Posted 20th August 1998
---------------------------------
Following in Pollyanna's, trend setting, footsteps we take a ride on the
wildside of X File couplings.  The moral of this story is - attempting to
misdirect a Pest can come back and bite you in the arse.  <giggle>

Grateful thanks go to Iain, Carol, and B2 for their beta reading talents so
generously given to this tale.


For Pollyanna, who is a wonderful sport.
-----------------------------------------------------------

Sleight of Hand by Sue <swanage@rocketmail.com>


Frohike stared out the third floor window, scanning the dilapidated
building opposite with a pair of binoculars.  The once sturdy edifice, now
cracked and worn, reflected the decay that had established its grip on this
section of the city.  He twisted his forearm and glanced briefly at his
watch.  The target was late, most definitely late.  He ambled over to the
table where an assortment of notebooks were neatly stacked, retrieved the
most recent and flicked through the pages, examining the latest week's
notations.

3:10 pm was most definitely late.

A darting flash of black below alerted Frohike to his target's impending
return.  He raised his binoculars back to his face, focussing on the room
directly opposite and one floor down.  It was a great choice.  High enough
from the street to avoid the prying eyes of passersby yet low enough for a
hasty exit through the window without breaking a leg.  Given the character
of the people the target continued to consort with, these details were of
enormous consequence.

The apartment door across the street opened and slammed shut tripping on
Frohike's surveillance equipment.  Electronic recorders of all descriptions
whirred into life.

Frohike watched as the man prowled the confines of his room.  With each
day's observation it became clearer that the apartment, rather than
offering respite from the world, was merely a temporary holding cell.  His
subject threw down his leather jacket and stripped off a white sweat
stained T-shirt revealing a hairless, sleekly sculpted chest.  Very nice,
Frohike noted.  The target was still managing to maintain his fitness
despite what Frohike had seen of his 'on the run' diet of fast food grease
and alcohol.

Casually the man sauntered out of view, through a doorway into an adjacent,
windowless room.  The sound of a steady stream of liquid splashing
forcefully into another reverberated loudly through Frohike's speakers.

"God, Krycek, you can't half pee," Frohike mumbled to himself.

The sound continued.

He idly wondered if FBI agents were trained in bladder control.  The FBI
seemed to train them for just about every other eventuality they might meet
on the job.  It would certainly be a very useful asset for anyone stuck on
an overnight stakeout.  Or on the run.  His thoughts drifted to Scully, as
they always did when the FBI came up.  Whoa there, boy.   It wasn't polite
to think about how long a lady could hold her pee.

Eventually Krycek strolled back into view and Frohike resumed observation
through his binoculars.  The ex-agent's trousers flapped open as he
rhythmically stroked his stiffening cock with one hand.  Frohike swallowed
hard, licking his dry lips, as he anticipated what would come next.   That
was one hell of a piece of equipment Krycek was holding.

Krycek leant against the door through which he had entered the apartment
moments earlier, giving Frohike a full frontal view.  Krycek adjusted his
stance, spreading and bracing his legs, as his right hand continued to coax
his cock to harden.  Once comfortable with his position Krycek closed his
eyes and let his head loll back to rest against the door.  With his hips
thrust provocatively forward, his hand energetically jerked on his shaft.
The fingers of his left hand set out on their own exploration of his bare
torso, slithering down across his belly to the base of his cock, executing
a quick squeeze on his balls, before returning to pinch at his nipples.

Groans and half gasped stolen breaths surrounded Frohike as his own cock
stirred from its torpid slumber.  How long would Krycek torment him like
this today?  He'd known the rogue agent to play like this for over an hour,
teasing his body, hurtling towards a climax, before edging back from the
brink.

Krycek's left hand had ended its roaming and was agitatedly plucking at the
nearest nipple.  That was a sure sign.  Frohike reached blindly down for a
Ding Dong, his eyes transfixed by the writhing opposite.  His fingers
grabbed air; the bowl was empty.  Damn.  His concentration lapsed as he
looked around for another bag.  Watching Krycek jack off always made him
hungry ....

Quickly he brought the lenses back to his face.  Krycek was screaming his
orgasm; a tumult of incoherence and desperation.  Once the semen had ceased
flowing Frohike walked uncomfortably over to his notebook and scribbled.
Quicker preliminaries than usual, shorter orgasm too.  Frohike wondered
when Krycek was going to find another outlet for his sexual frustration
again.

Noisily Frohike's stomach growled interrupting his musings.  It was
obviously time to refill the snack supplies.  One more glance across the
road showed him Krycek spread-eagled naked on his bed, a hand gently
stroking his empty balls and deflated cock.  Frohike checked his watch.
He'd lose the daylight shortly and he didn't want to be caught, on his own,
out in this neighbourhood when dark came.  Anyway if he missed anything
important he'd have it all on tape to enjoy later.

****

Pendrell tightened his grip on the bag under his arm nervously.  Never mind
the wrong side of the tracks, this gym was in a hell hole to end all hell
holes.  Drug pushers, pimps and hardened criminals seemed to make up the
entire clientele.  The scent of testosterone laden sweat fouled the air,
holding the promise of barely contained violence.  The derelict structure
he had entered appeared to be the centre of a war zone where a grenade
might be lobbed at any moment.

The tension was almost unbearable.

Almost.

It had become clear to him that he had the uncanny ability to slide
inexorably into full blown obsessions for the most unattainable people.  At
the FBI his first had been Scully.  Her tiny stature and her skill of
taking down the meanest, most physically threatening men made a mesmerising
contrast.  Her work consumed her every waking moment though, and she never
realised he had been interested in more than a professional relationship.

His fixation on Scully had been suddenly subsumed by another.  He'd been
overwhelmed by an insurgent courtship.  Relentlessly pursued, his suitor
had ensnared his affections, ravished his emotions, teased him with kisses
and furtive touches and then abandoned him.

So today he was trailing Alex Krycek: ex FBI Agent, murderer and traitor.
At least that was how Mulder described him.  He wasn't quite so certain.
All he knew was that there was something dangerously erotic about an ex-FBI
agent who'd sold his soul to the highest bidder and was condemned to spend
the rest of his life fleeing retribution.

So here Pendrell was playing Russian Roulette with his life.

He watched as Krycek walked away from the punching bag toward the locker
room; finished with his workout, his sleek body slick with sweat, in need
of a shower.  Cautiously Pendrell followed.  Admittedly he hadn't had much
field experience but he was confident he knew enough not to get himself
killed.  He'd even gone so far as to invest in a fake beard and moustache.
Not a perfect match for his colouring but, he imagined, close enough to
obscure his true identity.

By the time Pendrell had located a vantage point from which to watch Krycek
had already removed his shoes, socks, gloves and wrappings.  Pendrell half
pretended to undress, hanging his jacket on a peg before he tugged loose
his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, all the while keeping his eyes
focussed on Krycek's body.

Krycek thrust his thumbs inside the waistband of his shorts and slid them
provocatively down over his hips, past his muscular ass, cheeks framed by a
restraining jock strap and across his lean thighs before letting them fall
and gather at his ankles.

His mouth dry with anticipation, Pendrell swallowed hard, as he waited for
the last item of clothing to be discarded.   The jock strap was duly
removed with the same slow ceremony as the shorts.  Krycek stepped out of
the cluster of fabric and raised his right foot up onto the bench.
Pendrell was presented with an uninterrupted view of a dangling cock and
balls as Krycek scratched himself, apparently irritated by the sweat
gathered between the sensitive folds of skin.

Rifling through his bag Krycek retrieved a towel, flicked it across his
shoulder, grabbed a small bar of soap and headed for the communal shower.
Pendrell followed furtively.  His safety depended on not drawing attention
to his interest in the other man.  This was not the kind of place where the
clientele looked fondly on the homosexually inclined.

Krycek twisted the control lever and released a blast of hot water.
Directing the onslaught onto his chest he began to soap his body.  His
hands seeking out every square inch of skin, applying a soapy lather that
gave his body a glistening sheen.

Unexpectedly Krycek turned.  Pendrell's eyes widened in shock as he
realised Krycek's right hand was travelling back and forth along a now
rigid shaft.  Pendrell wondered at the sheer audacity of the man,
masturbating in such a public place.  He glanced back over his shoulder to
ensure himself that they were still alone.  Krycek leant back against the
tiled wall, adjusting the shower's nozzle, directing the water so it struck
his chest and splashed down the front of his abdomen.  With his right hand
steadily increasing its speed Krycek brought his left into play, pushing
the bar of soap through his dark pubic hair, against his balls, between his
legs and across his perineum.  With his eyes closed he appeared lost in an
erotic fantasy.

Krycek's orgasm erupted suddenly.  Grunting noisily, he pumped out a spray
of semen which was swiftly washed away in the torrent of water still
pounding his body.  Pendrell began to withdraw self-consciously half
embarrassed, yet also elated at having watched Krycek perform.   Pendrell
returned to his discarded jacket and bag.  He checked around the room then
adjusted himself before donning his jacket.

The sound of running water ceased and Krycek emerged from the shower, a
small towel wrapped around his waist, barely modest.  Pendrell quickly
exited the locker room and headed for the street.  He wanted to find some
cover before Krycek emerged so he could trail him undetected.

When Krycek exited the building Pendrell fell in behind him at a discreet
distance on the opposite side of the road.  Delightful to watch, Krycek
prowled like a sleek untamed panther, black leather and denim his uniform
of choice.  His eyes darted back and forth searching for trouble among the
faces of drunken tramps, passing drivers and pedestrians.

It did not take long to reach Krycek's building, run down and beleaguered
like the area.  Pendrell leant against a lamp post, admiring the lithe,
predatory body of his fallen angel as Krycek bounded up the stairs into the
building.  Now if only he could gather the courage to approach the renegade
and reintroduce himself.

****

A pair of strong hands clasped Pendrell from behind and yanked him roughly
by the shoulders into an alleyway.  Rubbish tangled around their ankles as
they stumbled, "Don't blow my cover.  You stand out like a sore thumb."

The two men faced one another, each a little surprised by their sudden
altercation.

"Who the hell are you?" Pendrell inquired as he hunched his body, drawing
his bag protectively to his chest.

Frohike gave Pendrell a cursory once over before he spoke tersely.  "Frohike."

They fell into another awkward silence before Frohike continued, "So,
you're following leather boy?"

"It's that obvious?"

Frohike's exasperated expression was a clear yes.

"So what are *you* doing here?" Pendrell queried as he relaxed this
protective stance slightly.

"I'm doing a little research for The Lone Gunman magazine."  Frohike
scanned their location nervously.

Following Frohike's conspiratorial lead Pendrell lowered his voice and
asked, "The Lone Gunman?"

"There's a secret government that really runs this country and we present
our readers with the evidence they need to understand what's going on."

"Hmm?"  Pendrell stepped closer, "So who did kill Kennedy?"

"You'll have to buy a subscription to discover that."  Frohike countered as
he shifted backwards, freeing himself from Pendrell's intrusion into his
personal space.  His eyes glanced upward and scanned the tops of the
buildings before returning to Pendrell's face.

"You're pretty paranoid aren't you?"

"It pays to be paranoid in this day and age.  Look at you and Krycek.  You
wouldn't have let him within 50 feet if you'd any sense.  Where's your lack
of paranoia gotten you?  Lurking about in dank, dark corners, that's where."

The reference to his relationship with Krycek shocked Pendrell; he'd been
so very careful not to alert others to it.  After a moment's thought he
struck back, "Well, you're in those crummy places too."

Frohike coughed and scuffed his feet.  "Research, dear boy, research.
That's what *I'm* doing here."

"Yeah, right,"  Pendrell replied ironically.

As the two shifted awkwardly on their feet in the street's uncollected
rubbish, Frohike decided to take control of the situation before it
deteriorated further.  "Why don't you help me?   I could use an extra pair
of hands and eyes.  And it'd keep you off the street and out of harm's way.
The rate you're going you'll be spooking the target pretty damn soon with
that pitiful excuse of a disguise and neither of us want that, now do we?"
He reached out and plucked Pendrell's disguise from his face eliciting a
pained grimace and squeak from the crestfallen agent.

Pendrell sagged, depressed at the apparent failure of his efforts.  After a
moment's hesitation he resignedly nodded his head in assent.

Frohike reached out to wrap an affectionate arm about Pendrell's shoulders
in an attempt to bolster his flagging confidence, thought better of it, and
instead patted the other man on the back.

"So how do you like Ding Dongs?"  Frohike asked.

"I'm a granola bar man myself," replied Pendrell as they headed off down
the street.

****

Frohike examined the electronic observation equipment one last time.
Everything appeared to be set for Krycek's impending arrival.  As usual he
had to slap Pendrell's curious hands aside as the FBI agent tried to get a
closer look at exactly what it was that Frohike had managed to acquire
through the black market.

As they settled into their normal ritual of the past month Frohike asked,
"I thought you fancied Scully?"

"I did ... no ... I do ... oh shit I don't know anymore.  She's so ... so ..."

"Unobtainable?"

Pendrell hung his head sullenly and shrugged, "They always are, aren't they?"

"Well ..."

Suddenly two bodies came sprawling through the door of Krycek's apartment.
The electronics sprang to life.  Frohike patted one of the metal cases with
all the affection of a proud parent.

Pendrell's jaw sagged with surprise.  Agent Mulder?   What on earth could
he want with Alex Krycek?

Mulder was the first to his feet, smashing the door shut with his shoulder
before turning and grabbing Krycek by the lapels, yanking him
unceremoniously to his feet, then slamming his back hard against the wall.


Snatching further handfuls of leather jacket, Mulder ripped the covering
open, revealing bare skin.  He forced the fabric down off Krycek's
shoulders, tugging at it so that it imprisoned the wearer's hands behind
his back before he launched a full scale assault on Krycek's nipples.  He
sucked hard then scrapped them with his teeth, eliciting an excited half
protesting groan from Krycek.   Encouraged, Mulder continued to alternate
between biting and kissing on the stiffened brown buttons.  Krycek
struggled ineffectually to free himself and evade Mulder's ravishing mouth.


Pendrell felt a nudge at his elbow and let his gaze drop momentarily.  A
pair of binoculars were proffered.  "You'll get a better view with these."
Frohike had already retrieved his own pair and taken up position by the
window.

The sounds emitted by the speakers were electrifying, generating a
Pavlovian response in Pendrell's body, so he joined his fellow voyeur.  He
was here, after all, to cooperate with Frohike's research.

Abandoning Krycek's puckered nipples, Mulder leaned into him with one
shoulder as his free hand sought out the fastenings of Krycek's jeans.
Ripping them open belligerently, he delved in roughly and freed the
straining cock he discovered there.  Even from across the road Pendrell and
Frohike could see the sheen of moisture painting the head.

With an admiring sigh Mulder dropped to his knees.  Moving the denim fabric
down, out of his way, Mulder let his fingers explore the tight muscles of
Krycek's thighs.  Strong and athletic, they trembled slightly as Mulder's
fingertips travelled upwards between them.  A moment's reverie was taken as
Mulder adored Krycek's shaft, the only sound Krycek's laboured breathing,
no longer struggling, merely waiting.

Swallowing hard Pendrell fought to stifle his own sexual response.  It was
becoming harder and harder to hide his reaction to the shows they watched
across the street.  Some small, quiet part of his brain told him that
Frohike was probably being similarly affected but he still felt an
obligation to not embarrass the man who had allowed him entrance into this
secret world of theirs.

A tearing sound came from Frohike's position.  Pendrell tensed, half afraid
to look.

Tilting slightly Krycek pushed his hips forward causing his cock to bob and
bump Mulder's lips.  With a barely perceptible nod Mulder engulfed the cock
to its hilt.  Krycek gasped loudly and immediately began to thrust,
leveraging his torso against the wall.  Quickly Mulder ratcheted up the
heat, sucking and licking Krycek, forcing him blindly into a screaming
orgasm.

When Mulder had had his fill he slouched back on his heels, letting the now
flaccid cock slip from his lips.  Gazing up he smiled.  Krycek shook his
arms free from the lax jacket, reached down and lovingly drew his thumb
across Mulder's blush red lips before forcing it between them.

A clicking sound came from behind the watchers.

"Shit, the film ran out."  Frohike waddled across the room to rectify the
situation.  His trousers, binding his ankles, inhibited his movement.

Pendrell's mouth dropped open again, startled at the sight of Frohike's
cock bobbing ahead of him like a nodding doll while he loaded more film
into the camera.

"Okay, we're going again."

Frohike returned to his perch by the window.

"Why are you wearing a condom?" was all Pendrell could manage.

"Its an anti-DNA sampling tactic.  I wear one every time time I jerk off.
You should too you know."  Frohike ripped open another packet and offered
Pendrell a rubber.

Not quite knowing how to continue Pendrell voiced the next thought that
came to mind.  "God, Frohike, you're hung like a horse."

"Thanks for the compliment.  How about yourself?"

Pendrell blushed.

"No need for modesty here Pendrell.  You and I are both experiencing the
same urges.  This is the best show in town after all and guys like us don't
get chances like this too often."

Trust Frohike to state the obvious.  Somehow, 'research', just had a more
intellectual ring to it.  Cautiously Pendrell unzipped, shoving his
trousers part way down his thighs.

"Keep going," Frohike encouraged.

Slowly Pendrell rolled his briefs out of the way, allowing his stiff cock
to spring free.

"Now you've got nothing to be ashamed of there, lad."

Before Pendrell could stop him Frohike rolled the condom onto Pendrell's
shaft causing it to twitch and jerk.

"Keen response, too.  Oh, look ..."

Frohike gestured excitedly across the road where the action had shifted to
the bedroom.  Krycek was kneeling on his bed, torso parallel to the
mattress, with his hands handcuffed to the headboard as Mulder's hand
worked feverishly, greasing his ass.  Their voices came in loud and clear.

"Don't worry Krycek, you scum sucker, I'm going to give you everything you
deserve."

"Oh yes, Mulder," groaned Krycek, "give it to me.  Give me everything
you've got."

A stinging slap landed on Krycek's ass.

"Shut up."

"Deeper Mulder, deeper," Krycek encouraged, pushing back as much as the
'cuffs would allow.

Another slap was rewarded with a whispered, "Yes."

Mulder's probing touch became rougher as he rained slaps down on Krycek's
reddening ass.  Krycek groaned in appreciation, continuing the prayerful
litany of yeses.

After what seemed like an eternity of growing need for Pendrell, Mulder
asserted, "That should do it."

Relief was at hand, Pendrell hoped.

The bed creaked as Mulder adjusted his stance.  In a single deft thrust he
impaled Krycek with his shaft.  A startled cry, half pleasure, half pain,
came with Krycek's next breath.

Pendrell's hand skittered over his own shaft as it throbbed painfully.  His
fingers traced a path down to his aching testes.  Even through the latex he
could feel the ridges of protruding veins engorged with blood.

A hoarse, rough voice growled, "FUCK ME damn it."

"I want to," moaned Pendrell.

A strong, firm hand clasped Pendrell's cock.  His eyes glanced sidewards.

"Let me?" Frohike mouthed, his emotional mask slipping slightly to reveal a
deep reservoir of loneliness.

Pendrell's fingers stroked Frohike's strong hand softly trying to telegraph
his comprehension and his own need.

They shuffled awkwardly, realigning their stances, partially acknowledging
they could momentarily satisfy each other's longings. Pendrell reached over
and grasped Frohike's erection.

"Fuck it, Mulder, *MOVE*."

The Peeping Toms' eyes met.  Slowly their hands began to move.

A long aching moan suffused the room.

Their hands tightened.

"Faster," was snapped out.

Their hands quickened.

"Mulder!  Please?"  A begging, desperate groan.

Hands flew.  Panting mingled with desperation and hard held restraint.

Restraint lost its grip.

"Yes ... please yes ... again ... harder ... faster ... fuck oh fuck
...Yessssss!"

Frohike's head rocked back, his mouth wide open releasing a searing howl
like a wolf baying for the new moon.

Semen spurted out with relief.

"Wow," Pendrell managed, a little surprised by the strength of his own
orgasm and the apparent relish of his partner.  With pleasure pulsing from
his groin Pendrell sought Frohike's mouth to catch a kiss.  Frohike's lips
parted, permitting their tongues to tangle.

Breathless, each man shifted back to appraise the other.

"Next time ..." Pendrell started.

"Next time?"  interrupted Frohike.

"Well, um, only if ..." Pendrell shrugged, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Frohike nodded energetically, a grin plastering his face.

"Next time," Pendrell asserted, "I'd like to try it like Krycek."  His
voice disappeared into a whisper as he stumbled over the last word.

Frohike nodded as he reached around the blushing man and squeezed a cheek
affectionately.   "You want to go for a meal?" he asked, "I'm famished."

"Sounds good to me," smiled Pendrell.

****

The next day Frohike followed the whistling Pendrell up their building's
back stairs to their surveillance room.  The previous day had been quite
invigorating and they were both looking forward with some anticipation to
today's exploits.

Pendrell inserted the key in the lock and glanced back, smiling at Frohike,
as he pushed the door open.  When Pendrell failed to step forward into the
room Frohike barrelled into his back. "What the heck ...."

The room was empty.  Not a stick of furniture, stack of notebooks or piece
of electronic equipment remained.

Frohike delved through his pockets and extracted his cell phone.  Dialing
quickly he paced back and forth across the bare boards as he waited for
someone to pickup.

"Room 212"

"When did he check out?"

He clicked the phone shut.

Pendrell walked across to their window where an envelope had been taped to
the glass.  Opening it, he pulled out the contents and read aloud the top
sheet, "With grateful thanks, an admirer of your exquisite handiwork,  K."

Letting the pages spill from his hands, Pendrell shuffled to the doorway
and leant into the frame.  "Well, there goes my career," he muttered, then
stumbled out into the hallway.

Frohike collected the strewn sheets of paper from the floor.  Turning one
over in his hand he found himself staring at a grainy, black and white 8 by
10.  He and Pendrell caught in flagrante delicto.

"Poor quality but great content," he observed wryly.  Tucking the papers
under his arm he ran to catch up with Pendrell.

While Krycek had the equipment, a few rolls of film and a stack of
notebooks, he still had months' worth of surveillance tapes featuring an
assortment of faces stored safely at another location.  A bargaining chip
that might prove useful in the forthcoming game of bluff, counter bluff and
blackmail.

The renegade had made his move, now it was Frohike's turn.



The End