BRUTAL FORCES: PART 2 
By Josan

*******************************************************

Krycek pulled up in front of the cabin, parked by Skinner's car. The November rain made the Blue Ridge Mountains seem more grey than blue in the late afternoon light.

Krycek wasn't sure why he was here. 

Skinner had disappeared the day the Panel had dismissed him. Had just left the Crystal City condo and taken off. Scully knew he had had a meeting with the
Director that morning, knew he had a cabin in the mountains, had assumed he'd gone there to convalesce. 
She'd been livid at his treatment by the Panel and the Bureau. Grabbed the chance to teach at Quantico, taking her out of field work.

Mulder had been upset by Skinner's problems, but not enough to turn down his former boss's position, on an acting basis only, when it was offered to him. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to be in charge of the people who had made it their life's work to make him miserable. 

Which was how they found out that Skinner had been told to take six months sick leave. 

Scully had tried often to get Skinner on the phone, had managed it once or twice in the two months since the Grand Jury. She hadn't made contact with Skinner in at least three weeks and was worried. 

"It's Thanksgiving next week, Scully. He's probably with his family," said Mulder, over-worked and enjoying every moment of it. He'd never known how much fun it
was to have a group of people all on nerves, wondering when he would tell them to "Cut the bullshit and get to the point." Meetings were far less deadly when you were the one directing them.

But Scully was worried. Her own schedule meant that she couldn't take the time necessary to drive out to the cabin and check on Skinner in person. To everyone's surprise, including his own, Krycek offered to do it. He was still floundering around, not having found anything to do to replace his former activities, not even getting laid on a regular basis since Mulder had discovered the joys of bureaucracy and twenty-hour days.

The cabin seemed empty, but Krycek got the first frisson of something not being right when he discovered the front door was not locked. Old habits die hard, so he pulled his gun from the side holster he wore under the prosthesis and cautiously went in.

In the entrance way, he noticed the smell first, enclosed air, cheap booze, unwashed dishes and clothes, something else. 

There were no lights on, but the windows in the kitchen let in enough for him to see the pile of dishes crusted over, the garbage overflowing with bottles of whisky
and not much else. Krycek opened the fridge door. Empty except for a dried piece of cheese, a container of curdled milk.

The bathroom contained the dirty clothes piled in a corner and the smell of vomit.

The great room, with its cathedral ceiling, glassed wall, wooden floor also smelt of vomit, some of it crusted by the deck door, splattered on the windows by the door. Some by the fireplace.

Krycek checked out the loft bedroom with its king-sized bed and small wood stove. The sheets hadn't been changed in quite a while, smelled of rancid sweat. 
There were signs of vomit on the quilt that lay tangled at the foot of the bed.

Jesus Christ! What the hell was going on here?

Krycek made his way back downstairs, tried the deck to see if there was any sign of Skinner. Noticed something he had missed on his first turn around the room. On the coffee table in front of the couch lay a Glock, freshly cleaned and oiled going by the rag and can of gun oil next to it.

Krycek picked up the gun, checked to see if the safety was on: it was. If it was loaded: it was.

He slipped it into his holster.

The cabin had been built on a slope, the front facing away from the drop, the back porch built up on stilts. Steps led down from the deck which offered a great view
of the lake. There, standing on the bank, Krycek spotted Skinner.

Krycek approached him with great care. Was horrified by the changes he saw in the man. He had lost a good twenty pounds while in the hospital, but it looked as
though he had lost twenty more. And he could smell him from fifteen feet back.

Krycek made a small noise so Skinner could hear him coming. There was no reaction from the man. 

"Skinner." Krycek spoke softly. Repeated the name a bit more loudly.

Finally Skinner turned around enough to see who was behind him.

"What do you want?"

Krycek thought he was prepared for changes in Skinner but had trouble recognizing the bearded scarecrow standing in front of him. 

He took the time to look him over. The deep lines of pain etched on either side of nose and mouth were visible even with the beard. The redden eyes were sunk, dark purple bruises in a grey face that held no life. His glasses were dirty. 

He had to have been standing in this rain for some time: he was thoroughly soaked. The rain dripped off the shirt-tails of the dirty black (navy? brown?) flannel shirt that hung on his body. The jeans were worn, grimed, hips barely there to hold them up. The unlaced boots were wide open, letting the rain in.

"Scully sent me to see how you were." Krycek slid the gun into his pocket, kept his hand on it.

Skinner turned back to the lake. Krycek went to stand by him, trying to see what it was that had caught Skinner's attention. There was a white mist rising off the water, adding to the eerieness of the entire situation. 

After a few minutes, Skinner said in an indifferent voice, "You can go now." 

Krycek shook his head, spoke with an authoritative tone, "No. It's been raining too much. One of the roads up here was already flooding. I'll be spending the night." And turned to go back into the cabin. 

Once in, he quickly checked the place for more weaponry, confiscated the knives that looked as though they could cut from the kitchen. The safety razor and blades from the bathroom. Tossed the lot in the trunk of his car and locked it.

In the freezer he found a container of coffee and with some difficulty, the coffee pot buried in the rubble on the kitchen counter.

He used the taps in the tub to wash it out, fill it with water and got it going on stove, once he'd cleared the top of its contents.

Skinner still hadn't moved. Still stood looking out over the lake.

Jesus! thought Krycek. What have we done to you?

Krycek was on his second cup when Skinner finally moved and walking slowly, as if each step was impossibly hard, he made his way up the path, up the stairs, across the deck and, after hesitating at the deck doors, into the cabin.

He ignored Krycek and stopped in the great room only long enough to see that the gun on the coffee table was gone. In the kitchen, he opened a storage door and came out with another of those whisky bottles that littered the cabin. He opened it, found a glass on the counter and filled it with the liquid. With bottle and glass he moved back into the great room, sat on the couch.

Apart from filling the glass, now and then drinking, Skinner sat unmoving. Krycek was horrified at the fragility of the man he had once compared to "thick- skinned rhino". This man barely had skin left to hold him together.

In the evening, Krycek made a fresh pot of coffee, cooked the two beef pies he'd found in the back of the freezer. He used a couple of pie tins as dishes, the only things he could find that didn't need washing. Found a spoon and a fork that were more easily cleaned. Placed the one with the spoon next to Skinner on the couch. Ate his sitting on the bottom steps to the loft. 

Skinner ignored both the food and Krycek. Eventually fell asleep, head resting on the arm of the couch. Still holding the almost empty bottle. Still dressed in the sodden clothes.

Krycek waited till he was certain that Skinner was deeply asleep before going to look at him.

The smell in the room was the smell of death. He knew that. Recognized it from having smelt it before.

Skinner, the one with the least direct involvement with the Consortium, was its biggest victim.

They'd all landed on their feet except him. Scully with her position at Quantico. Mulder with his new office: everyone thinking that he had taken Krycek as a lover as a way of getting information. 

Even he had landed pretty well-off: all charges dropped, even a bit of a hero for having supplied all that documentation, all that data to Mulder for him to use.

They'd forgotten the man who had done his best to protect them. Who had given Mulder and Scully the time and leeway to pursue the X-Files. Had protected them from Cancerman. Had done things that certainly went against his training, his personal philosophy to keep them alive. Had even done things to protect him, Alex Krycek.

True, there had been that scene on the balcony, but even then, he had made his point without permanent damage. Hell, Spender and his goons hadn't used a lubed glove on Skinner when they'd torn him apart on the inside. And Skinner hadn't called the cops, even though he must have hated him for fucking his department around the way he had. Or even toss him off the seventeenth floor. Which he could nave done, and no one have been the wiser.

He'd been violated twice: ripped apart twice. Once by Spender and his goons, once by the so-called Justice system. He'd needed more time to recover from what had been done... Shit! The man had been tortured, and four weeks later they'd tortured what was left of him.

Krycek sat at the other end of the couch and considered options. If he left now, Skinner was dead. And he didn't deserve that. 

On the other hand, if he stayed... God! Scully should have been the one to come up; to handle this. Even Mulder, for Christ's sake! Not him. He had no idea what to do.

But he knew that if he contacted Scully - or Mulder - the only thing they would do is have Skinner hospitalized. And Krycek was Russian enough to be extremely suspicious of mental institutions. And the "treatments" that took place there.

He scrubbed his hand over his face. Reached over and took the bottle out of Skinner's hand. There was a mouthful of the stuff left in the bottom. He tipped it back and swallowed what had to be licensed rot-gut.

Skinner had been making small noises, been restless for some time when suddenly he screamed. Krycek went to touch him but Skinner sat up, white face beaded with sweat and barely made it to the toilet when he vomited. The smell in the room was overpowering as Skinner continued heaving even though nothing was left in his
stomach to come up.

Krycek touched his shoulder and Skinner turned, eyes black with pain, vomit marking his beard, his lips. "Please," he whispered, voice hoarse with the effort of
vomiting, "Please, no more."

Krycek felt his stomach clench. Found he had to swallow, to breathe shallowly to control the urge to vomit next to Skinner. The man had curled up, huddled by the toilet, as if trying to protect himself from blows. 

Krycek crouched by Skinner, taking care not to touch him, not to do anything to set him off. Waited till the man had fallen asleep lying there on the floor, exhausted from the act of vomiting, from the lack of food. From the pain and fear he carried in him.

Krycek knew how Skinner felt. Knew the kind of depression that had Skinner in its talons. Had been there often enough himself. Knew that Skinner would have to be made to want to live again if he were not to take that Glock and put it to his head.

Krycek sat back on his heels and, after some time, made a decision. 
*******************************************************

Skinner woke to find himself on the floor of the bathroom, not an uncommon occurrence these days.

His throat and stomach muscles hurt, his clothes were damp. He'd learnt to ignore the taste in his mouth some time ago. Slowly, he rolled over to his knees, sat back, and using the toilet as a prop, he finally made it to his feet. He was dimly aware that something was different today, but couldn't concentrate long enough to track it down. 

He'd staggered to the doorway of the bathroom when he realized what was different. Krycek was standing in the kitchen, washing a sinkful of dishes. The kitchen, though not yet clean, was certainly a lot easier to find. Most of the dishes had been soaked, scraped clean and then washed. The top of the stove was cleared, except for the pot of coffee that was percolating.

Krycek wiped his hand dry on a dishcloth he'd found in one of the kitchen drawers. Between loads of dishes, he'd stripped the bed, found the washer and dryer behind louvred doors and was into his fourth load of laundry. Two more piles of clothes were still waiting for their turn in the appliances.

Krycek poured himself a cup of coffee. Drank it while watching Skinner absorb what was going on around him. When he finished, Krycek put the cup down and in a continuous movement, slammed Skinner against the wall, started stripping the clothes off him.

Skinner tried to push him away. Got slapped hard across the face for the effort.

"You," said Krycek through gritted teeth, "are a pig. You smell worse than a pig. No self-respecting pig would live in his shit like this." He pulled Skinner off the wall, turned him, pulled his arm high behind his back, the fake arm around his neck. 

Angrily, he shoved the man back into the bathroom, manhandled him into the tub. Skinner had trouble standing, wobbled. Krycek stripped his clothes and prosthesis off, joined Skinner and turned the water on. It took a bit of fiddling to get the temperature to a bearable heat.

With very little difficulty, he got Skinner to his feet, braced his hands against the back wall and began washing him down. 

Stripped, Skinner was in worse shape than he had appeared. Krycek felt he could have counted every rib, every disc of the spine, hung his hat on hip-bones if he had wanted. There were sores on skin that had dirt encrusted on it.

Even in depression, how could Skinner have let himself deteriorate to this extent?

As he washed Skinner down, Krycek couldn't miss the webbing of scars that lashed the back, buttocks, even chest of the man. The larger burns still had a reddish sheen to them. The cigarette burns freckled his chest, were denser in his groin area, penis and balls. They contrasted with the sharp operation scars on his ribs where they'd had to cut to clean out the shards of bone broken by gun butts. Krycek knew they had had to remove one of them completely.

When he finished washing Skinner, Krycek turned off the water, left Skinner where he was while he dried himself using one of the towels that had already gone through its cleaning cycle. Pulled his jeans on.

He tugged Skinner's arm, got the man out and dried. Wrapped a towel around his hips and shoved him into the kitchen. There he poured him a cup of coffee, added
brown sugar and snapped, "Drink."

Watched as Skinner, hands shaking, got the sweetened drink to his mouth and sipped. Waited till he had drunk most of it before he began.

"Listen to me, you fucking bastard. I will be staying here for a few days. While I am here, you will obey me. In anything and everything I tell you to do. Do you understand?"

Skinner put the mug down on the table, held it between his hands as if to warm them. He didn't respond. Krycek moved to the table, hauled Skinner's chin up. 
"I asked you a question. You answer me when I ask you a question. Do... you... understand?"

Something flared for a moment in Skinner's eyes, then faded. He dropped his eyes from Krycek's. "Yes." Voice low.

Krycek grabbed Skinner's jaw in his hand, forced it up, forced Skinner to meet his eyes again. "Yes, what?"

Watched as Skinner's military training, his Bureau indoctrination took over, which he had hoped would in response to his tone. 

"Yes. Sir."

Still holding Skinner's jaw, "I will be gone for the rest of the afternoon. When I come back, I will find you here. I will find the kitchen cleaned up. The bathroom cleaned up. I will find you sober. Is that understood, Skinner?"

Skinner nodded, "Yes, sir." His voice was even softer.

Krycek waited for a moment before releasing Skinner's jaw. He set a bowl with some cereal, all he could find in the bottom of a couple of different boxes in the
back of one of the cupboards, poured some water and sugar on it and presented it to the man. "You've got five minutes to eat this." An "or else" threat hung in the air. Krycek waited for Skinner to pick up the spoon, take a mouthful, and left to dress.

He was taking a chance, leaving him here alone, but the cupboards were literally bare and he had to get some food into the place and into Skinner. He had passed a
small town not a half-hour away and thought that would have to do for now.

He had gone through the house, taken away as much as he felt could be dangerous, including all the booze he could find. He pocketed Skinner's car keys. At the door, he turned around. "Skinner!" Waited till he had the man's attention. "When that load is dry, you'll find pants and some shirts in it. Get dressed."

*******************************************************

He hadn't found all the booze.

He had found the town, spent a couple of hundred dollars buying canned goods, fresh food, meats to restock the freezer. Even added some fancy chocolate ice cream, a treat for himself which he did not intend to share. He stocked up on cheese, dry and fresh milk. At the small drugstore, he bought a variety of
vitamins, food supplements, stomach medication, shampoo, soap, basic medical supplies.

He found out that for twenty bucks, the kid who pumped gas at the only gas station in the area would pick up groceries and deliver them to the cabin. For another twenty, wouldn't deliver Skinner's liquor order.

He was gone a total of four hours and returned to find Skinner passed out in the bathroom, hand bleeding from the bottle that had broken against the toilet when he
fell. The kitchen was a bit cleaner. The bathroom not.

"Well, Alexei, now what do you do?" He had inferred a threat if his orders had not been carried out. How was he going to handle this "disobedience". Whatever he did, he had to consider the shape the man was in.

Then he had an idea.

He dragged Skinner out to the great room. Carefully he washed and bandaged the cut hand. "Shit, man, just what you needed, another scar."

Because the kitchen was open concept, an upright beam served to support its part of the loft. Krycek dragged Skinner face down to it, took the handcuffs he had found in one of the upstairs drawers, and cuffed Skinner's hands around the beam. He dragged over a couple of the couch cushions, piled one on top of the other, raised Skinner on them so that his head hung over the edge. That way, if he vomited, he wouldn't drown in it. And, just in case he did vomit, he placed a large metal pan on the floor under his face. 

At the last minute, he tossed a blanket over the man, turned on a couple of lights so he wouldn't wake up in the dark, and drove back into the town for a leisurely supper in the town's one so-called restaurant.

It was nearly midnight when he unlocked the door and came in find Skinner's eyes wide open and black. He strolled over to the man, pulled the pan and ist contents away and went to empty it in the bathroom. He took his time rinsing the pan, putting it in the kitchen sink for washing.

He crouched by Skinner, stroked his face with a finger. "Next time I tell you to do something, you'll do it. Won't you, Skinner?"

He reached into his pocket, took out the key and unlocked the cuffs. His hand came away bloodied.

He pulled Skinner's hands to him. Both wrists were torn, bleeding: the result of Skinner's attempts to free himself. He turned to yell at the man, to find terror and insanity. 

"Please. Don't chain me. Please. I'll do whatever you ask. I won't fight you. But please, don't chain me. Please!"

Skinner's voice had risen with hysteria; his body trembled, his eyes grew wide with fear. He curled himself tight into a fetal position, voice begging, words unclear except for the repeated "Please!"

Krycek cursed himself. He pulled the broken man into his arms, tried to get through the fear and hysteria. Too late he'd remembered that Skinner had been handcuffed to the metal bar that had kept him upright throughout his torture.

God! He didn't know what he was doing. He was only making things worse. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe Skinner would be better off in one of those hospitals, drugged to the gills, not feeling anything but stoned. 

How was what he had done to the man any different than Spender and his goons? Shit! He should have remembered!

He rocked Skinner awkwardly in his arms, back and forth till his legs went to sleep beneath him, his arm ached and his stump burnt with the stress of gripping Skinner. Gradually, Skinner calmed, holding tightly to Krycek. 

Krycek thought he had fallen asleep when Skinner asked, "Please. When you've had your revenge, will you kill me?"

Krycek rubbed his cheek against Skinner's bald head. "My revenge for what, Skinner?"

"For the balcony." 

Krycek did some quick thinking, hated himself for using the weapon Skinner had just handed him. "That depends. Will you obey me?"

Skinner nodded his head slightly against Krycek's shoulder.

"Then, when I'm satisfied, we'll discuss this again."

Skinner nodded again. Then faintly, "Please. Don't chain me. I'll... "

Krycek interrupted before the man was actually begging again. "No chains. No cuffs. I promise."

He waited a bit longer, but Skinner seemed satisfied with the promise. "Come on, Skinner. Let's get you on the couch. I'll wrap those wrists of yours."

Skinner fell asleep before he had finished the second wrist. Krycek made him comfortable on the couch, slipped a pillow under his head, tucked a blanket around him. He wrapped another one around himself, tried to get comfortable in the armchair, put his feet up on the coffee table and did some heavy thinking.
*******************************************************

Skinner made it through the rest of the night without waking. Not without nightmares.

By morning Krycek had decided against hospitalization, and had decided to give it a shot. What Skinner needed was food, exercise, sleep. Nightmares were something Krycek understood, something he had learnt to handle. 

When Skinner got a handle on the nightmares, he'd be okay, thought Krycek. 

In the morning, he made Skinner take a shower, put on clean sweats. Made him a light breakfast of strong, sweet tea and dry toast. Told him to take a nap.

All of which Skinner did without saying a word, without questioning. That bothered Alex Krycek more than he thought it would: the old Skinner would have told him to "Go to hell, boy!"

After an hour, Krycek woke Skinner, fed him more of the tea and toast. Gave him the pile of towels and socks that he had finally finished washing. Had Skinner fold
the towels, pair the socks, then told him to take another nap.

It was like that all day long: food, some small activity that didn't require thinking, naps. Skinner made it to mid-afternoon before his stomach rejected the last batch of tea and toast. Krycek waited till Skinner had cleaned up the bathroom - he hadn't quite made it to the toilet - and then handed him some of the stomach medication he'd picked up. He gave it several hours before he tried food again: this time it stayed down.

The only time Skinner spoke that day was when Krycek indicated that he was to sleep upstairs with him. Skinner looked from him to the bathroom. "Please," his
voice rough with disuse, "the couch is closer."

Krycek picked up a bucket he'd found in his cleaning spree, handed it to Skinner. "By the bed. But you're sleeping in the bed, not down here."

Up in the loft, he made Skinner strip to his shorts, get in one side of the big bed, and claimed the other side as his. He'd locked his gun in the car trunk, and felt quite naked without it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept without it at hand. 

Which meant he slept badly, but that was okay, because he spent part of the night holding Skinner's head over the bucket. 

When it was over, Krycek cleaned up the bucket, Skinner. He piled a bunch of pillows so he could sleep sitting up, grabbed a shivering Skinner and hauled him
as close to himself as possible.

Skinner had flinched at first, lay tense but gradually, the heat of Krycek's body, the hand gently stroking his neck and back calmed him and he went back to sleep.

Krycek found that once more he was doing some heavy thinking about the situation. He was having a hard time believing that what Spender and his goons had done to Skinner was responsible for this kind of extreme reaction on Skinner's part. 

The next morning, he changed the routine: he made Skinner run before feeding him. Skinner slept for two hours straight, soundly, after that. Had him replenish
the wood pile by the fireplace before lunch. Twenty sit-ups, twenty push-ups before the mid-afternoon feed. Another run before supper.

All food stayed down, except for the bowl of cereal he had before bed. So there was part of yesterday's routine repeated after all.

Over the next four days, Krycek gradually increased the distance of the run, the number of repetitions, the quantity of the food. He left the length of the naps stable; Skinner needed all the sleep he could get.

The nights were bad: Skinner's nightmares seemed determined to keep him from getting a full night's sleep. Krycek began the nights on his half of the bed, ended them on Skinner's, holding the man.

He had worried about the cold turkey removal of alcohol from Skinner's diet. Wasn't too surprised that to find total abstention wasn't much of a problem. Skinner's wasn't an addictive personality. The booze had been there for some reason, but not because it was physically needed.

On Thanksgiving Day, Krycek had been there one week. Other than a sentence here or there, there had been no conversation between the two men. Krycek gave orders and Skinner carried them out. And apart from that, Krycek read while Skinner ran, exercised or slept. 

There was a TV in the great room, but neither man had turned it on. Krycek knew from what Mulder had told him that Skinner was a football fan. He seemed to remember that this time of the year was saturated with televised games. So, after lunch, he turned on the set, found a game on and settled to watch it on the couch. Skinner was sitting at the other end, silent, waiting for the next set of commands from Krycek.

Gradually, he became interested in the game. For the first time since he'd arrived, Krycek watched as some animation appeared in the man. Not much, but enough for him to snort at some play that Krycek, who had never spent much time with this game, couldn't follow. 

That game was followed by another, and by this time, Skinner had caught on that the day's activities were to be more easy. At one point, Krycek got up, went into the kitchen. He placed a bowl of some kind of pretzel-nut mixture by Skinner, sat at his end with a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

"I don't get the popularity of this game." Krycek licked his spoon. "I mean, you've got a bunch of over-sized, over-paid goons who crash into each other, try to dismember each other, feel each other up. This is a sport?"

"You don't understand." Skinner voice was hoarse, not just from the vomiting but because he'd spoken so rarely. "It's an American thing."

"Don't give me that bullshit! I was born here. I'm as American as you are, even if my parents were Russian. I had to put up with those stupid jocks all the way through school. They haven't a brain among them. And everyone thinks they're so great that even when they kill their ex-wives, they get away with murder. There's no real skill needed to play football. Just brute strength and the ability to endure pain."

Skinner sat very still. Krycek checked him out of the corner of his eye. Wondered if he was going to get any kind of reaction from him.

"There's finesse in the game. You just don't know where to look for it."

Ah, Krycek smiled into his ice cream. He almost sounded like the old Skinner there for a moment. "Okay. So explain it to me."

Shit! That sounded more like an order than an invitation to conversation. 

But it got Skinner started. He began carefully neutral in tone, became more animated as the game progressed. He explained the action on the screen as if he were talking to some kid who had never seen the game before. 

By the end of the game, Skinner had spoken more than he had in months. And he had begun gesturing, using his hands to explain rules. He slouched down on his spine, muttered comments about the commentary. Krycek smiled openly, delighted that this idea had borne fruit. 

But when the game ended, it was as if Skinner found himself shocked by his behaviour and he withdrew, fell silent again.

Over supper, Krycek left him alone. He intended to push, but not today. Today had shown him that the old Skinner was still around: he would just need some time to come out of whatever hole he was hiding in.

A week later, Krycek handed Skinner an axe and told him to replenish the wood stack. There were at least ten cords of wood stacked outside, but some of the pieces need to be cut down, especially for use in the small wood stove in the bedroom and for kindling. The nights were getting colder and apart from a small baseboard in the bathroom, a larger one in the kitchen, all heat came from wood.

It was the first time that he'd allowed anything sharp near Skinner, but with only one arm, he very well couldn't do the chopping himself. And since he had no intention of leaving Skinner alone, he stacked the chopped wood in the lean-to set up for that purpose besides the deck steps.

After a while of working in the sun, Skinner took off his shirt, continuing to work just in his t-shirt. Krycek sat on the bottom steps and watched him.

He had managed to put on some weight. The exercise had helped it become muscle. He had more stamina. Slept better, except for the middle of the night. Except for the middle of the night, had stopped vomiting completely. His skin had lost that grey look, but that beard and the hair needed cutting. 

After the game, there hadn't been much conversation, but what little there had been was easier. And Krycek had discovered the chess set on the shelf that held all sorts of well-used board games. He had intended to play against himself, to pass the time, but had been pleased when Skinner casually asked if he played too. 

They played a game every night after supper. A sort of non-verbal conversation, thought Krycek. He pushed and Skinner, after losing too many games in a row, began pushing back. It amused Krycek to see that Skinner pushed using the rules while he tended to push against the rules. 

They were in bed that night when Krycek caught Skinner wincing at muscles that hadn't been used for some time.

"Turn over," he told Skinner. Skinner's reaction was to freeze. That haunted look came back in his eyes, and he looked as if he was going to panic. Finally, he took a deep breath and obeyed.

Krycek had caught his mistake almost as soon as it came out of his mouth. He knew that he had just lost a lot of the trust he had been so slowly establishing. 

He had been aware, in these weeks, that Skinner was almost afraid of being touched. Every night, when he had held the man, there had always been a period where he was tensed, relaxing only when sleep took over. And that was allowable only because he was usually so sick that he didn't have the resources to deal with more.

But now, it wasn't the middle of the night. He hadn't puked his guts out. He wasn't shivering in reaction to the vomiting and his dreams. He didn't need someone to
hold onto, to keep those nightmares away.

Krycek carefully propped the pillows so they would support his left side: God! it was times like this that he missed his left arm. 

He lay his hand on the nape of Skinner's neck, felt the slight tremor and left it there for him to get used to. Then gently, he began massaging the tight muscles of neck and shoulder. He didn't say anything, just worked on the knotted musculature, reminding himself that he had to remember to get some sort of lotion to make this easier on both of them.

After working on Skinner's neck and upper back, he made himself comfortable on his side of the bed. " 'Night," he yawned, and turned so his back was to Skinner, knowing full well that wasn't what Skinner was expecting. 

The next day, he doubled all of Skinner's exercise. Timed his morning run. Had him spend the rest of the morning in sit-ups, crunches, push-ups, anything he could think of to wear him out completely. No naps either, had him run again in the afternoon after telling him to cut ten minutes off the morning time.

Skinner ached that night, so much so, that when Krycek told him "Turn over," he did so with a sigh of anticipation. 

Krycek began propped up as he had the night before, but at one point, he found it easier if he just straddled Skinner's hips. He ignored the immediate tensing of the man. Shit! Skinner was going to learn to trust him!

And again, when he was done, he moved over to his side of the bed and went to sleep.

Skinner had his usual three o'clock nightmares, but this time when Krycek pulled him into his arms, there was no tensing up. And he went willingly.

The first snow arrived the next morning. In a nice little blizzard that would dump five to ten inches, and then the sun the next day would melt most of it away. Krycek didn't set a run that day, just the usual inside exercises. 

During lunch, he realized that Skinner had been staring at him under his eyelashes all through the meal. As if really seeing him for the first time. Krycek decided it was time to push the trust issue just a bit further.

"Stay here," he said, after the dishes had been washed and put away. He pointed to the table. Skinner sat, waited.

Krycek came back with a bowl of hot water, scissors, shaving lather, a couple of towels, and a safety razor.

"I'm tired of not seeing your face," he wrapped a towel around Skinner's neck. "And it's not really you, Skinner. Not the beard. Not the long hair. You've never been scruffy, and if you've suddenly decided to go for the hippie look, well, you're too late now. You should have gone for it when you were the right age."

With the scissors, he trimmed the beard to a shaveable length. Skinner, he noticed, kept very still during the whole operation, only moving that part of his face that Krycek told him to move. 

It took, Krycek smiled to himself, a fair amount of trust to allow a one-handed man, who used an electric shaver himself, to shave your exposed throat with a safety razor.

When he got to hair, Krycek just shaved all of it off as well. Skinner didn't protest, just made a little sound when Krycek said, "Well, it's not as if you have no experience with being a leather-head."

"I think," offered Skinner, "you mean a leather-neck."

"Whatever. It'll grow back soon anyway." He walked around Skinner evaluating the afternoon's effort. He stopped in front of Skinner, check out the smoothness of his work on cheeks and jaw with a finger. Felt only the tiniest reaction from Skinner to his touch.

"Better," he said.

Skinner looked at him, raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he admitted, "better."

Krycek understood he wasn't just referring to the shave. 

*******************************************************

Skinner found himself waking, not because of nightmares but because of the sense that something was wrong.

He was alone in bed, alone in the loft. Slowly, he got out of bed, pulled his jeans on and went to see where Krycek was. 

The idea passed through his mind that Krycek was fed up with him, and had decided to take off. Then he shrugged it off. He hadn't heard the door close, a car
start. And he wasn't sleeping so deeply that he wouldn't have awaken at those sounds. Moreover, whenever Krycek went into town, he always made sure Skinner knew he was going, how long he intended to be away, and left a list of instructions of how to fill in his time while Krycek was gone. Krycek, Skinner had discovered, did not believe in idle hands. Besides, there was still plenty of that chocolate
ice cream he ate so that he had no reason for going into town.

Skinner found Krycek on the couch, feet on the table. His face was in the dark, but Skinner knew from the way his right hand was massaging his shoulder and the upper part of his stump that he was in pain. He'd read about phantom pain, but this was the first time he'd seen someone experiencing it.

He quietly approached the couch, stood behind Krycek and waited till the man acknowledged he was there before placing his hands on Krycek's shoulder and using thumbs and fingers, began pressing deeply into knotted muscle. 

Krycek dropped his own hand, sighed at the ease Skinner's hands were bringing him.

"Lean your head forward." Skinner worked on tight neck muscles, upper back muscles before moving to include the front of the shoulders. 

Krycek groaned. "Thanks. It's not the same thing when you do it to yourself."

Skinner grunted. "Phantom pain?"

"Yeah. And then the nerves get into act. It's like I can feel the burning from my shoulder to my hand. I get the impression that if I could just rub my hand, the bloody pain would stop."

Skinner moved his hands to the stump, holding it in both of his. He could feel the muscles twitching. Very gently, he massaged the scared and mangled limb. "Does this hurt?"

"Yeah, but it's good pain, don't stop. Sort of like working a charlie horse out of a muscle. That kind of hurt."

After a while, Krycek rested his head against the back of the couch, looked up at Skinner who was still working on his shoulder and stump.

"Skinner. What happened?"

Skinner didn't pretend to misunderstand the question. He shrugged. Krycek's hand reached up and rested on the arm nearest to it. He tugged gently, and, hand still on Skinner, got him to come around to the front of the couch. To sit next to him.

"Listen, I know you strong silent types don't like to talk much, but Skinner, those nightmares won't go away if you don't get some of that stuff out of you."

Krycek turned slightly so he could look at the man sitting stiffly next to him.

"Look, it's not that difficult. With a name like Sergei, you must have had some connection to a church. What? Russian Orthodox? Roman Catholic? Which one
was it?"

Skinner sat back, put his feet on the table next to Krycek's. Scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Come on, Walter. Don't make me remind you of your promise. Remember, I ask, you answer."

"Except," Skinner sighed, "you still haven't taken your revenge. And you won't kill me. Not now."

"No. Not necessary now. But it was close. That day I got here, you were going to do it. Put the Glock to your head and add to the general smell and mess of the place." He paused. "Why?"

Skinner still didn't answer.

"What Spender and his goons did to you was shit, but you never struck me as the type of guy who would let that kind of shit get to him. I'm not saying it wasn't bad, because it was. But Walter Sergei Skinner should have rolled with it, gotten up, found his feet and gone on with life."

Skinner decided to answer another question. "Catholic. My father found the Russian Liturgy took too much time. And the local school with the best football team was Catholic."

"So you practice?"

"No. Nam took care of that. And I haven't seen anything in the last thirty years to change my mind."

"But you're familiar with confession. That's all this is, Skinner. Confession time. Just close your eyes and pretend I'm Father O'Malley... "

"Father Kiwaulski." He found himself wondering just how far Krycek was going to play this.

"Father Kiwaulski then and tell me all your sins. You know, the venial ones first so that you can work your way up to the mortal and not shock the old wino."

Skinner quirked an eyebrow at Krycek. "You seem to know a lot about that."

"I've heard about it. I haven't done it." Almost defensive. Krycek tried again. "Look, do it whichever way you want, but get it out of your gut before it festers. Maybe it won't make the nightmares go away, but at least I'll know what we're dealing with. Maybe I can help."

Skinner looked carefully at the man next to him. The man who had bullied him back into life. The last man on earth he'd have ever thought would hold out a hand and pull him back from the blackness. A man he had abused, hated, had wanted dead, preferably by his hand.

Krycek didn't know where to go from here. He was tired and, in spite of the massage, his arm still hurt. It would continue hurting for no reason he could find and then suddenly stop, again for no discernable reason. Meanwhile, it left him tense, sore and gave him a headache. Normally he'd drink to handle the situation,
but he had no intention of doing so in front of Skinner.

He was seriously thinking of finding some codeine tablets when Skinner suddenly started talking.

"Two weeks after you found me OPC came to see me in the hospital."

"OPC? What the fuck for?" And two weeks after he'd found him, Walter Skinner had still not been in any shape to handle OPC.

"The video and cassette. The bank account."

Krycek was stunned. "Are you telling me they believed that bullshit?"

"That's their job, believing bullshit." Even Skinner heard the bitterness in his voice. "They 'interviewed' me every day after that. I was put on notice that I was to consider myself guilty... no, a traitor unless they could prove otherwise. Like you, they wanted a confession. It would make things easier on me if I just told them the truth."

"Jesus, Skinner. But they knew you. Shit! Even I knew it was a set-up when I heard it. Surely it was obvious to them."

"Well, you see, there'd been problems with my department before, where they'd had to investigate... "

Skinner stopped to listen to Alex Krycek swear fluently first in English, then in Russian. He really didn't have much Russian, only his maternal grandparents had
spoken it, but he did recognize a few of the expressions. His grandfather had always believed that Russian was a much better language for swearing. Krycek obviously knew a fair amount since he had yet to repeat himself.

Skinner waited for Krycek's anger to quiet. He hadn't really been surprised at the arrival of OPC. What had gotten to him was the vehemence, the acrimony directed at him. But eventually he had understood it. 

"Eventually," he continued, "OPC had to admit that apart from the video, the tape and the bank account, which they couldn't trace definitively back to me, I 'seemed' to be clean. That's when the Director came out with his oh-so-supportive statement.

"I knew that they believed me dirty when I got to the Grand Jury waiting room and met my lawyer."

"That asshole!" Krycek's disdain was obvious.

"The Director's god-son, who passed his bar exams on, it is rumoured, his fifth try. I knew that they were hanging me out to dry. And then there was Senator Matthews and his questions."

Skinner turned to look at Krycek who had slouched so that his spine rested on the seat, head thrown back, eyes closed.

"By the way, thanks for that. You were the only one in that room who understood what he was doing."

"Yeah, right. I told you to feed him and you did. You know," Krycek opened his eyes to look at Skinner, "I actually thought you'd get a kick out of what happened to him. What I did was set you up for yet another assault."

Skinner slouched beside Krycek on the couch. "Actually, there was a day when I finally got a laugh over it, but it did take a while. And I was drunk at the time. But I do seriously thank you. You were the only one who even tried to help."

"Look," Krycek felt he had to explain, "Scully and Mulder weren't there because they didn't even think for a minute that anyone would take those things about you
seriously. Neither of them knew about the OPC investigation, or they'd have been there fighting. Shit! We thought the bloody fighting was all over."

Skinner shrugged. The fact remained that of all of them, only Krycek had been there at the Grand Jury, had been the only one... again... to help him. 

A new thought came to him. "So, what did you threaten Spender with that he confessed to all the next day?"

Krycek shrugged. "I just described to him what prison life would be like if he were paralysed from the neck down."

"Graphically?"

Krycek met Skinner's half smile with a grin of his own. "I'm very good at graphic detail." Then, "How did you know it was me?"

Skinner's smile grew. "You just told me."

Krycek snickered. That was more like the old Skinner. "So where did you disappear to, after you were dismissed."

"The Director's Personal Assistant was waiting for me when I left the Court. To take me to the Director. The PA had already updated him on the morning's revelations."

"And?" By now, Krycek had an idea where this was going.

"And I got told that I had brought too much disrepute to the Bureau for them to allow me to come back."

"Even if you'd been cleared?"

"Ah, but I hadn't been cleared. I had admitted in my own testimony that I was quote a practising ho..mo..sexual who was into games of say..do..mas..o..chistic bondage. Unquote. That I had had sex with a subordinate who was too naive to
understand what I was leading him into."

"Mulder? Naive? Shit! That asshole doesn't know our boy very well, does he?" Krycek's first and only reference to the fact that they had both shared in Mulder's favours.

Skinner ignored the comment. "That in spite of Spender's testimony, I was still under suspicion and therefore, until and unless I was completely cleared, irrevocably cleared by OPC, it would be required that I take leave without pay for at least six months while my work was investigated. Of course, should I wish to do the 'honourable' thing for the Bureau and ist reputation, I could resign. They would even 'allow' me to take retirement if that was the route I preferred. After all, I did have my twenty years and was eligible. Of course, pension payments would have to be held back until I was cleared."

Shit! No wonder the man had hit the bottle.

"I really wasn't surprised then that Scully and Mulder weren't around. I had been their supervisor. I understood that considering the position I was in, they couldn't be seen to support me in any way and keep their careers... "

"That's bullshit!" Krycek's vehemence stopped Skinner.

"No. I was... I am poison."

"That's not what I calling bullshit, though that's also bullshit. No. You weren't just their supervisor. You covered for them more than you had to. You cared for them. Christ, Skinner, you were their fucking lifeline! They should have been there for you. Hell, Skinner! You were even there for me!"

Skinner looked stunned. "How the hell did you come to that conclusion?"

"Come on, the number of times you could have killed me. Called the cops on me. Could have thrown me off the balcony."

"Instead I tortured you."

Krycek rolled his eyes. "Get real. You of all people know that it wasn't torture."

"Really. So what was it that I did to you that night on my balcony?"

Krycek meet Skinner's eyes, saw the self-disgust in them. "I pissed you off and you lost it for a while."

"I lost it?!" Skinner was incredulous.

"Jesus, Skinner, you going to tell me that Spender put a glove and a ton of lube on one of those gun barrels before he shoved it up your ass?" He took a deep breath, tried again. 

"Look, I'm not saying it didn't hurt: it did. But you didn't tear me." Well, he had, but not much. And he had had worse in his life. "Though, I did shit lube for the next two days. And face it, you did have legitimate grounds for hating me. It's not like you did it out of the blue.

"And, not that I'm excusing them, but Scully was up to her neck in corpses in Quantico, from the Johnson case. And Mulder was on the West Coast at some conference with the Director. Neither of them suspected what was going on. I swear, Skinner. They didn't know. Or they'd have been there. And they never for a moment believed any of that crap Spender invented."

There was a long bit of quiet while Krycek thought of some very inventive things he wanted to do to the Bureau Director. 

"My family believed it." Skinner voice was very quiet.

The final piece, thought Krycek. "What did they believe?"

"The video, the cassette, the bank account. Even after Spender confessed, they thought there had to be a grain of truth to it because if there hadn't been, the Director would have come out right away to defend me."

Krycek was stunned silent.

"And then there's the fact that I sleep with men. It's bad enough I do it, but to admit it in front of a Grand Jury humiliated them to no end. They had to send for the doctor for my mother. They thought she was going to have a heart attack. My brother George wouldn't let me talk to her because if I did, it might kill her. 
When I tried to get her later on, she hung up the phone on hearing my voice.

"I thought if I gave it some time, things would calm down. So I waited, called my other brother, Tom. He actually talked to me. Told me how mom couldn't hold up her head in town any more. How Father Kiwaulski helped her pray for my immortal soul. How I was a embarrassment to the Marine Corps, the FBI, the
American way of life. That he hoped that I would have the common basic decency, if people like me *had* any decency, to remember that there were children in the family and that my presence would not be tolerated around them.

"He probably had more to say, but I hung up at that point.

"That was the day you arrived." 
*******************************************************

The next day, while Skinner was out running, Krycek got hold of Scully in Quantico. Told her about the OPC investigations, about the Director and his "support".

Heard, for the first time in his life, Dana Scully swear like the sailor her father had been.

"How bad is he?"

"It's getting better. He'd lost weight. Wasn't eating properly. Drinking too much. But he's got it under control again. More like the old Skinner."

"Are you sure? Maybe I should come out and see for myself."

"Wait, will you, Scully. Maybe later. But there are still a few things left for him to sort out, and it would be easier if he dealt with them first. And I promise I'll call you every week with an update."

Scully wanted to believe Krycek that things weren't bad, but had gotten the message that interference would not be welcomed. And since Krycek was the one who had gone up, she felt she had to trust him. "Every week. I'll expect your call every Wednesday at this time. If I don't hear from you, I'll be coming up. And, Krycek, I'll find out what's going on with OPC. After all, the new Acting Assistant Director used to be my partner."

"How's he doing?"

"Having the time of his life shaking things up. Got the budget people freaked out over his expenses approvals. Won't read reports longer than three pages. He's getting away with it all only because he knows he's still the Media darling. All that positive coverage is just delighting the upper offices."
*******************************************************

Krycek gave Skinner the day off for Christmas. Even allowed him some of his chocolate ice cream after warning him that should any disappear that he couldn't
account for, he would break Skinner's hands.

Skinner thanked him very politely for the treat, then pointed out to Krycek that he really didn't like chocolate all that much, preferred butter pecan. Which Krycek added to the shopping list.

Once Skinner initiated a conversation of his own: wondering if Krycek didn't want to go back to his place to pick up some clothes, his mail, something.

Krycek had been wearing some of Skinner's clothes, his shirts, his sweats. Had bought socks, t-shirts, underwear in the town's general store.

"I don't really have any other clothes. I usually keep things down to a bare minimum. As for the apartment, I rent it by the week. So it's been long cleaned out and rented to someone else. And the only mail I get is addressed 'Occupant'."

New Year's Day. They spent the evening watching yet another football game. Skinner was watching, stretched out on the couch. Krycek was sitting cross-legged in the armchair, working his way through Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury", occasionally looking at the game.

He got up at one point, returned some time later with two drinks. Placed one on the coffee table by Skinner, resettled in his chair with the other.

Skinner looked at the drink, could smell it was scotch. Knew by the colour, it had to be prime. Looked over at Krycek who was watching him.

"Aren't you afraid I'll go back to that other stuff?"

Krycek shook his head. "You're no alcoholic, Skinner. One glass in the evening, now and then, isn't going to send you back that way. Not now." He raised his
glass, said something in Russian, translated at Skinner's raised eyebrow. "To life!"

Skinner picked up the glass, toasted Krycek with it. "To life. Alex."

Alex smiled. "To life. Walter."

Walter took a sip. Felt the warmth of single malt scotch roll over his tongue, down his throat, into his stomach. He shut his eyes in appreciation. "Good stuff."

Alex shrugged. "You should know. That's the brand you had on the sideboard in your place that night."

Walter shook his head in rueful appreciation. Alex had spent what, ten seconds? in that part of his apartment, yet had noticed, and remembered, something that insignificant. No wonder the man was still alive.
*******************************************************

Alex was beginning to wonder when Walter was going to tell him to get lost. He'd been here two months, since mid-November.

He had to admit that he liked it here at the cabin with Walter. Had joined him in the morning and afternoon runs since the New Year. Their chess games had become battles of strategy since their evening games allowed them both to test old skills.

Scully updated him every week on the ongoing battle with OPC. "It's as if they want to find something to hang on him," she grouched. "And since they can't,
they keep on digging."

"They don't want to admit they were wrong. That they abandoned one of their own. Not good for morale," Alex explained.

"Mulder's threatened to go public unless they tie it up real soon." Scully told him the next week.

"That should light a fire under them." Alex's tone was both bitter and sarcastic.

"I've got some time coming to me," said Scully. "Want me to replace you for a while?"

But Alex didn't want to be replaced, didn't want any outside interference. 

Because he had finally clued in to the last bit of the Skinner puzzle; that feeling that no matter how well Walter was, there was something missing. 

That morning, he'd passed the bathroom and noticed that while shaving, Walter didn't look in the mirror. As if he didn't want to see himself.

That got Alex thinking. Walter still flinched if he was accidentally touched. Except in bed, after a nightmare, he made no effort to touch Alex, even in passing.

And, unless he jerked off on his runs or in the shower, he had not had any sex at all, of any type, since the kidnapping.

Alex knew that he himself waited to jerk off in the shower. He tended to be a bit loud and liked the idea of privacy.

He knew now that Walter hadn't had much counselling in the hospital, none since leaving.

And he had been brutally raped, not just by gun barrels but by the three men themselves. Anally and orally.

Alex remembered how he had felt the first time he had been brutally raped. How long it had taken for him to even tolerate the sight of his body in the shower. Not
to cringe at the touch of a hand.

He shook his head, refusing to go down that path any longer. But it made him look at Walter differently, picking up signals he had till then either not seen or ignored.

He waited till they were in bed to test his theory.

He had propped himself on a couple of pillows, near the centre of the bed, watching Walter stoke up the fire in the wood stove that heated the loft, undress. Walter was surprised to find him that close to himself, but just lay back, the way he did every night. 

Alex waited till he thought Walter was comfortable before reaching out to pass a finger along his jaw. Walter's eyes opened, stared at the ceiling, didn't turn toward Alex. 

Alex just kept on stroking the stubbly skin of jaw and cheek, felt the tension rise in the man with each pass of his finger.

"When we finally do it," he leaned over and whispered, "it will not be rape. You'll want it as much as I do." Walter's eyes turned to his. "Yes, you will. But for right now, we'll go slowly. Very slowly. Just a touch, till you get used to the feel of my hand."

He moved the finger across Walter's mouth, gently stroking the lips. Up to his nose and down it. Again across the lips. Walter's eyes holding his own. 

"Till the feel of them is less than the feel of my hand on your skin."

Walter pulled away, sat on the edge of the bed, trying hard not to vomit.

Alex moved to sit on his heels behind Walter. He didn't touch the man, just let him adjust to his presence in his personal space.

"By now I think you trust me enough to know I won't hurt you. You're a hell of a lot better than what you were when I first got here, Walter. You're eating regularly. You're back in shape. You're back in control. Of everything except this.

"Before they raped you, you liked sex. You couldn't help but like it with Mulder. You probably even liked it a lot with your wife.

"They took a lot away from you, Walter. Your reputation. Your peace of mind. Your self-worth. You went down for a while there, but you've pulled yourself back up. And in the long run, you're going to win.

"But not if you let them keep this part of yourself. If you do, they'll have won your soul, your heart.

"And it's not an easy thing to do, to win back your soul. I know."

Alex took a deep breath. "I know what it's like to avoid looking into a mirror because you can't stand to see what's in your eyes. To shower and pretend it's someone else's body you're washing. Because if it's yours that's being touched, the idea will send you screaming through the night. To see marks on your body that disgust you.

"To have nightmares where the darkness is hands and other things hurting. To wake up screaming your throat to shreds. To the smell of vomit."

Alex paused, trying to control his own breathing. "If you want me to leave, I will. But I would rather stay, if you'll allow. And if you do, then I will touch you, Walter. I will allow you to dictate how much I can touch, but I will touch you.

"If the only way you can tolerate this is to say that this is my revenge for the balcony, then that's okay. I will tell you now, it isn't. I have wanted to touch
you for some time now, but I wanted it to be a mutual want."

His voice softened.

"I would like once in my life for someone to want me as much as I want him. To want my pleasure as I want his. To touch me with care. As I touch him with care."

Alex rested his head against Walter's shoulder, whispered so low that Walter barely heard the words. "Not just be a piece of meat." 

Walter let his head rest on top of Alex's. God! He was tired! It had hurt him more than he would admit to hear Alex understood his self-loathing. 

Slowly, he turned and took Alex into his arms. It was his turn to hold and comfort. How many times had Alex done it for him since he'd arrived? How many times had
someone done it for Alex?

He lay back on the pillows, holding Alex. They slept that way through the night. 

No nightmares for either of them.
*******************************************************

Walter was aware that Alex had been very sincere in telling him if he stayed he would touch. 

Because touch he did. Light, casual touches. On a shoulder. On an arm. Just in passing.

Standing closer to him than he had done. Sitting next to him on the couch.

Yet always watching for Walter's reaction. Careful not to push too long, too deeply. 

Just getting him used to the feel of his hand, the nearness of his body. The fact that his eyes followed him.

And those were just the days. The nights were a bit more intense. Touching for a purpose. 

Just the face to begin. A finger delineating his features. Eyes watching for the slightest nuance of pain, fear in his. Then a hand caressing. A comment about the roughness of his beard. About how, when they were going to have sex, he was going to have to shave first.

Then his mouth. Just passing over his skin, his lips. Then tip of tongue, tracing the path the finger had taken. Licking. Tasting. Soothing.

And done, gradually, over several nights. Sometimes as they went to bed. Others, to awaken him in the night at the start of a nightmare. In the morning.

So that finally, Walter realized that what he felt on his face was not the touch of the men who had hurt him, but of Alex. 

That night, he turned to Alex, and began his own attack of touch, using, as Alex had, just a finger to begin with. Was rewarded with green eyes that showed surprise. Then wary pleasure. Watched as his touch brought a slight blush to Alex's face. Passed his own lips over the blush. Opened his mouth to Alex's taste and felt it overpower the sour taste that had been left behind in his. 

Walter found that now he too touched in the days. The same light, casual touches. Fingers brushing when they played chess. A slight nudge of a shoulder against the
other's, to point out a bit of action on TV. Feet "accidentally" resting on the other's on the coffee table. Slouching so that head rested against shoulder.

And understanding that a stump hurt after a day of wearing a prosthesis. That a massage of neck, shoulder, stump was heaven for a one-armed man who could never reach the right muscle.

Other than Scully's weekly phone call, and the weekly food delivery by the boy at the gas station, they were alone. And uninterrupted. Getting to know each other, each other's bodies gradually. 

Like, thought Walter one night, curled up in bed with Alex after a necking session, two teenage virgins pussy-footing around each other. 

He nearly said it aloud to Alex, but by now had pieced together enough information about Alex himself to know he had not had that kind of adolescence.

It became a game; what Alex touched one night, Walter touched the next. Necks, shoulders, chest were added to face.

Walter learnt that Alex enjoyed having his throat stroked, his collarbone nibbled, his nipples teased by tongue and teeth.

Alex discovered that Walter's underarms were an erogenous zone that made him flush from mid-chest to throat. That he liked having the soft side of his elbows licked. That he was ticklish on his left ribs, but not his right.

Each was careful of the other's scars. Gentle with them.

It took them a month of nights to finally work their way below each other's waists. Where Walter found it hard to take a hand, a light touch. But by now Alex had a better understanding of Walter's mind. Knew that words - not that either of them was much of a talker - would help distract Walter's attention from a hand that was travelling over badly used territory.

So, head resting on Walter's chest, hand making gentle forays on abdomen, groin, upper thighs, Alex tried to find stories from his past that would keep Walter's mind away from that hand.

He had made no attempts to conceal his past from Walter, knew that the man could put the bits of information that sometimes slipped out to their logical conclusion. Knew that from Mulder's reports Walter would know how he had survived in Hong Kong, how he had used his skills to start his way up the internal structure of the Consortium.

There were not too many light moments in his past, but he did find a few that he felt if he shared, Walter would not look at him with contempt or disgust and send
him away. 

In turn, Walter told him about Vietnam. About the boy who had given him his first blow job. About the officer who had taken his virginity. About his dying.

So that the night Alex finally put his mouth to Walter's cock, Walter just sighed, and let himself accept the wonders of Alex's mouth. Playing with him. Soothing him. Taking away the fear of the oh-so-acute memories of pain. Bringing him pleasure. And finally orgasm. Deep within the warmth, the security of Alex's
mouth.

When Alex had finished with him, he moved up Walter's body to take his mouth. "Taste yourself, Walter. As good as chocolate ice cream." 

And Walter tasted Alex, himself, flavours intermingled with the saltiness of tears that ran down his skin into his mouth.

Alex nestled against him, holding him. 

And wondered if Walter would have any use for him after tonight. 

But in the middle of the night, it was Alex who woke with the feel of a mouth on him. Walter took his time, remembering the comment about being taken with care. And he was careful because Alex also had his share of scars, his memories of pain centred on his groin. 

And when he too had come, had gasped his semen into Walter's throat, Walter also moved up Alex's body to take his mouth. "Taste yourself, Alex," he repeated. "As good as sixteen year old scotch."

And wondered where they went from here.
*******************************************************

Walter noticed that Alex seemed to be fighting some depression. He recognized it easily enough from his own. More trouble sleeping. Time spent just staring out the window. Less appetite.

Not that there was less touching, there wasn't. Alex seemed more intent on increasing the sensuality of his touch. Light touches became caresses; tasting, kisses. There were times Walter felt that his skin burnt from the play of hand and mouth on his body: and that was with him still wearing his clothes.

Alex would surprise him, push him against the wall, or into the couch, or onto the floor and stroke him through his clothes till he felt that the merest touch of cloth against his cock would make him come. Except that Alex would suddenly stop, pull away and resume what he had been doing. Walter would have called him a
cockteaser except that it was obvious from the erection behind Alex's jeans that he too was being left short of completion.

At night, there was a controlled element of franticness to Alex's love-making. Walter knew there was something not right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Except that maybe Alex had been here three months and was feeling restless.

Walter suddenly found that thought depressing.

Then one night, Alex whispered into Walter's ear, "I want to come in you. Will you let me?"

Walter felt a frisson of fear. Alex picked it up. "Slowly. Not tonight, but when you're ready."

And Walter looked into dark green eyes and realized that he wanted Alex to come in him. So that he in turn could come in Alex.

Holding Alex's eyes, he turned to lie on his stomach. His hand drew the other's so that Alex lay on top of him. Alex sighed, nibbled the top of the shoulder under him. He slipped his hand under Walter's shoulder and slept there for the night. Walter felt like some big cat had settled on him, found comfort in the weight, the sound of the breathing, and slept.

The next night, he took the initiative for the first time. He dropped lube and condoms on the bed by Alex. Leaning over, he took Alex's mouth with his, let his hand stroke neck, slowly move down a taut body to Alex's hardening cock. His mouth followed his hand.

Alex pulled away. "Too quick," he gasped. "You're the one who needs to get ready."

Alex dropped his mouth to Walter's body. Played all the spots he had learnt made Walter forget to think. When he felt Walter was truly ready, he handed him the bottle of lube to open. Walter spread the gel on his fingers, and then turned face down. 

Alex wished right then for his arm back, if only for the next little bit of time. The top position in this move was somewhat difficult for one arm. Resting his upper body on Walter's back, kissed the skin nearest his mouth. 

"Take a breath, Walter." And gradually slipped a finger into Walter's very tight ass. Walter stilled. Alex waited till he was certain Walter had adjusted to the feel of the finger before slowly moving it back and forth. Gently. Talking him through this first penetration.

"God, Walter. A catholic miracle. The surgeons made you a virgin again." Felt a slight snort from the man under him.

Then, seriously, "Tell me if it hurts. I don't want it to hurt, Walter. I don't want to hurt you." Punctuated with kissing, nibbling, licking the whip scars by his face.

"You're not hurting me, Alex. The only way you can hurt me is to leave me hanging like this." Walter moved his hips into the rhythm of the finger. Gasped when a second joined the beat.

Realized that the position was not easy for Alex to maintain. With careful concentration, he moved to his hands and knees, taking Alex and those fingers with
him. So that Alex was now kneeling behind him, between his knees, more easily able to control the action.

Alex withdrew his fingers, rolled on the condom, added more lube to it. He bent over Walter, kissed his back and slowly began pushing his way into Walter's body. He did it slowly, waiting for Walter to become accustomed to the stretch. He hadn't been kidding: Walter was tight, virginically tight. He wanted this to be pleasurable, not anything to remind Walter of the last penetration.

Had it been the Walter of a month before, it would have been necessary. This Walter appreciated the concern, but wanted to feel Alex in him, now. He brought back a hand to grasp Alex's hip, and, before Alex could do anything, thrust himself back, fully, on Alex's cock. 

Alex swore. "Jesus! Walter!"

Walter bit his lip to the point of blood. For a moment, there was a burning pain. But then, that it was Alex in him, brought a sense of pleasure. He began moving his hips, "Alex! I'm okay. But I need you along for this ride."

Alex's hand came up to caress his stomach, stroke his abdomen, squeeze his balls. Hips moved in counter rhythm to Walter's thrusts, causing Walter to gasp when
Alex found his prostate. 

Walter rested his weight on one hand, brought up the other to grasp his cock, only to have Alex's hand slap it away. "Mine," he growled in Walter's ear.

The word became his mantra. As he thrust in, as he brought Walter to orgasm, as he spilled himself into Walter's ass. As he lay spent next to his lover, he whispered it.

And longed with all his being for it to be true.
*******************************************************

Walter woke the next morning, feeling as though a weight had been removed from his shoulders. Only to find, by the end of the day, that it had merely moved from him to Alex.

Alex was even quieter than usual. More... wary. His eyes tracked Walter all through the day with almost a hunger. As if he were storing up... something. Sometimes, something close to pain would flash across his features, and his breath would suddenly hitch as if to control the feeling.

That evening, while Walter was watching a hockey game on TV, Alex joined him on the couch, rested his head on one thigh, arm slipped under the other, and retended to sleep under Walter's stroking hand.

When they went upstairs, Alex dropped the lube and condom next to Walter. Watched with darkly serious eyes, as Walter aroused him, barely participating in
the act. Walter touched him gently, watched him shatter when he penetrated him, Alex's legs over his shoulders, face to face. 

Walter wondered if Alex was even aware that his eyes shed tears all through their final thrusts, through both their orgasms. He withdrew carefully, as if Alex were made of glass. Got rid of the condom. Pulled Alex into his arms and wrapped himself around the silently weeping man. 

Walter gently stroked Alex, long soothing caresses from the back of his head, down his nape, along the spine to the small of his back. Then back up again. Back and forth. Until Alex fell asleep.
*******************************************************

The Alex that woke up in his arms was self-contained, calm. As if last night had never happened.

Walter watched him puttering in the kitchen, making his breakfast. Realized with a shock that Alex was wearing only his own clothes, nothing of Walter's. 

He sat back in his chair, coffee in hand, and thought over the last few days. Concluded that Alex was leaving. But not the reason why.

Or had he?

Or was it just wishful thinking on his part. 

But he kept on hearing Alex's voice as it chanted "Mine", and decided to take a chance. 

"Alex. I have a problem."

Alex turned slowly, leaned back against the counter-top, hand braced on edge. He looked like a man expecting a blow. Even raised his chin for it. "What is it?" His voice revealed little of his tension.

Walter looked from his coffee to the man watching him. 

"How do you tell a man you once whipped and fisted that you love him?"

It wasn't what Alex had been expecting. 

Walter stood up, went up to Alex. Raised a trembling hand to caress a whitened cheek. 

"So," he whispered, "how do I tell him, Alex?" He bent and passed his mouth over Alex's bottom lip. Looked up into eyes that carried far too many shadows, far too much pain.

"That's... " Alex swallowed and tried again, a whisper. "That's not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?" Walter's mouth moved to those eyes now closing, his tongue drawing the shape of them.

"That it was time for me to leave." 

Walter rested his forehead against Alex's, felt the pain, the expectation of rejection that Alex's indifferent tone covered.

He brought his hands up Alex's sides, from his hips to his shoulders, brought his hands around the tensed neck, to clasp the face in a gentle hold. He lowered his mouth to Alex's. Felt it tremble under his. 

Hesitantly, Alex brought up his hand, moved it across ribs, back to shoulder. "Please," he whispered into Walter's mouth. For a moment, he leaned into the kiss, savouring, then pulled back. Walter saw Alex's soul stripped bare on his face. "Is this a joke of some kind?"

"No joke. I swear. Alex. Don't go. Stay with me. Please."

Alex pressed close to Walter, held him tightly, was in turn held tightly. Felt some of the pain that had enclosed him for the last two days dissolve. 
*******************End of Part 2*************************