Disclaimer:  Mulder and Krycek, and anyone else you recognize, do not belong to me.  They belong to Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions.  I merely took them out for a short walk.

Author's Note:  Italics indicate thoughts.  Underlining is used for emphasis.

Rating: R for m/m sex (If you're under the age of 18, please leave.)  Mild spoilers for most of Season Six of the X Files.

Summary: Mulder finds himself caught in a trap with his worst enemy or perhaps his best ally.

The Maze
by Gyrfalcon

 

He fell through thick, gooey layers of chocolate syrup into the awareness that he was awake, that this was not a dream.  Instead of the comfortable bed he had gone to sleep in, he was lying on a hard, metal floor.  A low hum reverberated through his body, but other than that he heard nothing more than the steady beat of his heart.  The floor felt pleasantly warm.  Despite being clothed only in a pair of light cotton pajama bottoms, he didn't feel cool.  Obviously the temperature in this place was carefully regulated.  He doubted if consideration for his comfort was high on his captors' list of priorities, but he hoped that whoever dumped him here had also remembered the little things like fresh air, food, and water.

Opening his eyes he found that he was inches away from a gray metal wall.  Turning his head, he saw that he was in a short corridor that curved off to the right about ten feet ahead and disappeared to the left about ten feet behind him.  He pushed up to a sitting position, groaning as stiffened muscles complained and cautiously looked around.  Gray metal encased him.  Even the ceiling appeared to be the same featureless dull gray metal.  He was a splash of color in an otherwise monotone world.  The light was dim and defused; he cast no shadow on the walls or floor.  He recognized standard disorientation techniques.  Right now he wasn't sure whether having a psychology degree was going to help or hurt him.  Maybe it would just allow him to chart his own descent into madness.  Shaking his head to dispel those depressing thoughts, Mulder began a series of slow stretches to work out the kinks in his back and legs.

Whatever drug had been used to immobilize him was fading.  His arms and legs felt heavy, but he could move them.  A sour taste in the back of his throat suggested that the drug had been a spray of some type.  The sourness barely masked the acid taste of panic.  Who would go to such lengths to kidnap him?  Had Cancer Man had finally gotten bored watching him struggle like a damned fly in his web?  Why not simply kill him?  He bit his lower lip as he shied away from the idea that it was his dying, not his death, that someone wanted to watch.  He fought his imagination as it offered up various scenarios, but all of them ended the same way -- he was dying alone, sealed up and forgotten in this metal coffin.

Wrenching his mind away from nightmare visions, he tried to detach himself from the situation and consider all the options.  With his heart pounding like a bass drum it was a little difficult to be very rational, but he tried.  Alien abduction -- a possibility.  At least that would bring him vindication, of a sorts, but his gut instinct told him that humans, not aliens had brought him here.  By sheer effort of will, he forced his mind to catalog the evidence, to ground itself in the habits of a lifetime of profiling.  He couldn't recall any bright lights or other standard abduction scenarios.  He went to sleep in his bed and woke up here.  Now he had to figure out where 'here' was.

The first wave of panic receded, but hovered in the shadows just beyond his reach.  Whoever grabbed him knew him well, too well for his comfort.  He knew the price of his quest before stepping onto the playing field.  Dying didn't scare him.  Dying alone and without knowing why terrified him.

His captors remained silent and unseen behind the steel walls encasing him.  If he wanted answers he had to find them himself.  At least exploring his prison would give him something to do while he waited.  Sitting here and going mad with anticipation and fear would make it too easy for them.  He was afraid, but he'd be damned if he gave his captors the satisfaction of disintegrating without a fight.

A wave of dizziness hit him as he levered himself to his feet, using the wall as support.  The walls were smooth but not slick; the metal was abraded just enough to give him some traction.  Standing upright, he discovered that his head cleared the ceiling by a bare six inches; close enough to give him the slight edgy feeling of being closed in.  He wasn't claustrophobic, but the idea of spending hours, if not days, in this metal tunnel made him uneasy -- more disorientation tactics.  Whoever was running this show was good; he'd give them that.

A close examination of the walls did not turn up any secret doors or visible vents.  There were no apertures for hidden cameras as far as he could tell, although he'd bet his pajama bottoms that he was under constant observation.  The air had a faint metallic tang, but was otherwise fresh.  Apparently it was being recycled without the traditional ductworks.  Hell, he couldn't even tell how the place was being lit.  As far as he could tell, he was in a sealed metal tube, similar to those long convoluted plastic runs attached to hamster cages.  In other words, he was the rat in some experiment.

"At least the rat got fed and watered," he groused as he tried to decide which way to start walking.

"Left or right -- decisions, decisions," Mulder muttered as he stared down the seamless corridors.  Lacking either a coin to flip or any visual clues, Mulder turned to his right and started walking forward.  Until he could figure out the reason he was dumped here, walking would give him a sense of purpose.  If nothing else, it would help keep the panic at bay.  At least it was better than sitting around waiting for his captors to start their experiments and letting his imagination have free rein.

Time and distance had no meaning in this seamless metal world.  The only sounds he heard were those he made himself.  He could hear his heartbeat and breathing echo in the silence.  His feet made soft thuds as he walked, otherwise he was in a silent world.  He was tempted to shout, but he didn't want to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing their tactics work so soon.  Maybe if he didn't react in a predictable manner, he could provoke a reaction.  It was worth a try, and it beat the hell out of just giving up.  This rat was in a contrary mood.

Soon Mulder realized that his initial assessment was correct -- this was a definitely a maze.  Corridors ran a monotonous, methodical twenty feet in length before they curved off and branched.  He had no way of marking his path.  For all he knew, he could have passed his starting point a hundred times, or never.  And knowing what was being done to him seemed to be no help in staving off the assault on his mental defenses.  Part of him admired the technique even while he felt the edges of his self-control begin to fray.  Fear walked in his shadow; the one companion he didn't need or want in this metallic catacomb.

As he continued to walk, he realized he did have one indicator of time -- he was getting hungry as well as thirsty.  Since he normally didn't eat breakfast, but did depend on a midmorning snack, he estimated that it was probably somewhere around 10 a.m.  A hasty check of his arms and legs didn't turn up any indication that he'd been fed intravenously so he could reasonably assume that it was the next day, but not too far into the day.  In other words, he estimated that he'd been a captive less than twelve hours.  Kersh was probably on the warpath unless his captors had arranged for a believable excuse for his failure to appear for work.  It wouldn't take much to make Kersh believe he'd run off after some UFO sighting.  Scully might be another matter.

No, that isn't fair, he corrected himself, angry at the depression which his cynicism revealed.  He and Scully had their disagreements, but she was his partner and his friend.  She'd never quietly accept his disappearance.  He had heard rumors of how she charged through the Hoover Building when he vanished into the Bermuda Triangle.  No one messed with Agent Scully when her partner was in danger, he thought with a certain amount of pride.  If nothing else, she'd hunt him down so she could kick his ass for running off without her.  Right now, I'd risk being shot again just to hear her voice or see her striding down the corridor like an avenging angel.

Finally Mulder stopped for a rest.  He felt like he'd been walking for miles, and his eyes hurt from trying to pick out landmarks where none existed.  Hallucinations were becoming a real danger in here as his mind attempted to create a diversion from the endless gray walls.  It was rapidly getting to the point that he'd welcome the devil himself as a break from the monotony.  Just hearing another voice would be a relief.

"Hey, out there!  Why don't you just tell me what you want and dispense with all of this sensory deprivation crap?" he shouted angrily.  His voice echoed hollowly, needlessly reminding him of just how alone he was.  OK, scratch shouting as a way to relieve stress, he thought irritably.

"They won't answer.  No one's at home."  Cynical and husky, with a hint of sarcastic amusement -- it sounded like it had come straight out of his personal hell to mock him.

Mulder spun around to see Krycek lounging against a wall.  His smile was ironic, if a bit strained.  He looked tousled and wore a pair of dark green cotton boxers.  His prosthesis was missing and Mulder could see the seamed scar at the end of his left arm.  From the looks of it, he'd been plucked from his bed as well.  All of this registered on a subliminal level, however, as blind rage took over.

Krycek absorbed the impact of Mulder's charge with a grunt as he was slammed against the wall.  As Mulder's arm rammed into his throat, Krycek shoved his fist hard against Mulder's diaphragm, then heaved his gasping opponent off of him.

"That was stupid," Krycek commented a bit breathlessly.  He was braced against the wall, holding his right arm raised to deflect any further attacks.

Mulder was gasping for breath as his lungs attempted to restart.  "You ... fucking ... bastard ... what ... in hell ... are you up to ... now?" Mulder gasped in spurts.

"Not a damn thing.  In case you were too busy trying to kill me to notice, I'm in the same shape you are," Krycek retorted contemptuously.  He kept a wary eye on Mulder, but relaxed the tense set of his shoulders when another attack was not forthcoming.  Mulder glared at him as he clenched and unclenched his fists, but he had his rage back under control.

"Why should I believe you?" Mulder snarled, curious in spite of his desire to throttle the answer out of Krycek.  Now that the initial adrenaline rush to murder him was spent, he began to consider the possibility of actually beating some solid facts out of the man.  Krycek was a manipulative bastard and there was probably a good reason for him showing up right now.

I want to hear your explanation, you murdering son of a bitch.  Maybe I'll get a dying wish and you'll slip up and give me some real information for a change.  Mulder was torn between rage and a desperate desire to know at least part of the truth that had been eluding him for years.

::And here I thought you were just praying to hear another human voice.  Tsk, tsk.  You're just never satisfied, are you?::

Mulder ignored the tiny voice in the back of his mind.  He'd been ignoring that voice for years; it persisted in pointing out the uncomfortable facts about his ambivalent feelings for Krycek.

Damn the man for smoldering in the dark corners of my soul.  I hate him.  Damn it, he killed my father and betrayed me.  Mulder shied away from that point and went back to glaring at his enemy.  It was much safer to think of Krycek as a cold-blooded mercenary than as the man who betrayed his trust, and his friendship.

"Who are you working for this time, Krycek?" Mulder growled.  "The smoking SOB?"

"Use your wits, Mulder.  Why would he go to all this trouble when two bullets would solve the problem?" Krycek replied caustically as he relaxed fractionally.  Mulder realized that Krycek had won, again.  Even so, he noticed that Krycek watched him warily. Good, don't you ever take me for granted, Mulder growled to himself.

"Maybe he likes to watch cock fights," Mulder snapped angrily even as he reluctantly had to agree with Krycek's assessment of the situation.  It galled him to yield any ground to Krycek, but he was merely confirming the same conclusions Mulder had drawn earlier.  With the addition of Krycek into this maze, he was completely at sea as to motive or perpetrator for this kidnapping.

Glaring at Krycek, Mulder considered the possibility that he was working with whoever was behind this.  Knowing Krycek, he'd sell his mother's soul for an advantage, but the set-up felt wrong -- it was too pat.  Krycek wasn't stupid; he'd have arranged to keep his prosthetic at least.  One armed, he was dangerous, but vulnerable. That's not Krycek's style, Mulder reflected.  In the past, Krycek always depended on Scully or someone else to step in and deflect Mulder's rage.  He didn't think Krycek would willingly take the chance that this time he'd finally give in to the temptation to kill and be done with it.

OK, if Krycek isn't working hand-in-glove with our captors, then what?

Mulder considered the situation and came to the unhappy conclusion that Krycek was probably as in the dark as he was.  Choking the answers out of him was still very tempting.  His gut instinct might be absolving Krycek of complicity, but his mind wasn't as easily convinced.  Standing here glaring at each other wasn't going to do much to get them out of here.

"Aliens?" Mulder suggested with an accusing glower at Krycek.  Krycek looked lost as if he just lost track of the conversation.

OK, so the idea's ridiculous, but it just had to be asked.  Mulder fought the urge to smile at Krycek's befuddled expression.  He had lost track of the colonizers, the clones, the hybrids, and - most recently - the alien rebels.  These days, he needed a scorecard to keep the opposition straight.

"Right."  Krycek started to scoff, then he stopped and thought about it for a moment.  Mulder felt dismay quickly replacing anger as his dominant emotion.  If Krycek was giving the idea serious consideration....  The idea that he was in the hands of the aliens sent a chill through him. I remember lying helpless in the prison in Tunguska as the black oil slithered into my nose and eyes.  That would be child's play compared to what the aliens could come up with.  I suppose it would even be logical, from their point of view, to physically and emotionally dissect me, he thought with a shudder he hoped Krycek didn't catch.  I'm immune to their breeding program.  That has to be of direct interest for their colonization plans.  Panic began building again as he fought to control his breathing.  He would not give Krycek the satisfaction of watching him give in to panic.

Mulder looked at Krycek, forgetting for the moment that he had made a promise to himself to beat the truth out of him the next time they met.  If we're prisoners of the aliens, then we have a common enemy.  Mulder glared at Krycek who was still wrestling with the idea that they were in the hands of the aliens and, from his expression, not enjoying the notion very much. I hate you, but damn it you're a savvy, ruthless operator and I need help getting out of this prison.  The problem is, I know that you'd also sell me out at the first opportunity.  I can't trust you and I can't leave you behind.  Fuck.

::Do you?:: his annoying little voice asked.

Do I what? Mulder thought back snappishly.  He really didn't have time to be holding these mental conversations with himself, but one of the curses of a mind that could think on several levels at once was a tendency to hold these internal debates while simultaneously worrying at a problem.

::Hate him::  The voice asked reasonably.

Hell, yes, I do.  He killed my father, helped abduct Scully, probably had a hand in killing her sister, and is working hand-in-glove with men who want to hand over this planet to alien invaders.  Why the hell shouldn't I hate him? Mulder replied, outraged that his own mind would doubt his sincerity.

The voice fell silent.  Mulder growled his frustration and started walking, not really caring if Krycek followed or not.  Still, it came as a relief to feel Krycek fall into step beside him.  He began to walk faster, pushing the pace, unconsciously reacting to the competitiveness he always felt around Krycek.

"Going somewhere?" Krycek asked in an even tone marred by a hint of breathlessness.  Mulder glanced over and noticed that Krycek was favoring his right leg, which kept throwing him off-balance as he tried to compensate for his missing left arm.  Recalling his first impression of Krycek, Mulder remembered thinking he looked tousled; now he wondered if exhausted might not be closer to the mark.  Well, it wouldn't hurt him too much.  Memories of lying wrapped in chicken wire while the black oil poured over and into him stilled the faint stirrings of sympathy for Krycek's bedraggled state.

::You were lucky.  The vaccine worked and you walked out of Russia with only nightmares.  Ever wonder what it would have felt like to have your arm hacked off?::

Shut up.  He got what he deserved.  He was treated like a fucking comrade by the guards.  He betrayed me.

::And you never once looked at Krycek and felt the knife at your own arm?::

"Have you found food or water in here?" Mulder asked sharply to cover up his involuntary flash of sympathy.  No need to dwell on certain nightmares that had plagued him for months after his return from Russia.  It was easier to concentrate on the thirst that was beginning to be a grating annoyance.  If Krycek had been in this maze for a couple of days, as his appearance seemed to indicate, then he must have found a source of water, at least.

"No."  Krycek plowed steadily forward, not wasting his breath on details.  Mulder seethed but had to admit to himself that Krycek matched him in the stubborn-as-a-mule department.

Eventually, Mulder gave up the effort to walk Krycek into the ground.  Krycek's breathing was labored, but he had matched Mulder step for step down the endless corridors.  Despite his firm grip on hate, Mulder found a sneaking admiration for Krycek slithering into his set-in-concrete opinion of the man.  His own legs were beginning to tremble as he used up his own store of energy, and thirst was fast turning from desire to need.  Grudgingly he stopped and slid down a wall to a sitting position.  Krycek stood swaying for a moment before sinking down opposite him.  Sweat gave his skin a glistening sheen and plastered his hair against his skull, which actually emphasized his dark good looks.

Now where the hell did that come from? Mulder asked himself accusingly, as if his subconscious was a suspect under interrogation.

::You're going to claim you never noticed?  Liar::  The little voice was back, snarky as ever.

What do you mean by that?

Silence answered the question, but Mulder could swear he heard the voice laughing at him.

OK, so he's good looking, in a satanic sort of way, but that means nothing, Mulder rebutted, feeling rather proud of conceding the point without giving away anything.  It did occur to him that he was probably in the initial stages of madness.  Talking to yourself was usually the first sign of disintegrating mental coherency, but it was safer than talking to Krycek.

"That was stupid."  Krycek commented once he got his breath back.

Mulder simply shrugged and leaned his head back against the wall.  It felt warmer than it had before.  As hot as he was, the metal should feel cooler. Oh, fuck.  This is not good, he thought uneasily as he shifted away from the wall.  His mind considered several unpleasant possibilities in this new twist.

"Shit," Mulder growled, getting a raised eyebrow from Krycek.

"They're adjusting the temperature in here.  The more we move around, the faster we dehydrate."

"Bright boy.  It took you this long to figure it out?  No wonder they have you doing clerk-work now," Krycek sneered.  "How far the mighty have fallen."  Krycek straightened up, pulling his body away from the wall with an arrogant twist of his shoulders.

"You could have said something," Mulder pointed out feeling put-out that Krycek had hoarded this vital piece of information.

"And spoil your fun?  Besides, it beats just sitting around waiting for them to do something," Krycek admitted.

Mulder looked at him and, to their joint surprise, nodded.  It was hard to argue with a motive he shared.

"Well, we agree on something at least."  Krycek's laugh sounded odd, as if the sneer had twisted into sour resignation.

"Don't get excited.  I'm delirious with thirst.  The feeling will pass." Mulder retorted sharply.  Damn it, I don't want to feel sympathy for Krycek.  I don't want to see his side of the situation.  It's rather pleasant having someone to hate unequivocally, someone whose motives are clearly, inarguably black.

"Get up.  There has to be water somewhere.  I really doubt if they'd go to all this trouble just to let us die of thirst."  Krycek heaved himself to his feet, offering Mulder his hand.  Mulder stared at the proffered hand and got up without taking it.  Krycek shrugged but smiled slightly to himself, and while Mulder wondered what the joke was, he decided he probably didn't want to know.

This time Mulder allowed Krycek to set the pace.  He still had no idea if they were moving around in a big circle, or if they were actually making progress towards the center of this maze.  The heat was making them both sweat.  Mulder tried not to think about the translucent nature of wet cotton.  Krycek's boxers were plastered against his body, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.  Mulder had little doubt that his pajama bottoms were as revealing.

::Enjoying the view?::

Damn it, will you go away? Mulder ordered the cheeky voice wearily.

::You realize that this time he's getting a much better view.  You strutted your stuff very nicely getting out of that pool, but you've never seen what he has to offer, have you?::

Bloody hell!  I'm not interested.  Krycek is a rat bastard, a murdering SOB, and probably a traitor. I could care less about how well he's hung, Mulder spat angrily.

::Nicely, I think.  Very nicely::  The voice chuckled as it faded away.

Great, his libido was going to lead the rush towards insanity, Mulder thought crankily.  It was a little hard to not notice Krycek's penis since the cotton boxers practically outlined every ridge of muscle.  It was a natural male thing to compare length and breadth, nothing more, he assured himself.  He tried to ignore the fact that lacking any other visual stimulation, he had been watching the play of Krycek's muscles as he walked and the way the curves in his ass showed through the boxers.

::I have a very nice bridge I'd like to sell you::

Shut up, Mulder replied wearily.  He couldn't figure out what game his subconscious was up to.

::Don't you mean you don't want to figure it out?  Dense.  Solid oak up there::

"Go away."

"Sure, just tell me where," Krycek snapped.  Mulder realized that he must have said the last bit aloud.  He was losing it right in front of his worst enemy.

"Not you," Mulder retorted before he stopped to think.  Krycek stopped and gave him an odd look.  If the idea of Krycek caring, about him, wasn't so unbelievable, Mulder could have sworn he looked concerned.

"Drugs still bothering you?" Krycek asked in an offhand way, losing the sarcastic tone his voice usually held when confronting Mulder.  His hand stretched out, almost touching Mulder's shoulder, as the brittle tension in his face relaxed.  For some reason, Krycek's concern bit deep and Mulder had to bite back an angry retort.  He didn't need Krycek's sympathy. I don't want his sympathy.

"I'm fine."  Yeah, sure, and I believed Scully each and every time she used that fucking lie on me, Mulder grumbled to himself as they started walking again. Maybe we're in Hell and this is my damnation -- walking forever in a featureless metal tube side-by-side with a murdering bastard who confuses the hell out of me on more levels than I want to count.

"Stop," Krycek said softly as he stopped just shy of another turn in the corridor.  Mulder came fully alert, all too aware just how good Krycek's survival instincts were.  No one lasted as long as Krycek had, against all those odds, without being a damn good survivor.

"Up ahead.  The light's different -- a shadow."  Krycek's voice was husky as he forced the words out of a dry throat.  Neither of them had spoken for nearly an hour, and the air in the tunnels had changed at some point.  Now dry heat was leeching the liquid from their bodies.  Sweat was evaporating as soon as it formed.

Mulder nodded and gestured for Krycek to let him take the lead.  It had nothing to do with being brave, or even alpha posturing; he had two functional arms.  If they ran into trouble, Krycek would be at a disadvantage.  Better to have him hang back and jump in where he could do the most good.

Of course this presumed that Krycek wouldn't stand by and let him get the crap beaten out of him.  Oddly enough, in spite of his doubts, Mulder felt secure with Krycek at his back.  Not the type of backup he would have normally admitted to wanting, but he knew Krycek was trained, and so far it was to Krycek's advantage to keep him alive.

Krycek gave him a feral smile and stepped back to allow Mulder room to pass.  Cautiously Mulder peered around the corner.  It was a corridor just like all the others, but Krycek was right; the light was different, shaded somehow.

::When in doubt, look up::

It took Mulder nearly thirty seconds for the voice to register and then to make sense of what his eyes were seeing.  He was so used to seamless gray metal that the very notion of a hole in the ceiling was mind-boggling.

"Up," Mulder croaked, pointing at the square hole barely a foot above his head.  Reaching up, he grabbed the edges of the hole and pulled himself up into the darkness.  There was almost no light, but from the echoes of his hands on the metal floor, he sensed that this area above the maze was fairly large.  With a kick he was halfway up through the hole, and another heave gave him enough leverage to roll over onto the floor of the room.

Looking down, he could see Krycek's face staring up at him..  With only one arm, Krycek will never be able to pull himself up.  I could be free of him.  This would be payback for all the pain Krycek inflicted on me and those I care about.  I don't have to do a thing -- not a goddamned thing. Revenge was in his hands. All I have to do is walk away.  As he looked down into the face of his enemy, revenge tasted as bitter as cold anger.

Krycek never said a word, just stood there with a cold sneering smile, as if he were telling Mulder that he knew it would come to this -- that Mulder was no better than he was in the end; daring him to leave him alone to die.

"Fuck!"  Mulder cursed his damn conscience before reaching down and taking Krycek's hand.  "Jump, you bastard," he ordered.  The surprise in Krycek's eyes was almost worth the self-loathing he felt for lacking the balls to take revenge when it fell in his lap.

Sorry, Scully . . . Dad, he whispered to the ghosts of their pain which had haunted him for nearly three years.

Krycek was nearly a dead weight on Mulder's shoulder as he slowly pulled him up to the point where he could use the stump of his left arm for leverage.  Krycek grunted as the hard edge of the hole peeled off a layer of skin on his chest and stomach.  Mulder felt tendons pop and muscles tear, but kept inching slowly backwards, trying to gain traction.  Finally Krycek was able to swing up a leg and hook it on the floor.  The relief to Mulder's shoulders was exquisite, but he hung on and braced as Krycek clambered the rest of the way up, until finally they lay side-by-side on the floor, panting and gasping for breath.  Krycek was lying on his stomach, letting the cool metal floor soothe a major case of road rash, while Mulder lay on his back, arms extended as he tried to ease his arm muscles into a flexed position.

Without warning the lights came on, blinding the two men and eliciting a yelp of pain from Mulder as his unshielded eyes failed to contract in time.  He felt Krycek roll over him, shielding his face against his body.  Krycek smelled of sweat and musk as the hair on his chest tickled Mulder's nose.  Mulder tried to free himself, but Krycek had him pinned so that his struggles only tangled their bodies together which was the last thing Mulder wanted.  Hastily he quit struggling when he realized what effect the friction of cotton and another body was producing in his groin.

"Lie still.  Let your eyes get used to the light," Krycek ordered, emphasizing his command by shifting his good arm to hold Mulder's head still.  From the rumbling deep in his chest, it appeared he was laughing, but whether from relief, or at Mulder's reaction was unclear.  His full weight rested on Mulder for several long heartbeats, until he began to lever himself up onto his knees.

::You like this.  You can't lie forever.  Remember, I'm the one who knows your darkest dreams -- the ones you never admit to, even to yourself:: the voice chided Mulder, who was trying to concentrate on cold showers and ice packs.

"Let me up," Mulder snapped, his words muffled by Krycek's chest.  That inner voice was lying.  He'd never in a thousand dreams imagined anything like this.  His reaction was nothing more than an automatic physical response to stimulation applied to an extremely sensitive area.

::Stubborn::

Krycek released him, rolling over onto his back as Mulder pushed himself away.  The light still stung his eyes, but he had no tears left to soothe the burning.

"Water!"

Mulder heard Krycek scrabble to his feet and listened to the echoes of his bare feet as he practically ran to the far corner of the room.  From the sound of it, this room was fairly large -- a welcome relief after the cramped tunnels.  Then he heard the sloshing of water and every other consideration fled from his mind.  Peering blearily in the direction Krycek had gone, he got to his feet and stumbled towards the sound of water sloshing in a metal container.

"Here.  There's plenty, but don't spill any.  I have no idea when, or if, we'll find more," Krycek said quietly as he guided Mulder's hands around a large mug of delicious, ice-cold water.  Mulder had never realized how good water could sound, nor that water had a smell that rivaled the finest beer.  "Slowly now," Krycek reminded him as he inhaled two large swallows and nearly coughed them back up.  Mulder nodded and sat back against the wall cradling the mug while taking small sips of the best drink he'd had in his lifetime.  The warm metal stung his hands, still rough and scoured after the effort of hauling Krycek up through the trap door.  He was tempted to pour some water out and clean them, but the chances of them finding more water were too slim for him to waste a drop.

As his thirst was relieved, Mulder felt his hunger surge up for attention.  That at least could be ignored.  He could go without food as long as he had water, for a while at any rate.  As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he began looking around their new accommodations.  They were in a large room, about the size of Skinner's office, made out of the same dull gray metal as the corridor below.  A large metal bucket stood in one corner and in the far corner he could make out a smaller bucket.  Other than the two containers and its size, the room differed little from the tunnels they just escaped from.

"Now what?" Krycek asked, prodding Mulder out of a pleasant doze with a not-so-gentle nudge with his foot.  "You just going to go to sleep like a good little rat?" he said as he loomed over Mulder.  His hand was clenching and unclenching at his side as he drew his foot back for another nudge.

The sarcasm in his voice stung Mulder -- going to sleep was one of the options he had been considering.  I'm tired of walking through this damn maze.  Maybe if I go to sleep I'll wake up in my own bed and all of this will be a jalapeno pizza nightmare.

"I don't hear you making any suggestions?" Mulder retorted just as sarcastically.  Krycek's impatience irritated him. I'm not giving up, damn you, he silently answered the challenge he saw in Krycek's eyes.  Glaring back at him, Mulder pulled himself up and locked eyes with him, daring Krycek to call him a quitter.

"You're the bright boy.  I'm simply an errand boy -- or has your opinion of me changed since we last talked?"

Underneath the sarcasm, Mulder swore he could hear injured pride.  He also saw anger in Krycek's eyes as he caught himself.  In the half-light he could see the dark circles under his enemy's eyes, accented by the tense lines in his face.  Anger, but also exhaustion, radiated from the man.  As Mulder stared at him, mulling over a half dozen scathing retorts, he realized that wasn't in the mood to trade sarcastic witticisms right now.  What was the point?  Unless he and Krycek found a way out of this maze, they were going to spend the rest of their lives, however short a period that promised to be, together.  He'd had enough of exchanging barbed comments with Scully to know that in the end he tore himself up worse than he damaged the other person.

"Truce."  Mulder said evenly, holding his hand out.  Krycek looked startled, then his face went stone cold.  Mulder braced himself for a flat-out rejection.  Maybe it was better this way.  He didn't have to give up any of his hate and he and Krycek could spit and snarl at each other until they died like a pair of fighting cocks locked in mortal combat.

"Why?"  Suspicion, and something else were compacted into a single word.  Mulder didn't need his degree in psychology to read the wary curiosity in Krycek's body language.  With a dismissive laugh, Krycek turned away and stared at the far wall, his back tense with suspicion.

"We have to rest sometime.  This is as good a place as any.  Besides, taking a nap goes completely against the intrepid heroes rulebook," Mulder added with an effort at humor.  He felt a strange compulsion to try to persuade Krycek he wasn't about to murder him in his sleep.  For some reason, beyond all sense and despite their painfully intertwined history, he trusted Krycek not to kill him when his back was turned.  The bastard might sell him out to the highest bidder, but he suspected that Krycek wanted to watch his face when, or if, he killed him.

"We need to keep moving.  There has to be a way out of this damn labyrinth," Krycek argued vehemently, still keeping his face averted.  Mulder detected a faint note of dread and wondered if his own voice betrayed his desperate need to find a way out.

"Right.  We haven't found a way out yet.  Why don't we make them come to us for a change?" Mulder suggested with a grim smile.  "I'm tired of playing their game."

Krycek thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.  "You're crazy," he said as he abruptly turned and extended his hand.  His shoulders were slumped as if he had just given up rather than given in to logic, but his eyes were confused -- caught between cold appraisal and surprise at his own acceptance of the offer.  They hesitated, their hands inches apart, before simultaneously grabbing hold of each other's offered hand.  "I'm crazy," he added softly in an almost bewildered tone.

For the second time in one day, Mulder found himself in complete agreement with Krycek.  This alliance was crazy, but if he hadn't suggested it, he was pretty sure Krycek would sooner or later.  This way he maintained at least the illusion of being in control.  Besides, it was interesting to watch Krycek try to adjust to the shifting emotional dynamics.

::And that's the only thing you're watching?  Sure, fine, whatever::

Dark eyes bored into his as if they could pluck the truth from his mind.  He stared back defiantly, looking deep into Krycek's eyes, trying to remember why he had even briefly considered him to be a partner.  Trust, betrayal, hate -- the litany of his feelings towards Krycek barely touched the surface of his complex and confusing relationship with this man.  Krycek was the enemy, but Mulder trusted him more than he trusted the unknown enemy who dumped them in this maze.

::Don't lose yourself in those eyes -- you'll drown and never notice::  The voice sounded immensely pleased with itself.

Don't you ever sleep? Mulder groused.  OK, so Krycek had eyes that could change from cold emerald-green to a dark silky chocolate; from assassin to lover in a heartbeat . . .

Fuck, where did that imagery come from? Mulder demanded as he frantically tried to shift his attention away from Krycek.  This had to be a very weird after-effect of the drugs they gave him, he decided with more hope than solid fact.

The sound of metal sliding closed startled both of them.  Krycek was half a step ahead of Mulder -- just in time to see a metal plate close with a sharp click under the entry hole.  They were sealed in.

"Shit!"  Krycek swore in a mixture of Russian and English as he probed the edges of the hole with his hand.  Mulder didn't think he'd find anything.  This prison had been constructed far too well to have an exit.  Not unless they were meant to find one.  For some reason, their captors wanted them in this room.  Several unpleasant possibilities sprang to mind and were as quickly dismissed.  They'd know soon enough.  For once in his life, Mulder was willing to let the unknown take its own sweet time in getting to him.

"Do you ever get tired of their games?" Mulder asked curiously as he settled down against the nearest wall.  He tried to find a comfortable position.  I have a nasty feeling we're going to be here for awhile, at least until the next phase of the experiment begins.  He stared up at the ceiling.  The rats are back in their cage, watered, if not fed, and resting up.  Now I know that the psychology degree was a bad idea, he decided with weary resignation. Just once I'd like not to anticipate what's coming.

"I usually invent my own," Krycek growled.  He was squatting by the closed hatchway, glaring at it as if by sheer force of will he could force it open.  He was taking short, panting breaths, interrupted every so often by a conscious effort to take a long, slow, deep breath.  It looked like Krycek was experiencing the initial stages of a severe case of claustrophobia.  Then he remembered the silo.  Krycek never did say how long he spent in that metal sepulcher.  Despite his feeling that Krycek deserved every minute of that hell, Mulder felt the stirrings of pity for him.  It was a testament to Krycek's stubborn will to survive that he emerged sane.  Mulder wasn't at all sure he'd have done as well.

::See, that wasn't so bad.  The world didn't end.  Your father's ghost didn't rise up out of the earth and condemn you because you felt something other than hate for Alex::

What's your point?  I'd feel sorry for a weasel caught in a trap -- no difference, Mulder replied hurriedly.

::Try being honest with yourself.  Hate and desire are kissing cousins.  Speaking of which, he does have very full lips, doesn't he?::

SHUT UP! Mulder yelled at the voice as he banged his head back against the wall to drown out the voice.

"You're not wigging out on me, are you, Mulder?" Krycek asked anxiously.  He came over to kneel by Mulder, laying a hand on his forehead.

"I'm fine.  Just trying to figure out the menu for the dinner I'm going to order when I get out of here," Mulder lied.  Krycek stared at him and slowly shook his head, disbelief evident in his face.  With a shrug he chuckled and settled down next to Mulder, careful not to sit too close.

"Save the torture for the men who put us here.  Don't do their work for them."  Krycek's advice sounded like it came from experience.  His expression warned off any questions.  Mulder's imagination could fill in the blanks with no trouble.  You deserved every moment of it.  At least there was some justice for the people you hurt.  Still . . .   A vision of Krycek pounding on the metal walls of his prison, screaming in the darkness interrupted his feeling of satisfaction.  Mulder squelched the aberrant sense of pity before it could take hold.

Mulder nodded and tried to think pleasant neutral thoughts -- something that didn't involve food, or the man sitting too damn close to him for comfort.  He could control his mind, more or less, but his body was very conscious of Krycek's every move and just how revealing those damp boxers were.  Engrossed in his own thoughts, Mulder never noticed that Krycek was staring straight ahead muttering the same phrase over and over in Russian.

Gradually Mulder noticed that he was getting cold.  The temperature in the room was dropping slowly.  The walls felt chilly against his back, while the floor remained slightly warmer, but was still at least five degrees cooler than when he sat down.  Looking over at Krycek he saw him shiver, then curse. First we're baked, now we're being freeze-dried, Mulder thought glumly.  The first shiver took him by surprise and he tried to repress the urge to shiver again.

"Bastards."  Krycek added a string of profanities in Russian.

Mulder wasn't sure what he said, but he wished he knew the Russian word for ditto.  He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering, because the sudden chill after being overheated and dehydrated was hitting him hard.  He started praying for a sudden rain of sleeping bags, or at least a sprinkle of long-johns.  The alternative was simply unthinkable and he refused to go down that path even in speculation.

::Are you going to be stubborn about this?:: the voice asked curiously.

I am NOT cuddling up with Krycek.  No way!  I'll freeze to death first, Mulder declared firmly as he tried not to think about how well they would fit together.  Despite his best efforts to discipline his unruly libido, a rush of heat gave him a temporary sense of relief while making sure that his train of thought was blatantly obvious.  Damn cotton, he muttered softly as he tried to shift so that the bulge wasn't directly facing Krycek.

They sat in silence for awhile.  Mulder pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees.  It worked for a few minutes, but he had too much skin exposed for it to be a long-term solution, and he knew it.  Krycek paced the room in his unsteady walk before coming back to sit down next to him, his hand massaging the muscles in his right calf.  From the tiny gasps he made, there was some serious muscle strain.

"You know what we have to do," Krycek finally said, staring straight ahead with a perfectly neutral expression.

"I'm fine," Mulder replied, trying to control the shivers which kept slipping past his efforts to control them.  "The temperature appears to be holding steady," he offered hopefully.  He suspected that his assurance would sound more convincing without the teeth chattering that accompanied it.

"Mulder, right now all I'm interested in is your body heat.  Your virtue is perfectly safe."

Krycek almost seemed to be laughing at him.  Of course, he was completely at ease with the idea of the two of them lying close together.  For some reason, Mulder resented that composure.  He was anything but calm about the situation.  Five years of mixed emotions and repressed, illicit desire were coming home to roost and all he wanted to do was run away before he made a fool of himself.

Apparently, it was one thing for him to reject Krycek and quite another to be rejected, at least implicitly.  To his surprise, it hurt like hell.  Scully's laughter when he declared his love slid right off his armor, because he could tell himself that she needed time, but Krycek's casual dismissal of the tension gnawing at his self-control stung.

He waited for the damn voice to point out the obvious, but it remained silent.  Sure, now you're silent.  Mulder suspected that the voice was quiet because he was finally facing up to the torturous conflicting emotions he had concerning Krycek.

For years he had ruthlessly suppressed the sexual tension he felt whenever Krycek barged into his life.  Part of him had wanted Krycek ever since he climbed out of the pool and locked eyes with Krycek and felt his desire echoed in his own body.  It had felt good to flaunt his body in front of a young attractive man knowing that neither one of them could, or would, do a thing about resolving the tension.  Later, when Krycek betrayed him, desire turned to hate and hate into rage when he discovered that he still wanted him.

::Well, finally.  It took you long enough:: the voice said triumphantly.

Fine.  I want him.  However, you seem to have neglected to inform him of this little fact, Mulder grumbled resentfully.

::No.  You have.  You're going to have to ask.  It's up to you to decide if this is a trap, or simply a golden opportunity to find out what it feels like to thrust into him and be taken in turn.  Good luck.  Let me know how this turns out:: the voice said as it faded back into the dark recesses of his subconscious.

Shit!  I did not think that.  I simply did not think that, Mulder repeated to himself, trying not to bang his head against the wall.  Krycek would be looking for the slightest sign of weakness.  I will not give him that satisfaction.

The idea that his subconscious was seriously entertaining thoughts of him having sex with another man wasn't particularly upsetting.  If he had to classify his sexual identity, he'd probably label himself open to extreme possibilities.  It was the idea that Krycek was the other man that unsettled him.  Now that the thought was out in the open, he recognized the core of his ambivalent reactions to Krycek.  Fear of his own desire to simply give in to temptation drove him to the attack.

"Are you sure about yours?" Mulder flung back, taunting Krycek's studied calm.  If he ended up getting burned, then he wanted to see Krycek going down in flames right along with him.  He could hear the faint echo of Scully's oh-so-sensible voice telling him he was playing into Krycek's hands, but he was tired of listening to her.  Just once, he wanted to stand on the edge of the world and challenge the whirlwind.  He wanted to forget 'Agent Mulder' and simply be the man who lived behind the mask he had worn for nearly ten years . . . whoever that might be, whatever the cost.  A sense of relief accompanied the heady feeling of freedom as he acknowledged the darkness inside of him.

"Don't tell me the great Agent Mulder has a dirty little secret," Krycek replied sarcastically.

Krycek's eyes appeared to be laughing at him, but Mulder detected a slight hunching of his body, as if he was trying to protect himself against an unexpected blow. So, I'm not the only one with a 'dirty little secret,' he thought with an uncomfortable feeling that they had both just stepped off the edge of a cliff into . . . something unknown and a little frightening.

"What do you want, Krycek?  We're probably going to die in here.  Why don't we both do something really radical and be honest with each other?  I'm up for a game of twenty questions; are you?" Mulder replied calmly.  "At least it will give us something to do while we freeze to death," he added.

"You trust me?" Krycek asked incredulously.

"About as far as I can throw you," Mulder admitted with a shrug.  "However, I don't think we were talking about trust.  Fucking each other senseless I believe is what we're discussing.  Trust has nothing to do with it."

"You're a fool, Mulder."

"People keep telling me that, so I guess it must be true."  Mulder leaned his head back against the cold metal wall and stared at the ceiling.  After several long heartbeats, he sighed and looked over at Krycek.  "I'm tired.  I'm cold.  I have every reason to hate you and I do, but ..."  Mulder fell silent, unable to put into words his conflicting emotions.

"You just can't help wondering what it would be like, can you?" Krycek said softly, all traces of his sarcastic sneer gone.  "Because of you I lost everything.  I was a good soldier who followed orders and because you fucked up the plan, I got blamed."

"Well, if we're listing grudges -- there's this little matter of my father, not to mention Scully and her sister.  Why?" Mulder cried out as the pain of multiple losses hit him again, as fresh as the moment they happened.

Krycek stiffened as Mulder's pain hit him.  "Melissa was a mistake.  Cardinale was a fool.  As for Scully -- she was expendable, nothing more.  She was a tool that didn't perform as they planned, so they terminated her assignment.  I saved your life, Mulder.  If you had made it up that mountain, you wouldn't have come back down and I would have been honored as the grieving partner of an agent who died in the line of duty."  Krycek sounded sincere.  For the first time since he met his erstwhile partner, Mulder suspected that something very close to the truth was being revealed.

"I was under orders to stop you, whatever it took, up to and including arranging your accidental death.  The smoking SOB wanted you alive.  None of the other Elders cared whether you lived or died, just as long as you were stopped.  I must have been crazy.  I should have let you die, and I'd been halfway up the ladder by now," Krycek said in bitter self-mockery.

"Why her and not me?" Mulder snapped as he shoved himself to his feet and paced furiously to try to get warm.  The cold was seeping into his bones and he was beginning to shiver uncontrollably.

"I don't know.  She failed and failure usually means death in my business.  The perfect little spy turned out to be not so perfect.  Old Man Spender was the one who figured out that she was your one weakness and had her returned.  Strange how life works.  I followed their orders and I ended up on the run.  She failed, but gets to be your one in five billion, and I end up with jack shit."  The bitterness was clear and Krycek made no attempt to hide it although it sounded odd coming through teeth clenched against the cold.

How in hell does he know I called Scully my one in five billion?  Mulder quailed at the thought that even a lunatic's bed was no safeguard against the spies set to watch him.  He sat down suddenly, deflated by the realization that nothing he had done or said was safe from the men in the shadows.

"Your turn," Krycek announced abruptly, clearly warning Mulder away from further questions.  Mulder flinched, but nodded his agreement.  This had been his suggestion after all.  They were both shivering by now; their breath coming out in smoky puffs.  Mulder stiffened, but did not object when Krycek scooted over until they were sitting side-by-side.  Immediately, Mulder's right side began to feel warm, which made the rest of him extremely jealous.  The notion of curling up around Krycek was beginning to look better and better by the moment.

"Why are you so different from me?"

Mulder was confused by the question.  The cold slowed his mind, leaving him grasping for reference points.

Krycek went on, "You're responsible for the deaths of two informants and the disappearance of a third.  My God, everyone who's ever tried to help you ends up dead.  You've left a trail of bodies in your wake that I've yet to equal, but you presume to judge me."  Krycek didn't sound angry, just frustrated.

Accepting the shift in perspective, Mulder considered the question.  He'd thought about the sacrifice men like Deep Throat and X had made and honored them.  They had come to him at great risk, knowing the price they could pay.  He respected their efforts, but he'd hadn't considered their deaths his responsibility, at least not directly.  As for Marita, he just assumed she'd been recalled.  Apparently Krycek knew otherwise.

"They came to me.  They knew the risks." I'm rationalizing, damn it, but how much guilt can I carry before I go mad?

"You draw men to you like moths to a flame.  The Elders were fools not to kill you the moment you discovered the X-Files.  Old Man Spender's wrong -- your death won't launch a crusade; it's already here."  Krycek spat out a curse in Russian and laid his head down on his knees.

With a sudden flash of insight, Mulder wondered how much of the tirade had to do with the follies of Deep Throat and X and how much had to do with the folly of Alex Krycek.

"Why did you kill my father?" Mulder asked quietly.  The answer was beginning to dawn on him as he began putting the pieces together.  I need to hear what you have to say.  I need to know how you justify killing my father before I can make peace with you.  Why did you rob me of the chance to get my father's forgiveness?

"He was going to tell you everything, and then I'd have had to kill you as well.  The drunken fool discovered his conscience at a most inconvenient moment.  Spender wanted it done quick and clean; the Elders wanted you killed or blamed -- murder/suicide would have tied up so many loose ends."

"Why didn't you?"

"I couldn't."  Krycek turned his head, refusing to look at Mulder.  His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but the pain in his answer was clear.

"You protected me?  Why?" Mulder asked in astonishment as he put several pieces of the puzzle together. He remembered the feel of Krycek's body lying over his, shielding him from the sudden flare of light.  What twisted satisfaction did Krycek get out of hurting the people he cared for while keeping him alive?

"Hell if I know.  It just seemed like a good idea at the time," Krycek replied mockingly.  "Don't get too self-confident; I'll kill you tomorrow if they offer me the right deal."

Mulder started to bristle, then realized the futility of arguing with cold logic.  From Krycek's point of view, life was a bargaining chip in his climb to power.  Mulder began to feel like an ace stuck up Krycek's sleeve, ready to be tossed on the table whenever it was to his advantage.  Well, at least he was honest about it.  Right now, Mulder was grateful for any shred of honesty from the men who haunted his life.

"I have no idea who'd want to grab you now," Krycek muttered as his hand clenched into a tight fist on his thigh.   "Most of them think they gelded you when they took away the X-Files.  So far, you haven't done much to prove them wrong."  Krycek glared accusingly at Mulder who glowered back.

"You sound like Scully," he shot back.

"Don't you wish,"  Krycek snapped and started to pull away.  Mulder grabbed for his good hand, missed as he evaded it, and froze when his hand fell on Krycek's bare thigh.  Mulder felt the shock of his touch slam through Krycek and back into him.  This was pure physical need, channeled through years of abstention and self-denial, unmarred by the softer sentiments of love.  Perhaps it was born out of the seeds of respect for another survivor who had walked through hell without being crushed.  Whatever he and Krycek shared, love certainly was not at the root of it, but Mulder was beginning to suspect that raw sexuality was its lifeblood.  Reluctant respect began to worm its way through the hate and anger that dominated his feelings.  My enemy, my brother, Mulder thought with weary acknowledgment that he simply could not outrun Krycek any more.

"No," was all Mulder was able to say.  He was in free-fall, riding the whirlwind.  Instead of fear, he felt anticipation.  Desire was breaking all the rules, but caution, and a hard-won cynicism, still held him back.  If they gave in and let physical passion take over, he could be handing himself not only to Krycek, but to the Consortium.  The blackmail possibilities were endless.  He bit his lip, worrying the flesh with his teeth as he hovered on the brink of an irreversible act of either bravado or rampant idiocy.

Krycek didn't say a word, but his tongue flicked out to moisten dry lips.  He was trembling as he stared down at Mulder's hand, inches away from his groin.  His penis was hardening, tenting his boxers as if it was searching for that hand.

Mulder flashed back to the memory of sitting on the floor of his apartment staring up into the muzzle of a gun as Krycek leaned down and kissed him savagely.  Long after Krycek left, Mulder had sat there trying to decipher the meaning of the kiss.  It was too close to his lips to be the formal Russian greeting kiss.  Krycek's kiss had clawed away his comfortable illusions and left a burning brand on his check.  In the frantic weeks to follow, Mulder had had little time to brood over what Krycek had done, but during the long months of indentured servitude to Kersh, he had had plenty of time to think about it.  Krycek had laid claim to him; had demanded that he accept his destiny as a member of the resistance.  Even now, locked in this fragile truce with a man he considered a traitor and a murderer, Mulder sensed the bond that chained them together.

Watching Krycek's face, Mulder realized that he hated this man as much for what he represented as for what he had done to his partner and his family.  Krycek was his mirror twin, the dark side of his nature unleashed.  Hating Krycek was hating that part of him that he knew lurked just beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to take control.  To embrace Krycek would be to embrace the darkness that lay within his own soul.  Mulder wasn't sure he could do that without drowning in the storm surge of anger and resentment that had been building up inside of him over the years since Samantha was taken right out from under his nose.

Mulder started to speak, but fell silent as Krycek looked up at him and shook his head.

"No words.  If we put this into words, we'll have to deal with it and you don't deal with unpleasant reality very well."  Krycek sounded resigned, but Mulder sensed an underlying bitterness.

For the first time, Mulder wondered what Krycek really thought of him; did the mirror twin snared in the dark envy his opposite struggling out in the light?  What made Krycek protect him against all reason?  These were questions Mulder wanted answered, but the feel of Krycek's hand on his stomach shattered his concentration.  Heat spread outwards from his stomach in a radius that pooled down in his groin.

With a dark, sardonic smile, Krycek slipped his hand behind Mulder's back and pulled him hard against him until they were sprawled on the floor in a tight embrace.  Caught off-balance, Mulder literally fell against Krycek's chest as his legs were efficiently trapped.  He struggled, but only succeeded in further stimulating his own arousal.  He cursed, complaints coming out in a mixture of words and groans until Krycek grabbed his mouth with his and began nibbling on his lower lip.

Even as he kept Mulder's mouth occupied, Krycek began a series of slow grinds, rubbing their cocks together through the thin layers of cotton that separated them.  Assaulted by intense sensory overloads at both points and basking in the sudden rush of warmth created by the closeness of their bodies and Krycek's intense seduction, Mulder tried to collect his wits.  He was drowning in pure physical pleasure.  Muscles tensed against the cold went slack as he acquiesced and allowed Krycek free rein to explore his body.  His mind wanted to war with his body, and he stood poised on the cusp of desire and fear.

Finally pulling back to breathe, Krycek began to stroke Mulder's face, playing with his lips and caressing the curve of his throat, tracing the muscles that jumped and twitched under his hand.  His eyes were questioning, almost soft, as his hand gentled the explosive tension threatening to explode.  Unconsciously, Mulder relaxed into his touch, surrendering to the physical sensation of being caressed.  Even as his body relaxed, Mulder felt his cock straining against his pajamas, demanding attention.  He barely flinched as Krycek pulled off his pajama bottoms.  Teasing him, Krycek smoothed the skin on his inner thigh, then cupped his ass and squeezed.  He kicked off his own boxers and rubbed his rigid cock against Mulder's thigh, tantalizingly close to Mulder's fully aroused penis.  Krycek seemed to be enjoying the effect he was producing; playing with Mulder like a cat with a mouse.  Tension stretched to the breaking point bound them together and swept the last hesitations aside.

Mulder groaned and reached down with his hand to try to relieve some of the pressure.  To his astonishment the cock he grabbed wasn't his own.  Krycek's eyes went wide, turning dark as a summer thunderstorm.

"I didn't know you cared?" Krycek rasped, his breathing ragged, while trying to appear in control.  His sardonic mask slipped as Mulder's thumb stroked the length of his cock, stopping only long enough to swirl around the moist tip so lightly that Krycek bucked against his hand.  In response, Krycek's fist clenched Mulder's hair, pulling his head back at an awkward angle until his throat was arched up within reach of his lips.  Neither man indulged in a gentle wooing of the other.  This was a fierce seduction that clawed its way past suspicion, fear, and self-preservation to engulf them.

"Fuck you," Mulder replied breathlessly.  He was hopelessly torn between hate and desire, unable to move forward or back.  His mind shrieked its reluctance to take this final step, even while his body demanded it.

"I thought that's what we were doing," Krycek spat out with a strained laugh.

"We're being watched," Mulder objected, knowing he was clutching at straws.  Their captors already had enough on tape to destroy him.  Carrying this through to completion couldn't damn him any more than the kiss and his hand playing with Krycek's penis already had.

"You dumb fuck," Krycek sighed in disgust, then shuddered as Mulder closed his fist around his cock and began a slow pumping motion.  Gathering his breath, he managed to maintain a modicum of control, although it wobbled badly around the edges.  "You're afraid."  Krycek started to laugh sarcastically, then broke off.  "Shit."

Mulder felt a rush of embarrassment and anger. Damn it, why do you have to sneer at everything I do?  Krycek could always pass this off as just one of those things you did to survive.  Mulder knew that it wasn't going to be that easy for him.  If I ever admit that my feelings towards Krycek are hopelessly complex, nothing will ever be the same.  How can I hate someone I also desire, or desire someone I hate?

"Mulder, do you really think there's anything you do that they don't know about?" Krycek asked more gently.  "They'll probably kill us both in the end, or I may end up killing you, or you, me.  What does that have to do with here and now?"

Pondering those words and what they revealed about Krycek, and what they were asking of him, Mulder lay quiet, forgetting that his hand was still idly stroking Krycek's cock until a groan startled him out of his reverie.

"Christ, Mulder!"  Krycek groaned as he ground his hips into Mulder's hand.  His head was flung back and he was panting in short gasps.

::Go on.  Either put the poor bastard out of his misery, or roll over and enjoy a nice cold snooze alone on this hard metal floor::

I thought you left? Mulder grumbled.

::Not a chance.  I just decided to skip the long boring parts.  Feels good, doesn't it?  Bringing someone to the peak of physical pleasure, knowing it's your hand that's going to shatter him into a thousand pieces . . . knowing his hand will pull you right along with him::

Go away.

::Nope.  I wouldn't miss this for the world.  You've finally admitted that you want to do this, and I'm not going to let you weasel out of it with some lame-brained rationalization::

Mulder groaned as Krycek, impatient for release, pulled his hand free, shifted it down to Mulder's cock, and began to pump it in a frantic rhythm that drove Mulder wild.  Pain mixed with pleasure and the need to come shone in Krycek's eyes.  Making one last effort to deny his body and his need, he tried to shift out of Krycek's grip, but desire and passion took over.  There would undoubtedly be hell to pay later, but Mulder was past caring now.

Krycek came first, moaning, swallowing his scream behind a torn and bleeding lip.  Frantic for his own release, Mulder thrust hard into Krycek's fist, speeding up the tempo as his hips ground faster and faster.  He hung suspended over a deep chasm for an eternal second, before finally plummeting to earth.

He came awake to the sticky feel of semen between his thighs and the heavy smell of sex.  Krycek was breathing steadily, half on top of him, his stump tucked under his arm.  The other arm was resting on his chest.  His own legs were wrapped around Krycek's, pulling him close.  Sated and warm, Mulder stared up at his mortal enemy who was now, however briefly, his lover.

"Not bad," Krycek muttered with an attempt at his usual caustic tone.  His eyes were a deep green that reminded Mulder of the sea after a storm.

"Liar," Mulder replied as he tried to re-gather his scattered wits.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?  That it was worth the wait?"

"I don't know.  Was it?"

"Yes," Krycek replied simply.

Krycek lay sprawled against him, managing to look like saint and devil at the same time. As much as Mulder didn't trust him, he also knew that this moment in time was an exception to the rules.  Krycek might sell him to the highest bidder tomorrow, or put a bullet through the back of his head, but what had just happened existed outside the limits.  Even knowing he was probably going to be played for a fool, Mulder gave up arguing with himself and simply pulled Krycek's head against his shoulder before wrapping his arms around him.  Part of him still felt as if he had just sold his soul to the devil, but he'd deal with his conscience later.  Now he simply wanted to hold onto a warm body and sleep.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Watching the men nestle into a comfortable embrace, the well-dressed man smiled.  His associate hovered uncertainly, waiting for permission to speak.  Finally the first immaculately tailored man nodded and gestured for his lieutenant to ask his question.

"Shall I introduce the gas, sir?" the lieutenant asked, trying to mask his eagerness to test out the new odorless gas.  The scientists said it produced lurid hallucinations leading to madness, eventually driving its victims to suicide or catatonia, and he wanted to see how well it worked.

"Certainly not," the first man responded curtly.  "I didn't go to all this trouble merely to kill them.  They are far too valuable to destroy."

"But, I thought . . . "

"No, you didn't think at all, did you?"  The lieutenant flinched nervously when he sighed in frustration.  "My former colleagues were fools to waste the potential of these two men in senseless enmity.  They belong together; they were destined to be together in this war.  In every culture, there are legends of twin heroes waging war on the gods.  These are my twins and I will forge them into a weapon that will bring down the heavens."

He stared at his two unlikely heroes lying naked, sticky with their birth fluid.  He'd never thought of himself as a midwife, but who else could he trust to get these two stubborn men to acknowledge the bond they shared?  Most men forgot the agony of being born.  Krycek and Mulder would remember this birth for the rest of their lives.  And if they showed any signs of forgetting it, he'd find a way to remind them....

The End

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