Extreme Measures (8/?)

Extreme Measures (8/?)

by Sagittarius325

Title: Extreme Measures - Chapter Eight
Author: Sagittarius325
Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com
Part: 8 of ?
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: Lots of angst and no sex, darn it :)

CHAPTER EIGHT - Returning...
His body twitched, jerked and he frowned, reaching down to rub absently at the puncture wound still smarting from Alex's swift injection. Something inside his mind shifted, crumbling in a blinding instant, a flash of...
A six year old girl, her pigtails tied off by red ribbons, swinging on the rope in the backyard, asking to go higher, higher Fox...
Samantha, he realised, abruptly. His little sister. Then, with a raw surge of grief, How could he have forgotten Samantha? She had been his world, his life. He felt brittle tears begin to form, felt the pain sharpen, stabbing through his mind as he saw...
*...the jumbled pieces of the Stratego set begin to shake. Red and blue lights flashing outside the window. Fox!*
His little sister being abducted, right before his eyes, unable to move, to go to her as she cried out for him. The tears overflowed, the pain blinding now, but he paid neither any heed, lost in the downward spiral of his past. Memories of a contented childhood spent in Chilmark, playing with Sam...memories of a short and unhappy youth spent searching for her, wondering.
More images spilled into the void, splintering the darkness in flashes of white, obliterating the emptiness and filling it with disappointment and anguish and fear...
*A woman's voice, sounding scared but determined, 'Mulder, here! Quick, grab my hand! Come on! Just a little...'*
He reaches up to her, but his ankle is grabbed, a pair of hungry, inhuman eyes watching from below as he is slowly, irrevocably, dragged downwards...
"Scully!" Mulder gasped, sitting bolt upright, recalling...
*A tumour. You're the only one I've called.*
"Scully," he whispered, again, squeezing his eyes shut, only to see her face, drawn and pale, eyes that had first greeted him with so much vitality, so much life, now a dull dishwater blue as she lay dying in a hospital bed...
*Brueller's bed, Brueller's body over his, taking him, raping him, while he enjoyed it, begged for more...*
No! Throwing himself to one side, Mulder fell from the mattress, landing hard on the floor. He shoved himself up against the wall in a vain attempt to shove back the horror that threatened to consume him. Scully. What would she say? What would she think?
*That I'm disgusting,* came the inevitable answer and Mulder scrubbed furiously at his arms as if trying to rid himself of the dirt, the invisible filth. What had he done?
His frantic clawing slowed and came to a halt, and he drew up his knees, wrapping his arms protectively about his legs. Memory after memory assailed him with merciless abandon in the sickening roller coaster his mind had become. Curling into a huddled ball, he put his head down, shaking at images of Samantha, of Scully...of Skinner, God! He couldn't think of Skinner right now, couldn't think of his job, his work, anything.
Time passed, but Mulder no longer cared, the trauma of the past few days, the past few weeks drifting through his damaged mind. The warehouse, the tranquillising dart, Cancer Man...That very first night when he'd been raped...and the second when he'd enjoyed it like some sex-starved whore...
He screwed up tighter at that, refusing to let the burning behind his eyes have free rein, knowing he didn't deserve even that much after what he'd done, after what he'd become. But holding himself closer, childlike, he could no longer stem the dry, wracking sobs that shook his frame, leaving him shamed and wretched.
A cold, plastic hand reached beneath his chin, tilting his head and a warm, open palm struck him across the face in a sudden, shocking slap, rocking his head back more from the sound than the force applied.
"Have a breakdown some other time, Mulder," Alex Krycek told him, coldly. In the darkness, an angry looking bruise was even now tracking up the assassin's cheekbone, making him appear all the more malevolent, Mulder's own demon risen from the depths of hell. "We have to leave. Get dressed."
A moment later, a shirt hit Mulder in the face. Dazed, Mulder reached up to take it, pulling it on with shaking hands more by force of habit than any will-power of his own. Krycek was already scrambling for his clothes, his movements swift and economical compared to Mulder's listless dressing.
And when Krycek moved quickly to the door, hissing, "Hurry up!" over one shoulder, Mulder found himself struggling with the suddenly too-complex task of tying his shoelaces.
Moving up behind Krycek, Mulder cast a glance to the silent bathroom where he had last seen Brueller and felt a momentary interest, a brief curiosity which he had neither the inclination nor the energy to sustain.
Then Krycek's hand grasped his arm, urging and Mulder followed, going through the motions, wondering with some detached part of his mind how they were going to get out, wondering if he cared. Krycek paused at the top of the stairs, listening intently, then cautiously began to descend, placing a finger over his lips, demanding silence.
Mulder followed, holding onto the banister for a balance he wasn't sure he possessed anymore. He watched Krycek's stealthy, cat-like descent, recalled all too vividly how that body had moved beneath him, how good it had felt to touch and stroke, to be inside of...and he stumbled and would have fallen if not for Krycek's steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Don't touch me," he heard himself snarl, not recognising the wounded tone that emerged, shrinking back from the touch, the offer of help. He didn't want Krycek touching him, didn't want anyone touching him anymore.
"Shut the fuck up, Mulder," Krycek hissed back, green eyes glowing in the darkness, pissed. "I don't have time for any of your shit, so just..." He paused suddenly, eyes flickering to the left, to the silent shadow that was emerging from the study.
Before Mulder could move or speak, Krycek had lunged forward, something silver bright flashing in his hand. There came a low grunt of effort followed by a soft gurgling sound. Mulder uncoiled his fingers from where they had clenched around the banister and slowly descended the last two steps.
Krycek had lowered the body to the floor, stepping back with a look akin to distaste on his features. There was something wet on his face and Mulder reached out a curious, unthinking hand, but Krycek saw, and stepped back, giving Mulder a better view of the dead man at his feet.
Daniel, Brueller's manservant, sat slumped against the wall like a marionette with snapped strings, his eyes staring widely, a knife handle sticking grotesquely from his neck.
"You killed him," Mulder whispered, after a moment.
"Yeah," Krycek replied, running his sleeve over his face, wiping away the blood like a labourer wiping away sweat from an honest day's work.
"He was just a servant."
Krycek gave him an odd look. "Wise up Mulder. He worked for them."
No need to ask who they were.
"Now let's get the fuck out of here before anyone else shows up." Krycek crept down the hallway, his body language tense and alert. He quietly opened the main door and peered outside, beckoning Mulder to follow before slipping out into the night air.
A maroon car sat to the left of the house and Krycek quickly slid into the driver's seat, jerking his thumb to indicate Mulder should get in the back.
"Don't say a word," he warned, their eyes meeting in the rear-view mirror. "Don't move until we're clear. Got it?"
Mulder nodded and slumped back, having little choice except to trust Krycek's plan, finding that he couldn't even summon the energy to worry at that. As they drove along the gravel path towards the iron-wrought gates, Mulder cast a helpless glance over one shoulder, seeing Brueller's property disappear into the murk of the night, the porch light the only testament that the house was still there, had ever really been there.
For a moment, Mulder felt a surge of panic, his hands digging into the leather of the seat, his breathing hitching to near hyperventilation. He couldn't go with Krycek, couldn't leave to go back to Scully, to Skinner, to their derision, their judgements...
Then his choice was taken from him as the gates opened and Krycek was idling them through, waving a cocky hand at the bemused guard. Mulder slumped back into his seat and closed his eyes, the panic ebbing with every breath he took.
He was out. He was free.

Footsteps echoed along the marble hallway, slowing and coming to a stop. Impassively, Warren regarded the dead body of the servant, careful not to allow any of the pooling blood to stain his shoes. Erratic sounds drew his attention away and he stepped over the corpse to enter the darkened study.
Brueller sat in his leather chair, one hand curled around a tumbler full of amber liquid, the other uncaringly dripping blood onto the rug. Light from the television screen flickered over his features, his face bloodied and bruised, one eye closing, neck mottled by what appeared to be fingerprints. His clothes were crumpled, stained and no doubt hiding further injuries beneath.
The lascivious noises from the television set turned Warren's head and he saw Fox, naked, on top of Brueller, riding them both to climax, crying out as he threw his head back, wanton and wild. It was the tape Brueller had sent him.
Crossing to the desk, Warren picked up the remote and muted the sounds. "It's over," he informed the Dutchman, then dropped the remote into the other man's lap and left.
Brueller didn't move, just continued to stare at the silent screen, long after the tape had ended and the television had gone dark.

With sleep there came no relief, crazy, taunting half-dreams dancing madly through Mulder's mind. He awoke from one such nightmare to catch Krycek studying him in the rear-view mirror, before the other's gaze had quickly flicked back to the road. Resting his head against the cold pane of the window, Mulder watched an eerie, dawn light begin to fill the sky, and he pulled his tuxedo jacket tighter about him, shivering.
The clinical part of him knew exactly what he was doing, could explain in text-like detail the exact motions he was going through. But coming to terms with his ordeal was just one more thing he no longer felt he had the will for. He didn't even know if he would ever understand, could ever grasp what had been done to him.
Heat from the front of the car suddenly blasted into the back, but it failed to warm Mulder's chilled flesh. He stared sightlessly out of the tinted window as the sun began to rise over the empty woods and cornfields beyond.
Later on, Krycek's husky voice shook him from a dark, despairing reverie and he glanced up, narrow-eyed, as the car swung into an abandoned gas station. Krycek brought the car round to the back, then switched off the engine. He slid out of the driver's seat and Mulder watched warily as the man who had killed his father strode round to his door, jerking it open.
"Out," Krycek said, shortly, stepping back and Mulder wearily gathered himself up to obey, standing in the cool, brisk air, an easterly wind cutting through his clothes to set him shivering once again.
A second car awaited them, he saw, as Krycek moved to the black sedan and opened the rear door. "Get in," the assassin ordered, absently, eyes scanning the highway beyond.
"Why?" It was the first word Mulder had uttered since the escape and his voice sounded scratchy, unused.
Krycek's head snapped towards him and he looked at Mulder, assessing. His real hand moved, came up to rest atop the door. "Because they'll be looking for the other car," he explained, impatiently, "that's why."
"No, I mean why should I trust you?" Mulder retorted, angrily, the image of his father, dying in his arms, rising up to the fore.
Now Krycek did look pissed, jaw clenching. "If I wanted you dead, Mulder, you would be," he said, tightly. "We don't have time for all this fucking around..."
He saw Krycek beneath him, awash with ecstasy, himself on top, fucking the other...
"...and do what I say," Krycek finished, and Mulder blinked. "Oh for fuck's sake."
Mulder watched the younger man take out a set of keys, then glanced away, towards the highway. Krycek had been heading North since their escape, taking Mulder back, to Washington...to Scully. And once again Mulder found himself shying away from thoughts of his partner, the strong, irreproachable Catholic who would no doubt be disgusted by him, sickened by what he had become. Mulder knew that if he were to look into Scully's eyes and see condemnation, revulsion, it would kill him.
He didn't even realise he was moving until he stopped at Krycek's back, the younger man turning, flinching slightly as if expecting an attack. Mulder could have laughed at that. He barely had the energy to swat a fly.
"Give me the keys," he said, instead, holding out his hand.
Krycek snorted, shook his head. "Take a look at yourself, Mulder. If I let you drive, we'd both be dead within five minutes."
"Give me the keys, Krycek," he repeated, insistent.
"Fuck you, Mulder. Just get in the back and pass out, before I put you there."
"I need to see the project," he said, stubbornly determined.
"What?" Krycek was incredulous. "Look, you stupid sonofabitch, if I take you there, what do you think is gonna happen? They're not just going to let you walk away from something like this."
"I need," Mulder continued, enunciating each word clearly, too tired for the argument, "to see what they were doing."
"No. There's no way I'm risking my ass again just to...hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Mulder didn't answer, just continued to walk away, towards gravel and asphalt, with little thought of how he was going to get there, just knowing that he had to. Something had to come from all his suffering, something he could hold in his hand and take to Scully, to show her he was someone she could believe in, could still trust.
Krycek's hand on his arm spun him round, and he fell back a step, jerking his arm away. Whatever was on his face seemed to give even the Consortium agent pause and they stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down. Inevitably, just like so many of their past confrontations, it was Mulder who won the battle of wills.
"You stubborn bastard," Krycek spat, breathing heavily. Then, curtly, "Get in the car. I'll take you."
The assassin's abrupt capitulation meant nothing to Mulder, as he followed the younger man back to the sedan. Whatever Krycek's reasons, Mulder was suddenly too soul weary to even attempt to work out what was going on behind that deceitfully innocent exterior.
Krycek started the car with a roar, giving Mulder in the passenger seat a black-eyed glance, before pulling out of the parking lot. They drove in silence, not saying a word, and Mulder finally found some exhausted peace as he drifted into sleep.

Alex glanced out at the fields, out at the road, watched every sign that blurred passed, looked everywhere but at the man dozing at his side. He knew that if he did, he might just pull the car over and try to beat some sense into Mulder. Either that or beat him senseless and drag his sorry ass back to Washington whether he liked it or not.
He couldn't believe that only hours before he'd wanted the pain in the ass version of Mulder back, the one that didn't seem to know when enough was enough, didn't know when to quit. Back in the parking lot, he'd seen that lightning look slowly dawn on Mulder's face, the one that said Mulder was about to do exactly what he wanted and damn anyone and anything that got in his way. And now Alex was helping him.
Fuck. Alex knew he was kissing goodbye to his current patronage, knew the Brit was going to have his hide, literally, for what he was about to do. Taking Mulder against orders back to Scully was one thing, but taking Mulder into a highly suspect situation would be viewed as a betrayal to those paranoid bastards who oversaw the Project.
Yet there was no way Alex was going to let Mulder run off alone. The fool would only get himself re-captured and wiped again. Or even killed. Now that Mulder knew what Spender was capable of, he'd have very little to lose and eating his own gun was one scenario Alex refused to permit. His mission was to see Mulder safely out of Brueller's grasping hands and if Mulder was going to wind up dead, it was going to be for something a hell of a lot more important than some fucking backwater project that had no doubt already been smoked.
Without meaning to, he cast a glance at the sleeping figure, felt an unwanted stab of protectiveness tighten his chest. Those strangely iridescent eyes were closed now, giving Mulder a peaceful, vulnerable air, all the rage, the vicious hate laid to rest, for a little while at least.
And suddenly Alex was craving a second taste of the man. He wanted that mouth on him again, wanted once more to feel those long, expressive fingers running over his skin, leaving a trail of white fire in their wake. He wanted a Mulder with all his memories intact, to have every part of that frustrating, dazzling, infuriating personality present, so Mulder would know exactly who and what it was he was sharing his bed with.
A lock of hair had fallen about Mulder's face and Krycek started to reach out and brush it aside when Mulder stiffened and shifted in his sleep.
Shit, Alex thought, snatching his hand back to the steering wheel, staring rigidly ahead. What the hell was he thinking? Sure, the repressed bastard had turned out to be one hell of a great fuck, but sex meant little when it came down to self-preservation. And Mulder was like liquid fire, mercurial, dangerous, lethal.
Alex cursed again, wondering why everything always turned out so fucking complicated where Mulder was concerned. He focused once more on the road and tried not to listen to the soft breathing coming from the man at his side or the small noises of distress Mulder made as he dreamed.

There was a restlessness in the air, a heavy, muggy quality signalling the approach of a coming storm. Mulder blinked muzzily as he gazed at the forest, wiping away a bead of sweat brought on from the humidity. Krycek was speaking in a low tone, words of caution that Mulder categorically ignored as he plunged into the trees.
Caught off guard, Krycek's startled curses faded as the younger man was left behind. Mulder barely noticed, his focus pitted on what lay behind the facade of the woods, determined to finish what he had begun barely a month before. Stumbling out of the trees, he clambered over a fence and skidded down the abrupt embankment beyond to allow his eyes take in what his mind had momentarily refused to acknowledge.
The structure that had once stood in the clearing had been hastily demolished, only a few remaining, rusted struts jutting into the air. After a long pause, Mulder began to walk towards the charred and blackened ruins of what used to be a Consortium laboratory, an ashy, gray substance littering the ground at his feet, no doubt the burned out remnants of whatever shadowy experiments had once been conducted there.
Sinking down to his knees, Mulder brushed away the covering, feeling the surface shiny and slippery beneath his fingers. Whatever had destroyed the plant, it had been hot enough to turn the ground molten before hardening to a sheeted glass. He touched a stray piece of metal and it crumbled at the slight contact, heated beyond its capabilities to endure.
Mulder watched the pieces scatter, feeling his own resolve disintegrate at the realisation that it had all been for nothing. He didn't know how long he knelt there, not even looking up when the sky above eventually cracked in a blistering roar of thunder and rain began to fall. Heavy droplets spattered to land amidst the dust, the ashes, plastering his hair, running down his face.
He felt a presence and raised his head to the figure standing over him. He could barely see through the water that blurred his sight. "It's gone," he told the other man, still on his knees, face tilted upwards as if in supplication. "They've taken it from me." The final words crept out in a broken, childish tone.
The rising mist of rain obscured Krycek's features. "There's nothing here for you, Mulder," was all he said. "Come on."
Mulder allowed the other man to pull him to his feet, and looked down to see a handful of ash still clasped in one fist. He released it, watching as the vivid streaks of gray and black trickled through his fingers, washed clean away by the rain.
END OF CHAPTER EIGHT

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