A little birthday story for 

Bertina, queen of the threesomes!

M/Sk/K  (of course)

F.U.B.A.R. = Fucked up beyond all recognition.

"I've got immunity you mothers," he growled, more embarrassed to be caught with his pants down (literally) than genuinely angry at the arrival of the two stone-faced suits in his apartment.

"No one has immunity from *us*, Mr. Frycek," man in black no 1 growled through his neatly clipped beard.

"That's Krycek, you asshole," Alex snarled, reaching for his pants. "Who the fuck are you guys? FBI? NSA? CIA? KGB?"

Man in black no 2, glowered from under his over-sized hat and gave a contemptuous sniff.

"Do we *look* like those pussies?" he demanded.

"As a matter of fact..." Alex began.

"I'm Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Jones," the first man in black interrupted.

"Figures," Alex muttered.

"We're IRS," both intruders chimed in a gleeful chorus and waited for Krycek to crumble.

Alex dove back under his duvet, buried his head in his pillow and laughed hysterically in view of the $63.49, three spare buttons and odd pieces of belly fluff that were the sad lonely occupants of his wallet.

The two IRS agents exchanged grim glances, chose to believe the muffled sounds from Krycek's bed were actually whimpers of fright and, thus reassured their victim was suitably terrified, they started to sift through Alex's meager possessions.

"Where are your records, Mr. Frycek?" Smith demanded.

Alex poked his head up from under the covers and waved vaguely around the room's peeling wallpaper, battered furniture and garbage strewn, threadbare carpet.

"Just help yourselves, boys," he said blithely. "Just watch out for the cockroaches."

To his satisfaction, the two IRS Agents shuddered slightly before steeling themselves to the task of rummaging through Alex's dirty laundry basket, broken sock drawer and the heaped garbage on the floor.

"Aha! What's this?" Jones asked, with satisfaction, as he retrieved a shattered plastic casing from under a pile of scattered pizza boxes.

"It's a computer. One of those palm pilot thingies," Smith replied, with equal glee . "Turn it on, it's got to be where he keeps the records of the Cayman Island account."

"What Cayman Island account?" Alex asked.

They ignored him.

"It seems to be broken," Jones announced, shaking the shattered computer petulantly.

"Convenient," Smith said chillingly, with a glare in Alex's direction. "Never mind. We'll take it anyway, see if our IT guys can do something with it."

Alex just shrugged under his duvet. He'd wiped the memory twice *before*he'd jumped up and down on the pilot a half-dozen times.

"Look Mr. Frycek, I'd advise you to co-operate with us if you want to see daylight before you're sixty," Smith snarled, pulling at the bed covers until Alex was forced to look at him. "We *know* what you do for a living and we're here to make you pay."

"You're an assassin," Jones clarified. "A low life, scum sucking inverte..."

"Hang on," Alex interrupted, jumping out of bed. "Have you been talking to Mulder?"

The men in black exchanged a satisfied look

"Yes," Smith said.

"No," Jones replied simultaneously, then blushed.

"Yes. No. Which?" Alex spat.

"What Mr. Jones means is that we haven't actually 'spoken' to Mr. Mulder," Smith said, with too much pleasure for it to be an apology.  "But we didn't need to because we have it, don't we, Mr. Jones."

"Oh yes, Mr. Smith. Oh yes indeed."

"Have what?" Alex growled dangerously, his hand clenching into a fist as he glared warningly at the two men.

"His....." Smith paused dramatically, smiled a chilling smile and then performed his coup de grace "We have Mr. Mulder's *tax return*."

Alex couldn't prevent a wide grin of disbelief splitting his face almost in two as he looked between the faces of the two IRS Agents.

"You're seriously telling me that you're here, investigating *me*, because of something Spooky Mulder put on his tax return?" he laughed.

"This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Frycek," Smith intoned.

"Krycek," Jones stage whispered.

"What?"

"His name's Krycek. It says it here in my report."

"It says 'Rat Bastard' in mine," Smith countered smugly, then turned his attention back to Alex. "Over the last seven years, Mr. Fox Mulder, Agent of the Federal Bureau of Incomp... uh... Investigation, has specifically named *you* as justification for claiming numerous expenses against his tax bill. While we have grown to expect a certain level of 'fantasy' in Mr. Mulder's returns, it did at least alert us to your existence and to the fact that *you* haven't completed a return at all. People like you believe you're beyond the law, but you're wrong. We're here to make you pay for your crimes."

"You can't," Alex replied with evident satisfaction. "I've got immunity against prosecution."

Smith ruffled through his paperwork. "Ah yes," he agreed, one of his thin, over-long fingers tracing a paragraph of typing. "I believe this is what you're referring to, Mr. Frycek."

Jones rolled his eyes.

"You have a congressional pardon for all the nefarious activities you participated in, in exchange for information that was necessary for purposes of our National Security," Smith read pompously. "Several outstanding warrants and investigations into suspicious deaths were cancelled."

Alex grinned unrepentantly.

"However," Smith continued. "There is nothing here to prevent you being charged with Tax evasion."

"What?" Alex asked, blinking in disbelief.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Smith asked, presenting Alex with an official-looking envelope.  "They say there's nothing as certain as death and taxes. You've handled the death part yourself. Now we're here to collect."

"This is fucking crazy," Alex snarled. "They don't have a shred of evidence against me."

The lawyer just sniffed contemptuously as he read over the papers that Smith and Jones had left with Krycek. Since he offered a no-win, no-fee service to prospective clients he had little interest in taking on a case that was hopeless. On the other hand, he appreciated the need to remain at least civil to a self-acknowledged assassin.

"They don't have to. Their argument, and actually it's rather a good one, is that this 'Consortium' you worked for employed you as a hit man. 'Employed' suggests that you were paid. If you were paid you owe taxes on your income."

"Two million fucking dollars? Where the fuck did they come up with two fucking million dollars?"

"In the absence of records, the IRS estimate a figure. It's then up to you to prove the figure wrong. If you'd filed a return, kept books, that kind of thing, you'd have a chance. As it is, you're pretty much stuck with *their* figure."

"I can't believe this," Alex groaned.

"They're willing to accept an offer," his lawyer pointed out. "They'll settle for half now and the rest in installments. Your alternative, of course, is to be prosecuted for evasion. We're talking 20 years minimum, Mr. Krycek.  Personally I suggest you do the deal."

Alex glowered at the smaller man. "Do I *look* like I have a million dollars in my wallet?" he snarled sarcastically.

His lawyer flicked through his papers thoughtfully. "No. I expect you've secreted it in this Cayman Island bank account in the name of Nickolai Arntzen, one of your known aliases..." he began.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I don't *have* a fucking Cayman account. I have absolutely no idea whose account that is, let alone how much money is in it." 

"I confess that I find that hard to believe," the lawyer answered. "And *I'm* not the IRS."

"Fuck. This is crazy," Alex snarled.

"You've got 28 days to make the first payment. That should give you plenty of time to access your funds. Since they will also want to see a proposal for repayment of the balance, I suggest you simply pay over the entire two million and get them off your back for good. You don't seem the type of man who wants to account for his future income any more than you want to explain your current wealth."

"What wealth? If I really had that kind of money, do you think I'd even consider using *you* as a lawyer?" Alex spat.

He didn't wait to see the inevitable look of offense on the lawyer's face, he just grabbed his jacket and stalked out of the room.

The ironic thing was, he decided as he sat on a park bench outside the Chase Manhattan and retrieved the key to his safety deposit box from a cunningly disguised pouch in his prosthetic arm, that he always *had* intended to set himself up with a 'retirement fund' in the Caymans.  So much so that he'd even bought a small property there several years previously under the name of Nickolai Arntzen, a two-up, two-down beach house with a glorious view from its porch and an even more glorious lack of any near neighbors.  The problem was that he'd never gotten around to securing the funds he needed to live in it.

Well, that wasn't strictly true.

He *had* managed on several occasions to secrete a substantial portion of consortium funds into his own pocket. The  problem was that he'd always somehow 'lost' the money again.  The first time he'd 'lost' his nest-egg was when he'd had to buy Scully's release after her abduction. Sure, he'd told the congressional hearing that he'd discovered where she was being kept and had simply snuck her out of the building and into the hospital in a momentary attack of conscience. What he'd been too embarrassed to admit was that it had cost him over a half-million dollars in bribes to convince the people guarding her to look the other way as he did it.  Sure, it might have made him look good to the hearing but they would have wanted to know *why* he'd done it, and since Mulder had been sat glowering at him from the audience it would have been just too damn humiliating.

Then he'd 'lost' his next carefully acquired nest-egg, the money he'd gained from selling secrets from the DAT tape, funding the bomb that gave him the opportunity to lead Mulder to Tunguska. Mulder's inoculation against the black-oil had cost him nearly two million dollars, two punches in the gut, a night on a freezing balcony and his left arm.

Which was the point at which he'd decided he needed psychiatric help.

Instead, he'd 'liberated' a little money from some old KGB contacts, had bought himself his bolt hole in the Caymans and had decided that he'd only re-enter the game long enough to collect what the consortium owed him and then get the hell out of dodge.  He'd promised himself it would be a cold day in hell before he even *thought* about Mulder again, let alone try to help him.

His resolution had lasted less than two months. Just when he'd finally been in a position to 'retire', when he'd been at the brink of organizing his own convenient 'demise' so that he could disappear, he'd learnt that the leader of the alien rebels had been captured. In one stupid moment of weakness he'd given the information to Mulder. In doing so he had not only revitalized Mulder's quest, he had committed himself back into the game.  If he'd left things alone, if he'd just walked away, he'd be sitting in his beach house right now, sipping a cocktail.

Or maybe he'd be dead, a victim of the colonization that he'd helped to prevent, only it was impossible to find any satisfaction in knowing that his evidence at the hearing had been so damning that not even Mulder or Skinner could convince anyone not to give him a pardon, since the very fact that they *still* had hated him enough to want him jailed was the most hurtful truth of all.

His third and last nest-egg had bought Skinner's life. Well, admittedly it had also bought his own since the bounty hunter had agreed that a tape of his 'death' at Skinner's hands would provide sufficient leverage against the AD to make the nanocytes unnecessary and being 'dead' Alex had been able to hole up in safety until the hearings enabled him to emerge once more.  Unfortunately the cost of the bounty hunter's 'co-operation' had left Alex so broke that he'd ended up living in a one-bedroom fleapit instead of a Cayman Island beach house.

Three times he'd had the chance of a new life. Three times he'd given that chance away for the sake of the three people who still hated him. Scully, Mulder and Skinner.

And where the fuck were they now?

Even if he were stupid enough to imagine they might help him, that they might feel some small obligation to do so if he explained *why* he didn't have the funds to settle the IRS's claim, they had all retired from the FBI and he had no idea how to contact any of them.

So his only option was to take the fake passport and $5000 emergency fund out of his safety deposit box and fly to the Caymans.  Selling the house wouldn't give him half the money he needed to get the IRS off his back, but it would be enough maybe for him to start a new life somewhere else. Hell, someone somewhere must have need of a one-armed assassin, he decided.

And fuck that he'd thought that life was behind him, that he'd imagined it might be possible to 'go-straight'.  What was the point? Who the fuck was he trying to impress anyway?  The only people whose opinions had ever mattered to him had stood in a congressional hearing and told the world that he was nothing more than a self-serving, treacherous rat bastard.

Maybe it was time to prove them right.

"Thanks Scully, we owe you," Mulder purred, putting the handset down into its cradle with a satisfied click before turning to Walter with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Unable to resist the infectious smile, Walter's own mouth curled with humor and he padded across the bedroom to wrap his arms around his lover.

"Good news?" he asked, nuzzling Mulder's neck until the younger man arched his back and groaned.

"The best," Mulder gasped, as Walter's lips began a hot, wet journey of exploration down his chest before pausing at a taut nipple and sucking hungrily. "The rat took the bait."

Walter's answer was just an inquisitive rumble against Mulder's chest as he chewed hungrily against the hard, quivering flesh of Mulder's tit.

"He raided his safety deposit box," Mulder clarified. "The gunmen trailed him to the airport and they told Scully he definitely boarded the plane although he used a fake ID so they couldn't identify him on the flight manifest."

Walter's already interested cock leapt to full attention.

"Well, he can hardly use his own passport with the IRS snapping at his heels," Walter sniggered, then moved his attentions to Mulder's other nipple.

"Oh shit," Mulder whined, as Walter's cock pressed hungrily against his stomach. "Are you planning to just threaten me with that thing?"

Walter snorted, grabbed Mulder around the waist and hoisted him upwards. Mulder eagerly wrapped his legs around Walter's waist and gave a sigh of satisfaction as he was maneuvered skillfully back into the position that had been so rudely interrupted by the telephone calls.

"I believe we were on thirty-six," Walter growled, as he pumped Mulder up and then back down onto his cock.

"No way," Mulder gasped back. "If you stop, you have to start again from zero. I read the exercise schedule your doctor gave you. It says fifty lunges every morning *without* a pause."

"I don't think *this* was quite what he had in mind," Walter chuckled, but gave in gracefully. "Okay. One...two...three..."

They reached twenty-seven before Walter's arms gave out.  Mulder didn't complain, however, since by then Walter had carried him over to the bed and so their rhythm was barely disrupted by the fact that Walter dropped him and by forty-two he was screaming with such unbridled enthusiasm that Walter lost count completely and just concentrated on completing the exercise in his own inimitable style.

It took them both a few minutes to catch their breath, and then Walter reminded Mulder that the next exercise was fifty push-ups, so the younger man straddled his waist, sank down into position and agreed to help Walter out by keeping the count. Inevitably, somewhere along the way Mulder forgot he was supposed to be counting rather than howling but by the time Walter collapsed in exhaustion they both agreed that it had been a suitably impressive work-out for both of them.

"You want to swim?" Walter suggested lazily, as the sound of waves breaking on the beach finally permeated through their satisfied haze.

"Nah," Mulder sniggered. "I'm stretched so wide I'd end up with half the ocean inside my ass."

"I have to say, I'm impressed," Walter rumbled.

"By how much my ass stretches?" Mulder asked, blinking in surprise.

"By Byers and Langly. I never thought they'd pull it off," Walter clarified. 

"Poor Ringo," Mulder snorted. "He hated wearing that hat."

"Well, even Alex wasn't going to fall for an IRS Agent with waist-length hair," Walter laughed. "It's a good job Alex never met the Gunmen."

Mulder checked his watch.

"He'll be arriving in a couple of hours. We'd better get cleaned up and dressed."

"You need to," Walter agreed. "I don't. He's going to have enough of a shock when he finds out I'm in his house, there's no point making him worry whether I'm concealing a weapon."

Mulder snorted and slapped playfully at Walter's cock.

"He's more likely to collapse when he sees *this* weapon," he sniggered. "He's going to think he's died and gone to heaven. I nearly fainted when *I* saw it for the first time and I was *expecting* to find you in my bedroom."

"Good," Walter smirked and winked. "It'll be easier for you to tie him up if he faints."

"Oh yeah," Mulder mumbled, jumping up and rummaging through the lube and condoms in the bedside drawer before retrieving a pair of fur-lined restraints with a sigh of relief. Then he bit his lower lip thoughtfully and turned to Walter with a worried frown. "Are you absolutely sure these are going to be necessary?"

"No, but unlike you I prefer to cover *all* my bases before charging into a situation. We both agreed on this before we set Operation Rat Trap in motion," he reminded his lover.

"I know," Mulder agreed. "It's just that I don't want to start this by scaring the shit out of him."

"Which is exactly why we're doing it this way," Walter pointed out. "We could have stayed in DC and gone knocking on his door but the chances are he'd  either have shot us on the spot or just dived out of his window while we were breaking in the door. This way we know he'll be unarmed, since he couldn't have gotten his gun onto the plane and if he *does* run it's going to be a hell of a lot easier to find him on an Island than it would be in the bowels of a city."

"But what if he...oh shit, I mean, what if we're wrong, Walter? What if he doesn't want us?  He tried to explain himself to us and we wouldn't listen. It's taken us months to think things through and finally see things from his point of view enough to forgive what he did to us. Maybe it's too late to even try to put things right. "

"Then we offer to buy this place off him, shake hands and we let him go," Walter replied, with a sad smile.  

"Uh huh?" Mulder replied, arching an eyebrow in disbelief, "so why are we using these?" he asked, dangling the restraints meaningfully.

Walter chuckled evilly, and gave Mulder a slow, deliberate wink.

"I might be willing to accept the possibility of defeat," he laughed, "but that doesn't mean I'm planning to play fair!"

Alex was jet-lagged and pissed.  It had been a rough flight, not helped by the indignity of being hauled aside at both airports as his prosthetic triggered the metal detectors. Flying economy, to save his already depleted funds, he'd spent the entire flight with his knees virtually pressed against his chest to avoid the back of the seat in front.  It wasn't a position he was necessarily uncomfortable in, but one that he decided was definitely more fun with a mattress under his back. 

Still, as the taxi pulled away down the sand-strewn dirt-road and he was left alone in front of the slightly dilapidated front of the house he had once imagined would be his final sanctuary, he gave a deep sigh of relief and allowed himself to relax a little.

He was home.

Which was supposed to be a *good* thing, wasn't it?

He'd never had the opportunity to find out and now he was only 'home' until he managed to sell the house but he was determined to enjoy the illusion for a couple of weeks before forcing himself to go on the run once more.  It was with that thought in mind that he dropped his flight-bag, reached for his front door key and fumbled it into the lock with trembling fingers and a slight stinging in his eyes that he furiously assured himself was just the presence of a little wind-blown sand.

In retrospect, he also blamed that wind and the surging sound of the waves on the beach for the fact that the first he knew of someone else's presence was the loud snick of an engaged trigger behind his neck. He froze in place, his eyes frantically darting from side to side as he sought some avenue of escape.

"Put your hands behind your back. Slowly and carefully. You don't want me to accidentally let go of this trigger," his assailant announced, in a ridiculously casual tone.

Alex groaned and closed his eyes in despair as  he recognized the nasal monotone of his sometimes enemy and permanent jerk-off fantasy, Fox Mulder.

He allowed his hands to be cuffed, despite the strain of the position on his prosthetic's strapping, and although he heard the disengaging of the gun's trigger he felt little or no relief. Instead he waited for the inevitable cuff across his head, or the punch to his kidneys, or whichever fun prelude Mulder intended to what he could only imagine would be a long and painful death.

Alex groaned, not in fear but in acknowledgement of his own stupidity. It was clearly a set-up. Now he thought about it, he could see that he'd panicked blindly. He hadn't even checked the identity of the so-called IRS agents. He'd believed their threat because of his own guilt and the fact that he'd spent the last few months half-certain that his immunity would be revoked. He had *expected* his life to come crashing around his ears like a house of cards, so he hadn't paused to question. He'd just run.

Right into the arms of a man who hated him.

Hated him enough, maybe, to plan this whole elaborate charade just for the opportunity to kill him.

Who would ever know? The beach house was remote, belonged to him under a false name, and he had arrived there under a third name. Mulder could kill and bury him here and even if someone eventually found his body, the chances were that his corpse wouldn't even be identified.

"Let's take this inside," Mulder suggested quietly.

Alex shrugged as casually as he could manage with his arms cuffed behind him and his guts twisted with terror, and simply stepped through the doorway without speaking.

"Bedroom," Mulder snapped, as Alex moved instinctively towards the kitchen where he had a small stash of weapons buried under a loose floorboard.

Again Alex gave a casual shrug, as though he didn't care either way, and proceeded towards the bedroom. Although his body was thrumming with tension, his mind frantically trying to find a way to escape his inevitable doom, he was distracted somewhat by the small hopeful voice in his head that was merrily chirping that maybe Mulder intended to eviscerate him with his cock rather than a knife.

"Please," he groaned, under his breath.

"What?" Mulder demanded.

"Nothing," Alex snarled, furious at the way his pulsing cock was disregarding the hammering fear of his heart.

"I've got a surprise for you," Mulder sang merrily, reaching past him to open the bedroom door.

Alex didn't know what he expected to see. Scully with an Uzi, maybe. Or perhaps some elaborate torture chamber.  In fact, his vivid imagination conjured a fair few horrifying scenarios in the few seconds it took for the door to swing open but none of them came even close to the sheer terror of the truth.

He took one look at the weapon Skinner was brandishing in his direction, his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted on the spot.

"Oops," Mulder muttered sympathetically, as he pressed the damp cloth gingerly against the egg-sized swelling on Alex's forehead.  "I bet that hurts."

A pair of green cat eyes glared at him furiously and it was clear that Alex had a few choice words he wanted to say in response but, despite evidence to the contrary, it seemed that Alex *had* been nicely brought up at some point in his life because he obviously knew better than to speak with his mouth full.

Alex's mouth was evidently also nicely trained in other ways, judging from Walter's groans of satisfaction.

"Oh god, Alex, that's so good," Walter purred. "Oh yeah...like that...that's it, that's good, that's...oh shit that's so good."

Mulder stiffened slightly, not sure he liked the sounds of absolute bliss rumbling from Walter's throat. Something suspiciously like jealously twisted in his guts but he wasn't sure whether he was pissed that Alex was clearly better at giving blow jobs than he was or simply wishing he was straddling Alex's face himself.

Before he could process the thought any further, Alex slid his fingers over Mulder's crotch and squeezed it suggestively. Torn between surprise, excitement and relief that he'd removed Alex's cuffs, Mulder stared at the green eyes in confusion.

Alex still looked as angry as a man could while enthusiastically deep-throating another man's cock, but given the way his fingers were scrambling over Mulder's zipper he seemed equally determined to show the same enthusiasm to a second cock, so Mulder decided to help him out and deal with the temper tantrum later. He shimmied out of his jeans and was pleased to see Alex's eyes widen and darken in appreciation for his own not-insubstantial weapon. Then fingers that seemed as eager as their owner's lapping tongue teased and squeezed him until his groans were as loud and enthusiastic as Walter's.

The analytical side of Mulder's mind remained detached enough to appreciate the sheer talent of Alex's duel assault, particularly since Alex quickly brought him up to speed with Walter and then took them both over the edge simultaneously.  The rest of Mulder's mind fled for temporary sanctuary as his orgasm threatened to explode him into a thousand pieces.

"Wow," he groaned, into Alex's navel.

To their right, Walter groaned something unintelligible into the pillow he'd head-dived into after erupting down Alex's throat.

Mulder dragged his head upwards until his still slightly-stoned eyes met Alex's glare.

"Fuckers," Alex snapped, his eyes still furious but his lips twitching slightly as he carefully licked at the few drops of come that had spilled down his lips.  "You both scared the fucking shit out of me."

"Good," Skinner mumbled. "That'll save us giving you an enema before we fuck you through the mattress."

Alex's eyes bugged in shock and he looked helplessly at Mulder. Who shrugged and smirked.

"What can I say, Alex? I spent all those years trying to find a sense of humor under his suit, so now I've finally found it I can hardly complain that it's sick and twisted, can I?"

"You're *both* sick and twisted," Alex announced, with a heartfelt sigh, but although Mulder looked at him carefully he didn't *seem* to be complaining.

In fact, despite the nasty bump on his forehead, Alex looked happier than Mulder had ever seen him.

And *far* more fuckable.

"So," he drawled, at the still exhausted Walter. "We going to toss for first dibs at his ass or let Alex decide?"

"Alex can't decide," Walter rumbled. "He's agreed to be our willing sex slave, remember?"

"Oh yeah," Mulder sniggered.

"Who says you have to take turns?" Alex asked, with an impressively innocent smile. 

And as he was bowled over onto his face by two suddenly reinvigorated growling sex fiends, he finally understood why having a home *was* a good thing.

The End.

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