Measure of Devotion
MJ Lee (mj.lee@chello.se)

Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Skinner/Krycek
Warnings: Non-connish in places, quite a bit of angst and schmoop. Very mil d spoilers for Season 8 but veering off in another direction before that ep.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Notes: Well, this was supposed to be just a tiny pwp, a character study of Krycek and Skinner, but umm, it turned into something else.
I have a quite a few people to thank, so in no particular order, Emu, for reading through a first rough draft and offering insights into Skinner; Aaboe and Cara for their knowledge of ahem, interesting techniques and kinks; Kris for the Russian cursing; Kes for gun info; the unlucky people i n #bic who had to suffer through my endless moaning, whining and obsessing in IRC; Ursula for once again taking time out from her own incredibly busy lif e and betaing another monster for me; and last by never, never least; the two best friends and betas anyone can ever be lucky enough to have, Raven and Dee. I don't know many people who will beta a story this size, correct horrendous grammar and knit dangling plot threads together, not to mention betaing a final version on-line in one marathon eight-hour session. Dee, I worship at your feet. Raven is the only person I know who sends back a betaed story before I've had time to catch my breath and then pushes for more to beta.

This is dedicated to all the great Sk/K writers, in particular Josan and Ji M who first introduced me to the pleasure of the AD and his Rat.
Summary: An unexpected encounter between two old enemies leads to Walter Skinner acquiring a new and unwanted possession.

Title: Author: MJ Lee E-Mail: mj.lee@chello.se ---------------------

"How did Agent Thompson die?"

The young agent said steadily, "Thomas Halliwell ordered his death." A slight pause, "they shot him through the guts and knees and left him to bleed to death. The coroner says it took him hours to die."

Skinner looked out the window, hands behind his back, face wiped clean of expression. "And the information?"

"Gone, sir. Halliwell's men must have retrieved it before they shot Agent Thomson."

"Too bad. You can go, Philips," Skinner said curtly.

"Yes, sir."

Closing the door behind him, Special Agent Charlie Philips thought with a flash of resentment that AD Skinner certainly lived up to his reputation as 'Stoneface.' There had been not even a hint of anger or emotion for the death of a man that had come up through the ranks of the FBI at same time, and who had been, according to rumor, as close to a friend as Skinner allowed himself.

Behind the door, Skinner remained by the window, powerful hands clenching until the knuckles whitened. He cursed himself savagely for agreeing to the mad plan when Alan had first broached it. But his old friend had been so sure he could infiltrate Halliwell's organization. Could get the informatio n they needed to take down the man and his organization and not so incidentally put one over on both the CIA and ATF who had both been after Thomas Halliwell for years for crimes ranging from assassination to smuggling, spying and extortion.

Dark eyes hardened. From now on, Halliwell was a top priority. He owed Alan that much; he owed the three children who had been left fatherless. He owed the beautiful woman whose wedding he had been best man at.

Going over to his desk he opened the thick file staring down at a black and white surveillance photo of the smirking man, snapped as he was leaving a nightclub, his arm around a curvaceous blonde.

"Damn you to hell, Halliwell!"

The words echoed around the silent room.

* * * Thomas Halliwell's Apartment

The sudden crackle of a radio broke the silence of the night. "We're ready to move in."

Walter Skinner spoke quietly into the radio. "A team go. B Team go." Rising from his half-crouch, he opened the door of the black van, Scully and Doggett close behind him.

Checking her gun, Scully spoke softly, eyes trained on the shadowy outline of the building, "I really think we'll get him, sir."

Skinner glanced at her briefly, "I'm counting on it, Scully."

Small, restless hands played with her gun for a moment before stilling. "Yes, sir."

He gave her a longer, searching look. Outwardly she seemed focused on the task ahead, all cool professionalism. Only someone who knew her as well as Skinner could read the subtle signs of tension.

Once again he realized that Mulder's abduction had affected Scully on some fundamental level. Since his disappearance, she seemed -- fractured. She still performed her duties with the panache and skill that made her one of the best FBI agents he'd ever worked with, but the old spark, the dry humor and sharp logical wit that had made her such a perfect foil for Mulder's quirky genius was gone. She was slowly building another partnership, with a very different man. But she would have been the first to admit, if they'd ever spoken of it, that as good a man as John Doggett was, he remained forever in the shadow of Fox Mulder.

If Walter Skinner had not been a man to whom self-discipline was second nature he might have smiled bitterly; the ghosts that haunted his own memories and nightmares were not as pleasant as Fox Mulder.

He seemed deceptively relaxed, scanning the night. Listening to the radio for a few moments, he drew and cocked his gun. "They've got the back of the building secured, let's go."

* * *

"Scully, Doggett, go! I'll cover," Skinner, ordered, flattened against the wall of the building, gun at the ready, peering into the gloom, the barrel swinging back and forth, covering as much ground as possible. He was still in excellent shape, no sign of the years of riding a desk on the large muscular frame.

Scully moved first, diving in a smooth roll, coming up in a crouch. Doggett moved in the opposite direction, and even as all his attention remained focused on the task at hand, Skinner thought absently that the two had gelled amazingly well for such a short time together as partners. Especiall y considering the almost symbiotic relationship Scully had had with Mulder.

"All clear, sir," Scully called from inside, her voice sounding hollow.

Skinner stalked through the door, another agent covering his back. He stare d around at the empty apartment -- and cursed fluidly. Pulling up his radio again, he barked questions into it frown growing deeper as he listened to the answers.

Scully had gone into the bedroom and now she called out, "Sir!"

Skinner walked up behind her. "Yes?"

"Look," she held up a tangle of black leather straps and dully-gleaming metal studs.

Skinner raised both eyebrows. "What exactly am I looking at, Scully?"

She pursed her lips. "Judging from this, Halliwell seems to live a rather interesting life."

He frowned, "What do you mean?"

"He's got rather ah, extreme tastes. I haven't seen this kind of outfit since I worked on a case a few years back breaking up an international S&M and pedophile ring."

Skinner cursed his sudden flush, especially when he saw her smile at his discomfort. "No, don't tell me, Scully, I really don't want to know." He frowned, "but it looks as if our bird has flown. Although I don't think he' s been gone long. Doggett found half a bottle of champagne and some caviar, not to mention a pound of strawberries in the kitchen." For a moment he looked like a disapproving Puritan confronted by an orgy in church.

"Yes, sir. Do you want us to check the other apartments on this floor?"

"I've already got one team checking, but you can go lend a hand."

Alone in the apartment, Skinner started methodically to check through cabinets and behind books. Glancing out through the enormous windows, he sourly noted the magnificent view of downtown Washington. He didn't even want to venture a guess on the price of the condo he was standing in, but h e knew it involved more money than he'd ever see in his lifetime.

In the distance he could hear the shouting and thumping of the other agents checking the building and he sighed, knowing it was most likely futile.

Just turning to leave, his ears caught the faint sound of a dull thud comin g from the bedroom. Pulling his gun, he moved stealthily towards the bedroom door. As he carefully placed his hand on the half-open door, he heard muffled steps.

Taking a deep breath, he kicked in the door moving fast and yelling, "FBI freeze!"

The man standing by the bed whipped around swift as a cobra, the gun in his hand coming up and lining on the intruder.

For an endless moment they stared at each other in frozen silence.

Walter's Skinner's eyes widened as he looked at a face that haunted his nightmares - asleep and awake.

"Krycek," he breathed, hatred thickening his voice.

Alex Krycek froze for a split second before a smirk slowly spread as he let the barrel sag. "Well, well, Walter Skinner, what are you doing here, slumming?"

"Cut the crap!" Skinner spat. "You're interfering in an FBI operation."

Green eyes hardened fractionally. "Stay out of it, Skinner, this is persona l business."

"Sir, I - " Scully opened the door, she broke off as she caught sight of the other man and her blue eyes narrowed in pure hatred. "What the hell is he doing here?!"

"That's what I was about to find out," Skinner said evenly, having regained some of his composure.

The traitor seemed cheerfully indifferent to the fact that he was facing tw o people with good reason to hate him. "I was here first; I may as well ask you the same question."

Before anyone could react, Scully cocked her gun, training it on steadily o n Krycek. "Give me one reason for not pulling the trigger," she said coolly, blue eyes cold as ice.

Krycek went very still. "You don't want to do that, Scully," he said softly .

"Oh yes, I do," she almost whispered, finger tightening around the metal.

He tensed, ready to leap.

"Scully!"

The deep voice cut like a whip through the silence.

She didn't turn her head. "He deserves to die."

"Yes, he does," Skinner agreed, "but not without due trial and conviction, and not by your hand, Scully. Don't let yourself get dragged down to their level. You're better than that."

"He helped abduct Mulder." Her eyes never left the dark man watching her with the wariness of a wild animal.

"And he may be the only chance of curing Mulder," Skinner reminded her.

Scully took a deep breath and slowly lowered her gun. "Should I arrest him, sir?"

He was tempted; oh fuck yes, to have the man who was watching them with a smirk on his lips under lock and key. To watch Krycek stripped of his arrogance before a judge sentenced for some of the crimes he'd committed. T o have him alone in an interview room with time enough to shake all the secrets and lies from his traitorous head.

But whatever else he was, Walter Skinner was also a realist. Dreaming aside , the price would be too high. A moment's satisfaction weighed against the possibility of dying slowly and in agony when Krycek used his little toy.

"No, let him go, Scully. " There was defeat in the deep voice. "You know as well as I, that we'll never be able to hold on to him."

She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it without saying anything, the image of Skinner's tortured and dying body before her eyes. "Yes, sir." A last hate filled look at Krycek, and then she was gone, closing the door behind her. Although Skinner never realized it, she made sure no one else went into the bedroom.

"Get out, Krycek," Skinner said very tiredly, bitterness tasting like ashes and dust in his mouth.

A momentary hesitation, and then Krycek slid his gun into the shoulder holster under his jacket and opened the balcony door. One leg already over the railing he half-turned, mockery gleaming in the green eyes. "You're looking good, Skinner, catch you later."

"Not if I see you first," Skinner growled in reply, but when he looked up h e was alone, only the night wind fluttering the gossamer thin curtains...

* * *

They filed silently into the dark room; men in immaculate suits, lines carved deep into solemn faces, men whose power lay heavily on their shoulders. These were the heirs of men who had dreamed of a new future for mankind and had bargained with a devil beyond the stars.

Sadder, wiser, less arrogant than their predecessors, they had assembled to save an ignorant earth from folly. The old man at the head of the table, frail but with the dark fire of a fanatic burning in tired eyes, cleared hi s throat.

"We will now hear the status reports. Mr. Skinner..."

Walter Skinner slowly stood up. Looking around, he still had difficulties believing he was a part of the shadowy conspiracy that had once held him on a choke chain. "Mulder's re-appearance has caused more questions than it answered. He remains in a coma in hospital and we have been unable to find out where exactly he was taken or for how long." Skinner paused, frowning a t the memory of a still pale man in a hospital bed. It must be the first time in his life that Fox Mulder has ever been quiet. The errant thought almost made him smile and the smile remained in his voice as he continued. "We're still trying to discover a means of getting to Thomas Halliwell."

He removed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, briefly massaging the bridge of his nose. "As you all know, Halliwell has long been a thorn in the collective hide of the Consortium and the FBI. Not to mention the fact that the CIA and the DEA are both after him. I will say this for him, he's very good."

"We are aware of it, Mr. Skinner," one of the men spoke up. "And he has bee n very useful to the Consortium in the past."

Skinner grunted. "I know. But, at the moment I'm more interested in how to stop him."

"You will keep us informed?"

"As agreed." Skinner gave the man at the head of the table a hard look. "Bu t we play it out my way. Halliwell will be brought before a judge and jury, and if convicted he will serve his term in prison. I won't do your dirty work for you."

"Yes, Mr. Skinner, that is precisely what we agreed." Mr. Smith smiled thinly, "We have no intention of interfering in the legal process. We want Halliwell tried and convicted publicly for his crimes. His fate will serve as deterrent to anyone else who considers betraying the organization."

Before the next speaker could begin, a man entered and whispered something in the ear of one of the men, who smiled broadly and held up his hand to signal he needed to speak.

"I have some good news," he announced, nodding to the guard standing by the entrance.

All eyes turned to the opening door and watched as a man was dragged inside between two sturdy stone-faced guards.

Head slumped forward he seemed only half-conscious. One of the men holding him grabbed a fistful of dark hair and pulled it back revealing a bruised and battered face.

Alex Krycek

One eye almost swollen shut, a discoloration forming on one cheekbone, lip torn and bleeding, he had obviously not given up easily.

There was a collective release of breath. Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow. "Wel l done, Mr. Graham, how did you catch him?"

The tall stooped man smiled thinly. "I wish I could take credit, but in truth, it was just luck."

Not a muscle moved in the lined face, yet there was a thread of intense satisfaction in Mr. Smith's voice. "So we can finally close the chapter on one of our most troublesome problems. Roberts, take him out and make sure, please?"

"No."

Every head turned looking down the table.

Not a muscle moved in Skinner's face as he watched the men around the table , their eyes ranging from coldly amused to curious and hostile.

"No, Mr. Skinner? I would have thought that you of all people would enjoy seeing an end made of Krycek."

Skinner raised an eyebrow. "Would I like to see him punished for the crimes he has committed? No doubt. But before you kill him, I want some information."

"What kind of information, Mr. Skinner?" There was open suspicion in the thready voice and the watchful eyes of the men around the table.

He hesitated but knew that the truth would serve him best. "I want the palm pilot that controls the nanoyctes."

Suspicion faded, as there were soft sighs of understanding, slight nods.

Mr. Smith said affably, "By all means, we will make sure to extract the information you desire before AD " he did not finish the sentence.

Not a muscle moved in Skinner's face. "I want him alive."

Once again every head swiveled to stare at the tall man.

Mr. Smith looked faintly puzzled. "Why? I would have thought that you would be last man to object to Krycek's death."

Walter Skinner knew pity would be viewed as a deplorable weakness by these men, and yet blended with the dark rage that had gripped him at the sight o f Krycek, there was a faint stirring of compassion for an enemy brought low and a rat cornered for the last time. He said curtly, "I don't trust Krycek to speak the truth and I want him in my sight until I have the palm pilot i n my hand."

He would not spare a single glance at the man hanging limply between the guards and so missed Krycek raising his head, green eyes wide with sudden hope.

There was another moment of utter stillness and then Mr. Smith sighed, "Ver y well, Mr. Skinner, he is yours. I only trust that you will not have cause t o regret your decision."

After a brief silence another voice said thoughtfully, "At least if Mr. Skinner is willing to take Krycek, let him make himself useful. Skinner by his position is more exposed than most of us. Whatever else he is, Krycek i s an effective body-guard and killer."

There were slow nods and even Mr. Smith's mouth softened a little. "True, I had not considered that."

* * *

Standing in a spacious, elegantly furnished bedroom later that night, watching the flickering light of the fire reflect off dark paneled walls an d windows, a glass of whisky in his hand, Walter Skinner had much to ponder.

Earlier that evening he had eaten alone, served an excellent dinner and an even better wine by a silent cat-footed servant. During the meal Skinner ha d perused some more files. That was a rather amusing aspect of being a Consortium member that he'd never expected; the never-ending flow of files and papers. They did not make for easy reading, confirming what he'd alread y suspected; that Mulder's abduction was merely a small part of a much larger picture.

Skinner felt his skin prickle at the memory of staring at a patch of burned ground in the middle of a wheat field in Iowa, and wondering if he'd ever see his most maverick and brilliant of agents again. Although Mulder had returned as mysteriously as he'd disappeared, it did not diminish the power of the memory; standing beneath the starry skies alone, knowing that Fox Mulder was gone.

He smiled grimly, relishing the irony that Mulder would have given whatever remained of his soul to read the files he was holding in his hand.

Thankfully there were points of light in the midst of the darkness. Successful attempts to strike back, to contain the lurking menace. He knew that he could never remain neutral. That for better or worse he was about t o get into a new war.

Strange, he thought, that after so much doubt and anguishing his only feeling was one of relief. Finally he had an enemy, a right and wrong. To a man like Walter Skinner mired far too long in the vagueness of shadows and ambiguities there was nothing but relief in finally knowing who the enemy was.

A soft knock on the door brought him sharply back to reality.

"Come in," he called out curtly and was less than surprised when the door opened to reveal Alex Krycek.

"Krycek," he said flatly. "What do you want?"

Staring at the man framed in the door Skinner's heart beat loudly enough to deafen him, adrenaline pumping through his body, and suddenly he was so har d he ached.

Emotions, jumbled, confused, conflicted shook him to the core.

Hatred.

Rage.

Lust.

Acrid self-loathing for the flood of overpowering want.

Sweat dampened skin was suddenly hot and itchy, as SkinnerB9s guts clenched with frustrated lust. The battle fought and won in the space of a single breath taken and released was only too familiar. There had never been a time, not when heB9d first seen a young, green agent with deceptively innocent eyes, not when heB9d spent a long night watching the man huddled over for warmth, hand-cuffed to his balcony, not while dying in a hospital bed, that he hadnB9t wanted Alex Krycek, wanted him to the point of madness.

Dark bitter desire, turned by their past into obsession and lust.

A wry smile flitted across the thin elegant bones of a face that he hated, and wanted. Christ, how he wanted. "I came to say thank you."

Skinner's eyebrows rose. "And how should I take that?"

A slow rippling shrug. "How about honestly?"

Eyes dark and inscrutable, Krycek stalked across the floor, the comparison to a sleek predator inescapable. It took all of Skinner's vaunted self-discipline not to take a step back as the man who had once held his life between his fingers stopped, so close he could see slight movement of his chest as he breathed out and in.

"Honesty from you, Krycek?" There was a mocking note in the deep voice as large hands unconsciously fisted.

Long dark eyelashes lowered for a moment before rising and revealing blank green eyes. "Honesty," Krycek spoke in husky murmur, that reminded Skinner far too clearly of sordid motel rooms, deserted garages bathed in harsh light and abandoned warehouses. "I know you don't put too much value on my life, but I'm rather fond of it - " Another wry smile, "Mr. Skinner."

The mockery inherent in the use of a title, drove him over the edge, and before he knew he'd moved, he was slamming Krycek up against the wall, a brawny arm across a vulnerable throat, a thigh resting heavily against the juncture of two long, lean jeans-clad legs. "Never call me that." Icy control imperfectly disguised the heat of rage. "It's a fucking insult coming from the likes of you."

Krycek made no attempt to fight back, arms at his side. A strange little smile half-bitter, half-knowing twisted his mouth. "What do you want me to call you?"

"Nothing!" Skinner spat, cursing silently as his body reacted -- like Pavlov's dog facing a prime piece of meat -- to the proximity of the man.

Krycek's smile widened as he watched the slight dilation of dark pupils. "How about, lover?" He murmured softly, breath fanning across hot, flushed skin.

"Lovers, Krycek? You were doing a job, and I," Skinner's cold, mocking smil e never reached his eyes, "wanted a fuck and you were convenient."

If he hadn't known it was impossible he could have sworn for a moment that the emotion moving across the green eyes was something akin to hurt, but then Krycek smiled again. "In that case, why don't you let me provide you a little more convenience?" He leaned across the remaining inches and, like a cat, licked the corner of the snarling mouth so close to him.

Surprise made Skinner jerk and release his grip. Far from using the sudden slacking to escape, Krycek moved closer until his body was pressed against the larger one. His smile turned knowing at the feel of the twitching hardness of the cock pressed against his stomach.

Slowly, gracefully, he sank to his knees, the sound of the zipper loud in the stillness of the room.

Skinner's deep exhalation at the first skillful touch of lips against his skin was a groan torn from the depths of his soul. Hands fastened in the sable darkness of hair, he swayed on his feet as a wet tongue teased the throbbing head, tracing the outline of a vein running along the underside o f the hard length of his cock, before Krycek swallowed deeply, lips carefully protecting the sensitive skin from the sharpness of teeth.

It had been too long since he had last fucked or jerked off and in an embarrassingly short time, Skinner moaned as he poured himself down the willing throat of the man kneeling before him.

Breathing deeply, chest heaving, Skinner zipped himself up with shaking hands. He glanced at Krycek who was still on his knees, head turned away. A deep-rose wet tongue flashed out to wipe a last creamy trace from his lips.

Strange, how a position that should emphasis vulnerability instead painted a picture of guarded, aloof eroticism that set his heart pounding and the blood rushing through his veins.

Something in the very stillness of the pose caught his attention. He frowned, "Krycek?"

A deep breath and when the younger man finally turned his head, the familia r insolent grin was fixed firmly across his face. Slowly shrugging out of his jacket, letting it fall carelessly on the floor, he tilted his head. "That was just for starters, Mr. Skinner."

Closing his eyes, helpless to prevent the renewal of heat pooling in his groin, Skinner's eyes snapped open again at the first feather light touch stroking delicately down flanks and stomach as Krycek maneuvered them towards the bed.

Using his remaining arm, Krycek slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting it dro p on the floor, skimming out of his jeans.

Skinner caught his breath at the first sight of the lean, muscled body. Chest heaving he fought to regain sanity. "This is crazy," he growled.

"Come on, Skinner," Krycek murmured, eyes dark and hazy with lust as he knelt above the other man. "You know you want to fuck me. Hot, deep, fast." His smile widened, "anything you want..."

Large hands closed over slender muscled shoulders, turned him roughly and pinned him to the bed. Far from resisting, the smile grew wider, as Krycek let his thighs fall apart. "Want to hurt me, Skinner?" he arched his back i n an unmistakable challenge. "Use me? Give me back a little of the pain? Remember what it was like lying in that hospital waiting to die, every vein in your body distended?"

At the soft mocking words something snapped inside Walter Skinner, hate overriding lust, demanding an outlet. With a low animal growl, he let his weight pin the younger man to the mattress, large hands brutal as they pinched nipples made hard by earlier gentler touches. Bending his head, he bit down brutally onto the inviting flesh, a jolt of lust going through him at the muffled scream that tore its way out of an arched throat.

Memory had once again cheated him. Had proved vastly insufficient for the mind-blowing reality of being inside Krycek - of thrusting deeply into the tight heat of the body between his thighs. Groaning he pulled the narrow hips up from the bed with enough force to leave bruises, angling them so each movement took him deeper, ignoring the soft muffled sounds of the man being pushed deep into the bed, half-suffocating from the weight of the bod y pounding into him.

There was another soft sound of pain or pleasure, as he bit deeply into a pale shoulder below him, leaving a mark. The noise pleased Skinner so much he did it again, this time choosing the other shoulder.

He was a man to whom control of himself and his environment was paramount. Only one person had ever made him lose it. The man who was panting beneath him, the man whose legacy was hatred, bitterness and lust.

Hatred can be a potent aphrodisiac. When he came, moaning, pouring himself into Krycek, the image coiling through his mind was of a smirking face in the mirror of a dark car.

Slowly catching his breath Skinner raised himself on the elbow, looking at the naked man in his bed. On his stomach, legs spread wide, bare assed, dar k hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, having just been fucked through the mattress Krycek should have looked defeated, taken, used.

Instead -- Skinner's jaw set seeing the small secret smile that curled the sensuous mouth before the dark head turned away -- he looked more like a conqueror.

"Where is it, Krycek?" The deep voice was startling loud and discordant breaking the silence.

Rolling over, Krycek's smile widened. He was wise enough not to pretend ignorance. "Someplace safe."

Brown eyes grew hard and icy. "I want it."

"It won't do you any good."

"What the fuck, are you talking about?"

Krycek yawned, cat-eyes slitted and sleepy. "The nanocytes stopped working months ago."

Skinner stared at him.

Smug smile widening at the sick shock written across Skinner's face, Krycek explained lightly, "The nanocytes were a one-time deal, unfortunately they degrade and are absorbed by the body pretty quickly. That's one reason the research was eventually halted."

"You son of a bitch!" Skinner spat, a red mist of rage obscuring everything but the mocking smirk of a man who lied and betrayed as easily as he breathed.

Body momentarily sated, rage overrode lust, the smile reminding him of the betrayals, the deaths and lies, the pain Krycek had caused. Strong hands impotently opened and closed. A beating, a fucking, and still Krycek would walk away smiling, the winner of the obscure, dark, game they played.

Gripped by dark madness Skinner snapped, the restraints of a lifetime disregarded in the space of a moment. He had never wanted anything so much as he wanted to see Krycek scream, to see him bleed and suffer.

Looking down at his curled fingers -- hands -- an ugly smile suddenly thinned his lips.

Skinner moved grasping the dark hair and brutally dragged the younger man u p by it.

Wincing from the force of the grip, Krycek didn't protest as he was pulled into a kneeling position on the bed. He even smiled slightly, balancing on his knees, spreading his thighs. "Hot to trot again? You're pretty vital fo r an old guy," he murmured, shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable.

"Shut up!" The blow echoed through the room, the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh.

Head snapping back from the force of the strike, losing his balance and falling, Krycek slowly got to his knees again, grin intact. "I never knew you were the kinky type, Skinner," he murmured, fingering the side of his jaw, which would soon wear a bruise.

Skinner smiled, and for the first time Krycek felt a shiver of apprehension feather down his spine.

"You have no idea," a dark voice said with silky malice.

The first probe of blunt fingers at the still stretched knot of muscles was expected and not even unpleasant, as they slid, deceptively gently across the sensitive nerve endings. The sudden stabbing deep inside made him bite his lip and shift, but still nothing more than expected. Even the second finger added and then a third to stretch him wide open while beginning to hurt, followed script. It was when the fourth finger forced its way inside that the pain went from bearable to red-hot agony.

Green eyes opened wide, and he stiffened. "Fuck! Stop it, Skinner!" He trie d to move and was brutally forced back by the weight of a knee in the small o f his back, pushed into the mattress, even as the fingers dug deeper, impossibly deep.

A grunt was muffled by the pillow as his body stiffened and arched in rejection.

"Listen, you little shit," he heard Skinner growl in his ear, the weight of the big body half-suffocating him and forcing air from already tortured lungs. "Personally I don't give a fuck, but if you don't relax I'll tear yo u to shreds."

Having no doubt that Skinner would follow through on his threat, Krycek forced himself to obey, trying to slacken his body even as something bigger , harder than a cock started to press against the tautness of muscle, forcing its way inside, splitting him open; making him vulnerable. Unable to preven t another obscene grunt, he only dimly felt Skinner pull back slightly before a sudden stabbing burned its way into his guts. Despite himself, he writhed silently, muscles contracting, sweat breaking out and painting his body in moisture, mouth opening and closing in a soundless scream.

Pain.

Helplessness.

Fear.

Watching the pale body shudder in pain, Krycek's strong graceful fingers closing and opening spasmodically, Skinner smiled grimly, intense satisfaction akin to sexual pleasure spiraling through him. Finally he'd peeled away the ever-present mockery, cracked open the mask Krycek always wore.

Forcing his fingers even deeper, watching the thick knuckles disappear from sight, he felt the tight muscle stretch impossibly wide, the wet sound loud in the silence of the room Skinner laughed low at the choked noise Krycek made.

"Jesus, Skinner!"

Krycek could hardly wrap his tongue around the words, mind running in a panicked coil. More than the burning pain, more than the sickening helplessness, there was the humiliation of being wide open and completely vulnerable to Skinner.

Bending low, a deep voice whispered into his ear, "I'm rather enjoying myself." Krycek didn't answer, biting his lip until it bled, determined not to show any further signs of weakness. Of making Skinner despise him more than he undoubtedly already did.

Despite his silent resolve, when Skinner moved his arm, muscles stretched almost beyond endurance screamed in protest and he was unable to hold back a slight groan. Invisible contractions around the thick wrist traveled throug h tense muscles, translating into deep shudders.

Krycek writhed in silent agony, not from the pain Skinner inflicted but by the thought of the picture he must make, ass in the air, legs splayed wide. A toy for someone's pleasure.

Placing his other hand, palm first, fingers splayed into the small of the long curve of a muscled back, Skinner treasured the tiny shivers rippling through the pale skin. "Up," he ordered grimly.

Stilling, unable to comprehend the curt command, Krycek jumped at the sudde n stinging open handed slap against one ass cheek. "I said, up!"

Slowly, each movement sending new arrows of torture through his lower body, he obeyed, painfully pulling himself up until he was balanced on his knees once again.

Keeping as still as possible, Krycek kept his eyes wide open, breathing in large painful gulps of air. Praying for a moment to recoup, to gather himself, he almost missed the curt command.

"Ride it. I want to see you fuck yourself on my fist."

Shaking his head in instinctive refusal earned another hard slap that almos t unbalanced him, the sudden jerky movement shooting unbearable agony through his guts. "Please..." the word was forced out between clenched teeth.

"Do it." There was no mercy in the dark voice.

When Krycek still didn't move, Skinner told him silkily, "Do it, or I'll fucking tear you apart."

Unable to stop the high sobbing gasp, the incoherent sounds of pain and pleading, Krycek obeyed. Slowly he moved, fucking himself on the thick fist . Each breath was torture, the very act of releasing air too painful to endure.

As each moment crawled past, the world narrowed down to each movement, to the next breath. Up... down... up... down...

Perhaps he fainted, perhaps he screamed. Perhaps he simply crumpled bonelessly into unconsciousness.

Krycek never felt Skinner remove his hand, never knew how long the older man stared at the slack body stretched across the bed.

On to Part 2

THE END

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