Betas: Kai: Thanks for taking the time away from THE PRETENDER to do this for me, and Solan
Summary: The encounter on the Balcony leads to other situations. Starts badly, violently, but maybe they can work it out.
Pairing: Sk/K
Rating: NC-17: not just for sex, but for PART 1's sexual violence, PART 3's suggested sexual abuse.
Archive: No one without my permission.
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013.
###**WARNING!!!!!! WARNING!!!!!!###**
PART 1 contains NON-CONSENSUAL SEXUAL VIOLENCE. Lots of it.
If you don't want to read it, don't: there will be a summary of the contents at the start of Part 2.

Part One

Walter Skinner watched the man huddled against the railing of his balcony. It was cold out there for DC, but he was sure the man had endured much colder temperatures wearing just what he was wearing now.

Alex Krycek was very aware that Skinner was watching him from behind the curtains. With luck, that's where the man would stay till Mulder came and got him in the morning.

Shit! Safe house! Mulder had promised to stash him away in a safe house. Obviously they had different ideas as to the meaning of the term. Damn Skinner with his "Think warm thoughts" philosophy.

Krycek checked the windows: no Skinner. Maybe he'd get some sleep after all. He pulled up the collar of his jacket,burrowed into it like a turtle, stuck his free hand into the pocket and curled up to conserve heat.

The balcony door opened very quietly. Krycek was just cold enough, tired enough, to be slow in his reaction.

His free hand was grabbed, cuffed, and then pulled over so that when Skinner clamped the other cuff to the top of the railing, Krycek was face down, arms stretched out to their fullest. Skinner dropped his weight against Krycek's shoulders effectively pinning him down. Krycek opened his mouth, swearing, only to have a bit gag roughly pulled into his mouth,tied so tightly that he felt it might tear into his cheeks.

Skinner's weight left his body, and Krycek managed to turn his head to see the big man lean a shoulder negligently against the far wall. What scared him the most was that there was no expression at all on Skinner's face. After a couple of minutes, Skinner moved into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

Krycek tried to see if he could get loose: maybe the cuffs would miraculously loosen. As was, the pressure building up in his shoulders from the position he was in was going to make the rest of the night seem incredibly longer.

Skinner gave it an hour before he went back out again. The night was almost black, no moon, no stars. The only light came from the hallway light behind him and whatever could make it up to the seventeenth floor from street-level.

Krycek barely struggled when Skinner grabbed his foot, took off boot and sock. Grabbed the other foot, did the same. It was only when his hands went to undo the jeans that Krycek pushed his weight forward, and kicked back with his heel. He got Skinner just under the knee: a couple of inches higher and the kick would have kneecapped him.

Skinner pulled back, silently cursing. So the ratbastard still had some fight left in him. That would add some flavour to his plans.

Krycek's eyes, enraged, tracked him as much as they could. He had no illusions about what Skinner was planning to do to him, but he had no intention of making it easy for him.

Skinner waited till the pain in his leg became a dull ache. Krycek never once took his eyes off him, swinging his head around when Skinner moved behind him.

When Skinner came in close, he threw all his weight onto Krycek, slamming him hard against the balcony railing, knocking the breath out of him. Before Krycek could fill his lungs again, he had hauled the jeans and shorts off the man.

This time, Skinner wisely stayed far enough away from those feet. He dropped the clothing on top of the boots and went back in. He would have to do something about those feet. Krycek was as lethal with them as he was with his hands.

For a moment, Krycek let himself believe that was all Skinner had wanted, to have him spend what was left of the night, bare-assed and cold. However, he wasn't really surprised when Skinner appeared with something in his hands.

This time when Krycek's foot lashed out, Skinner was ready. He grabbed the offending leg tightly while quickly wrapping something around the ankle. Fully extending the leg, he walked to the railing and tied the free end of the restraint to the top of it.

The pull on Krycek's body effectively immobilized him. As it was, there was no need to bind the other foot as Krycek's balance was too precarious for him to get too active. True, if he went over the top of the railing, the cuffs and the restraint, the last tie Sharon had bought him before the divorce, would probably keep him from plunging down the seventeen storeys to the ground, but he didn't think Krycek would want to chance it.

However, just to test out his theory, he went to stand behind Krycek, well within kicking reach of that second foot.

Krycek knew when to admit defeat. If he tried anything now, he fully expected Skinner to tie his other foot to the railing so that he'd hang like one of those boneless asexual gymnasts on a balance beam. If his foot were free, he might, just might, be able to get one solid kick in before this was over.

Skinner's grin was lupine when Krycek managed to turn his head to find him. Still smiling, he reached out and drew a finger down the taut muscles of Krycek's ass. Krycek glared as much as he could around the gag, promised himself Skinner would pay for every second he spent on his balcony, and turned his head to look over the still city.

Waiting. For whatever it was Skinner was going to do to him.

In the silence of the seventeenth floor, the sound of Skinner taking off his belt was enough warning for him not to be surprised when the looped leather passed over his ass, gently, almost like a caress. Over the inner muscles of the stretched-out thigh. Back again to his ass. Down the other thigh, now trembling with the cold and strain of supporting his weight. Back up the inner muscles to tease his balls and flaccid cock.

Krycek's hands grabbed the top of the railing, bracing himself for the blow that finally arrived. Skinner had moved to one side so he could get a good swing on the belt. And Krycek certainly felt it when it landed, across the fullest part of his buttocks.

He sensed Skinner behind him, held back the sound that wanted out of his throat when one of those big hands inspected the path the belt had taken. And braced himself for more.

Skinner didn't disappoint him. Five more times the leather raised a path of fire across his ass, and five more times he refused to give Skinner the pleasure of hearing him scream.

Then, with a slight shifting of Skinner's position, the leather moved to his thighs, first one then the other, as if Skinner wanted to distribute an equal amount of attention to each.

Occasionally, the tip of the belt would flick his balls, or the head of his penis. And then, the sharpness of the pain made it impossible for Krycek to contain his groans. The bit gag effectively muted the sounds, reducing the timbre.

But Skinner heard them. And enjoyed them.

After a few more blows, he stopped to inspect the damage. There were some nice weals rising on Krycek's skin, weals he roughly traced with his thumb. Krycek flinched, made a sound in the back of his throat that pleased Skinner greatly. He dropped the belt on top of Krycek's clothes, used his two hands to massage the aching muscles of ass and thighs. Krycek greyed out, his head sagging, adding further strain on already over-strained shoulders.

Skinner pulled back, went to lean against the wall where he could keep an eye on Krycek's face. He waited while his prisoner recovered from the rough treatment he'd just inflicted on him. Wanted him fully conscious and aware for his next move.

At this stage of the game, Krycek wished Skinner would just hurry up and rape him and get it over with. The strain in his shoulders had passed the burning stage, and was now making itself felt in his spine. His ass and thighs were on fire where-ever the belt had landed, the head of his cock was sore. And the coldness of the cement balcony floor was eating its way up his free leg.

What the fuck was the bastard waiting for?

The first clue Krycek had that Skinner might have a different plan in mind was when he heard a "snap". Like the one made by a latex glove when it was snapped into place.

Krycek tried to see what Skinner was up to, but the man had hidden in the shadows. Krycek could make out his shape, knew he was doing something with his hands, but couldn't make out what. He felt panic rising up in him, tried to control it. If what he thought was going to happen, there was a good chance that Mulder wouldn't have much use for him in the morning.

When Skinner moved out of the darkness, Krycek was waiting for him. This would probably be his only chance to get a good kick in and he went for it as soon as he thought Skinner was in reach.

But Skinner had been waiting for the move, anticipated it, and with another brutal slam of his body imprisoned the leg against the side of the balcony. Krycek was going to be black and blue wherever the railing met his body.

Krycek caught his breath and forced himself to relax. Less chance of damage if his muscles weren't tensed.

The first finger invading him told him that Skinner was indeed gloved and that the latex had been lubed.

The second that there would be no side benefits to this, no chance of even the slightest twinge of pleasure, even if he did get off on this type of stuff.

The third finger stretched him more than he had been for a time. It was beginning to hurt. Especially when Skinner spread them open in him. The fourth only added to the burn.

Krycek tried to control his breathing to merge with the penetration. Skinner let him think it might help before he twisted the fingers around, making way for the thumb.

From this point on, Krycek just conceded that nothing he was able to do would mitigate the pain of being fist-fucked. He emptied his mind and tried hard to stay very still, anything to minimize damage.

Krycek couldn't prevent the grunt of pain as the widest part of Skinner's hand forced itself into him, holding in place.

"Are you enjoying this, Krycek?" Skinner leaned over, placed his weight behind his elbow, adding to the build-up of pressure on Krycek's anal muscle. "No? Funny, this is how I felt when you fucked around with my department in the Bureau."

He added just a bit more pressure. "This is what it feels like when one of your agents turns out to be a fraud."

More pressure. Enough so that the entire hand was now in him. The pressure on his anal muscle decreased slightly when all that stretched it was a comparatively narrower wrist. "When you get called on the carpet by the Director, to explain how such an incident could have happened in your department."

"When OPC reams you out for two days, investigating why you couldn't tell that so-called agent was a fraud."

Skinner twisted his hand: Krycek screamed.

"When that so-called agent turns out to be nothing more than some thug whose continuing existence keeps reminding your bosses that somehow, in spite of all their precautions, he managed to slip past all their security measures."

With a savage brutality he hadn't felt since Vietnam, Skinner yanked his hand out. This time, even the gag didn't prevent Krycek's scream from piercing the night.

As he stripped the glove off his hand, Skinner watched the limp body of the ex-agent hanging on his balcony railing. Krycek was still breathing, though shallowly.

Holding the glove now inside out, he picked up the towel he had dropped on the floor, used it to wipe the lube remaining on his arm. Almost as an afterthought, he wiped Krycek's ass, wrapped the glove in the towel. He dropped it by the door.

He released Krycek's leg, removed the tie from his ankle, let the foot drop.

Standing behind Krycek, he grabbed the man's hair. Short though it was, he managed to get a good grasp by the front. Pulled the head back with one hand, released the bit gag with the other. Krycek's face was wet with tears of pain.

With no word, no show of any further expression, Skinner used his key and released his handcuffs from the inert body. Krycek slipped to the floor, whimpered.

Skinner picked up his belt, the towel. With a foot, he pushed Krycek's clothes, boots close to him. Went into the apartment, closed and locked the balcony door behind him. Dropped the towel down the incinerator shoot, turned off the lights and went to bed.

In the morning, Skinner made his usual breakfast of cereal and coffee, ate it while reading his morning newspaper, grabbed his coat and left for work.

Not once did he go near the balcony door or windows. Not once did his eyes even wander that way. It was as if Alex Krycek didn't exist.

The Consortium had imploded.

Between suspicions, betrayals, power plays, misinformation supplied by a one-armed double (triple? quadruple?) agent who had worked his way deep into the Consortium itself.

Because of alien rebels, outside influences suddenly decided that the cost would be too high for their own personal interests.

Because Mulder finally had gotten his hands on actual documentation, irrefutable evidence of fraud, financial laundrying, treason provided to him by his one-armed informant.

For all these reasons, and probably many more never to be discovered or understood, it was over.

There had been a sleuth of investigations, of Grand Jury indictments, suicides and even a few murders. And, apart from several minor players and one major one, all had been accounted for.

Skinner's department had become the pride of the Director: Fox Mulder, once the embarrassment, was now the darling.

Skinner snorted to himself at the irony and hypocrisy of the situation. Mulder merely accepted it all as his due, his vindication of so many years of mockery. Krycek was just pleased to have all and any charges pending against him dropped.

Walter Skinner was walking back from a meeting when he realized that the front entrance of FBI headquarters was swarming with the Media. Again. Not that they were there for him, but making his way through the scrum was not something he was in the mood for right now. If he went around the building, there should be a back door he could use to get back to his office and the paper work that seemed to be reproducing overnight.

He had just turned the corner when a man fell into step with him, quickly came up behind him. The barrel of a gun jammed into the small of his back.

"It would be wise to come with me, AD Skinner, or would you prefer spending the remainder of your life in a wheelchair, assuming you survive?" When there wasn't an immediate answer, the man shrugged noncommittally and pressed the barrel into Skinner's spine. "The choice remains yours."

Skinner let his briefcase slid quietly down the front of his leg, to his foot, to the ground. He turned in the direction the gun wanted him to, walked over to the darkened limo that was waiting back at curbside. Somehow, the Media seemed to be focused on the big man, easily identifiable now, and the man with him, a man who still appeared on the list of possible suspects.

The limo door opened and CGB Spender, aka Cancerman, aka "that cigarette- smoking bastard" greeted Skinner like a long-lost brother, helped the two men into the back of the limo and the car sped away.

All captured on video for the six o'clock newscasts.

"How nice to see you again, Mr. Skinner." Spender lit another of his innumerable cigarettes. "I didn't want to leave without thanking you for all the help you and your department have given me over the years."

Skinner assumed, rightly, that the conversation was being taped. He said nothing, sat stoned-face in the middle of the back seat, between his "escort" and another man also wanted for questioning. Both were holding guns on him.

"You know," Spender rattled on, "we never would have lasted as long, or been as prosperous, had you not slipped us all that useful information." He smiled around the cigarette. "No, couldn't have done it without you, Skinner. Of course, the bank account in the Caymans will certainly bear proof of that. You should have a nice comfortable retirement. As you said, much better than anything the Bureau could provide you with."

Spender nodded to one of the men, who pulled a syringe out of a pocket. Skinner had his eyes on Spender, was aware of the syringe only when it was jammed into the back of his neck. He started to turn, hand rising to pull it out when he fell forward onto the floor.

Spender reached up and pushed a button in the roof of the limo. A cassette dropped into his hand. He stuck the cigarette into his mouth, eyes squinted against the smoke, and placed the tape into an already addressed envelope. At the next mailbox, the limo stopped, and the pack was dropped into the shoot.

Skinner regained consciousness slowly.

Because of the drug hangover, it took him some time to really understand the precariousness of his position.

His hands were stretched above his head, the weight of his body straining shoulder muscles to the point of burning cramp. He tried to stand only to realize he could only do so on the front part of his feet. He was naked.

His head eventually cleared enough for him to figure out that he was hanging from a metal bar which in turn was hanging from a lever. He was in some barn, so he assumed the lever was for lifting bales of hay into the upper loft of the structure.

He had no idea how long he had been hanging here though the pain in his upper body told him if had to have been some hours.

He had no idea where this structure was located. He assumed that, since he was not gagged, it would not be near people. Did he want to take a chance and try calling out? What if the only attention he attracted was that of Spender and his friends?

But the decision was taken out of his hands when Spender and his associates came out of a side door from what seemed to be an office of some kind.

"Ah, Skinner, you've decided to join us. How nice." In spite of the hay and straw on the floor, Spender took out a cigarette, lit it with his lighter.

"You'll be happy to know that my contacts will be picking us up a bit later on this evening. Maybe less happy to know that we find ourselves with time on our hands until they get here."

He took a deep inhalation, held it, released the smoke in a series of rings. Smiled at the circles that slowly made their way up, dissolving into the upper reaches of the barn.

"Well," Spender smiled, "that's the limit of my entertainment skills. Let's see just how much fun you can be, Skinner." He took another deep inhalation, watched the tip of the cigarette turn brilliant red and, with real pleasure, butted out the smoke on Skinner's chest.

The pain hadn't stopped when the helicopter had arrived.

The hands hurting him had gone, but the pain had just continued throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He faded in and out of consciousness, finding it harder to breathe because of the constant pressure put on his lungs by his up-stretched arms.

He was out when a figure all dressed in black slipped into the barn. It avoided him, although it was obvious that he was there. The figure went through the structure, verifying that he was alone before slowly walking around him, objectively evaluating the state of his body before coming to stand in front of him.

The barrel of an uzi was placed under his chin and upward pressure forced his head up.

Through the pain, Skinner felt the presence of another person. The need to know which of his tormentors had returned forced him to open his eyes.

Instead, after some moments of trying to focus his sight, he realized that a new character had joined the party. It took him several tries to get enough moisture in his mouth to croak "Your turn," to Alex Krycek.

Krycek swung his weapon over his truncated shoulder, used the prosthesis to balance it there. Took a cell phone out of his pocket, speed-dialled it. "I found him. Send an ambulance."

Using the information Skinner managed to give them, Spender and his goons were caught as they were transferring from the helicopter to a private jet on its way to Libya. In the ensuing gun battle, Spender was wounded, unfortunately, not critically. His men had not been so fortunate. One had died on the spot; the other the next day in hospital, though his wounds had not been life-threatening.

Spender was immediately transferred to an extreme security cell where he was waiting for an appearance in front of a Grand Jury. Which would take place as soon as Walter Skinner was able to testify.

The Grand Jury investigating the charges against CGB Spender was in its last days. The final witness to be heard from had just been released from hospital. Less than four weeks after being found by Alex Krycek, Walter Skinner, accompanied by a Bureau lawyer, was sworn in.

There had been some dissension by a few of the panel about the veracity of this witness, considering the news videos, the cassette recording, the Cayman bank account. The fact that the Director himself had finally come out and stated "positively" that, based on his knowledge of both Spender and Skinner, he did not feel that AD Skinner would either betray his country nor secret away money in an off-shore bank didn't make him more reliable.

In general, the questions covered the relationship Skinner had with Spender, Spender's actions within the Bureau itself, his involvement with the X-Files Department. Once or twice they touched the matter of the cassette and the bank account, stayed away from the kidnapping and reasons for his stay in the hospital.

Until it was the turn of Senator Matthews.

"Well, Mr. Skinner, you seemed to have convinced my colleagues that you ran an honest show. Perhaps you may even eventually convince me.

"As you know, in addition to all the charges against Mr. Spender, there have been added, among others, kidnapping, forcible confinement, gross bodily harm.

"You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Skinner, but I find these charges quite unwarranted. In fact, I'm sure, if you will only be honest with us, Mr. Skinner, these charges are there only to cover up your activities in relation with Mr. Spender."

There was a negative reaction from most of the panel members.

"No, no, gentlemen, I intend to show that Mr. Skinner was a voluntary participant in this so-called kidnapping. And that the last day's testimony has been nothing more than a sham."

He waited till the room quietened down.

"Mr. Skinner, have you ever had consensual sex with a man? And before you answer that question, I would just like to submit the following photos as evidence to the panel that this" his voice showed his disgust "fine example of the Federal Bureau of Investigations is a practising ho..mo..sexual who is into games of say..do..mas..o..chistic bondage."

Skinner's lawyer accepted the duplicate of the package that was now making its way along the panel. Skinner barely glanced at the photos of Mulder and himself, taken in Mulder's apartment, with Mulder in handcuffs. All with Mulder's face blacked out.

His lawyer slowly began pulling away from him. By the end of the session was sitting almost away from the table.

The questions had been another rape.

Didn't he enjoy being tied up? Didn't he enjoy rough sex? Wasn't what had happened to him been just a bit of rough sex that had gotten out of control? He, Senator Matthews, understood that it was quite acceptable for a whip to be used in this sort of activity. Burning, too, or so his expert witness had told him: not that he himself would know about "such things".

Hadn't he actively participated in group sex? How was this episode so different? After all, he understood that four way sex was not unknown in "such things".

And as for the damages to the "anal canal" done by the barrel of some gun, well, he understood that "object penetration" was a common practice in "such things" and some injury was only to be expected.

Alex Krycek sat at the side of the room where this inquisition was being played out. Neither Scully nor Mulder was around: someone had seen to it that Scully had been safely ensconced with a series of autopsies in Quantico for the past four days; Mulder was with the Director being shown off like some rare species at some conference.

And someone had certainly seen to it that Senator Matthews had been provided with all kinds of fascinating photos and documents.

Krycek took it from the Cheshire-cat smile on Spender's face that he was getting in his final twist of the knife in the man he held responsible for not controlling Mulder and his X-Files investigations: Spender was going down, but he wasn't going alone.

And that fucking idiot lawyer the Bureau had provided was certainly not doing his job. Or maybe doing it too well. With every little revelation, most of them doctored to some extent, all the motherfucker did was look horrified, pull further away from Skinner who only sat there, stone-faced, not even trying to defend himself.

But Krycek knew a few things about Senator Matthews that could prove interesting. He stood up and held a short conference with a couple of people who would not really want their connection to him known. He waited until the panel called a short recess during which they argued with each other as to Matthews' line of questioning. Then he went over to the table where Skinner sat.

Krycek patted Skinner on the shoulder, bent over and covered the mike with his hand. "Listen to me, Skinner. At this rate you're going to be sharing a cell with the Cancerman over there. So you're going to do as I say, understand? Start giving Matthews the details he wants. Long, involved juicy details. Think of him as a vampire and feed him the blood he needs. I'll take care of the rest."

Skinner's eyes were unalive behind his glasses. He met Krycek's eyes, but couldn't hold them. When Krycek had found him, he had expected the man to take revenge for what he had done to him on the balcony that cold fall night.

Instead, Krycek had lowered him onto the ground, stayed beside him till help had arrived in the form of Mulder, Scully and some other people dressed all in black. He'd managed to stay conscious long enough to pass on the information that led to Spender's capture and arrest.

So, if Krycek had picked now for his revenge, he had nothing left to fight him with. And why shouldn't Krycek get his pound of flesh like everyone else?

At Matthews' next question, Skinner's dead voice gave the man the emotional details he'd been pecking for. How he had hurt, how there was a difference between rough sex and what he'd undergone. That there was a difference between having a dildo stuck up your ass and the barrel of a Glock.

The spectators drew silent, listening intently to the softly spoken answers, a dark contrast to Matthews' condescending questions.

Behind the panel, the man Krycek had spoken to waited for his signal to walk over to Senator Matthews. As he passed the senator's chair, he somehow tripped and knocked both the chair and the senator in it backwards onto the floor.

"Oh! Dear God! Senator Matthews! You're masturbating!"

The ENG people pushed the "shocked" woman out of the way in their hurry to tape the Senator with his cock out of his pants, semen-stained handkerchief spread over his crotch. The reaction of the man to the left of the Senator was caught for all to view on the six o'clock news, especially since family hour viewing precluded the sight of the Senator's quickly shrivelling member.

Krycek sat back, grinning. That should help detract some of the attention from Skinner. And, using his new connections, a little talk with Mr. Spender that night would see an end to this comedy. He tried to catch Skinner's eye, sure the man was getting some enjoyment out of this reversal.

Skinner didn't seem to be aware of what was happening around him. He just sat, staring at the front, waiting. His lawyer had disappeared, and people around him weren't interested in him any more.

Krycek got a strange feeling. He tried to get to Skinner but the panel leader was rapping his gavel, bringing the proceedings to a halt for the day. By the time Krycek got through the crowd, Skinner was gone.

The next day, when the Grand Jury reconvened, Skinner sat alone at the table, the Bureau not even pretending to support him. Krycek watched him more intently now. Finally seeing the signs of a man pushed beyond his limits. Krycek wondered just what was holding him together.

To everyone's surprise but Krycek's, Spender's lawyer rose with a request to address the panel. "My client wishes to read a statement into the record."

Briefly, Spender informed the Grand Jury that Walter Skinner had never ever been anything but a hinderance to himself and the people he represented. That the video op had been set up by himself, the tape faked, the bank account was his, not Skinner's. That the photos sent to Senator Matthews had been doctored. And that Senator Matthews had been in his pay.

Krycek smiled: it hadn't taken long for Spender to understand that any time spent in prison would be easier if he weren't in a wheelchair, paralysed from the neck down.

By the time the statement had been read, questioned by the panel leader, Skinner's reputation had been re-established: at least Krycek thought it should be. The panel leader finally addressed Skinner himself, indifferently apologizing on behalf of all the panel, the absent Senator Matthews excepted, for yesterday's line of questioning. Skinner said nothing. Waited till he had been dismissed, stood up, and with all eyes on him, walked out of the room.

Part Two

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