Part Two

Skinner woke to a thudding ache that began at the arch of his nose, flooded his brain and intensified to a sharp, knifing pain at the base of his skull. He attempted to open his eyes and flinched as white-hot lasers seemed to sear his eyeballs. He could hear a deep, agonized groaning and was a little surprised to realize the noise was coming from his own throat. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, he tried to lift his head. This time he was in no doubt of the source of the pained moans that echoed through his head with a sickening rhythm.

He tried to think, tried to make sense of a crazy jigsaw of confused memories, tried to figure out where he was and why.

Even without sight or movement, he became aware of several facts as he lay there and tried to control the nauseas sensations of what was either the worst hangover of his life or the after effects of someone burying an ice pick in his brain. He had the disturbing certainty that the latter explanation was somewhere nearer the truth.

He was lying on something reasonably comfortable, but not his own bed. Possibly not a bed at all. He was cold. Not a biting, skin-shivering cold, more the trickling chill of cold air whispering over exposed flesh.

Was he naked?

Moving slowly, careful to keep his head rigid while his right hand slid over his own chest, he was inordinately relieved to discover that his nakedness wasn't absolute. He had been stripped to his boxers and could feel the thin cotton of an unfamiliar tee-shirt over his chest. He could also feel something wrapped around his left ankle, not a discomfort so much as a point of snug warmth in the midst of the slightly chilled sensation that otherwise blanketed both of his legs.

Some form of restraint, perhaps.

His hand dropped off his belly and moved sideward in investigation. It seemed he was lying on a mattress and, although the cover was rough enough under his questing fingers to indicate the absence of any bedding, his nose confirmed that the mattress was at least presumably clean. Moving his hand off the edge of the mattress, his fingers rapidly  connected with a cold surface that could only be a stone or concrete floor.

He forced himself to think it through, to slowly drag some of the puzzle pieces together.

He was lying, half-naked, on a bare mattress which was on the floor in some strange but cold location with the mother of all headaches preventing him from even opening his eyes.

Why? How?

Scully.

Had he led them to Scully?

He panicked for a moment, enough that he cried out in agony as he unthinkingly attempted to raise himself to a sitting position. He collapsed back on the mattress, breathing deeply, willing himself not to throw up as the lancing pain in the back of his eyeballs made his guts spasm and contract.

What did he remember? What was the last clear memory?

Of course, the basement car park. 

He almost laughed out loud at the irony of that. When had his life become such a cosmic joke that all the significant events that happened to him seemed to take place inside that damned car park? Maybe it was time he considered selling the Lexus and taking taxis to and from work, he decided bitterly.

He'd gotten hold of the new I.D.s Scully had requested. It had taken him almost a day and more favors than his rapidly depleting bank of stored good-will could really afford. He'd been on his way to the bank. 

That was it. 

He'd retrieved the key carefully hidden in plain sight in his office, the key to Mulder's DC deposit box that had hung innocuously on a heavy key chain filled with innocent file cabinet keys, and had walked into the seemingly deserted car park to drive to the bank.

He couldn't even remember being jumped, though from his current situation and the state of his throbbing head he was damned certain someone had simply crept up and hit him on the back of the head. Hard enough to fell him with one blow. Hard enough that he couldn't even remember being hit.

He cautiously moved his left hand, reaching out to explore that side of his 'bed'. His fingers touched and slowly identified the presence of a plastic cup. He pushed against it gently and it moved with the slow awkwardness that indicated it was full. Water perhaps, he told himself and was grateful for the consideration of his captor or captors, despite his underlying rage that he was lying there at all. A little more blind exploration revealed a foil package, the size and shape of a wrapped sandwich. His stomach rebelled at the thought of eating but, again, he was comforted by the presence of the food. It told him that his kidnappers intended to keep him alive. At least for the moment. Long enough, hopefully, for someone to find him.

He clung to that thought. He was an Assistant Director of the FBI. Teams of Agents were probably already scouring the car park for evidence and fanning out around the city in search for him. 

The idea of simply lying there, waiting for rescue, burned him somewhere in his pride but his aching head, that threatened to explode every time he moved it, voted that discretion was the best part of valor and, at some point, he simply drifted off to sleep once more.

~#~#~#~

The encroaching darkness cast long shadows from the surrounding trees, secretive places in the midst of the honey-speckled light of the dying sun. As Mulder crept through the undergrowth, his body low to the ground, he hugged himself to the shadows, camouflaging himself within their dark safety, yet increasingly fearful of the oncoming nightfall that would leave him virtually blind to his pursuers.

This far from civilization the night fell like a black shroud. Without the faint orange glow of city lights to cast definition to the gray shadows and with the low hanging storm clouds that would obscure even the moon's pale light, when night finally fell he'd be virtually helpless.

The hunters that were circling him now like a pack of wolves were at home in the darkness. Blind even in the daytime, they moved with senses other than sight. 

He'd led them far away from his camp, hoping to somehow circle back on himself before nightfall but their relentless pursuit had driven him deeper and deeper into the forest, until the heavy foliage and the cloudy sky had totally obscured the sun, leaving him uncertain even of the direction he was running in. He'd been lost for hours. His chest and legs were burning with exertion, his mouth was uncomfortably dry, his stomach was cramping with both hunger and fear and he could still hear them following him.

They didn't stalk. They didn't creep silently through the forest like hunters. They simply crashed through the forest in his wake. They didn't even run after him. Somehow that was the most terrifying thing of all, that they just *walked* like unstoppable, unhurried machines. As though the certainty of his capture was so inevitable that they would simply allow him to run himself to exhaustion.

As he had. 

Though he told himself he was crawling through the shadows for camouflage he knew the truth was that he simply hadn't got the strength to walk upright any longer. He wasn't even sure whether he could drag himself to his feet for a final, defiant showdown.

"It's a good look for you, Mulder."

"Whaa?" he groaned, shaking his head wearily and then rocking back on his heels to look at the latest evidence of his impending insanity.

Alex was leaning against the trunk of a tree, still wearing the tight muscle-tee but his cut-offs had been replaced by a pair of skin-tight pants in the same black leather as the jacket that was draped over his shoulders like a cape, leaving his folded, muscular arms bare. 

Despite the falling darkness, and the fact that Alex was standing in the tree's shadow, by some peculiar trick of light his whole body seemed to be back-lit by the last of the sunset's dying gleam so that instead of blending into the shadows, he was haloed by light.

"I like you on your knees," Alex purred, his eyes crinkling with humor. He rubbed slowly and provocatively at the taut leather that strained over his groin. "Since you're already down there, I don't suppose you'd consider…" 

And Mulder laughed. 

It was a choking, helpless sound at first but then it deepened into genuine, if slightly hysterical, humor.

"Only me," he gasped, between the almost painful chortles of laughter that were racking his whole, exhausted body. 

He was gratified, but not surprised, by Alex's answering grin of understanding. After all Alex *was* just a product of his own fevered imagination, he reminded himself.

"So, any last requests?" Alex drawled. "A kiss before dying? A last supper?" He patted his groin again meaningfully.

"Yeah," Mulder replied, a little embarrassed that his voice emerged as more of a giggle than the drawl he'd intended then even more embarrassed that he was trying to put on a front in the face of a mere illusion. "Only I don't really want to get a plam in the back of my neck while I'm sucking an invisible cock. It's not really the way I want my obituary to read."

"How about auto-erotic asphyxiation?" Alex asked conversationally, unzipping his pants and wriggling his hips as he slid the leather down to mid thigh. "How about I ram my dick so far down your throat that you simply die of pleasure?"

Mulder licked his suddenly painfully dry lips as Alex's penis reared up, purple and proud from a nest of soft, dark fur. Alex's body was glowing in the darkness, the first dew-drops of interest that were trickling from the swollen cock-head were sparkling like tiny, perfect gemstones, promising nectar to Mulder's parched mouth.

But he shook his head and laughed.

"I am so fucked," he whispered to himself. "This isn't what I want. I never wanted this. I never wanted *you* like this."

"Why are you still lying to yourself?" Alex demanded, but his tone was more sad and confused than challenging. "You wanted me well enough last night, didn't you?" Suddenly he sprang forward, dragged Mulder to his feet with inhuman strength and, holding him effortlessly with just one hand, he reached down and squeezed Mulder's crotch viciously.

Mulder yelped and twisted as his already swollen cock surged hungrily beneath Alex's fingers. Alex smirked with renewed confidence.

"You want me," he purred with satisfaction. "Tell yourself any lies you want, but your body can't lie. You *do* want me."

Perhaps it was the smugness of Alex's words or just the obvious truth of them, but a wave of furious self-loathing surged through Mulder's body, fueling exhausted muscles with a charge of strength. He threw Alex backwards with a vicious push that knocked him back against the tree, then he pressed forward after the surprised man, tripping over the jacket that had fallen from Alex's shoulders and stumbling so that he fell heavily against him, knocking the breath out Alex's body with his own.

Taking advantage of Alex's temporary confusion, Mulder rammed his hip against Alex's cock, pinning it cruelly between their bodies and grinding until Alex squealed with combined pain and excitement.

"I hate you," Mulder snarled, leaning forward and biting down on Alex's neck until a choked scream and the taste of blood confirmed that he had ripped and marked that perfect skin. 

"Hate you," Mulder repeated, spitting out the coppery taste before dropping his head and biting again, this time against one of Alex's nipples. 

Then, while Alex was still gasping in shock, Mulder pulled back enough to spin him around, slamming him face first into the trunk of the tree with a satisfying crunch.

"Hate you," Mulder purred, licking the nape of Alex's neck until the younger man was writhing and moaning, until he was wriggling his ass wildly in a desperate attempt to force his leather pants to slide down far enough to open his legs in invitation.

"Oh, god, Alex, I hate you so much," Mulder groaned.

Alex's knees went weak at the tortured desire that flowed through Mulder's words. He effortlessly broke free of Mulder's hold, only to sink to the ground in a gesture of submission, his ass high in invitation, his head low in apparent defeat.

"Then 'hate' me, Mulder," he whispered.

And despite of, or perhaps even because of, the approaching hunters who were bearing his imminent death, Mulder sank to his knees behind the trembling body of the man he'd been obsessed with for years, both in life and in death, and fumbling with his own pants he released the chosen weapon of his vengeance.

Without preparation, or gentleness or even a verbal warning, Mulder aimed his cock at Alex's vulnerable ass and drove it in to the hilt.

"This what you wanted?" he snarled, as Alex howled in shock and pain. "Is it?" He withdrew almost completely and thrust again, driving home with his full body weight into Alex's tight silken depths. "Is it?" he demanded, sobbing as he slammed again and again into the almost painful tightness.

"Yes," Alex wailed, beneath him. Bucking back to accept and embrace Mulder's assault, riding the pain, accepting it, welcoming it. "Yes," he choked, as Mulder's flesh burned a white-hot path of cleansing flame into the depths of his body.

"Yes," Mulder gasped. He reached around and fisted Alex's cock, tugging and pulling the rigid flesh in rhythm with his relentless assault on Alex's ass, gasping as Alex arched and wailed beneath him. 

As Alex screamed and came, his howl of completion echoing through the dark forest, Mulder cried out with his own almost agonizing pleasure as his cock was kneaded and squeezed by the strength of Alex's orgasm.

"Hate you," he wailed, as he emptied himself into Alex's depths, as he pumped and thrust in a frantic urge to capture and delight in every sensation Alex was offering him.

"Love you," Alex answered, as his ass greedily milked Mulder's cock.

With a final cry of satisfaction, Mulder collapsed over Alex's back, his already exhausted body now too drained and depleted to even fight the black numbness that was creeping into his brain. His last thought, as his consciousness fled him, was the disturbing oddity of the fact that although he had told Alex he hated him, and Alex had replied that he loved him, the only real difference between the two statements had been the words chosen to express their passion.

Alex carefully extracted himself from the weight of his now insensate lover and rose to his feet with a flowing grace that should have been impossible, given the thorough work-out that Mulder had just performed in his ass. He shook himself and stretched thoroughly, then he resumed his natural form and hauled his pants back up. He *could* have just imagined himself clothed once more but he'd once gotten into the habit of living in a human body and, although his natural form was only vaguely reminiscent of that previous flesh and blood, he was still finding himself falling into old patterns of behavior.

Like letting Mulder kick the shit out of him.

He grinned fondly down at the unconscious human. He regretted the necessity that had made him return to earth in a virtually indestructible form. With both Mulder *and* Skinner to deal with, not to mention the myriad of life-forms hell bent on sending Mulder to a premature grave, Alex couldn't afford the luxury of playing a human for real this time. Even if that meant he could no longer wear the marks of Mulder's fists like trophies.

Then again, he was being self-indulgent enough in deliberately allowing Mulder to still think he was a 'ghost'. Alex knew it wouldn't last, that unless he allowed Mulder to remain too exhausted to think straight his human lover would soon figure out that Alex was many things, but that dead wasn't one of them. 

Lover. 

He liked that word. He savored it. He didn't even care if the adjectives that currently belonged with it were 'reluctant', 'violent' and 'fantasy'. It was all he was going to be offered and so he'd be damned grateful for whatever little that offer added up to. Once Mulder learned 'the truth', the fantasy would be over.

Once Mulder understood, *really* understood, his hatred for 'Krycek' would dissipate like a forgotten dream. When he saw Alex in his true form, in all his radiance, the love Mulder hid beneath the hatred would turn into a different kind of emotion. Obsession, adoration, worship, call it anything you like but it *wasn't* love. Mulder wasn't the first human lover Alex had taken over the millennia and, realistically, he probably wouldn't be the last. But, as Luke had said, they were dalliances, playthings, toys to be used and discarded. He'd never loved them. To be honest, love as it was felt by humans was a completely alien concept to a creature such as himself.

At least it *had* been.

Again, Luke had been right.  Alex had spent too long down here in a human body. He'd begun to think like them, to *feel* like them. Perhaps the sooner he accomplished his missions and left, the better for everyone.

As soon as Mulder and Skinner were safe.

"Damn," he cursed. He'd totally forgotten about Skinner. 

It was time he got Mulder back to the relative safety of his camp and returned to check on his other reluctant charge.

He bent down and touched Mulder's forehead lightly, 'pushing' slightly against the faint consciousness until it descended into a deeper sleep. Then, uncaring whether any of the approaching Bounty Hunters sensed his presence, he threw back his head to the dark night sky and unfurled his wings.

Go to Part Three