TITLE: Bentropy Fifteen
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K/? This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind, or perhaps lend one to Krycek.
SUMMARY: Entropy - chaos. Bent - not straight. 'nuff said.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is after everything, the season in the shower notwithstanding.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use...unless you count cheap thrills. Other characters belong to me...or someone else but they left them at my house so I'm playing with them.
Author's notes: I happen to think I have a great beta. I happen to think everyone knows who my great beta is. But I am dreadful about giving her credit for all her hard work. Shame on me. Thank you, Susan...the greatest beta in all betadom.
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Bentropy Fifteen
by Mik
"No."
The whispered protest was choked off as my mouth went dry. I didn't recognize him. But I knew him at once. He looked painfully tired, and slender to the point of gauntness. His once luxuriously thick black hair hung heavy in his eyes and past his shoulders with streaks of startling white. His body keeled to one side as if surrendering, after all these years, to gravity. His clothes were worn thin. But his eyes. I knew his eyes. Beryl with streaks of chromium. They still burned with a fire that time and tragedy could not smother.
We didn't speak. Gaze falling into gaze, we drew close to one another slowly. I got near enough to touch him, but did not.
He reached his good hand out to me. I remained still as he touched my shoulder. Touched my cheek. Touched the tear that came unbidden. Slid it around my neck and pulled me to him.
For a moment, that was enough. Being close to him. Filling up that empty place in me. I did not return his hold, but I turned my face against his neck. Let his breath ripple under my collar and down my spine, giving me strength, at last, to ask an eight-year-old question. "Why?"
His arm held me closer, and I thought he whispered, "Shh." Then he broke the embrace and pulled me toward the bathroom. He leaned in awkwardly and turned on the water. Then he turned and sat at the side of the tub. "Your room is probably bugged."
I was too intent on hearing what he had to tell me to blush at the thought of what might have been heard in these last few days. I just looked at him, and waited.
"I had no choice," he said without preamble or apology. "I had been instructed, more than once, to stay away from you. And they wanted me to do things that would have hurt you." He put up a hand before I could even rouse enough anger to protest. "I did not kill him, Mulder. I know you will always believe I did, but I didn't." He searched my eyes, hoping to find belief. "And I did kill the one who did."
He waited a little longer, to see if I was going to accept his assertions. I didn't know if I would or not, but for the moment, I was not going to argue. "But they wanted me to do other things, and I was afraid they were going to use you against me...much the way they're using Skinner against you, now."
"Then you know what's going on?"
He did something only Krycek could do. He shrugged with his face. "I've...surmised things." Finally there was some animation in his voice. "That little prick Didelphis has been dogging me for years. He's ruthless and unflagging."
"I've seen him in action," I admitted grimly. "You know someone named Jennings?"
His face broke into a faint smile. 'Yeah...officious little guy, who put his heart and soul into trying to save the world, one kid at a time." The smile grew a fraction warmer. "Reminds me a little of you, in his undying quest to do the right thing."
"Yeah, well..." I glanced away, "his quest died."
He reacted. The smile fled, his eyes shut tight. "Damn." He opened his eyes and they were sad.
That sadness wounded me. "We'll get him," I swore. "We just have to find his weakness."
"His only weakness is greed," Krycek said bitterly. "If I could figure out a way to counter the bounty on my head, I'd walk away a free man...well," again he made that facial shrug, "until they upped the stakes again."
"I'm not going to just hand you over to him." When I said that, it was as much a surprise to me as it was to him, but I knew when I heard it coming out of my mouth, that it was true.
He smiled sadly. "You've always been too sentimental, Mulder. You could never be a good assassin." He leaned across to where I sat on the lid of the toilet, and kissed me. His lips, his kiss had not changed. "And I wouldn't have you any other way."
His kiss had momentarily made me forget everything, including how I had so fervently believed I hated him. "Why didn't you just tell me all this then?" I asked. "Why leave me feeling -"
"Because you would not have accepted my decision. You would have tried to resist them, protect me, or engage in a battle that would have seen you dead. Better to make you hate me and leave you -"
"Dead."
"- free to move on."
The anger was back. At least, the hurt was back. "Then why come now? You were dead to me."
He smiled again, still sad. "Did you know, did anyone tell you that I came to your funeral? No?" He settled back. "I thought not."
"But I ..." I sometimes try to forget that they actually buried me, put me underground, left me for dead. "No. No one told me."
"I don't think anything ever hurt me as much as the thought of you dying. I couldn't believe it, I never accepted it. If you were truly dead, I thought I'd know it, here," he pressed his fist to his chest, "and I never did." He paused for a moment. "When I heard you'd left the Bureau and started west, I decided if you could come back to life, so could I. At least long enough to look you in the eyes and tell you what I had and had not done." His flicked his hand over. "I wanted my confession and mea culpa."
His words deflated me as any prick would have done. "So, this is just about closure for you. So you can feel good about yourself. Well, that's great." I stood. "Fine. You're forgiven. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got -"
He didn't have Skinner's shaolin cat grace. I saw him coming at me. But he still had speed and in that tiny room, I had no place to go anyway. He had me pinned against the wall in a second, those green eyes blazing. "I don't need closure, doctor. I need you. Just once more."
He pulled back. "Gavna, you never change, do you? So full of your fucking disdain for human feeling. That poor dumb bitch adored you and no matter how much you sold the world, sold yourself on loving her, you never regarded her feelings as real. You were so sure you knew her heart better than she did, and you wasted all those years." He banged his fist on the wall by my head. "God, I hate waste. I loved you, Fox Mulder. I wasted eight years wishing things could be different, and watching you shut out all the people around you in your anger for me."
He twisted away from me. "And now that poor fool, Skinner, loves you. Big, thickheaded, by the book Boy Scout, he's been loving you and protecting you for years, and you're pushing him away because of me. You are one stupid fuck."
Ice and fire. That's all I was. Burning with fury and pain and frozen into still aloofness. "Are you through?" I asked coolly.
He looked as if he had a lot more to say. But he backed off. "Yeah, I'm through."
"Then get the hell out of here. I've got to figure out how to keep your friend from splattering a big thickheaded Boy Scout's brains all over his carpet." I felt behind me and found the door handle. "Turn the water off before you go."
He didn't move. Nor did he appear particularly moved by my speech. "You can't do it alone. I'm the one he wants. Just ask me, Mulder. Admit you need me for something. Anything." His voice softened. "It will be enough."
That voice moved me. "He wants to kill you," I reminded him.
He shrugged, this time with both shoulders. "But is that such a bad thing?"
I sagged against the door. "There was a time when I wanted to kill you with my own hands. But no matter what you think of me, Alex," I fumbled on his name, "I'm not cold blooded enough to be the one backing you against the wall for a firing squad."
In just those few minutes his smile had covered a myriad of emotions, not one of them happiness. Now his smile was almost resolute. "I've done enough in my life to warrant it - a dozen times over."
"That may be," I conceded. "But that's for a judge and jury to decide. This country doesn't believe in meting out justice on a whim or to the lowball bidder."
"Don't we?" He turned around and shut off the shower. "Who do you think is signing Didelphis' checks?"
I was feeling sick again. "That's not...why?"
"I've become an embarrassment to them. I know too many secrets, defied too many orders, was insubordinate too many times." He put his hand on mine. "It's going to happen. If not tomorrow then next week or next year. So let it mean something." His eyes were almost pleading.
I pulled him to me hard. Held tight. "No. I can't. I won't." I kissed his cheek, just the way he had done that night so long ago, in my apartment. "Go. Now. Go." I pushed him away. "Go." I left him there.
When I risked a look an hour later, he was gone.
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I scowled when Buddy Holly Boy let me in. "I told Mich no one was to be here."
He ignored me and locked the door behind me. "She's upstairs."
I had, with a great deal of effort, persuaded Mich to let me use the premises of Bois Town for the meet. I wanted Peyton out of that fortress, away from all those innocents. There was a good chance Skinner was going to be sacrificed, and it was fairly likely I was going to get killed, but I intended to get in a good shot at Peyton before I breathed my last.
I climbed the stairs and knocked. Mich was sitting by the desk, a bottle of Southern Comfort and a glass at her side. "What are you doing here?" I snarled. "The last thing I need is for him to have access to any other hostages."
"Someone needs to be around to call the cops to clean up the mess," she snarled right back. She tipped her glass at me. "Want one? There's a bottle of Glenfiddich in the cupboard."
I was going to decline and then realized I needed it. It might be my last drink and why not die with the taste of a fine whisky on my lips. "Why is he still here?" I asked going for the bottle and another glass.
"He wouldn't leave me alone here. Besides, someone had to let you in." She clinked her glass to mine.
We drank in silent salute, each to our own private hero.
I put my glass on the desk. "I'm surprised you're not arguing with me about this," I said, flicking my tongue over my lips for the last drop.
"Two hours ago, I would have done," she admitted. "But since we talked I've received a little corroborating evidence."
"You did?" I reached for the Southern and put another splash in her glass.
She nodded and took the sip I'd given her. "I had a little visit from Skippy."
"Kry - Alex was here?" I panicked.
"He left me a packet of information. Told me if anything happened to you I was to send it to the local PD. But that I was not to look inside." She pointed behind me. "So, naturally I did." She sighed cynically. "It's always the pretty ones, isn't it? You'd think after all these years, I'd know better."
I turned around. On the table against the wall, there was a plain brown envelope that had been torn open. "You just put yourself in jeopardy. You know that, don't you?" I wanted to add an angry 'you stupid bitch', but those words just didn't fit the situation, only the emotion.
She seemed unconcerned, regardless. "He didn't know you were planning to meet Peyton here tonight after closing."
"Please tell me that he still doesn't know," I groaned and reached for the scotch. "Didelphis wants to kill him, and will if he shows up here. In cold blood."
"You're going to stop him, Jon." She spoke with such confidence I wondered if she had been reading my tea leaves or something.
"I'm going to try." I emptied the glass in a gulp. "Now, get the hell out of here. Both of you."
She put her glass down. "Don't wreck my bar," she warned.
"I'll try not to. Go home and lock your doors. And then have a good life." Impulsively, I hugged her. "And send Smiley home to the missus with the same instructions."
She hugged back. "Come by tomorrow and I'll buy you a beer." She picked up her bag and left.
I sat in the dark for a while, treating myself to slow sips of just a little more scotch, and going over the plans in my head. Such as they were. At four a.m. I was going to unlock the front door and wait for Peyton and Skinner to arrive. He would no doubt be using Skinner as a shield. He was expecting me to be waiting with Krycek. And ... get this ... unarmed. He really believed I wouldn't be carrying.
Since he'd taken my little Smith and Wesson, I'd gotten my licensed piece, the one that had been tagged so they could follow me all over creation, from its case in the motel safe and put it under the bar, near the light switches. It was my plan to position myself in such a way that I might have a chance to flip on the disco ball and flashing lights, and momentarily disorient him so that Skinner could get out of the line of fire and I could get off a round or two, preferably in his head.
Of course, it wasn't going to work that way.
I had gone downstairs keenly aware of the hollowness of my steps in the empty room, the eerie shadows cast by the emergency lights and a solitary animated beer display at the far end of the bar. I unlocked the door and was just hoisting myself up on the counter when the door pushed open and I saw Skinner move inside. He looked tired and, although I wasn't certain because of the bad lighting, it looked as if he had a black eye. The old dog, I thought with some respect. He didn't make it easy for Peyton. "Are you all right?" I asked quietly.
He turned slightly in my direction. "You found him?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I did."
He turned a little more, and I saw something disturbing. Taped to his back. It looked alarmingly like plastique and a detonator pin. "What the fuck..." I started to slide off the bar, but he put his hands up as if to ward me off.
As he did, the door opened a little more. Peyton Didelphis was standing there, my gun in one hand, a detonating device in the other. "You son of a bitch," I told him, less than cordially.
Peyton smiled at me. "Well? Where is he?"
"Get that shit off Skinner, and I'll tell you."
"Tell me and I won't hit the switch," he countered.
"Do you think I trust you?" I demanded.
"Oh, no, you don't trust me any more than I trust you." He held up his hand enough that I could see his thumb on the switch. "Now, where is he?"
"He's right here."
All three of us whirled in the direction of a booth on the far side of the dance floor.
"Krycek," I groaned.
"Krycek," Skinner rasped in disbelief.
"Krycek," Peyton said triumphantly, raising his gun.
I scrambled for the lights switch, and my gun, under the bar.
Skinner turned as if he was going to charge Peyton.
Alex just stood there, waiting as the lights exploded into action, making the scene look almost like an old Charlie Chaplin film.
I grabbed my gun and, on my belly on the bar, used both hands to aim, but in a blink, Peyton turned on me, firing. I felt the gun fly out of my hand and pain race up my arm. For a moment, I thought he'd shot my hand. Then I realized he'd hit the barrel and knocked the gun out of my hand, and the recoil was strong enough to jangle nerves in my hand and forearm, leaving my hand limp and numb.
In that moment of confusion, Alex launched himself at Peyton. As they both fell backward into tables, I saw the distinctive flash bang of my Smith and Wesson, and a second later the popping report of it. Alex and Peyton crashed into and knocked over a row of stools.
I slid from the bar, cradling my aching hand, not sure what I was going to do, but overcome with a bloodlust that demanded that I inflict pain on him. Draw blood. Murder him. I got close enough to kick him in the middle of his back. And I did. Savagely. He screamed and rolled onto his back, aiming my gun at me again. Skinner kicked his arm, knocking the gun from his fingers.
I don't know exactly what happened next. I turned my back on them, scuffing the floor with my foot in an effort to find one of the guns in the dark. But I became aware of an unexpected silence, and I turned around slowly, because I already knew what I was going to see. And I was right.
Krycek was on his side, lying still. Skinner had stepped back, both hands in view. Peyton was scooting backward on his butt, but he was brandishing that detonator. "Fuck," I said to no one in particular.
Peyton laughed at me, and using his sore arm and a broken chair, managed to pull himself upright. I was pleased to see he was coughing blood and it was smeared like garish lipstick over that demonic smile. "I'd advise you to get as far away from him as you can, Fox, but better run. I..."he stopped to cough, and blood spattered on his shirt, "I won't give you much time." He turned and pushed himself through the doors.
Skinner was pulling Krycek from the floor. I rushed to him, flicking out my knife, ready to cut the tape and get the bomb off his body. "Don't touch it," Skinner barked, holding me off. "The contacts are wrapped around my chest. If you break the contact, it will go off. Just get out of here. Go on." He jerked his head toward the door. "Go." His face darkened with anger. "Go."
Before I could make some noble statement about not leaving him behind, we heard a loud crack, and a low moan. Krycek and I looked at each other and rushed for the door. Outside, the only thing we could see in the predawn street, was a pair of trainers and jeans at the corner of the alley. We turned that way and came around the corner, skidding to a stop, staring.
Buddy Holly was holding a bloody bat, and looking really pissed.
You know...it's a good look for him.
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I climbed up on a stool to claim my beer. Mich slid a Corona at me. "I'm impressed. You only broke three bar stools, one table, and shot a hole in the jukebox," she told me pleasantly.
I turned around to look at the jukebox, sporting an 'Out of Order' sign like a giant bandage. "I didn't shoot the jukebox. He did that."
"I don't know if my insurance covers assassination attempts," Mich answered.
"Send the bill to me." Skinner pushed his business card across the bar. "We'll see it gets covered."
I looked at him. There was no doubting he had a black eye. And stitches in his lip. But he was in one piece. That was the important part. "You're leaving?" It was all I could think to say.
He nodded. "And you're staying." It wasn't a question.
We hadn't discussed it. He'd decided it on his own last night in the trauma room at UCLA Medical Center. He'd said I had to give Krycek a chance. Had to give myself a chance. I'm not sure it was the decision I would have made. But I'm not sure I wouldn't have argued if he'd insisted I go back to DC with him, either. "Yeah," I said quietly.
Skinner seemed to struggle for words. He avoided my eyes. "You did good work, Mulder," he said finally. He touched my shoulder. Adjusted my sling in an achingly familiar and paternal gesture. "Really good work." He leaned in, brushed his lips across my cheek, straightened, nodded and walked out, filling my field of vision with bright light and his strong silhouette for one more moment. Then he was gone.
- END Fifteen -