A Shadow Like An Angel
"Expecting always "And we are here as on a darkling plain
What I am about to give them is, for lack of a better word, dynamite.
Combined with Mulder's notoriously obsessive stubbornness, this could collapse
the Consortium around the nicotine-stained old bastard's ears.
But I am afraid. I'm putting them in danger, and if he gets hurt—or
killed—
A soft sound behind me interrupts my thoughts, makes me turn. It's Scully,
and despite the fact that she's probably slept in her clothing, she looks
immaculate.
"Hey, Scully," I greet her. She nods a distant acknowledgment and sits in
one of the ratty chairs, fixing me with an icy blue stare.
"What are you up to, Krycek?" Her voice is winter-cold.
"I'm paying a debt, Agent Scully. To both of you." She raises one eyebrow,
waiting for an explanation.
"I told Mulder the first day we met that I believed in him. I wasn't lying."
"For once."
"Yes," I admit blandly, "for once. I do believe him—I've seen proof."
An involuntary shudder runs through me at the memory of cold black oil
sliding inside me, infiltrating my thoughts and memories. I've never been
able to remember anything from that time, and some of my memories of other
times have been destroyed too.
"Proof of what?" she asks.
If she wants honesty, fine. She's not going to like it, though.
"Proof of extraterrestrial life. Proof of an international conspiracy to
accommodate colonization by an unfriendly and non-human group. Proof of human
experimentation. Proof of the deliberate production of a virus, that if
spread, would decimate the human race. Proof of perjury, government
cover-ups, lies, murder, and deliberately created chaos stemming from those
in the highest levels of power. Mulder's right, Scully. He's been right.
The conspiracy that he's constantly mocked for believing in exists. Don't
you understand? Melissa's death, your cancer, Samantha's disappearance—all
examples of a conspiracy right in front of you, if you'd just open your
eyes!"
The stunned look on her face is vaguely satisfying. I get up from the couch
and leave her sitting there alone.
I go into Mulder's room. He's not asleep. Instead, he's sitting on the edge
of his bed, looking at me with an expression that pierces me to the soul.
"I heard what you said," and he looks troubled. "Did you mean any of it?"
"Would you believe me no matter what I told you?" The bitterness in my voice
twists along my syllables so audibly that even I can hear it, hanging heavily
in the air between us, the tension almost unbearable. I drop my eyes
finally, and run my hand over my hair.
I don't know if it's the awkwardness of my movement or the pain in my voice
when I spoke, but he stands up, placing one hand on my bad shoulder. It
takes all of my control not to flinch away from his touch as he moves his
hand down along the scarred remains of my arm. I look up at him, drawing
air between my teeth in a breath of trepidation. His eyes are terribly
gentle, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth in concentration. He
pulls my shirt-sleeve up and looks at the scars, then puts out one finger to
touch the marks left by a peasant's heated knife.
"Stop," I hiss. I can't bear to have him looking at my arm, at the proof of
my loss. He ignores me, and I grab his hand, forcing it away from me.
"I said stop!" My voice is shaking. "I don't need your fucking pity!"
"Did it hurt?" he asks. His voice is not spiteful—it is soft and terribly
compassionate, as though he actually cares, as if it matters to him what I
feel, felt, want...
The sharp pain as my fist slams into the wall brings me back to myself, and
Mulder steps back, eyes wary. I can't afford to let him get closer to me,
not while all of this is going on. Afterwards...
But afterwards, all of my sins will have been dragged naked into the cold
light of judgment, ripped away from the shaded ambiguity of my relationship
with this quixotic, neurotic, beautiful wreck of a man.
"Come on," I say, relieved to hear that my voice is steadier. "Scully's
waiting, and we have things to do." And I turn and walk out of the room.
"Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? He wasn't about to deny that he'd been, at least on some level, attracted to
the younger man since they'd first met, but FBI rules, then blinding rage,
had kept him from pursuing that attraction.
Shaking his head, Mulder went out to join Krycek and Scully.
The car ride was uncomfortable. Krycek didn't seem to want to talk, and
Scully was concentrating on driving. Mulder sat in the back seat and tried
to distract himself from the tension in the car by replaying scenes from
"Monty Python and the Holy Grail" in his head.
He was half-way through the dismemberment of the Black Knight when Scully
parked. Startled, he looked up. They were in a wooded area, parked on a
gravel road, and there were glimpses of a white building visible through the
trees.
"We'll get out here," Krycek announced. "Scully, you take the car back to
that hotel we drove by earlier and wait for us to call." She opened her
mouth to protest, but he looked at her, and she closed it. Mulder grinned.
If Krycek could shut Scully up that easily, maybe he should keep the younger
man around.
Scully pulled away, her wheels crunching on the gravel, leaving him alone
with Krycek.
"Let me be no nearer
"Nervous, Mulder?" I ask softly, and he shoots me a flat, nasty look.
"Y'know, Krycek," he says, "if you'd like to make this any easier, telling
me what's going on might be a good way to start."
"Fine, but only if we can find some cover first." I move quietly back into
the woods, away from the building, and we sit with our backs to a large
rock, with the building behind us, ominous and silent.
"Nervous, Krycek?" he mocks me.
"Yes," I tell him, "and you should be too. That building is one of the
storehouses where the Consortium keeps documentation of experiments,
cover-ups, and other phenomena. And that's where we're going."
He starts to get up, and I grab his arm, pull him back down.
"Later," I murmur. "For now, we have to wait. Quietly." He sits
reluctantly, sinking to his heels on the soft forest floor.
"How long do we have to wait?"
"Maybe half an hour."
"Then why did you have Scully drop us off so early?" He sounds irritated.
"Because there are no guards at the end of that road until about half an
hour before dusk, and I really didn't want to have to deal with them."
He's still not happy about it—I guess he doesn't want to sit on the ground
in his Armani suit—but my explanation seems to satisfy him. To be honest,
I don't feel much sympathy for him, partially because I'm still wearing my
torn, bloodstained jeans from last night, and my cotton t-shirt is far from
warm.
"Where are we?" he asks.
"Northern Virginia, near Arlington."
"It's cold."
"Yes."
He looks at me speculatively. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Don't play stupid," he says disgustedly. "Why are you helping me? Why are
you betraying your masters?"
"They've never been my masters, Mulder."
"You know what I mean."
I look at him. Big mistake. He is burningly intense, eyes narrowed in
curiosity, and the desire to kiss him is almost overpowering. I have to
force myself to sit still, not to reach out and caress his face with my
hand, press my lips softly against his eyelids and cheekbones. He is so
clean, so untainted, that he seems almost otherworldly sitting there on the
ground, and he has placed himself so clearly in my mind that this memory
will haunt me in the darkness of my soul.
"Well?" he says, dragging me out of my thoughts.
"Well what?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I owe you," I say.
"Owe me what?"
"Mulder, I really don't want to get into it right now," I tell him. But the
psychiatrist in him won't give up, and he's looking at me with an obstinacy
that I know will not fade.
"Fine," I sigh. "You heard what I told Scully?" He nods impatiently,
waiting for me to continue. "That's it," I tell him. "I don't want to live
in a nightmare any more than you do, Mulder, and my record is such that
no-one would accept this type of evidence from me. So I have to turn it
over to you and Scully, and hope that you do the right things with it."
"Like what?"
"Expose them. Burn them so badly that all of their plans collapse into
flames. Release the proof to the world so that no place is safe for them
to hide, so that any possible refuge they may have is destroyed."
The sheer enormity of my words stuns him, and he rests his head against the
rock behind him, closing his eyes.
"Is what's in there actually that damning?"
"Possibly even more so."
"Are you mentioned anywhere?" His tone is noncommittal, and I can read
nothing in his eyes.
"Probably," I say, carefully bleaching all emotion from my voice. "You
wouldn't think it, but that cancerous old bastard is obsessive about keeping
records, and that means that I'm almost definitely mentioned."
"And incriminated?"
"Yes."
"Maybe we'll be able to get you some type of immunity in exchange for your
help."
The sheer, absurd innocence of this statement is enough to make me fall in
love with him all over again. It also makes me laugh until I am leaning
weakly against the rock, my stomach muscles aching. He looks mildly hurt,
and more than a little surprised.
"What's so funny?" he asks.
"You are," I gasp.
"Why?"
"Even if your government would grant me immunity, I'd probably be killed in
less than a month." That gets to him—I can see it in his eyes, the
sobering realization that I probably won't live to see the end of this, to
see my revenge completed.
"Witness Protection?" he asks.
"No, not a chance. Your government would never grant me immunity—probably
not even a plea bargain."
"What did you do, Krycek?"
"Mulder, I was a pawn and player in the game for almost seven years. I've
killed people. I've stolen secrets from your government. I've covered up
evidence, lied to law enforcement agencies around the world, and otherwise
increased the level of international chaos. And that's just recently,
during and after I worked for the Smoker."
He's surprised by the intensity of my outburst, but even so, he is working
to figure me out, to profile me. It's more than what he does—it's what he
is. Despite his fascination with the X-Files and his obsessive paranoia, he
is still a profiler at a very basic—almost instinctual—level that even
he doesn't understand. It is his gift, much in the way that sparking havoc
and unrest is mine. We are alike in that respect. Both of us are naturally
gifted in certain areas, and use our abilities unconsciously to further our
own ends. It was merely the toss of the dice that set us both on the same
course, but it was our souls that directed us to use the opposite routes to
achieve our ends.
"Just recently?" is all he asks, and I know that I've said too much,
revealed too much, and given him things that he could use to find out who—
and what—I originally was.
I don't answer him, and he reaches out and grabs my arm.
"Just recently?" he repeats, his hand gripping my arm hard enough to leave
bruises.
"Yes," I say. "Since 1991."
His eyes grow distant, as though he's trying to fit a final piece into a
puzzle, and I am suddenly afraid of his judgment. He lets go of my arm and
relaxes back against the rock.
"I think it's time for honesty, Krycek. Who are you working for?"
"Myself."
"But you weren't always."
"No. I used to work for the Smoker."
"And before that?" This is what I was afraid he would find out.
"The KGB."
He nods, slowly, as though he had been expecting my answer, and his eyes
betray nothing.
"So how does a KGB agent end up working for the Consortium?"
"It's a long story."
"We have time." His voice is flat and hard, trapping me with words. It's
odd. I've been in places and situations that most people can't even
imagine. I've withstood professional torturers from the Consortium, and
from other agencies around the world, but for some reason, I can not remain
silent with that gaze upon me.
"I came to the USA in 1989, right after pestroika began. There was a
group inside the KGB that was opposed to Gorbachev's policies of openness
with the United States, and this group was planning a coup. My uncle,
Ivanov Arntzen, was a part of this group, and so I was brought in because of
that relationship. They sent me overseas, along with about nine other
sleeper agent so that we would be in place to activate all KGB agents in the
States in a strike against the US after the coup. But there was informer in
my uncle's group, and they were turned in. All but two were sent to Siberia
—those two were executed. My uncle was one of them. This was in '91.
Control of the sleeper agents was passed to a man named Petrov Arkadeovitch,
who ran us to suit his purposes. Eventually, the other nine were recalled
to the U.S.S.R., but I was ordered into Quantico, where I was brought to the
Smoker's attention."
I pause and look at him, and I can see the intense interest in his unguarded
face.
"The Smoker approached me," I continue, "and recruited me just before the
U.S.S.R. collapsed. He threatened to reveal my nationality and status as an
active KGB agent to CIA men he knew unless I did as he directed. The next
day was the official collapse of the U.S.S.R., and I agreed to his demands.
I finished at Quantico, and began my work with you in '94." I glance at
him. He's looking at me, and his eyes are unreadable.
"Well?" I ask him. Every muscle in my body is tensed, waiting for his
judgment, and I don't know why I care so much. It's done already, all of
my sins unredeemable, unalterable ghosts that will haunt me always, and I
suddenly want to cry.
"Did you kill my father?"
"Yes," I tell him, and have to turn my face away to hide the sudden sting of
tears.
"Why?" Not looking at him, I answer.
"Because they would have killed you if you'd learned what he was about to
tell you—and because he knew that—he wasn't a stupid man."
I risk a glance at him. His face is still closed, heavily guarded against
anyone who might dare to try to read his emotions.
"Why did you help them take Scully?"
"It was either her or you. And if I hadn't stopped that tram, it would have
been both of you."
"Duane Barry?" He is slowly cataloguing every sin I may have committed
against him, waiting to judge until a reckoning has been given, and the
gratitude I suddenly feel is as profound as it is absurd.
"No. He was poisoned by someone else in the Smoker's employ."
He nods once, neither believing nor disbelieving, merely acknowledging.
"Melissa Scully?"
"Cardinale. We were there to look at the chip, and..." My voice trails off
and I turn away again.
"There's just one more thing I want to know. Why'd you let them...
experiment on me in Russia?"
"Because they were testing the working vaccine in that gulag! Even if the
black cancer gets loose, you'll survive, you and everyone else who received
that treatment."
"God damn it, Krycek," and his voice is suddenly rough with emotion, "why
didn't you ever tell me?"
"Mulder, every time I saw you, I could barely breathe between punches. You
never gave me the time to explain why I was there, let alone tell you my
life story."
He is quiet, and the silence stretches uncomfortably between us. I want to
know what he's thinking, what he feels about me now. Probably nothing, and
I'm deluding myself to even imagine he might feel something besides hatred.
For the second time today, tears sting at my eyes. I wipe them away
angrily, trying to conceal my action from him, but he is sitting on my
right, and sees my movement.
"Krycek... are you crying?"
"No," I tell him.
"You're lying," he says, but there's no rancor in his voice. I feel his
hand warm on my shoulder, then his fingers, feather-light on my neck, little
flaring spots of heat that shiver down my spine. He runs his fingers up
through my hair, one finger caressing my ear, sliding over the delicate
flesh, electricity burning along my skin where his finger touches. I turn
my head to look at him, startled by his caress.
His face is intent, and when our eyes meet, he slides the palm of his hand
over my face, curls his fingers around the back of my head, and tilts my
face up towards his.
"Alex," he says, and his voice is terribly gentle. "Alex, don't cry."
"Why do you care?"
"I don't know," he says, "but I do."
And he kisses me.
His lips are soft and warm, and there is a tenderness there that I had not
believed he could show to me. Under the gentle pressure of his tongue, I
part my lips and slip my tongue into his mouth. There is no battle, just
the ease of two mouths that fit perfectly together. We instinctually know
the patterns of each others kisses, know just how to place our lips, and
know the rhythm of tongues that belongs solely to this intimate an embrace.
There is passion in this kiss, but not the searing type that can not
distinguish between hatred and lust; rather, it is almost a promise. I can
not bring my hand up to caress his face because I am using it to prop myself
up, and oh, god I want my arm back. But not—never—as much as I need
this.
The deep kiss turns softer, a caress of lips only, then he kisses the corner
of my mouth, my eyelids, and finally my ear. His tongue tracing the path
his finger made earlier. I shiver, and a soft moan escapes my lips. He
pulls away, and I am afraid that I've ruined it, that he's remembered who
and what I am, and all of the murders that lie black on my soul.
Instead of pulling out of reach, however, he kisses my forehead once, then
smiles at me.
It is a genuine smile, too, not the smirk he usually gives me, and there is
a warmth in his eyes that he's never directed at me before.
"Alex," he says, then again, "Alex," as though he is tasting my name, "we'd
better get going." He's right—it's gotten dark—and I unzip the black
backpack I've brought with me. I take out a Glock and hand it to him, then
pass him a silencer.
"I have a gun," he reminds me.
"I know—but this one can't be traced back to anyone." Comprehension
dawns, and is followed by a quick grin.
"You think of everything."
"Somebody has to." Pulling out two Berettas, I put silencers on both, then
secure them in my ankle and shoulder holsters. I grab my lockpicks, shove
them in the pocket of my jacket, then pick up the empty backpack and hand it
to him as we get to our feet.
"Is Alex Krycek your real name?" he asks softly. I don't know why he picked
this particular time to ask, but something in his tone tells me that it's
important.
"Yes," I tell him. "Aleksandr Nikolay, if you want the whole thing." A
flash of white teeth in the dusk is my answer, and I grin back. "Come on,
Mulder. Let's go."
We move quickly through the gathering darkness, Mulder following me, both of
us walking as quietly as possible. The building looms in front of us, huge
and white, like some obscene kind of misplaced egg. A twist of apprehension
squirms in my stomach. The events I'm about to set in motion will probably
kill me. There's always a chance, though, and if I'm lucky, I'll live to
see that cancerous old bastard beg.
Fifty feet from the door, a slight movement catches my eye.
"Down," I hiss, and we slowly lower ourselves to the ground as I pull the
Beretta from my ankle holster.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
Ignoring him, I take aim at the indistinct shape, then carefully squeeze the
trigger twice, one shot to the head, another to the heart as the man drops
silently. The muffled noise of the gun firing seems terribly loud in the
unnatural quiet. We wait, perfectly still, for three or four minutes until
the lack of other movement convinces me that this death went unnoticed.
We move to the door, and I drag the dead body into the woods. Covering him
with brush, I return to Mulder and pull my lockpicks out of my pocket.
Kneeling on the ground, I slip one into the lock.
"Watch for anyone coming," I tell him. The lock is complicated, and it
takes a good five minutes for me to open it. When the door finally opens,
Mulder lets out an explosive breath.
"That took long enough," he says.
"I have one hand, Mulder." It might be my imagination, but he suddenly
looks ashamed of himself.
"Sorry." I shrug his apology off, and we go inside. Ten steps later, we
have to stop at a set of glass doors. There's a keypad for disabling the
alarm, and I punch in the code my informant gave me. The red light flicks
to green, and we go through the doors together.
Not wanting to risk a light, I pull a small flashlight from my pocket and
turn it on, keeping the beam low on the ground. The building beyond the
doors is a maze of antiseptic-looking passageways, and the glimmer of my
little flashlight barely makes a dent in the darkness.
The corridors that lead to the file room slope downwards, and the further
underground we go, the closer the walls seem to be, the closer my panic
hovers. Memories of the silo, of hunger and thirst and screaming myself
hoarse while I slam my hands into the door again and again in a futile
attempt to be heard threaten to overwhelm me. Distantly, I am aware of my
breathing, which has become harsh and irregular, and I realize that I am
shaking, the beam of the flashlight dancing back and forth across the walls
as my hand trembles. I can't do this. The darkness, the closeness, are
palpable, living, unfriendly forces that close around and choke me. I drop
the flashlight and turn to run, to flee back to the open air of the woods—
and bump into Mulder. For one brief, terrible instant all I can think is
that I can't get out, that I'm trapped and am going to die here in the dark
and the closeness. And then he grabs me by the shoulders, his fingers
digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
"Alex, what's wrong?" He sounds worried enough that it reaches me, even in
this state of near-panic. "What is it, Alex?" I shake my head. To talk
about it now, in this place, would bring the deep, unreasoning panic
screaming out of the corners of my mind. At this point, with his hands on
my shoulders, I can fight it, but if I open my mind to the memories, I will
be lost.
Instead, I concentrate on the feel of his fingers gripping me. Breathing
becomes easier, and the walls seem to loom less closely. If this man's
touch can hold back even my fear of small, dark places...
I pull away from him and retrieve the flashlight.
"I'll explain later," I tell him, and my voice is rough. He's still
bewildered, but I push onward anyway. The darkness and closeness still
press on me, but they are controllable for the moment. "Oh, Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks." He doesn't answer me, and we go further into the twistingly
sterile passages of a conspiracy that stretches over three generations and
holds the entire world in its claws.
We stop in front of a door so nondescript as to be almost unnoticeable.
"Here," I say, passing him the flashlight. I drop to my knees in the
passageway and take out my lockpicks.
This lock is even worse than the other one, and at least fifteen minutes go
by before the door swings gently inward. When I get to my feet, I'm
trembling, and my face is sweating.
"Sorry," I tell him. "That's one of the major disadvantages of having only
one arm. He helps me to my feet.
"I feel like I should apologize to you," he says wryly. "After all, if I
hadn't dragged you to Russia..." I shrug his arm off mine, and go inside.
He follows me in—and then stops. He's staring around like someone just
let him into Heaven. The rows of filing stretch on for what seems like an
eternity, and each one contains enough of his Truth to keep him occupied for
years.
"Over here," I tell him, gesturing towards a section of filing cabinets that
stand just a little apart from the rest. He looks regretfully at the others
as he joins me. "These," I say, "are the ones that have to do with the
actual conspiracy. Take what you can—we have about fifteen minutes before
we need to head back."
He nods, and starts opening drawers, pulling out files and putting them into
the backpack. I stand guard, occasionally directing his attention to the
more incriminating sections of filing.
He fills the backpack quickly, pulling files out seemingly at random. At
one point, he stops, looks more closely at the file in his hands, then gives
it to me.
The label on it reads "Krycek, Aleksandr," and I know without opening what
it contains. I give it back to him, and he starts to put it in the
backpack, then stops and rips it into four pieces before shoving it into his
pocket. I blink away the sudden sting in my eyes.
Even after the backpack is full, he continues to pull out files, stacking
them neatly on the floor. We're almost out of time when he stands up, the
backpack heavy on his shoulder, then bends and picks up the stack from the
floor.
"Let's go," he says, and we do, wiping fingerprints off of cabinets and
handles, locking the door behind us.
The journey back to the outside is not as bad, but I'm still gasping,
desperate for open space when we close the last door. We move back into the
woods, traveling away from the guarded perimeter.
Once we've passed through the most dangerous area, I reach over and pull his
cell phone out of his suit jacket.
"What's Scully's number?" He gives it to me, and I call her to tell her
where to meet us. She sounds worried when she answers, but her voice slides
back into ice-cool registers when I tell her that Mulder's fine.
After I hang up, I turn to him.
"The road's about 500 yards that way, and she'll meet us there. You need to
stay out of sight until I make sure it's her. We don't want to get
caught, especially at this point." He grins at me, an infectious
Mulder-grin that tugs an answering smile on to my lips. When we reach the
road, hanging back in the shadows to wait for Scully, I take advantage of
his full arms to lean in and steal a kiss.
I can feel him stiffen at first, uncertain what to do, and then his entire
body softens, relaxes into mine, and we lose ourselves in the oh-so-intimate
rhythm of mouths, gentle and burningly fierce.
Headlights cut through the night, and I pull away from him reluctantly,
motioning to him to stay back as I go towards the car. It's Scully, and a
gesture to Mulder brings him out of the woods, loaded down with files, an
armful of truth with which to set the world on fire.
Once we get into the car, the tension breaks, and Mulder and I are grinning
like idiots and laughing in relief. Scully merely looks at us and smiles,
the picture of adult tolerance.
"We got it, Scully!" Mulder tells her.
"Got what?"
He turns to me. "You didn't tell her?"
"The fewer people who knew beforehand, the better. I didn't tell you
either."
"True," he says, then turns back to Scully, explaining where we've been and
what we were doing there. I notice that he leaves out our conversation by
the rock—and our kisses.
As he talks on, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes, letting
their voices and the noise of the car wash over me as I fall asleep.
"Or be you in the gutter where you stand,
The double—triple?—agent seemed dead to the world, head resting on his
arm, the torn remnants of his left shoulder concealed by the leather jacket
he had pulled over himself. With his eyes closed, the lashes spilled over
his pale skin like fine black silk. His eyes moved under closed lids, and
Mulder wondered what he was dreaming about.
"Earth to Mulder," Scully murmured, and he turned, startled.
"Yeah?"
"I was just wondering what you were thinking about." It was the lateness of
the hour and the momentous events of the day that kept their voices low,
rather than any consideration for the man asleep in the back seat.
"I was trying to decide how far we could trust him," he told her.
"I don't know that we can."
"Look at what he's given us, though."
"But we don't know his motives," she said, mildly irritated. "A week ago,
you would gladly have killed him. What's different now?"
"He saved my life," Mulder said quietly, and she sighed.
"That's true," she admitted. "To be honest, I think that we can trust him
—at least for now."
He nodded in agreement, and he was remembering green eyes wet with tears,
and the taste of Krycek's mouth on his, warm and gently desperate.
"I need to stop for gas," she said as they pulled into a Texaco. "Do you
want anything?"
"Sunflower seeds. And some water." She nodded as she got out of the car,
closing the door quietly behind her. Mulder went back to his contemplation
of the sleeping Krycek.
He was thin, almost painfully so, and despite the soothing effect of sleep,
tension was still visible around his mouth and closed eyes. Whatever Krycek
was dreaming about did not appear to be pleasant. A muscle along his jaw
twitched as his eyes moved fitfully around a dream landscape only he could
see. The hand pillowing his head was clenched into a tight fist. Mulder
reached out and lightly touched Krycek's face. Green eyes snapped open, and
Krycek sat up.
"Where are we, and what time is it?" he asked, looking around at the gas
station as he tried to make the necessary adjustments to time and distance.
"It's ten thirty," Mulder told him, "and we're about ten miles from our
destination. You woke up just in time if you're hungry."
Krycek shook his head. "Where are we going?"
"To stay with the Lone Gunmen." Krycek recognized the name, apparently,
because one corner of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile.
"I bet it took some fast talking on your part to convince Scully to go
there," he said.
"Actually, it was her idea. I'm beginning to think she may return Frohike's
affections."
"A match made in heaven," Krycek said, and grinned.
Scully, of course, chose that instant to return to the car. Eyeing the two
of them suspiciously, she tossed Mulder a packet of sunflower seeds and a
bottle of water.
"Thanks," he said, and became suddenly aware that he hadn't eaten all day.
In his haste to open the sunflower seeds, he spilled some on the seat.
Scully rolled her eyes.
"Try not to completely destroy my upholstery," she told him, and he
grinned at her while picking sunflower seeds out of his lap. He offered
some to her, and to Krycek, but both of them refused.
"So, we're going to stay with the infamous Frohike," Krycek said. Scully
shot him a dirty look in the rearview mirror.
"For tonight," she said. "Neither of our apartments are safe, and we
couldn't think of anywhere else."
"It's as good a place as any," Krycek told her.
"Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
I'm out of the car before either of them. Cars make me a little nervous
because of the enclosed space, and the night air feels unbelievably good on
my face. They walk to the door, Mulder's arms still full of files, and
motion me to stay back until the paranoiacs within open up.
I've been here before, of course, and their security systems, though
impressive, aren't quite good enough.
Scully knocks on the door, and I hear her reassuring the people inside as to
her identity. The door starts to open, and I move forwards quickly,
stepping into the light and sticking my foot into the door in one movement.
The troll-like little man holding the door squeaks and tries to shut it, but
it merely slams into my foot. I smile as reassuringly as I can. Mulder,
who seems to be trying not to laugh, introduces me to the troll—Frohike—
and to the suit—Byers—and the stoner—Langly—who have joined him.
"Alex Krycek?" Langly asks. "Dude, what's he doing here?"
"He's with us," Mulder says, "and all three of us need to crash for the
night."
Byers nods. "Fine. Frohike, Langly, get what you need and move it into my
room. Agent Scully, you can sleep in Frohike's room; Mulder and Krycek can
share Langly's—it has a couch."
The other two are moving almost before Byers finishes speaking. The tree of
us stand in the living room, surrounded by expensive electronic equipment,
Dungeons & Dragons paraphernalia, and back copies of their conspiracy
newsletter.
"Okay," Frohike says as he returns, "the rooms are ready. Agent Scully?"
Mulder hands her some of the files, and she turns to follow Frohike down the
hall. Mulder and I look at each other, and there's a grin in his eyes that
he's doing his best to keep off his face.
Langly approaches us, and he looks so nervous that I have to resist the urge
to say "Boo!" and see how high he jumps.
"Um, bed's this way," he says, and Mulder and I follow him gratefully. The
room is cramped and small, with D&D posters and Grateful Dead memorabilia
all over the walls. The double bed, however, looks absolutely comfortable,
and I sink down on it in sheer relief.
Mulder puts down the backpack and the rest of the files and looks at me.
"Who says you get the bed?" he asks indignantly.
"I have a gun."
"So do I!"
"Yeah," I tell him, "but I have better aim." He glares at me. I grin at
him impudently and kick my shoes off, making it quite clear that I'm not
going anywhere.
"Hey, Langly," I say.
"Yeah?"
"If I give you money, sizes, and styles, will you run out and get some
clothing for me? Also a toothbrush, some shampoo, and a razor," I tell him,
running my hand over my chin.
He nods. "There's a Wal-Mart about ten minutes away," he says.
I turn to Mulder. "Do you need anything?"
"Yeah," he says, and we write out a list. I hand Langly some money and tell
him to see if Scully needs anything. After he leaves, Mulder walks over and
shuts the door.
"Come on, Krycek, get off the bed."
"No. You sleep on the couch at home all the time anyway."
He sighs and sits next to me on the bed.
"Can we share?"
"Sure," I tell him, and look away. His physical presence is almost a threat
in its intensity, his tall lankiness transformed into an elegant sense of
being from which all clumsiness and awkwardness have vanished. When I look
back at him, his eyes are intense on my face, scrutinizing every flicker of
muscle, every minuscule change in expression. I am suddenly very aware of
how close we are, and of how much I need him.
He turns so that his body is angled towards me, facing me directly. He
reminds me of a classic painting, perfect in every detail, and worn in just
the right places.
"Krycek," he says, "tell me why you do it."
I know what he means, and I sigh, closing my eyes against the brilliance of
his stare.
"Because it's necessary," I say, and glance at him.
Our eyes lock on one another's, and the electricity that hums between us
burns me. The moment stretches, seems to last forever, our eyes trapped in
each other's and unable to look away.
Langly's return shatters the moment as he comes in and dumps shopping bags
onto the floor.
"Here you go," he says, handing me some change. He seems oblivious to the
stifling tension in the room and he turns and walks out. "Goodnight," he
calls back as he leaves.
Mulder gets up and examines the bags. He tosses me my things; clothing,
shoes, toothbrush, razor—and disappears into the bathroom.
Langly has somehow managed to get decent looking clothes. They're mostly
black, at my request, but there are a few white shirts and a pair of green
sweatpants that I take an instant liking to.
The shower starts in the bathroom, and images of a wet and naked Mulder
flash through my mind. I want to go in and join him, to open the shower and
step in, grab him and fuck him until neither of us can move anymore, until
our bones turn to water and run down the drain along with all of the filth
and blood that stain my soul so that I will be pure and he can want me.
Instead, I take out my gun and break it down, clean it, reassemble it. It's
difficult to do with only one hand, and the mixture of my clumsiness and the
arousal coursing through my veins almost makes me give up. But I finish the
damn thing, and look up just as the water shuts off and Mulder comes out of
the bathroom, towel wrapped carelessly around his waist. My mouth goes
absolutely dry, and I have to tear my eyes away to prevent him from noticing
that I'm staring.
"My turn?" I ask, as casually as I can manage. "I hope you didn't use all
the hot water." Putting away my gun, I go into the bathroom.
The mirrors are steamed up, and his suit is lying in a puddle, soaked
through. I pick it up and re-enter the room.
"Hey, Mulder," I say. He looks at me, and I toss the disgusting mess of wet
Armani at him, then duck back into the bathroom.
Closing the door, I take of my socks, then strip off shirt, pants, and
boxers. Starting the shower, I simply stand there under the water, enjoying
the feel of being clean. I'm going to throw away the clothes I was wearing.
Washing one's hair is an underrated pleasure, and I stay in the shower until
the water suddenly runs cold. Getting out, I dry myself as best I can, then
try to wrap the towel around my waist one-handed. It doesn't work. I open
the door and stick my head out.
Mulder is stretched full length on the bead in a pair of blue sweatpants and
a white t-shirt, his glasses on, reading over one of the files. I pause for
a moment to enjoy the view before interrupting him.
"Hey, Mulder?" He looks up. "Can you pass me some clothes?" He hands me
some boxers, the green sweatpants and a black t-shirt, then passes me the
razor and toothbrush.
I shave, brush my teeth, and pull on boxers and sweatpants. The t-shirt is
too much to bother with, and I toss it over my left shoulder as I go back
into the room.
He looks up from the file again as I walk in. "Krycek, this is amazing!
I'm almost afraid to ask what we missed!" I walk over and sit on the
other side of the bed.
"Which file are you looking at?"
Wordlessly, he offers me the file and I glance at it. It's the information
on the Tunguska experiments that the Consortium has managed to gather, and
in my mind's eye I see the dismal grey compound on the edge of the world
where a few dedicated scientists work to save mankind. I hand the file back
to him.
"To answer your question, I don't know how much we left behind. But what we
managed to get should be enough to ruin them, especially if Skinner decides
to get involved."
"And you?"
"I'll stick around for another day—maybe two—and then I'll disappear
again."
His voice turns cold, sharp. "Saving your own skin, Krycek?"
"You and Scully aren't safe with me around, particularly now that you have
the files. They'll want to kill me, and they will try. They may even
succeed," I tell him cooly. "To be honest, I'd prefer not to expose you to
a group of incompetent thugs. What you have here,"—I reach out and touch
the file in his hands, "is too important to risk for the pleasure of my
company—or for the pleasure of taking me to prison."
"I still don't understand why you have to leave," and now he's obstinate,
not angry.
"To protect you. Don't you understand? I've been trying to protect you
since we met."
"Why?"
Because I love you, I want to say.
"Because you're the best hope for the survival of the human race," I tell
him. I pull the covers over me.
"That's a hell of a thing to tell a guy right before bed," he says, but he's
not upset anymore, and I have to smile.
"Sorry," I say, "but you asked."
He takes his glasses off and puts them on the bedside table, rubbing at his
eyes with the other hand. He puts the file on the floor with the others,
reaches up, and turns off the light.
"Goodnight, Krycek," he says.
"Goodnight." I close my eyes and slide into sleep.
"In what distant deeps or skies
The covers had slid down around Krycek's waist, and his smooth, well-muscled
chest was like pale moonlight in the darkness of the room. The shadows
under his lashes and at his cheekbones emphasized the thinness of his face
and the soft blackness of his hair, grown back now from the buzz-cut he had
worn in Russia. His ravaged arm was painfully visible, the defined muscles
of his shoulder ending in a mass of angry scars that marred the smooth flesh
like lines of flame. Krycek's lips were slightly parted, revealing even
white teeth, and despite the pain visible around his mouth, he looked
innocent, even vulnerable, like a child tormented by bad dreams.
The memory of Krycek's anguish the night before flared through Mulder's
mind, the memory of Krycek shaking from a nightmare that had brought
terribly dark shadows to the surface of his eyes.
Krycek whimpered quietly, and something in Mulder refused to leave him to
his nightmares any longer. Whatever demons tormented his sleep had tortured
him enough.
He reached out and ran a hand through the softness of Krycek's hair,
enjoying the silken feel of it against his fingers. He stroked Krycek's ear
with his thumb, then ran a finger over the other man's lips, eyelids, and
cheekbones. Krycek's eyes fluttered open, and despite the darkness of the
room, Mulder could see their emerald glitter.
"Mulder-" Krycek started to say, but a finger held to his lips silenced him,
and then Mulder leaned down and kissed him, long and deep and slow. He
brushed his thumb along Krycek's cheekbone, curled his hand around the back
of Krycek's neck, and ran his fingers through the short hair there.
Krycek leaned forward and caught Mulder's lower lip between hi teeth,
sucking it into his mouth and tracing it with his tongue, nipping gently at
it with even white teeth. A shiver ran along Mulder's spine, pooling in his
groin like tendrils of flame. They rolled over, and Krycek's weight was
muscular and lithe on top of him.
The younger man kissed his way along Mulder's jaw, licked at his ear, then
brought it into his mouth, warm breath, soft tongue and sharp teeth all
exerting a gentle and maddening pressure along the sensitive nerves.
Pulling away, Krycek gently kissed his ear, licked at the spot under the
lobe, then slid his lips down Mulder's jaw, scraping stubble gently over his
cheek, then moved his lips to Mulder's neck, kissing it with a fiery
combination of teeth, tongue, and lips that spasmed along his nervous system
in trails of need that burned along every inch of his body. Krycek slid his
hand under Mulder's shirt, running his fingers over muscle and ribs, pulling
the shirt off in one smooth motion. They lay chest to chest for an instant,
bare skin creating a friction of want between them that shortened their
breath and heightened desire.
Krycek lowered his head and kissed Mulder's chest, swirling his tongue
around Mulder's nipples, trailing his fingers along the definition of muscle
and bone, then followed his fingers with his mouth, nipping at Mulder's
skin, dipping his tongue briefly into Mulder's navel, kissing down to the
waistband of his sweatpants before moving back up to kiss the older man with
a fiery heat that scorched him to the bone.
Mulder kissed him back eagerly, running his hands along the length of
Krycek's body, cupping his ass briefly, stroking his inner thighs, tangling
Krycek's legs with his own, and sliding bare feet along muscular calves in a
caress that utilized every inch of their bodies. He slid one finger down
the length of Krycek's spine, and the younger man arched against him. He
kissed Krycek's neck and jaw, then sucked gently at the spot where the man's
neck and shoulder met. He could feel the shivers running through Krycek's
body, and could feel the other man's erection hard against his own.
He slid one hand down between their bodies and gently stroked Krycek's
length through the sweatpants, running the palm of his hand along the other
man's shaft, then circling the head with his fingers before pulling his hand
away. Krycek gasped, his breathing harsh and irregular, and ground his hips
into Mulder, their erections burning against one another.
Then Krycek was kissing his waistband again, pulling his sweatpants down
over his hips, then all the way off, kissing his way inch by inch back up
along Mulder's legs, licking softly at his inner thighs before he finally
touched his mouth to Mulder's erection. He traced the vein underneath
Mulder's cock with his tongue, kissing gently along the length of it,
caressing the head with tongue and lips, and then taking Mulder all the way
inside his mouth, muscles and heat of throat and tongue working in a
powerful rhythm that swept the older man over the edge. Every muscle in
Mulder's body tensed as he came, thrusting deep into Krycek's mouth in an
orgasm that brought sparks and blackness swirling before his eyes.
Krycek slid back up to rest his head on Mulder's shoulder, his hand tracing
invisible patterns on Mulder's naked body. Mulder turned his head and
kissed the younger man, gently at first, but with renewed passion soon
burning between their mouths. Krycek was still rock-hard against him, and
Mulder lightly stroked his erection through the cloth of his sweatpants
before pulling them off and sliding down to take Krycek's cock into his
mouth.
He ran his tongue over the head, tasting the slightly bitter precum that
gleamed there, then kissed and licked at Krycek's erection, tracing veins
and imaginary paths with his tongue until the younger man came with a hoarse
cry, his hand trembling as it clenched and unclenched in Mulder's hair.
Moving back up to lie beside Krycek, he ran his hand over the younger man's
hair. His head rested against the muscles of Krycek's good arm, and the
younger man stroked his back gently until he fell asleep.
Lost III
by Broken Angel
"You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling."
—T.S. Eliot, "Preludes"
Some brightness to hold in trust
Some final innocence
Exempt from dust..."
—Stephen Spender, "What I Expected"
Swept with confused alarms of
struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash as if by night."
—Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"
I don't know how long I've been sitting here, staring into the blackness of
my thoughts. Ever since Mulder went back to bed, I have been alone with my
fears and uncertainties.
Was it perversity that I
longed to talk to him?
Was it humility to feel so honored?
I felt so
honored..."
—D.H. Lawrence, "Snake"
He didn't know what to make of Krycek. The man had no discernible loyalties,
and his only apparent motive was self-preservation. He was like some
half-feral creature, both in actions and physical resemblance, slim with
whip-like muscles and deadly reflexes, and cat-like green eyes that never
rested for long.
In death's dream kingdom
let me also wear
such
deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer..."
—T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
I can tell Mulder's not happy. He's got that almost numb look in his eyes
that he gets when he absolutely does not want anyone around him to see that
he's upset. It's also the same look that lets everyone around him know
something's bothering him.
Pale, rain-flawed phantom of the
place
With news of all the nations in your hand
And all their sorrows in
your face."
—"Six O'Clock in Prince's Street"
Alex Krycek was sleeping, curled up in the back seat of Scully's car as the
three of them drove through the night towards Washington D.C.
take me
up to the
swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always
rising
Nor that riding to sleep
I shall hear him fly with the high
fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I
was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and
dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea."
—Dylan Thomas, "Fern Hill"
The last few minutes of the car ride pass in silence, and we pull up to the
Lone Gunmen "headquarters" with a crunch of loose gravel.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings
dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?"
—William Blake, "The Tiger"
Soft sounds gradually woke Mulder from a dreamless sleep. He became aware
of Krycek beside him when the younger man moved fitfully in his sleep.
Raising himself up onto one elbow, he turned to look at Krycek. The other
man was twisted in the blankets, and his face was turned away from Mulder.
Krycek's bare shoulders and back were knotted in tension, and Mulder could
see the muscles rippling under his skin. Krycek was making small noises in
his sleep, and suddenly turned over in a swift movement that left him
exposed to Mulder's eyes.
