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The whiff he got as he stepped over the dead rat that had made the brownstone stairs its final resting place caused Mulder to instantly reconsider his decision to meet his informant in such a location. Dodging the remnants of what was obviously a fun party -- judging by the amount of empty beer bottles littering the steps -- he wondered how paranoid a hacker had to be to choose this fetid hellhole in which to talk. Although, thought Mulder, he was a friend of the Gunmen. That probably said it all. After entering though the brownstone's outer door, he carefully made his way through the dim hallway, fingers gingerly resting on the weapon hidden on his hip. He already had enough trouble following FBI rules without also getting riddled with bullets while lumbering through a D.C. drug house. He could just imagine his report: "While attempting to meet with, in Langly's words, 'a hacker blessed with gnarly kung fu,' who had purportedly obtained top-secret government computer files, some crackhead shot me." Luckily his informant warned Mulder about the part of town he was going to be in, so Mulder had left his suit at home and tried to blend in as much as a 6-foot tall Oxford-educated white man could in the ghetto -- by wearing ripped jeans, his old basketball sneakers with the torn soles, and the jacket that had had a fight with his apartment building's washing machine and lost. He was going for dope fiend, but undercover work wasn't his strong point. He'd have asked Scully for advice, but if she knew he was doing this alone she never would have let him go in the first place. He did, however, give his informant one of his aliases. Reynard Muldrake. He should have thanked Jose Chung for that one. Sighing, and hoping like hell he wasn't going to regret doing this, he found a rickety stairwell that led up to the second floor where his informant said he'd be. Ascending the broken steps while simultaneously trying not to touch the handrail was quite a feat, but one that had to be done. He was all for sticking his fingers in strange, alien-type globs of goo, but he drew the line at encountering something slimy and all together human-made on a handrail. Once he reached the second floor landing he could make out voices coming from one of the rooms off the hallway. Taking a deep breath, he followed the sound into the third room on his right, and tentatively entered. Five men and one woman all turned to look at Mulder. Two of the men, one of them his informant, stood near a filth-covered window, talking quietly. The others took a moment to stare, their glassy eyes barely registering Mulder's presence, before going back to their spoons and syringes. Mulder's informant nodded in his direction and then spoke to the tall, dreadlocked black man next to him, who didn't seem very happy to find a stranger interrupting his business. After a few pats on the shoulder and what sounded like words of assurance, the informant left the dealer and took Mulder's arm to steer him toward the hallway and into another room. "Cheez-It thinks you're bad for business." "Must be my cologne," Mulder commented dryly. "Sorry for the subterfuge, dude. I thought meeting here would be easier since I have some...business to attend to." Mulder frowned at the smaller man. "You didn't tell me we'd be meeting in a goddamn *shooting gallery*, Fee. What the hell is going on?" "Easy, bro," Fee said, brushing his unruly blonde hair from his eyes. "I don't shoot up. It's just where I come to score my weed. Cheez usually sticks to the hard stuff, but he sells me special orders from time to time. I've known him for years." "What's the hard stuff?" "The big H, man. Heroin. Cheez is Dominican, so his people run the stuff. He sells the good shit from South America. It's like, crazy pure and isn't cut down with junk like baby powder or sugar. He's a popular guy, Cheez." "Christ." "Yeah, well, I'm not into sticking shit in my veins. I just like to mellow," Fee said. "Wonderful," Mulder muttered. "I'm trusting a matter of national importance to a pot head." "I prefer 'herbal adventurer,' but whatever, dude. I have the stuff I promised you." Fee handed Mulder a bundle of data CDs in jewel cases. "That's everything I could pull from the FBI drive. Most of the files are really recent, like, only a few months old. Some go back as far as a year. I don't know how helpful they're gonna be to you, dude, but there you go." "Are they encrypted?" Mulder asked excitedly, turning the stack of discs in his hands. "I'm not sure, Rey. It's all in English, but it talks about shit I don't really understand, so who knows?" "What kind of stuff?" "I don't know, like, it talks about a bunch of contract killings, I think, and UFOs, and it mentions, uh, something about some Russian dude." "A Russian dude." "Yeah, it mentions this guy a couple of times, some former KGB operative, all 007 super-spy shit, but I can't remember his name. Whatever," Fee said, shaking his head. "You can read all of it for yourself." Mulder nodded and slipped the disc bundle into his jacket. "What do you want for them, Fee? Or do I have to ask, considering we're standing in a drug den?" "It doesn't take much to make me happy, Rey." He licked his lips and glanced back over his shoulder toward the hallway. "But after this I'm going to have to go way underground, like, persona non grata, you get me? I won't be able to attend to certain, ah, needs that I may have." Mulder rolled his eyes. "How much, Fee?" "Enough for a pound of..." "A *pound*?" "Dude, jeez, relax. I'm not getting caught, even though it's only a misdemeanor and six months. But," he grinned, "I've never been snagged, and I don't plan to be. And you're just giving me the cash, Rey, not making the buy. I give Cheez-It the money, and he gives me my BC Bud." "BC Bud?" "Yeah, dude, they grow it like, hydroponically in basements and houses in Vancouver, British Columbia. It's *way* strong. It's a bitch to get across the border, but Cheez-It has connections." "Fine," Mulder agreed, reaching into his pants for his wallet. "Really? Dude, the Gunmen said you were cool, but I wasn't sure." "How much is this going to set me back?" Mulder asked, flipping through the bills in his wallet. Fee glanced at him. "Um, way more than you have in there, I think." "How much could it possibly cost? A couple hundred dollars should..." "Dude, I thought you knew. BC Bud goes for $7,000 a pound." "What?!" Mulder squeaked. "Yeah," Fee chuckled. "That's why Cheez-It even allows me -- and by extension, you -- in this neighborhood. I'm a repeat customer...my computer business pays well and I have high-class tastes." "No shit," Mulder said, amazed. "But, uh...I don't think I can afford, um..." He held out three, $100 bills. "It's cool," Fee said, waving his hand, and then taking the cash. "The discs will be a donation, from me to you, because I like the Gunmen." They exited the room and made their way back through the hallway, toward Cheez-It's dealer room. "You're welcome to share the wealth, dude," Fee said. Mulder smiled but shook his head. "I'll leave it in your capable hands, 'herbal adventurer.'" When the two men returned to the room, Cheez-It was deep in conversation with another customer. Mulder hung back while Fee went to make the buy. "Yo, Cheez, I'm all about the Maple Leaf," Fee said, waving an envelope. Fee's announcement was met with a semi-automatic pistol being shoved at his stomach. "You're interrupting," the customer hissed. Mulder stopped dead in the doorway, that low, angry voice ringing unmistakably in his ears. The last time he heard it was months ago, at the point of a gun and wrapped around a haunting kiss. "Krycek." The man in the dark leather jacket looked up in Mulder's direction, and swallowed noticeably. "Krycek?" Fee echoed. "Hey, Reynard..." Pushing Fee aside with a hard shove while taking aim with his Glock at the same time, Krycek blasted at where Mulder was standing in the doorway. Mulder dove to the side of the door, the wood shattering and showering him with splinters from the bullet's impact with the doorjamb. The partygoers scattered at the sound of Krycek's gunshot, some running into a connecting room, while others, like Cheez-It, jumped through the window and out onto the fire escape. In the commotion, Krycek stepped over the fallen Mulder and ran down the hallway. "Rey, are you okay?" Fee yelled from his slumped position on the floor, where he landed after Krycek had tossed him aside. "Yeah..." Mulder called back, getting to his feet. He poked his head into the room. "Are you?" "You gotta go after that guy, Rey!" "I know, I..." "No, dude, that's the Russian guy! The name that's in the files! I recognized it when you called out to him. You know a KGB spy?" "I'll admit that's a new one to me," Mulder offered. "What?" "Long story," Mulder huffed, drawing his gun and taking off down the hallway. *** The brownstone was huge, with numerous rooms and a back stairwell that led down to the first floor. But the place was such a dump that most of the doors that had previously shuttered the rooms were gone, making Mulder's search somewhat easier. He swung his Sig into every doorway as he passed through the hall, senses alert and his hand shaking from the adrenaline rush. After checking the final room at the end of the hall, he jogged over and quickly ducked his head over the edge of the stair railing that went down to the first floor. Grateful his head didn't get blown off at that moment, he hopped over the rusted metal piping and took the steps two at a time to the floor below. His footfalls echoed over the stairs, sounding loud in the cavernous stairwell. But he then made out another sound. Someone -- Krycek no doubt -- was pounding frantically on a metal door at the opposite end of the hall on the first floor. He quickly reversed his route and shuffled up the stairs again, running back down the hallway in the direction he had come. He could take the steps at the far end of the hall to go back onto the first floor, and hopefully cut Krycek off before he could escape. Mulder mentally chastised himself for being followed, because if Krycek was the one after him, the discs must contain some really sensitive information. He thought he had been cautious enough; he had taken a bus and then walked the rest of the distance to the drug house. The bullet that had just missed his head -- courtesy of Krycek's gun -- made him think he wasn't nearly careful enough. Passing the rooms he had previously been in -- and silently wishing to himself that Scully were here -- he noted that Fee was nowhere to be found. Hopefully the goofy yet skilled hacker had a safe place to hide out. At the end of the hallway Mulder once again poked his head over the second battered, rusty railing, and descended the stairs carefully, trying to hide his approach. He could hear Krycek pounding on a metal exit door located a few feet away from the bottom of the stairwell. Ducking his head to pinpoint exactly where Krycek was, he noticed the other man tying in vain to dislodge the stuck exit door with his shoulder. Desperate now, Krycek was grunting angrily each time he came into contact with the door and it refused to budge. Again and again he hurled himself at the door, whimpering in frustration after every pass. With Krycek's full attention focused on trying to get the door open, Mulder was able to creep up behind the other man and slam against him. An elbow to the ribs drove Krycek headfirst into the metal door, his face making heavy contact with years of built-up rust and peeling paint. He yelped, and Mulder grabbed him by the back of the neck and repeated the move, while simultaneously shoving his gun into Krycek's side. Krycek swung wildly behind him with his good arm, the edge of his fist catching Mulder in the face. Mulder staggered, but kept his senses and kicked at Krycek's leg when the younger man attempted to run. Krycek stumbled to his knees, and Mulder turned and tackled him before Krycek could regain his balance. Krycek's gun went skittering across the carpet, and they ended up in a tangle of arms and legs, both of them fighting to gain the upper hand by throwing and blocking punches. Krycek kicked backward suddenly with his left leg, connecting with Mulder's midsection. Grunting, Mulder caught Krycek's boot as it met his stomach, and twisted. The man under him cried out, turning his body to the side and onto his back to prevent his knee from dislocating. Mulder immediately straddled him, driving his fist into Krycek's face once, twice, three times. Krycek held up his prosthetic to defend himself from Mulder's blows. "M-Mulder!" Mulder paused at the sound of Krycek's voice. "Why were you following me?" "What?" Krycek asked, confused. Mulder delivered a hard backhand to the side of Krycek's head. "Why were you following me, goddammit? Were you after the discs? Or Fee?" "A fee for what? I-I don't know what you're t-talking about, Mulder, I..." Mulder smacked him again, harder this time, despite Krycek's attempt to avoid the blow. "You tried to kill me for them. Why?" Mulder yelled at him. Krycek kicked his legs to try and dislodge Mulder from on top of him, but the man had him pinned and he could only curse loudly. Scowling in anger, he locked eyes with Mulder and then took a swing at him. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" Krycek screamed at the man hovering over him, who easily blocked the wild punch. "You've got this all wrong, Mul..." His attempt at an explanation was cut off by the sudden impact of Mulder's fist against the side of his jaw. A second later Krycek's eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out. After allowing himself a minute to catch his breath, Mulder ran his hand over his face and through his hair, contemplating what to do with the unconscious man trapped beneath him. He got up and retrieved Krycek's gun, sticking it into the waistband of his jeans. It was obvious Krycek was lying about how he just happened to show up in a drug den in the middle of a D.C. ghetto on a weekday afternoon. And Mulder finally had the upper hand for once, even if he did have to pummel Alex into a stupor to get it. He needed answers, and this time, Krycek was going to give them whether he wanted to or not. *** Mulder spent time carefully poring over the discs Fee had given him, double-clicking on anonymous-looking files, reading over what looked like personal memos, and digging through one entire disc made up of documents and links to websites that focused on weapons like sniper rifles, long-range carbines, and what types of silencers to use with which pistols. Other sites featured information on airport flight patterns, and the latest in high-tech spy gadgetry. It didn't take him long to find what Fee was referring to: Krycek's last name. Mulder grabbed a marker and highlighted it. Although the first name was different, his surname was peppered throughout one particularly lengthy document that detailed a trip he had taken to the U.S. as a former KGB agent on an assassination assignment. The pages of information were so descriptive that it almost read like a novel. It also spoke of locations Krycek had visited around the globe, the majority of which sounded Russian in origin. He didn't notice anything about UFOs during his quick glance, but with his interest piqued, he printed out one file and was about to begin delving into the material when he heard the noise. At first it started as a soft moaning, worked its way up to a whimpering, until Mulder finally had to get up and walk over to the source of the sounds when he heard the yelling. "If you scuff any of my loafers I'm going to be pissed, Krycek. I just had them shined." The noise stopped for a moment. "Mulder?" Krycek cried out from the inside of Mulder's hall closet. "Yes?" "I'm going to kill you, Mulder!" "With your hands -- oh, sorry, hand -- cuffed behind you in my locked closet? Highly unlikely." "You bastard, let me out of here!" Krycek pounded against the door, rattling its hinges. "You seem a little distressed, Alex." "Why are you doing this?" Krycek yelled, his voice muffled through the door. "Does taking a pot shot at my head ring a bell?" "God, Mulder, please!" Krycek was sounding panicked, his voice reaching a high pitch. Then the pounding against the door continued, along with Krycek's anguished cries. "It still surprises me how a sewer-dweller like you can be afraid of the dark *and* confined spaces," Mulder remarked calmly. "I never should have told you about that!" Krycek screamed. "Yeah, well, what else were we going to talk about in that gulag cell? Our feelings?" Mulder removed his computer desk that had been blocking the closet and drew the door open a crack to find Krycek cowering in the corner. "You're going to answer some questions if I let you out of there, Krycek, and you better tell me what I want to hear." "Fuck you, Mulder," Krycek spat. "Ooh, I think the rat needs to be stuffed back into his hole," Mulder replied, starting to shut the door. Krycek kicked against it. "Wait, wait!" He exhaled loudly, and then struggled to his knees. "All right, you son of a bitch. You win." "I'm good at this game," Mulder grinned. Krycek nearly pitched over onto his face when Mulder grabbed him roughly by the arm just as the other man was beginning to stand. Mulder then dragged him from the closet. "J-Jesus Christ," Krycek cursed, "I'm handcuffed, Mulder. I'm not going anywhere!" Mulder half-pulled and half-slid Krycek over to his couch, forcing him to sit. Krycek tried to adjust his arms to get comfortable, but Mulder had handcuffed both of his hands behind his back, making up for the lack of flexibility in the prosthetic by using two pairs of shackles. "Can you loosen the cuffs a little?" Krycek asked, grimacing in pain. "The prosthesis is cutting into..." "Let me think a second. No," Mulder interrupted. "Deal with it, you're tough." Krycek looked up at him from the couch, his eyes radiating hate. "Pretending you're a hard ass isn't going to make me cooperate, Mulder," Krycek growled. "You're probably right. How about this?" Mulder pulled his Sig from his hip and pointed it toward Krycek's foot. "We can start with your toes and work our way up. Is that incentive enough?" Krycek closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "What is this all about?" "You're kidding me, right? Playing dumb doesn't suit you, Alex." "And your tough-guy act is getting irritating," Krycek fired back, scooting forward on the couch. "I'm losing patience," Mulder warned. Krycek shrugged. "So shoot me -- the one-armed, handcuffed guy on your leather couch. That should go over well at the Bureau." Mulder strode over in two easy steps and gripped Krycek's throat, pushing him down onto the couch so that Krycek ended up on his back. Krycek squirmed underneath Mulder's hand, struggling against Mulder's weight crushing down on him. He began gasping for breath, and tried to speak. "What was that?" Mulder asked, letting up on the pressure somewhat. "Enough! Okay, I get it, ooh, you're scary," Krycek breathed, sucking in air. Mulder moved away and allowed him to sit back up on the couch. "Just ask your fucking questions already." "I want to know what you were doing at that brownstone." "It's kind of a long story I don't particularly feel like sharing." "Really. You don't feel like it? I've got time to hear it, believe me. I've also got a bucket I can put in the closet with you if you decide to go your usual route and start lying." Krycek frowned and tilted his head. "You'd do that, you sick fuck? After all the times I've helped you in the past..." "Oh please, spare me the sanctimonious holier-than-thou bullshit." The other man shifted uncomfortably on the couch, glancing over at the hall closet, and then back at Mulder's face. "I didn't know you were going to be there, Mulder," Krycek admitted. "Were you following me?" "No." "Why don't I believe you?" "Christ, believe whatever you want, all right? It had nothing to do with you and that pot-smoker." Mulder glared at him. "How did you know he smoked it? Were you sent after him?" "No! He told Cheez-It he wanted the Maple Leaf, which is Cheez's nickname for the BC Bud." "You seem to know a lot about Cheez-It for some reason." "We've done business in the past," Krycek sighed. "So being a murderer and a liar aren't enough? Now you're helping out a drug dealer too?" "Mulder," Krycek said quietly, "this has nothing to do with you. Just leave it." "Sorry," Mulder hissed, walking back to where Krycek sat on the couch. He hovered over him ominously. "Getting shot at tends to make me think this has *everything* to do with me." "I heard my name and reacted. I was jumpy. I didn't know it was you." Mulder bent down and lifted Krycek from the couch by the lapels of his leather jacket, dragged him across the apartment, and then slammed his back up against the wall. Krycek wailed in pain as his arms met the wall, his face collapsing into a mask of anguish. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, and the color drained from his face. "More lies," Mulder said angrily, driving Krycek into the wall again. "Why can't you just..." Suddenly Krycek went deathly pale, and slumped to his knees. He swayed slightly, and closed his eyes. "Don't you dare puke on my rug, Krycek..." Krycek winced and turned his head, then retched a small, round, purple- colored object onto the rug. After heaving twice more, he collapsed onto his side, and passed out again. Frowning, Mulder bent down to more closely inspect the strange objects Krycek had vomited up. Luckily it seemed as though Krycek hadn't eaten, because Mulder could identify three transparent purple balloons, each about the size of a bottle cap. Lifting one up to the lamp light, he instantly noticed an off-white powder, wrapped in plastic, within the balloon. Jesus. Instantly forgetting the discs and print-out on which Krycek's name appeared, Mulder looked down at the unconscious man at his feet, a sudden wave of revulsion and pity flowing through him. He now understood why Krycek was hesitant to admit why he was at the brownstone, and he also knew that he was probably telling the truth. Krycek was buying heroin. *** Mulder adjusted the blanket he had thrown over Krycek and leaned back in his chair. This was an interesting deviation from their usual push and pull tactics he thought, amused. Before tonight he would have had a murdering, lying, back-stabber passed out on his couch. Now, it was a murdering, lying, back-stabbing *junkie* as well. Their unique relationship had certainly taken an odd turn. Mulder's common sense told him to throw the unconscious man back into the street with the rest of the vermin, but compassion -- for Alex Krycek, as bizarre as that sounded -- got the better of him. He also had to wonder if this had anything to do with the information he had obtained from Fee. But how would Krycek's name have gotten into these files? Apparently someone high up in the FBI's echelon of command had access to such information, if what Fee said was true about how he hacked into the FBI mainframe. He had no cause no doubt him. The stolen files made no mention specifically of a drug-addicted one-armed assassin, but it certainly was possible that Krycek spent his time in Russia hunting down people for profit. Mulder wondered if it was the Cigarette Smoking Man, alias C.G.B. Spender, who had been stupid enough to have left such sensitive files on his office computer. Mulder always suspected a connection between Spender and Krycek, and although he never absolutely proved it, the Morleys in the ashtray of Krycek's car said it all. And frankly, Mulder was fascinated with Krycek's fall from grace, such as it was. The Syndicate's golden boy had a dirty little secret. With that thought Mulder bent down to more closely examine the purple balloons laid out on the coffee table. They looked like innocuous party favors until you got a good look at them. Why the balloons though, wondered Mulder. Was Krycek some kind of drug mule? No, that was impossible. Even a man like Krycek wouldn't degrade himself to transporting drugs in that manner. Mulder was no narcotics expert; he barely had any experience in the field outside of the required seminars and the occasional lecture on recent trafficking statistics. But he was pretty certain someone transporting drugs internally usually swallowed a whole hell of a lot more than three balloons. For everything Krycek had done, however, Mulder couldn't quite understand how he had taken the turn down this dark path. Perhaps it was inevitable that Krycek was bound to encounter this aspect of the underworld, based on the dregs of humanity with whom he often did business. Cheez-It was probably a saint compared to Krycek's other associates. Mulder glanced down at Krycek again, and curiously moved the blanket aside. He seemed thinner from the last time he saw him -- his clothes hung loosely, and his stubble-covered face looked sunken and gaunt. The omnipresent leather jacket Mulder had hung over the kitchen chair hid his condition, apparently. Mulder wondered when he had eaten last. He was breathing shallowly, and when Mulder lifted the edge of the man's T- shirt he could count ribs. Frowning, he traced the edge of one rib with an index finger, surprised to discover the emaciated, weakened state of the man he considered one of the most dangerous people he had ever met. At that moment Krycek became instantly awake, and his hand found Mulder's probing finger. He twisted his hand into a martial arts-type move and bent Mulder's finger into an awkward, painful angle. "You probably shouldn't move, unless you want your trigger finger permanently crooked," Krycek said, his head still resting against the pillow on the couch. Mulder grimaced and bit his lip. "This is called 'Chin Na Dui Da,' a form of joint locking taught with Northern Shaolin Chuan. That's 'kung-fu,' to you, Mulder, in case you're not up on your martial arts." "Uh-huh," Mulder breathed, afraid that if he even swallowed his finger would snap. Krycek tightened the muscles in his hand and increased the pressure against Mulder's finger with his thumb. "Maybe you should tell me what the hell I'm doing passed out on your couch." "It has to do with you vomiting up three balloons of heroin onto my rug," said Mulder, grunting in pain. Krycek immediately released Mulder and put his hand over his eyes. "Oh, fuck me," he exclaimed angrily. "Not until you clean up your puke," Mulder quipped in a snide tone. Krycek glared at Mulder, his eyes veiled and dangerous, and sat up on the couch. Mulder in turn slid back on his chair and began rubbing his finger. They remained like that until their eyes met, and Krycek glanced away quickly. "Thank you for uncuffing me," he said sullenly. "I should have left them on." "You probably should have searched me before doing it, too, since you missed the knife and the .22 in my boot." Mulder stared at him, wide-eyed, and went for his gun, but Krycek held up his hand. "Relax. If I didn't already kill you for sticking me in your fucking closet, I'm not going to now." Krycek closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch. "But if you get that idea in your head again, I just might." "Sorry about that." "No you're not." "You're right," Mulder admitted, "but I didn't know..." Krycek opened his eyes. "I told you about all that shit I went through in the silo, Mulder. How I screamed myself hoarse into the emptiness, how I ripped the buttons off my sweater and made a game out of finding them in the darkness, how I fucking *pissed* myself with fear in that place..." "You didn't do that in my closet, did you?" Krycek blinked. "God, you are such an asshole," he spat angrily. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard that...But I wasn't talking about the closet. I meant I didn't know about your new extracurricular activities." Mulder nodded at the purple balloons that stood out in stark contrast against the pile of week-old magazines and newspapers on his coffee table. Krycek's eyes flitted to Mulder's again, and they drew away just as quickly to glance at the heroin balloons. "Do you want to talk about it?" "You've got to be kidding me, Mulder. What, are you enjoying this?" "After you almost blew my head off, it's payback to watch you suffer a little, to be honest." "Stupid son of a bitch," Krycek hissed. "I missed on purpose." "Or maybe you were just too focused on your little purple friends over here to get off a clean shot." "Maybe," Krycek admitted. "That still doesn't explain why your name is in those files," Mulder pointed out, gesturing over to his computer desk. "Mulder," Krycek sighed in exasperation, "the reason I was at the brownstone is sitting here on your coffee table, thanks to your characteristically gentle touch. What in the *hell* are you talking about? What files?" "The reason *I* was at the brownstone, in case you were wondering." "Not really, but feel free to enlighten me." "I was meeting with a hacker who said he broke into the FBI mainframe and lifted some interesting files about UFOs." "Big surprise there. And you trusted a hacker that wanted to meet in a heroin drug den?" Krycek asked incredulously. "I think aliens are the least of your problems, Mulder. First launch an investigation into why you're so dumb." "Shut up, Krycek. He was just buying weed." "But you didn't know that until after you got there, right?" Mulder looked at Krycek blankly, and then he became annoyed at himself because Krycek was indeed correct. "Shut up." "And I bet you even paid him..." Mulder just sighed. "Yeah, I thought so," Krycek chuckled darkly. "But I'll behave, because I want to know why my name is in those files. How do you know they're genuine?" "They came to me through trusted sources," Mulder answered, not willing to mention the Gunmen's connection to Fee. "They're real enough. What I'm more interested in is your status as a KGB agent." "What?" Krycek asked, the sound of voice indicating he was clearly surprised at the statement. Mulder got up and padded over to his desk, where several pieces of paper were strewn about. He found the one he had marked up earlier and handed it to Krycek. "I guess you go by your middle name, Dmitri?" Krycek scanned the page and then began laughing, stopping only when he couldn't catch his breath, and then he began to cough. He cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. "Oh, thanks for that, Mulder. I appreciate all the trouble you went through to give me that laugh." "What are you talking about?" "Where're the rest of the pages?" Krycek asked, still laughing. "You're telling me you aren't the Dmitri Krycek that's mentioned in those pages, then?" Mulder asked, tossing the remaining pages at Krycek on the couch. "I can't believe he's still writing this shit," Krycek muttered, almost to himself, as he read through the pages. Then he looked up at Mulder and handed the stack of papers back to him. "Mulder, my name isn't Dmitri. I was never a member of the KGB. And the man I was supposed to kill -- as it says here -- on my mission to hide the truth about UFOs was not named Jack Colquitt. Don't you realize what this is? Look through the discs the pothead gave you and tell me if you come across the name Raul Bloodworth." Mulder walked back over to his computer and sat down. He shook the mouse and began hitting keys, quickly glancing over the information as it flashed across his screen. "Okay, here's the name." Mulder turned to look back at Krycek. "Now you want to tell me what the hell is going on?" "It's Spender, Mulder. He's a writer -- although I use the term loosely -- and that's his nom de plume. This hacker of yours stole nothing but Spender's latest attempt at another one of his formulaic 'Jack Colquitt' spy novels, and he apparently borrowed my last name for this KGB assassin Dmitri." "Fuck me," Mulder cursed. "Not until you get smarter," Krycek replied. Mulder swiped at the desk angrily, and the papers scattered all over the floor. He then got up and returned to his chair next to the couch. Collapsing into it, he ran his fingers through his hair in irritation. "I hope you didn't pay too much for this crap," Krycek said. "Spender may be a ruthless tactician when it comes to Syndicate dealings, but he couldn't plot his way out of a paper bag." So for all of his planning and time spent in that roach-infested hole, Mulder had nothing to show for his efforts. It was a complete waste of time, as well as his $300. He was going to have to have a talk with the Gunmen about what happened, although he suspected Fee had been honest about where he got the files, considering what Krycek told him. He couldn't believe he had gotten excited over a goddamn *spy* novel. Christ. Sighing, Mulder glanced up at Krycek where he was sitting on the couch. "What?" "I'm trying to decide what to do with you," Mulder answered. "I have an idea -- leave me the hell alone. My problems are my own. You got your answers, now let me go." "In the condition you're in?" "What am I, some sort of stray dog, Mulder?" "Stray dog sounds about right. You're skin and bones, Alex. It doesn't look like you've eaten in a while, you're addicted to heroin, you shot at me, and on top of that you puked all over my rug. Can you get any more pathetic?" Krycek bristled. "You forgot to mention I murdered your father," he remarked coldly. "I'm trying to help," Mulder replied, struggling to contain his temper. "Why?" "Why what?" "Why are you trying to help?" "Because you'd never ask for it. You need *someone's* support, and right now I'm all you have." Krycek scoffed and shook his head. "So," Mulder tried again, "do you want to talk about it?" "If it will distract you from running your fingers over my ribs again," Krycek mumbled. Mulder blushed and found something interesting on the toe of his shoe. "I'll see if I can find you something to eat," he said awkwardly, beginning to get up. "Mulder, wait," Krycek said, halting him by touching the finger he had previously been twisting on the other man's hand, "you weren't -- I mean, you're..." Sighing deeply, he released Mulder's finger and looked down. "You, uh, can you just bring me broth or something? I'm not up to eating right now." "Sure you don't want a bone or some kibble?" The man on the couch made a face in response. "Resigning yourself to your fate at my hands, then?" Krycek shrugged. "I'm not strong enough to fight you." He looked up at Mulder. "For now." Mulder nodded, and headed into the kitchen. *** Mulder set the bowl of warm broth down on top of an old newspaper. He tossed a package of crackers next to it. "I thought this would be light enough for your stomach to handle," Mulder said, "unless you plan on horking up any more of your muled drugs." Krycek was attempting to bring the spoon to his lips in order to sip the broth as Mulder spoke, but his hand was shaking too much. Abandoning that method, he then tried to use both hands to pick up the bowl. The broth splashed and soaked the newspaper, spilling when Krycek tried to get his trembling hand to cooperate. He cursed and slammed his prosthetic against the couch. "Problem?" "I'm, uh, coming down," Krycek admitted, holding up his twitching hand. "I didn't get a chance..." Mulder grimaced. "To shoot up." Krycek nodded and sighed. "Yeah, but I'm not muling drugs, Mulder. You watch too many bad TV movies." "Then why..." "It's so that if I'm caught by the cops for some reason they don't find it. It's a common practice -- once you buy the balloons you just pop them into your mouth for safekeeping." "But you swallowed them." "That's because you showed up, Mulder. I didn't want you to find it on me." "Because that would add to your charges?" "No." Krycek hesitated, unsure of what to say. He didn't meet Mulder's eyes. "Wait," Mulder said, "are you telling me you swallowed that stuff because you were *embarrassed*?" Krycek's shoulder raised almost imperceptibly. "Unbelievable." "I'm not proud of having to sneak around like an addict, Mulder," Krycek said angrily. Mulder scoffed. "And now the sweaty man with the shakes who needs his fix is telling me he isn't an addict. You're such a liar, Krycek." "It isn't like that!" Krycek yelled at Mulder. "Then tell me how it is, Alex!" Mulder yelled back. "Talk to me, help me understand why you're doing this to yourself, because honestly it disturbs the hell out of me." Mulder leaned forward in his chair and put his arms on his knees. "And it bothers me that I was beating on you when you're obviously not in control of your actions." "It's never stopped you before." "That was before I knew you were killing yourself with this shit," Mulder said harshly, shaking the newspaper on which the balloons sat. "I still don't understand why you care, Mulder. I thought you wanted me dead." Mulder took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Propping his hand on his chin, he answered, "Y'know, we only worked together for a short time before...before everything changed between us, but I believe even you are above destroying yourself with that poison in your veins." Krycek shifted his head to watch Mulder's fish swimming lazily inside the small bookshelf fish tank. He studied them, mesmerized as they darted back and forth through the plastic plants and rising bubbles. "Alex?" Krycek turned back at the sound of his name. "Will you talk to me?" Mulder asked. "You want all the details about how fucked-up my life is?" Mulder sighed. "I'll buy the book. Just tell me the parts about the heroin." Mulder got up and motioned for Krycek to move to the opposite end of the couch so he could sit down. Picking up the soup bowl, he held it up to Krycek. "Here." "Yeah, we've been through this already." "No, here, I'll..." "I don't want you feeding me, Mulder!" Krycek protested, finally getting it. "Well, I don't have a straw for you, Alex, and I'm not going to spoon- feed you, so open your damn mouth and try not to bathe yourself in chicken stock, okay? God, why must everything be such a battle with you?" "I don't know any other way when you're around," Krycek admitted, tipping his head forward unenthusiastically. Mulder brought the bowl up to his lips, but Krycek pulled away. "This is only because I value your leather couch," he said, eyeing Mulder. "Just drink the damn soup, Krycek." Krycek sipped cautiously, then swallowed. He licked his bottom lip and nodded. "All right?" Mulder asked. "Either you're talented at boiling soup or my stomach has settled, I'm not sure which." "I'm fine with the latter. Now talk." Krycek slammed the package of crackers against the edge of the coffee table to open them. He crunched on one and gestured for more soup. Mulder brought the bowl to the younger man's lips. "And after you clean my rug, you can vacuum up your cracker crumbs, too, asshole." "Mmph," Krycek answered, swallowing. "It started in Russia." "The heroin habit?" "Actually, it started with morphine. After the loss of the arm, I was on high doses for the pain. When I was first brought to the hospital, I was placed into an induced coma for three weeks in an attempt to save my life, because by the time they found me the arm had become infected and my kidneys nearly shut down from sepsis. Then I got pneumonia from being intubated and on the ventilator for such a long time." Mulder could only nod silently as Krycek recounted the horrors of the past few months of his life. "But for some reason I survived, and then it took three surgeries to repair the arm enough to even allow it to heal, much less get it fitted for a prosthesis. After that it was skin grafts, scar tissue removal, rehabilitation, and getting this thing," Krycek tapped his left arm, "that still doesn't fit me correctly. I was in constant, blinding pain - - pain so bad that I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep...I ceased to function. They put me on high doses of morphine, along with synthetic painkillers like Dilaudid, Dolophine, and Percodan -- but even then it wasn't enough." Mulder nodded, brought the bowl to Alex's lips again, and continued to listen. "And then the money ran out. I was already 'off the grid,' you could say, and couldn't rely on my previous employers for help. I had to leave the hospital, so I did what I had to in order not to eat my own gun. Heroin is a derivative of morphine, only stronger and easier to get on the street. Morphine is difficult to come by if you don't have hospital connections, but heroin can be found on any street corner from Moscow to D.C. When I came back to the States I found Cheez-It the night I paid you a visit here." "The night you kissed me, you mean." "The night I kissed you, yeah," Krycek said, rolling his eyes. "It was the night I told you about the entire conspiracy and an alien war, too, but that's all you seem to remember." "It was hard to forget, Alex," Mulder admitted, looking at him. He lifted the bowl to Krycek's mouth, and the other man stared at him while he finished the soup. Krycek drank down the last of the broth and placed his hand over Mulder's to let him know that he was finished. Mulder's eyes were still on him when Krycek licked his bottom lip and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "You hadn't seen me in such a long time, but I was surprised you didn't notice I was using just from how I looked, Mulder. Sweaty, nervous..." "My lack of perception may have been a result of the gun you had leveled at my head at the time." Krycek grinned and sat back on the couch. Mulder turned to look at him. "If you don't want to answer, I'll understand, but I assume you inject this shit? How exactly do you inject heroin..." Mulder glanced at him and his eyes made a quick sweep over the prosthesis that hung lifeless from Krycek's shoulder. He trudged ahead with the question anyway, trying not to be too blunt. "How exactly do you do it with only one arm?" Krycek sighed and closed his eyes. "It's become more popular lately to snort it or smoke it, so you don't have to deal with needles, spoons, cotton wads, and cooking the shit until it can be pulled into a syringe. But I can't afford to waste it, because I'm not earning as much money as I did in the past, and snorting it takes too long to get that rush. Mainlining is the best method." "Mainlining, like into a vein. But how do you inject it into your arm?" "I don't, Mulder." "You...I don't understand." "Are you sure you want to?" Mulder crossed his arms and nodded. "I meant what I said about wanting to help." "I know, which makes me wonder if you're not shooting up yourself. Or at least smoking something." "Krycek..." Krycek stood up and began unbuckling his belt. Mulder startled and sat up on the couch. "What are you..." Next he unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down. He shimmied his hips and let the material fall around his ankles, so that he was standing there in his black briefs. "Alex, what the hell are you..." Krycek merely turned closer to Mulder, and pointed to the crease where his thigh met his crotch. "I inject it into my groin, Mulder...my feet, my calves if I can find a vein, the backs of my knees." He turned his head and bent his neck to the side. "I've mainlined it into my neck a few times, though that's when I'm really desperate. I'm dependent on the drug, but I'm not a junkie, you need to understand that." Mulder stared, open-mouthed, at the small puncture wounds along the inside of Krycek's thigh. "My God, Krycek, how can you say that while you're standing there showing me the needle tracks in your fucking *groin* for Chrissakes?" Krycek reached down and brought his jeans back up to his waist. "Because I need it to function, to live without pain, Mulder. I don't take it just for the high. That's the difference between me and an addict." He sat down again and rested his head on the back of the couch. "Do you really believe that, Alex?" Krycek exhaled loudly and shifted slightly. Mulder turned to him. "Is it easier for you to think that all you're doing is using this as a way to manage pain, rather than using it to slowly kill yourself?" "Next time I get my arm hacked off I'll consult your code of ethics to be sure you're not disappointed in me," Krycek muttered, not looking at him. "Then tell me what it's like." "What?" "Shooting up. The high. How does it feel?" "It's for the pain..." "Yeah, I heard that part," Mulder acknowledged. "Now I want to hear why you keep doing it. Explain it to me. The feeling...what goes through your mind and body when it's happening?" Krycek scowled at him. "You're profiling me." "Merely trying to understand." Krycek shivered and wiped sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "God, Mulder...you don't even know me." Mulder blinked. "You're right," he said honestly. "I don't know you. It's been years since we were partnered together." "Christ, I didn't tell you anything about myself when we were partners either, dumb ass," Krycek scoffed. "I was supposed to be spying on you, remember?" "Good job with that, by the way. Hope you got a bonus." "Very funny." "Listen, I really am just trying to help," Mulder repeated. "Then maybe I should have told you about my sad heroin story before you locked me in the closet?" "Hmm, maybe. I would have moved my shoes." "Fucker." "Just tell me." Krycek's eyes drifted back to the fish, and he sat there for a few moments watching the creatures make slow circles around the tank. "It's like floating," he admitted quietly. "It starts with the rush -- your stomach feels like it's fluttering, and then it moves lower, like the best orgasm you've ever had in your life. You feel like a warm blanket has been wrapped around you, you feel safe, and you can't feel any pain." The revelation hung between them without comment, and Mulder allowed it, if only to give himself time to process what he had just heard. Finally, he spoke. "You *are* an addict, Alex. Listen to yourself -- alleviating pain was the last thing you mentioned." "What the hell do you know about shit like this, Mulder?" Krycek asked in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the fish. "You don't know about real pain, or torment, or eating from garbage cans. You don't know what's it like to wake up in the morning and wish you could have died in your sleep. You haven't seen the effects of true darkness or violence. It begins to eat at you, Mulder, as you try to balance the man you are with the man you were supposed to be. Do you know what it's like to be at the mercy of another's whim, like a petulant child who's being reprimanded, only instead of being sent to bed without dinner you can end up with a bullet in your brain? It's like living a half-life -- never having control, never being able to see the end of the tunnel." He turned on the couch to face Mulder, and picked up a purple balloon from the coffee table. "Sometimes this is the only thing that gets me through my days. It keeps the physical pain under control, and yeah, it helps with the emotional pain, too. But it's easy to make believe I'm normal when this stuff gets inside me, y'know? I've gotten so broken that I never noticed when everything important left me -- and now it's too late to get any of it back. I don't even know why I'm still fighting." Krycek closed his eyes again and swallowed. "Lately I'm beginning to think I deserve every bit of pain I've been forced to go through." Mulder studied Krycek's face as he said that. This was more than just about the heroin -- Krycek was trying to tell him something. Even with his eyes closed he looked tense and alert, and it was now obvious to Mulder that it had been some time since he shot up. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and he looked pale again. And with the frequent bouts of shivering, his heroin withdrawal symptoms were becoming more pronounced. "Why do you think you deserve pain, Alex?" "Because as time went on it was always easier to go with the money and power instead of doing what was right." "You've helped me in the past, though," Mulder pointed out. "Sometimes it was for personal gain. It wasn't always about being heroic." "What did you get out of helping me, then?" Krycek opened his eyes and caught the openly curious look on Mulder's face, but he turned away again. "Your profiling skills need work, Mulder." "What does that mean?" "Can we get back to the heroin addiction conversation again?" Krycek asked, annoyed. "In a minute. Answer my question." "Fuck. Fine. The night I visited to tell you about Wiekamp Air Force Base I was doing what was right." "Yeah, so?" "And the reason I kissed you was for personal gain." "The reason you..." Krycek glanced sideways to catch Mulder's reaction, but instead of finishing what he was saying the other man was reaching down to pick up the blanket Krycek had knocked to the floor earlier. He shook the blanket once slightly, and then slid his hand to the small of Krycek's back. "M-Mulder?" They were so close together on the couch that their shoulders were touching, but Mulder leaned over even farther. "Sit up a little," Mulder said gently. "We need to get this blanket around you, Alex. You're shaking." Krycek allowed Mulder to slide the blanket over him. "I don't think it's only from the heroin." "I don't think so either," Mulder admitted, catching Krycek's eye. "What does that mean?" "It means that I know." "You know?" "I think I kind of always knew...except maybe this is what it took to really open my eyes." "Wait, what are we talking about here?" Krycek asked. "We're talking about us. Whenever we're together you've always talked about us, I just never realized it before. All the things you've done, everything you've suffered...why not just leave all this behind, go on the run, and be safe? It hit me as you were telling me how you never noticed when everything important left you. But it's not too late to get it all back, Alex. I'm not going anywhere." Krycek smirked, and then scoffed at Mulder. "Yeah, okay. I don't know what the hell you're talking about. W-What the fuck, Mulder?" Mulder reached out and placed his hand on Krycek's left shoulder. "Deny it, then." "What?" "Tell me you wish you hadn't kissed me that night." For all of Krycek's bravado, he couldn't look at Mulder. "You know I'm a good liar," he said, his eyes downcast. Mulder reached for Krycek's other shoulder and faced him. "You're not *that* good, Alex." Krycek glanced at the ceiling and sighed loudly. "Christ, we got along so much better when you would just punch me and be done with it." "Things change." "Not that much, Mulder." "So? Then tell me you don't feel something for me." Mulder smoothed the blanket slightly over Krycek's bad arm. "This has building for years...can you lie when it counts this much?" "Does it matter?" Krycek asked hotly. "Even if I admitted it were true and that I have loved you since we were first partnered together, it's not like you would love me back. How could you?" "I could, Alex. And I think I just got my answer." Krycek cocked his head and stared at Mulder with an odd look. "I think the withdrawal's getting worse...now I'm having auditory hallucinations." "No, you heard me right..." "Mulder, you're..." "Seeing things clearly for the first time," Mulder answered. "I'm finally realizing exactly what it is that has been simmering between us all these years." "Hatred? Anger? Deceit?" "Companionship. Desire. Need." "Violence," Krycek said. "Lust." "You're fucking freaking me out, Mulder." "Alex. You've been fighting to stay alive all this time, for what? Money? Power? You told me how shitty your life has been...why not just give up?" Krycek looked into Mulder's eyes for the first time. "I...I don't really know." "Now you're lying." "You're the only one who could ever really tell," Krycek smirked. He looked down at his left arm, lying lifeless against the black leather of the couch, and touched it gently. "I thought the heroin would dull the pain of losing this." Then Krycek reached up and touched Mulder's cheek. "And losing you." When Mulder didn't pull away, Krycek simply let his hand remain, his thumb idly brushing the stubble across Mulder's chin. "I don't understand this," he admitted quietly. "I don't think I have an answer for you, Alex, but I know before we move ahead we need to do this together." "Do what?" "Get you off the heroin." "I know," Krycek said, and he dropped his hand. Mulder took Krycek's hand in his own. "You'll have me to rely on, now. It's going to be difficult, but I know you have the strength to do it." "How do you know that?" "You could always beat me with one hand." Krycek laughed darkly and shook his head. "The withdrawal symptoms are already getting worse." "I'm not going anywhere. We can get you into a program, get started on the methadone..." "Tomorrow, Mulder." Krycek slid down on the couch and leaned over onto Mulder's lap. He closed his eyes. "We'll talk about that tomorrow, all right? Just...hold onto me for a while, okay?" Mulder drew Krycek closer and put his hand lightly on top of the other man's head. "Yeah, tomorrow. No more pain, I promise." "And I'll clean up my puke tomorrow, too. No locking me in the closet, either," Krycek mumbled, already half-asleep. Mulder laughed softly. "Not this time, my friend," he said, looking at the evil purple balloons that still remained on his coffee table. "I got you. Now go to sleep." Mulder threaded his fingers through Krycek's hair, and leaned over to whisper into his ear. "I'm not going anywhere, Alex. I got you." Exeunt *** Heroin links: U.S. Department of Justice heroin study: Marijuana laws in D.C.: BC Bud links: Medical links: For more on Chin Na Dui Da or Northern Shaolin Chuan (I hold a gold sash): China Hand Kung Fu |
Falling Down Lifeby RhymePhile |