by Mort

As if I weren't cold enough already, the wind's picked up into a gale outside and rain's now pouring through the missing roof-tiles and puddling over the uneven floor. I've survived bombs, alien possession, being buried alive in a silo, insane Russian peasants and a bullet in my brain. It would be a real bummer if my years of cheating death ended with something as ignominious as drowning in a fucking puddle.

A few years ago, this remote place was a functioning Consortium warehouse filled with packing crate after packing crate of files containing the old men's secrets and lies. I remember driving the Englishman here once, back when the building still had a roof, a functioning elevator and glass in the fucking windows.

Now it's just the corpse of a building. The top floor's maybe 6000 square feet. A huge barren husk full of shattered glass and wailing wind. Birds nest in the high rafters and drop their shit on the bare wood floors. There's only one dry, relatively sheltered place in this whole immense room. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on my mood, it's the still miraculously intact men's room in the far corner. The tile floor in there is dry and I've got a heavy duty sleeping bag that's almost capable of keeping the cold from seeping into my bones as I sleep.

Even when this building was in use it was off the map. It hooked invisibly into the national grid. Since no one ever knew it was here, no one ever cut the services off after it fell into disrepair. So the toilets still flush and the electricity is still working. Theoretically. Problem is that the leaking roof means most of the wiring has fused. None of the strip lights work anymore. There's just a solitary working bulb in the men's room, which burns day and night as an oasis of light in this otherwise dark and dismal place. As long as the bulb holds out, I can cope with the claustrophobia of sleeping with my head wedged under a urinal.

About fifty feet from my sleeping place, there's a single functional plug-socket to run my single possession - a kettle.

As far as I can figure, I've been here five weeks and four days now. I could be a day or two out, since I don't know how long I was unconscious at the beginning, but it's definitely been over five weeks because I hardly ache anymore. I've had enough experience of broken ribs to know how long it takes for them to knit together enough to make breathing relatively painless.

So it's Christmas day, give or take a day or two.

Merry fucking Christmas, Alex.

Another fucking year without a Turkey.

Turkey? Fuck. I'm so goddamned hungry, I'd sing the hallelujah chorus for just a piece of Kentucky fried.

Sure, I've still got a couple of dozen packets of instant meals. But I'd be overly charitable if I described the contents as 'food'. Admittedly, I've eaten worse things in my life but, since I was in a Tunisian prison at the time, I don't think they count.

Worst of all, I ran out of coffee two days ago.

Funny how it's always the little things that get to you. I can cope with the crappy food and the confinement and the loneliness and the boredom and even the constant pain of my bones slowly knitting themselves back together under the Picasso formerly known as my skin, but my unfed caffeine addiction is making me climb the walls in frustration.

Well, figuratively speaking.

Given the way I'm restrained, the most athletic thing I'm capable of at the moment is scrabbling across the floor on my hand and knees like a deformed crab.

And even that has to be done with care. It's always a compromise between trying to move as fast as physically possible, to prevent myself from freezing to death, and trying to minimize the number of splinters that embed themselves in my knees and palm as I crawl over the bare unsanded floorboards.

Since the coffee's run out, I haven't bothered getting out of bed the last couple of days. I'm hungry - stomach-achingly, gut-gnawingly hungry - but reconstituted crap alone isn't sufficient inspiration to make me leave the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag and drag my naked ass over that sadistic floor.

Even a rat in a cage has to eventually draw a line in the sand.

So I'm putting my foot down. No coffee - no virtual fun and games for Mulder.

I figured it out. The vid-feed from the surveillance tapes only kicks into action when I leave my 'room'.

So I'm gonna just stay in here, drink water from the faucet, and let myself slowly starve to death, knowing that good old Foxy isn't getting his nightly thrill of jerking off to the sight of my bare butt as I crawl back and forth across the warehouse for his amusement.

Sooner or later, he'll get so pissed off by my refusal to 'play' that he'll come here in person to kick my ass.

Hopefully, he'll remember to bring some fucking coffee with him.

I smell coffee.

Real coffee. Not the instant crap he's previously brought me but COFFEE. Hell, I can hear coffee. The rumbling, gurgling sound of an actual fucking coffee maker.

Maybe it IS Christmas.

I'm out of my sleeping bag so fast I nearly get friction burns on my ass and I follow my nose as fast as I can crawl.

Which, admittedly, is not that fast. It's not just the fear of splinters that slows me down, it's that there's very little slack in the chain between my wrist and my ankles. The fact that the chain passes through the D-ring on a steel cock cage just adds to the fun. The tug on my groin is exquisitely painful, and by the time I reach the happily burbling coffee machine it isn't only my mouth that's drooling with excitement.

"You're such a slut, Krycek," he tells me cheerfully, handing me a steaming mug of real, honest to god, coffee.

I don't even look at him. I just slurp happily in agreement as the hot liquid flows down my throat. I don't care. Used to be a time my ass had some perceptible value. The fate of the whole damned world occasionally revolved around whether or not I chose to put out. These days, I'm happy to wriggle my tush just to keep the coffee flowing in Mulder's fucked up idea of a 'safe house'.

"I can't stay long."

I take the hint, sigh, take one more desperate gulp of coffee, put the mug back down on the floor, carefully rock back onto my haunches and close my eyes, bracing myself for the usual greeting of his fist smashing across my cheek.

But instead of the sickeningly familiar sound of his flesh striking mine, I hear only the unmistakable sound of a zipper being unfastened.

My eyes blink open in surprise and I just gape at him for a moment, feeling more confused by the absence of our normal violent prologue than relieved by the suggestion he wants to jump straight to the main action for a change.

"I'm in a hurry," he growls impatiently, but there's something shadowed and secretive in his eyes that makes me sway with uncertainty.

Or maybe it's just that I'm too light-headed from hunger to think clearly.

As he's already unzipped his pants, it only takes me a moment to burrow my face into the fabric over his groin and use my tongue and mouth to tease his cock out. He's hard and hot, his musky scent as familiar and welcome as the coffee, and his flesh slips deep into my throat with the ease of practice.

He lets me lick and suck for a moment, a few brief seconds of almost-affection, and then he grabs my greasy, overlong hair in a vice and begins to thrust with careless violence between my lips. Hard, vicious stabs that bruise the back of my throat and cause my eyes to water and my empty stomach to roil with nausea. I can't breathe, can't think, can barely even remember to keep my lips carefully curled over my teeth as every instinct in me screams to bite the brutal invader. I'm choking, spluttering, and then, suddenly, he withdraws and releases my face. I double over, gasping for breath, and then he's behind me, parting my ass with strong, clawing fingers and what little air I've managed to drag into my lungs is forced out in a ragged wail as his cock punches into my unprepared ass.

There's blood rushing through my ears, starbursts breaking behind my eyes, and my whole body feels like it might split-apart as his cock drives into my bowels in a sharp, stabbing, merciless rhythm.

"Please," I beg, in a shameless, needy wail. "Please, Mulder."

And I know it's pointless, even without his low, taunting laugh. I know he won't listen, won't remove the solid steel torture device that traps my cock in a state of permanent chastity. It's the only thing that makes this situation fit any definition of 'rape'. You can't rape the willing.

And we both know the only thing that could ever make me unwilling to have Fox Mulder in my ass is the fact it drives me crazy to be taken to the brink of ecstasy only to have the door slammed in my face by the torture device wrapped around my cock.

The knowledge makes me wail and howl as I writhe under his assault, as my hips buck and my thighs tremble and my trapped cock weeps bitter unfulfilled tears through the open end of its unforgiving steel sheath. My whole body contorts as he gives a roar of satisfaction and pumps pulse after pulse of hot Mulder-seed into my aching ass, burning and branding me with his completion.

He leaves me sobbing on the floor, used and discarded, my nose twitching at the combined scent of coffee and Mulder-musk, my balls hot, heavy and throbbing with need, my asshole fluttering in mourning as it slowly adjusts to being achingly empty once more.

By the time I pull myself back together enough to crawl over to my new toy and pour myself a fresh mug, Mulder's gone and the longed for coffee tastes burned and bitter in my mouth.

It's not until I've dragged myself back to my sleeping bag that it occurs to me that this is the first time during my captivity that Mulder has been content to just fuck me, instead of beating the crap out of me and fucking me.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

It's gotten colder.

For the last couple of weeks the raw, wailing wind has been whipping snow through the rafters rather than rain.

I'm no longer damp and miserable, I'm frozen and miserable.

Admittedly, a little less miserable than I'd expect to be under the circumstances. A couple of weeks after he brought me the coffee maker Mulder returned. Naturally he fucked my ass bloody as usual. Less naturally, he left me a couple of boxes of canned soup and a small microwave. He didn't hit me that time either.


But he laughed in my face when I suggested I'd be a hell of a lot warmer if I had some fucking clothes to wear.

"If you had clothes you'd probably be stupid enough to try and escape from here and, since you're forty miles from the nearest town, you'd be dead of exposure before you got half-way there."

For a moment, I thought I saw the flicker of some genuine concern for my welfare in his eyes. The sense reasserted itself as I remembered exactly why it's so important to him that I stay alive. I pointed out that the chains hobbling my ankles and wrist were less than conducive to a re-enactment of the 'Great Escape' LOL! but he just sneered at me.

He knows perfectly well it's only the fact that there's no way to escape, even if I get out of the bondage, that prevents me spending all my waking hours trying to gnaw myself free of my shackles.

I'm going crazy.

I'm so fucking lonely I'm holding conversations with the damned birds just to try and hold onto some semblance of sanity.

The last time he visited, Mulder brought me a thick blanket and a half dozen of those microwavable warming packs, and he left me plenty of food. Not more of that reconstituted crap he gave me at the beginning, but REAL food. Soup and fruit, some cooked meats and cheese and even a couple of family-sized bars of chocolate.

But the funny thing about being warm and well-fed is that now I'm no longer using all my energy just to stay alive, I'm starting to go out of my head with boredom.

I've spent the last couple of days begging and pleading for him to bring me a couple of books, or a radio or anything to stop me spending 24/7 just crawling around in my own skull.

I got pretty damned hysterical at one point and threw half a dozen cans of soup at that fucking mocking red light.

I scared the birds so badly that they all flew away.

Now I don't even have them to talk to.

It's March 12th and Marita's dead.

How do I know this?

Because, a couple of days after I had my hysterical fit, Mulder brought me a portable TV.

The reception in here's pretty crap. There's more snow on the screen than there is outside the warehouse, but watching fuzzy pictures is still a whole fuck more interesting than lying here watching the birds crap in the rafters. So now I spend all my daylight hours curled up in my blanket, watching the hearings on CNN.

Marita did a deal. The full works. Everything she knew in exchange for protection and a new identity when the hearings were over. She never even lived long enough to pick up her new passport. Three weeks into the hearings they got to her. The FBI formally identified her from her DNA - there wasn't even enough of her left intact to do a dental records comparison.

It's a sobering thought.

Not that I give a shit about that bitch Marita, but it doesn't bode well for me, does it?

The whole damned point of Mulder keeping me locked up here in isolation is his intention to eventually produce me, like a rabbit out of a hat, as his prime witness.

It's clearly going to be an instant death sentence. But it's not like I have any particularly appealing alternatives. If I refuse to squeal, he says he'll still hand me over to the FBI. I'll go down with the rest of the Consortium grunts and spend the rest of my life in prison. Not a good prospect for a one-armed guy with a pretty face.

It's been five fucking months.

Fucking being the operative word.

The hearings are still grinding on, Mulder still hasn't told anyone I'm alive, and the last two weekends he's arrived here late Friday night and stayed through till Sunday afternoon.

He's got a cock like the Duracell bunny. It never wears out. Maybe it's the fact he's spent most of the last decade or so doing nothing but jerk off to porn movies. He's got ten years of built-up frustration and so he's making full use of his current free-pass into my ass.

We don't talk about the hearings. Truth is, we don't talk at all. There's no common conversational ground that doesn't spark off his desire to rearrange my face, and - oddly enough - he seems as reluctant to hit me these days as I am to be his punching bag, so when he's not busy drilling me a new asshole we just watch movies together on the DVD player he brought me a couple of weeks back.

The only downside of the current situation is the sadistic asshole still won't unlock this fucking cock-cage. I haven't seen my own dick for five goddamned months. For all I know it's turned black and is starting to rot away. That would explain why I've got permanent ball ache. Though last weekend I discovered it's possible to come, even when your cock is sheathed in curved steel that makes an erection impossible. It hurt like fuck, of course, but after four enthusiastic hours of Mulder applying constant stimulation to my prostate I started rapid-firing spunk like an Uzi.

I expected Mulder to be smug about it. It was more a compliment to his fucking ability than a demonstration of my own dick's resilience. Instead, it seemed to piss him off.

He called me a slut, and he didn't mean it in a good way.

That threw me for a while. But then I figured out that the whole point of the cock-cage is it turns him on to pretend he can only fuck my ass because he's keeping me restrained and helpless. Any evidence that I'm enjoying the process shatters that illusion. He's made it clear I lost the right to spread my legs willingly for him when I betrayed him.

The funny thing is, though, that back when I was his partner and so-called 'lover', I never did sleep with him out of choice. I was under orders to seduce him and, regardless of his big dick, I never particularly enjoyed the experience.

He was just too goddamned... well, nice, I suppose. I wanted it hard and dirty. Instead, he fucked me long and slow like I was a woman. With reverence rather than passion. With respect rather than hunger. Like I was Scully, maybe.

Know the first time Mulder turned me on? The first time I actually felt myself creaming for him? It was the first time he hit me.

Maybe that's sad and sick, but it's true. It was the first time he truly seemed to see me as an equal. He drove his fist into my gut, and I could see in his eyes that it wasn't his hand he wanted to punch me with. I remember my ass clenching as I imagined finally feeling his cock enter me like it meant business.

Fox Mulder finally touched me with passion.

It haunted me, that first smack of his flesh against mine. It became a kind of game to me, to find ways of getting him to touch me like that again. I didn't care whether he hit me or kissed me, whether he fucked me or simply put a bullet into my brain. All I wanted, all I needed, was to remain the focus of that burning passion.

So for years I pushed him, and taunted him, and played with him. I was completely addicted to this newfound violent alter-ego I'd somehow managed to awaken inside him.

Weirdest part of all is that I still am.

It looks like the gig's finally up.

Even though some of the hearings are obviously taking place behind closed doors, the President's too scared of public opinion not to appear to be open about what's going on. So the coverage on CNN is a lot more extensive than I'd expected.

It's not the first time my name's been mentioned on TV in the last few weeks, but suddenly I've changed from being a bit-player in the saga to being one of the Masterminds behind the whole goddamned thing. The fact the Consortium was already going strong when my dad was still in short-pants seems to have conveniently been forgotten. It's a bummer being a patsy. Just ask Lee Harvey Oswald.

Well, you can't, can you? Because he's dead. Which, I guess, is my point.

Spender - who's very much alive, contrary to expectation - is busy painting a picture in which I star as public-enemy number one.

I'm watching Mulder sitting there in the courtroom, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he listens to Spender's crap. Course he is. What no-one, including Spender, knows is that Mulder has Alex Krycek - also alive, contrary to expectation - stashed away ready to sing like a canary. Mulder looks so fucking smug. Like he doesn't give a shit that I won't live an hour past turning up at that courthouse. Like all he cares about is sending Spender to hell, courtesy of an electric chair.

I could cry.

Then again, drinking always makes me maudlin. It's a Russian thing.

Anyway, if Mulder turns up and finds me sobbing into a bottle he's only got himself to blame. I didn't ask him to leave me a crate of Stoli last time he called by to fuck me blind.

Maybe I've been abducted by aliens. I've certainly experienced an incident of missing time. My head's killing me. Feels like someone hit me with a hammer.

Last thing I remember, I was sitting huddled in a blanket in an abandoned warehouse, with my wrist shackled to my ankles and three-fifths of a bottle of vodka slushing through my guts. I was watching TV, I think. Although I also kinda remember dragging some formerly forgotten Russian folk songs out of my memory and singing them at the top of my voice, to the considerable dismay of the birds roosting over my head, and then puking my guts out.

Yeah, I definitely remember throwing up.

So maybe I'm hung-over, rather than concussed.

Either way, I've woken up here - wherever here is - lying in a real bed, on a real mattress, with an actual pillow under my head and my wrist handcuffed to a bedstead. I can kick my legs without my dick feeling like it's going to come off, so I guess my ankles aren't chained anymore. But my groin still feels hot and heavy and uncomfortably constrained, so I guess I'm still wearing the fucking cock-cage.

Which probably means it's Mulder who's abducted me, rather than little gray men.

That makes sense. It's unlikely the inside of an UFO looks this much like a flea-pit motel.

I guess this means I'm on my way to DC to commit suicide in front of a congressional hearing.

"Please, Mulder."

I don't care if it's pathetic for a grown man to whimper. I've got my legs wrapped round his waist, his cock buried in my ass, and probably less than 24-hours to live. Is it that damned unreasonable to want one last fucking orgasm?

In the five hours since I woke up, I've been showered, shaved and returned to some semblance of human appearance. I've eaten three-quarters of a pizza, drunk four root beers, blown him twice and now I'm getting a reaming that makes all his previous forays into my ass seem like mere dress-rehearsals.

He's fucking me so good he must be getting friction burns on his cock. I'm sure as hell starting to develop enough heat inside my ass to power a small city and my own dick is straining so hard that something's gonna break. Unfortunately, it's more likely to be my cock than the steel cage surrounding it.

"You're killing me," I tell him, though it's not exactly a complaint.

He ignores me, continuing to ram himself inside me until he comes with a howl of satiation and erupts a larval stream of semen into my guts. I can feel fireworks exploding behind my eyes again, and if my cock didn't feel so fucking sore I'd have to admit to feeling pretty damned good right now.

He's come three times in five hours. Hell, that's got to mean something, right?

Maybe spending the last hours of my life being Fox Mulder's fuck toy isn't much of an epitaph but let's face it, when I look back at the things I've done in my life, I've had worse job descriptions in my time.

Being the receptacle of this much Mulder-passion is worth any amount of pain.

Mulder's such an asshole. He doesn't need to hold a gun on me as he uncuffs me and lets me limp into the shower again. I'm too fucking sore to run and, anyway, it's been almost six months since I've walked upright and my legs have turned into mushy beanstalks that can barely hold my weight. I run the water as cold as I can stand, but it does little to alleviate the pressure in my dick - though you'd think it would have the sense to shrivel and drop off inside its now freezing metal sheath. Maybe cocks reach a point of no return, given sufficient ceaseless frustration. Maybe I'm so clogged up with misfired spunk that I wouldn't be able to come now even if he did take the fucking cage off.

I dry myself, best I can, and hobble back out of the bathroom without even bothering to wrap a towel around my hips. I can't meet his eyes, but that has nothing to do with modesty. I just... hell, I just don't want to see his expression of smug satisfaction at my own state of clearly unsatisfied arousal.

What the fuck do you call it, when your every waking hour is consumed with desire for a guy who only gets his jollies by pretending he's 'raping' you?

Pathetic. That's what you call it.


He's laid clothes out on the bed for me. Jeans. Socks. T-shirt. No briefs - probably a message in that, but I refuse to give him an opening by calling him on it. I pull on the socks first, not caring how fucking stupid I probably look, and I groan at the feel of fabric caressing my feet. They've been cold for so long that I've got chilblains bigger than my toes.

I sneak a glance under my eyelashes in his direction.

I knew it. The bastard's smirking at me. I reach hurriedly for the tee and pull it over my chest before he notices that his sneer has made my already rock-hard nipples blush a deeper shade of scarlet.

He says nothing. Just hands me the jeans. I'm not surprised by his silence. He gave up his talkative tendencies a couple of months back, when he figured out that no matter what question he asked me, my answer always tempted him to rearrange my teeth. It's not what I say, so much as the way I say it apparently. It's my 'tone'. My failure to look or sound suitably cowed or awed or penitent or something.

I still haven't figured out what he wants of me.

Well, other than the obvious.

I manage to get the jeans up my legs as far as my hips, but there's no way in hell they're going to fasten over the cock cage. They're so fucking tight, I'm not sure they'd fasten regardless - at least not without almost castrating me. Mulder seems to like the way they sheath my butt, judging from the way he's licking his lower-lip, and he's clearly unsurprised at my inability to cover my groin, because he just hands me a jacket - a buttery soft, black leather jacket - and tells me to follow him.

It's my first opportunity for escape in over five months. I'm not cuffed and there's a couple of families climbing into cars in the motel's parking lot, so Mulder can hardly start waving his weapon around if I make a run for it.

On the other hand, I'm not wearing shoes, my leg muscles are as weak as water and the key to this fucking torture device on my cock is - presumably - in Mulder's pocket.

So I just cover my groin with the jacket and shuffle obediently to Mulder's rental car. Just because it's my first opportunity, doesn't mean it's going to be my only opportunity. It makes sense to wait till the odds are more in my favor.

I start to regret my decision the minute I sit down in the passenger seat. Mulder grabs my wrist, reattaches the handcuffs and chains me to the door handle. Yet again, I find myself in the unenviable position of being cuffed and helpless in a car in the company of Mulder's uncertain temper.

"Marita's dead," he tells me, as he pulls the car out onto the highway.

I just nod, not sure I want to risk a verbal reply.

"You don't look particularly bothered," he says, casting such a lengthy sideways glance in my direction that I have to bite my tongue not to start spouting statistics about the number of people killed every year as a direct result of driver distraction.

I shrug. It's hard to dredge up much sympathy. My Marita-tolerance dissolved the day she fucked me just in order to betray me. It wasn't exactly endearing behavior. The way I feel about Marita is probably the way Mulder feels about me. Which is a poetic kind of justice, I guess.

As though to prove his almost psychic ability to read my mind on occasion, Mulder abruptly pulls the car to a halt on the side of the road and smashes his fist into my face.

It's been so long since he's hit me, he actually catches me by complete surprise. I'm still spitting out blood and tooth fragments as he yanks the jacket off my lap and grabs my groin with both hands. I panic and struggle so wildly against the cuff that I feel as much blood running down my wrist as from my split lip.

Only to freeze, too shocked to believe my own eyes, as his bruised knuckles not only leave my groin unscathed but bare. He's removed the fucking cock cage.

For a moment, I feel hope spike in my heart. Then this inner voice sneers 'How the hell did you think he was gonna get you past a metal detector and onto the plane to DC if he didn't take it off?'

But I'm still shocked as fuck.

Not to mention relieved to discover that my cock hasn't turned black after all. It's a nice, healthy shade of deep scarlet and the throbbing ache in my jaw is just encouraging its show of burgeoning enthusiasm.

"Don't you understand?" he demands angrily. "Now Marita's dead, you're the only eye-witness with the goods on Spender."

"I fucking get it," I snap back, so humiliated he wants to have this conversation while my dick's waving a happy hello to him from my unfastened jeans, that I decide I don't care whether my fucking tone offends him or not. "If I don't sing, Spender walks."

Mulder shakes his head as though I'm stupid. "He doesn't walk. There's enough evidence against him to ensure they lock him up and throw away the key. He's going down for at least three consecutive life sentences, whether you testify or not."

"So why the fuck do you want me to do it? You know I'm a dead man the minute I set foot in that court."

He slaps me again. Hard. Pain explodes behind my eyeballs and I snarl at him, baring my teeth in a warning that would be a hell of a lot more convincing if my cock wasn't starting to weep pearly tears of excitement in response to his sudden violence.

"Because your testimony will bury him, Krycek. The things you know, the secrets you hide, will put that black-lunged bastard on death row."

I flinch from his words the way I've never flinched from his fists. He's beaten me, broken my bones, screamed words of hate and scorn in my face, but this is the first time he's ever truly hurt me. It's like he's punched me straight in the heart.

Mulder really, honestly, intends to go through with this.

I know he said he would. I know I've said I knew he would. But I've never really believed it.


I'm nothing more to him but a cheap, worthless coin that can purchase him a momentary, pointless revenge on an old man who's so riddled with cancer that he's already got an inescapable death sentence.

This game we've been playing isn't a game to Mulder.

All that hate wasn't a masquerade of passion.

It was just hate.

Somehow, I just swallow and nod and offer him one of my patented Krycek sneers like I don't give a monkey's fuck that he's just ripped my heart in two.

I thought...well, I actually fucking thought... oh, what the fuck does it matter what I thought? Sometimes a coffee maker is just a coffee maker.

Sometimes a fuck is just a fuck.


As he turns the engine back on, I tug miserably at the handcuffs, then mumble there's no way I can fasten my jeans without the use of my hand. Truth is I don't really want to. After over five months of cruel confinement, all I really want is the jacket back to fold over my bobbing, naked and indisputably aroused cock.

"I like the view," he smirks, throwing the jacket onto the rear seat and pulling the car back onto the highway.

It's clear I'm going to be flashing all the way to the airport.

I fret over the fact for a couple of minutes, avoiding Mulder's smug grin by staring down into my lap. It's not a good direction to look under the circumstances. I blush even hotter and settle for staring out of the passenger window like I've suddenly gained a previously unknown appreciation for the countryside.

Mulder's clearly pissed with me.

Okay, I admit that Mulder's almost always pissed at me, but the fact he's gone back to using his fists against me, rather than his cock, suggests that this time he's genuinely angry about something specific as opposed to him feeling offended by me on general principle.

The day Mulder tracked me down to my bolt-hole in Reno, he didn't just drag me out kicking and screaming because I was putting up a fight. He knocked seven bells of shit out of me because he enjoys striking me. Sure I went down fighting, but when I woke up in that abandoned warehouse I not only had two broken ribs but I had a hell of a lot more bruises than I'd had when I originally passed out. Proved even good old white-knight Foxy is patently capable of kicking a man when he's already out for the count.

And the first four or five weeks of my captivity at his hands were pretty damned nasty. I'm not talking about the sex part. I'm a guy, it was sex, and it was Mulder. Either of the first two would have been reason enough to drop my pants - not that I was actually wearing any - and the Mulder part was just gravy. If the price of seriously good sex with Mulder was always going to be the occasional fist in the face, I reckon I'd still be getting a bargain.

But, truth is, this is the first time he's hit me since he brought me that coffee maker at Christmas. So this isn't a revival of his old Alex-bashing crap. This is something specific.

This is..


This is the turn-off to the airport.

He pulls the car into the parking lot, turns off the engine, reaches over to the rear seat, grabs the leather jacket and drops it on my lap a couple of seconds before a family walks past the passenger door in search of their rental car.

He waits for them to pass by, then his right hand snakes out, tangles in my hair and wrenches my face towards his for a brutal clash of teeth and tongues. He doesn't kiss me, as much as savage my lips and plunder my mouth with his hot tongue.

His left hand burrows under the jacket and his fingers clench so tightly around my swollen cock that I yelp with combined excitement and fear.

"You want this?" he growls, tugging mercilessly on my tender flesh. "You want me?"

I want to deny it, deny him, but I can't.

"Yes," I gasp. "You. Only you. Only ever you."

His fingers are as hot and angry as his eyes as they rake my flesh. It takes mere seconds of exquisite agony to rip months of frustration from my groin in a white-hot flood.

My scream of release is muffled by his biting teeth and stabbing tongue, and I'm falling into him, the darkness of my grief eclipsed by his bright agonizing sweetness as I shatter in his hands.

I don't know whether I was out for minutes or hours.

All I know is he's gone.

He's taken his bags, and his handcuffs, and he's disappeared somewhere inside the airport terminal.

For all I know, he's already on a plane back to DC.

He left an envelope on the driver's seat.

Inside the envelope, there's five thousand dollars in cash and a shiny new passport with my photograph inside the back cover.

And I understand now why he hit me today.

He wasn't saying he didn't care.

He was simply saying goodbye.

Sometimes a coffee maker is more than just a coffee maker and sometimes a fuck is more than just a fuck.

And, sometimes, even betrayal can be accepted as being an act of love.

I think Mulder finally understands me.

The name in my new passport is Jonathan Alexander Judas.

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