By joan the english chick

Disclaimer: The characters are property of 10-13 Productions and 20th Century Fox, and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is property of the author, and may not be reproduced, retransmitted, or posted anywhere without my express permission.
Timeline: This story takes place after the sixth-season episodes "S.R. 819" and "Field Trip."
Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual interaction between two men. Please do not read it if such things offend you or if you are under the legal age in your area.

The knock on his door came in the middle of the night, bypassing the doorbell in favor of a series of sharp raps, followed by a brief pause and then another few raps for emphasis. Walter Skinner glanced at the digital clock as he swung his bare legs out of bed, but only caught the first digit, which was a two. It was all he needed to know, really.

Skinner had a bathrobe, but the evening was warm, so he ignored it and padded barefoot through his dark apartment to open the door to his nemesis. Krycek staggered in, short of breath and unsteady on his feet and, as usual, slightly wild-eyed. He said nothing, but lurched over to the sofa and fell onto it like a sack of flour.

Skinner left Krycek where he was and went into the kitchen, returning in a moment with a dishtowel and a bottle of beer. The younger man used the former to wipe the sweat from his face, and drank from the latter in several deep gulps. Skinner sat in the armchair beside the sofa and silently watched his unwanted visitor drink. Krycek's hand trembled slightly, sloshing the beer around in the bottle. Sweat was drying on his body, and although the temperature in the apartment was warm, goosebumps stood out on his arm.

After a few moments, Krycek spoke, his voice dulled and slurred from fatigue. "Got anythin' t'eat?"

"There's some leftover pizza," Skinner replied tersely. This seemed to appeal. Krycek hauled himself upright and moved toward the kitchen, taking his beer along. Skinner followed, snagging the dishtowel as he passed.

Krycek had turned on the kitchen lights, their fluorescent glare stabbing at Skinner's eyes and making him squint. He stuck the towel back into its place hanging from a cabinet handle and ducked his head to shield his pained eyes. Krycek was rooting around in the fridge; Skinner spoke to his back.

"I'm going back to bed," the older man declared. "Make yourself at home." He made no attempt to hide the sarcasm. He had found, after careful testing of Krycek's limits, that his new master didn't care how caustic Skinner's words were, as long as he continued to meet Krycek's needs.

Skinner went through the dark apartment back to his bedroom, and lifted his cold feet back into the warm bed. But of course he couldn't go back to sleep, not with the enemy in his kitchen eating his food. He lay staring at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of Krycek eating the pizza, opening a second beer, rummaging through cabinets. A papery rustling sound told Skinner that the intruder had found the stash of cookies he kept in case of midnight cravings. There were faint crunching sounds, and then a long period of silence.

At last the light from the kitchen, which seeped into the hall outside the bedroom, snapped off, leaving the apartment in darkness again. Slow footsteps advanced down the hall and the dark shape of Krycek appeared in the doorway. Skinner didn't move.

"This crap about magic mushrooms, man-eating mountains, zat for real?" Krycek demanded hoarsely. The food had revived him somewhat; his voice sounded more alert.

"Apparently," Skinner said, giving a slight shrug. Another silent moment crept by, and then Krycek moved forward into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed; gravity pulled Skinner toward him as the mattress compressed under Krycek's weight. Their hips brushed against each other.

"'Zee screwing her?" Krycek asked. He meant Mulder; he meant Scully.

"Damned if I know," Skinner replied, ritually answering the same way he always did. "If he is, they're being totally discreet."

At first, Skinner had wondered whether Krycek's obsessive questioning about Mulder was on behalf of his superiors: the smoking man, the other shadowy conspirators. But eventually Skinner had come to recognize the tone in the younger man's voice. It was the same tone he heard in his sister's voice, when she would ask after her ex-husband, a cop who worked in the FBI building. The divorce had been bitter and the relationship remained acrimonious, yet like a tongue poking a sore tooth, Carol Skinner hungered for news of the man. It was the same with Krycek and Mulder. Skinner had to remind himself that they *had* been partners, for a time, and it was clear that the young renegade still carried a torch.

Now Krycek gave a sound that might have been a sniff or snort of disdain. "Discreet," he repeated scornfully. His left hand rested lightly on Skinner's thigh. "You gotta be kiddin'."

"I don't think he's her type," Skinner said. From below, he regarded Krycek's round, hardened face, his hooded eyes, the dark lashes swept down to disguise their expression.

"Don't patronize me," Krycek ordered, his pouty mouth making the command seem petulant.

Walter Skinner considered himself a pragmatic man. If something was inevitable, he figured, one might as well do one's best to enjoy it. He had come to this decision easily, the first time, when, having already revealed his power to destroy, Krycek had said to him, "Suck my dick," and Skinner had realized he meant it literally. Skinner didn't see any point in denying that he enjoyed it.

He sat up, sliding his hands across Krycek's shoulders underneath the tight leather jacket, pushing it over the shoulders and down. Krycek moved his arms back to make the task easier, and Skinner deftly worked the jacket over the awkward prosthetic hand and let it fall to the ground.

While he was doing this, he kissed Krycek's hard, angry mouth, which opened to him, hot and tasting of beer. The younger man arched his back provocatively and pressed his lips against Skinner's, their tongues sliding urgently over each other. Krycek's flesh hand was hot on Skinner's bare chest, the other hand weirdly hard and cool on his thigh. Skinner moved his hands to Krycek's waist, grasping the tight white T-shirt in his strong fists and yanking it upward. The material ripped slightly as it passed over his head and right arm, but then it was bunched around the prosthetic wrist and Krycek shook his arm impatiently, freeing it. Skinner twisted one small brown nipple firmly with his fingers, wrapping the other arm around the younger man's back. He lowered himself backward onto the bed, taking the other man with him, their mouths meeting again. Krycek was sprawled across him, sweaty naked chest to sweaty naked chest, pulsing groin to pulsing groin. They panted into each other's mouths, thrusting against each other, legs tangling together: Skinner's bare, Krycek's rasping in his characteristic black jeans.

But experience taught that Krycek, paradoxically, preferred to be dominated in bed, so Skinner rolled them over, positioning himself above the younger man, easily pinning his one good hand to the pillow above his head. Skinner ground himself slowly against the bulge in Krycek's jeans, watching the other man's face contort with arousal. Krycek was like an animal, bucking and writhing underneath him, thrusting his hips upward as if trying to throw Skinner off. Skinner held him down with one hand on his wrist, pinning Krycek's lower body with his own, and reached between them with his other hand to unzip the black jeans and free Krycek's rock-hard erection. Skinner's own cock throbbed insistently, in time with the jerking organ in his hand. He ignored his own desire and lowered himself flat on the bed, sliding downward, forced to let go his grip on Krycek's hand. Instead he centered one hand back on a tight, sensitized nipple, placing the other firmly on Krycek's hip and holding him down that way.

Krycek went completely still as soon as Skinner's hot mouth touched his eager cock. He threw his head back against the pillow and curved the fingers of his good hand around Skinner's bare head, tiny whimpers escaping his throat as his entire body tensed. Skinner swirled his tongue broadly around the head of Krycek's erection and then downward, drawing the tip of his tongue across the tender underside before raising himself up again and taking almost the entire shaft in his mouth. He sucked strongly, nudging Krycek's thighs wider apart with his broad shoulders, and felt the tension growing. It was only another moment before Krycek gave a low, hoarse cry and spilled his creamy juices into Skinner's mouth. Skinner, gulping quickly, smiled to himself and pretended not to notice how Krycek moaned Fox Mulder's name as he came.

Gasping, Krycek lay limp on the bed as Skinner rose to his knees. Skinner took a moment to look down at the long, wiry, beautiful form of his nemesis sprawled out on his bed, his cock rapidly softening, his hair and skin sheened with sweat, his dark lashes drawn languidly down across his expressive eyes, his jeans hanging open around his waist.

The sight made Skinner's cock throb anew, and he reached out with one strong hand to grab Krycek's left hip and, in one swift motion, flipped the younger man over. Krycek gave a small yelp of surprise, but Skinner had calculated well, and Krycek's good arm was trapped underneath his body. Skinner quickly put one hand in the small of Krycek's back, holding him down, and used the other to tug the black jeans down over Krycek's butt and past his thighs.

Krycek struggled, but Skinner knew it was what he wanted. It had been many times before. Still, Skinner kept one hand firmly on Krycek's back while he bent down and used his tongue, still heavy with Krycek's semen, to moisten the tight rosy bud nestled between Krycek's sweet, round buttocks.

Then Skinner lifted himself up and laid his torso across Krycek's back, feeling how the other man panted and wriggled underneath him, sensing his rapid heartbeat. Skinner reached down and guided the tip of his erection to the opening, and then let both his hands drift down to grip Krycek's waist firmly. In a single rapid, fierce thrust, he forced his way inside, drawing a loud gasp from Krycek and a low moan from Skinner's own throat. He pulled back a little, using his hands to lift Krycek's hips up off the bed to provide a better angle, and thrust in again, the friction and the tight heat sending ripples of intense pleasure up his spine.

Krycek had managed to pry his arm out from underneath him, but all he did with it was curl his fingers tightly in the sheet underneath him. He bent his knees up, pressing his ass back toward Skinner, inviting the next thrust, which came so hard it rocked Krycek forward. He pushed up onto his elbows, balancing on the bed on hands and knees, his head hanging down, mouth open, his urgent pants mingling with Skinner's. His right hand slid underneath him and reached for his cock, which had hardened again; he wrapped his fingers around it and stroked it slickly, matching his rhythm to the rhythm of Skinner fucking him.

But balancing on his prosthetic arm made Krycek unsteady, and Skinner felt it; he reached one arm around his lover's waist and wrapped his own hand around Krycek's cock, taking up the insistent rhythm and increasing it, moving faster now as his own pleasure built. Krycek put his hand back on the bed and concentrated on thrusting himself backward, grunting with desperation. Both men felt the slide of flesh on flesh and moaned at the ecstasy of it, and with one more powerful thrust Skinner reached the edge and poured off, climaxing explosively, his hand instinctively tightening around Krycek's cock and bringing the other man to a startled orgasm of mingled pain and pleasure.

Much later, a weary Krycek pried his sticky body out of the bed and kicked his jeans the rest of the way off, staggering down the hall to the bathroom. Skinner heard the shower running and picked himself up as well, groaning slightly as muscles twinged. He pulled the sticky sheets off the bed and bundled them into the laundry, put on a fresh set of sheets, and tucked himself back into his boxers. He wandered into the living room and stood staring out at the lights of Washington DC.

In a few minutes Krycek joined him, a towel wrapped around his waist, his wet hair tousled. He too looked out the window, but he was seeing something different.

"Remember the time you cuffed me to that railing?" he asked quietly, looking at the balcony outside Skinner's apartment. Skinner tensed, half fearing Krycek was going to make him reenact that scene, and have sex right there on the balcony for all the world to see. But the renegade said merely, "Lot's happened since then."

"That's the truth," Skinner agreed, somewhat warily. Krycek walked up to him, coming so close he could smell his own soap on the other man's skin and feel the damp heat radiating from him, but they didn't touch. Krycek stared into his eyes for a long moment, then turned and walked away.

Skinner followed the younger man back into the bedroom, where Krycek picked up his jeans from the floor and struggled into them. Skinner watched, resisting the urge to help. He had made that mistake, the first time, and received such a glare it had required no words. That one look had told him everything he needed to know about the prosthetic arm, namely: his questions were to go unasked, and his assistance unoffered. Words had never been exchanged on the subject; they were unnecessary.

Finished with the jeans, Krycek managed with his T-shirt as well, and then slung his jacked over his shoulder. His sneakers, discarded at some point during the frantic lovemaking, were easily slipped back on, and he stepped over to take one last taste of Skinner's lips, coaxing the older man's tongue into his mouth and then biting down on it until Skinner grunted in pain. Krycek released his teeth and deepened the kiss, prolonging it another long moment before he pulled away and left without a backward glance, leaving the towel on the floor.

Skinner picked up the towel and couldn't resist sniffing it once; it smelled heavily of Krycek's musk. Skinner got back into bed and listened to the front door opening and closing again. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that Krycek hadn't actually left; he could hear, although inaudible, the sneakers silently padding back across the floor to the sofa. He knew, too, that he could offer Krycek the bed, and it would be rejected. He lay back uneasily, listening to the silence, straining for a sound, but hearing nothing. He was sure he would be awake all night, listening to nothing.

In the morning when he awoke, Krycek was gone.