Well, I threatened to write this, and here it is! For those of you who haven't fled in terror, this particular story starts where "The Revilification of Alex Krycek" left off, so you might want to read that story first. As per usual, it is rated NC-17 for explicit m/m sex (like that's a bad thing). I don't own any of the characters found herein, but when I become World Dominatrix!, that will all change. <g>

Please archive this at ArchiveX, and anywhere else you'd like, as long as you let me know. It can also be found at my homepage, The Den of Men, located at

As always, many thanks go out to Shael and mab, who do more than you might think to make my stories presentable. And as for feedback, need I even ask? Please, please, please!

Deus Qui
By Halfchild

The low hum of voices from the other room is rhythmic, soothing, almost lulling me back to sleep. I try for a split second to make out their words, but they're speaking too lowly, and I'm far too drugged to make sense of it anyway. My head throbs anew with the memory, my guts roiling within the thin and all-too-bruised sack of my stomach. Still, I attempt a new sense. I crack my left eye open slightly, the right still sealed tight with blood and swollen skin, but even at half vision, the hazy light is too much for me and I shut it again with a whimper. They've dimmed the lights for me, how sweet. I'm sure Mulder must be beside himself trying to ease my discomfort.

I should have been more careful, I know, I know, I know. But knowing didn't stop me from skulking around Mulder's apartment building like a beaten dog after I walked out on the heels of his words. Oh, no... I was gonna make it all up to him, and nothing was going to get in my way, not bullets, not EBEs, not even the Gods themselves. I don't know about the others, but the bullets managed to find me.

Still, it's some small comfort that I'm here. It's not Mulder's apartment; I'd recognize that particular stench in an instant. This place, on the other hand, has the lemony fresh scent of furniture wax, and there's only one man I know whose apartment smells like this. Hello, Mr. Walter Skinner! I shift, my movements halting and painful, trying to relieve the pressure on my all-too-exposed shoulder blades. Whatever's pressing against them is smooth and hard, but at least now I know I hadn't hallucinated the food smells nearby. Thank you, sir, for putting me on your kitchen table instead of your balcony. The low murmuring of voices rises slightly in volume, then dies off again into the gentle hum of conversation. Concentration is painful, but deprived of vision, locomotion, I have to make every little piece of information work. The fact that Skinner isn't protesting loudly over my presence means that I've been here for some time, and *that* means I've been unconscious for a good piece longer.

My vision swims, swirls of psychotic color dancing against my eyelids, and I wonder yet again what on earth possessed me to be so stupid. I could have been off scott free - Mulder had all but given me his word that he wouldn't come after me for vengeance. I could have stepped out of his apartment and never come back. But the sting of being fucked despite his hatred was too much to bear, so I stuck around. Hoping to do what, I'm not sure I remember right now. Which reminds me; some more painkillers would be nice right about now. Too bad - I don't think my voice works.

In the time it's taken me to muddle my way through this short bit of contemplation the pleasant deadness in my limbs has been replaced by a sharp, brutal throbbing. My slowed mental responses clued me in immediately to the presence of an anesthetic in my bloodstream, codeine perhaps. But this is something a little stronger... Morphine, I'd bet my life on it if I weren't half dead already. Believe me, I know my painkillers. Scully must be here then, because you can't get that stuff outside of a hospital, and I'm not in one right now.

As if on cue, a door creaks, stage left, and the soft, husky tones of Scully's voice join the conversation. A TV is switched on, and the voices gradually die down to be replaced with intervals of bright, canned laughter. The sharp, spicy tang of Greek take-out wafts through the air, reminding me of how hungry I am, and how incapable I am of eating anything. So they sent Scully out for food in lieu of cooking it here, and waking me in the process. Mulder didn't want to disturb me. How sweet.

I wonder why I'm being so acerbic of late. But then again, with the shadow of dire physical harm looming over me, I think I can give myself a little mental leeway. Of course, were it all to evaporate if and when Mulder says a kind word to me, that would be nothing new. A new, sharp pain moves through my body at that, and I'm not entirely sure it has to do with my physical injuries. This time, I can't entirely choke down the groan that threatens to escape from my lips.

They're in the room in a second, three pairs of eyes focused so intently on me that I can *feel* them, even though my own are closed. My skin crawls. "How are you feeling, Krycek?" Skinner's voice.

"Just *dandy,*" I reply, not bothering to open my eyes. "Remind me to have you shoot me at least once *every* day; it does wonders for a body." Ever a man of business, Skinner ignores that one and cuts right to the chase.

"Where is it, Krycek?"

I could pretend I don't know what he's talking about. I could hope my voice goes away again. I could pray for a long moment of silence that won't come. I could always go the pussy route and delay this whole confrontation for a few more hours.

"*Where,* Krycek?"

"Some more painkillers would be nice," I mumble. Pussy route all the way.

"Scully...?" Mulder's voice, pitched low.

"No, Mulder. He's awake; he can wait for another damn moment." Hardly sporting of you, Skinner.

The precise click of Scully's heels on the linoleum efficiently halts any further debate on the part of my two knights. Even Skinner will defer to her judgement in this instance, I can count on that. A smooth hand is placed briefly across my forehead, then withdrawn. I'm wondering how to believably fake deep and utter pain when Scully wrenches the blanket from my shoulder and checks the bandages. Actually, I'm sure she was being quite gentle and professional, but it sure hurt like a mofo.

I don't have to fake my shriek of agony.

She sighs heavily, and starts clattering around inside her first aid box, or whatever the hell she keeps her stuff in. Much as I'd like to say I sucked it up, I'm still shuddering from her touch, tears squeezing out past my eyelids. I must be a very pretty sight. Scully grabs my arm, no lack of authority in her grip, and I can't help it, I'm writhing away from her touch. I don't know if it's Skinner's or Mulder's hand that clamps down on my shoulder, but whoever it is, they're damn strong. I gasp and whimper in pain, and then there's a sharp little bite on the inside of my elbow. In my heightened state of pain, I'd like to think that I can feel the fluid burn its way through my veins.

A warm, oceanic pulse moves through my limbs. //Like sex// I think, eyelids already slipping down.


They say your dreams are nothing more than your unconscious mind rehashing the events of your waking hours. If that's true, the imagination of *my* unconscious mind leaves much to be desired; everything I dreamed in those fitful, drugged hours was entirely literal.

I found myself, once again, lurking outside of Mulder's apartment, console in hand. "All in good time," I'd told Skinner, and meant it, but now my resolve was slowly leaking away. After all, I doubt the Morely bastard's embrace would feel *nearly* as good as Mulder's, and fuck me, but I'd do just about anything to get back into his good graces. My lost arm throbs its agreement at me.

The rain hasn't let up since the last night I spent in his apartment, and in an odd way, I'm glad for it. It's much harder to skulk around someone's place of residence under the wrong weather conditions. Besides, if the sun was out, I doubt I could take myself half so seriously. It's hard to be morbidly lovestruck on a cheery day; try it sometime and see what I mean. My remaining hand moves back to the inside pocket of my jacket, and the hard, reassuring rectangle of hardware I've kept in there for...roughly a month now. Dangerous, I know, but I hadn't thought Mulder had known I was responsible, no, not at all. I'd counted on a wig and a pair of baggy pants to buy me anonymity, and for a while, I thought I'd won. And I let my guard down. I slip the cover open, fingers toying with the lever that could send Skinner into his death throes, even at this great distance. Even now, I'm tempted. But if I do, I'm as good as in my grave, and my chances of even *talking* to Mulder again are just as dead.

I had it right under your nose, Mulder. Right in this fucking jacket, and even when you *knew,* you never thought to look. That's what makes you so different from me. With that thought presenting a lovely element of closure, I turn and walk back to my erstwhile residence.

Of course, I'm back the next day, slightly shaken after a run in with my former coworkers, but otherwise no worse for wear. It happened, it's over with, and there's no point in ruminating on it. I slide into my post on the corner, and stare wistfully at Mulder's apartment window for another day longer.

Dusk falls before I'm ready to leave again. The rain, a faint haze of moisture up until this point, begins to sheet down in buckets. Well, that decides it. I massage the console for a doleful last moment, then withdraw my hand from my jacket and wrap it firmly around the drainage pipe of Mulder's building. Tensing the muscles in my shoulder, I haul myself up, feet scrambling for purchase on the rainslick walls of the building, boots scraping along until they catch on rough brick. From then on, it's relatively easy to pull myself up the side of the building, one story, then two, then three, and in a minute, I'm there. Relative being, of course, a relative term. Two years ago I had this same climb down in three seconds flat, but then again, I also had two arms. And he'd trace his hand across the bulging muscle in my remaining shoulder and wonder what the hell I did to make it so sore. Mulder, you can be so wonderfully blind when it benefits your peace of mind.

Now, the tricky part. It's amazing how vivid my dream is, how even now, knowing the outcome, and everything that happens afterward, I still experience that moment of doubt. What if I fall? What if I'm *not* strong enough for this? I wedge my foot firmly between the drainage pipe and the wall, and lean out to the window, my one hand grasping at the latch, counting on my upper body strength to keep me from falling. Fingers clasp and slip and clasp again, and then I've got the window open, and I'm swinging up onto the ledge. Mission accomplished.

I slide fluidly into the room and shut the window against the rain. A quick check for breathing lets me know I'm currently the only occupant of the apartment. I fancy I can still see the bloodstain on the floor, deep red in the center, radiating lazily along the hardwood from the exit wound. You shot a man here, Mulder, for keeping you under surveillance, less than a year ago. And yet you never bothered to find out who exactly it was who was so eager to rent the place after a man had been murdered there. You know Mulder, you are blind. Wonderfully, stupidly blind. I pull back the throw rug, lower myself to the floor, and stare down the peephole into his apartment.

He's splayed across his couch, hand pumping at his cock, the flicker of a TV spilling onto his face. His expression is not pretty. I watch, fascinated, as his hand moves, faster and faster, and when he comes, what I see in his face mirrors my own desolation. I shiver, the rain working its way further into my clothing, and lay my cheek against the floor. Wetness of a different sort creeps with insistent fingers from my crotch. I close my eyes - only for a moment, I tell myself - and fall asleep.

They snap open, hours later perhaps; I can't be sure. I curse myself for an idiot and a fool. When I first tangled myself up in this mess, years ago, they told me, threatened me, warned me not to fall in love. And I'd laughed at them. But in the end, they were right, and the only thing that came from it was clouded judgment, my current situation being a prime example.

I have to get out of this place before one of my "co-workers" shows up.

A quick peek through the peephole tells me that Mulder's gone - his wallet's not on the end table. Fuck the window. I slip out the front door, pausing briefly to toggle the lock back into place, and slip down the hall. There's no one else in sight, thank God. I charge down the service stairs at a run, throwing caution to the wind. I'm out of the stairwell and moving through the ground level hallway, almost fucking safe when I round the corner and come face to face with Skinner.

He jerks to a stop, *I* jerk to a stop, and we stare at one another as if we're from different planets. Then his gun whips out.

And I get to relive it all over again in my dreams.


I awake once more to the muted tones of their conversation, coming from some place far, far away. Scully laughs, softly, and Skinner's laughter joins her own. I wonder if he's even tried to touch her yet, professional behavior be damned. Jesus, if Mulder can set his moral reservations aside and find his way into bed with me, you'd think those two would have no problems. It doesn't really bear thinking about, so I shut my eyes again.

The hours drag by as I slip in and out of consciousness, never quite free from the pain in my shoulder. I wonder how long I've lain here - hours days? All the lights are gradually switched off, and finally, when I wake for the final time, the apartment is bathed in black shadows, to match my dreams.

He comes to me later that evening, his hair falling soft and boyish over his forehead.

"Mulder," I say stupidly. I hope he doesn't realize how frightened I was that he wouldn't come at all.

His eyes, black pools rimmed with silver in the gloom, dart back and forth as I continue through cracked and bleeding lips, needing to say something before the questions rain down on me. "Mulder...Mulder, I need to talk to you, about some things, about the...console."

What can I add here? How can I embellish this truth so that he'll want to touch me again? My skin burns. Oh, I'm not above lying if it buys me a few seconds more of Mulder's time. God, and Skinner has to shoot me before I realize how weak I really am. If he starts grilling me, I think I might cry.

He reaches down, sealing my mouth with gentle fingers before opening it again with his own lips. My stomach drops away, and I let my eyes fall shut. There's no need to fear anything he might do to me tonight.

His lips move lower, finding first my jaw, then tracing along it until he comes to my ear. The warm, soft pressure of his tongue as it presses its way inside makes me squirm, and he chuckles. The vibrations *that* causes do nothing to help me. I whisper his name, wondering if chills are going down his spine as well.

His hands cup my cheeks as his mouth returns yet again to my own. This time I open my lips for him, and his tongue moves inside, first asking, then taking. It's all I can do to keep silent. The pain leaks slowly from my body, and I wonder why I didn't ask for this instead of Scully's damn morphine. Meanwhile, Mulder continues to administer his exquisite brand of torture.

His hands have moved lower now, roaming along my chest, then down lower, under the waistline of my shirt, then back up, skin on heated skin. I smile into his mouth, and he mutters something sweetly unintelligible against my lips.

His fingers press on, toying first with a nipple, then drawing cobweb lines down toward my navel. I'm bucking into his touch with as much force as I'm able to muster, which is, admittedly, not very much. No one save Mulder can bring this strange passivity out in me.

If I had full use of my arm, I would have been pushing Mulder with all my might toward his destination, but he takes his sweet time to get there. Ever the cocktease, I think, and smile again. Finally, though, his fingers do trail lower, deftly undoing my fly, then invading my boxers, wringing a strangled gasp from my throat. I writhe when they close around my heated cock.

Mulder kisses his way down my stomach, following the trail his hands had forged earlier, then swoops in. Even with all my anticipation, I'm still unprepared for the jolt of pleasure as his mouth slips around my cock. For this, I *have* to open my eyes. It takes a while for them to adjust to the dark, complicated further by the fact that every time his head moves lower, I have to shut them again and gasp. But finally, I can see him - hair slipping over his forehead, shoulders rising and falling as he sucks. His tongue trails murder along my length, then he's got me captured in his mouth again, and right now, if he asked me to do anything for him, I would without a second's consideration, just so long as he doesn't stop.

Tension rides along my legs, working its way up slowly from my calves until every muscle in my body is clenching and unclenching in time with Mulder. My head twists back and forth on the table, sweat trickling down from my brow. This can't go on longer... can't... should go on forever.

He slips even more of me into his mouth. "Mulder," I whisper, "Mulder, *yes...*" and then my body spasms, every muscle tightening till I think I'll cry out and then releasing with my seed, leaving a deep, throbbing contentment in it's wake. I shut my eyes and try to remember how to breathe.

Mulder's head falls slowly until it rests on my thigh. I can feel the gentle tickle of his damp hair along the skin of my crotch as he shifts slightly, and then his tongue darts out and licks fire along my limp cock. I kick weakly with my free leg, his touch heightened by post orgasm sensitivity. I open my eyes and look at him.

His face is relaxed, composed, and he looks so *young.* A small trail of sweat glues his shirt to the broad expanse of his back. "Mulder," I say, unable to stop myself, "About the..."

The look in his eyes melts my bones into jelly. "Doesn't matter," he whispers.

*Doesn't matter.* //Is redemption ever this sweet?// I wonder. I lift my hand, wanting so badly to have the spider silk of his hair against my fingers, but let my arm fall with a muted curse as pain shoots through it anew. He smiles at that, eyes glowing softly.

"Mulder," I whisper, voice cracked and hoarse. "Mulder, they took it... They found me yesterday and they took it then... I'm so sorry." I'd thought it would be so much harder to say this.

He shakes his head, smiling, and I know I'll be forgiven this too. I let my head fall back, eyes closed, and breath in this new hope. Everything just might be okay after all.

"You let *them* take it, Krycek?" Skinner's voice cuts through the air like a knife. In an instant, Mulder's jumped away from me, hand gliding furtively over his mouth. A moment later, Skinner appears. He's pissed, but I know in a minute that he hasn't seen us, thank God. "Get up," he hisses at me, and the tone of his voice brooks no opposition. I wrench myself into a sitting position, then slide carefully to my feet. Mulder's eyes slip guiltily from me, to Skinner, and back to me. It's all right, Mulder, I think. He wouldn't *dream* you capable of fucking me.

But I have bigger things to worry about than Mulder's peace of mind. "Where the hell *is* it, Krycek?" Skinner rasps. His face is...contorted? Mulder seems slightly taken aback by Skinner - I take it this isn't typical behavior on his part. I suppose I should be shocked too, but I'm not. Pain, and the memory of it, turns men into animals. All things considered, he's treated me like an honored guest so far. I shouldn't stretch my luck. Especially now, after it's pretty much run out.

"I don't know," I tell him, flinching from the desperation in my own voice. "They have it."

"Who does?"

God, I'm a dead man for sure. "*Them.*"

Skinner's silent. Mulder's eyes are huge, riveted onto his face like a frightened, beaten dog. Skinner's stare doesn't leave *my* face until Scully slides into the room like a ghost. She puts her hand on his arm, his eyes harden, and he speaks.

"You've got ten days."

I stare at him in blind incomprehension.

"Here's the deal, Krycek. You get the console back, and I won't leave your corpse rotting in an alley somewhere. You've got a head start; get going." His voice is diamond hard, matching the sharp, predatory glitter in his eyes. Scully stands at his side, ever helpful, and says nothing.

My vision moves to Mulder's shocked, stricken face. No help from this side, not that I should have expected any. God *dammit* Mulder! You'll fuck me fast enough, but you can't defend me to your ex-boss. I watch him standing there, eyes cast down, shoulders hunched, a respectful distance behind Skinner. I'm surprised by the emptiness in my stomach when I try to think about him, what he's meant to me. A vast burning heat flares up behind my eyes, and I wonder how much of it singes Mulder. Lots, I hope. I turn and head for the door on unsteady feet. If I were to come back, in an hour, say, and plant a bomb, would Mulder still be in the apartment? I wonder. How quickly we fall out of love.

Jill Made This!

*Deus Qui is a Latin term found as a caption in medieval manuscripts depicting angels, demons, and dead souls, all awaiting the Final Judgement. It is interpreted as meaning "Who is like God?"