Dawn Boys

Bone is composed of connective tissue. Who knew?

Given enough time and heat the connective tissue breaks apart and the bone disintegrates just like flesh, be it human, alien or chicken... or relationships for that matter. Yep, enough time and heat and the world will crack apart.

Krycek and I stood in the sunny, scrupulously clean alley...okay, I'm horsing around...it was a dark and smelly and disgustingly damp alley with stuff in it that sticks to the bottom of your cowboy boots that a vulture wouldn't eat and we were doing our part to add to the ambiance. We stood there watching the alien phiz his life away into a human-shaped pile of ashes and goo. Sort of a shadow of this strange creature that looked human on the outside and was so frightingly alien on the inside.

Like a lot of politicians I know.

Krycek pocketed his plam after he cleaned the outer space DNA off it. Sometimes I yearn for the days of a good, old-fashioned semi-automatic. He stood there looking all nice and picturesque in his black leather with the evening light filtering in and the black diesel smoke from the bus fumes swirling all around. He asked in this mildly interested tone, without looking up, "So, he did the whole show on fucking chicken stock? Nothing else?"

I immediately took offense. Alton Brown is my favorite cook on the Food Network. I love that guy. He's very informative. It's how I found out about the connective bone tissue thing.

"Hey, some people like to be thorough. They like to focus on their topic of choice and do a bang up job telling you every fucking detail about it until your head is about to explode. You could take a few lessons from him, Krycek. You know that borsch you fed me the other night gave me a godawful case of the runs."

I got his attention with that remark. Unfortunately. You do not want to insult the man's borsch. It must have been some residual fumes from the frigging alien gas seeping into my brain and destroying the self-preservation centers.

"That was my grandmother's recipe." He sort of spaced out each word through gritted teeth and really emphasized 'grandmother'.

He had that look on his face sickeningly similar to the look he had just before he inserted the plam into the back of the alien's neck. It makes an impression on you, that sort of intense, predatory cat, I'm going to knaw out your liver and strangle you with your own guts look. The kind that makes you think thank god you aren't the guy he's focused on, except this time I am the guy he's focused on.

I can tell he's this close to pinning me against the wall with an arm against my throat. It's not that I'm afraid he's going to take that plam back out again, no, Krycek isn't crazy that way; it's just he gets really, really tense sometimes. He's got a lot of things going on in his personal life, well, what there is of it, that fuels this anger that churns away inside and sometimes he looks for ways to relieve that.

Hense the plam in the alien's neck. It wasn't just a job. Nothing cool about it. That look on his face told me just how much he wanted to kill something and he did it with a gut-felt satisfaction. Some aliens, like some people, just need killing.

But that need inside of him is still there, no matter how many times he plams some outer space creature. He's still tripping on the adrenaline and you have to know just how to defuse the situation. I come from a long line of rugged individualists who make a living dealing with stubborn, nervy, dangerous critters, who'd just as soon stomp you into the ground as look at you.

So, I ask in this real calm voice just a tad lower than normal, sort of like a horsewhisperer talking down a skittish mustang, "What did the grape say when the gorilla stood on it?"

He gives this sort of snorty, barking laugh and I can tell he's torn between just plain shock and disgust that he has to deal with someone like me, but resignation in the face of my indomitable will wins him over.

He sighs, shoves his hand in his leather jacket and sort of looks down and to the side where the alien has finally finished disintegrating and mumbles something which I can't really hear, but I'm going to assume is a need to know on his part as to what the grape had to say to the gorilla.

So, I do my horsewhisper thing, "Nothing. It just gave a little...whine."

I could sure hear every word real plain after that as he made his way down the alley and back to the car.

I am just going to have to learn Russian. That's all there is to it.

We get in the car and head out into evening rush hour traffic. Krycek driving, of course, I mean that goes without saying. I'm not complaining. He's a damn good driver. The Brit sure didn't seem to have any complaints. Shame about him. He and Krycek seemed to get along pretty well.

Alex and Spender were always at it. Of course, Alex always had a knack for upsetting all the right people.

In all the excitement I almost forgot to mention that Krycek got a new arm. The guy who fixed it up for him quit this high paying job in Hollywood where he was doing all this special effects stuff, body parts for the horror movies, and now he makes body parts for real people. The guy is a genius. The arm he fixed for Krycek is so realistic looking you expect to touch it and feel the warmth of living flesh.

He's got real looking fingernails and freckles and little hairs and for all I know he's got fingerprints again. He still likes to wear his black gloves, though. You can never be too careful about exposing too much of yourself.

I can tell he's real proud of it. I hate to think what would happen to the unlucky bastard who has the misfortune to mangle it in a fight or put a bullet hole in it.

That's why I can't for the life of me understand why he wants to get a fucking tattoo.

He wants to get it on his skin just above the cut and have it continue onto the prosthetic. If it had been the old arm they'd have to do air brushing on it, but I think with this new arm it's going to be like a real tattoo.

I have no earthly idea what this tattoo is going to look like. I only know he's going to get it because he let it casually slip one day when we were walking by a tattoo place.

Well, okay, I might of pried it out of him after several grueling minutes of careful, colon-clenching, lets push this toothpick a little further into the hornet's nest type of interrogation. Krycek gives new meaning to the word tight-lipped when it comes to anything of a personal nature.

The rush hour traffic starts to slow down to a crawl and the prospect of a still-wired Krycek ruminating too long over the previous unfortunate borsch incident while my unfortunate self sits within easy arms reach looms closer than I want it to.

So I ask about the tattoo and what exactly he's got in mind.

It just popped out of my head. I swear. Sometimes my mouth is possessed of a disembodied entity bent on my personal destruction.

He just grunts and ignores the delving into his personal archives, thank god, and continues to glare darkly Krycekian looks at the hapless civilians.

Finally, he mumbles something about keeping his ear to the ground and makes a hard right turn at the same time he glances my way and grins like a starved carnivore.

I hate when he does that.

The side street is free of traffic and he guns it.

Oh, hell. He's in one of those moods.

The back tires are trying to dig into the asphalt and I'm bracing myself, shoving cowboy boots into the floorboard for all they're worth and just hanging on for the ride.

We make another hard turn, this time to the left. I can feel the rear end of the heavy car slide a little, screech a lot, do a little jig and then get a grip and push us into an alley.

Jesus H. Christ.

It's really getting dark now and the street lights are coming on and the headlights of the car bounce up and down as we hit a dip. I hope to god we aren't running over any homeless people.

I yell, "Starsky! Slow the fuck down!"

He just laughs. Just fucking laughs. He laughs like he grins and you don't really want to experience either one in a situation like this. It's dark and thick like artery blood and full of a hell-bent lust to find out just how deep hell really is. It's at times like this that the old run-down ranch begins to look mighty good, mighty peaceful and boring and fucking free of insane partners!

"Shit!" My hands are digging into the dashboard now like the claws of death.

We go under the overpass for the interstate and turn to parallel it. I can see in my peripheral vision the support columns clipping by at an ever increasing rate of speed. I really can't spare too much attention because of my rapt interest in the face of approaching death.

We've made it into an open section of town where there's more warehouses and railroad tracks and shit like that.

I'm not exactly paying too much attention to where we are.

We bounce over some railroad tracks that jar the hell out of my tailbone and squash the hell outa my hat when my head tries to drill a hole through the top of the car and must knock the shit out of the front-end alignment on this thing. The tires crunch in the gravel. I can hear them making angry little pings on the underside and then we're sliding dangerously as we come to a stop.

I can't believe it.

I'm alive.

As I'm trying to pry my cold, nerveless, cramped fingers out of their permanent impressions in the dashboard, I can tell he's grinning. Those teeth of his really do shine in the dark.

The bastard. The smug bastard. He's being so cocky.

It's payback time.

I massage the feeling back into my fingers and ask him like it's a really serious question, "What did one ghost ask the other?"

That throws him. The cocky grin slips a little and those big, girly eyes do the lash flutter. I almost laugh out loud at that, but restrain myself. He's practically in shock. I can tell it's eating away at him; he's such a damn curious cat and finally he caves.

He tries to mask the fact he's going along with the joke with this throaty growl, "What the fuck did the fucking ghost say so we can get the fuck out of the fucking car. Jesus, sometimes you really..."

I just stare back at him real calm like and open my door enough so the little overhead light comes on. I can see his face really clear now and his attention is focused completely on me; so I just answer quiet like, "Do you believe in people?"

I slip out of the car and close the door. Just before the light goes out I can see the look on his face and it nearly sends me into a fit of giggles. I really must be getting punchy.

While I'm savoring my revenge and waiting on him to get out of the car, I turn my jacket collar up and shove my hands in the pockets. The sun's gone completely down and it's getting chilly. The smell of the gravel dust is still in the air from all the stuff we stirred up coming in.

Krycek walks by like a darker shadow and strides away as if he knows exactly where the hell he's going; so I tag along. There's not too many working streetlights in this neighborhood except for some sort of pole light up ahead. As we get closer it all starts to look familiar to me.

It's pretty much just another service type building like all the others, but I see a lot of bikes parked in the pool of bluish light in the parking lot . They're all as shiny and slick as well pampered house cats. The guys standing around them aren't. They're a pretty rough looking bunch as my mother would say.

I groan. Krycek hears it and glances back over his shoulder. I don't even have to see to know he's smirking. He knows those guys hate me. It's nothing personal. They just take an unwarranted offense to the way I look.

Krycek stops and turns towards me; we're just at the edge of the light now and the guys are pointedly looking at us. I'm sure they heard us coming and I'm sure they recognize Krycek. Him they love.

"Something bothering you?" he asks, all sweet like, just oozing concern.

Oh, isn't he cute. The little fucker. He's enjoying the hell out of this.

I make a point of looking down at the toes of my boots, which could kill spiders in corners, and then look at him in his black leather and biker boots. I grab my mangled hat off my head and punch it into something resembling its original shape, shove it back on my head, thus spoiling my efforts and walk right toward Hellmouth's minions like I can whup everyone of their asses.

When I get within spitting distance of them, I leave my hands shoved in my pockets and practice my Clint Eastwood stare. It's the good, the bad, and the ugly. I'll leave it up to you to decide which is which.

They greet Krycek like a brother just released from doing hard time on the chain gang. There's lots of back slapping and since they're all wearing leather it's beginning to sound like a porn video. Plus you've got the fumes of pot, beer, whiskey and sweaty guy odor. This just gets better and better.

While they're all concentrating on mister I'm-your-brother-in-black-leather, I get my back safely against the light pole. Unfortunately, one of the badass dudes takes a shine to me and breaks away from the pack. He stops by his bike and pulls a baseball bat out of its own special harness. He's got a name for it engraved in the leather, but it's too dark to make out. Ain't that cute.

He saunters over and stands so close I can practically count every bugger in his nose.

Krycek gives a quick glance in our direction, but I can tell he's not going to lend a hand at this point. We've gotten some pretty interesting bits of information from these guys before. It's amazing what they know and just how far up the local and federal government food chains it goes, but I don't think Krycek is really here for information tonight. Not in the mood he's been in all day.

Nope. He wants to pick a fight.

I just wish to hell it wasn't going to be with these guys. I think I know, though, why it is these guys. He knows things aren't going to change between them after a fight. We'll still share information. Plus you've got the added fun of a knock down, drag out.

It's pretty difficult to explain to someone else who hasn't felt the need before just why you'd want to pick a fight with a bunch of guys. To put it simply, Krycek's mad. He's mad about a whole bunch of stuff, but primarily it's got to do with the way he's feeling about a certain someone and he can't do much about it right now. That leaves him feeling frustrated and itchy for some action so he goes and finds it.

My buddy with the bat keeps staring at me and bouncing his weapon of choice in the palm of his hand. It's not going to be long now.

Finally, Krycek breaks away and comes over to where we are and shoves my new friend in the shoulder. The blue light makes us all look a little like we're underwater, you can't see anything outside the light, just a dark wall of nothing and we're swimming around in our pool with the moths and other little night bugs.

Krycek's face swims into view, sharp and clear for a moment and I see the unholy glitter in his eyes. It's like I'm Pavlov's dog. The minute I see that look the adrenaline shoots through my veins. The countdown is going to be in seconds.

The guy doesn't budge and Krycek gets impolite with him. There's an almost happy feeling going on between them along with the angry words and looks. They seem to know they're going to get the fight they want.

As soon as the guy raises his bat, I kick him in the shin, hard.

Did I forget to mention my boots come equipped with metal toe caps?

The guy's face crumples in agony and his grip on his precious bat loosens enough for me to twist it out of his hands, which has left it hot and sweaty. I turn it and jab the pommel into his kidney, which makes him hunch over. I couldn't resist shoving my boot against his fat ass and ramming his head into the pole. Krycek isn't the only one in a bad mood tonight.

It was as if everyone had been waiting for the cue for the party to start. We end up pretty much back to back during the majority of the ruckus. We've done this so many times that it's second nature. In between my own bits of action, I could hear Krycek breathing hard and grunting a little with the effort of his blows and I'd feel him jostle me every now and then when he'd take a hit and I'd do the same to him.

It seems to take forever and yet it's over before I know it. Suddenly there's nobody taking a swing at me. They're all tottering around trying to find something to lean on whether it's each other or a bike or just the pavement. I can feel Krycek leaning against me and I turn around and prop him up with a hand or maybe I'm just using him to prop myself up.

We're both breathing hard and heavy and my throat's so dry it hurts. I'm damn thirsty. Krycek's lip's cut and bleeding and he's already getting a bruise on his left cheek. I think the new arm put him off his stride a bit. It's not as heavy as the old one and more vulnerable in a fight. He brings his hand up and runs a knuckle along his lip to wipe the blood away and grins at me. I grin back. I can't help it. He looks so damn pleased with himself it's contagious.

I spot my hat lying on the pavement and turn loose of Krycek to lean down and pick it up. Big mistake. Someone got in a good punch to my ribs. Krycek pushes me against the light pole, snatches up my hat and rams it on my head till it covers my eyes. I can hear the son of a bitch snickering.

I push my hat back into place, lever myself away from the pole by getting a handful of Krycek's leather jacket and pulling. Once I'm completely independent of my support I maintain my grip on him and propel us both back in the direction of our car.

I am tired and I want a drink.

We stumble back in the dark. It's not far, but it's rough going over gravel and uneven pavement and the occasional railroad track, plus these boots are not made for walking. I don't know why the dumb shit didn't park closer. I look up, hoping to see some stars, but it's just a big blank up there. I sure miss the night sky away from city lights.

Finally, we fall into the car. Well, Krycek falls in and I ease carefully into my seat. We have the usual argument about what to do next. I finally win by telling him I'm so hungry I could eat a dead wolf and besides I've got a stash of my special anejo tequila at one of our safe places.

It's a long drive since it's on the other side of town and we've both stiffened up by the time we get there; so, the process of getting out of the car, into the elevator and up to one of the top floors is a long one. It's a nice condo. Actually, it's not too far from Skinner's place of residence. Of course, Krycek initially picked this location, not me. Big surprise there.

Once we're safely inside, I make a beeline for the kitchen and a big glass of water. I can hear Krycek in the bathroom cleaning up; so, I look in the cupboards and find some cans of chicken noodle soup and saltine crackers.

By the time he's out, I've got bowls of chicken broth with little soggy noodles and ity bity pieces of rubber chicken floating in it nice and hot. I sprinkle a bunch of black pepper over mine and dip the cracker in real quick before it disintegrates into mush from the heat. It's way too hot yet to eat. I'm still standing at the counter blowing on it when Krycek comes strolling in. I know he's as hungry as I am, but he always has to act so cool about every little thing. He's compulsive that way.

He rests a hip against the counter and dips a spoon into his bowl and carefully inserts it into his mouth. The salt and heat from the soup must really burn his lip because he winces a little.

"Uhmmm, tasty chicken broth you've made here. That Alton Brown's a great teacher."

I open my mouth to say something, but decide to insert the spoon instead. I'm way too hungry to argue. We finish eating standing up in the kitchen. The empty bowls are left in the sink and the counter is covered in cracker crumbs.

I rummage around and find my treasured tequila, tell Krycek to grab a couple of glasses, clutch the bottle to my bosom and stumble like a 90 year old into the living room where I ease myself onto the sofa. We left the light on in the kitchen and didn't bother to turn another on. You can see the city lights through the balcony doors. Sort of makes up for all the stars you can't see.

Krycek shoves a glass under my nose and I pour the liquid carefully into his glass and then mine. I take a sip and it's like being home again. There's just a hint of a smoky aftertaste. It's smooth and fine. It's like sitting around a desert campfire looking up at the sky that's filled to overflowing with stars. It's the heat from the sunwarmed rock at your back. It's all the stuff from a life that's just not there anymore.

We sit and sip and stare at the night lights for a long time. Finally, Krycek gets up and opens the balcony doors and goes out. I take my turn in the bathroom. When I come out, he's still out there. I locate a couple of blankets, wrap myself in one, grab the bottle, my glass and join him.

It's chilly, but not too bad. The fresh air feels good. I hand him a blanket and refresh his glass and make myself as comfortable as possible in a chair with my feet propped on the railing. I'm going to be as stiff as hell in the morning, but this is just too nice to leave.

Krycek prefers the open spaces, too. We end up falling asleep out there.

When I wake it's the first light of dawn. It's quiet and the city's all blue and hazy, there's just a hint of color to the east. I look over and Krycek's still wrapped up in his blanket with just his head poking out; he's got bed head, his lip and cheek are swollen and I can see he's awake. He's propped up in a corner against the wall and the railing and staring in the direction of Skinner's condo.

We've got a good view of it from here. You can almost make out his balcony.

I begin to struggle with my blanket, trying to ease my kinks, when I hear him say something, but it's so quiet I have to ask him to repeat it. My throat's so dry from sleeping with my mouth open I've got to try two or three times before I can make myself understood.

He glances over at me and says clearly, "I got the tattoo." The words sort of drop like little slivers of ice down my back for some reason.

Well, shit. When did he do that? He's already got it. My curiosity is killing me.

"Yeah?" I ask and just keep staring at him, completely still. I can't seem to stop watching him, like if I move my eyes away he'll disappear in a puff of smoke. Weird.

He just stares back at me too. Then he gives a little shrug and struggles up to a standing position and lets the blanket fall away. I clutch my own blanket tighter around myself and totter closer, fascinated. It's sort of like I imagine an archeologist would feel when he discovers an unexplored tomb and gets to open the sarcophagus for the first time.

The look on Krycek's face is weird. I think about it for a minute and realize it's weird because I've never seen this face before out of all the faces Krycek's got this is a new one. I don't know. Maybe it's my imagination and the early light of dawn is playing tricks, but it's almost soft. The way he's looking I can imagine him as he must have looked when he first met Skinner.

He's got his shirt open now and the shoulder down over his amputated arm. He's removed the prosthetic during the night. There's a black line on the side of his arm and I peer closer. I can make out the letters SKINNER running in a line down to the cut.

Oh Jesus. I start to get this cold, clammy feeling of dread, this I can't believe he's done this feeling. He's tattooed fucking Skinner's name on his fucking arm. Is he crazy? Well, of course he's crazy! I'm starting to get panicky and he must see it in my face. He just points with his chin down at the floor and I see his arm. I reach down and pick it up. It looks so real and yet it doesn't feel real. It's cool from the night air.

There's a tattoo on it. He takes it and puts it on. The black line on the arm matches up perfectly with the one on his stub. The flap of the prosthetic's skin slips over the last of Skinner's name so that just the SKIN is showing and the tattoo continues to read IN THE GAME. SKIN IN THE GAME is the tattoo visible to the world, but underneath is SKINNER.

I still haven't said a word. I don't know any words to say. There are no words to describe this. What do you say? Can you tell me? What the hell do you say?

The sun's coming up now and the light's warming up to yellow. The air's warming up a bit, too. Krycek's buttoning up his shirt and he's just standing there washed in this incredible light and he's just shown me something so personal it feels more intimate than sex.

We just stand there watching the sunrise. I turn and glance at him, his face is in profile and there's a look on his face like he's been carrying a burden for a while and now it's gone. He seems lighter somehow or maybe it's just the morning light.

"I'm not an obsessed stalker." There's a definite defensive tone to his voice. This is new. Once he's shown his weak spot he's going to be continually vulnerable now. But, he did show me; so he must trust me.

"Oh, yeah?" I ask.

He glances over at me and gives this embarrassed grin and there's yet another face I haven't seen before. It's almost happy.

He bumps my shoulder with his, the one with the tattoo on it, and growls, "Yeah." Suddenly he's the Krycek I've always known and the world tilts back into place.

We stand together on the balcony and watch as the blue of morning fades completely away and I daydream of warriors dancing on the desert sands welcoming the day.

The sunbeams stream forward, dawn boys, with shimmering shoes of yellow.
Mescalero Apache Song