In Too Deep

Oh, Alex. This is what they call in too deep.

How can I still be alive with a fucking bullet in my head? Maybe I'm not alive. Maybe I'm dead and I just don't know it yet.

Well, in that case, life is just peachy. Or maybe that would be death.

Fuck, that hurts. I must still be alive, or else trying to move wouldn't hurt so much.

It's not my whole body that hurts. It's more like my head. And why would that be? Because that bastard Skinner just put a bullet in it.

Well, I'll just lie here and wait for my brain to stop functioning. Maybe I should reflect a little on my poor excuse for a life. It would be appropriate, I guess. Like anyone but me is going to write me a eulogy.

Too many mes.

I'm fading a little. I need to jump back in time quick, or I'll never make it back to the present.

I guess you could say that I was in too deep from the start. I thought it was a simple surveillance job, but it turned into too much too quickly.

I saved her life, you know. Scully's, I mean. Just a few hours ago. She never would have made it out of here without me. And so they shoot me in thanks. I can't really deny that I deserved it. I mean, I've done a lot of things to all of them in the past, and one little escape isn't going to atone for it.

But I've taken my own share of crap. FUCK! My right arm is stiffening up. Fuck, that hurts.

Still breathing, Alex, still breathing. I've got a little time.

He had me kill them. That tram operator and Duane Barry. And as I was doing it, I knew that nothing would be right from that moment on. But I fought against it. I wanted it to be right, but whenever I tried to make it that way, I just fucked things up more.

He made me run. The cigarette smoking bastard made me run for my life. And knowing Mulder like I do now, that's probably good. He would have beaten me to a pulp if I had stayed around there any longer.

Of course, that didn't save me the experience.

I ran from place to place, trying to sort out how to make it right. I did odd jobs to keep myself alive, and then he called upon me again. To kill Mulder's father.

I still don't know where the bullet came from. Everything slowed down. It could have come from my own gun. No matter how many times I checked the clip afterwards, I could never remember how many bullets I had had before I walked into his house. The bullet could have come from outside, it could have from the fucking clouds, for all I care. I don't remember killing him, so I always tell Mulder that I didn't do it.

I know that I didn't murder Scully's sister. That was my idiot partner. But why does that matter? I can't make any sense of it, especially with a hole in my head. Nothing ever made sense anyway.

I've taken my share of crap for you, Mulder. They tried to fucking blow me up, but I avoided that with only a few scrapes to speak of. Oh, and then they left me in the silo. I remember being unconscious and then waking up alone. How the hell did I get out of there? Divine intervention? Bullshit. I'm just lucky, I guess.

Oh yes, and then there were the beatings that led me to Tunguska and the Russians who cut off my fucking left arm, all because I wanted to protect you from the virus by inoculating your sorry ass.

Tunisian prison, making out with that bitch Marita. When all I really wanted to do was make out with you, Spooky. OW! FUCK! I just tried to laugh. It doesn't work with a bullet between your eyes.

Yeah, that's right, Mulder. I had a thing for you. Have, I guess. I'm still alive, after all. And I guess that's what it came down to. I wanted to do the right thing, and the only right thing that I could make any sense of was loving you. Why do you think I let you whoop my ass so many times? I didn't have to show up, I didn't have to be your punching bag. I did it because I love you, in some twisted, fucked up way, I can't get enough of you. That's why I didn't pull the trigger just now. A part of you has to know that.

Christ, I thought that this was supposed to be my eulogy, not a declaration of love to Fox Mulder. I guess that things aren't always what they seem. The understatement of the year.

Why am I not dead yet? It doesn't make sense. Shit. Everything's spinning. I can't fucking keep my eyes open anymore. Aahh.

Alex Krycek sat straight up in the makeshift bed he was in, sweat covering his naked body under the tattered sheets. He gripped the handful of rags in his god hand and took a deep breath.

Well, if that wasn't the most fucked up dream I've ever had, he thought to himself. But that's all it had been. A dream. And he had woken up. In one piece.

Well. Never mind the technicality.

He stood up and put on his clothes before grabbing the keys and heading out the door.

Krycek stared up at Skinner, fully realizing what he had brought upon himself.

"Well, shit, I really was the clairvoyant today," he mumbled, fumbling for the gun with his nonexistent left arm.

The shot was quick and paralyzing, and as he sank onto the cold pavement, listening to the echoing footsteps that were Mulder fade away, a small smile fixed itself on his lips.

*Maybe this time I'll die faster.*

Everything faded to black.