though he was touching me, I would have to bring myself to climax, make my own overwhelming craving take me there. My hips jerked, forcing my cock into his grip, seeking stimulation, and he snorted, and tapped me on the chest with his gloved hand.

"Handkerchief, Fox."

I didn't understand him. Thinking only of the shivering electricity tingling from my groin, words had become meaningless. He slipped his hand from my shaft and dug his fingers into my scrotum, engaging my attention thoroughly.

"Handkerchief, I said!"

I yelped, panting from the pain as Alex squeezed, and then he watched sardonically as I fumbled the cloth from my coat, and threaded it between the lifeless fingers, locking them tightly around it. As I pressed them closed he echoed the pressure with his other hand on my balls, and the burning sear fuelled my desire as I caressed the gloved fist lingeringly.

With a twitch of a brow, he pulled the false hand from my grasp, and held it beneath my bobbing cock head, then released his clenched fingers, and circled my shaft once more. By now my legs felt weak. Beyond caring about the spectacle I made, I placed my hand on his shoulder for support, and braced myself as I flexed my ass, and drove my cock faster and faster into his grasp.

Like a bomb set in slow motion, ripples of delight spread from his hand, sucking in the ache from my balls, undulating across my skin to prickle my scalp. And then the main shock hit me, like a mountain of water, jetted into the air by the force of the blast, breaking, curling up my spine, to engulf my brain in a mighty, numbing flood of pleasure. The come pulsed down, and he pressed the cloth against my cock-head firmly, chuckling as I groaned out my relief.

Briskly, he wiped me clean, and zipped me up. I sagged, resting on him, avoiding Donald's eyes. He pulled my handkerchief from his hand, balled it around the viscous smear, and with a smirk, thrust it back into my pocket. I didn't know what to do. I felt drained, and utterly ashamed. I wished the floor would open and swallow me up.

At last he removed my hand, and patted me on the face patronisingly, then pushed past me and opened the door.

"Goodbye, pet. I'm busy now. Run along."

I turned and looked at him. I had been stripped raw, and by my own hand. I needed to run and hide, but now, at last, I could think about my reason for seeing him.

"Alex," I croaked. "I have to talk to you. It's business."

He looked at me in mild surprise. I leaned down and picked up my briefcase, gesturing with it.

"I've still got to go out," he said, neutrally. "You can wait here... if it's alright with Donald." He looked at the other, who nodded, and smirked at me. I cringed, wondering what sort of a loser I'd moulded myself into, how I could have let myself drift into this ridiculous condition.

"Make yourself comfortable, Mulder," he drawled, a hundred meanings crammed into the words, and opening the door for the older man, he grinned at me, and left.

I walked, stiff-legged, to the couch and slumped into it, trembling. Slowly the disgrace I felt turned to rage, at myself and at him. I wanted to blame him, to punish him... tear apart this smart home and wreck his life, show him the consequences of trying to control me. But, in despair, I knew he just gave me the tools, made the opportunity. Mine was the act, and the responsibility for my humiliation. I ought to tell him the truth, admit how I loved him, and then be strong enough to take the consequences. Nothing should be worse than this. But still I procrastinated. At least I could have him, fuck him, and his only hold over me was my apparent lust. I couldn't hand him my love as a weapon.

I looked about me glumly. The room was plush, spacious, with a view over a park and low buildings. I stood and wandered about the apartment, not really noticing a thing, I was so wrapped in my doubts. His old leather jacket was in the bedroom, cast on the back of a chair. It was the only object I touched, the only thing I felt I had a right to touch; a part of Alex. I sat in the chair and hugged it to me for comfort as I drew the image of Alex and his lover from the creases and scallops of the unmade bed. Through the scent of the leather I could smell him, the man I had, but didn't own, the love I visited, and neglected. I was miserable.

Eventually I went back to the living room and buried myself in the file I'd brought to show him. Thankfully, it was engrossing and I'd soon forgotten where I was in the slew of evidence reports and witness statements. I didn't hear Krycek return until he was at my shoulder.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he drawled, "Shy?"

I jumped with shock, dropped the papers, twisted round to face him. He took my tie and flicked it deftly round his hand to drag me to my feet. With a jerk, he pulled us nose to nose. "You've still got your clothes on, Foxy. Not much of a homecoming for your favourite fuck, is it?"

I struggled to pull away. I didn't know why I'd stayed. He didn't deserve me watching out for him. "You've got a nerve, Alex," I said coldly, "After what you just did in front of your sugar-daddy. Where is he then?" I couldn't see him, but then I hadn't noticed Alex coming in either. "You want to fuck me properly, now, do you? Perform for him? Is that how you keep him sweet? Is that how you get him to open his wallet?"

He grinned, but his eyes were hooded and grim. "I haven't got that desperate, but I'm sure you'd oblige if I snapped my fingers for you, pet. He's not here, and you are, and whatever you've got there... " he gestured at the table, scattered with papers, "is an excuse, Mulder. So why don't you cut out the crap, and give me what I want?"

He leaned forward, and kissed me hard, forcing his tongue into my mouth. His touch went through me like a jolt of electricity, and, unthinking, I slumped against him, and clutched his shoulders to drag him to me, digging my fingers into the hard, hot muscle under his fine shirt.

He pulled my jacket from my shoulders roughly but I shrugged him off, and almost tore the garment from my body, then started unbuttoning his shirt with frenzied haste. Suddenly I had to be naked, had to feel his skin against mine, feel him buried in my body. But I couldn't stop babbling, trying to talk myself out of where my body would take me.

"You are such a bastard, Krycek - how could you humiliate me like that? You know I can't push you away, but can't you be more civilised about it?"

"You wanted it, baby, and you could have stopped me anytime." He smirked at my petulance, as he moved to help me strip his clothes.

"It was a shitty thing to do, and you know it." I was down to socks, shoes and underwear now, and I dropped to my knees to pull his boots off. I looked up at his face, licking my lips at the sight of all that Alex-flesh looming above me. "Cunt."

"Yeah, it was shitty, and yeah, I'm a cunt. It's what you expect from me, Agent Mulder." He tipped me back on my heels with his booted foot, and pushed it into my groin. He smiled. The toecap nearly rivalled my hard-on. "It's what you *want* from me."

"It's not what I fucking want from *anybody*," I spat, jerking his leg to unbalance him so that he fell to the floor. I started to pull off his footwear. He lay quietly, letting me work.

"What do you want, Fox?"

A disturbing question; I knew the answer. I want you to love me, I thought. Always and forever - I want to spend my life in your heart, I want you to spend your life in my arms.

I couldn't tell him that.

No... anything but that.

Biting my lip, I slid my hands up his legs, and dragged his soft grey briefs down from his cock, reached into my jacket pocket for the lube, and slicked him up.

"This is what I want," I replied, and I knelt over him, steadied his cock at my ass, and slowly, and with infinite relish, filled myself with his flesh.

And god... was it good. It sank in. It sank in inch by slow inch, and every rasp, rub, slither over my prostate was a bonus. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and.... oh... Jesus.

Love is a myth, a fairytale. It should be outlawed.

It's for the plebs. The sit-com and soap addicts.

It's real. So real. And now, I allowed myself to look at his naked body. It was beautiful before. To my chagrin, it was more beautiful now. How guilty can you feel to wish your love maimed? It's indescribable. I can't allow myself to look, and think, and feel, until I am so aroused that I can't deny my feelings.

The harsh straps that cross his body. The apparatus, where once was an arm. I lifted it, and took the hand, and wrapped it round my swollen cock, locking the digits into place with a click, and a tremble of abasement. Horrible, and beautiful. I am so guilty, I can never look into his eyes when I do this.

I lifted myself on his penis, and lowered myself slowly, and, as I moved, my shaft pushed into the circle of metal, rubbing, chafing. The delight was immeasurable.

His other hand, his real hand, massaged my ass, then travelled up to my armpit, and across to my nipples, to pinch and twist cruelly. Pain, stabbing, shooting, forced my ass to clench round that wide cock, my own penis to throb and pulse in the hard, inflexible grip.

"Christ, you are twisted, Mulder."

"Yeah."

"A cripple-lover. A cripple-queen."

"Yeah. I'm queer. And I like the amputation, " I gasped. "What can I say?"

He thrust into me fiercely, speeding me into wild, overwhelming rapture. "You could say you were sorry," he grated.

Bliss. Unbelievable, unutterable bliss. I screamed. He forces the truth from me, every time. "I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry, Alex." Squeezing my eyes shut, I let the orgasm grip me in its irresistible power.

He released my nipple, and, not holding back an iota of force, slapped me viciously across the face. I spasmed, driving myself down onto his dick, seizing the metal hand and pumping it over my flesh. Pain and pleasure, love and hurt, need and regret. Fuck, I loved him... I loved him.

Later, he let me lick my come from his claw, and mumble my apologies. But he knew it was a lie. He was perfection before, and I would have given the world to be his lover. His loss had transcended that. Now his flesh was divine, and the leather that is molded to him, that binds him, accents that, transforms Alex into an angelic being, and the mechanical limb is a majestic sword, wielded to subdue me.

At last we sat side by side on the couch, spent, still naked; we are so familiar with each other, and yet we hold each other away, we try to be strangers.

"What is this stuff, Mulder?" he demanded at length, spreading the papers with his splayed hand. "Is it for real?"

I turned to him, and snorted in disbelief. "You know it's for real, Alex. What the hell have you been doing? It's not your style... larceny? So obvious? What are you involved in... because it's getting you in a shit-load of trouble."

He picked up one of the stapled reports and studied it, the creases on his brow deepening as each page turned. Throwing it down, he snatched up another, scanned it briefly, and then glanced at the others, studying the photographs that were clipped to them. He turned to me. "I've been a bad boy, it seems," he said, colourlessly. "Have you come to arrest me? Or offer me a ticket to South America?"

I turned to him, and tried to meet his eyes, but he looked deliberately across the room. "I've come to offer whatever help I can, I think, Alex. But mainly, I've come to warn you."

He pressed his lips together, and gave a half-laugh. "I thought you were the big-shot Investigator, Foxy? The guy that spots all the things that others don't? That solves the unsolvable?" He pulled a sheet of paper from the muddle on his table, and dropped it in front of me. It showed the suspect's fingerprints.

Jeez, was I stupid. I gaped at the sheet, and then burst into laughter. It had prints from both hands.

He threw the photograph of his face on top. "I think you've got yourself an X-File, Mulder. That couldn't be anyone else. That's me."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

An hour later we were in my car, on the way to my apartment. Without hesitation, without a note or call, he had packed his things, left Donald's keys on the bed. He was coming with me, he said. "Gonna fuck you from here to California and back, and then find myself a new meal-ticket. I like your attitude, and your nasty, perverted brain, and your pretty body, Mulder. And I like your cock. Next time, you can screw me. And if you make me feel real good, you'll be one step nearer to persuading me into getting myself a big, shiny hook to dig into that sleek skin of yours, Mr. Federal Agent."

I blew a kiss at him, and leered. It was said with irony, but it must have been be a front; he can't be resigned to what has happened to him. If anything, this makes me feel even worse about my unnatural desires; braveness in the face of adversity. I was the manifestation of selfishness, of shameless lust.

"There's no way you are going without me. If I've got a twin brother, he either explains himself, or he's dead. If I'm gonna get the blame for his wrongdoings, and he hasn't got an excuse, well, there isn't room for him in this world. He'll be inconvenient."

"I see your point of view," I replied "But, before you wipe him out, can we stop and find out who he is? Who knows, maybe Mommy has more like him at home."

"There's an ugly thought."

"Sounds just fine to me, Alex. As far as I'm concerned, it would be a great improvement on the human gene-pool." I reached over and ran my hand over his thigh. "So long as they don't have green blood."

"Now *that* is a very ugly thought."

"It's probably coincidence. Anybody else would say it was certainly co-incidence, unless someone has deliberately attempted to mimic you. It's only because *we* know there are other possibilities... It would be completely illogical for anyone - or thing - connected with the aliens to engage in an orgy of crime."

"Unless they were after something specific, Mulder."

Flicking through the cases on the plane later, neither of us could see how the crimes were connected... apart from their locations, which were all in San Francisco, and all where antiques were sold. However, excluding money, nothing was taken. The robber used a gun to threaten the staff, and had injured two people, seemingly fairly readily; the witnesses agreed he was relaxed, even amused by his activities and had not panicked or become angry, the shootings were deliberate, but regretful.

Alex and I were as one in thinking that he would have found it easier and more profitable to rob other sorts of stores. His rewards hardly justified the risk involved. Therefore, he needed to be there. He was searching for something. But what? It could have been any of a million items. My first step would be to meet with the victims themselves, and study their wares.

We checked into a modest hotel near the waterfront. One room - I didn't bother to ask, and he didn't comment when he discovered, just threw down his bag, stripped and headed into the shower. It was late, and I was tired; I guess he was, too. I had called Scully earlier, and asked her to see if she could soothe Skinner for me, and make some excuse to the local FBI office for my presence, so as far as poking my nose into the investigation went, I had... some justification. Belatedly I realised that Alex could be spotted by some observant member of the police, and get arrested. We would have to hope that San Francisco was large enough for him to remain a needle in a haystack.

I sat on one of the beds and looked over at his discarded clothes. He was in his habitual outfit... jeans, black today, and the leather jacket, though he'd brought formal things too. There was a large bag of them; he'd left another at my place. All his belongings from Donald's, I guessed. The prosthesis was on the bed, too. I tried not to stare at it, but I wanted to go and touch it while it was still warm from his body.

I've tried to analyse why I've come to feel this way, what my fascination with this mechanical substitute for flesh is. I haven't managed to explain it to myself. I know others find amputees attractive for various reasons... the appearance, their helplessness; I suppose for the thought of the suffering they may have endured, too. I could appreciate this intellectually, but had never found it in myself. And then it happened to Alex. The only difference would seem to be that we were already intimate, and that, secretly, I loved him. I should have been appalled, heartbroken, repulsed. I could have understood any of those emotions. Instead I was shocked to find myself blinded by perverted and unwanted arousal.

I disgusted myself, and was ashamed when I couldn't hide it from him. I supposed he'd feared rejection, or pity. I don't know if he'd have preferred those to discovering, as he must believe, that I lust after him still more now that he is, as he has said, a freak. "Maybe I should be grateful Foxy. I've become one of the bizarre, those creatures you get a boner for. Not gonna get tired of me now." I wanted to tell him then that I loved him. Still, I didn't.

I'm convinced it's the idea of a part of him being man-made, rather than the loss of his arm that is my fetish. When I see him or make love to him without it, all I feel is sympathy for him, and I regret that, indirectly, I was the cause. He's not helpless, either. He functions amazingly efficiently, cleverly. So it can't be the amputation itself, or vulnerability. I think the arm and its fixing are, too me, like one of those restricting pieces of clothing so beloved in pornography. Ridiculously high heels, or a corset so tight that the wearer is in danger of ainting, a gag, or even ropes. It can't be like that for him. It can't be interesting, or intriguing. It is a tragedy.

I wonder, sometimes, what it's like. But I don't try too hard. I won't even tell myself why.

Fuck... Fox Mulder, pervert of the year.

The water stopped. I went into the bathroom to find him drying himself off, so I grabbed the towel and did it for him, making amends in my mind for my cruel, self-absorbed attitude. Warm, damp Alex, fresh and available. It wasn't long before I had abandoned the towel, and was kissing the droplets from his soft, clinging skin. He looked open, relaxed, and slowly began to unbutton me. The water trickled from his spiked hair, dripping on his lashes and down his nose to splash on my front, and to spread, blue on mist grey, in blossoms on the cloth of my shirt. I circled his hips and pulled him to me, and he drooped on my shoulder, murmuring, "Take me to bed, Foxy."

So I did.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

He was the one that suggested the cuffs.

I wanted to interview the shopkeepers, and he wanted to come along - but he had robbed them. We pretended that we wanted them to identify him. Laughing together about the unlikely FBI procedure, the following morning he dressed in his suit, chained us together and adopted a worried air. 'You've got to look serious, Agent Mulder,' he said. 'I'm the suspect, you are the upholder of justice.'

The only thing being upheld was my cock as he tucked our joined hands behind me to fondle my ass as I tried to question the victims. Routine questions, luckily. How can you concentrate when long fingers are probing between your ass-cheeks, creasing your expensive designer suit into your crack and, when the interviewee turns away, your lover licks a long stripe up your neck?

We'd spoken to half-a-dozen before the pattern emerged. Five of those had recoiled from Alex; there was no doubt that whoever the mimic was, he was the spit of him. The robber had taken nothing but money, but each time had inspected the ancient weapons on sale. Several of the antique shops had a special section for such things. Flintlocks, rifles... old revolvers and knives. Each time the assistant confirmed that the robber... that Alex... had examined their stock, sometimes had handled a sword, but had taken nothing but money. Later, over sushi and beer, we browsed the yellow pages for the area, looking for possible targets, and still later, lying sticky and dazed in our room, a call come through from the FBI office, with just three prime locations.

"One in three, Rat-boy." My voice buzzed against his skin. I'd taken the call, and delved back between his thighs before he could move. Did I mention the amount of time we spent fucking? Every spare minute, all night - no - I suppose it wasn't fucking. That was a boast. It was intimacy, closeness, the contentment I feel only when he is sleeping against me.

"One in three, huh? Wanna take one each? The odds are against him, like that."

"Oh, no. I want to be there, if you find him. I bet you do too, eh?"

"Yeah."

It turned out that we were too late for one of them. He hit it an hour before we'd been given the name. He hadn't got what he was searching for. We had a few days grace, we assumed, before he'd strike again, so, with the help of a curator from a museum from Monterey, an expert on Renaissance weapons, we examined the stock from the remaining two likely places.

The guy was young and sweet, bubbly, and a real gem. The instant he'd walked into the first possible location, we had our artefact. Fortunately he was so besotted the instant he saw Alex, that he could only respond in grunts and didn't clue the shopkeeper in about the value of his possession. "I've got my next meal-ticket," Alex said, waving a yellow post-it at me, after we'd dropped him back at his home.

"Cradle-snatcher."

"Everyone's got to start somewhere," he replied enigmatically, and deliberately folded the paper, and tucked it into his wallet.

So we sat, and watched, and kissed, and waited.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Over the next few days we got to know a lot about the ups and downs of the antique trade. I was blissed out, truthfully. I didn't care about solving the case, my consciousness was fixed on two things. Alex, and his double; for that, read ninety percent Alex. Normally my brain works like an info-burst. The text scrolls by, faster than a human could handle. The facts downloaded buzz at me, demanding my attention and interpretation. This time, I knew my mind would have to wait for me, acknowledge the importance of my slow, sluggish, primitive body's needs.

Alex himself was focussed on the sword. It was too heavy for a rapier, too straight for a sabre, too light for a broadsword. Such an elegant, practical blade. Both the owner and the expert agreed it was of Damascus steel, that ancient lamination that has never been surpassed. There were no jewels on the boss, no gilding on the grip, the cross-guard was beautiful but plain, the blade itself with only a simple, sweeping decoration of curves and roundels. Its glory was lethal. He swept it through the air, feinted, almost pricking me, then drawing back. I sat, awed. No swashbuckler was more dashing or more romantic. He said it felt right in his hand, and wished he could visit the past, so that he could have a chance to use it.

At last, the robber came to call. It was late, and the shop was nearly shutting. He was slim, less muscular than Alex, but, apart from that, he was the same man. We'd warned this shop owner about the look-alike when he'd agreed to hide us, but it was, nevertheless, a shock.

The owner had been told to let himself be robbed, that he would be compensated for any loss. I was curious to discover the thief's motive and the ultimate destination for the weapon. I wanted to follow him, and discover his provenance.

But I was astounded when I saw him, almost too much to act, to carry out my plan. If it hadn't been for Alex, he would have walked out of there with that sword, and have been gone, forever. I was mesmerised. If Alex hadn't been by my side I would have sworn it was really him; the voice, the movement - everything mirrored Alex. It was uncanny, and I think we both decided instantly it must be one of the shapeshifters, or a clone.

He strolled into the shop casually, and walked right up to the owner, and grinned a wide, merry grin - white teeth and twinkling eyes were my first impression. He leaned on the counter, and said, "Good afternoon, Mister Shopkeeper. This is a robbery, and I have a gun." He pulled the weapon from beneath his coat, pointed it at the man's chest and cocked his head to one side. "I'd like to make this quick, and I'm sure you don't want to face this gun any longer than is necessary. Please give me your money, and then I'd like you to answer a question or two."

We'd assured the shopkeeper he wouldn't be hurt if he co-operated with the thief. The only people he'd injured were those who had tried in earnest to stop him. Naturally, he was nervous, but he managed to stutter 'Yes... OK' and to avoid looking toward the small office where we lay concealed. He opened his cash register, bundled the meagre contents into a plastic bag, and handed it over.

The man took the bag and stuffed it into his pocket. "Now, that is most sensible of you. Thank you." He looked around at the display on the shop walls; there were a few muskets, and confederate dress swords, bayonets and Japanese weapons amongst the other clutter. "You advertise as an antique weapon dealer. Have you got anything else? Or have you had a really good year, and sold most of it? Because I'd say, from the evidence of your takings, that business isn't too hot."

The owner cleared his throat, and whispered huskily, "In the back. The other room... through here," and the thief gestured him to go in front. We ducked down behind the desk, our presence would be more obvious from there, the door to our cubby hole was in that room.

We watched the two cross the room, then suddenly the robber gave a little skip, and in a delighted tone, cried, "Oh... Baby!" dropped his gun, unheeded, on a table, and snatched the sword from its fixings amongst a large display of similar weapons. He ignored the shopkeeper as he delightedly swung the blade to and fro, beaming joyfully, and welcoming the weapon home as if it were a long-lost sibling. Alex's hand fell on my shoulder, squeezing. My eyes had been glued to the criminal, but he'd spotted the shopkeeper inching toward the abandoned gun... moments later our thief did, as well.

Instantly the sword point was at the shopkeeper's throat, freezing the man in place with his hand hovering just above the gun. "That's naughty," he laughed. "you are supposed to behave yourself." My gun was ready in my hand, aimed at his heart, but still I believed that the thief would not strike. I glanced at Alex, shocked to see the grim expression he was wearing. He had a plam, unsheathed, in his hand.

The shopkeeper cringed back. "That's better," smiled the thief in approval. "But unfortunately you drew the short straw. You had my best girl, my Mignonette." He drew his tongue along the side of the blade carefully. "Though you'll be thinking yourself lucky that you looked after her. She's beautifully sharp."

Before I had realised what was happening, he pirouetted, and with an elegant whirl, swept the sword round his head like a Cossack dancer. It sliced, arrow-fast, unstoppable, right through the shop owner's neck. The head flew off, hit the floor, and rolled out of sight, the body, not understanding the disaster that had befallen it, stood, teetered for a couple of seconds and then fell to the floor with a crash.

"Fuck," growled Alex, and instantly was over the desk, charging toward the man. I leapt to my feet, inanely shouting, "Freeze, FBI!" I aimed at the thief, but Alex was in the way. He ducked under the blade and barrelled the man into the wall behind him. But, by the time I'd got into the room, the thief had thrown Alex off, and was confronting me with his sword instead. I lifted the gun to point at his head.

"Drop it," I ordered. "You can't do much against a gun."

"I'm not scared of your gun, policeman." He was jaunty, confident. "Me and my baby girl are back together, and I intend to spoil her now we're re-united." He took a step toward me, and lifted the sword. By now the floor was awash with blood, he seemed intent on adding either his own or mine to the spreading pool. I trembled. It was hard to hold the gun steady and be resolved to use it when it was Alex's face I was proposing to blow apart. Behind him, Alex had regained his feet, and was shaking his head at me desperately. He lifted the plam, and prepared to strike.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't escape now. Put it down," I said flatly. However, if he were a shapeshifter, it would do me no good at all to shoot him. My eyes flicked to Alex involuntarily as I readied myself to jump out of the way when he struck. The thief's brows drew together in suspicion, but just then Alex drove the spike into his neck with all his force, pitching him toward me. I stepped aside as he staggered a couple of steps, and lowered my gun, expecting him to drop to the floor and deliquesce into a fuming green puddle. To my horror he steadied himself and span round to face Alex, holding his sword point at my lover's throat. Then he reached behind his neck and tugged the plam out, and threw it on the ground.

It was beyond belief. I didn't dare to shoot him. What effect could a bullet have on a man who could endure a six inch metal shaft straight through his spine?

"Oh my god," he said, staring wide-eyed at Alex. "I suppose it had to happen sometime; after all these years I've found my double." He looked down at the plam, and back at Alex. "That's an assassin's weapon, not a policeman's. One of them found you, didn't they? They thought you were me at first, and then, when you weren't, decided to send you after me as a joke? They should have told you how hard I am to kill, little mortal."

He swung the sword above his head, and brought it sweeping down. I screamed, and shot at him reflexively, but though the bullets hit, the sword didn't slow. Alex thrust his left arm in its path, and it hit the metal limb with a crash, the force of the blow sending Alex to his knees. I couldn't think what to do... I pounced at him, seizing his left arm to drag him away, but he turned round to face me, and swiped at me with the sword instead. I jumped back, grabbed an axe from a suit of armour alongside me, and took a shot at him. He dodged easily, and grinned. "Excellent. I enjoy a fight with blades. Guns are so tedious."

"Who are you," I panted. "What are you?"

"It's obvious you don't know, or you wouldn't have come after me." He sounded amused, and danced forward to strike at me again. I suppose I was lucky that day, because by then I was convinced I was going to die. Alex hadn't got up, he was moving, but was somehow injured. He wasn't going to help.

I cringed back, but he didn't succeed in reaching me. He slid and lost his footing completely in the spilt blood, and thumped, spread-eagled, onto his back. Feeling like some ancient warrior I heaved the axe high above my head, and brought it whistling down, burying it in his guts. He looked at me in disbelieving surprise... Alex's face, Alex's body, blood, human blood, pouring from him. I tugged the axe-head from his intestines, and hacked again, until his body was opened from chest to crotch, and, finally, he died. It was horrible... I dropped the axe, trembling as I shuffled back to Alex. He was huddled into a ball, moaning in pain. We discovered later that the force transmitted to his body had broken his shoulder.

"Fuck," he rasped. "What was that?"

"It seems human. Superhuman." I said. "An autopsy will tell." I fell to my knees beside him, and touched his face gently. "You are hurt, my love. I'll get an ambulance. I thought he was going to kill you."

"I thought he was, too. Thank you, Fox." He gave a tiny smile, and I thought of how nearly he had died, and what a coward I was. He had to know that Iloved him. One day it would be too late.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A few hours later we were both cleaned up and patched up. Alex was in plaster, but hadn't had to stay in hospital, I could collect him once I'd reported in to the police and FBI about the crime. Keeping his identity from them would be tricky; as he'd been injured he couldn't simply fade out of the picture. Fortunately they were excited about the aftermath of the bloodbath, and didn't want to see him immediately. The body and the sword had both disappeared from the shop whilst awaiting the arrival of the forensic team. The assumption was that the man had had accomplices who had returned for him, and a major search was already underway. Promising to return the next day, I sidled out. I was wondering, though it seemed incredible, whether our superAlex had survived even disembowelment, and would be out for revenge. Somehow, I hoped, if it were so, I'd be beneath his notice.

We were both subdued on the way back to our hotel. I was keen that he should make himself scarce, and leave me to cover up for him, but he refused to go until the morning.

I wondered how he would manage. His prosthesis was ruined, and he'd be in the plaster for weeks, unable to use a spare and restricted anyway by his dressings. I helped him undress, and we climbed into bed, both of us shocked, still shaken by the thought of killing a man who could have been Alex. I drew him carefully into my arms, and said, "Alex. Will you stay with me until you're better?"

"I'll manage, Foxy," he said sardonically. "I'm not totally helpless. I don't know that I want to be at your mercy for weeks, being kept for your convenience like a fucking inflatable doll."

"It's not like that, Alex," I mumbled. "I nearly lost you today. Dammit, I nearly got killed myself, and it made me think of all the time I've spent away from you... trying to keep away from you."

"Want to try out a lover in a cast, now, Mr. Curiosity? Nope. I'm not staying with you. The only satisfaction I get for my humiliation is watching you trying to resist your own sick desires. Knowing that you make yourself wait and suffer until you're ready to beg for it."

"It's not like that," I reiterated. My mouth was dry, I was going to make my admission now, and he was going to laugh at me.

"It looks like that," he sneered, stiffening. He pulled away from me a little. I wondered if telling him would spoil it all... what little there was.

I kissed him gently, and looked into his eyes, and wished I'd done this so long ago, right back when we'd first become lovers. I felt as though I'd been cheating on him for all those years.

"I love you, Alex."

He looked at me thoughtfully, and frowned.

"I love you."

"I heard, Fox."

"And... ?"

"I'll sleep on it."

Finis

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

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