In this AU Alex Krycek has both of his arms.
The war was over. The Syndicate lay in ruins, their black-oil conspiracies bleached by a sunlight they never thought would reach the shadows.
Fox Mulder stood in the center of a sterile, high-security safe house, the silence of victory feeling heavier than the chaos of the fight. Across from him, leaning against a cold steel table, was Alex Krycek.
The truth had come out: Krycek had been the ultimate double agent, a man who burned his soul to keep the world from freezing. But the cost of his “necessary” methods was measured in bodies, betrayals, and the wreckage of Mulder’s life.
Mulder’s voice was a low, jagged rasp. “I don’t care about the medals they want to give you, Alex. I don’t care that you were the hero in the dark. You owe me a blood price.”
Krycek remained silent. He didn’t offer a defense. He didn’t mention the lives he’d saved by sacrificing his own soul. He simply watched Mulder, waiting for the blow.
“I want you for one week,” Mulder continued, stepping closer until he could smell the gunpowder and sweat clinging to Krycek’s jacket. “In my bed. Obedient. No resistance. You will do whatever I command, whenever I command it.”
Krycek closed his eyes. The air in the room felt suddenly heavy, like the atmosphere before a massive storm. He knew Mulder hated him. He knew the depths of that rage, and he knew exactly what men were capable of when they held absolute power over an enemy. Krycek knew exactly what was being demanded. Pain, degradation, the systematic breaking of a man. Rape was at the top of the list; a way for Mulder to finally exert the power that had been stripped from him for years.
A tremor started in Krycek’s chest, traveling up to his throat. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the sound of a man accepting his own execution. Mulder was right. The debt was real, and it had to be paid in skin.
Alex opened his eyes, his gaze steady despite the fear radiating from him.
“My conditions,” Krycek said, his voice barely a whisper. “No permanent disfigurement. And at the end of the week… I need to be whole enough to walk out of there on my own two feet.”
Mulder’s expression didn’t soften. His eyes remained hard, a cold fire burning in the brown depths. “Agreed.”
Krycek swallowed hard, the finality of the word echoing in the small room. He gave a sharp, single nod. “Then I accept.”
A few days later, Krycek had come to Mulder’s apartment to pay the blood price he had accepted. He was done running, done fighting. But he couldn’t suppress the fear that was choking him
The heavy oak door of Mulder’s bedroom clicked shut behind them. Krycek stood in the center of the room, his pulse a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His gaze immediately locked onto the bed. Large, heavy leather restraints had been bolted to the frame, the dark hide looking worn and unforgiving. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the oppressive silence.
He scanned the rest of the room, searching for the instruments of his penance—whips, canes, or the cold gleam of steel—but Mulder gave nothing away. Aside from the shackles, it was a hauntingly ordinary bedroom.
Mulder watched him, his expression a mask of clinical detachment. He didn’t look angry; he looked like a man about to perform a necessary, tedious task.
“Strip,” Mulder said, his voice devoid of heat. “Completely. Put your clothes on the chair in the corner. You won’t be needing them this week.”
Krycek’s fingers trembled as he fumbled with his jacket and the buttons of his shirt. He moved with a mechanical stiffness, laying his garments in a neat pile. He felt the chill of the room settle on his skin, but the coldness in Mulder’s eyes was sharper. When he was finished, he stood naked and exposed.
Mulder gestured toward the bed. “On your back. Spread-eagled.”
Krycek obeyed. The mattress felt too soft beneath him, a jarring contrast to the rigid leather straps Mulder began to tighten around his wrists and ankles. Within minutes, Krycek was utterly helpless, pinned to the bed. Then, Mulder leaned over and fastened a blindfold over his eyes.
The darkness was absolute. The loss of sight sent a surge of pure adrenaline through Krycek’s veins; he had spent his life watching the shadows, and now, he couldn’t even see the hand that would strike him. He braced his entire body, waiting for the first blow, the first violation.
Silence stretched for what felt like hours. Krycek’s breath came in harsh, jagged gasps. He couldn’t control the mounting terror, the agonizing anticipation of a pain he knew he deserved.
Then, he felt it. A touch on his abdomen.
Krycek flinched violently, his body jerking against the restraints, expecting the bite of a blade or the sting of a strike. But the touch wasn’t painful. It was a palm, warm and steady, gliding over his skin in slow, rhythmic circles.
Krycek’s fingers clawed at the leather straps. He waited for the fingers to dig in, for the nails to scratch, for the gentleness to shatter into cruelty. But the pain didn’t come. The hand took its time, wandering higher to his chest, joined now by a second hand.
The touch migrated to his flanks, his arms, his legs. The hands lingered everywhere for what felt like an eternity, soft and deliberate, before moving to the next patch of skin. Krycek’s heart hammered against his ribs. This is it, he thought as the hands moved toward his groin. He braced for a brutal grip, or for dry, punishing fingers to force their way into him.
But again, nothing happened. The hands merely massaged his ass, then moved to his thighs, kneading the tense muscles with a terrifying tenderness.
Krycek’s breathing was panicky now, his lungs burning. He realized the depth of the game Mulder was playing. This was a psychological siege. By withholding the violence Krycek expected, Mulder was keeping him in a state of excruciating tension, a cruel suspension where the anticipation of pain was worse than the pain itself.
Krycek bit his lip until he tasted copper, his body taut as a bowstring. But Mulder didn’t stop. The stroking continued, relentless and quiet.
Slowly, a treacherous sensation began to leak through Krycek’s defenses. The touch was like a balm. For years, his world had been defined by flight, concrete floors, and the impact of fists. He had forgotten what it felt like to be touched without the intent to break him. His body, starved for human contact that wasn’t combat, began to ache with a hidden, ancient longing for warmth and safety.
Hot tears began to soak into the fabric of the blindfold. He realized then how masterfully he was being manipulated. By refusing to use pain, Mulder was prying him open in a way that physical torture never could. The exhaustion of the last few years, the weight of his double life, and the sheer loneliness of his existence rose up to meet Mulder’s silence. He had no defense left against this kind of gentleness.
His resistance finally buckled. The rigid tension left his limbs, and his body slumped into the mattress, helplessly accepting the soft contact.
Mulder continued for a long time, his hands steady and rhythmic, until Krycek felt a heavy, warm blanket being pulled up over his body, covering his nakedness. He heard the soft sound of footsteps receding across the carpet.
The light clicked off, the door groaned shut, and Alex Krycek was left alone in the dark,
The second morning began not with a touch, but with the cold snap of buckles being undone.
Mulder worked in silence, his movements efficient as he freed Krycek’s wrists and ankles. When the blindfold was finally removed, the morning light felt like needles in Krycek’s eyes. He squinted, blinking rapidly, trying to find his bearings. Mulder stood over him, his expression unreadable, showing no pity for the dark circles under Krycek’s eyes or his visible exhaustion.
“Bathroom. Now,” Mulder directed.
Krycek’s legs were stiff, his balance shaky as he stood. He felt profoundly exposed, walking through the hallway of Mulder’s apartment completely naked while Mulder followed a few paces behind, watching him like a hawk. There was no privacy; even in the bathroom, the door remained open, Mulder’s shadow falling across the tile.
Afterward, Mulder led him into the kitchen. The smell of toasted bread and black coffee filled the air—a scent so normal it felt surreal. On the small wooden table sat a plate of eggs and toast.
“Eat,” Mulder said, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms.
Krycek stared at the steam rising from the coffee. His stomach twisted with suspicion. In his world, a gift was usually a trap, and a meal was often a delivery system for something far worse. But he remembered the contract. He remembered the “obedient” clause.
With trembling hands, he began to eat. Every bite felt like lead in his stomach. Mulder didn’t speak a word; he simply watched Krycek consume the meal, his gaze cool and detached.
When the plate was clean, Krycek moved to stand up, but Mulder’s voice stopped him.
“Sit back down.”
Krycek froze, then slowly lowered himself back onto the hard wooden chair.
“You stay there,” Mulder commanded. “Don’t move. Don’t cover yourself. Just sit.”
The next few hours were a different kind of purgatory. Mulder ignored him. He went about his morning chores with a terrifying mundanity. He washed the dishes, the clinking of silverware loud in the quiet room. He folded laundry, the scent of detergent wafting through the air. He even spent time sorting through a stack of mail at the counter.
Krycek sat on the hard chair, his skin prickling in the drafty kitchen. Being naked and bound in a dark bedroom was one thing—that felt like a prison. But being naked in a bright kitchen while life went on normally around him was a different kind of violation. It stripped away his last shred of dignity. He felt like an object, a piece of furniture that Mulder had decided to place in the corner and forget about.
Every time Mulder walked past him to reach for a towel or a glass, Krycek flinched, expecting a strike. But Mulder never touched him. He didn’t even look at him.
The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional scratch of Mulder’s pen. Krycek’s back began to ache, his muscles cramping from the effort of sitting still, but he didn’t dare move. He just watched the sunlight shift across the linoleum floor, waiting for the moment the domestic mask would finally slip.
Mulder stood there for what felt like an eternity, his shadow stretching across the kitchen floor. He didn’t speak. He simply stared at Krycek with that same clinical, unmoving gaze.
Krycek kept his eyes locked on the floor, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Every instinct told him to cover himself, to hunch his shoulders, to hide. But he stayed rigid. He felt the weight of his vulnerability like a physical pressure. What had Mulder planned? A new mindfuck? A gentle touch? Or would he order him over the kitchen table and finally rape him?
Finally, Mulder reached into a kitchen drawer. The sound of it sliding open made Krycek jump. Mulder pulled out a single sheet of paper and stepped closer, thrusting it into Krycek’s hand.
“Follow the instructions,” Mulder said. His voice was flat, offering no clues.
Krycek’s hand shook so violently the paper rattled. He looked down, expecting a list of demands, a script for his own degradation. Instead, his eyes widened. He looked up at Mulder, his expression completely bewildered.
Mulder merely nodded toward the sheet. “Every single one. To the letter.”
Krycek swallowed hard. He slowly stood up, the wooden chair creaking as he rose. Standing naked in the middle of the sunlit kitchen, he felt a wave of nausea. He was offering his entire body to Mulder’s judgment.
He looked at the paper again. It was a list of light stretches and bodyweight exercises. Leg lunges. Arm rotations. Deep spinal twists.
Innerly trembling, Krycek began. He raised his arms, feeling the pull in his shoulders from the night’s restraints. He moved through the exercises, his skin flushed with shame. Every time he leaned forward or stretched his limbs, he was painfully aware of how he was presenting himself to Mulder.
It was a masterful stroke of cruelty. Mulder wasn’t just taking his freedom; he was taking his autonomy, forcing him to perform and display himself to the man who would rape him
He finished a set of slow, deep squats, his breath hitching as he felt Mulder’s eyes track the movement of his muscles, the curve of his ass, the tension in his thighs.
“Next one,” Mulder prompted, his voice cold and indifferent.
Krycek moved into a floor stretch, pressing his chest toward his knees. He felt the salt of his own tears stinging his eyes. He expected at any second the the violation he had agreed to.
When the last exercise was finished, Krycek stood in the center of the kitchen, his chest heaving, his skin slick with a thin film of sweat. He didn’t dare to look up. He just stood there, naked and shaking, the silence of the apartment closing in on him again.
Mulder stepped toward him. Krycek flinched, his eyes snapping shut, but Mulder only reached past him to grab a clean towel from the counter. He tossed it at Krycek’s chest.
“Go to the bathroom.” Mulder said, his tone ice-cold.
In the bathroom, Krycek stood as if frozen, his breath hitching as he heard Mulder follow him in. He didn’t dare turn around, but the rustle of clothes behind him told him everything. Mulder was undressing. Krycek swallowed hard, his throat tight. When Mulder finally reached past him to turn on the shower, he was completely naked. He gestured toward the stall.
“Get in,” Mulder commanded.
Krycek obeyed, bracing himself for the shock of ice-cold water. But as the spray hit his skin, he gasped; it was warm, almost mercifully so. Mulder stepped into the small enclosure behind him, his physical presence overwhelming in the cramped, steamy space.
Trembling, Krycek took a step forward. He pressed his palms flat against the wet tile of the shower wall, bowing his head and spreading his legs wide.
Mulder stepped in behind him. The air in the small stall became thick with steam and the scent of sandalwood. Krycek’s breath hitched. He took a trembling step forward, bracing both hands against the wet tiles of the shower wall. He spread his legs and lowered his head, exposing the nape of his neck. He was done fighting. He was so profoundly exhausted that the violation finally beginning felt almost like a mercy—at least the waiting would be over.
But the violence didn’t come.
Instead, Mulder poured a generous amount of amber-colored shower gel into his palm. He reached out, his hands slick and warm, and began to wash Krycek. He started with the shoulders, his thumbs kneading the knots in the muscle with a slow, rhythmic pressure. The soap turned into a rich, velvety lather that glided over Krycek’s skin like a caress.
Mulder took his time. He moved down to Krycek’s arms, sliding his hands from the biceps down to the wrists, then back up again, over and over. He moved to Krycek’s torso, his palms circling his chest and sliding with a soft, slippery pressure over his nipples. The warmth of the water combined with the silkiness of the soap made every touch feel electric. Mulder’s hands wandered under his arms, then down the flanks, mapping the ribs with a thoroughness that was almost devotional.
Then, the hands glided lower.
Krycek flinched violently as Mulder’s soap-slicked fingers reached between his thighs, washing his genitals with a steady, firm touch. His hand closed around Krycek’s manhood, but there was no aggression, no brutal squeeze. He simply cleaned him, his thumb tracing the length of him with a terrifying gentleness.
Mulder moved behind him again, his hands sliding over the cheeks of his ass. He was meticulous, cleaning the crevice with a slow, sweeping motion of his fingers, ensuring not an inch of Krycek’s body was left untouched. Finally, Mulder reached up to lather Krycek’s hair. His fingers massaged Krycek’s scalp, a sensation so intimate that Krycek felt his knees weaken.
Throughout it all, Mulder didn’t say a word. When he was finished with Krycek, he stepped back and washed himself with detached efficiency.
He reached out and shut off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. Mulder stepped out of the stall, grabbed a towel, and thrust it into Krycek’s chest.
“Dry yourself,” Mulder commanded.
Krycek stood there, his head bowed, water dripping from his chin. He was clean, his skin was glowing from the warmth and the massage, but he felt more shattered than if he had been beaten. He obeyed, his movements sluggish and heavy. He knew the cruel game was continuing, but he no strength left to resist,
The transition from the steam of the bathroom to the cooler air of the living room made Krycek shiver, despite the towel. Mulder led him, his hand circling Krycek’s upper arm. His touch light but undeniable.
“Sit there. On the rug,” Mulder commanded, gesturing to the thick, plush carpet beside the sofa.
Krycek obeyed. He sank onto the floor, his knees drawn up slightly, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. A moment later, a heavy, fleece-lined blanket was draped over his shoulders. Mulder tucked the edges around him, cocooning him in warmth. Then, a glass of fruit juice was pressed into his hand.
“Drink,” Mulder said.
Krycek’s fingers closed around the glass. He didn’t question what was in it. He simply obeyed.
Mulder sat down on the sofa right above him, stretching his legs out and resting his feet on the coffee table. The television flickered to life, the low murmur of a documentary filling the room. Krycek sat on the floor, his head bowed so low his chin touched his chest, the world beyond the blanket a blur of gray.
Every so often, the calm voice from above would break through the fog of his thoughts.
“Drink, Alex.”
Mechanically, Krycek lifted the glass and took a swallow. He didn’t look up. He didn’t move. He just drifted in a sea of exhaustion and sensory overload. He only felt the heavy weight of the blanket and the terrifyingly calm presence of the man sitting just above him. He drifted in a state of total, mindless surrender.
As evening fell, the apartment filled with the domestic scents of a meal being prepared. Mulder moved about the kitchen with a calm, steady rhythm, eventually placing a bowl of warm stew in front of Krycek.
“Eat, Alex,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute.
Krycek picked up the spoon. His movements were slow, and he ate because he was told to.
When the meal was over, Mulder stood and reached for Krycek’s arm, guiding him toward the bedroom. The transition into the dim light of the sleeping quarters triggered the familiar response.
Krycek approached the bed. Without a word, he lay down on the mattress. His body moved with a practiced, hollow efficiency; he spread his arms and legs wide, offering his wrists and ankles to the empty air, bracing himself for the bite of the leather and the familiar weight of the restraints. He lay there exposed, his breath shallow, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
But the sound of the buckles never came. Instead, he heard the rustle of clothing as Mulder stripped down in the shadows.
“Move over, Alex,” Mulder commanded softly.
Krycek blinked, his mind struggling to process, but he obeyed, sliding toward the center of the bed.
The mattress sank as Mulder climbed in. There were no leather straps, no cold metal. Instead, after Mulder fastened the blindfold, the mattress groaned under his weight. Krycek felt the covers being pulled back, and then a large, warm body slid in behind him.
Then, he felt Mulder’s warmth. Mulder reached out, hooking an arm around Krycek’s waist and pulling him firmly against his side. He tucked Krycek’s head into the hollow of his shoulder, his large hand resting flat and heavy against Krycek’s chest, right over his heart.
“Sleep,” Mulder murmured into the darkness.
By morning, the last of Krycek’s internal resistance had evaporated.
The blindfold was removed, but Krycek didn’t even try to focus his eyes. He remained limp as Mulder’s hand slid slowly down his spine, a long, rhythmic stroke that should have been comforting. Without resistence, Krycek parted his legs. He braced himself for the weight, for the invasion, for the violation he had come to expect as the only logical conclusion to this intimacy.
But it didn’t come. Mulder only gave him one last, lingering pat on the shoulder and stood up.
“Time to get dressed, Alex,” Mulder said softly.
He didn’t give Krycek his own clothes back. Instead, he pulled a thick, oversized wool sweater and a pair of soft gray sweatpants from his own dresser. He dressed Krycek as if he were a child, lifting his arms, sliding the fabric over his skin. The clothes were baggy and soft, smelling of Mulder’s detergent and Mulder’s life. Krycek felt lost inside them, swallowed by the man’s identity.
In the kitchen, the routine continued. Krycek sat at the table, his movements slow and sluggish. He watched Mulder’s hands as they buttered a piece of toast, cutting it into neat triangles. He watched him pour a splash of milk into a cup of coffee.
Mulder pushed the plate toward him. “Eat.”
Krycek took the toast. He chewed and swallowed and he didn’t stop until the plate was empty.. He drank the coffee when it was offered. He sat there in Mulder’s oversized sweater, his gaze hollow, waiting for the next direction, the next touch, the next part of the game, Mulder decided to play.
The third day passed in a gray, indistinct blur. Time had ceased to have any meaning for Alex; it was no longer measured in hours, but in the short, sharp syllables of Mulder’s voice.
“Eat.” “Drink.” “Sit on the sofa.” “Go to the bathroom.”
Krycek moved through the apartment like a ghost. He barely processed the words; he simply felt the intent behind them and shifted his body accordingly. His mind had retreated to a small, dark corner, leaving behind a shell that functioned on pure, hollow obedience. He sat where he was told, stared at the walls Mulder pointed him toward, and let the hours bleed into one another until the light in the windows turned to ink.
When evening came, Mulder once again took him by the arm. The walk to the bedroom was silent. Krycek stood like a statue as Mulder stripped him of the oversized clothes, his limbs heavy and limp. He didn’t even look at his own skin; he just waited for the next touch.
Once he was naked and the blindfold was secured, Krycek lay down. He didn’t even spread his limbs for the restraints this time; he simply curled slightly on his side, his body already anticipating the shape of the man who would join him.
The mattress groaned. Mulder slid into the bed, the heat of his body immediate and overwhelming. Without a word, he pulled Krycek back into the familiar cocoon of his arms. He tucked Krycek’s head under his chin and held him with a possessive firmness that left no room for movement.
In that embrace, the world finally vanished. There was no more fear, no more “why,” no more blood price. There was only the steady rise and fall of Mulder’s chest and the terrifying safety of his hold.
When the first light of morning filtered through the curtains, Krycek found himself awake, yet suspended in a state of heavy, warm lethargy. He didn’t move. He lay cocooned in the heat of the bed, his limbs feeling weighted and thick, anchored by the solid presence of the man behind him. He simply existed, listening to the rhythmic sound of Mulder’s breathing, until the steady rise and fall shifted.
Mulder was awake.
For a long minute, Mulder simply held him, his heartbeat steady against Krycek’s spine. Then, the hand draped over Krycek’s chest began to move. It wasn’t the clinical grip of a captor or the sharp touch of a punisher. His palm slid slowly over Krycek’s skin in a long, lingering stroke, tracing the line of his ribs, the curve of his stomach. Krycek didn’t tense. He didn’t flinch. He accepted the touch with a quiet, relaxed surrender.
The touch grew more focused, more demanding, yet it never lost its strange, grounding tenderness. Mulder’s fingers brushed over his nipples, sending a slow ache through Krycek’s chest, before gliding down over his hips. When Mulder’s hand slid between his thighs, Krycek’s legs parted instinctively,
The movements were unhurried, a gentle seduction that felt like it was pulling Krycek out of his fog and into a different kind of trance. Mulder leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Krycek’s ear, his breath hot and constant. Krycek let out a low, shaky sigh, sinking further back into the embrace, his body molding itself to Mulder’s with a desperation he didn’t even know he possessed.
When Mulder finally closed his hand around him, it didn’t feel like a violation. There was no cruelty in the grip, only a devastating intimate tenderness.
Mulder took his time, his touch thorough and reverent.
After what felt like an eternity of agonizingly slow intimacy, Mulder began to prepare him. His touch was patient, easing the way with a care that dismantled the last of Krycek’s internal barriers. When Mulder finally shifted, hovering over him and slowly sinking into him, , Krycek didn’t flinch. He didn’t tense. He let out a long, shuddering exhale.
It wasn’t the “onslaught” he had prepared for. It was a sense of profound, soul-deep recognition. For a man who had been hunted and alone for so long, it no longer felt like surrender. It felt like coming home.
Mulder didn’t pull away. He remained buried deep inside him, their bodies still locked together as the heat slowly ebbed into a lingering, heavy warmth. He shifted his weight just enough to cradle Alex, his arms pulling him even tighter, until there was no space left between them. His hand, began to stroke Alex’s with an almost painful tenderness.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was their synchronized breathing. For Alex, the numbness of the previous days was beginning to lift. It wasn’t the cold, sharp pain of reality returning, but a slow, thawing ache. The world was coming back—the smell of the sheets, the pale morning light, the heavy, aching sensation of being completely filled and held.
Finally, the silence became too heavy to bear. Alex’s voice was barely a whisper, hoarse from days of disuse and the lump in his throat.
“What happens now?”
He didn’t move. He didn’t look up. He just waited, suspended in that fragile moment.
Mulder remained silent for a long time, his fingers tracing slow, thoughtful lines across Alex’s skin. He didn’t pull away; he stayed connected, both physically and emotionally, as the weight of the silence grew.
“That depends on you, Alex,” Mulder said, his voice a low, steady murmur. “You can leave. You can walk out that door right now, and never look back. And I will never ask anything of you again. The debt is paid.”
Krycek’s heart skipped a beat. He felt the sudden chill of the thought—the world outside, cold and empty, where he was nothing but a ghost.
Or…” Mulder hesitated, and Krycek held his breath, his whole body tensing in anticipation. “You can stay. Here. In my arms. Not as a prisoner, not because of a blood price. But because you want to.”
Alex swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat that made it nearly impossible to speak. He lay there for a long time, the words echoing in his mind. Finally, his voice came out hoarse and strained.
“Why, Mulder? Why did you do all of this? The blood price… the seduction… Why didn’t you just punish me? Why did you take me like this?”
Mulder shifted slightly, pulling Alex even closer, his breath warm against the shell of Alex’s ear.
“For you, Alex,” he whispered. “Because I saw how close you were to the edge. I could see how close you were to just… ending it all.”
Krycek flinched violently, a physical reaction to a truth he hadn’t even dared to admit to himself. The fight had been the only thing keeping him moving for years—a desperate, exhausting struggle against the whole world. But the life waiting for him beyond the struggle was a vast, howling void, filled with the hatred and contempt of everyone he had ever known. It hadn’t felt worth living anymore.
He had walked into Mulder’s apartment hoping for a death sentence, for a bullet, expected being broken beyond repair.
“You knew,” Krycek whispered, his eyes finally stinging with the heat of tears he hadn’t shed in years.
“I knew,” Mulder replied, his hand moving up to hold him close. “I couldn’t let you fall. Not like that”
Krycek closed his eyes, hot tears finally pricking at the corners. Mulder had no reason to hold him, to save him. And jet, he had done it.
Giving Mulder his body in exchange for his warmth and tenderness, suddenly felt like a small price to pay.
Krycek lay trembling in the silence that followed, his chest hitching as he fought the knot in his throat. Every instinct he had left was screaming at him to secure his position, to make sure the warmth didn’t disappear the moment he stopped being useful. He needed to seal the deal.
He swallowed hard, his voice cracked and barely audible when he finally forced the words out.
“I’ll stay,” he whispered, his fingers curling into the sheets. “I’ll… I’ll be yours, Mulder. I’m yours.”
He waited for the confirmation, for the possessive grip to tighten, for Mulder to accept the offering of his life and his body as a permanent contract. He was ready to be the thing Mulder owned, if it meant he never had to go back into the cold again.
But Mulder didn’t take the win. Instead, he shifted, moving his hand from Alex’s hip to cup the back of his neck.
“Not like this, Alex,” Mulder said, is gaze searching Alex’s tear-stained face with a strange kind of sadness. “You won’t be mine.”
Krycek froze, his breath catching. He didn’t understand. If he wasn’t Mulder’s property, then what was he? What was the point of the last three days if not to claim him?
“It’s not a price you pay me, Alex.” Mulder said, his voice low and firm,. “We will belong to each other.”
Krycek felt his world tilt. To belong to each other implied a choice, an equality that he experienced in his life. He looked at Mulder, his eyes wide and haunted, searching for the trick, the hidden clause in this new agreement.
“I don’t know how to do that,” Alex choked out, the honesty of it raw and bleeding.
“You have time.” Mulder replied, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “We have all the time you need.”
Five Years Later
The apartment was filled with the peaceful quiet of a sanctuary. Alex adjusted a sprig of rosemary on the dinner plates, his movements precise and calm. He took a moment to look at the table he had set: the heavy linen cloth, the polished silverware, and the fine crystal glasses that caught the flickering amber light of the candles.
It had been a long, jagged road to get here.
He remembered the first year, when the world outside still felt like a threat and his own mind like a minefield. He remembered the way Mulder’s friends—Scully, the Lone Gunmen—had looked at him with sharp, justified suspicion. They had whispered in the hallway, urging Mulder to wake up, to cast him out before the “scorpion” stung again. Back then, Alex had known with cold, quiet certainty: if Mulder had opened that door and pointed toward the street, Alex wouldn’t have looked for a new life. He would have looked for a high bridge or a loaded gun.
It had been a long, arduous road. He remembered the early years—the crushing weight of his own guilt, the haunting fear that every sunset would be the last one he was allowed to witness from inside this sanctuary. He remembered the whispers of Mulder’s friends, the cold, suspicious stares from those who thought he was a parasite, a snake waiting for the right moment to strike. Back then, Alex had known with a terrifying clarity: if Mulder had opened that door and pointed toward the street, Alex wouldn’t have looked for a new life. He would have looked for a loaded gun.
But Mulder had never pointed to the door. He had been a rock, immovable and patient, never demanding more than Alex was able to give, and slowly, the debt Alex thought he owed had transformed into something far more powerful. It had turned into love.
Alex reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around the small velvet box. He felt the cool metal of the ring inside, the one he had chosen with Scully’s help. It had taken him years to find the courage to believe he had the right to ask for a forever.
He heard the sound of a key in the lock. The front door opened, and the familiar scent of the evening air and Fox’s cologne drifted in.
Five years ago, a sound like that would have made Alex brace for an order or a price to be paid. Today, it only made his heart swell with joy.
Mulder stepped into the warm glow of the candlelight, shedding his coat with a happy sigh. Alex looked at the man who had saved and smiled free and open.
Fox had given him the gift of his love; he had given him a home. And Alex knew now, with an unshakeable certainty: he wasn’t just a guest in Fox’s life. He was the man Fox had chosen as his partner. He was here to stay.