Changing Of The Guard

"You hate me, don't you?"

Despite the punctuation, it isn't a question. Mulder rolls onto his side rather than answer. I don't blame him. I stare at my hand, at the brilliantly designed network of bones, sinew and blood vessels and try terribly hard not to feel the void of nothing beside me. Doesn't hurt a bit.

The warm body beside me shifts again so that we're touching. I wonder why Mulder hasn't left yet. Usually he's the one zipped up and gone, but I'm flat on my back in his bed so I'm guessing he don't got nowhere to go.

I'm not complaining, but it can't last forever. Mulder sits up eventually and shifts to the edge of the bed. I'm staring at his back, unmarked save for the odd gunshot. "You still here?"

Sweet nothings have no effect on me. I don't move. I'm too comfortable against the soft mattress. "What's wrong, Mulder, you got a ten o'clock coming?"

He looks at me, with his ha-ha-funny look and pushes himself up. He stinks of us together and I watch until he closes the bathroom door.

The shower starts. I'm wanting to get up--Mulder scrubbing me off his skin with anti-bacterial soap is usually my cue to leave--but I don't. The shower runs a long time, and when he opens the door again the room fills with steam like a bathhouse.

"What, are you still here?" Mulder demands.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Do I hate you?"

"Yeah."

"It's not like you to ask stupid questions, Krycek. You're getting an attack of the conscience?"

I lean back. My hand is dry as I duck under the blankets and touch my sweaty skin. His eyes are drawn to it despite ourselves and I can't stop the sigh. I don't have the hands of a civil servant and the old lube on me is already tacky like drying blood.

He's staring at me. His hands have fallen away from his towel and his breathing's ragged.

"Krycek..." Mulder says. And then stops. He's waiting for the invitation; Mulder's a prick but he'd never take without asking.

And I almost never give. My skin's too sensitive for self-abuse anyway. I stand up--difficult to do when one hand is occupied and the other is rotting in Russia--but not impossible.

The blanket falls back. He reaches out, not even aware of what he's doing, and his hand is damp against my hip. I take another step and we're groin to groin, wet and dry, whole and incomplete.

He rests his hand against my throat. I honestly hadn't been expecting that. I swallow and he allows me to. The hand is still and light against my pulse. "You're changing the rules."

"You idiot, there are no rules."

"There are always rules, Mulder, and this is breaking them."

"And what exactly are you going to do about it?" he asks, daring me.

I suddenly don't want to play anymore. I break away from him and he tries to grab my arm, but misses. I pull away.

Getting dressed with dignity has taken a hell of a lot of practice and I had to give up button-ups, but the work was worth it. Mulder has pulled on a pair of sweats in the time it took me to dress and he's sprawled on the bed. "You'll be back."

"Fuck you, Mulder," I say.

He shakes his head. "You will be."

I close the door behind me. It's a pretty safe bet.

I'm cold on the streets again, even though my breath barely fogs in the night air. I didn't have the chance to wash Mulder off me and I stink of him, too. I should go home and shower, but I came to Washington for a reason.

The smoker isn't surprised to see me. "You're late."

"I've been fucking Mulder," I say, collapsing down in the chair directly opposite him.

"You've put yourself in the active role. Somehow I doubt that."

"How would you know? I disabled the camera."

"But not the audio feed."

I open my mouth and then close it again. "But not the audio feed."

"You're slipping in your old age, Alex."

"What do you want?" I ask. The pressure builds up behind my eyes and I rub the ridges of them. The insult touches on the truth and we both know it.

"Would you like to come home?"

My head snaps up before I can stop myself. "Iowa is making you soft, Alex, I almost caught some real emotions in that."

"Home," I say. "Washington."

"No, Alex, Oz. Of course Washington."

It's been six months since they banished me. I sit up a bit more. "What do I have to do?" I ask, warily.

The smoker spreads his hands and smiles. "I had thought you were the one, Alex. I thought you were going to be the one to replace me. You have disappointed me at every turn. It is truly a wonder that I haven't put a bullet in your brain."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" I ask, not believing I had read the situation as badly as I had. Being banished to butt-fuck Iowa had been bad enough, but I thought that it had been enough that I was sent out there.

The smoker motions to the one-way mirror between his office and the ante-chamber. There's a man standing alone in the room. He's hardly more than a boy, tall, awkward and clumsy. As we watch, the man picks up one of the statues on the table and almost drops it.

"Do you know who that is?" the smoker asked.

"No, do you want me to kill him for you?" I ask.

He grabs me and throws me against the glass so hard it rattles. The man glances up at the sound.

"That's my son."

I close my eyes. Oh, fuck.

Spender stands up as we entered. He glances at me, eyes narrow, and the smoker holds out his hand. Spender goes to it, but it isn't exactly a warm family reunion. I'm not introduced; I'm guessing I won't be. Spender keeps glancing to me as the smoker describes what he wants Spender to do.

The smoker leaves. Spender's still staring at me. I wish I still had two arms, it would have made a great first impression if I could have been able to clean my nails with my knife, but my knife is in my boot and my nails are cleaned by a nice girl named Hong-Lee.

"Who are you?" Spender asks.

"Me? I'm no one."

"You're awfully familiar with my father."

"Yeah, well, I've sucked him off a couple times."

Spender stares at me. I push myself up and the knife stays in my boot. I'm thinking that's awfully nice of me. "Are you coming?" I demand.

He follows me, meekly.

Once we get to the car, he's recovered enough that he waits for me to open the door for him. I guess I'm driving.

It's a simple delivery. I could have done it myself, but I suppose that's not the point, is it?

Spender drops the package off--only slightly battered and complaining about its rights--and I have to remind Spender to get the guy to sign for the live delivery. Amateurs.

Afterwards, he wants to talk. He sits in front with me, and waits.

"What happened to your arm?" he asks finally.

I glance down to the plastic thing. "Shit! When did that happen?"

Spender's not daunted. "He says you're going to be my driver."

He hasn't told me that. I want to spit.

"Be here at ten tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," I say.

He smiles and gets out.

Mulder's not surprised to see me either. I must be getting predictable in my old age. I see the disgust in his eye, both for me and over his inability to kick me out. I'm not interested in his own self-loathing, I want what's mine.

It feels good against my skin. A man in my position certainly can't hate himself and expect to live very long at all, so I let Mulder judge me for me. It's so clear to me now.

"Look who comes crawling back," he says.

"Tell me to go and I'll leave," I threaten.

"Lazy bitch Krycek, can't even make decisions for himself."

I blink. His fingers tear at my skin to hold me still for it, but he doesn't seem to notice. I'm not telling him anything. This we understand, the sounds of our bodies against each other, our breathes out of sync and the slaps of pain, deliberate and not. He rewards me with new pain, and forgotten penance comes to my lips. Hail Mary...

It's not the only thing on my lips after we finish, and I like Mulder's version better.

Afterwards, we're in bed. I'm bruised and the pain helps. I reach down to my jacket by the side of the couch and feel the chill of the leather against the back of my hand and the silkiness of the lining against my fingers before I realize I've reached down with the wrong hand and there is nothing past the stub of my arm. The leather is a cold dead thing beside the bed and it's a mercy we kill the cow before taking the parts from it. My cigarettes are in the pocket and I dig for them again, but nothing feels real until the first pull of smoke into my lungs.

Mulder wakes up from the smell and coughs. I blow a line of smoke at him. His hair is mussed from sleeping on it and he's not fully awake yet. He coughs again and tries to take the cigarette from me. "I told you. No smoking in here."

The laughter starts and it's undignified. "What are you going to do, arrest me for smoking?" I ask. But I can't fight him with only one arm and not drop the smoke so he takes it from me and angrily snubs it out.

I've overstayed my welcome yet again. Mulder looks at me with no emotion and it leaves me dead inside. I stand up and start pulling my clothes together. "Your master calls?" Mulder asks, sitting back to watch.

I zip up the jeans without bothering with the button. My arm takes longer to strap on and I feel more exposed trying to adjust the straps with him watching. It almost makes me flush but I don't give Mulder the pleasure. "What's it to you?"

"When your master tugs on your leash, it usually makes my life difficult for the next week or so."

"I only do what I'm told, Mulder."

"Somehow I doubt that." I stop. Look at him. Mulder looks back and sits up. "You always seem to manage to manage, Krycek. Nothing ever touches you."

I glance down to the plastic thing hanging from me. The straps already chew at my shoulder and the weight of it pulls me down with it. I shake my head, not wanting to remember the sawing sounds as the knife hacked at my bones. I probably didn't really remember it at all, I must have passed out by then, but I do remember. Right up until the hiss of the red-hot knife as it boiled the blood on my skin before cauterizing the flesh. Nothing ever will make me forget. "You don't know," I say, instead.

He closes his eyes. I'm dismissed.

Spender isn't watching for me. I pull up and wait, smoldering in the car. When it's obvious I'm to fetch him, I get out of the car and walk up the drive, and I'm half-way to the door before hearing them argue.

"He doesn't listen to what I say!"

"He listens to everything you say. Perhaps you speak too much."

"I want another driver."

I let myself in. It only takes a heartbeat and the look on Spender's face is worth the dramatics. "Let's go," I say, not looking at the smoker.

Spender waited for me by the car door. I walk past him and lift the door handle with exaggerated patience. "It works like this," I explain. He glares at me as I open it, and then jumps as I slam it shut with my hip. "Now, you try."

"You're supposed to be my driver."

"Exactly. I drive. I don't open doors or hold hands or..." I begin, but then close my mouth.

"Or?" Spender demands.

"Or anything else," I finish, and it's lame to my ear. He stares at me. I go around the car and get in. He follows, but doesn't say anything. I don't move. He waits. I stare straight ahead, and feel his anger grow. "Well?" he demands.

"Well, what?" I ask.

"Go."

"Where to? I don't read minds, genius."

Spender flushes. "The pier," he says.

"Good call." I put the car into drive and pull into traffic.

It's cold down by the water. I pull my jacket closer to my face and Spender tries to pretend he doesn't feel the chill. I sit down on the hood of the car. "So, what we waiting for, genius?" I ask.

"Nevermind, you."

"Whatever you say." I sit back, listening to the waves lapping at the edge, and wonder how much the smoker paid to keep everyone away for Jeffery's first delivery. The docks are certainly deserted, and they would have to be. I blend right in, but Jeffery in his gray suit sticks out violently. We're going to have to discuss fashion trends.

The sun sets, and the night goes from chilly to cold. Still no one around, and I wonder if the genius is ever going to notice the lack of people. I'm starting to miss the wharf-rats, both human and not. "Why do you do it?" Spender finally asks. He's not looking at me.

"Do what?" I ask. The car's long since cold, and the straps against my shoulder chaff at my chilled skin.

Spender looks at me. "Just answer the question."

"Is that an order, genius?"

"And if it were?"

"I'd have to answer it."

"Exactly. Why?"

I reach into my pocket for another smoke. As much as I hate to leave physical evidence at the scene, I need one. Spender waits for me to flick the lighter, but I can't shelter the flame and flick it at the same time. I try twice, and am about ready to toss the fucking thing when he moves to me and cups his hand over mine. The first drag of smoke curls into my lungs and I exhale, slowly. "Thanks," I say, begrudgingly.

"You didn't answer the question."

The stars are out, but only the brightest ones can make it through the smog. Butt-fuck Iowa might blow, but it couldn't put out the stars at night. I realize I've missed them. I exhale again. "So it was an order?"

"You might assume everything I say is an order."

Brave little Spender. I sit up, and the cold air slips between my neck and my jacket. Another couple drags and the smoke's had it. I toss it, and the red glow slowly winks out. "I was like you once," I say.

He snorts. The smugness begs me to beat it out of him, but I'm being good today. "I'd never do what you have done," he says.

I snort. He gets his back up. Poor boy has no idea how easy he is. "I wouldn't," he insists.

I push up. He steps back despite himself. I glance down his body, slowly, knowing he knows what I'm doing, and then turn my head and spit. "You'd fuck who you were told," I say.

The boat arrives before he could answer, but he's still sputtering mad. The package this time isn't a person, which is good. It's one thing to look like a simple drug transaction and another thing entirely when the package is a rolled up carpet that kicks and screams. Spender holds the package like it's going to bite him and I just shake my head again. Still, Spender's never spent the afternoon puking up his intestines trying to get rid of the black oil, so maybe his prudence is the best thing for him.

"You were never like me," he says once we arrive at his place.

If he meant stuck up and protected from on-high, he's right. But I can smell the ambition off him. His moral code is like mine back then, bendable but to a point in his mind. He won't know how easy it is to cross it. I drive him home and stop in front of his door. "Get out," I say.

"Tell my father, no more grunt work."

Oh, like that will go over well.

I don't go to Mulder's that night, but I don't go to my place either. It's a hole-in the-wall boarding house that stinks of cat piss. The smoker's in a meeting as I reach his door. "Of course he will be ready," the smoker says.

I stop. The response back is muffled, and I suppose I'm just highly trained to my master's voice. "He's going to need some work, but..." I turn around and leave. That left me practically nowhere to go, so I check into a hotel around midnight and wake up to the smoker in the hotel room.

"You used the company credit card," the smoker says.

I roll over onto my stomach and hug the pillow. "Well, no shit." I don't have enough money in my account to pay for an hour, forget the whole night. There had been a time when I could have, but that had long since passed. The short leash keeps me obedient.

A bag falls at my feet. It's heavy and I can feel the bundles of bills poke at me through the thin sheet. I sit up, confused. "Who do you want dead?" I ask. It's gotta be the Queen of England.

"You're very cynical, Alex."

"You trained me well."

"Consider it back pay," he says.

Back pay. What the fuck? I sit up straighter. "Since when do I get back pay?"

"You want it?"

I want to know what it comes with, but I reach down and grab it anyway. "How is he?" the smoker asks.

"Jeffery?"

"Who else?"

"A moron. If you keep dipping him down into the sharks, sooner or later one of them is going to take a bite."

"That's what you are there for."

Ah, the money makes sense now. "Pretty expensive baby-sitting," I say.

The smoker shrugs. I stare at him. If Spender's going to be the smoker's replacement, he's going to have to prove himself, and we both know how that's going to end if Spender's ever left alone. "You want me to play nice with Junior."

The smoker goes to take the money. I pull it away. "Do we have a deal?"

"You really do think I'm a whore." I throw the money back at him, shocking the hell out of both of us. The smoker doesn't know what to say for a heartbeat, and then he swallows. "Do it and you're out," he says.

The money drops back to the bed. "What?" I ask, stupidly.

The smoker clears his throat. It turns into a cough. "You're out. Free and clear."

"I'm done?" I repeat. The words just don't seem real.

The smoker smiles at me. It's not reassuring. "You're done."

I pull the money back to me. "You got yourself a deal."

And for two weeks, I'm the perfect baby-sitter/tutor. Which is difficult, 'cause Spender's a lot dumber than a Russian punk with his mouth sewed shut, but I learn to manage. It doesn't take much to realize that he just doesn't have *it*, whatever it is that keeps me breathing. He can't look at an abandoned warehouse and pick the best spots to ambush and he can't see the places snipers would be hiding.

The smoker moves me to better digs. This room actually has a shower stall of its own. It's not the Hilton, but it's better than fucking Iowa.

I'm not even sure how it happened, or how Mulder found out, 'cause I sure as hell didn't tell him, but waiting for Spender in the car, the door opens and Mulder himself slides in. I jump; I can't help myself, and Mulder reaches over and locks the car door from his side.

"Practically anyone can waltz in here."

I look at him and smile my best, 'I could serve you your heart for supper' smile. It's been known to cow down smarter people than Mulder, but he's not buying it. Damn. I go back to slouching in my seat. "You want to beat on me a while or shall I just skip to the blow-job?" I ask, faking disinterest well, even for myself.

"What are you doing here, Krycek?" Mulder demands as though I haven't opened my mouth. Maybe I hadn't. Who knows.

I look around the car, double checking the gear shift. "Parking," I decide, finally. I glance over to him. "And you?"

"Someone told me you'd be here."

"Well, your source was obviously mistaken."

He takes out his gun. I can always tell he's pissed when he remembers it. I look at it in disgust and roll my eyes, but he's distracted by the motion and doesn't realize I now have my own gun in my hand until it's pressed up against his ribs.

He glances down, and then back to me. "Put it away, Krycek."

I don't have a hand left to take his gun. He does. He grabs the barrel and if I pull the trigger now, chances are I'd blow his hand clean off. It's tempting, but I let him pull the gun from my hand. "Get out of the car," he says.

I turn the engine off and get out. He follows me, still pointing his gun at me, and motions me around the car. "Open it," he says, motioning to the trunk with my gun.

Traveling in the back of cars always makes me motion sick. But he does have the gun and he seems pissed off enough to actually use it. So I unlock the trunk. Mulder jumps back, but if he was expecting anything more than the spare tire, he's disappointed.

He stares at the trunk. "Where is it?" he demands.

"Where is what?" I ask, politely. He still has the gun on me, after all.

"Move the tire," Mulder demands.

I pull it up. It's bald; I should probably get it changed if Mulder doesn't spray my brains all over it. Mulder looks in the trunk again, but there's nothing in it. He goes back to the back-seat, but it's empty too. "Up against the car," Mulder snaps.

I am up against the car, but I suppose Mulder means to search me and I'm too tired to argue over the need for clearer instructions. He slams me against the car regardless of my compliance, and searches me roughly. He even grabs me where most cops don't, but I wasn't carrying anything besides the gun he has. He's looking at me like I'm holding out on him still, but I'm only there to get Spender. He throws my gun in the trunk, and stands back. "Keys, too," he snaps.

"Don't be a fuckhead, Mulder," I say.

"Keys, too, Krycek."

"Look, I didn't call you out, and it's not my fault someone's pulling your chain. What's it to you if I drive home or walk?"

His fist drills my kidney, and I have to wonder what the hell he thought I was doing out here. I cough, curling up as much as I can, and he kicks my legs out again. It's more familiar now, but he doesn't try to get in my jeans. "Keys, Krycek," he says.

The gun's grinding into the back of my skull. It doesn't leave much room for discussion and I drop the keys into his hand. "Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome," I say.

Mulder walks around the car and slams the trunk door shut. "Always a pleasure," Mulder says.

"And as always, yours more than mine," I say.

He looks at me, and for a moment I see the Mulder who presses himself up against me afterwards. He reaches out and touches my cheek. I don't turn into it and his hands drop. "It's just business, isn't that what you say, Krycek?"

I bow my head, but don't say anything. He shakes his head and walks off, but not before locking the car doors on his way.

Spender returns an hour later with his package. I'm lying on the hood of the car against the windshield, and he takes a moment to ask the obvious question.

"What the hell?"

I take out my cell and call a cab. If Spender was carrying anything more sensitive than a copy of yesterday's Times we would have had to walk at least a dozen blocks from the car, but since I don't have the time and energy to show him how to strip down a car to remove all the traceable fingerprints, and this was just a training exercise, we don't bother. Spender's still unsure, but at least he doesn't ask any more questions. My side still hurts from Mulder's punch, so I have the cab driver drop me off at home first. The landlord's pissed at having to let me in at three in the morning, but I apologize again. "There is a replacement fee," he says.

I give him a hundred dollars, and the guy leaves much happier.

Once inside, I scrub my skin clean. I walk naked and dripping to the bed, and sleep.

The door slams shut and I'm reaching for a gun that's still locked in the trunk of a car in the industrial area, and I had forgotten to grab my spare and bring it to the bed. I'm waking up and expecting the extreme pressure as the bullet enters my body, but there's no sound of a round sliding into the chamber and there is absolutely no need to use a silencer in this neighbourhood.

I open my eyes. Mulder's in the doorway, my set of keys in his hand. I had assumed he threw them into the trunk, and can't believe I've been that sloppy. But he doesn't have that murderous look to him, and I'm probably not going to get shot before noon today.

I rub my eyes. "Fuck, Mulder, you want breakfast?" I ask, sitting up.

"Human embryos."

"Fresh out. Chicken eggs good enough?"

"What do you know of them?"

"You mean beyond the sex-ed ramble? What the fuck are you on, Mulder?"

He goes to grab me as I walk past him, but I duck out of the way and push him back. "Lay off. You had your chance last night. You don't come to my house and beat me."

He looks around, but doesn't comment on the liberal application of the word house. "A storage laboratory was broken into last night. A dozen frozen embryos were stolen. A man matching your description was seen leaving the scene."

I don't bother with my arm as I start to dress. I pull my head through the T-shirt and look to Mulder. "I don't get seen at the scene, Mulder, you should have realized that last night."

"In hindsight, it was too sloppy for you," Mulder allows. I pull on my jeans and zip them up without bothering with the button.

"So you decided to beat on me, regardless," I say. He follows me into the kitchenette. I make coffee.

He grabs my hips. I freeze, but don't move away from him. "You haven't been around," he says in my ear.

I turn my head. He moves away, but only long enough for him to drop his slacks. He tugs on my jeans. I should tell him to go to hell, but Mulder hates himself for not being able to pull himself away, and that makes it worth it.

Mulder doesn't hear the door open up, but I do. He doesn't hear the footsteps across the hall, but I do. Mulder doesn't look up, it feels so good and Mulder's teeth bites into my neck just as Spender appears in the doorway.

Our eyes meet. I smile. Spender drops his keys. Mulder grabs at me for another heartbeat and shudders. When he looks up again, Spender's gone.

Spender hasn't mentioned it yet, but we're waiting in silence so I don't give him much choice. My back hurts from sitting still for so long. Spender's in more pain than I am, and that makes my own pain bearable. Better, I start getting off on it. He shifts again and the bones in his legs crack, and my heart skips a beat. But there is no one in the warehouse to hear it, so I take another breath. Spender isn't even aware of the sound his leather shoes are making as they creak with his weight.

He glances to me for the hundredth time, and the whites of his eyes would make him a perfect target from any number of angles. "I think we should go," he says.

He didn't lower his voice, and it seems to echo from the rafters. I shake my head; we've only been in our places for two hours, and we both jump as the warehouse shipping doors are thrown open.

The pretense of silence is shot. I drop down from my hiding place, landing on my feet, and straighten as Spender scrambles down from his. "Dominic," I say. I haven't seen him for over a year, and he has new scars over his broken face. But then I suppose I'm not unscathed either.

He does a classic doubletake. "Krycek. I thought you were done in Russia," he says.

I shrug as much as I can with only one arm. "Most of me made it out," I say.

Spender's behind me. We're both ignoring him and it's pissing him off. Dominic grabs my shoulder and kisses me on both cheeks. "It's good to see you, Alex. Not many of us left."

"You're still around. Robert?"

A small shake of the head. I shrug again. Acquaintance isn't even the right word, but it's a small business and everyone knows each other. "So you're it? You're the contact?" Dominic asks.

"Not me," I say, and motion to Spender for the first time. Reminiscing ends; it's back to business.

"This?" Dominic demands. He stands over Spender a couple inches, and he uses his height well. "Come back when you have a real source."

"You wanted to meet him, Dominic," I point out. Spender hasn't said a word and he's making me look like a complete idiot. I push him forward.

"We have what you want," Spender says. It sounds rehearsed. It probably was. Dominic glares at me. "You're babysitting," he says. Spender has apparently already been dismissed from his thoughts.

I shrug. "Babysitting or not, he's what you have."

"Amateurs," Dominic snaps. He pushes Spender and Spender steps back. "You just lowered the price ten percent. Another cliché and it will be twenty."

I shrug. I'm not the one paying. Spender looks like he's choking on something, but he opens his mouth and tries again. "The satellite pictures have been doctored and your expert is willing to testify that it's his voice on the line. He'll have enough collaborating evidence to withstand any appeal. The village never existed."

I don't say anything. It's not the first time I've heard of Dominic's superiors getting a little excessive, but it's probably the first time for any of us to have a senate hearing.

Dominic glares at me. "Keep the kid at home next time," he says.

I shrug. He kisses me again, this time using a completely different French technique, and is gone.

I lean against the post. "Way to go, Junior. You piss him off, you piss off the entire senate, and they love going looking for scapegoats."

"He knew you."

I look at Spender. "Yeah," I say.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but doesn't say anything else. I get in the car and we drive away.

The world ends, not with a bang or a whimper, but with the heavy pressure of a gun barrel. Makes a sick kinda sense if you ask me. I'm not even aware of the intrusion until the gun's pressed hot and hard behind my ear. The blood under the skin heats up my face, and I can't believe I've been caught like this again. The man holding the gun is Dominic.

"You tried to double cross me," he says.

A denial would be useless, and I don't even bother wasting the breath, even though I don't have a clue what the fuck he's talking about. "Sending in that stain as a decoy. You don't think I wouldn't hold you responsible?"

Spender. I close my eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I should have known. "Enough with this. Finish the job and go."

I try to push myself up, but Dominic knocks me flat again. The gun moves down from my ear, to the base of my neck, downward still to my shoulder blades. "This won't take ten minutes. What do you say, Krycek? Once for old time sake? Then I'll have to kill you, of course, but I'll make sure you enjoy it."

Twisted logic, but not anything unusual for Dominic. I turn over and he lets me. The gun is now pressed to my sternum, and we both know a shot there wouldn't be instantly fatal, but he'd probably have time to shoot me again before I had time to do anything rash. He smiles at me, his huge, ugly face opening up to something resembling warmth, and I suppose if this were a movie this would be the point where I'd be begging, but it's not a movie and it's pretty hard to ignore the gun barrel that's sliding over my face now. I stretch, as casually as I can, and smile back.

"You were a lousy lay then, and I can't imagine you've gotten much better," I say.

His face changes. Instantly it's colder and he jams the gun under my jaw and as I'm thinking it'll be a quick death, my hand reaches the book I've got my gun hidden in on the bedside table.

We both hear the door slam shut. "Krycek," Mulder calls from the other room, and the moment Dominic hesitates from pulling the trigger is all I need.

When he looks down again my gun is against his throat. "I go, you go," I say.

His hand tightens on his grip. We only have a second.

He almost makes the right choice, but I see it in his face. I twist away, knowing to avoid a direct shot to the face at all costs and he slips up. Both our guns go off and I hear him grunt at the same time as feeling the bullet tear apart my shoulder. Dominic is out of the window before Mulder burst through the door.

The pain centers on my left shoulder. Mulder glances to me, and runs to the window, but Dominic is gone. He's reaching for the phone as I'm barely aware of him through the pain. I don't have a free hand to grab it from him, so I kick it away. "Don't."

"You've been shot, Krycek."

"You can't call a hospital." The words hurt, but I grit them out anyway. Blood seeps through my fingers and I'm going light-headed over the loss. This isn't going to be good. Mulder yanks the phone away from me, and short of pulling myself out of the bed, I can't stop him from dialing.

I take my hand away from the bullet wound. Bleeding to death is just easier.

Mulder, the fuckhead, doesn't let me die. I come back thirsty as all hell with my shoulder bandaged up. The blankets under me are still bloodstained and the ceiling over me is water stained. I'm guessing I'm not at the hospital.

And Scully walks in.

Fuck, the day keeps getting more wonderful. "Feeling any better?" she asks.

"Well, I'll never use the arm again."

She glares at me, and goes to check the bandages. I flinch away, and she pins me to the bed with her hand. "Relax," she orders.

"If you're looking for your pound of flesh, I gave at the office," I say.

Scully rips the tape off. "If I wanted it I would have taken it. Are you in any pain?"

I look at her. She hesitates for a moment and then loads up a syringe. "Morphine. It will help you sleep."

I lay back. Sleep would be good, until I remember exactly how I got the bullet-hole. I struggle to sit up, but it feels like she's nailed me to the bed with a railroad spike rather than just being shot. "We gotta go."

"You're not going anywhere until that shoulder's better. You've lost a lot of blood."

"And I'll lose a lot more blood, not to mention gray matter if I stay. You too."

She sticks me anyway. The sting is momentary and the rush is almost immediate. I just want to lie back and smile now. "You're not going anywhere," Mulder says, coming into the room. "Thank you, Scully."

"What I don't understand is why he isn't under arrest right now, Mulder."

Mulder glances down to me. I try to push myself up to my elbow, but it hurts too much. "Because I need him for a case I'm working on," Mulder says, eventually.

Scully doesn't believe him, but I do. Whatever Scully stuck me with has turned me into a very trusting individual. I look at Mulder and realize the man truly has a very large nose. "They'll come back," I say, and smile at the ceiling. "They'll come back and they'll shoot me, and you, and her, too."

I fall asleep, floating away from the pain, still giggling over the idea.

Wake up in a car. It's moving and I'm coming down from what ever they filled me up with. The car is also whining, and it takes a moment to realize it's not our car, but the car behind us. We slow down. I follow the conversation with only the mildest of interest.

"This man's been shot," the cop says, bringing his CB to his mouth. If he calls an ambulance, I'm dead.

"Federal agents. This man is under our custody," Mulder says.

The cop doesn't even look old enough to shave. "This man's been shot. You have to get him to the hospital."

"His life is in danger," Mulder tries, but there's nothing he can do. The police aren't a part of this all, and the cop is young enough to earnestly believe he is helping.

Surprisingly, the ambulance didn't take all that long to arrive. That alone should have set warning bells off in the cop's head, but other than the unsmiling faces of the EMT's, nothing looked out of place until the ambulance door closes. "How's the shoulder?" Dominic asks.

I don't say anything, but I highly doubt the liquid being loaded into the syringe is another dose of morphine.

I come back with a splitting headache and absolutely no feeling from my right arm. I jerk awake, mouth dry in terror, but the movement shifts the arm and it takes a moment to realize it's not cut off but only chained above me and is now completely asleep. My heartbeat thumps in my throat for another minute or so, and it's the only sound in the room. The cold seeps in and I realize I'm not wearing anything.

My heartbeat slows down. The bullet wound has stopped bleeding at least, but the scab is newly formed. I shift my shoulders slightly and feel the skin pull against it to the point of tearing. I relax and the strain goes away.

The door opens and closes and footsteps approach. I don't have to look up, I can smell the cigarettes over my own sweat.

"What did I do?" I ask, keeping my voice flat.

"You sent my son to follow Dominic last night. It scared away an investor."

I close my eyes. "I did, did I?"

"I would have thought you were smarter than that, actually."

We don't say anything. He lights up another cigarette, but doesn't pull on it. It takes a long time to burn down, and when it does, the puff of ash lands on my cheek. It's not hot enough to blister and it rolls down my cheek like a tear. "I'm not dead yet," I say.

"No. I suppose they're waiting to ask you some questions."

"So last night was a gift."

"You should have taken the bullet, Alex."

"You think I'm going to take this for you?" I ask.

"If you don't, Alex, they are going to know that you made a deal, and... realistically... do you think that you of all people will be allowed to walk away free from all this?"

I stop. Look at him. Feel my heart drop out of my chest. "There never was any deal, was there?" I ask.

The smoker lets another drop of ash fall from his cigarette. I jerk back and it falls on my chest instead. "You're getting old, Alex. Sloppy." He hesitates for a moment, and then smiles at me. "Less pretty, and, let's face it, Alex, since you became damaged goods, your value has been greatly reduced."

"Fuck you," I say.

The smoker looks me up and down. "I don't think that will be necessary any more," he says. "I am sorry."

He walks away. I rattle the chains holding me, but it doesn't do anything but cause me more pain. No surprise there.

They come for me a while later. There is absolutely no feeling left in my arm as two men I don't know unlock the cuffs and haul me to my feet. I shrug them off, feebly, but nonetheless they let me walk on my own two feet.

The room they take me to is bare, but I suppose it was better than seeing the tools they work people with.

A man steps forward. I've been away so long that I don't know who he is. "Where's Sanders?" I ask.

"He was... detained."

"I don't know you."

"But I know you, Mr. Krycek."

He's fully dressed, I'm naked. He glances down at me and motions to someone I can't see. Blood's flooded back to my arm and the needles throb through my skin. A robe is dropped over my shoulder and the warmth of it almost makes me shiver. I pull it to me as best as possible with a hand that didn't obey me and sit down where I'm motioned.

"You have been such a pain."

"And what do you want me to do about that?"

"I don't know." There is a long pause. "What did the smoker say to you?"

"He said I was less pretty than before."

"He set you up."

"I knew that."

"And yet you are still here."

"I am getting slow in my old age."

The polite banter isn't helping my nerves. People are walking around as if nothing is wrong and the man is still smiling at me. I wonder if asking him to just get it over would be considered bad form. Probably. Sensation comes back to my hand and I flex it. It only hurts a little.

"He's dying, you know."

"Not soon enough."

The man laughs. "That's certainly true. But unfortunately, he can still do quite a lot of damage yet. Would you like to stop him?"

"You have no idea."

"I think I do," the man's eyes narrow and he's not laughing any more.

I lean back. This is far more familiar to me now. "And tell me what do you want."

"Would you believe me if I say nothing?"

And now it's my turn to laugh. "No, not really."

"And that's why I'm asking you this favour."

"So who do you want dead?"

"My, you are goal oriented, aren't you?"

I look at him and shake my head. "I like to know who I'm dealing with. And I don't know about you. So tell me about you, Doctor. Who do you hate enough to kill? Or do you want me to guess? Because if I have to guess, I'm willing to bet that you want the smoker dead almost as much as I do."

"Would you like to know why?"

"No," I say. My hand has regained feeling and my body isn't cold any more. I want my clothes. I want my arm. I am hungry, and am tired with this all. "I kill him and what? You take his place? And I will be your whore now? All I have to do is what you say, and we'll be great friends? Just me and you, right?"

"You must say, that would be preferable to what should be happening today, no?"

"Get me my clothes. And a coffee. Cream, no sugar. And find me my fucking jacket."

"Does this mean we have a deal?"

"I'll kill him. No deal. If you don't like it, you can kill him yourself."

"Krycek, he ordered you dead. How do you think you will get him to trust you? He is going to know you cut a deal."

I smile at him. It's not a concern.

I go underground. It's easy to do with so much practice. I do nothing, day after day, and concentrate on healing. I doubt I have to worry about regaining the use of my arm, but I'm not going to be any good to myself if the wound is any more sore than the rest of me.

I heal, slowly, day by day, and eventually it's time. I have to find the smoker, or at least let him find me. But first I have to find Dominic. I don't have to actually see him, but I drive through his neighbourhood, and I know he'll know about it.

The blue audio wire takes a bit of time to locate, but all it takes is a snip and I'm ready. Mulder tries to act nonchalant and I grant him his illusions. "I thought you would be in a can of dogfood by now, Krycek."

"Don't be ridiculous. I' d never pass the quality control test."

But he is happy to see me. Maybe happy is the wrong word. Not upset I'm not dead. "How did you get out?"

"Mulder you don't want to know."

"You wouldn't tell me anyways."

He crosses the floor to where I'm standing. He put his hand on my shoulder, and despite himself, presses slightly. I flinch, but it doesn't hurt. Mulder's hand slides down my arm, and the heat of his hand is more real than a weight of the plastic. He tugs on my shirt, and once upon a time, he would have tugged at all in one fluid motion, but the moment suspends and we tug and pull and pry the black turtleneck off. I don't touch him, I don't want to touch him, but his hand on my jeans makes me bite my lip and he knows.

The rest is hot, and hard, and enough pain to work for me. The pain spikes but it isn't pain any more.

I sit up, Mulder stirs, he's not awake yet, and I draw my knees up. The shoulder doesn't hurt any more, even with all the physical activity, so I suppose it's time.

"Tell me you hate me," I say.

Mulder is mostly awake, but he's trying to pretend he isn't.

I kick him. I suppose I could have been gentler. "Tell me," I snap.

"Mulder opens his eyes. Before the moment he is still content enough to smile at me, but then set up. "I hate who you are," he says, eventually. "What you've done."

"That's not good enough," I snap.

He is awake now, and his face is hard. He scrambles up, and pulls his clothes to him. "You are a sick fuck, Krycek."

"And somehow, this still surprises you. You do what I want, Mulder, everyone does what I want."

He pushes me, hard enough that I bounce against the wall. The wound still doesn't hurt. I am not prepared for the gun as it presses against my jaw. Next time I am going to have to insist that Mulder removes his pants as well.

"And what, exactly, are you planning to do with that?" I drawl.

He presses it harder for a moment, and then slams his fist against the wall. The plaster cracks and Mulder pounds it another couple times. The gun points at me again, and his hand is shaking. "Get the fuck out of my house."

It isn't the first time I've had to dress while under a gun. By the time I finish, the gun is still at eye level. "There, Krycek, are you getting off on this?"

Dressed again, things are back to normal. "Oh, baby, oh baby."

"Just go away, Krycek." Mulder sounds tired, and he rubs the bridge of his nose.

On the street again, I stop long enough to light up a cigarette. And that's all the time it takes for the black car to pull up. I get in before they can drag me and the smoker is not surprised. "You went under for a while, I thought you dead."

"You thought wrong," I say, leaning back. "But you don't have to worry, I didn't come here to kill you."

"You didn't come here to kill me?" the smoker repeated, incredulously. He looks around to his two bodyguards in the car, and then back to me. "You didn't come here at all, remember?"

I stare at my fingernails. "I only cut the audio feed this time."

"I can't believe a word you say, Alex."

"But you do. And that's both our problems. Get rid of them."

He looks at me. "They might as well stick around, Alex, we all enjoyed the show."

He wants to embarrass me. I allow him to think he has. I lower my eyes and swallow. "This is between you and me."

"All the more reason to keep them around."

I take a deep breath, but then slouch back against the car. We all drive in complete silence for the longest time, and then the car pulls off the road. I suppose I should be alarmed that the smoker allows me to see the address, but I'm not.

The car stops. Thug 1 and the smoker get out, and I follow them both. We're still professional about it. The house has vines up its façade and the stoned walls are old and expensive. "Nice digs," I say.

"For a death house."

"It could be worse."

He smiles at me, but it's a dark, dark thing. "Yes, it could be. I might not have you to torture."

"I came to you," I say, as he unlocks the door and motions me inside.

Despite the locale and the facade, the room inside is empty and bare. Beside the gleaming kitchen appliances, there is nothing but a rough wooden table and four wooden chairs. The floor is made of stone, and a garden hose is curled up on the kitchen counter next to the sink. The air smells vaguely metallic. An archway leads into what is obviously more comfortable rooms, but here is where the smoker sits and again motions me to join him.

"You honestly expect me to believe that you hadn't taken the hit?"

"You're still breathing, aren't you?"

"Come now, Alex. You know I know you have far more finesse than that."

"Mulder tried to kill me."

"He's always trying to kill you. Or fuck you and sometimes I don't think even he knows the difference."

"It is different. You're dying anyway," I say. His eyebrows lift at the candor. "So before you're a meat sack, I want your blessing."

"You want my blessing," the smoker says. He looks at me, and he's off his footing now. He ages, sitting there, and his shoulders are no longer as stiff as they were. "Bullshit. Tell me, of all your organs, which one do you want held up in front of your face before you die?"

He's scrambling for face. I give it to him. I jump up, holding my hand out. "Would you just listen to me?" I ask. The right tremor in my voice takes an exact touch. "You said it before, I was your chosen. Jeffrey isn't ready yet. He may never *be* ready yet, but I'll watch him and take care of him for you. You need someone to take your place and you know I'm ready."

"Take off your shirt, Alex. I would hate to see it bloodstained."

He's testing me. I know he's testing me and he probably knows I know he's testing me, but it's all part of the dance. I stay still for two slow heartbeats, staring at him, and then pull off my shirt. It tangles in my arm and I leave it hanging.

"Very good, Alex," he says, but he's staring at my arm. He stands and I back away, but it doesn't take more than a half a dozen steps before I'm cornered against the counters. He's looking at the straps holding the damn arm to me. "You were beautiful, once," he says. There is real regret in his voice. His fingers slip under the straps and trace their lines across my chest.

I don't say anything. He's too far away to hear it, anyway. When he looks back to me he grabs the strap and twists. The strap bites me from a dozen different places as it tightens, and his other hand rests flatly against my chest. "Which one will it be, Alex? Your heart? His palm is cold over it. He moves down a quarter inch. "Your pink, healthy lungs?" Down further, and it's resting just below my diaphragm. "How about your spleen? Kidneys.or.." his hands are over my jeans now, and he slowly moves down to cup me. He hasn't let go of the strap yet and for a moment the feigned panic in me seems awfully real.

He slides against me, my bare skin against his suit and I loathe the feeling. "What will it be, Alex? Fast or slow?" he asks. His hands moving against me now, but I highly doubt he's talking about his tempo. I keep pulling against him for another thirty seconds, and then relax to it. The strap, his hand, his body, all of it.

"Fast," I say. "Just make it fast."

He breaks away from me and coughs. Really coughs. Doubles up from it, actually, and he still doesn't sound like he has the energy to expel whatever it is in his lungs. I'm left against the counter for a heartbeat, cold sweat suddenly icy, and then I take him by the shoulder and lead him back to the table and chairs. By the time we get there, his goons burst in the door, and they knock me flat on my ass before I have a chance to explain. They're well-trained goons and one of them brings the smoker a glass of water while the other menaces me. "What do we do with him?" the first man asks.

The smoker looks up. His well-coiffed hair is out of place and in the light, the skin of his face is powdery and white. "Take him upstairs. We'll deal with him later," he says.

Ass-knocking-down man helps me up again and I'm taken into another plain, uncarpeted room. Damn.

The windows have bars across it and the door, believe it or not, is locked. But the hinges are on the inside and I'm wondering how the smoker could make such a basic error. It takes a while to remove the hinges, unscrewing the screws one at a time. No one watched the door, and I slip out alone and unchallenged, and stop long enough in the kitchen to take one of the shiny knives from one of the drawers. They all look scalpel sharp and I wonder, briefly, who else the smoker's been carving up. "Let's finish this," Dominic calls, coming out of the shadow.

The knife's shiny, but it's not balanced for fighting, and obviously Dominic has come better armed. "We can't talk about this, can we?" I ask.

" I fail to see what, exactly, we have to talk about, Krycek."

"You don't? There is no hit on me, no one is paying you for this, and any mention of professional duty will make me laugh. So what's left?"

He's looking at me now, confused. "The old man wants you dead. I'm here to kill you."

There is something in his voice. He wants more than that. "You?" I laugh, although I suppose it's not really funny. "Dominic, my man, you are not nearly pretty enough."

It happens so quickly, I'm not even sure he felt the knife in his belly. I'm sure he was aware of grabbing my shoulder, pressing it against the soft spot under my jaw, but he opens his mouth to say something instead of just pulling the trigger, and then the knife slides into him easily. I find his liver and sever in the major artery with a flick of my wrist. I take his gun as he falls away. I shoot a single round into the sky and it's enough to summon the thugs.

"With the hell just happened here?" The first one asks. I walk to him, hands stained with black blood and my hands of his throat leave brilliant red fingermarks. "Shut up," I say, and he doesn't argue with me.

"I know this man," the smoker says. I didn't know he is there. "I hired him to kill you."

"Well then, you should definitely get your money back."

The smoker is looking at me, but it is funny, to me. "How did you get out?"

"Would you believe the door was open?"

He looks at me, to his thugs, to the dead body, and to the knife in my hand.

"And what were you doing with the knife?"

"Killing bad guys. Before that, trying to escape. You were trying to go all Aztec on me, remember?"

The smoker looks to his thugs again. "Wash the blood off him and bring him to my room, although if he falls, and happens to slit his throat on his way, I am not going to be too upset. When you are done, I need the oxygen tanks filled."

They grunt, but I'm sure they never signed on to be nursemaids.

The smoker goes up first. I'm pretty sure they're waiting for the order to rough me up, but it never comes. It takes a while to find clean clothes for me. The smell of the blood is cloyingly strong when I pull the dirty shirt over my head. Eventually we climb the stairs together.

"Are you going to kill him?" the first one asks.

"What if I say yes?" I ask. My voice is perfectly neutral, but then again, their voices are neutral, too.

"We'd have to stop you," the second one says.

"Is that so?" I ask.

"Yes."

"I am going to kill him," I say.

"Don't," the first one says.

"No," I say.

Both men nod. "All right, then."

They open the door for me.

I enter the room, trying to anticipate everything, but nothing prepared me for the gun waiting on a small table on the right hand side of the door. The smoke sits on a bare chair beside the bed in a plain, gray room. I glance down and am relieved to see carpet.

"A Chinese general, Chu-Se brought his worse enemy with him to see his gardens, Alex. Chu-Se gave the man his sword and turned his back to the man to watch the sunset. From that moment on, the man became Che- Se's most trusted advisor. Can I trust you, Alex?"

I look at him. He's old and frail in his chair, and I don't look at the gun as I take a step forward.

He closes his eyes for a second, and then stands up. He's an old man, but he regains some of his power as he straightens his suit. "Good," he says.

I take another step to him. He runs his hand down my chin, and sighs. "Beautiful, Alex," he says. "I always did love you best."

I smile at him, once, and then my hand's at his throat. He backs away, or tries to, but almost tangles with his chair. I kick it away and with my single hand, and lift him off the ground. He struggles, kicking out, but his hands can't pull me away. There are a hundred ways he could have broken my hold, but he doesn't even think to go for my eyes. A lucky blow lands against my kidneys, but he's already struggling to breathe.

His mouth opens, and he looks like a floundering fish. "A gun is so impersonal," I say.

"Jeffery," he manages.

I smile at him again. "Don't worry, I'll take him in as my driver. I have some morals of his I have to bend."

He knocks over the chair. It crashes to the floor, and the thugs open the door. "We told you not to kill him," thug one says.

There's very little life left in the old man. He hangs by my hand, and, realistically, my arm hurts, but I won't have to hold him up for much longer. "You did, didn't you?"

A final gasp. I break off now and they might bring him back, so he stays up against the wall. "We did."

The smoker's eyes dim. "Oops," I say, and then smile.

The smoker dies. A moment later his body slumps to the floor and my arm is killing me, but it's worth it. "You're good," the second thug says.

"That wasn't business," I say, and then go to the table and take the gun. It's loaded and ready. A single bullet to the skull and the smoker's body jerks back for a second. "This is. Any problems with what happened here?" I ask.

"Of course not. We arrived far too late to save him. It was a justifiable hit."

I looked down to the dead body. "That it was. Dispose of the body. "Boil down the skull so only the bullet hole's visible."

"Yes, sir," they say together.

I smile.