From: "Rachel-Sara Berkowitz" To: Subject: [XFNC17ff] Beautiful, A Love Story Date: Monday, February 04, 2002 7:27 PM Beautiful, A Love Story By Ganymede FANDOM : X-files PAIRING: Krycek/? (If you have an idea who the unidentified narrator is, please drop me a line) RATING : NC-17. Non-Con RapeFic. SPOILERS : Nothing. Krycek has two arms. MIDWIFED BY : Josan, my very beloved brutal beta SUMMARY : Someone wants to tame a certain beautiful green-eyed panther. DISCLAIMER: I do not own AK. Chris Carter does, and lets him waste away. I just take him for walks and make sure he has food and clean water when he goes on vacation. All the other characters belong to me. Additional lyrics in the introduction are from "Touch, Peel and Stand" by Days of the New. FEEDBACK: Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com. All flames will be fed to the dogs and later regurgitated on the rug. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Yes, I finally found the reason, I don't need an excuse. I've got this time on my hands. You are the one to abuse." I stood by the doorway and watched him, several feet outside the well of light surrounding the cot. Effectively invisible. I had given him the neutralizing agent ninety minutes ago. He had spent the past hour and a half since the paralysis wore off fighting against the restraints, screaming insults at me, and exhausting himself. I waited until I was sure he was too far-gone to launch anything near an attack before I slid quietly into the room. He was so beautiful. Feral. A wild animal, caught in a trap, waiting for the hunter to return and finish off the job. Skin coated in sweat, muscles trembling from exertion, green eyes wide and angry. Rage rolling off him in waves. He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill. He wasn't going to get to do either of those things. His options were limited, and he knew it. He wasn't running this show. I was. And it was showtime. One deep breath. Anticipating. Smiling. He had told me more than once that when I smile, his blood runs cold. Good. Let him be afraid. He and I both know that I would never, ever do anything to intentionally hurt him. I had gone way out of my way to avoid causing him pain. I wasn't after his blood, or his tears. I wanted something much sweeter. Two steps, and I was within the circle of light engulfing the cot he was laying on. It had taken me weeks to design this set-up. Steel X bolted to steel square, attached to a frame, bolted to the floor. Fake sheepskin covered foam rubber pad, an inch or two wider than his shoulders, extending from head to thighs. Restraints bolted into metal. There was no way in hell, even as angry as he was right then, that he could get loose. He wasn't going anywhere until I was done with him. That would be a while. He heard me approach, and that set off another round of fighting. I was standing above his right shoulder, making it nearly impossible for him to see me. He tried it anyways, nearly dislocating his neck in the process. Why did he have to fight so hard to see who it was? He knew it was me. He hasn't seen another human being besides me in over eight weeks. He was too exhausted to fight for more than a minute or two. After he stilled, gulping air, I slid around to his right side, kneeling down until I was at his eye level, not touching. I knew better than to get within biting range when he was like this. The last time...well, let's say the teeth marks are souvenirs I'll carry for quite some time. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to lick the sweat that dripped off his skin onto the fake animal fur he was laying on. I wanted to hear him whimper and cry out in Russian, before he lost the ability to speak altogether. Patience was never a virtue I possessed, but I was learning. My beautiful green-eyed panther was teaching me. The smile was back, and I know I had *that* gleam in my eye. He was lying still, very still, watching me, trying to figure out what I was going to do. We stayed that way for a long moment, barely eighteen inches apart, eyes locked under the circle of spotlights. Waiting. "Why did you try to run away, Alex?" Quiet voice, neutral tone. Not hurt, not upset. Just seeking information. Wide, guileless smile. A smile that wouldn't melt butter. "I didn't try to run away. Why would I do that?" He gestured around him ineffectually with one hand, bound to the steel bar at the wrist and elbow. "Run away, and give up all this?" I fought down the smirk, but I knew he had seen it. He had the unique ability to make me laugh, even when I was furious at him. Especially when I was furious at him. Once again, with feeling. "Why did you try to run away, Alex?" "Oh, I don't know." Tone and inflection I had heard so many times, his usual combination of threat, rage and sarcasm. "Could have something to do with the fact that you kidnapped me and are holding me here against my will." I let the chuckle bubble up to the surface. We had already had this conversation so many times. It was no longer a discussion, more of a comedy routine. Attack, parry, defend, thrust. At least he dropped 'rape' from his litany of offenses. He really, really didn't like me proving to him that you can't rape the willing. I reached one hand out, slowly, intending to stroke the sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. I always moved slowly around him when he was restrained. If he could see me, and I moved quickly, he got frantic. Hysterical. From the scars on his back, with good reason. I never asked, and he never offered. I simply made it a practice to move slowly and let him see that my hands were empty. No weapons. Nothing to inflict pain. I never took the toys out until he was carefully blindfolded. Being unable to see seemed to calm him down, help him center. We had almost gotten to the point of well behaved, docile. Last night was a first in so many ways. Last night... Last night, I was so proud of him. Last night, on the porch, there were no restraints, no bondage. Just cuddling in the hammock, watching the sunset behind the mountains, holding hands, sweet, shy kisses, my cock up his ass, barely moving. Just spooning in my arms, long, slow, languid f*cking. No rage, fire banked, enjoying the sensation of holding him, being inside him, feeling his breathing change, feeling him ignite. This morning, his roundhouse punch connected with my jaw, and he was out of there. It took me three hours to track him down in the jeep. I knew he couldn't get too far. He wasn't dressed for hiking through the wilderness, wearing nothing but a pair of silk boxer shorts and no shoes. Even if he had managed to make it the almost ten miles off my property, it wouldn't have done him any good. He and I are the only people within fifty miles who speak English. His eyes focused on my hand coming closer to his face, and he flinched, whole body tensing up. "Don't. Touch. Me." Barely a snarl. "Why not?" He cocked his head, startled. "Why not what?" "Why shouldn't I touch you?" He blinked, blinked again. Pause while he tried on different responses inside his head. Words were never his strong suit. "Because I don't want you to." "That's it? Just because you don't want me to, I shouldn't touch you?" "That's it. Just because I don't want you to." Another chuckle hit the surface. If my smiles made his blood run cold, my laughter absolutely terrified him. "Let me introduce you to a fundamental truth, beautiful." I leaned closer, until only a few inches separated us. "Sometimes, your desires are not the paramount factor in my decision-making process." My hand cupped his jaw, slid up and across his cheek, into his black, silky hair. He flinched again, trying to pull away. Something flashed across his eyes and disappeared. Fear. One deep breath, then another, hand stilled in his hair. Where the f*ck was this coming from? Did he think I was out for revenge for this morning? Revenge really isn't my style. Yes, I was mad - for about ten seconds. Then I went out and did what I had to do to retrieve my errant panther. That's my style. Get pissed and get over it. "Alex, why are you afraid of me?" I let the puzzlement show in my face. "Have I ever done *anything* to hurt you?" He swallowed hard. Nodded. "The ball gag." I closed my eyes, shaking my head. He was absolutely right. I had hurt him. Not intentionally, but the pain is the same, intent or no. It was his third day here, in this house, with me. I have a very long temper, but it has its limits. I had hit my limit of listening to him scream insults and threats. So, I gagged him. I used the same ball gag that had been used on me, all those years ago. I didn't think about the fact that it had taken me nearly nine months to work up to a gag that large. After I put the gag in his mouth, he stopped screaming insults. He also stopped breathing, a minute later. That scared the sh*t out of both of us. I nearly dislocated his jaw getting the gag out. Thank the gods it only took a few minutes of mouth to mouth to start him breathing on his own. I just held him for the rest of that long night, silently beating myself up for my stupidity and arrogance. I finally found a beautiful plaything of my own, and I nearly killed him after only three days. Even if he survived, he would never trust me. He would be afraid of me, which was the exact opposite of what I was seeking. I opened my eyes, and looked over at my beautiful, bound panther. I had apologized to him many, many times since that night. "Alex, I'm very sorry that happened. But I think you recognize that it was an accident." Wary green eyes drilling into mine. "Have I ever gagged you, since that night?" He glanced away, mesmerized by something in the darkness. After a long moment, he shook his head. "Have I ever done anything to *intentionally* hurt you?" Another long pause. Another shake of the head. "Then why did you try to run away?" A crucial neuron fired in the back of my brain. His bizarre behavior started to click. "Did last night scare you that badly?" He got very stiff, muscles rigid. "Nothing happened last night." I knew his body very well. I fell asleep with his body in my arms every night. I woke up next to that body every morning. He woke up every morning, shackled to my bed, feeling my cock slide in and out of his ass, still loose and lubed from the enthusiastic f*cking the night before. This was my favorite part of the day, early in the morning, feeling him come alive under me. There was nothing aggressive, nothing intense, so unlike the sex that would inevitably come later in the day. This was the slowest, laziest, gentlest f*ck possible. Sometimes I would let my eyes close, let myself drift off for a few minutes. Other times his body would react to me long before his brain awoke, arching into my touch, squirming, trying to get more stimulation, more of me inside. I knew his body well. I knew all his buttons, mental and physical. I had spent the past two months in an exhaustive survey of his buttons, his pleasure points. I could play his beautiful body like a Stradivarius. I could also tell when he was lying. Like right now. "Why did last night frighten you so much, beautiful? Was it because you weren't fighting me? Was it because, for the first time, you gave up trying to defend your nonexistent honor and simply enjoyed my touch?" No response. He was ignoring me, lying stiff as the metal crossbeams holding him in place. Gently, softly. "Or was it because last night you discovered that being here, with me, was right where you wanted to be?" Bingo. He turned, green eyes flashing murder and bloodshed. "I do NOT want to be here with you! I want my old life back!" More laughter. He was so lovely when he was obstinate and unreasonable. My knees were threatening to sue for divorce if I knelt on the concrete floor for another moment, so I stood up, leaning over his prone form. "Do I need to refresh your memory, beautiful? Before I came along, you were renting out your gun hand to anyone with a wad of green. Half the time, you didn't have enough money to eat, and you were shooting heroin." I tapped the inside of his left elbow with my fingers. The track marks were still there, though fading. " What was it about that life that you are so desperate to get back to?" "It was mine! I could do what I wanted, when I wanted. I wasn't spending every day tied to a bed, getting f*cked by a psychopath." Now it was my turn to get very still, very stiff. I let the ice show in my eyes, seep into my voice. He kept trying to make me angry, even though he really, really did not want to see me angry. Every once in a while, he hit a nerve. "So answer me one question about this old life you miss so much - was it just your skills as an assassin that were for sale to the highest bidder? Or was it also your skills in bed?" "I am not a whore!" Trying for offended dignity, hard to do when he was tied naked to metal bars. I clucked my tongue and let my eyes wander across his delicious exposed flesh. "Shame, really. There are men out there who would pay good money for a taste of you, wiggling and crying out like a bitch in heat." I slid my hand into my pocket and extracted something, a motion tracked by wary green eyes. "Like you'll be doing under me, in the next few hours." I let him see what I removed from my pocket - a strip of black velvet, attached with Velcro and elastic. A blindfold. His blindfold. Something inside that tight-coiled spring at the center of Alex always seemed to loosen when he saw the blindfold. He relaxed, just a millimeter. It was as if he knew that as long as he couldn't see, I wouldn't do anything to hurt him. Blindfolded, the only things that would touch his skin were my skin, and a handful of select toys. He also knew that in a few short minutes, the fear and confusion and uncertainty would disintegrate under the lust and the sheer animal need. I slid the blindfold on, securing it tightly around his head. It wasn't going anywhere, no matter how hard he thrashed. The first few weeks, getting the blindfold on was a daily challenge. He would fight and buck, until I practically had to sit on him to get the damn thing attached. Now, he just calmly lies still while I fasten the Velcro and adjust the straps. I thought about the earplugs, and decided against them. I didn't use them nearly as much as I used to. At the beginning, I wanted him in a sensory deprivation haze, missing sight and sound, restricted to touch. Now, I prefer to ask him questions while I tease him into frenzy, forcing his f*ck-dumb brain to come up with a coherent answer while my tongue makes slow circles around the head of his cock and I slide the dildo in and out of his tight, lubed ass. Next came the cock ring. Today, a narrow length of leather buckled to the base of his cock. I've been making him wear one almost 24-7 since he showed up at my doorstep. The little strip of metal, or leather, or plastic allowed me to play with him for hours, denying him any release while I tortured him unmercifully, getting myself off several times in the process. As I said, I knew his body well. I knew where to touch, I knew what toys to use, and I knew just what to say to reduce him to helpless, incoherent writhing. I knew how to make him scream, and I knew how to make him lose the ability to speak altogether. The ritual was always the same. Preparations, then a kiss. The only kiss he would get until we were done. I had a theory that, at certain points, I could make him come just by kissing him. One of these days, I'll have to test this theory. Not today. Today, I just want to make him forget where he ends and where I begin. Today was going to be more intense than usual. I had never brought him down to this room before, though I had set it up over a month earlier. I was saving it for a time when I really wanted to work him over properly, or when he really needed to be taken down a peg or two. Today, both seemed to apply. Quickly, I attached the extra length of chain from the right side of the top crosspiece to the tightly buckled restraint right above his right knee. Same with the other side. He was arching his head, listening, trying to see around the blindfold. This was new. Unusual. Playing with the restraints once I have them attached isn't in my usual repertoire. Most of the time I'm too busy playing with other things. Today was different. "You want to fight, don't you, beautiful? You want me to drag it out of you, kicking and screaming the entire way." My fingers were busy dis-attaching the knee and ankle restraints from the metal crosspieces. Another quick clip, and a short length of chain extended from the ankle restraints to the bottom of the square. His legs were now no longer fastened to the X, but still secured with chains and restraints. At least for a moment. Quickly, quickly. Before he realizes how much freedom he has, and lashes out. In this position, he could still kick, and kick hard. I moved up to the top of the square, one hand on each chain extending from the top crosspiece to his knee restraints. I wrapped my hands in the slack chain, and gave one hard, full body pull, sliding the chains into the quick-catch toggles bolted to the metal next to the chains. Oh, perfect. Absolutely perfect. Knees bent up to his chest and spread apart almost as far as they would go. Ankle chain held taut, keeping his lower legs immobile. Tight, sweet ass totally exposed, cock rigid against his belly, balls swollen and full. "Fight all you want, beautiful. Those are mountain climbing toggles attached to the chains. The more you fight, the more tension on the toggle, the shorter the chain gets, the more spread open you get. You go ahead - knock yourself out." He didn't like this, and he made his displeasure obvious. With a ferocious snarl, he tried to launch himself against the restraints. It didn't last long, but for a moment I was debating the tensile strength of steel versus the muscle strength of a pissed-off Alex. When the ferocity subsided, he was still lying there, panting hard, muscles trembling, trying desperately to control his breathing. That would not do. I didn't want him to be able to control anything at all. Drawing my fingernails up the inside of his thighs made him hiss and arch, distracting him while I pulled the stool over and sat down inside the box, nearly touching the bottom of the foam rubber pad, between his legs. All his most private parts, open and defenseless to my touch. There was no place he could go, no way for him to run. Mine. All mine. To play with as I like. I started right above his anklebone, holding his leg firmly with one hand while kissing and nibbling on the lightly furred skin over corded muscles. Normally, I would have started at the bottom of his feet, tickling and sucking on his toes, but they were pretty badly torn up after his unauthorized hike. Sucking on bandages is not my idea of erotic. When I got to his knee and slid my tongue into the crevice behind, trying to get to that ultra sensitive skin, he squirmed and made some unmistakable complaining sounds. Who would have figured that a cold-blooded killer would be this ticklish? As my mouth and tongue got closer to the juncture of his thighs, his breathing got more rapid and labored. Other than that, and the objection to my tickling the inside of his knee, he hadn't moved or made a sound. So he thinks he's going to stone-face his way through this, does he? If he believes he's going to be allowed to retreat inside his own head and pretend I'm not here, he's got another thing coming. Apparently, I needed to turn up the volume. To hell with the long, slow tease. It's time for the big guns. Both hands placed on the inside of his thighs, gripping tightly. Not so much for restraint purposes - there was no way short of welding equipment that he was going to be able to move his legs enough to pose a threat - but just to send a message. I have you right where I want you, Beautiful. Leaning over the foam pad, letting him feel my breathing along his exposed cock and balls, then lower. One long, slow lick to the perineum. Then I started lazily circling his tight, puckered opening with my tongue, flicking across the sensitive entrance before sliding just the tip inside. His whole body stiffened. I watched his cock pulsing, leaking pre-cum onto his belly. He was trying so hard to lie still and not react, and it was failing miserably. I slid just a centimeter more of my tongue inside his ass, then slid it out. A little more, then out. I let my fingertips slowly play across the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, brushing close to his balls, but not close enough to touch. That would come later. Much later, when I was ready to hear him scream. A little more, then out, working my tongue like the cock that would certainly be coming later. A short, thick, wet cock with a tip that keeps wiggling back and forth inside him. I was waiting for a sign. A reaction. It took me a few minutes, but I finally got it. Invisibly, microscopically, he started thrusting his hips into my tongue, trying to get it just a little bit deeper, keep it inside him just a little bit longer. That was my cue. I pulled out suddenly, blowing on his saliva-soaked ass, watching it spasm under the cold air. Looking up at his face was all the revelation I needed. His eyes were clenched tightly closed under the blindfold. He had bitten his lower lip so hard I could see red on his teeth. There was sweat dripping off his face, soaking into his black hair. He was practically vibrating with the effort involved in not moving, not reacting. "You go ahead and fight me as hard as you need to, beautiful. It just makes your eventual surrender all the sweeter. And that's the only thing I'll settle for this afternoon - your surrender." I ran one finger up the underside of his engorged, weeping cock, feeling it pulse and throb under my gentle ministrations, hearing the breath catch in his throat. Oh, yeah. Definitely time to get mean. Reaching under the table, I pulled out a small, black bag. My bag of tricks. My bag of devices to drive Alex mad. After considering for half a moment, I decided on one of my favorites. A classic, really. The first toy I ever used on my beautiful, disobedient panther. It was pink, shiny, hard plastic, about six inches long, barely wider than the AA batteries inside, with a small black switch at the thickened base. A vibrator. Designed for girls, it worked wonderfully for making Alex beg, and cry out, and scream. "While you were out on your little unauthorized nature walk, the package I ordered arrived in the mail. I bought you some presents at a little catalog I found online. It's amazing what you can buy on the Internet, nowadays." I rested the slim pink vibrator against the crack of his ass while I fished the lubricant out of the bag. He was intimately familiar with it, its curves, they way it felt... He flinched. I smiled. "You hate this one the most, don't you?" I didn't wait for a response. I knew it wouldn't be forthcoming. I opened the tiny tube of Glide, and squirted it onto my fingers before applying it to the vibrator. "It's a sweet, intimate torture - feeling it buzz and vibrate inside you, touching that spot that makes you lose control, over and over again. You can't hide from the sensation, and you can't run away." I wiped the remains of the lubricant into the fake sheepskin, and held the tip of the narrow wand next to his saliva soaked, tightly puckered opening. "You can't even come." With one smooth push, I slid the entire length of it inside him, until just the base was still outside. He squirmed and hissed, then held very still, waiting. He knew what was going to happen next. The only question in his mind was when. "One of the toys that I bought you was a very special dildo. I think you'll really like this one. It's made of thin plastic, about seven or eight inches long, with an opening at the base. Right now, it's deflated. Once I fill it with blood temperature water, and put the plug in the base, it's hard, and hot, and it responds when those talented muscles of yours contract around it." Blowing gently on his balls, watching them respond to the air movement and my words. "I bet it would almost feel like a real cock. I can't wait to test it on you, see if it makes you scream as much as my cock does." He was biting his lip again, trying to suppress the quiet mewling noises he makes when he gets really turned on. I had never tried to tease him with my words before, but it was working like a charm. I'll have to add this to my repertoire. I flipped the switch at the base of the vibrator with my thumb, then stood back to watch the show. Back arched, with only his shoulders and ass in contact with the sheepskin. Legs spread as far as they would go. Fighting against the restraints, trying desperately to thrust his hips, squirming into the sensation. Hands wrapped around the metal support bars, white-knuckled grip. Letting loose a barrage of profanity, broken English and Russian. I counted silently to thirty, enjoying the sight of my beautiful Alex writhing and crying out as I slid the vibrator in and out of his gel-slick ass. With an evil grin completely wasted on my blindfolded companion, I flipped the switch back to the off position. A tortured whimper was his first response. It took him a moment to regain the ability to speak. "No....please.....no." Gasping around the words. I was laughing again, that sound that made his blood run cold. Right now, it wasn't a concern. He was so hot, so aroused that nothing short of nuclear winter could have cooled him down. "Shall I tell you about the other present I bought you, beautiful?" He was biting his lip again. That wouldn't do. He was going to need stitches to repair the damage he was doing to his luscious mouth. A distraction was definitely in order. Another flick of the switch, one quick thrust, just long enough to hear another of his delicious shrieks, halfway between pleasure and pain. Then off. "Are you ready to hear about your present, Alex?" No point in waiting for a response when he was incapable of speech. His brain was completely disengaged by this point. Just the way I like him. "I bought you some very special lube, beautiful. Made by the same company that makes the Wet we usually use. It's called Spice. It's standard lube with a small amount of capsaicin in it." The words were penetrating his f*ck-dumb brain, I could tell. His breathing changed. "Don't worry, Alex. The percentage of capsaicin isn't high enough to burn, or even hurt. I tried it already. It just....tingles." I reached up and slowly wrapped my hand around his cock, hard as teak and plastered to his quivering stomach. Not moving my hand, at least not yet. "Can you imagine how it would feel, having this lube smeared across your nipples? Can you feel it tingling, stinging?" One slow slide of my hand along the length of his cock, sticky with pre-cum. Another one of those mewling cries that pools at the base of my spine and makes me grit my teeth to resist the almost overwhelming impulse to f*ck him blind. "I'd have to put some more right *here*." I ran my thumb across the head of his cock. "Not along the shaft. Not on your balls. Just right across the tip. And that's the only time I'd touch you there." I leaned over and ran my tongue in a slow, lazy circle around the head, savoring his taste, his desperate attempts to thrust deeper into my mouth. "No place else. Just the lube, sending all those hypersensitive nerve endings into a frenzy. Oh, you'd be squirming so hard, trying desperately to get more contact, writhing under me like the bitch in heat you are..." Another slow lick, and a deep, sucking kiss, with just a little bit of teeth. Flick of the switch, as I took his entire length into my mouth, teasing the tip of my tongue across that excruciatingly sensitive spot on the underside, just below the head. I slid the vibrator out and in, aiming for his other spot, his prostate. His choked-off scream let me know my aim was as good as ever. Flick off, and I let his cock slide out of my mouth with a wet sucking sound. "Then I'd get your other toy, the new dildo, and coat it liberally in Spice. I'd tease you with it for a long time. First, I'd just pop the head in and out, watching your tight sphincter muscles clutch at the plastic cock. In and out, until you begged me to f*ck you, until you begged me to slide the whole thing inside you. You know I can't resist when you beg me to bury my cock inside your tight, slick ass, even if it isn't really my cock." A quick slide of my tongue across his balls, and another agonized squeal. On a good night, I could reduce him to screaming just by playing with his balls. No penetration, nothing on his cock, just teasing, stroking and sucking on his testicles. I needed to do that again. It had been far too many days. "Then I'd fuck you with it, long, slow strokes. You could feel the tingling building with every thrust of that warm, life-like plastic cock. It would be a triple-pronged attack, beautiful - nipples, head of your cock, and deep inside your ass." Another nip to his shaft, as I hit the switch again. I ran my teeth along his rigid length, feeling the vibrations deep within him, listening to him cry out in tortured pleasure. A few more seconds, then off. "Can you feel it, Alex? Can you feel the stinging, the tingling on your nipples, your cock? It would hurt so good, wouldn't it? Pain and pleasure tied into one mind-blowing double helix. You wouldn't be able to get away, or get any closer." He was crying out now, without benefit of my touch. Just my words. "How long would you be able to last? Would you beg me to f*ck you harder, deeper? Or would you just scream until your throat was raw?" This was working well. Way too well. I was almost as hard and aroused as my desperate panther, and I was still fully dressed. At this rate, I wouldn't last ten seconds, once I was imbedded in his slick heat. This would not do. A break was definitely called for. A break to go upstairs and find his new toys. It was definitely time to turn that fantasy into reality. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Sanctuary By Ganymede FANDOM : X-files PAIRING: Krycek/Skinner RATING : NC-17. Rape recovery and self-mutilation squick. If these things bother you, please do not read this story. SPOILERS : Everything up to Season 8 (denial is not just a river in Egypt, boys and girls) MIDWIFED BY : Josan, my very beloved brutal beta SUMMARY : There is one thing in the world that terrifies Alex Krycek. Can Walter help him to come to terms with it? DISCLAIMER: I do not own AK. Chris Carter does, and lets him waste away. I just take him for walks and make sure he has food and clean water when he goes on vacation. All the other characters belong to me. Additional lyrics in the introduction are from "Touch, Peel and Stand" by Days of the New. FEEDBACK: Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com. All flames will be fed to the dogs and later regurgitated on the rug. ===================================================================== November, 2007 I've known Alex Krycek for a very long time. It was more than fifteen years ago when he first appeared in the Hoover, a fresh faced, overgelled kid, ink still wet on his diploma, here to partner with Mulder and wreak havoc. Our relationship, for lack of a better word, started five and a half years ago. During that time, I thought I had seen all the faces of my favorite portable chaos generator. I've seen him relaxed and laughing, letting Will use him as his personal jungle gym, singing Russian drinking songs to baby Samantha. I've seen him in extreme post-surgical pain, waiting for the morphine to kick in, eyes gaunt and sunken, grasping at my hand until I thought the bones would shatter. I've seen him purring, sated and sleepy, like a jungle cat sprawled across my… our bed. I've seen him dying. I've seen him dead. I thought I had seen all of his faces. I was wrong. I had never seen him so frightened that he was shaking and hyperventilating. Not until that night. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ We were in Aspen the week before Halloween, on a publishing company sponsored weekend getaway. My second book, Ghosts in the Hoover, had just made it onto the N. Y. Times Top 20 bestseller list. Me, a best-selling author. Who would have thunk it? My career as an auteur started out as a lark. I took my twenty-year pension and retired less than a year after Mulder's employment was terminated with extreme prejudice. Scully was still working for the FBI, nominally, as she groomed Doggett and Reyes to pick up the mantle and continue with the quest she and her husband started. I thought Mulder should turn all those case files into a book. He had other ideas for how he wanted to spend his post-FBI years, which mainly involved working with the Lone Gunman unearthing conspiracies when he wasn't busy with play dates and preschools. "If you think there's a book in those files," he retorted after the third time I broached the subject in as many weeks, "then *you* can damn well write it!" So, I did. I sat down at my computer the next afternoon and started writing. Less than six months later, "The Thin Green Line" was looking for a publisher. It was the fictional account of two FBI agents, Crow Callander and Miranda Hoagland, as they investigated cases of the fantastical and supernatural. After a small pile of rejection slips, I had a publisher, an agent, and some very respectable sales figures. I wasn't John Grisham, but my percentage wasn't pocket change either. My second book, "Ghosts in the Hoover", focused on the collaboration within the government itself, as well as the burgeoning relationship between Callander and Hoagland. My agent thought it would be a best seller. I thought she had slipped some of that 'special' tobacco in her cigarettes. She was right. I owe her lunch. Four weeks after it hit the market, Ghosts was on the New York Times bestseller list, and Alex and I were vacationing at a very plush condo in Aspen. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ To call Alex Krycek my boyfriend would be a gross misstatement. Alex was the closest thing to pure feline I had ever seen in human skin, a force of nature that deigned to grace my humble abode and life with his presence. For the first year and a half he spent in my bed, I didn't know where he lived, or how he earned a living. He arrived every night before I got home from work, and disappeared while I was in the shower the next morning. Asking him a direct question was out of the question. It would be as useless an exercise as asking a cat where he had been the night before. But believe me, I gave it the old college try. His response would either be to ignore the question, sidestep, obfuscate, or give me that slow, lazy smile that makes my knees buckle and usually results in one of us dragging the other off towards the bedroom. I try not to take it personally that he didn't trust me. The harsh truth is that he didn't trust anyone. I was just highest on the list of people he almost-trusted, people around whom he could drop his guard and his gun for a few minutes. He was a walking, talking, enigma. He showed up at my condo at random times, whether I was home or not. No key? No problem. He'd let himself in. I am convinced that he had planted eavesdropping devices throughout the house, because whenever I had a truly hideous day, or came down sick enough to stay home, he would always appear. Granted, when I was homebound with pneumonia, his idea of quality nursing care was taking me to bed and keeping me there until I could hardly remember where my lungs were, much less how badly they hurt. Alex never was the chicken soup type. His concept of nurturing leaned more towards mind-blowing sex and lots of televised sports. Mulder and Scully don't understand any of it – why we're together, why I feel the way I do about him, how he feels about me. It's not something that I can really explain. It's a lot like Alex – words don't do it justice. You simply have to experience it to understand. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It was our last night in Aspen, and we had big plans, thanks to Holly, the publisher's rep. She had somehow managed to score the two of us tickets to the industry-only premiere of the latest Jet Li movie, and reservations afterwards at the poshest restaurant in town. And all she expected in return, as Alex so eloquently stated, was my lifelong loyalty, a cut of the royalties of my next two bestsellers, and a pint of blood. He always did have a way with words, my Lexi, my Alex. When we arrived four nights earlier, I had definite plans for how I wanted to spend my vacation – sightseeing, checking out the jazz clubs and the art museum, sampling the local restaurant scene. Alex had other things in mind. As usual, when my immovable force meets his irresistible object, somehow the immovable force inevitably moves. I don't know why I even bother to fight it anymore. We did hit a few of the local attractions, but mainly we stayed in the condo and enjoyed Alex's idea of recreation. Sex. Lots and lots of sex. In the hot tub. On the patio. On the couch while watching the morning news shows. In the shower. And, once in a while, on the bed. If I didn't know better, I would think that Alex's new goal in life was to make me feel like a randy sixteen year old again, right before my fatal stroke. Nyaah. He wouldn't let me die. He's killed me before and brought me back. Why would this time be any different? The Jet Li movie was absolutely breathtaking. The choreography was superb, and the cinematography breathtaking. The plot was second rate, but who would go to a Jet Li movie for plot, anyways? If you want to see well-developed characters, read Dostoevsky. If you prefer mesmerizing fight scenes, go see a Jet Li movie. After the movie, we met up with Holly at a very exclusive, very expensive local four-star restaurant. People paid the exorbitant prices for tiny portions not because of the quality of the food, but for the chance to see and be seen by the important people in Hollywood Lite society. Since my book had just hit the bestseller list, I got called away from our table by Holly repeatedly to say hello to another eminently forgettable individual. Rather, I said hello and said forgettable individual prattled on incessantly about his or her latest film role or cousin twice removed who worked on DeNiro's Oscar-winning flick. After the fifth or sixth time, when so and so wanted me to help her daughter break into the movies, I was falling back on my AD training – and biting the inside of my lip hard enough to taste blood - to stop myself from laughing at the poor woman. When I finally left the table to head back to my by-now-cold dinner and my by-now-pissed-off partner, I saw from across the room that there was someone else standing at our table. Even from across the room, I knew that there was something seriously wrong. Alex had gone completely white. Bloodless white. He was clenching the edge of the table so hard I'm surprised he didn't end up with splinters in his palm. His eyes were wide, and it didn't take a doctor to figure out that he was breathing way too fast. Before I could take a step, move towards my terror-stricken lover, Alex was up out of his seat and running for the front door. The older couple and the hostess standing between him and the exit nearly got knocked over, but he didn't even slow down. By the time I got to the exit, he had disappeared into the night. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I spent a long sleepless night at the condo, waiting, wondering, jumping at every creak, every car going by, quietly rehearsing what I would say. No Alex. I flew out on the 10:15 back to Dulles in the morning, breaking land speed records once the landing wheels touched the ground, violating several Commonwealth regulations and at least one law of physics in my hurry to get back to my house. I knew he would be there. I could feel it. No Alex. The first night back was spent on the phone with the Lone Gunmen and anyone else I could think of. No activity on his credit cards – at least not the credit cards with names I was aware of. Same with the bank account. None of my friends – not the Lone Gunmen, not Mulder, not even Doggett and his famous lack of tact – dared to broach the other possibility. No one dared voice their sneaking suspicion that Alex had simply gone back to his old way of life. In other words, left me. The second night back I dove headfirst into a bottle of Jim Beam. There was nothing else for me to do. All the signaling devices had been armed, waiting for a certain black haired green-eyed trigger to set them off and reveal his location. All I could do was wait. And drink myself into oblivion. Perhaps if I hadn't been so intent on getting drunk, I might have put two and two together earlier. Or perhaps it took the alcohol to shake loose the one vital piece of information in my brain. When I finally awoke late the morning of the third day, on the couch, still wearing the same clothes I had worn on the flight home, reeking of sweat and bourbon, I knew where Alex had gone. Sanctuary. Our sanctuary. Several years after my wife died, her aunt passed away at the august age of 97. The dear old thing had never changed her will, so Sharon inherited most of her worldly possessions. As Sharon's sole heir, it became mine. Most of the lady's worldly possessions consisted of a farmhouse and eighty acres outside of Corydon, Indiana. When I first found out about the inheritance, my immediate reaction was to sell the place. Alex, in his wisdom, had a better idea. With a good bit of elbow grease, and a healthy portion of money appearing from accounts in the Cayman Islands, we rehabbed the farmhouse, set up an elaborate security system, and stocked it with enough supplies and equipment to support two people for several years. In case the world ever went completely to hell, it would be our rendezvous point. Our sanctuary. Our place to run away and disappear. There was no paper trail leading from the farmhouse to us. The deed and the mortgage were still in Sharon's aunt's name. All the work had been paid for in cash. It was less than a day's drive from my house. We both had keys and codes for the security system. He told me once that it was the only place on the planet where he felt truly safe. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I was on the phone to the airlines, booking a seat on the next flight to Indianapolis. Early that evening, I pulled up in a rental car outside the farmhouse. I already knew Alex was somewhere inside. This time, it wasn't intuition or my gut feeding my certainty. It was the security system. The first thing Alex always did when he arrived was reset the default settings on the elaborate system of heat sensors, booby traps and infrared cameras. When there's no one in the house, it remained on the lowest setting. Alex always adjusted it to the second to the highest security level, and spent a goodly portion of the time fiddling with it. I call it his thermostat. I made a lot of noise as I entered the house, fumbling with the keys, dropping the duffel bag, hitting every squeaky board in the floor. This was very intentional. I didn't know what condition Alex was in, and I wanted him to be well aware that he wasn't alone, and that the second person in the house was me. No surprises. The last time I managed to sneak up on Alex, it took several weeks for my jaw and ribs to heal. No Alex on the first floor. "Alex?" Yelling from the bottom of the stairs, listening to my voice echo through the empty rooms. "Alex, it's me. Walter." No Alex on the second floor. No big surprise there. His office, his private place was the converted attic. I stopped for a moment on the landing off the attic door, auspiciously to give Alex another moment to himself before I walked in, but also to give me another moment to catch my breath after walking up all those stairs. ::OK, Walter, time to start jogging with Mulder again. You are seriously out of shape:: Hand on the doorknob. Deep breath for courage. The first thing I saw was his silhouette, stark against the molten gold last rays of sunlight pouring in through the huge round window behind him. He was perched in the catbird seat, an oversized windowsill converted into a padded bench, tucked into the arched window cut out. We were three stories up, in the tallest building for several miles in any direction. He had an unobstructed view of the farm fields, the neighbor's barn, and the cows quietly grazing behind barbed wire. There were sniper rifles carefully stowed inside the bench seat, just in case. "Hello, Alex." He didn't move, didn't look at me, still wearing the same clothes he had on the night he disappeared from the restaurant, posture screaming 'Don't Touch Me!' in three languages. I knew better than to get too close. I carefully sat down in an antique rocker about six feet from the window. The ancient wood creaked under my weight, and I had a flash of concern that this time it would finally collapse into toothpicks, spilling me in an undignified heap on the floor. "You shouldn't have come." I almost smiled, before I realized it could be seriously misinterpreted. I was expecting that one. And he calls me predictable. "Lexi." Voice pitched low, calm, using the nickname only I am allowed to use. "Who was that man in the restaurant?" I didn't need to clarify which man, or what restaurant. From the looks of him, he hadn't been able to think of anything else for the past three days. Long pause. Thirty seconds went by, then a minute. I was almost to the point of moving on to question #2. "His name is Gregory Blackmore." So quiet the sound nearly didn't cross the room. Another long pause. He would eventually answer the rest of my question, of that I was sure. I just had to be patient. "Several years ago, I was hired to kill him." By dint of his recently still breathing status, I gathered that something had gone seriously wrong on that particular job. But I didn't ask that question. I saved up my extraneous talking points and spent them on a different one. "When, Lexi?" Still not looking at me. "July, 1995." I mentally reviewed his private file, the one the Lone Gunmen put together for me. There was a huge blank space running through half of 1995 and most of 1996. My top two guesses were that he had either gone underground or was serving time under an assumed name. It was another of the many things that had gone unasked all these years. Self-depreciating shrug. "I f*cked it up big-time. I showed up for a job strung out on heroin and percodan." Eyes staring out the window, looking at nothing. "What happened?" Pausing. Thinking. Deciding. "Walked into an ambush." Hands pulled into tight fists. "If I hadn't been stoned, I would have been able to see something wasn't right. I would have been able to prevent it." Words trailed off into silence, thick in the dusty attic air. "Would have been able to prevent what, Alex?" Deep breath. Pulling memories out of cold storage, touching a scabbed over infected wound. "He had us right where he wanted us. After he killed the hired muscle I brought along for backup, I figured I was dead too. I was all right with that – been waiting for it long enough. But he had something else in mind." Patiently waiting. I knew he would eventually tell me the rest. "He decided I would make a better f*ck toy than corpse." ::Oh, G_d. Alex. No:: "He was looking for a pretty young thing that he could train to spread his legs on command, and apparently he thought I fit the bill perfectly. At least he wasn't into pain." Looking at me for the first time, eyes cold. Assassin's eyes. "I should be grateful for small favors, right, Skinner? Gregory was a sociopath, but at least he wasn't a sadist as well. No, he was into restraints. And toys. And passing me around to his friends like a f*cking party favor." With those words, most of the loose pieces of the puzzle that I called my Alex started to click into place. His violent reaction to my attempt to seduce him while he was asleep. The black eye took two weeks to disappear completely. The broken wrist took longer than that. His complete unwillingness to even discuss big portions of his life, and large scars on his body. His jumpiness every time I initiated sex. I was such a f*cking idiot. I always marked it up to Alex 'just being Alex'. It never dawned on me that… That Alex Krycek, my Indestructible Rat, had been raped. "How long?" Keeping my voice calm. Trying not to show how his words were hitting me like a roundhouse to the gut. "Six months." Voice flat and cold. Clinical. Dead. Mouth curled up in a hurtful parody of a smile. "You'll appreciate this one, Skinner." Not Walt, not Sergei, Skinner. We were back to that. "He got what he wanted. By the end, I thought all I was good for was spreading my legs. That's how I finally got away." I stared at him, not comprehending. He continued, the old Krycek smirk firmly plastered on his face. "After almost half a year, Gregory was getting careless. He always made sure the perimeter defenses were armed, but he forgot about keeping the door to the kitchen locked. One night, he left a paring knife in the dishwasher." Using his prosthetic hand as a hook, he pulled the cuff of his sweater halfway up his forearm and turned his wrist to me. He didn't need to. I knew the scars. Three parallel ones, faded to white over the past eleven years, running from palm down to mid-arm. I had let my fingers play over them many times in bed, coasting on the afterglow, before sliding up higher to interlace my fingers with his and letting sleep take over. I never asked, he never offered. Just one of the many. "And before you ask, there was a matching set on the other arm, too." "When I woke up in the hospital three days later, he was long gone. The hospital bill was paid, and my leather jacket was carefully hung in the closet. Inside one of the pockets was an envelope with two thousand dollars in cash." He swallowed hard, voice cracking. "Payment for services rendered, I guess…" I couldn't do it. I couldn't just sit there and listen to him recite chapter and verse of his six months in hell. I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to find this man and kill him, slowly. I wanted to make up to Alex for everything he had lost, everything that had been stolen from him. He looked over at me, eyes red, smirk still frozen in place. "Why are you still here, Skinner? Why haven't you left yet?" I fought down a smile. My Lexi wasn't dead. He was still there. "Alex, I'm not going anywhere." Slowly, measured motions, getting off the world's oldest rocking chair and walking towards him. "I know you, Lexi. I know who you are, and who you used to be. I know you used to kill people for a living, and I still love you. I know you turned tricks, and I still love you." Standing close enough to brush my hand across his hair, his cheek. "Why would I stop loving you because you had been raped?" There. I said it. I told him I loved him. Not exactly the way I had planned, but it worked. He looked away, rested his forehead against the glass, teeth clenched, shaking. I sat down next to him on the padded bench, and wrapped my arms around him. He didn't fight, didn't flinch as I pulled him towards me, stroking his hair, whispering quiet murmurs, feeling the trembling slowly ease, the tight muscles unwind. ::It's gonna be alright, Lexi. I'm here now. We'll get through this together:: I don't know how long we sat there, Lexi curled up practically in my lap, my cheek resting on the top of his head, arms around his, fingers intertwined. Finally my fifty-plus-year-old spine and knees started making unpleasant noises, and I unwound myself. I reached down and gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze as I carefully extricated myself from his arms and legs. When my hand touched his leg, he flinched, audibly wincing. I froze, then carefully pulled my hand away. The black denim of his jeans was wet. I didn't need to look at my hand. I knew it was stained red. ::No, Alex. Tell me you didn't. Not again. I thought we were past that.:: I put my hand on his chin and tilted his head towards me, forcing him to look me in the eyes. "Alex, did you hurt yourself?" Keeping my voice calm, even. His eyes dropped to the wooden floor. Nodded. "Did you cut yourself?" Another nod. "Did you do anything else?" Hard swallow. Nodding. "What did you do?" "Cigarettes." "How many times, Alex?" Eyes still glued to the well-worn plank floor. "Twelve." ::Oh, sh*t.:: "Alex, please look at me." After a long moment, he complied, eyes scared, wary. Cocky smile gone. All that was left was a frightened kid. "Alex, I need you to tell me if you're having a relapse." He was a million miles away, deep inside his own head, in that place he hides whenever we have to deal with this issue. "Alex, I'm not angry with you. I just need you to talk to me. Are you having a relapse?" He nodded again, still not speaking. "What did you agree to do if you had a relapse?" "I would go back on the meds." Voice barely more than a whisper. "And I would make an appointment with Dr. Samuels." Alex *hated* the medication, hated the fact he needed it, hated the way it made him feel. After several tries, he and the doctor settled on Zoloft. A popular anti-anxiety drug, it helped keep the mood swings under control, and helped slow his brain down when it started spinning too fast. And Dr. Samuels? Lexi called him a head shrink. I called him a G_dsend. Dr. Richard Samuels, MD. Psychiatrist. Former career military, Special Forces. After a medical discharge stemming from a bad parachute landing, he decided to pursue the other love of his life and went to medical school. His practice specializes in current and ex soldiers, from wars declared and undeclared, dealing with PTSD, battle trauma and a host of other issues. There was nothing Alex could say, nothing Alex had done that could shock this battle-hardened ex-soldier. Dr. Samuels treated Alex exactly how Alex needed to be treated – sometimes gently, sometimes hard as nails. It was a long fight to get Lexi to deal with the self-mutilation. He had been doing it for over two decades when I dragged him, kicking and screaming, into therapy, and the doctor warned me at the very beginning that it would take a while. He was right. Alex was in therapy for almost a year and a half when the three of us decided he didn't need to see the doctor on a regular basis anymore. As long as he didn't have a relapse. It looked like Alex had lost some of the progress he had made. "Are you angry at me, Skinner?" Assassin's eyes back on, smirk in residence. "Are you going to bend me over the couch and use your belt on me?" Voice taunting, egging me on. Daring me to try. I thought of half a dozen flip responses, when another piece clicked into place. "That's what he did, didn't he? If you did something he didn't like, he whipped you?" He looked away, lost in another time, another place for a second. Then he nodded. "Lexi, I'm not going to do that. You're an adult now, not a disobedient child. If there's a problem, we discuss it, and we come to an agreement on how we want to handle it. Together. I don't 'discipline' you. I'm not the parent, and you're not the child in need of correction. We're equals in this relationship." I pulled him back in for another hug. He relaxed against me, boneless. "You're not mad at me?" Voice half buried in my shirt. "I'm not angry, Alex. Scared, yes. Worried, yes. Not mad. You have a problem and you're dealing with it. You just had a relapse, that's all." "What happens now?" He had lost that edge in his tone, and he sounded almost…calm. I smiled into his hair. "Now I'm going to find the first aid kit and check out those injuries. After that, I'm thinking shower. You stink, boy…" Slow chuckles bubbling up, then a lazy yawn. After the shower, we would both need a decent night's sleep. It was going to be rough for a while, but we would make it through. Together.