Title: Abishag's Tale
Author: MJ
Fandom: XF
Archive: ArchiveX YES, allslash YES, Gossamer -- when hell freezes over;
others, please ask and I will say yes.
Pairing: WMM/Krycek
Rating: R
Spoilers: You name it. Anything Krycek, anything WMM, anything CSM, the
movie, the movie, the movie. I can finally explain why you didn't see Krycek
in the movie, though that isn't why I wrote this story.
Feedback: my favorite treat. MJR91@aol.com will always find me at home.



Abishag's Tale
By MJ

("Now King David was old and stricken in years; and they covered him with
clothes, but he gat no heat. Wherefore his servants said unto him, Let there
be sought for my lord the King a young virgin; and let her stand before
the King, and let her cherish him, and let her lie in thy bosom, that my lord
the King may get heat. So they sought for a fair damsel throughout all the
coasts of Israel, and found Abishag a Shunammite, and brought her to the
King. And the damsel was very fair, and cherished the King, and
ministered to him; but the King knew her not." I Kings I: 1-4)

For Merri-Todd Webster.



"I'm nobody's *boy*," I spat at the man standing three feet away from me
as two of his goons held me by the shoulders. I still had two arms then, and
I'd gladly have used either on all of them if I hadn't been restrained.

"Ah, I forgot. You Americans use expressions so differently. I assure
you, Alex, that I was not referring to you as a slave when I called you 'my
boy.'" The Brit turned up the corners of his lips in a close-mouthed smile.
Close-mouthed, that's him. "I'm merely displaying a certain affection for
you that your former mentor seems to lack. Otherwise, he wouldn't have
attempted that rather obvious car bomb, would he? I, on the other hand,
am offering you a position."

"What do you want?" I was nearly snarling.

"I think you'll be surprised at how little I'm asking of you, Alex. And
at just how much you'll get in return."

*

I sit at the huge oak library table, reviewing files. He sits across from
me, drinking tea and reading his mail. I'm studying. I am, in fact, an
understudy of sorts now, learning from him what the smoker wouldn't tell
me. The Brit expects a conflict in the ranks, as if there isn't enough of one
already. I can see from what he's showing me that he's planning to have
me move back into a position within the Consortium if anything happens to
him. He seems to expect that something will indeed happen.

I adjust my collar while reading. I haven't worn suits since the days I
worked across from Mulder at the Bureau. And these suits are nothing like
the cheap crap I bought as cover. I go to his tailor, and I go when I
please. My leash is longer than I'd expected.

*

"I can promise you, Alex, that I won't lay a hand on you. Not in that
way. However, I do have several... expectations? You will be present when I want
you; you will dress as I ask you to. And, although I will not touch you
myself, you will understand that I... enjoy watching."

"What?"

"I am not a young man, Alex. I'm no longer able to do anything I please.
However, I enjoy watching attractive young men enjoy themselves. And you
are a particularly attractive young man, as you no doubt know; I'm sure you've
used it to your advantage often enough."

I stare. "I'm not a trained monkey. What do you think I'm going to do,
perform on demand with someone I don't know?"

He looks back at me, shaking his head. "Although I believe that your
former employer did expect just that from you when you were handling certain
matters for him, I hardly expect that of you. I simply expect to be allowed to
watch you pleasuring yourself. Do you think you can handle that?" I nod. In
exchange for learning the smoker's secrets and permitting myself to be
decorative, I play with myself as a spectator sport? Hell, I've been asked for worse,
a lot worse. He wants me to be a toyboy while he grooms me for
this job? All right, I can do toyboy.

*

He passes a piece of correspondence to me across the table, silently. No
one not connected with the Consortium would know it for what it is, but I
recognize its meaning. He watches me, silently, as I file it in one of
the folders in front of me. He nods, then returns his attention to the tea.
Apparently, I'm learning what he wants me to know.

He came to my room last night about two hours after dinner, in his silk
dressing gown and flannels. I had been watching the reruns on Channel
Four. I switched it off when he entered. I didn't think they were the
appropriate counterpoint to what he had in mind for the evening, and Sky News at Ten
just wasn't it, either. The Brit ensconced himself in an armchair across from
my bed and made himself comfortable, while I set to trying to make him a bit
less comfortable.

I seem to get approval from him for doing a bit of a striptease first. He
tries not to react, but he squirms when I do it. So I do it regularly.
It's a cheap thrill for both of us; he likes the show, and I... well, he doesn't
do anything for me, but the idea of putting on a show, working for the
audience... that does it. Tie and then shirt, off slowly, facing him. Then the
pants. His upper lip twitches while he watches. My fingers circling my nipples.
Pinching them, making them stand out.

Down on the bed, one hand caressing my chest, the other sliding slowly
down my side. I can feel his eyes burning into me, as they always do. He
won't touch me. He never has. He watches, and he thinks his thoughts. Fine, I
think mine, too. He never asks, and I don't tell. He knows, though. He
knows.

*

"An interesting set of assignments your previous mentor gave you, Alex."
We are in the drawing room, looking over papers.

"Oh?" Playing stupid. I can do that. Sometimes too well.

"Your time in the FBI. Working with Fox Mulder. A very interesting young
man, Mr. Mulder. And not an unattractive one."

"What of it?" That was too close to home. What had the smoker told him?
Why he'd decided to try killing me? Because an agent who's bedding his
target and falls in love with him is too much of a liability? Hell, the
Brit would probably have loved watching the two of us, that was for sure. And
if he'd seen the tape the smoker had gotten of us that one night at Mulder's,
I'm sure he had loved watching. The smoker had curled his lip over that
one himself, but it had been a sneer.

("You act very well, Alex. Maybe a little too well. You certainly seemed
to put a great deal of... feeling... into your session with Agent Mulder. You
won't be needing to do any more of that, however. As I've scheduled matters,
you'll be disappearing from his life very soon. I do hope there haven't
been any... unfortunate... entanglements... on your part.")

"I'm aware that I've asked you to put on a show, as it were, for me on
occasion. I've laid claim to your body, even though I'll never touch it.
Your heart, Alex, is entirely your own, however."

"I beg your pardon?" Now I'm even starting to sound like the Brit. Alex
Krycek, upper-class twit. Fucking amazing.

"You think about him." Plain, direct, in my face. "When I watch you.
Your face, my boy. You're thinking of someone. I presume it's your Mr.
Mulder."

"What if it is?"

"You're a lucky young man, Alex. You've had the opportunity to love
someone." He looks across the drawing room at a picture of his
grandchildren. "Not everyone has it. I hope they will." He returns to
the papers.

*

He's watching me pump myself, steadily, more and more rapidly as my
excitement mounts. I let myself go, pretending that my hand is Mulder's
mouth, that my own groans of pleasure are being made to a lover and not to
the air above me. It's the only way I can keep myself going until orgasm,
to have that picture of making love to Mulder in my mind at the time. The
Brit knows it, knows I don't think of him, has made it clear more than once that
if my body cooperates with his need, he couldn't care less why it does.
Whatever gives him his kicks, as long as he leaves me mine.

I come all over my hand, hot spurts splattering my hand, my stomach, my
chest. The Brit lets a contented sigh escape from his lips. Whatever he
gets from my show, he's gotten it again. I've gotten one more unrequited
fantasy about a man I love who'd now like to kill me. And in a few days,
the cycle will repeat. I'll make love to Mulder in my mind, the Brit will get
off watching me thinking about another man. I'd say it wasn't fair to
him, but it's his arrangement, after all.

*

A call from the smoker. What the hell does he want? A meeting. Some new
Consortium crisis, no doubt. My mentor is more concerned about his
grandson's leg. Once I'd have agreed with the smoker. But a grandson.
That means something to this man. His grandfather's grandfather claimed this
estate, and he waits for his own grandson to do the same. Both men have
killed to meet their goals. Only one of them, however, is a killer. I'd
like to survive. I'd like to think that Mulder will survive. After his
exposure to the Russian experiments, he should. A man who plans for his
grandchildren, or a man who's spent his life killing. Which one
understands survival better?

Blown up by the smoker, or dinner companion and entertainment for the
Brit?

I'll help his butler get the kid to the doctor while he goes to the damn
smoker's meeting.

*

He's done with morning tea, done with his mail. He rises, preparing to
leave the room. He comes up behind me with an elegant hand on my shoulder,
squeezing me gently through the striped silk of my shirt.. I raise my
hand to his, press it against him, pushing him further into the muscle of my
arm.

"Not much longer, Alex."

"What?"

"Not much longer. You'll be taking over for me soon, I'm afraid."

"Why? What's happening?"

"A great many things I wish weren't. If anything should happen to me... if
I disappear for any reason... you will contact our old friend. He will want
you back on his payroll. Actually, he will have no choice. Do it, Alex.
Don't ask questions now; when he offers you a position, you will accept it. My
own plans will have been set by then, and nothing he can do will stop them.
You will be there to see that they are carried out."

"When is this happening?"

"I can't tell you, Alex. The time frame is... doubtful. I'm afraid I'll need
to enlist the cooperation of your beloved Mr. Mulder, however."

"Fox? What do you - "

"My dear boy, really, I have no intention of harming a hair on your Mr.
Mulder's head. I need him, and he will need me, to carry out a mission
that will be to our mutual benefit. It may be that when all of this is over...
well, best, I suppose, not to speculate, eh?"

I look up at him questioningly.

"Should anything happen to me, Alex, you'll find that you've been amply
provided for. I shouldn't fear that."

I shake my head. "No. That's not it. I mean... is this necessary?"

"When my plans go into effect, dear boy, I'm afraid that if I fail to
disappear of my own volition, our friends may see to it that I disappear
through theirs. I prefer a choice in the matter." His hand slides out
from under mine, and he heads for the library door.

This isn't right. Doesn't he understand that? It doesn't have to work
this way... does it? There are parts of this business I still don't understand,
parts I may never understand, but why he should need to do this now...

If you had told me when I took this combination understudy / kept boy gig
that I'd react like this...

*

We're in London now, at his city house. He's flying out of Heathrow in a
day or so. I wanted to fly to DC with him, but he's refusing. Fear that I'll
see Mulder? I don't think so. Fear that I'll see what happens to him?
More likely. But does he fear that I'll tell the smoking bastard his plans if
I see them, or is he trying to spare me something?

And why am I afraid that it's the second option?

We're out for dinner tonight, dining quite well. His own cook is
excellent, but he wanted to, as he says, celebrate before he leaves. The thought of
a wake crosses my mind, but I keep silent about that over the duck in
raspberry coulis, and the poached salmon in beurre blanc. My job as his escort is
to be attractive, well-dressed, and amusing. I pride myself on my looks; I'm
vain. He's spent his own money on my clothing; I know I'm dressed to his
satisfaction. Discussing funeral arrangements is not amusing. I settle
on observations about the other restaurant patrons and watch him laugh. If
he's going down, I'm going along as far as I can with him. At the very least,
unlike the smoker, he's always been upfront with me.

But it's more than that, isn't it?

It's more.

I'm not dependent on the Brit, not by a longshot. But he's done some
things the smoker would never do. He's given me knowledge. He's trained me for
certain tasks personally. His own exit, if not his demise, makes me
financially independent of the smoker, as do the papers he's given me.
He's turned me from a pawn into a player. He's given me freedom, even as I've
obligingly been his little kept pet. Apparently he's seen something in me
that I've never seen myself.

Unlike the smoker, he's an optimist. The man believes in a future. Even
if he's not there for it. I admire him.

It's more than that, isn't it?

Yeah, it's more.

He's never touched me. He's never called me anything more personal than
"my dear boy." I've normally called him "sir," though he's ordered me to lose
the title more than once when I've addressed him. And good lord, he's
more than old enough to be my father... though for his age, I have to admit, he's
kept up remarkably. And our most intimate moments have been conducted
with the trappings of a business contract.

But it's more. And we both know it.

*

As I thought, he comes to my room about an hour and a half after we return
to the house. I'd realized this would happen; I've taken a few pains
tonight. Candles and incense; I look good in candlelight and I know it. He pays
for the show, after all. But it's a mood thing too, I suppose. Certainly
more elegant than the bedside lamp. He may not get to see this show again;
closing night ought to be made worth his while.

I lie on the bed, rubbing my body with massage oil. He ought to like
that... yes, I thought so. Ah, he's noticing. Not my usual routine tonight. I'm
not handling myself the same way; I'm not moving the way I usually do.

I'm not thinking about Fox Mulder.

I have the rest of my life to think about Fox Mulder. But this is the
last night I may ever spend with this man, even though we've barely ever
touched one another.

There has been more between us than watcher and watched, all of this time.
More than rent boy and John. For one night, I think I can acknowledge
that truth.

For one night, I can think of him.