Extreme Measures (10/10)

Extreme Measures (10/10)

by Sagittarius325

Title: Extreme Measures - Chapter Ten
Author: Sagittarius325
Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com
Part: 10 of 10
Season: Five - Post The End/Pre Fight the Future
Spoilers: Deep Throat, Tooms, Ascension, Apocrypha, Little Green Men, Memento Mori, Pine Bluff Variant, Folie a Deux, Patient X, The Red and The Black, The End, Fight the Future, any Alex Krycek episode
Rating: NC-17 most definitely
Pairing: Mulder/other, Mulder/Krycek
Warnings: This fic depicts extremely graphic m/m interaction, rape, non-consensual sex, violence and bad language. If any of these subjects offends you, if you are underage or the laws of your country prohibit you from reading such material, then go no further.
Summary: When interests converge, the Consortium goes to extreme and horrifying lengths to destroy Mulder.
Disclaimer: The characters Mulder, Krycek, Scully, Skinner, Cancer Man, Well Manicured Man etc are the properties of CC and other fortunate people. No infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Well kids, it's been a fun ride over this hot and sultry summer. I hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Just a few thanks to the people who made it all happen. Firstly to M for her Dutch translations, to Carol for her amazingly quick reading and enthusiasm, and many, many thanks to everyone who emailed me over the weeks with the encouragement to continue. You know who you are :) Cheers!

CHAPTER TEN - Final Encounter...
Lying on his couch, Mulder felt Scully's concerned gaze boring into him, yet he kept his eyes closed, hiding in the darkness, hoping to forestall what he knew would invariably come.
"Mulder," Scully began, tentatively enough, letting him know his pretence of sleep hadn't fooled her. Then, in a stronger voice, "Mulder, why won't you tell me what happened to you?"
He knew she wouldn't quit, could be just as stubborn as her partner in such matters, just as determined to ferret out the truth. He opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, blinking slowly as he flailed for a place to start, a place to begin.
"Skinner will want to know too," Scully added, unnecessarily, her voice more subdued now at the thought of their boss.
"Yeah," Mulder agreed, after a moment, and forced a grin as he lolled his head towards her. "It's not every day we get an assistant director of the FBI as a chauffeur." In truth, it was only Skinner's grim presence up front during the ride home that had prevented Mulder from bolting. Or from releasing the horror stricken scream that even now continued to remain painfully trapped somewhere deep inside his chest.
Scully's lips pressed tightly together and she glanced down at her folded hands, unappreciative of his attempt to blow her off, but Mulder couldn't help it. He knew he'd never speak of what had happened to him, not to her, certainly not to Skinner whose no-nonsense view of the world would never allow him to understand. And the FBI psychologist they'd assigned to Mulder was hopelessly out-matched and inadequate, even if Mulder were foolish enough to trust the man.
"At least let me take you to the hospital," Scully began.
And Mulder thought of Krycek's mark on his neck and the other, more humiliating signs that he'd willing participated in sex with other men, one who had quite probably murdered his father and Scully's sister Melissa...
"No!" His vehemence took them both by surprise. Swinging his legs to the floor, Mulder sat up, staring at Scully across the small distance that separated them.
Bathed in the weak, afternoon light that filtered through the window, she looked pert and professional perched in the chair by his desk. Clean, Mulder realized, and momentarily wondered if he'd ever feel that way about himself again.
"Mulder." She was trying again. "Whatever happened, you know you can tell me. I'm your friend as well as your partner and doctor..."
Her well-meaning platitudes faded as he stared around his apartment, looking as untidy and dust laden as it had that fateful night and he wondered, not for the first time, if any of what had come after had really happened. But no, Alex Krycek had been real enough, Mulder thought, wryly, resisting the urge to finger the throbbing skin beneath the turtleneck sweater he wore. Vividly, he recalled Krycek's appearance at Brueller's house, the younger man exuding sex and animal hunger, arrogant in his seduction of Mulder. And that night in the shower, where he'd given Mulder mind-blowing pleasure, on his knees, sucking his cock with such finesse, such care.
To his shame, Mulder found himself grow hard inside his jeans, arousal warring with disgust in response to the pornographic images his mind displayed to him, and he pushed to his feet, halting Scully in mid-sentence.
"I'm fine, Scully," he told her as he crossed to the window to stare down at the street. How many times had she said the same thing to him, over and over, knowing it was untrue?
"Mulder, you're not fine, " she countered, quietly. "You've been missing for over a month. I didn't know what had happened, if you were alive or dead..."
"And I'm sorry for that," he interrupted, in genuine apology.
"Then tell me what happened."
Scully wouldn't let it go, Mulder knew, not until she'd had some explanation, something her rational, scientist's mind could categorize and partition into a neat and tidy slot. The truth, his precious truth, was out of the question. But he could at least ease her mind, give her the bare details in a form more palatable than the reality. He rested his forehead against the pane as he stared down at the sidewalk. "Do you remember Colonel Robert Budahas?"
If the sudden question surprised her, Scully, to her credit, didn't react. "The airforce test pilot we interviewed, five years ago."
"They took part of his memory, Scully," he said. "And part of mine."
"I remember..."
"And this time," Mulder paused long enough to press his fingers against the glass, wondering if it was his imagination that conjured the figure of Alex Krycek, watching his apartment from the corner block, "this time, Scully, they took it all."

A black and white movie droned on in the background, filling the small, lightless apartment with erratic flashes and Mulder took a sip of his bottled water, allowing his mind to regurgitate the corny dialogue before it was even spoken.
Once, as a child, he'd looked on his eidetic ability as way to impress his pragmatic father, a way to connect with the patriarchal, but ultimately distant man. Then, after Samantha's abduction, he'd come to realize the gift for what it was. That terrifying, painful night had never faded with time, but had remained crisp and clear whenever the masochistic part of his subconscious chose to relive it.
Then, finally released from Patterson and the never-ending trauma of the ISU, Mulder had come upon the X-Files, hundreds of cases and leads that would take any normal human being a lifetime to categorize. And his mind, his wonderful, photographic memory had soaked it up like a sponge. Now those case files were gone, turned to sodden ash in the basement of the Hoover building, and Mulder's wonderful, accursed memory was all that was keeping the X-Files alive.
Especially now that the Justice Department had closed the office down, pending a review. Mulder had no illusions, their intentions clear. Unless he could come up with some kind of evidence of the secret, global conspiracy that was the Consortium, he could kiss the X-Files goodbye. He snorted into his water at that. They might as well have asked for proof of extra-terrestrial life and he would still be as far from his goal as he was now.
Throughout the turbulent days after his 'rescue', Scully had remained a constant, ever by his side, making sure he ate, slept and showed up for work on time, keeping up the appearance that he was holding it together, that everything was 'back to normal'. He was somewhat ashamed by her concern over his welfare, knowing he didn't deserve her tenderness, knowing she'd turn away if the truth of what had happened ever came to light.
Skinner had, as Scully had warned him, demanded a report. Sitting before his computer late one paranoid, sleepless night, Mulder had typed a brief, incomplete essay, detailing his abduction, the wipe, his rescue by an unknown benefactor. To all intents and purposes, he'd been kidnapped and held at an undisclosed location for a month before help had arrived. Skinner had read carefully through the report, while Mulder had sat and fidgeted before his desk like some schoolboy caught in a prank.
The AD had glanced up and informed Mulder that since no evidence was available, since Mulder had refused to co-operate with any investigation, a letter of censure was being placed in his FBI record for unauthorized leave. Mulder didn't know whether to feel relieved at the formal closure of his kidnapping or cry from Skinner's lack of sympathy. He did neither, simply stood stiffly and left the AD's office without comment.
And when word had come down that OPC had reassigned the X-Files investigative team to domestic terrorism, Mulder hadn't protested, fought his corner, and he knew that it was his lack of belligerence that had Scully worried more than anything else.
A deliberate noise alerted Mulder to the fact he was no longer alone and he flicked his eyes towards the doorway, waiting, frozen. Scully would have knocked, he knew. Skinner would have pounded. There was only one person he knew capable of breaking silently into his apartment in the dead of night, and with that thought he was rewarded with a black clad figure, slipping into the room.
Mulder paused as their eyes met, Krycek's head tilted curiously to one side as he regarded Mulder and the gun lying close at hand. Without breaking the contact, Mulder slowly brought the bottle to his lips, taking a long swallow.
"Water, Mulder?" Krycek's voice was a little above a whisper, as smooth as a shot of tequila and Mulder felt his body shiver in response, in reaction to the husky words. "I expected something a little more," he paused, smirked, "dangerous."
Like you? The words almost escaped, but Mulder quelled them, turning his eyes resolutely towards the TV screen, his hand never straying far from his weapon. Krycek glanced that way again, then leant casually back against the wall.
"I hear they've shut down the X-Files," he said, suddenly, and Mulder tensed, the bottle halted half-way to his lips.
Was Krycek here to gloat, the Consortium's errand boy sent to witness to the final degradation of all that Mulder had fought tooth and nail for over the last five years? "What do you want, Krycek?" he demanded, not bothering to suppress the bubbling anger, embracing it instead, and gratefully, for it was something real, something he could grasp, could direct his ragged, volatile emotions towards fuelling.
"I wanted to see how you were, Mulder..."
"Bullshit!" Mulder slammed the bottle down onto the coffee table, sloshing water and snatched up his gun. "You left me!" he accused, furiously, the words that tumbled out of his mouth taking him by surprise. He hadn't meant to bring up that night in the motel, the night when he'd been given back himself and had in return surrendered up his soul to Alex Krycek. He quickly gathered his scattered wits enough to spit, "You left me unarmed!"
Krycek had flinched at the accusations, looking down, before bringing his head up to stare directly into Mulder's angry eyes. For a moment, Mulder was caught off guard by the troubled depths there, the rare regret, and was forced to remind himself what a consummate actor Krycek could be.
Yet Krycek's next words were not what he had expected, either.
"I never left you, Mulder. You want to believe in something so much? Believe in that." The cocksure man seemed to falter. "I'm...I would never do that...to you..."
And Mulder suddenly found himself wanting to believe, to trust instincts that had never been reliable around Krycek that, for once, the younger man was sincere. So clearly could he recall Krycek's face that night in the shower, the glazed green eyes more open than Mulder had ever seen, more honest. He wanted that Alex Krycek, he realized, the man who had, for however short a time, chased away the aching loneliness, the emptiness, the man who had held him so tenderly afterwards, before informing Scully of his whereabouts. The last Mulder was certain of now, at the time too traumatized to figure out who it was that had summoned his partner. He wanted to touch that Krycek again, wanted to press his fingers into that sweet, sweet mouth, to see the cool assassin come apart like that night in his house.
But that was unthinkable. To give in now would be to compound his crimes, to let a murderer consume his soul, to let Scully down in the worst possible way by consorting with their enemy. Mulder pushed up from the couch to stand on bare feet, wanting now for Krycek to be gone, to disappear back into the shadows and leave him alone with his failures, telling himself the only way he would ever touch the rat bastard again would be with his fists.
"You haven't told them, have you?"
Krycek abrupt question ripped through Mulder's defenses, and he sucked in a breath at the words, feeling for all the world like someone had punched him in the gut. Would Krycek tell Scully? Was this why he had come to Mulder's apartment, to blackmail him for the Consortium, for himself? And how far would Mulder be willing to go to keep the truth of his abduction a secret?
His sudden fear must have shown for Krycek held up one black gloved hand, palm outward. "I'm not going to tell Scully, Mulder," he promised, hastily.
The sound of his partner's name on the betrayer's lips was enough to allow the anger to boil over, dousing the fear in a paroxysm of fury and, without fully realizing his intentions, Mulder had crossed the floor and slammed Krycek up against the wall. His fist curled into the assassin's leather jacket while he pointed the gun at his enemy's head.
"Don't talk about her!" Mulder spat, irrational in his rage. "I don't even want to hear you say her name!" He gave the Consortium spy another hard shove, then backed away, breathing heavily, lowering the gun.
Krycek remained where he was, making no move to strike back or even run, but his feral green eyes narrowed shrewdly. "I thought the truth was all that matters," he taunted. "Or does that only apply to invertebrate scum-suckers like me, huh Mulder?"
Mulder gasped and spun around, his back to the killer, grasping for the edge of his desk lest he collapse. He wasn't up for sparring with Krycek, he realized, was woefully unequal to the assassin's dark games. Nights of guilt-induced insomnia, rare moments of unconsciousness broken by horrendous nightmares had left his defenses weak, brittle and all it took were a few harsh words from a traitor to completely demolish the fragile fortress he had constructed. He felt Krycek move, come to stand close behind him, heat radiating from the younger man's body even as his smoky breath tickled the back of Mulder's neck, raising the fine hairs there.
Then something hit the desk with a thud and Mulder flinched as Krycek reached passed him, momentarily pressing his chest against Mulder's back, to switch on the desk lamp. The warm glow lit up newspaper headlines, stark and to the point, announcing the untimely death of Hans Brueller, New York businessman and entrepreneur.
"They're saying boating accident," Krycek informed him, leaning back against the desk at Mulder's side, folding his arms, real and fake. "They haven't recovered a body."
With an unsteady hand, Mulder touched the paper, the words, seeing, not believing. He expected to feel relief, even a morbid joy that his rapist was dead. Yet instead, he felt a shattered, keening grief. He recalled the long nights with the other man, nights filled with pleasure and erotic fantasies brought to life; of leisurely mornings spent doing nothing but fucking; of the way Brueller had held him after the nightmares, chased away lingering fears with soothing words and strong arms and tender kisses.
Stockholm syndrome, Mulder tried to tell himself, yet some honest part recognized it had been more than that, more than a twisted love based on dependence, on power and dominance and need. Perhaps more than anything, his utter surrender to the Dutchman had come not from the rape of his memories, but from a hidden, shaming desire to let go. For one month, 'Spooky' Mulder, the unstable FBI Agent whose sister had been abducted before his very eyes, a man whose childhood trauma pursued him even now into adulthood, hadn't existed.
He had been replaced with Fox, a man with no cares, no burdens and no life from before to cripple the one he lived now. He'd been someone's lover, someone's possession, yet free of responsibilities and promises, free of the spectre of his sister and the ghost of his father.
Krycek's gloved hand came to rest on his shoulder, the contact at once repellent and yet yearned for. Mulder felt the assassin's thumb stroke slowly over his upper arm, even as a myriad of emotions waged war inside his head and heart and soul. He turned so that he could see Krycek's face, the half-light from the shade making the demon appearing all the more angelic, all the more seductive. Green eyes bored into Mulder's own, that curved mouth already wet and enticing as if anticipating taking Mulder inside its moist embrace.
Mulder felt a surge of desire race down his spine, something as simple and pure as want and need. His cock swelled in the confines of his sweatpants as it recalled only what that mouth had felt like and nothing of the crimes the man it belonged to had committed. Krycek seemed to sense his difficulty, his confusion and smiled, appearing so young, so innocent and untouched when he did so. Only the knowing, experienced look in his eyes belied the facade.
"Tell me what you want, Mulder," Alex Krycek whispered, moving closer, his smoky breath trailing feathery-light over Mulder's mouth. The jade eyes kept straying there, the tongue darting, wetting rosebud lips. "Tell me what I can do for you."
Mulder felt the assassin's hand touch his face, the leather of the glove cool against hot, flushed skin, then move lower, over the thin cloth of his T-shirt, to cup the erection nestled below. Mulder gasped and swayed as Krycek squeezed lightly, imagining that black gloved hand on his bared cock, moving, pumping.
"Tell me." It was a demand, though the voice that whispered it was still soft, still hypnotizing.
And Mulder found himself thrusting quietly into Krycek's hand, eyes drooping to half-mast, the snake-charmer falling helplessly under the spell of the snake.
"I want...," Mulder began, then swallowed convulsively, "I want to forget." As the confession tore free, Mulder forced his eyes to focus and he caught an unguarded look in Krycek's eyes. There was the seemingly perpetual anger simmering away just beneath the surface, but there was desire there too, burning so bright, so fierce it took Mulder's breath away. No one had ever looked at him that way, only...only him.
"I'll do more than that for you Mulder." Krycek leaned forward so their mouths were almost touching, the squeeze of his gloved hand stilling Mulder's desperate movements. "I'll make you remember."

Mulder felt the scrape of lips against his cheekbone, the rasp of stubble against his own, but didn't turn to meet the other's mouth, that gesture seeming too intimate now, even after Alex...Krycek...had fucked him. Krycek was hunkered down before the couch, the hand that stroked Mulder's hair still encased in its black glove and Mulder wondered faintly if the touch of leather on his skin would always bring him back to this night. He allowed his mind, his perfect, prized memory to replay the events that had led to him to this, lying naked, damp and satiated on his couch, ass aching with the ghost-like feel of Krycek's cock still inside him.
With his dark promise still hovering in the air between them, Krycek had begun his seduction so gently, so carefully, stripping Mulder like he was peeling the layers from an expensive, yet fragile present. The furnace of his mouth had played over a stiff nipple while that hand had stroked a chill down the other, pinching, tweaking, caressing. Mulder had moaned, had slumped helplessly against his desk, finger's turning white as they gripped its edge, even as cool leather had slid down over his roiling stomach, stroking his weeping erection in the manner Mulder had so rightly envisaged.
The hand had pumped him, slowly, reverently, Krycek's mouth descending on his neck to nip and suck over the previous mark, claiming Mulder once again as his. Mulder had let his head fall back, offering what Krycek was taking, yet wanting more, wanting to forget, to obliterate the heartache and the pang of loneliness.
"Fuck me." He didn't even recognize the wanton, pleading words that had slipped out of his mouth until he moaned them a second time.
Krycek suddenly stilled his skilful ministrations and Mulder lowered his head to watch him with Fox's smoldering eyes, sensing the younger man's surprise, his hesitation. Was it so difficult for him to understand what Mulder wanted, no!...needed? Krycek had smiled slowly then, in a victory Mulder wasn't sure who had won, and herded his lover, his conquest, back to the couch. It was narrow and burned his skin when Krycek moved atop him, yet Mulder parted his legs, feeling Krycek settle between like he belonged there, had always belonged there.
Krycek...Alex leaned forward, taking his weight on his rigid left arm, and tentatively brushed his mouth against Mulder's. He shifted his hips, the coarseness of his jeans rubbing almost painfully up against Mulder's erection, over the vulnerable, tender skin between his thighs, and Mulder cried out at the dual sensations, allowing Alex's tongue to slip inside his mouth, to take possession, control.
Alex kissed like a starving man at a feast, his tongue diving in, plundering, lapping up Mulder's moans and sighs, until both men were near insensible. His leather hand stroked down the side of Mulder's throat, moving downwards over his flank, caressing over the paler skin of Mulder's left buttock before cupping firmly and pulling upwards. Mulder understood and hooked his leg over Alex's hip, shuddering at the vulnerability of the position.
And when Alex slid that hand between them to free a cock already swollen and leaking in need, Mulder's breath hitched and caught.
Alex heard and he glanced up, his eyes locking with Mulder's, the green pigment of his eyes no more than a faint ring around lust-dilated pupils. "We don't have to do this." His voice trembled, his face betraying the fact that yes, they did have to do this, right now in fact.
In reply, Mulder let his body relax under Alex's expert guidance, trusting it to remember, as Alex had promised, and in return, to allow him to forget. For this one night, at least.
Alex felt his sudden acquiescence, and hastily smeared his cock with the precome from both their bodies. He then position his clothed body atop Mulder's naked one, his eyes mere inches from Mulder's, watching, studying almost curiously, as the tip of his cock pressed inwards and upwards. Mulder gasped at the first, electric contact, tensing against a familiar, pleasurable, uncomfortable burn as Alex forced his way in, lubricated only by the small amount of fluid lacing his cock.
Mulder's eyes desperately sought out Alex's, pleading for more, for less, he didn't know. Only Alex couldn't stop, not now. Brueller hadn't always prepared him, so Mulder was ready for the discomfort, willing his body to relax and let the other in, yet still anticipating the painful thrust of penetration the other had always preferred.
But Alex didn't move, sweat beading his forehead as he fought to remain still, face frozen in a rictus of effort, of restraint. Mulder didn't know how much time passed while they remained locked in such an intimate embrace, only that Alex was waiting for something from him before it would continue.
Slowly, Mulder felt his muscles relax, accepting the intrusion, trusting Alex with his body in a way he'd never be able to trust the assassin with his heart. He sensed the other man wouldn't hurt him, had in fact never hurt him physically, not really. Alex groaned as he slid another inch forward, impaling Mulder so sweetly, so gently Mulder thought he might cry. No lover in his life had treated him that tenderly, not Phoebe whose tongue could be as sharp as the nails that had scraped his back raw, or the one night stands who had fled while he was in the throes of some monstrous nightmare. Only the other had come close, Brueller, and he was dead now.
"Mulder," Alex whispered, small, pristine teeth clenched and bared, the only testament to how difficult it was for him to remain still. That and the look of utter desperation, utter, consuming devotion in his black eyes.
Mulder worked his mouth to speak, finding with difficulty the right words. "Fox," he said, raising a hand to grasp the back of Alex's neck. "I'm Fox, here." And Fox was a slut, he knew, liked it hard, rough. Or soft and gentle...whatever the other wanted from him, he could give. And he knew what Alex liked.
He moved his other leg off the floor, throwing it around Alex's opposing hip, opening himself up to however the younger chose to take him.
Alex paused, then nodded, accepting the gift for what it was and began to move again, not harshly as Mulder had expected, yet insistent nonetheless. His mouth met Mulder's, tasting, tongue plunging and retreating, as he sheathed himself fully in Mulder's ass. Mulder gasped and arched his neck as he felt the heavy presence push over his prostate, soft balls nestled against his skin. Another moan was forced from him as Alex retreated, then pushed forward again, filling him.
"Let me hear you," Alex urged, panting, as Mulder fought to stifle the sounds. He thrust again, grinning through a haze of heat at the mewling noise that escaped the man beneath. "That's right, baby," he paused for breath, "I want to make you scream."
The words came to Mulder, disjointed, but he understood their intent and let out the harsh sob he had been restraining. The little cry seemed to inflame Alex all the more, his thrusts growing more rapid, more sure, sending pain and fire and heat through Mulder's body at every stroke over his prostate. And Mulder arched eagerly to meet each one, letting the sounds out now, his voice reverberating about the room, drowning out Alex's effortful grunts and the noises from the TV.
"I can't...," Alex breathed, almost incoherent, "I won't...last, Fox..."
And Mulder understood, taking everything the younger man had to give, feeling his own pleasure begin to spiral upwards out of control, to a point where there would be no retreat, no escape. Then Alex's hand descended on his shaft, taking away thought altogether, leaving only a shuddering, shaking sensation of euphoria.
When his orgasm hit, Mulder had breath for a final shout, and then he was coming over Alex's gloved hand, his ass spasming almost painfully around the cock inside him, milking the other man to his own climax. Alex thrust one final time, planting himself as deep as he could go, his eyes locking with Mulder's as he convulsed and jetted his seed with nothing more than a quiet moan.
When they had both come down, panting, Mulder reached up, hesitated, then pulled Alex's face down to his own, tucking his chin on the younger man's head, feeling the hardness inside him finally begin to soften, feeling his eyes droop tiredly. Through the layers of the other man's clothing, Mulder could feel Alex's heart beating, rapid and thready, and oddly comforting. So the bastard does have a heart, after all, he thought, sleepily amused.
When Alex had caught his breath, he raised his head to stare into Mulder eyes, then gently touched Mulder's cheek. "Are you alright?" he asked, hoarsely.
"No," Mulder said, more honest with the liar than he had been with Scully. "But I will be."
"Yeah, you will be, Fox. I know you."
Mulder had winced when Krycek finally pulled out, more from the cramp in his legs than the pain of withdrawal, and Krycek had soothed the muscles as best he could, arranging Mulder's body on the couch to a more comfortable position.
As the assassin turned to the bathroom, Mulder's voice drew him back. "It's Mulder, now, Krycek."
Krycek hesitated and threw a glance at him that was laden with a sudden sadness and resignation, then, warning received, he had nodded and turned away.
Rolling onto his stomach, Mulder had rested his head on his arms, staring dazedly across the room at the TV, at his computer, at the Sig Sauer lying forgotten on the desk. He didn't remember surrendering his weapon or putting it down, and wondered vaguely why Krycek hadn't used it to gain control of the situation.
He was surprised when Krycek returned with a warm, wet cloth, and began to carefully clean him up, figuring he would have been gone before Mulder regained enough to sense to prevent him. When Krycek finished, tossing the cloth to one side, he bent to kiss Mulder's cheek, his hand idling through the other's man's hair. For the first time in a long time, Mulder felt pleasantly, aching tired, too tired for dreams, for nightmares and he drifted.
Some time passed before Krycek finally, reluctantly withdrew his hand. "Get some sleep Mulder," he suggested, reaching to drape a blanket over the Agent's naked form. "You look like hell."
Maybe because that's where I've been for the last two months, Mulder thought, wryly. Then, with a chill wash of fear, recalled his ride there. Cancerman taking his memories, stripping them piece by piece till there was nothing left that resembled the FBI Agent that was Fox Mulder.
"Well, I hate to fuck and run, but..." Krycek began, rising, when Mulder quickly, unthinkingly reached out and grasped his wrist. Krycek hesitated, staring at his hand.
"Don't go," Mulder whispered, hating the way the words crept out, needy and plaintive.
Krycek darted a glance at the door, as if somehow willing himself gone already. "Mulder, I can't..."
"Please." The word was little more than a breath, yet Mulder heard the assassin's resigned sigh.
"I won't. I won't go." Krycek sank back down to the floor, stretching out his long legs and resting the back of his head against the couch. Moments passed before he spoke again. "They're not coming for you, Mulder. It's over. I thought you should know that."
Mulder sighed and closed his eyes. "Stay anyway." Then, "I'm so tired, Krycek."
"I'll watch over you." Another soft sigh. "I promise."
Mulder felt his body relax at those words, molding itself into the couch below. I don't need the gun, he realized, distantly, the last few coherent thoughts before an exhausted sleep claimed him. I've got Alex.
In the morning, when he woke, Krycek was gone.

One month later...
Scully wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, the bared skin of her open necked blouse flushed and damp with sweat. Mulder affected not to notice as they hurried across the road, their FBI emblazoned jackets garnering a few curious stares from passersby.
"What are we doing here, Mulder?" Scully asked, sounding almost petulant as they headed up the steps into the shade of the building. "It's hotter than hell."
He grimaced, silently agreeing. A scorching summer in Texas was definitely not how Mulder had envisaged spending his time outside his beloved basement office, though ironically, he felt the heat symbolic of the purgatory they'd been exiled to, however temporarily.
Scully had ceased to worry as much since he'd begun working on getting the X-Files reopened, though all his single-minded efforts so far had done nothing but piss Skinner and some of the other higher-ups off. Still, it was a way for Mulder to focus on what he now knew was important in his life; his continuing search for his sister and the exposure of the group of men behind her abduction. And Scully's.
Mulder paused at the top of the steps and waited for his partner, lagging a few paces behind. Scully didn't understand the urgency or why he had chosen to break protocol and head away from the Federal building that was under threat from a terrorist bomb and towards one that had no political or strategic significance whatsoever. As she caught up to him, Mulder gave her his best little boy look, and it was returned with a smile and a hopeless shake of her head.
He grinned as she passed him, wondering not for the first time why she put up with him and all his shit. Or trusted him so implicitly.
"You coming?" she called back.
"Yeah." He paused and reached into his pocket to pull out the scrap of paper, re-reading the neatly printed address. The hand that had written it was all but unidentifiable, yet staring at the words underneath, Mulder knew. They simply read: I promise.
THE END

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