X-Files - The Conference Table

[fajrdrako_fic]

Title: The Conference Table
Author: fajrdrako
Fandom: X-Files
Characters: Skinner/Krycek
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims.
Notes: With thanks to my beta-readers, Vicky and Gail.


The Conference Table

Skinner sat at the conference table with a cup of coffee, paying careful attention to the speakers. This was the climax of his three-day trip to Ottawa. the crux of the matter: a sharing of files, of X-Files in particular, between the U.S. and their Canadian counterparts.

It was the first time in days... weeks... he’d manage to drag his mind from a disastrous obsession with Alex Krycek. The unaligned agent had seduced him body and soul, and he had two parts to his life now: the time he spent with Krycek, and the times he wished he were with Krycek.

He sipped at the coffee, remembering the echo of Krycek’s touch. A rough lover, a gentle lover, an unpredictable lover.... A man who had chosen Skinner for reasons of his own, and who came back, time and again, to give Skinner the release he craved, that only Krycek could give. Why did he come back, again and again? Skinner was not sure. He only knew that Krycek shared the same craving he felt.

This craving had brought Krucek to Ottawa, bringing him again into Skinner’s bed. Skinner had no idea when he would see him next. Soon, he hoped. It was not something he could predict.

Someone turned on an overhead projector. The change in the lighting made Skinner pull his attention back to the conference table. Skinner himself had known much of what these men knew, and had known ost of it months and even years ago, thanks to Mulder’s detailed reports. That didn’t mean he couldn’t learn something here.

Canadian authorities were only too aware that strange things were happening in the wheatfields of the prairies, and not just crop circles.... They had found farms at which children were cloned, appearing and disappearing without explanation. Hidden in the tundra, hangars containing silent, invisible planes. Glacial lakes with ships deep under the surface, that were never built on earth.

The Canadians were out of their depth. They hadn’t a hope in hell of understanding what was going on any more than did the elected leaders of any other nation. There was a secret alien war going on, and the best anyone could do was learn what they could by pooling resources. That meant finding others with information, who wouldn’t simply laugh them off the International Agenda. Walter Skinner and his team from the FBI, for example.

They showed photographs: surveillance pictures, satellite pictures, even civillian’s snapshots of UFOs.

They listened to witnesses. The first was a farmer who’d sold milk to a farm compound where fifty boys had lived, all seven years old and all identical to each other.

They listened to a doctor who’d been asked to identify a corpse that was neither human nor animal. He had tried to take it to a lab for examination. When he went to get it out of his van, it had vanished. Stolen.

They listened to a young woman who claimed to have an implant in the back of her neck, though she didn ot remember being abducted. She had been diagnosed with cervical cancer two weeks ago.

The programme was interrupted for a coffee break. “What do you think of the revelations?” asked one of the RCMP investigators, a tall woman who looked like Sigourney Weaver in bifocals.

“Frightening,” said Skinner. He nibbled at a square of something with chocolate on top. It was delicious.

She saw his expression, and smiled. “I have a weakness for Nanaimo bars,” she confessed, and took one herself. “I think you’ll find our next witness interesting. He has extensive first-hand testimony.”

“Reliable?”

“As far as we can tell.”

Skinner made himself comfortable in his seat. Nanaimo bars. Delicious. He considered what pleasure he might have feeding one to Krycek, morsel by morsel.

One of the DND men introduced the man who was about to speak to them. Questions were encouraged. His name was Vasily Karpashin, a seismologist originally from Leningrad, Russia. There was a murmur around the table: the name was known.

Skinner looked at the man entering the room, and made his face totally expressionless. He knew Vasily Karpashin, though not under that name. He’d fucked Vasily Karpashin last night, and showered with him, half asleep, and had let the man half-strangle him before feeding him soggy, cheesy french fries that the Canadians called poutine.

Krycek under the name of Vasily Karpashin wore a dark turtleneck pullover that emphasised his dark Russian looks and the fine musculature of his chest and arms. There was a scar over his left cheek that had not been there when Skinner had left for this meeting this morning. Krycek had been sitting on the bed scanning The Globe and Mail for God knew what. He’d had two other newspapers beside him, one in Russian, one in Italian. Skinner inferred that he was able to read both.

What in God’s name was Krycek doing here at the conference table?

Vasily Karpashin was introduced, and began to speak. He had a Russian accent, his voice a slightly lower timbre than Krycek’s normal speaking voice. He talked of first-hand knowledge of abductions, of shape-changing alien bounty hunters and faceless men who torched women and children, of a missile silo with an doil-like organic alien that could invade the mind.

It was outrageous, a tissue of lies and half-truths. He spoke with quiet conviction. The Canadians questioned him, and he replied clearly, giving dates, stating frankly when he had forgotten a detail. He explained his involvement in the incidents cited - all a deliberate and blatant collage of lies, a mountain of lies.

Skinner rubbed his chin. The RCMP and CSIS and the NATO man were taking notes, barely concealing their excitement at the new information. Skinner took no notes. Why make notes of fiction?

Vasily Karpashin had taken no obvious notice of Skinner. He glanced at him suddenly, a look containing challenge and assessment, a glance too brief for anyone to notice. He looked down at his hands, eyelashes defining his gaze. Skinner’s cock stirred. Damn him for having this effect. Damn him for being here. He glared at Krycek, furious with him for the charade, furious with himself for being aroused by Krycek’s presence.

Could he expose him? He couldn’t think how. He could state that he was not Vasily Karpashin, but what could he prove? Krycek probably had identity papers, citizenship papers, visa, passports, hell, probably even a photo of his granny Karpashin. What did Skinner have? Bugger all.

As well as anger, he felt a strange and twisted pride that Krycek would dare this. That he would come here without a qualm, and pull it off. They suspected nothing, these Canadians, and why should they? They didn’t know that Krycek was angel and devil, Skinner’s private incubus. He couldn’t explain that this was a phantom who came to his bed at night. A man whose identity changed with the wind. A killer, a renegade, a self-appointed saviour - no one knew what Krycek was, least of all Walter Skinner.

All he really knew of Krycek was the feel of his body. He believed nothing about him except the magic that happened when they were together.

Now the beautiful liar was making a fool of the international community. Skinner watched him listen respectfully to something Captain Paquette said, and then saw his gaze turn, irreverent, cheeky, provocative as he met Skinner’s stare.

Was it possible that anything he said was true?

Dammit, it was possible. Any or all of it could be true. Not the body language, of course - Krycek had never been truly respectful and meek in his whole life, unless playing a part. Krycek respected no one and obeyed only those he chose.

These stories had such eery plausibility. Knowing what he did of Mulder’s reports, it all fit into the big picture. Was Krycek weaving lies around the few facts they had, or was he filling in the gaps of their knowledge? Was he deceitfully playing on their knowledge - or deceitfully playing on their ignorance?

Krycek took a sip of the coffee they had given him, and Skinner watched the dark drop of liquid on on his upper lip, and the way he licked it with a flick of his tongue, snakelike and beguiling.

The Convener announced that it was time for lunch. There was polite applause. Several people thanked Mr. Karpashin for his honesty. They seemed to think it a matter of courage. Mr. Karpashin murmured a demur; he only repeated what he knew, he did not fear those who would silence him.

At the side of the meeting room, a long table had been set with sandwiches and vegetable trays. There was a vat of soup and two platters of salad. Skinner followed the convenor and several others, took a plate, and listened to their comments. He agreed at intervals: yes, Karpashin’s testimony was truly exciting. Yes, he was aware of some of the information in Karpashin’s speech, but only a small portion of it. Yes, he too found it surprising. Enlightening? No, not enlightening enough.

Somehow, by the time they got to the tortiere, Karpashin himself was standing beside Skinner. Standing a little too close, but that could be explained by the presence of the crowd around them. No one could see that Karpashin’s hand brushed his as he reached for a carrot. No one could see that the Russian’s hip pressed, for a moment, against his.

“I was glad that you could be here to hear me,” said Krycek softly.

Skinner ignored the comment, looking at the food on the table. “What’s that?”

“Tortiere,” said Krycek.

“Which is?”

“Meat pie. Try it, you’ll like it.” The Russian accent seemed out of place, but at the same time, so natural to him that Skinner found himself wondering if it had come before the American accent, something from his childhood or teen years. Could this be another glimpse of the real Krycek, the one lying under the masks and lies?

“With ketchup?”

Krycek met his eyes, a bedroom look. “Most certainly with ketchup.”

Skinner took a liberal dollop of ketchup.

Someone else engaged Karpashin in talk. Skinner moved away, chicken salad and tortiere on his plate.

Standing apart, now, he could watch the crowd at the buffet table. He could hardly stare at Krycek. He forced himself to look away. He sat down. He took a forkful of tortiere. He tasted nothing. His eyes went back to the crowd at the table, with Krycek as the lure.

In a world of mediocrity, Krycek caught the eye. He was wearing the same tight jeans he’d worn yesterday, with that turtleneck that set off the breadth of his shoulders. He took a sip of juice, smiled in a friendly manner at the middle-aged woman who was asking him something, and came over to Skinner’s chair. His walk was too graceful, too masculine, too cocky to be casual. “May I join you?” he asked, in slightly sibilant English.

“Be my guest,” replied Skinner.

“I thank you.” Krycek sat. A dimple flashed. The scar looked real. How did he do that?

“I’d like to fuck you here and now,” said Krycek. His voice was low enough that no one would hear the words; conversational in tone, Russian in intonation.

“They might not notice,” said Skinner. “In case you can’t tell, they’re eating out of your hand.”

“They’re using plates,” said Krycek. “Even you. I wouldn’t mind eating out of your hand.” The Russian intonation made it sound dangerously erotic.

“What are you playing at?” Skinner asked.

“Playting with you.”

“And?”

“Trying to teach them something.”

“What?”

“Showing them the danger they’re in. All of them, Canadians, Americans, everyone on the planet. You know that, Walter.”

Krycek never called him Walter. Never. It was part of the pretense. It angered Skinner enough to drive him out of his chair. He strode from the room, needing a breath of fresher air, needing to control his temper, needing a moment when the enticement of Krycek’s presence didn’t warp his mind.

He went into the men’s room. Someone was leaving. The room was empty. He used a urinal. The door opened and shut. In the mirror, he saw that it was Krycek, whoh ad followed him.

Krycek put his arms around Skinner from behind, so that Skinner could feel that he was half-hard, his fingers sliding under Skinner’s jacket and over the thin cotton of his shirt. He played with the chest-hair under the shirt, his fingers lingering on a nipple. He kissed the back of Skinner’s neck. “This excites you.”

“No.” But Skinner was lying, and Krycek knew it. Krycek laughed briefly, a dark and threatening sound. His fingers moved downwards.

The door opened again.

Instantly Krycek had disappeared into one of the stalls, and Skinner was zipping himself up casually, going to the sink to wash his hands. Hell. He wanted to talk to Krycek as much as he’d wanted, a few minutes ago, to escape him.

He had no excuse to stay, but he lingered, pretending to look for something in his pockets. The RCMP officer gave him a polite nod, and went out.

Skinner turned. The door to the stall Krycek had stepped into had swung open. Krycek leaned against the side of it. “Come here,” he said.

Skinner went to him. They stood, their faces close, sharing breath, not kissing, not speaking. At any moment, someone else might come in. It would be difficult to make this look innocent.

Krycek said, “You could suck me here.”

“No.”

“You want to.”

“Yes.”

Krycek smiled, one of his warm, boyish smiles that were so infectious. “Then why not?”

“Because I’d hate you for it afterwards.”

“So?” Krycek’s eyes lit. “Don’t you hate me anyway?”

“No.”

“Is it because of what they’d think?”

Skinner shrugged. “Why should I care what they’d think?”

Krycek’s fingers touched the front of Skinner’s shirt again. “I won’t be with you tonight.”

Skinner shrugged as if he didn’t care. He wasn’t sure whether Krycek meant it; it might be simply a ploy. Or a lie. Or a statement of intent that would be overturned at Krycek’s whim. “Your loss,” he said.

Krycek’s tongue touched his upper lip. “Bet I can keep you hard all afternoon.”

“You overestimate me,” said Skinner wearily. “I’m an aging man.” He saw Krycek assess the lie, knew he was defeated, knew Krycek knew it. Krycek always knew his own powers.

“We’ll see,” said Krycek. He took something out of his pocket. It was wrapped in a napkin. He took it out, breaking off a corner. “Open your mouth.”

Skinner opened his mouth and Krycek took a morsel of the brown and yellow confection. What was it they called it - a Nanaimo bar? Krycek put it on Skinner’s tongue, and left his finger there, so Skinner closed his mouth and sucked on it. He saw the pupils of Krycek’s eyes darken and grow; heard his little hiss of breath. Chocolate and Krycek on his taste buds.

Krycek opened his lips. He looked like that in the bedroom sometimes, predatory, needy and eager. Slowly, he pulled his finger from Skinner’s mouth. Skinner savoured the taste of chocolate and cream, the diminishing taste of Krycek.

The door opened again. Three or four people came in, but Skinner was already at the door, holding it for them, leaving the room. Krycek could fend for himself.

Outside the door, Skinner found himself smiling. Another round of the game. It didn’t matter where it was played, in private or public. Krycek had stunned him by appearing here today, but he had, he thought, held his own.

His body felt light with the adrenaline rush that Krycek evoked in him. He felt young and strong enough to do anything. Powerful and, yes, mildly aroused. He smiled with satisfaction, and went back to the buffet table.

It remained to be seen whose bed would be empty tonight. Just for the heck of it, Skinner took another piece of tortiere, with ketchup.