Too quickly.
Seven years too late.
Thirty years in the waiting.
He was unique. It was his salvation. It was also the mark that shone from
him, drawing his enemies as quickly as his allies.
Stepping into the circle of light, he smiled faintly as his brothers and
sisters smiled at him. Walter Skinner's voice faded into the background. He
turned, and stilled, looking up at the circle of lights above him, washing
them all in purest white. Motion rippled through the people beside him. A
space opened, and a man stepped into it.
He knew that face.
Knew those eyes.
They were calm. Staring back at him. Serene blue watching him from a face
that could have been hewn from granite but in actuality had the facility of
ceramic slip, free to reconfigure itself into any form required.
Mulder didn't smile, but inside, something began to hum. The residual effect
of the black oil alien, perhaps, or his own unique hybrid blood. Something
recognized the being in front of him in a way nothing else could.
Part of that something wanted to kill the bounty hunter. Called to him,
implored him, shrieked at him. Another part wanted to join the bounty
hunter. Go home, rest, surrender. It whispered to him, cajoled, crooned at
him.
He fought them both down. Kept his face expressionless, an even better mask
than the alien could manage. He nodded, a bare acknowledgement, then closed
his eyes and took a deep breath, preparing himself as best he was able to
begin the next phase of the operation. As the group ascended to the ship,
the single thought speared him before he could stifle it.
He was in.
Nine days earlier, Forj Siti Toui, Tunisia
A filthy hand insinuated itself against his ass, and he twisted, catching
the thumb in his right hand and dislocating it. The owner screamed and
pulled away, completing the move Krycek had begun. Behind him he heard a
babble of Turkish, Greek and Egyptian. Someone was explaining to the new
guy.
Don't mess with the Russian.
Yeah, he only had one arm, and he wasn't real tall, or bulky, but anyone
who'd been around for more than a few days knew the basics. He slept
lightly, when he slept at all. Didn't seem to need much. Was possessed of a
demon that shone from his eyes, and bad things happened to men who tried to
take him. The newcomer was lucky he had gotten away with a mere broken hand.
He could have become a pile of bones.
Krycek glanced over his shoulder. Lisando, a smuggler from Malaga, was
speaking rapidly into the new man's ear. The man's face was white with shock
and pain, but his eyes weren't promising retribution.
They were seeing Hell.
Krycek turned back to the knot of men gathering at the bars. The Commandant
of the prison fort was bringing in a visitor, and from the sound of the
jeers, it was a woman. A foreign woman. He ducked into the crowd, angling to
see without being seen.
He nearly broke cover when he saw the bright blonde hair of the visitor. The
last time he'd seen Marita Covarrubias, she'd looked like a ghoul, a walking
corpse. He'd left her there to die.
At least he hadn't actually finished her off.
She was looking much better. Fine enough for the inmates to be howling like
dogs in heat. He remembered fucking her.
Dogs in heat was an apt description. Perhaps wolves would be closer, but
wolves were much too... noble for the likes of the two of them.
Hyenas, perhaps.
He smiled, internally, at the joke, then pushed his way forward as she
called out, in English, that his release had been arranged. He stared at
her.
"Last time I saw you," he rasped, "I left you for dead."
She almost smiled at him. He could see it in the minute tightening of the
muscles around her eyes. They were blue again, not the black, sunken pits
they'd been. She'd been so close to death. But then, she'd always been a
survivor. Another thing they had in common.
"If it was strictly up to me," she answered readily enough, "I'd leave you
here to rot, too."
He didn't doubt it.
The guard beat the other inmates back as he ducked out of the narrow opening
of the door. He nearly got the edge of his shirt caught as it clanged shut.
They didn't speak as they walked down the short hall to the shower. He
stripped, completely unselfconscious in his nudity, and made careful note of
her expression. She was dispassionate as always, but her eyes lingered on
the scars at the base of his stump. She'd had a fascination with it whenever
they'd had sex, intrigued by the sensitivity of the shiny tissues. He
stepped under the spray and gasped as the cold water poured over his head.
It felt obscenely good to wash away at least the top layer of grime from the
last year.
Catching his breath, still raspy, he demanded, "Who sent you?" As if he
didn't know. He awaited her confirmation, and got it.
"The smoking man."
He choked off a laugh before it could develop. One hand taketh, the other
giveth, casting the old bastard as God. If Krycek's conception of God
included Hell as His domain.
Not surprisingly, it did.
Her voice broke into his ironic thoughts. "He's dying."
That brought his head up. What of the shape-shifters? And the hybridization
experiments that had killed Diane and nearly killed Mulder? How could the
old man have gone downhill so fast? The experiments must have failed. He
felt a savage satisfaction at the thought.
The bastard couldn't die fast enough.
Toweling off with the rags the guard threw at him, he dressed in the clothes
Marita had brought him. It felt strange not to feel bugs crawling in the
folds of the material. His crotch itched, and he resisted the urge to
scratch. Get the fuck out of Tunisia, get into a real shower and delouse
himself.
Then he'd see to the cigarette smoking son of a bitch.
Three days later, FBI Headquarters, Washington DC
The bean counter was serious. Mulder stared at the man, sitting in his bland
suit with his bland expression and his bland eyes behind his bland glasses,
and seriously considered throttling him with his bland necktie.
Did the idiot seriously think that the Truth was to be found in a cubicle at
NASA? Wading through SETI printouts? Barely restraining himself from leaning
over the desk and force-feeding the accountant his own cost analysis sheets,
Mulder practically levitated from the chair and stomped out of the office.
By the time he got to the basement, he could breathe again without that
strange whistling sound as the air compressed through his teeth. As he
walked into the office and faced Scully, he could actually unclench his jaw
far enough to talk. It was a close thing.
He made a joke about assaulting the accountant, seeing complete
understanding in Scully's big blue eyes. Before they could launch into
creative ways of padding the expenses that would make a traditional X File
look, well, traditional, the telephone rang.
Billy Miles' voice took him back. Seven years, to the beginning of his
partnership with Scully, in fact. Billy's voice was shaking. They both
responded with instinctive support. Scully sounded positively motherly. A
distinct change from her initial reaction to their first Oregon adventure.
But then, they'd both been through a lot in the ensuing seven years.
When Billy cut the connection abruptly, Mulder's trouble-radar pinged in
four part harmony. He was gathering his coat and heading for the door as he
spoke. "More alien abductions, Scully."
She moved in sync with him. "I don't know how we could possibly justify the
expense."
He carefully controlled his smile at her dry tone. "We'd probably turn up
nothing." He held the door for her.
"Let's go waste some money," she declared as she sailed through the door.
He was behind her all the way.
One day later, Washington DC
The flight in to Dulles was uneventful. Krycek hung back and watched as
Marita handled all the details, taking care of their rental car, passing
them through customs. He shifted his left shoulder, settling his new
prosthetic arm more firmly in place. It felt good, better than the crap he'd
had foisted off on him in Moscow. The cup under his stump had decent
padding, and the straps were wider and better adjusted so they didn't cut
into his skin. It felt almost like a shoulder holster. Looked, almost, like
a real hand.
His balance was a little off after a year with only one arm, and the new one
was damned heavy, but he adapted quickly. He always had. By the time they
were climbing the stairs to the Cancerman's apartment, he was moving with
his old lethal grace. Marita noticed. She always did. She didn't mention it.
He didn't, either.
His first glimpse of the old man was a shocker. She'd said he was dying, but
he looked like he'd already died. He had a trachea tube stuck in the base of
his throat, and his voice was the barest whisper. He sounded like a snake.
It suited him better than the soothing tones he used to have.
"I was worried about you, Alex." False concern gleamed in those rheumy eyes.
"Cut the crap, old man." It was hard to keep the bile between his teeth, but
Krycek didn't say everything he wanted to say. If he had, he'd've killed the
old man, and he wanted to hear what the bastard had to say for himself
before he snuffed him.
"I heard about your," the old man paused to gasp in breath, "incarceration."
Krycek nearly ripped the remnants of the old man's lungs out. "You had me
thrown in that hell hole!"
"You were trying to sell something that was mine, were you not?"
He lost the thread of the conversation as he stifled several possible
answers to that question. He was owed. He'd more than sacrificed, and he was
owed. Besides, while the old man was never to know it, there'd been a deeper
purpose behind that attempted sale. He was in a fight for his life, in a
fight for the continuance of the entire human species. He'd made some
strange allies, and he was, as usual, in such deep cover he'd never see the
light of day. But his motives were his own, and none of the old man's
fucking business. So Krycek kept his tongue still and listened.
The old man was hissing something about putting the past behind them and
moving forward. Fine. He was all for that. Then he said something that made
the fine hair on the nape of Krycek's neck stand up.
Revive the Project? Rebuild the collaboration with the aliens who were
planning to use Earth as a nesting place, and the human race as nursery food
for their larvae? His mind began to race. He listened, and he appeared to
agree, but plans were building, even as he nodded, even as he played his
part.
An accident... an opportunity. Now, to find a way to make the most of it.
Alex Krycek was a past expert at making the most of next to nothing, and
from the sound of it, this could be a fucking gold mine.
The next day, Bellefleur, Oregon Police Department
Billy Miles hadn't really changed all that much since the last time Mulder
had seen him. Filled out a little, heavier beard shadow, gold ring on the
thin third finger of his left hand. More ghosts in his eyes. He didn't quite
know how to phrase the question, but eventually he got it out.
The response he received wasn't encouraging. He shrugged one shoulder, a
tiny gesture, support and understanding radiating from him. He'd been where
the kid was, himself, too often. He knew.
"You find the UFO and he won't be able to deny the truth." He did his best
to reassure the kid. Though God knew, evidence hadn't helped Mulder a hell
of a lot in the past. Still, hope sprang eternal. Billy didn't look
convinced. If anything, he looked even more upset.
"I hope that's all it is."
Detective Miles came up behind them then, and Billy quieted down. Mulder
looked from one to the other. There was something not quite right about the
detective. Mulder's spidey sense was tingling. It could just be the return
to one of the most important cases from his past.
Or it could be something darker.
They piled into their rental sedan and followed the blue and white out along
the road. When they got to the scene where the deputy had disappeared, it
was disturbingly familiar. Mulder parked along the shoulder and stepped out.
Directly onto a very familiar orange X marked on the pavement.
"Deja vu all over again," he muttered. He had the weird suspicion that his
life was caught in some kind of loop, and he was doomed to chase the same
old ghosts for the rest of his career. Short as that might be by the time
the bean counters got done with him.
His father was as unhelpful as Billy had hinted he'd be. There was
definitely something shady going on. By the fourth or fifth brush-off,
Mulder was getting pissed off. Trailing the detective to the other side of
the road where Scully knelt, picking up shell casings, he overheard Miles
ask, "What was he shooting at?"
"Probably nothing." He couldn't help himself. Miles glared at him.
"Nothin'?"
He really couldn't help himself. "Nothing's all you seem to find out here,
detective." If the guy shot him, he could shoot back... and if he bled
green, Mulder'd know what was wrong. Of course, if he bled red, the bean
counters wouldn't need to close him down. Billy'd do it for them.
When the police had stalked off, Billy much more hesitantly than his father,
Mulder and Scully headed off to interview the deputy's wife. Scully didn't
say much, but she was pale. He knew it couldn't have been easy coming back
here. The little pit of slag that used to be pavement next to the bullets
brought back too many harsh memories for both of them.
Especially for her.
A wisecrack wouldn't work this time, and he couldn't think of anything
serious to say that wouldn't sound hopelessly sappy, so he did what he did
best—he kept his mouth shut and one eye on his partner. By the time they
got to the deputy's home, she was looking a little better.
A slim, dark-haired woman opened the door, and Mulder didn't hear Scully
introducing them to her. He knew the woman. Recognized her, at any rate.
"Theresa? Theresa Hoese?"
The world just kept getting smaller and smaller.
It was a short interview. She didn't know much, but she had a history they
all shared to one extent or another. Mulder watched her place her infant on
Scully's lap while she went to fetch pictures of her missing husband. Mulder
watched Scully.
With the child.
It hit him again, with the force of a fist to his solar plexus. Scully was
the closest thing he had to family left alive. In many ways, she was closer
than any family he'd had when they were still alive. Seeing her with the
child she couldn't have, and wanted so much, made his heart hurt. She
deserved better than this.
They all did.
He was quiet the rest of the day. She didn't say much, either. She still
looked tired.
Trying his best to concentrate on the case, Mulder lay in bed that night,
staring at photographs. Lots of photographs. The man had been through hell,
that much was obvious. The markings on his neck, arms, back, legs, and torso
were plain, and brutal. His memory flashed back to scenes from his own past
he'd just as soon forget : strapped to a slab in a Russian gulag, while
sentient black oil seeped into his eyes, nose and mouth; fighting an
assassin that shifted form and face with a thought; bright lights and
helplessness; mental acceleration and psychological deconstruction out of
his worst nightmares; micro-organisms in his blood that made him something
more, and something less, than he had once been. The thought struck him that
he wasn't completely human anymore.
He wasn't quite sure what he was.
For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to think of the ones
he missed. Not his father, really, or his mother, though he did regret the
missed opportunities to connect. Missed by both of them. But he did miss
Samantha. Dead, or so he truly believed. Deep Throat, who'd manipulated him
and used him, and one of the few whom he'd actually trusted. Scully, as she
had been, when faith and humor allied with fierce intellect hadn't yet been
worn down by so many losses. Diane, who'd believed, and used him as well,
and paid with her life to save his.
Krycek. One person he didn't know if he wanted to hold onto or kill. The man
had come to him over a year ago and offered a wild version of Truth, with
the evidence to back it up, and proposed an alliance. One Mulder had worked
hard to pull off, and dragged his partner and his boss into as well. Then
the rat bastard had disappeared off the face of the Earth. Mulder didn't
know if the rebellion between the shifting aliens and the oil aliens was
still ongoing, or if the oil aliens had won, or if the death of the
conspirators en masse had been the final strike for the humans in the
equation. He didn't know a fucking thing, except that Krycek had dropped out
of sight again, and pulled the rug out from under Mulder's feet when he did.
Again.
A knock at the door interrupted his meandering thoughts, and he hauled
himself out of bed and opened it to find Scully shivering on his doorstep.
She looked awful.
"What's wrong, Scully? You look sick." She looked ready to keel over at any
minute, was what she looked like. She was so pale her freckles stood out
like beacon lights against her skin.
"I don't know what's wrong." Like the doctor she was, she recited symptoms.
Vertigo, chills, the inability to get warm.
Mulder tucked her into bed, scattering photographs everywhere, uncaring of
the evidence. Molding the comforter around her, he curled up behind her,
adding his body heat to the insulation from the thin covers. She was so
small against him, shaking, her head tucked against her chest like a bird
trying to keep warm in a high wind.
She reminded him so strongly of Samantha. As Sam would have been, given the
chance to be.
His thoughts sighed out of his mouth. "It's not worth it, Scully."
"What?" Her voice was as thin as the shoulders under his hand.
"I want you to go home." I want you far away from this. I want you safe.
"No, Mulder, I'm going to be fine."
"No, no." Neither one of them were fine. They hadn't been for a long time.
"I've been thinking about it." Not as much as I should have. "Looking at you
today, holding that baby. Knowing everything that's been taken away from
you." Because of me. "The chance for motherhood, your health, and that
baby." He kissed her softly, comforting himself as much as her. "You know,
maybe they're right."
She was warming up, not shaking as much as she had been. She cuddled back
against him, trusting as a child. Safe. For now.
"Who's right?" she asked, her voice a little stronger.
"The FBI. Maybe what they say is true." It was a hell of a concession,
coming from him. "But for all the wrong reasons," he continued. "It's the
personal costs that are too high. There's so much more you need to do in
your life." And you can't do it with me. "There's so much more than this."
He lifted a hand and brushed the bangs off her face. Her skin was warm to
his touch. Whatever it had been that had chilled her to the bone was
gradually wearing off. "There has to be an end, Scully." He kissed her
gently again, feeling the slender blade of her shoulder beneath his lips,
grieving at the evidence of her frailty. There had to be an end to it. Or it
would be the end of her. And he didn't think he could stand that particular
loss.
He wouldn't fail her the way he'd failed Samantha. Wouldn't wait for a ghost
to tell him Scully had died, too.
Krycek stared at the light burning from the single cabin where Scully had
just joined Mulder. For an instant, hatred surged through him. She had no
right. Mulder was his.
Then sanity washed back. Mulder loved Scully, there was no doubt of that.
But he'd never been in love with her. The proof, if any had been needed, was
staring right back at him through the high powered binoculars he had trained
on Mulder's bed. No man who loved a woman would tuck her into bed fully
clothed, then lay on the outside of the blanket to snuggle up with her. That
was the action of a brother with a sister. Not a man with a woman he wanted.
He'd done some background checking on his favorite target as soon as he'd
had a half hour alone and access to his intelligence web. Mulder'd been
okay, if withdrawn, over the past year. Scully had had some strange moments,
including an unscheduled field trip with the cigarette smoking bastard and
flirtations with Buddhism and New Age crap. There'd even been an
over-nighter at Mulder's apartment, with inconclusive results. If they had
slept together, it hadn't made much of an impression on either of them.
They'd had an outing to Hollywood, and kept separate suites. Going by the
results his moles gave him, Mulder showed more signs of having an affair
with Skinner than Scully. Krycek grinned.
Shaking off his usual preoccupation with Mulder, he lowered his binoculars
and picked up his cell phone. Punching in numbers from memory, he waited for
the caretaker to give the telephone to his nominal boss. When the breathy
rasp came over the line, he growled at it.
"In spite of a great deal of effort," he fucking hated the woods, they
brought back too many memories of bloodthirsty Siberian peasants, "no one
seems to be able to find this UFO of yours." If it exists outside your
diseased imagination, he implied.
"Of course they can't," the old man wheezed. Krycek nearly cursed him, but
forced himself to reply calmly.
"You know why? 'Cause it's not here." Heavy sarcasm laced the words.
"It's there, Alex. I'm certain of it." The words were clearly a struggle to
get out. Krycek sincerely wished the bastard would choke to death. "Hidden
in plain sight."
Bullshit. "You listen to me. If you're gonna play games, the two of them,
Mulder and Scully, they're gonna beat me to it." If it actually existed,
Mulder would find it. And Scully would authenticate the damned thing.
"Are you saying that Mulder and Scully are looking for the UFO?"
No shit, Sherlock. Krycek closed his eyes briefly. Dealing with the old man
was like trying to hold fog, only instead of it dissolving in his hand, it
would dissolve his hand. "They're looking for a missing deputy."
"Well, they're looking for the right thing, but in the wrong place."
"You sent me looking for a ship." Krycek was fed up with the old man's
games.
"Find the deputy, find the ship."
Before Krycek could tell the old bastard precisely what he thought of him, a
click sounded and he found himself listening to a dial tone. It was just as
well. A year in the pestilence of that prison had shortened his patience,
and he needed to regain it if he was going to survive this. He had an
alliance to rebuild, if it was at all possible. For the future of the
goddamned planet, not to mention saving his own sorry ass, he'd do his best
to make sure it was possible.
He sat in the darkness, watching as Scully fell asleep, watching Mulder
tucked up behind her, staring off into the distance. Mulder didn't need a
lot of sleep, either. Maybe it was a side effect of being inhabited by the
oil alien.
Maybe it was one too many nightmares.
Eventually he decided against approaching Mulder directly. For one thing,
Scully was there, and she'd get in the way of progress, especially with
Mulder getting all mother-hen over her. For another, there were too many
explanations, and there wasn't time enough for any of them. For a third, if
he saw Mulder and didn't rip his clothes off and fuck him through the floor,
the frustration just might have them at one another's throats. And he
somehow couldn't see Scully standing by patiently while Krycek fucked the
madness from his system long enough to be able to put together a coherent
sentence.
No. Much better plan would be to use his trump card.
The next afternoon, he let himself into Walter Skinner's office through the
back door.
The ex-marine nearly attacked him. He was prepared for it. His right hand
raised just far enough for Skinner to see the small, shiny box clutched in
his fingers, his thumb directly over the sliding lever on the front. Skinner
froze.
"I don't want to hurt you. I can. You know that. Will you listen?"
Skinner stared at the control box for the nano-technology that could take
over his blood in a matter of moments. Krycek could see him mentally
measuring the distance between them. He almost smiled.
"By the time you get it away from me, I'll have pushed the dead man's
switch. You know what that is, Skinner? That's the little button under my
index finger. Once I push it, the nanos start building, and they can't be
stopped. You don't want that." He stared intently at Mulder's boss. "Neither
do I."
"What do you want, Krycek?" Skinner ground out.
"To renew our alliance."
Skinner looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "It's been a year. Why now?"
"Long story," Krycek wouldn't get into it, either. "I've been out of
commission. But I'm back now, and time is critical." One eyebrow raised at
him. He nodded. "I need you to get me to Mulder." Krycek leaned back against
the wall. "Marita," he invited. His other ally stepped into the room behind
him.
"We have a proposition," she said quietly. Skinner slowly sat back down
behind his desk. Marita moved forward, taking a seat across from him. Krycek
remained where he was, safely out of reach of any sudden moves. As she began
to talk, he could see Skinner calming, thinking, understanding.
He was in.
The next morning, Mulder shook Scully awake. She gave him a sheepish look
and he offered her his toothbrush. They hit the road to Theresa's house to
interview her further. Nothing more was said of Scully's symptoms the
previous night, but she caught him visually inspecting her one too many
times.
"I'm fine, Mulder," she told him forcefully.
"Okay," he agreed mildly. She didn't look fine.
"Just a little tired."
Uh-huh. He didn't push it. She'd tell him when she wanted to, and not
before. The scene that met them at the house distracted him completely.
A crowd had gathered, complete with police cars with flashing sirens, a
bunch of curious looky-lous, an ambulance, and an officer carrying a crying
child out of the house. Theresa's child. Mulder's eyes narrowed and he
shouldered his way through the clump of busy bodies into the house. Through
the signs of struggle in the living room, along the stairs. Into the
nursery.
"Scully," he called out. It was there, on the carpet. Burn marks like those
they'd found on the pavement. "The floor. What do you see? The same thing as
out on the road." She knelt to poke at it, and he continued more quietly,
"You've seen it before."
"We both have," she agreed.
Mulder sighed and turned back, going out to the car. Slumping into the
driver's seat, he stared moodily out at the bystanders. They'd been there.
They'd taken her, as they'd taken so many others. Peripherally he was aware
of Scully coming up to the car, but someone else had caught his eye. A boy.
Staring at the house as if he was seeing a nightmare made flesh. Mulder was
out of the car and moving before he was aware of making the decision. That
kid knew something.
When he tried to run, that just proved it.
Billy Miles came up beside him, and between them they cornered the kid. The
boy was distraught.
"They took Gary! He was just gone!"
Son of a bitch. A witness. Mulder latched on to him, watching Billy take off
after his father, but needing to find out what the boy Richie had seen. He
hustled the kid into the car along with Scully and they drove back to the
mountain. Richie talked all the way, nearly babbling about how Mr. Miles had
told them there wasn't any crash, but Gary'd just known there was something
there, and they'd gone back to check it out, and he'd been nervous, but
they'd stuck together, then he'd seen something and yelled for Gary but Gary
wasn't there. Mulder listened to the stream of words and pulled out the
salient facts.
Walking down the slope toward where the boys had been searching, Mulder
questioned him further. Richie was eager to help. He was clearly terrified
for his friend.
"I was shining my flashlight in the dark," he said, "looking for the UFO.
The beam hit this spot in space, like it bent the light."
A shield of some kind? Mulder prodded him. "Then what happened?"
"I called for Gary." Richie's voice started to shake slightly. "Flashlight
got hot."
He'd dropped it when it hurt his hand. He led Mulder over to where he
thought he'd dropped it and they found a burnt out casing of melted plastic
and twisted metal. Mulder took a deep breath. Something sure as hell was
going on around here, and it certainly looked like aliens. Detective Miles'
behavior was looking more and more suspicious all the time.
"Scully!" he called.
She didn't answer. He wheeled around and headed instinctively for the last
place he'd seen her. "Scully? Scully!" She was lying on the pine needles.
For an instant, he thought she was dead. She was so pale. So still. Then her
lips parted, and she gasped for breath. He was kneeling beside her, holding
her head up, holding her against him, as quickly as he could move. "Want
some water?"
Richie's voice floated down to him. "What happened to her?"
Mulder didn't look away from his partner. "Can you just get her some water?"
And stop asking me stupid questions I can't answer? He looked questioningly
at Scully.
"I just... hit the ground." She looked dazed.
"Lie still." His eyes roved over her, looking for signs of injury. Nothing
was obvious.
"Why is this happening to me?" Her voice sounded like a little girl's. "What
the hell's going on?" With a grown-up Scully's temper.
"I don't know." But there was one thing he did know. "These aren't just
random abductions, Scully. We've got to warn Billy Miles of that."
She wasn't following him. "Warn him of what?"
He looked down at her solemnly. "These abductees aren't just systematically
being taken. They're not coming back."
He had to get her out of there.
She struggled to her feet, her concern showing on her face. He helped her up
the slope, waving Richie off as they headed for the road. Mulder looked at
the scavenged Dixie cup half filled with water, a twig floating in the top
of it, that Richie tentatively offered him for Scully. Couldn't say the kid
hadn't tried. He smiled weakly, shook his head on Scully's behalf, and
hustled both of them into the car.
They let Richie off a few blocks from Billy's home. There was no telling
what they'd find when they got there, and Bellefleur had lost too many of
its young people already. Letting themselves in through the front door,
already ajar, he listened to the silence and called out Billy's name. Scully
repeated the call, more strongly.
Nothing but silence.
The aliens had claimed another abductee.
With all leads cold, Mulder and Scully packed it in and headed home.
Two days later, FBI Headquarters, Washington DC
Krycek heard the thump of the basketball rebounding off the ceiling before
they rounded the corner. Sounded like Mulder was taking the latest fiasco
with his usual insouciance. He gestured for Marita to hang back, and nodded
Skinner ahead of him. The A.D. paused in the doorway. Krycek kept him in
sight as he talked to Mulder. He was almost certain Skinner wouldn't
double-cross them, but he wouldn't give him the chance to warn the agent. It
was too important. It would be a waste to have to kill Skinner so early in
the game.
Besides, it might make Mulder even more recalcitrant than usual if his boss
was twepped in front of him.
"Agent Mulder," Skinner began softly. The basketball thumped on the desk.
"What's our punishment this time? Thumbscrews or forty lashes?"
Krycek smiled in spite of himself at the wry humor in Mulder's tone. The man
sounded more relaxed, or perhaps resigned, than he had since Krycek had
first met him. Skinner shrugged, and Mulder continued.
"C'mon in, Walter."
Krycek's brows lifted. Maybe there was something to the Hollywood rumor
after all. Perhaps he'd be terminating Skinner sooner rather than later.
"Sit a spell. This could be the last time you take a trip down to these
offices."
Skinner didn't move. "You went to Oregon." It didn't sound accusatory.
Mulder sounded like he took it as lightly as it was given.
"Guilty as charged." His voice deepened. "And if they're coming down on you
for that, I'm sorry. I truly am." The basketball stopped thumping.
"Fortunately, they think that I make a contribution to the Bureau."
Oh, cold. But then, Skinner did have a rep for the incisive put-down. Not to
mention the ability to be stone cold. Krycek had the handcuff scar on his
wrist to prove it. One more little score to settle, when their common enemy
was defeated. If they didn't all get wiped off the face of the Earth first.
Or get turned into kibble for alien larvae.
"Oh, yeah, stick to a budget and they say you're making a contribution. But
push the limits of your profession and they say you're out of control." The
light tone didn't quite mask the bitterness beneath.
Skinner gave him another harsh truth in response. "You could bring home a
flying saucer and have an alien shake hands with the President. What it
comes down to, Agent Mulder, is ..." he actually sounded regretful, "they
don't like you."
Newsflash, anyone? Krycek's own pitch black sense of humor was kicking in.
So was the edge he always got directly before any confrontation with Mulder.
"Well, we didn't bring home a flying saucer. Or an alien," Mulder admitted.
"Yeah, so I've been told," Skinner answered. Krycek took a step forward.
Skinner responded to the cue.
Krycek's eyes locked with Mulder. For a second, he saw what he hadn't
thought he'd ever see again—a flash of pure unadulterated heat. In that
instant, the heat transmuted into rage, and by the time Mulder got around
the corner of his desk it took all of Skinner's considerable muscle to keep
him from attacking Krycek.
He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. There was a perverse
thrill to be gained from having the shit kicked out of him by Mulder. It was
matched only by the thrill of fucking the sense out of the man. When he
couldn't have the latter, he'd take the former. He'd never claimed to be
sane. Tuning into the conversation, wrenching his brain out of his balls, he
heard Skinner trying to get through the red haze that was practically
visible around Mulder's head.
"Agent Mulder! I think you should listen to him."
Yeah, Mulder. Listen. Or I really will off your boss right now. Krycek
swallowed the threat and concentrated on his mission. He stared hard at
Mulder, holding his attention. Willing him to pay attention. Understand.
Agree.
"You've got every reason to want to see me dead." Among other things. "But
you've got to listen to me now. You have a singular opportunity." Don't fuck
it up, Mulder, he urged with his eyes.
"Here, or you wanna step outside?"
The temptation was almost unbearable. Krycek swallowed the sheer lust rising
in him and forced his voice back to steadiness. Before he could answer,
Marita stepped in.
"Agent Mulder. Cancerman is dying." Mulder stilled and stared at her, then
glanced back at Krycek, an involuntary request for confirmation. He gave the
tiniest nod.
"His last wish is to rebuild his project, to have us revive the Conspiracy,"
she continued. "It all begins in Oregon."
"The ship that collided with that Navy plane," Krycek put in, finally able
to control his voice. "It's in those woods."
Mulder looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. Again. "There's no ship in
those woods."
"Yeah, it's there," Krycek contradicted him. "Cloaked in an energy field.
While he mops up the evidence."
The struggle between distrust and belief was painted across Mulder's face.
"Who?" he spat.
"The alien bounty hunter," Krycek returned swiftly. "Billy Miles. Theresa
Hoese. Her husband. He's eliminating proof of all the tests." He kept to
himself the other common thread between the people who were disappearing.
That would be for later, when he had time alone with Mulder. He knew just
how he was going to play it. Mulder had given him the key when he'd played
big brother to his partner in that cabin in Oregon. "We were asking
ourselves... we're asking ourselves, where are they? They're right there,"
he answered his own question. "They're right under our noses. I'm giving you
the chance to change that. To hold the proof."
"Why me?" Mulder cut to the heart of the matter. "And why now?"
Krycek gave him one truth, one he could believe. "I want to damn the soul of
that cigarette-smoking son of a bitch."
He could see by the light in Mulder's eyes that he'd bought it. He didn't
have to add the other compelling reason.
Because I want you.
"Mulder?"
Scully's voice broke into the odd paralysis between them. He glanced over at
the doorway and saw her. She was looking at him, at them all, as if demons
from Hell had risen when she wasn't looking and invaded her partner's
office.
From there, the pace accelerated. Mulder called her in. Skinner started
explaining. Mulder called the Lone Gunmen. Marita added her two cents.
Mulder explained some more, when he got done cryptically inviting Frohicke
and the gang to drop by with everything they had on the Bellefleur incident.
Krycek stayed in the background, and watched.
Too much time passed as the conspiracy theorists and the agents quibbled
over geek-speak. Finally, he had to bring them back to the point.
"Listen, it's not going to be there forever."
Marita must have been feeling the same urgency, because she immediately
backed him up. "As we stand here talking, it's rebuilding itself."
He felt absolutely no surprise when Scully suddenly wheeled and walked out
of the room. He'd expected it before now. He watched Mulder trail after her,
and took a deep breath. When they came back in, he'd know if he was going to
be able to pull off the second part of his plan. The technobabble from the
geeks faded into the background as he stared at the door.
A few minutes later, Mulder walked back in, Scully behind him, a mulish look
on her face. Mulder came to a stop beside Skinner.
"So, sir, up for a little walk in the woods?"
Triumph welled up in Krycek. This was going to work. He could practically
taste it.
Two hours later, finally finished at the Bureau, he followed Mulder home.
The flight he and Skinner were booked on left at nine the next morning. This
was the best chance Krycek would have to get the man alone and finalize the
rest of his plan. He didn't bother knocking, just slipped the lock with a
wire and let himself in. His host was waiting for him.
At least this time Mulder greeted with an opened bottle of beer instead of
the business end of a loaded Glock with the safety off.
"Long time no see," he greeted Krycek, absolutely deadpan.
"Too long," Krycek agreed.
"One good reason not to kill you would be one more than I've got right now,"
Mulder told him, handing him the beer. Krycek stared down into the liquid,
wondering if it was poisoned. Shrugging, figuring if he'd survived the food
at the Tunisian prison for a year nothing Mulder threw at him would kill
him, he swallowed half the bottle before taking a breath.
Then he set the bottle down on the table behind him, hooked a finger in
Mulder's collar right behind the knot of his tie, and pulled him forward
into a kiss. His chances were fifty-fifty that Mulder would hit him or kiss
him back. He'd take either one.
Mulder punched him in the stomach.
He folded with the force of the blow, all his breath coming out into
Mulder's mouth. Before he could regain it, Mulder had him pinned to the side
of the couch and was kissing him as if his life depended on it. Krycek could
relate.
He was dizzy and nearly blacking out from lack of oxygen before Mulder
finally let him catch a breath. No doubt that was the plan. Mulder was
speaking, words running together in a furious hiss under his breath, as he
pulled and tugged at Krycek's clothing. Words like killer, and fool, and
goddamned son of a bitch, and two timing traitorous rat bastard all ran
together, muffled by the press of that mouth he'd missed so much against his
skin.
It was worse than awkward trying to undress and be undressed with his right
arm stuck in the couch cushions, but Mulder didn't help, or wait until he
could right himself. Anger and need combined to turn all of Mulder's
admirable determination to one object—getting Krycek naked and opened as
soon as humanly possible. Not that Krycek was objecting.
The world swung on its axis and he found himself draped over the arm of the
couch, his jeans tangled around his boots, his prosthetic arm caught between
the padded cushion and his stomach, his right hand clutching at the back of
the couch to keep himself from being pitched over the side with Mulder's
enthusiasm. His jacket and shirt lay halfway on the other side of the room
where Mulder had tossed them. His knees were sinking into the couch seat and
he couldn't move to save his life.
He didn't want to move. Then he'd wake up, and he'd been dreaming of
precisely this for too damned long to want it to end so soon.
Mulder's fingers were in him, slick with spit, then Mulder's tongue, and he
muffled a scream against his biceps as Mulder's cock followed. It had been a
long time since he'd been fucked, and it hurt like hell. His ass clenched
instinctively and his breath hitched in his lungs. His legs tensed and his
toes curled. His spine arched and his throat tightened.
It was perfect.
Long fingers were digging into his shoulders, holding him in place as strong
hips pistoned against him, slamming him into the hard plastic of his
prosthetic arm, trapping his erection painfully between his own pelvic bone
and the unyielding limb. Mulder pumped into him hard, not giving him a
chance to breathe, or move, or do anything but take it and like it.
Love it.
For the first time since the last time he'd been with Mulder, Krycek stopped
thinking. About anything. His universe and all the complexities of his life
disappeared into the white-hot pleasure-pain of the man plowing into him,
the hot breath on the back of his neck, the teeth in his shoulder, the hands
bruising his chest. He lowered his face against the soft cushion and
screamed, low, continuously, and let himself drift away into the connection
between their bodies until it was the only thing that existed.
It was over too soon. Mulder's hands dropped from his nipples to his hips,
clamping down on them and drawing him back until Krycek's back was plastered
against Mulder's chest. Mulder shoved into him and came, and the unexpected
freedom his own cock found in the space now available for it between his
hips and the arm of the couch was his undoing. He spasmed in response,
coming hard, thrusting himself back as strongly as Mulder was pushing
forward. There was a hoarse cry behind him, and Krycek thought it sounded
like his name.
Or a prayer.
Maybe both.
Mulder pulled out as fast as he'd pushed in, and Krycek couldn't contain a
whimper at the burn of the flesh disconnecting. A hand brushed against his
buttock, surprisingly gentle as it touched his crease, then it was gone. The
air was cold against him.
He struggled to turn, and Mulder reached over matter-of-factly and righted
him. Krycek lay there, jeans still puddled around his ankles, limbs akimbo,
sticky cock flopping against the side of his thigh, mouth open to draw
panting breaths, and stared up at Mulder.
Brown hair stuck up at all angles. His cheeks and throat were flushed, and
his mouth was swollen. His eyes looked sleepy. A surge of blood made its way
to Krycek's cock. Mulder noted the twitch of interest and shook his head.
"Fucking insatiable," he commented, sprawled in his own corner of the couch.
"Been a long, dry year," Krycek allowed.
"Tell me about it." It was more command than request. Krycek actually
considered it, then sighed and gave him the Reader's Digest Condensed
version. They didn't have time for the full litany of horrors.
"Cancerman caught me passing technical information to the Resistance. I
covered by saying they were businessmen interested in advanced technology
and I was selling it to them. He didn't like that, said it was his
information, not mine to sell, and he had me thrown into a hell hole of a
prison in Tunisia." Mulder stared hard at him. Krycek glanced at him, then
resolutely stared off into the distance. He didn't trust himself to look
directly at Mulder when he told him about this. Mulder was too good at
reading his eyes.
"I stayed alive the best I could for the past year, then Marita Covarrubias
showed up with the news that he was dying and my release had been arranged.
We went to see him, and he spun his story about the alien ship crashing, how
it was Roswell and Corona all over, and this was our chance to start the
whole mess up again."
"He didn't catch on that you were working with the Resistance?" Mulder
pressed him. Krycek shook his head.
"He's pretty hard to read, but no, he didn't. He's a collaborator through
and through. He had no idea I was working for the Resistance. He had no
trouble believing that I just got greedy."
There was silence for awhile, and Krycek could feel Mulder watching him. It
turned him on, and he took a deep breath, fighting the need to touch him
again. Forcing his mind onto more important, if not more urgent, matters, he
shifted. Caught his balls between his thighs and pressed hard. Pain arced
through them and his erection subsided.
Beside him, Mulder's breath quickened.
Krycek started to talk before he could get caught back up in the cycle of
arousal. "There's another reason the alien bounty hunter is picking those
specific abductees, Mulder." He glanced over. Mulder's eyes had lifted from
his crotch to his face. Progress, of a sort.
"What? And why didn't you mention it when everyone was gathered at
Headquarters?"
"They don't know all the details, and it's safer for them if they don't. All
the abductees taken in Oregon have suffered electro-encephalitic trauma.
Their brains have been readied, primed, so to speak."
"Primed for what?" Mulder was leaning toward him now, as turned on by the
facts surrounding the aliens as he had been by Krycek's body. It was an
amusing and disturbing fact.
"Primed to be able to communicate with the aliens."
"Like me," Mulder thought aloud.
"Not like Scully," Krycek continued for him. Mulder shot him an
interrogatory look. "They're not after breeders, Mulder." Mulder's look
melted into a glare, but Krycek continued to feed him the truth. "They're
after information. And collaborators. The oil aliens need help fighting the
rebellious shape shifters. They're planning on using humans not only as
cannon fodder in their little civil war, and breakfast food for their
nurseries, but spies against the Resistance. You want to keep Scully safe."
Mulder nodded, still staring at him. "Yeah?"
"Keep her away from this. She's not strong enough to handle it."
After a long moment, Mulder nodded his agreement. He'd obviously been
thinking the same thing, very recently.
"You have a plan in that cesspool passing for a mind of yours," Mulder
informed him. Krycek smiled sweetly at him. Mulder blinked.
"Always. Turnabout's fair play, or in this case, what goes around, comes
around."
"You want me to go in." It was a statement, not a question.
"We have our own eyes and ears among the shape-shifters, undercover on some
of the ships. But we need a human, one with no illusions about what he's
facing, to go deep. Find out what the oil aliens are planning. Pass that
information back to us here on Earth so we can counter it."
"You want to set up a sting."
The man was brilliant. There was no doubt about that. Krycek grinned at him
again. Mulder blinked again, and unconsciously moved closer.
"You up for the job, Agent Mulder? The undercover role of a lifetime." His
voice lowered to a whisper as Mulder moved closer, until they were barely
touching from knee to chest.
"I'm in the game," Mulder answered, the moment before his mouth covered
Krycek's again.
He pulled the warm weight over the top of him with his good arm, tried his
damnedest not to whack Mulder over the head with his prosthetic arm, and let
himself go for the ride. Tomorrow was soon enough for reality. He'd take the
dream as long as he could get it.
The next day, Krycek tied up the last loose end. As he stepped over the
broken body of the old man crumpled at the base of the stairway, his eyes
were firmly fixed on the future.
Ascension day, Bellefleur, Oregon
Skinner wasn't the most talkative travelling companion Mulder had ever
known, but that was a good thing. He had too much on his mind, and the older
man was too intuitive, to risk too much conversation. As they flew across
the country then drove through the mountains to the crash site, he
concentrated on what lie ahead.
And what had gone down the night before.
Pulling over by the big orange X on the pavement was a relief. He didn't
know how much longer he could scare himself back out of an incipient
erection by reminding himself that Walter Skinner was extremely observant.
He knew his rep at the Bureau—Spooky got turned on by little green men.
He didn't want to give any credence to the false rumor.
Krycek had never been green in his life, and not even his worst enemies
could truthfully label the body parts under consideration 'little.'
Shaking off the thought, forcing his mind to concentrate on what was to come
instead of what already had, he walked around to the trunk and began to pull
out equipment. Skinner, to his surprise, actually grumbled.
"This is starting to feel like the snipe hunt I was afraid of."
Mulder tossed him an innocent look. "No such thing as a snipe, sir." Skinner
didn't appreciate the attempt at levity.
"Hey, you know, my ass is on the line here too, Agent Mulder."
Not in the same league of risk at all, Walter, Mulder thought. Aloud, he
reassured his boss, "I know that." You have no idea, do you? No. Of course
you don't. At least I hope to God you don't.
Having reassured himself as well, he set out to assemble the laser web with
which the Gunmen had equipped him. Taking out the control box after the
beams were in place, he fiddled with it, trying to remember everything Byers
and Langley had thrown at him about its use.
"How's it supposed to work?" Skinner asked, peering intently at the red
lights shining in the darkness between the trees.
"Not exactly sure, sir," Mulder answered him honestly enough. "But, uhm,
budgetarily, I'd say we're looking pretty good." He wondered how much a
veteran agent went for these days, and if Skinner's pay would be docked for
losing him when he got back. Given his general popularity, his boss would
probably get a commendation in his record.
Concentrating fiercely on the necessity of what he was about to do,
regretting the need to hurt Scully, as he knew it would, and deceive
Skinner, as he was about to do, he took a deep breath. Undercover always
sucked. This would, too. The stakes were just higher.
The highest.
Following the beams into the darkest shadows, he saw a point where they all
seemed to stop, pooling at the end in little bulbs of laser light. That had
to be it, the place where Richie said the light had bent. The place where
Gary had disappeared.
The place where he would disappear.
Licking his lips, he deliberately blanked his mind to his motivations, and
concentrated on the here and now. Pushing his hand into the air beyond the
lights, he felt the energy take hold of him, shaking his arm, sucking him
in. It was a little like walking through a thunderstorm with no rain. Every
hair on his body stood up for a moment, then he was through the barrier.
They were standing there. Looking at him.
He went toward the light.
Skinner's voice faded into the background. He turned, and stilled, looking
up at the circle of lights above him, washing them all in purest white.
Motion rippled through the people beside him. A space opened, and a man
stepped into it.
He knew that face.
Knew those eyes.
Calm washed through him. They wouldn't know. But he would find out. With the
knowledge he gained, he would find a way to help the Resistance reclaim
Earth's future.
There was motion, as time froze. He opened his eyes to find more light, and
voices inside his head. Time untwined, then sped up, and he understood.
Separated the voices into the hive mind and the workers. Separated the
workers. Heard the voice he was waiting to hear.
He smiled.
He was in.
An old woman approached Krycek then walked past him, blind eyes staring
through him. Her clawed hand held a small paper bag, and he followed her
into an alley. He caught up with her easily. She passed him the bag. He made
no sign, simply allowed his eyes to pass over her. Then he picked up the
pace. Turned the corner and took up position across the street.
Ten minutes later a handsome blond man wearing dark glasses, lips compressed
in a thin line, walked from the alley. He gave no sign of recognition as he
passed Krycek. It wasn't necessary.
Krycek could see the tiny threads between the barely parted lips. He knew
what to look for. He turned away and headed for a ratty apartment further
into the city.
Langley let him in, with a scowl on his face. Krycek ignored him as usual
and walked to the computer Frohicke had set up for him. The encryption
programs installed on it were literally unearthly. Krycek popped the silver
disk into the drive and waited patiently for the results. Lines of data
began to fill the screen. Several minutes passed.
"Good stuff?" Byers finally asked from behind him. Krycek nodded once.
"He's in."
Any Weapon
by Brenda Antrim
When had Out There become Here?
