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Mulder stood at the boy's bedside, staring down at him, fists clenching and
unclenching unnoticed at his sides. He'd tried talking to the boy, just as the
nurses and doctors had done, and received the same silence. The boy wasn't
deafhe responded to sounds, but he didn't seem to understood what was being
said to him, and he made no attempt to communicate. So there was no point
trying to question him about what had happened on the bridgethe same bridge
where Scully, standing now at Mulder's side studying the boy's chart, had
nearly been lostbut he couldn't quite pull himself away just yet. Perhaps it
was that sad look in the boy's eyes, that reminded him of another boy, whose
world had come crashing down one November night, over twenty-four years ago.
"His nose is broken." Scully's voice was even, but there was an edge of
anger to it. No matter how jaded one got, one never got used to seeing these
things happen to children. "And these punctures around his mouth and eyeshe
didn't get these on the bridge."
"It almost looks like...." Mulder couldn't quite bring himself to say it.
"His eyes and mouth had been sewn shut." Scully, however, said the
unspeakable. "According to his chart, there were still sutures in his lips and
left eye when he was found with the other survivors. The broken nose and other
facial trauma predate the burns by at least a week." She looked up from the
chart, her mouth a hard line. "He also hadn't eaten in days."
Eyes and mouth sewn shut. Mulder's hand reached out for the boy, who
shuddered away, fear sparking in his bruised eyes. Mulder let his hand fall.
The men on the bridge, who killed with fire, described by Scully as having no
faceseyes and mouths sealed shut by seams of scarred flesh. That image
haunted Mulder, tooin the barely-remembered jumble of bright light and guns
and the semi trailer of a military transport. There was a connection, a common
thread running through it all, but what it was eluded him.
"There's something else." Scully paused, and Mulder looked down at her.
There were still traces of the burns on her own face, reminders of her own
experiences on the bridge. They were hard to look at, too. "There were traces
of some kind of oily black material in his mouth. It hasn't been identified."
Mulder remembered another boy, in a small village shack outside a camp in
Tunguska, with an empty sleeve where his left arm would have beenextreme
measures to save him from the tests with the black oil. "I wonder if the
sutures might have been an attempt to protect him from the black oil."
Scully sighed. "If they were, they didn't appear to work."
"Does he have an implant?"
Scully consulted the chart again. "Yes. Same as the others." Same as
herself hung unsaid in the air between them.
Mulder stared at the boy, lying tumbled among the sheets, with his wide
pale eyes and thin bruised face. Implants and black oil and men with no
faces.... "Who is he?" he said softly, almost to himself.
Literal Scully looked again at the chart. "He was carrying no ID, no money,
bus tickets, anything at all. The clothes he was wearing had no tags in them.
He doesn't match any known missing persons reports. They think he might be
foreign, but he hasn't responded to any of the other languages they've tried,
eitherSpanish, French, German. He hasn't said a word, so they can only guess
at what he might understand. Or he may simply be too traumatized to speak."
They needed to know what had happened to this boy. They needed to know who
had beaten him and why, who had sewn his eyes and mouth shut, exposed him to
the black oil. And how he had ended up here, in a Pennsylvania hospital,
survivor of a mass burning, the victim of men with no faces, who just might be
alien rebels trying to stop the colonization of the world by alien invasion
forces.
They needed to know, but the boy lay silent in his misery, staring up at
them with his pale, wary eyes.
He started. How long had he been standing there, staring at the boy, as if
his very need alone could make the boy speak? "Yeah." He sighed. "We might as
well leave him alone."
"What now?" None of the other survivors had been any help. They just
couldn't remember what had happened. Any more than Mulder could remember more
than scattered images from his experiences at Wiekamp Air Force Base, where, if
Krycek were to be believed, an alien rebel was being held.
"Nothing. Unless this kid decides to talk, or Krycek shows up out of the
blue with more...." The boy had flinched, hard, and shrunk away to the other
side of the bed. Fear shone on his burned, bruised face. At the mention of
Krycek's name.
"Mulder?" This time, there was an edge of impatience in Scully's voice.
"Sorry. Let's go."
The boy's doctor shook his head. "Did he say something to you?"
"No, but I think he might be Russian. Or Kazakh. What do they speak in
Kazakhstan?"
The bewildered doctor shook his head.
"Well, if the Russian doesn't work, find out and try that. And get a
description of him in the paper, see if anyone comes to claim him. And...."
Mulder pulled a business card out of his pocket and pressed it into the
doctor's hand. "Call me immediately if anyone comes to see him. Immediately."
So assume Krycek had lost his arm to those Tunguska rebels, who had almost
taken Mulder's arm. You might say he deserved it, after all the pain he'd
caused and damage he'd done. But you might also say it was Mulder's fault,
who'd dragged him handcuffed halfway around the world, attacked him and drove
off with him bouncing around helplessly in the back of a truck. But wasn't it
Krycek who'd betrayed him yet again, leaving Mulder to his fate in the gulag
while he cozied up with the camp guards?
Mulder heaved a sigh. No matter. He could make himself crazy worrying at
whose fault was whose, after so many years of parry and feint, hidden agendas
and lies. If Krycek had lost his arm in Tunguska, he didn't seem inclined to
blame Mulder for it. Or at least, not to make an issue of it. He seemed to
think there were more important matters at hand than either of their personal
grudges. Like alien invasions from space....
The laughter bubbled up inside Mulder's throat, strained and humorless.
Just when he'd finally been convinced that it was all a lie, and not even
Scully's own experiences could make him believe again, along comes Alex Krycek
with a gun and a missing arm and a wild story and....
A hot mouth on Mulder's cheek.
Krycek had just been messing with his head. He'd known how badly it would
shake Mulder, to be kissed by his worst enemy. Or maybe it truly was some sort
of misguided goodwill gesture. A Russian kind of kiss, between men working
toward a common goal. Tovarish, Krycek had called him, as he left.
Comrade, Mulder knew that meant. Friend, compatriot. He'd spoken in
Russian, as if to himself, not knowing whether Mulder would understand, but
surely expecting that likely he would not. (But had he known that Mulder's
prodigious memory would record the words, as reliably as a tape recorder, and
as soon as it was convenient, work out their meaning? And had he known that
words spoken thus in Russian would carry more weight than English, easily
assumed to be a lie?)
But the tip Krycek had given himthe lead to Wiekamp Air Force Basethere
was something to that, even if Mulder couldn't put it all together into a
coherent whole. And even that was evidencelost time, bright lights, disrupted
memoriessomething had happened to him in that semi trailer that was no
ordinary military action. A man with no face. It was just one disconnected
image, but it was strong and real, and combined with the other flashes of
imagery, it was enough. Krycek had been telling the truth.
And Mulder didn't know how to deal with that. Every night since Krycek had
come, Mulder had sat on his couch in just the same way, for long hours into the
night, unmoving except for the clenching and unclenching of his fists,
replaying the sequence of events in his mind. He was no longer even sure what
he was trying to learn from what had happenedno matter how he worried at it,
no further understanding was forthcoming; no easing of the sharp, hot pain that
the memory of Krycek's presence brought him; no relaxation of the tension in
his mind. It was as if it had become ritual; compulsion. He sat and thought
about Krycek because he had to. Just as he had to eat and breathe.
Mulder was out the door almost before he'd hung up the phone.
So Mulder stood in the doorway and waited. Presently, Krycek turned and
shot a wry smile at Mulder over his shoulder. Then he turned his attention back
to the boy, reaching out to gently touch the boy's arm.
Mulder flinched; the boy didn't.
At last Krycek stood, patting the boy reassuringly on his arm, then leaning
down to kiss the boy's cheek.
Mulder stiffened, feeling the heat streak through his face. You
murdering bastard. Leave him alone. He couldn't say why it made him so
furious. Or why he felt ashamed.
He swallowed it down, nodding shortly to Krycek as he came to the door.
They started down the hall together. "What did you say to him, Tolstoy?"
Krycek watched the floor in front of him as he walked. His right hand was
jammed into his jacket pocket; his left arm hung at his side. He took a deep
breath. "Let's go somewhere and talk."
"What did you say to him?"
"His name is Dmitri," Krycek said slowly, staring into his coffee cup. "We
found him in Kazakhstan. The only survivor of a mass burning, just like the one
on the bridge. And the one on Skyland Mountain. I needed him. It wasn't his
fault."
He cleared his throat, and looked up at Mulder. "I told him I was sorry.
That I hadn't wanted to hurt him, that there were reasons I had to do what I
did. But it's over now. His part in it, anyway. I told him he's safe now, that
no one will hurt him any more. I told him I'd protect him, and help him get
home."
"And he believed you?"
Krycek shrugged, smiling faintly. "I've never lied to him."
"You're going to take him back to Kazakhstan?"
"I don't know. He's Russian, not Kazakh. Russians aren't very popular in
Kazakhstan these days. His family's dead. He might be better off somewhere
else."
"Like?"
Krycek smiled again, brief and sad. "He has relatives in Russia. He doesn't
know if they'd take him. And I'm not very popular in Russia these days. But
we'll figure something out."
"We can take care of him," Mulder said. "The State Department will make
sure he's taken care of."
"No." Krycek said flatly. "I'll take care of him."
Mulder sipped his coffee. He barely wanted to ask the next question, but it
had to be asked. "You did that to him, didn't you? Beat him up, infected him
with the black oil. Sewed his...." He couldn't get the words out.
"Yes." His face was calm, his dark eyes cool. But his hand trembled on his
coffee cup. "He doesn't remember much of it, after the black oil. That's a
blessing." His chin jutted out defiantly. "It was rough on him, but he'll be
fine. He's young and tough. The worst thing for him is losing his family. The
rest of it he'll get over. He's already getting over it."
"You're the only person he can talk to right now. He's lost and alone in a
foreign country, and you're the only familiar face he sees. As soon as we find
someone else who can speak Russian to him, you might find he's not so eager to
put his life in your hands again."
The thick dark eyelashes came down over Krycek's eyes ever so slightly: a
protective gesture, warding away pain. "Maybe. They told me he was dead, you
know. Maybe they really thought so, or maybe they were just trying to make me
think I'd lost my bargaining chip. They may well intend for him to end up that
way. Or they may have other plans for him. I'm not going to let that happen,
regardless of what he thinks of me. He's just a kid, and he's been through
enough. I'm going to see him safely home, outside of any official channels they
might be able to follow to go after him."
Krycek looked directly into Mulder's eyes, as intent as he'd ever been.
"Will you help me?"
And if Krycek felt the need to make amends for some of his crimes, should
Mulder try to interfere? Or, forgetting about Krycek for a moment, was it true
that the boy, Dmitri, was in danger from the Consortium? If that were so, then
for the boy's sake, if no one else's, it would be better to help Krycek slip
the boy quietly out of the country, with no official government involvement.
And deal with Krycek later. He wasn't going far, not while Dmitri was still in
the hospital. Mulder found that he believed Krycek that far: he cared about the
boy, and was determined to help and protect him. Maybe it was only a guilty
conscience, but at least that meant he had a conscience. So Mulder could afford
to let the matter rest, for the moment, to give himself time to consider what
to do, to try to get his roiling thoughts under control.
But everything was all right now. His cousin had come for him, and would
make sure everything was all right.
"And you believed him?" Scully's tone said plainly that she did not.
"Dmitri does." The boy had insisted that it had been "soldiers" who'd
beaten and experimented on him, and that Krycek was his cousin. And with no
identification to prove otherwise and no one else to claim him, it seemed that
the story would holdas long as Mulder and Scully were willing to go along.
"I'm sure Krycek was very persuasive. He seems to have that effect on
people." There was just enough sharpness in her tone to make it an accusation.
Mulder felt his face grow hot. "He was just a kid who was in the wrong
place at the wrong time. Now that it's all over, why shouldn't Krycek want to
help him?"
"How can you be so sure it's all over?"
She was angry. She always seemed to be angry with him lately. He'd screwed
up big time, and he wasn't even sure what he'd done. He supposed he should ask;
but then, in his experience, asking people why they were angry with him just
gave them the opportunity to find more reasons. His shoulders slumped. "I can't
be sure of anything. But I believed him."
Scully pursed her lips and regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments.
"Did Krycek ever tell you why he did what he did to the boy?"
"He said he had reasons. Beyond that, I didn't ask. I didn't think I was
ready to hear about it."
"Mulder... did you ever stop to consider that you're not really rational
when it comes to Krycek?"
His weak exhalation of breath was half laugh, half groan. "I think about it
every day. But he did try to help me. And he seems sincere about wanting to
help Dmitri. I think we should give him the chance."
Scully just frowned at him.
I'll be in touch, was all Krycek had said when he'd left the diner
last night. Mulder had no idea where he was staying, or under what name, so it
was useless trying to get in contact with him. He wanted Mulder's help, though,
so he'd be back, but Mulder chafed over not knowing when or where. The only
acceptable way to have Krycek around was to have him under controlin
handcuffs, preferably, or at least in sight and doing what he was told. But
Krycek could somehow never be controlledlike quicksilver he slipped through
your fingers, like a force of nature, no matter what you did you turned around
and he was gone, only to reappear three months later, six months, a year,
bloodied but unbroken, to turn your life upside-down again. It was maddening.
It was completely unacceptable. And it was unacceptable that he should take a
young boy, beat him and infect him with unspeakable organisms, sew his eyes and
mouth shut, and then sit down and tell that boy he was sorry and he didn't mean
to do it and be forgiven, just as though anything he'd done were forgivable.
And most of all it was unacceptable that he should enlist Mulder's aid in
stealing that boy away and sneaking out of the country with him, and that
Mulder should feel obligated to do it.
It was all unacceptable, and Mulder stalked around his office avoiding
Scully's angry eyes and pretending to work until he couldn't stand it any
longer, and then he told her he was going back to the hospital to talk to
Dmitri again, and grabbed his jacket and left.
The boy lay still, staring out the window. Why was he always so still? A
boy that age should be a whirlwind of energy. Of course, not necessarily when
he was recuperating from first- and second-degree burns all over his body, a
severe beating, and infection by an alien substance. Did he look depressed?
Perhaps he was just bored.
Dmitri turned and saw Mulder in the doorway. For a moment, his face
brightened; then just as quickly fell. Probably wishing it was Krycek, Mulder
thought, as he walked into the room. Or at least someone who spoke Russian. The
boy watched big-eyed and silent as Mulder took the chair by his bed, then
offered a tentative smile.
Mulder smiled back. Poor kid, he must be terribly lonely. So lonely he had
to lie here and hope for Krycek to come. "Hi, Dmitri."
"AAgent Mulder." The boy's soft accent and slight stutter made an exotic
sound of Mulder's name. Mulder was impressed that the boy remembered. Not that
he had a whole lot else to think about.
And that was pretty much the extent of their available conversation. Mulder
tried a slightly bigger smile, and said, "I know we can't really talk. I'm just
going to sit with you for a while, all right?"
The boy nodded earnestly, just as if he'd understood what Mulder said.
Well, he could hear the tone of the words, at least. And he really did seem
pleased to have Mulder's company. Mulder once again felt sorry for him: no one
to talk to, nothing to dohe couldn't understand the television; there were no
books or magazines he could read. Only one dry FBI agent who could do nothing
but sit here and nod at him.
Only now did it occur to him that he should have brought something for the
boy. Should he go back to the gift shop now? And what would they have for a
sixteen-year-old Russian boy?
Mulder dug in his pockets. What did he have for a sixteen-year-old Russian
boy? A dime-store pen? A business card? Waitwhat about that keychain he'd
bought at Heuvelmans Lake with a picture of Big Blue, the legendary sea
serpent, on it? It was cheap and tacky, but it was the best he could do. Mulder
retrieved the keychain and worked the keys off of it, sliding them loose back
into his pocket, and hoping he didn't lose any of them before he could get a
new one (would they have any in the gift shop? With cheerful kittens and
puppies on them, perhaps). He pressed the keychain into Dmitri's hand.
Too late, it occurred to him that perhaps a souvenir of a man-eating sea
monster was not the ideal present for a child who'd been assaulted by aliens.
But Dmitri grinned happily over it, and rattled off several sentences in
Russian, among which Mulder assumed were thanks. He held the keychain out to
Mulder, pointing at the picture, his eyebrows raised in question.
"Big Blue," Mulder said carefully. "Big Blue."
Dmitri furrowed his brow. "Big. Blue."
"That's right," Mulder nodded, thinking, The first words of English this
kid learns, and it's the name of a nonexistent sea monster.
"Big Blue," Dmitri repeated to himself, gripping the keychain as if it were
precious metal.
Occasionally, he liked to say that he was cursed with a photographic
memory. At times, he felt that it truly was a curse. Like now, as he entered
the front door of his apartment, and his eye was uncontrollably drawn to that
exact spot on the floor where the square of white paper had lain, the night
Krycek had come to tell him that aliens were invading the world. Things are
looking up, had been written on the paper, and as he'd bent to pick it up,
Krycek had jumped him from behind and shoved him into the floor across the room
by the desk. Mulder tried not to look at that spot in the floor; tried not to
think about what had happened that night. But the image was burned indelibly
into his mind; he saw that small square of paper lying there still, every time
he walked into his apartment.
And there was where he'd lain on the floor in the dark, with Krycek bending
over him, gun muzzle pressing into Mulder's chest. You must be losing it,
Mulder. I can beat you with one hand.
Isn't that how you like to beat yourself? Mulder's face burned as he
remembered the foolish comeback that had popped out of his mouth. Whatever had
possessed him to respond to a life-threatening situation with his worst enemy
with lame cracks about masturbation? The gun muzzle had poked roughly into his
chest. Mulder had felt his heart pounding back, as if straining to meet it. His
hands and feet had tingled and gone numb, and there had been a faint buzzing
sound in his ears. When he'd opened his mouth to speak, the unbidden image of
the gun muzzle sliding into it had risen, threatening to choke him. Sweat had
dripped into his eyes. If those are going to be my last words, I can do
better.
I'm not here to kill you, Mulder. I'm here to help you.
Lies. Lies. But then Krycek had handed over his gun and walked away,
leaving behind the small square of paper with the name of an Air Force base
written on the back. An Air Force base where an alien was being held; where
Mulder had seen... bright lights and a man with no face and other things he
couldn't remember, but which had given Mulder his faith back.
AndKrycek had ordered him to sit up, then, with surprising grace for a
one-armed man, had leaned over and pressed his mouth to Mulder's cheek. It was
shock, Mulder was sure, that had caused him to start, and not some perverse
impulse to turn his head toward Krycek's and capture that kiss on his mouth. It
was adrenaline that had caused that spark to race through his body like an
electric current. It was the heightened sensitivity of fear that had made those
lips burn into his cheek, and left him feeling as spent and helpless as if
Krycek's bullet had indeed pierced his heart and left him bleeding on the
floor.
"I did knock," Krycek said, before Mulder had the chance to ask the
question. "You didn't answer. And I wasn't about to stand in the hallway
pounding on your door." The radio still blared.
"Come on in," Mulder muttered. "Everyone else does." He really should
change his locks. Not that it would do any good.
"Need a hand with that?" Krycek indicated the pile of fresh sheets on the
chair by the bed.
"No." Krycek helping him to make his bed? God, no. Mulder felt his face
grow hot. "Look, would you get out of here? Go wait in the other room."
Krycek shrugged. "Sure."
Krycek was standing by the end of the couch, staring at the framed print of
a typewriter on the wall. He turned to greet Mulder with a tentative smile.
"Nice picture."
"Thanks." It had been a gift from Mulder's mother. He wasn't about to tell
Krycek that he hadn't had the heart to tell her he found it only marginally
more interesting than bare wall. But since he'd never gotten around to buying
anything he actually liked, he left it up.
"Well." Krycek turned towards Mulder, folding his arms across his chest.
Fascinating, the way he casually slipped his hand under his left arm and pulled
it up, tucking the hand under his elbow. If you weren't watching for it, you
might not even notice the left arm was a prosthetic. "Dmitri liked the
keychain."
"You were at the hospital today?"
"I just came from there. He said you were there for a couple of hours.
Thanks."
"I didn't do it for you. And if I decide to help you get him out of the
country, I won't be doing that for you, either."
Krycek shook his head, a slight smile curling his mouth. (Soft, round
mouth. Mulder looked away.) "I never expected you to, Mulder. So, have you
thought about it?"
Mulder didn't know how to answer that. "Do you want coffee?" Ridiculous,
offering the man coffee. But he had to have something to do, before he began to
scream.
"Sure." Krycek looked like he needed coffee. He looked like he needed
sleep, actually. His face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.
He shoved his right hand into his jacket pocket and followed Mulder into the
kitchen, leaving his left arm to hang at his side. He'd been busy the past few
days. Where had he slept, if he'd slept at all?
Mulder shook his head and busied himself with the coffee pot. "Is the boy
really in danger?"
"I don't know. Truthfully, I hope he isn't. But I'm not taking any
chances."
"What exactly is it that you want me to do?" It made it a little easier,
being able to busy himself with the coffee. He didn't quite want to smash
Krycek's face in, or throw him up against the wall and demand to know why he
did it.
"As much as you're willing to do. Don't tell them I'm not really Dmitri's
cousin, for one thing. Keep him out of your reports."
Mulder nodded. "And...?"
"I'm trying to arrange some ID for both of us. Transport to Russia. I can
manage that if I have to, but I wouldn't mind some help." Krycek leaned against
the counter, eyeing the coffeepot as if expecting gold from it.
"You mean money."
A slight shrug. The prosthetic arm swung at his side, a dead weight. "Among
other things." He laughed, a short humorless noise. "He took everything before
he let me go. Trying to keep me on a short leash. I don't even have a change of
underwear."
Definitely not something Mulder wanted to know. "What about a place to
stay?"
"I'm fine."
"When was the last time you slept?"
"I went to see Titanic this afternoon. I had a nice nap."
Mulder swore to himself. Repeatedly. "You can't afford a room at the YMCA
or something?"
"I don't want a room. I need to keep moving."
"Fine." Mulder suddenly remembered Los Angeles, the summer of the fires,
when Scully was gone, and he went long days on nothing but catnaps, refusing to
check into a hotel. Because Scully was gone, and there was nothing he could do
but keep moving, because stopping would mean seeing the emptiness that was
there. He understood the need to keep moving.
So what was it that was keeping Krycek moving? Was he worried about the
boy? Consumed with guilt? But if he cared so much, how could he have done the
things he did in the first place? "Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"What you did to Dmitri."
Krycek looked away, grim and silent. His eyes narrowed and his mouth
trembled, then pressed firmly shut. Pain twitched across his face, was
determinedly rejected, then washed back again, stronger than his stoicism.
Mulder stood and watched him, fascinated, even pleased. Time seemed to
telescope down, till there was nothing but Mulder's kitchen, the coffee perking
gently in its pot, and Mulder's enemy, struggling with a great pain. It was
soothing, somehow, even comforting, to watch Krycek suffering, to know that the
things he did had consequences for him. Mulder had punished Krycek
beforehandcuffed him and beat him, but it had never truly satisfied. Not like
this. Krycek had refused to be brought down by it; he'd absorbed Mulder's abuse
and given nothing back. If only he'd suffered like this....
The coffeepot fell silent. Krycek looked at it expectantly; the spell was
broken. Mulder got mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee into them. Krycek
liked sugar in his coffee, Mulder remembered, and pulled the box of sugar down
before he had time to think about it. Then stopped, suddenly, flustered and a
little angry. Krycek reached for the sugar, all the time watching Mulder
warily, as if expecting him to snatch it away.
God, Mulder thought. Had things become so hopelessly complicated between
them that even a cup of coffee became a test? Exasperated, he jerked the
silverware drawer open, and slammed a spoon down on the counter.
Krycek grinned crookedly as he picked up the spoon to stir his coffee. But
his bravado was betrayed by the tightness at the corners of his mouth and the
liquid pain in his eyes.
"Why did you do it?" he asked again. He didn't even care if Krycek
answered; he just wanted to see that pain again.
But several sips of strong, sweet coffee and a chair to sit in had given
him back his composure. This time, Krycek stared off into the middle distance
with the trace of a sad smile, and began to speak softly.
"He was my Trojan Horse. I told them he had information about the burn site
in Kazakhstanimportant information that no one else knew. And he did, at
least until the same thing happened at Skyland Mountain and Ruskin Dam. But
really, that was just to get him alone with them. They'd be horrified by the
way I'd treated him, of course, and they'd rush to get the stitches out before
they stopped to think why those stitches might be there. And the black oil
would come rushing outit wouldn't have affected Dmitri, because he'd had the
vaccinationsame as you did, Mulder, which is why it didn't hurt youand one
or more of them would be infected. If it got to enough of them, it could ruin
them. Or at the very least put a very large monkey wrench into their plans."
Mulder nodded slowly. A desperate plan, and by no means a foolproof one.
But the payoff would have been worth the risk. To him. "What about Dmitri? What
would have happened to him?"
That shadow of pain was back in Krycek's face. "I hoped to be able to
recover him afterwards. But if I couldn't... I thought the stakes were high
enough that the sacrifice was worth it." He finally looked Mulder in the eye,
grim and defiant. "I didn't like doing it." His gaze broke, and he stared into
the distance again. "I've had to do a lot of things I didn't like. And
sometimes it wasn't worth the price I had to pay. But this time... poor Dmitri
was forfeit the minute he survived that holocaust. At least with me he had a
chance."
It was horrifyingly believable. And Krycek's regret, too, spilling
reluctantly out of him, was sweet balm to Mulder's anger. But where did a
broken nose fit into this seductive tale?
"Then why did you beat him?"
Krycek gave a slight shake of his head. "I had to know what he knew. I had
to get him to talk to me, but he was afraid of the soldiers, and of me, and he
tried to run away, and he lied pathetically about everything. I had to find out
what he saw, and I couldn't afford the time it would have taken to be kind and
win his trust. It wouldn't have been any favor to him, anyway, considering what
came after."
"So you beat him." Mulder found that he was angry again. I had to know,
and so I beat him. Then he put on that pretty look of repressed pain, and
said that he was sorry, and expected his crimes to be justified. Sometimes
sorry wasn't enough. Sometimes it wasn't anything at all.
Krycek looked at him dully, as if he knew what Mulder was thinking, and had
suddenly given up trying to explain. "Yeah."
And the boy forgave him. How could he forgive itthe terror, the pain, the
assault? "It's Stockholm Syndrome, you know."
The dull look disappeared, to be replaced by wariness. "What?"
"The boy. Dmitri. You've terrorized him into depending on you, and now
he'll do anything to please you, to keep you from hurting him again. It's fear,
not forgiveness."
Krycek shrugged. Something in his face hardened. "It really bothers you,
doesn't it? The idea that anyone could forgive me."
Mulder found himself leaning forward on the couch, hands clenching into
fists. "He's a scared kid."
"Or maybe he's just more forgiving than some people."
Mulder was on his feet, and had taken two steps towards Krycek before he
could stop himself. "Some people you never bothered to ask for forgiveness."
Krycek had also jumped to his feet, into a fighter's stance, hard and
ready. But his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and intense and full of sharp
little needles. "Would it have done any good?"
Mulder closed the distance between them, and stood eye to eye with him,
staring hard, as if the force of his gaze could give him the answers he wanted.
But Krycek gave him nothing, as always. Only his presence, so close, that
filled Mulder with a terrible need, that he had no idea how to satisfy. Mulder
forced a deep breath, and then another, and then a harsh smile. He whispered,
"Try me."
Breathing hard, Krycek tried to step back, but his foot hit the chair
behind him and he stopped, huge eyes glittering. His tongue came out and licked
his lower lip, leaving it shiny. For a moment, he was open wide, and the pain
rushed out of him, and flowed over Mulder like an offering. Then it was gone,
and his only response was a slow shake of the head.
No! It was unacceptable. He couldn't be allowed to get away with it. He had
to payfor what he did to Mulder, or for what he did to Dmitri, or for
something, but he had to pay. Mulder's hand swiped out and caught Krycek by the
back of the neck, pulling him close, and Mulder's mouth came down hard on
Krycek's.
They both froze for an instant, Mulder just as shocked as Krycek by what
he'd done. But only for an instant. Mulder felt a blaze erupt in him, a
horrible satisfaction that made him feel huge and powerful and almost
unbearably good. He pulled Krycek closer, pressed his mouth harder, forcing
Krycek's mouth open and pushing his tongue inside. Krycek's soft lips stretched
wide. Inside he was hot and sweet. Mulder wrapped his arm around Krycek's back
and pressed his thigh between his legs. Strong, muscular legs, now straining to
keep their balance as Mulder kept pushing forward.
It was dizzyingly good. Gasping for breath, Mulder broke the kiss, grinning
terribly, intoxicated by the sight of Krycek's lips, wet from Mulder's mouth,
and the hazy look in his eyes. God, it was sweet. Unthinking, his fist drew
back to strike
Krycek at once pushed forward, forcing Mulder back, then turned and rolled
out of Mulder's grasp and away.
They stood staring at each other. Mulder's sense of overwhelming power
burst and dissipated, like a punctured balloon, leaving him shaking and
horrified. Krycek looked no better. He was red-faced and breathing harshly. His
mouth worked, but no words came out. Then he shook his head and turned towards
the door.
It couldn't be left like this. Mulder struggled for words, but none came.
His feet felt rooted to the floor. And he could do nothing, nothing at all,
while Krycek slipped away without looking back, closing the door quietly behind
him.
And now Krycek was gone again. Would he come back this time, after what had
happened? Or was he gone for another six months, another year, until the next
time he showed up out of nowhere, to disrupt Mulder's life and his sleep one
more time?
The razor slipped, and Mulder jerked his hand away, swearing. Two small
drops of blood welled along his cheek. He put the razor down and closed his
eyes, and took a deep breath. He couldn't let Krycek do this to him. It would
be just as well if he didn't come back. Then maybe Mulder could forget, wipe
the memory out of his mind, at least until the next time....
She looked tired, too, he thought. The burns on her face stood out sharply
against her pale skin, and there were violet smudges under her eyes. How long
had she been like this? Had it been days, and he just hadn't noticed? She was
always so calm, so controlledit was too easy to assume that everything was
all right with her, that none of this affected her as it did him, but of course
that was selfish and absurd. She was the one who'd been abducted, experimented
on, implanted, made sterile, her sister murdered, given cancer, nearly led to
her death in a fiery holocaust. All because of him, and his pointless quest. If
he really allowed himself to stop and think about it, he'd drown in guilt.
"Hey, Scully." He could hear how tentative and awkward he sounded. "You
look tired."
"So do you. Did you find out anything more from Dmitri?" She continued to
stand in front of his desk, arms crossed. She was hard as stone, an alabaster
statue before him.
He swallowed. "No, not really. I didn'tIt wasn't" He lowered his gaze
suddenly, unable to look at her. "I thought I would just stay with him for a
little while. He's so alone" (A lonely teenaged boy, sister lost, no one to
talk to) "I didn't want him to have to think that Krycek was the only person
here he could depend on. I didn't want him to be so scared."
Scully's voice softened. "That was probably a good idea." He looked up at
her again. She wasn't smiling, but she was no longer made of stone, either. He
felt something loosen in his chest. "And what about Krycek? Have you seen him
again?"
He hoped she couldn't see his face growing hot. "Yeah, he came by my
apartment last night. We talked. He told me he'd been planning to use Dmitri as
a kind of Trojan horse, to expose his enemies to the black oil. Dmitri was safe
from it, because he'd been vaccinated. He hoped to be able to recover the boy
afterwards, and send him safely home."
Clearly, she was not appeased. Mulder didn't know that he was, either. The
stakes were high, no doubt of thatif Krycek had been telling the truth, or
believed that he was telling the truth, the entire human race was in danger.
Was it justified for him to use and torture one teenaged boy, if the future of
humanity was at stake? Mulder didn't know, and he didn't want to knowwhat if
some day someone told him that Samantha's sacrifice had been necessary for the
survival of the human race? His own pain and suffering, and Scully's? His
father's death? He wasn't ready to face those questions yet.
"Then what happened? How did Dmitri end up on the bridge?"
Mulder felt his face blaze again. That was part of the conversation they
hadn't gotten to. "I think someone stole Dmitri away from him before he got the
chance to make the trade." Marita. "But then the black oil got to whoever it
was, and the boy got away. He had the implant; he was called to the site in
Pennsylvania, just like he was to the one in Kazakhstan." He hadn't heard from
Marita since her phone call telling him she had someone from the Kazakhstan
site. Her office said she'd been called away. Was she dead, a victim of the
black oil?
Scully shook her head in amazement. "He survived two of the mass burnings,
a severe beating, infection by the black oilit's a miracle he's still alive."
Mulder nodded. "We have to help him. Even if it means helping Krycek too."
Scully sighed. "All right, Mulder. What do you want to do?"
He wasn't prepared for her agreement. He felt his face go red a third time,
as he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."
To that end, Mulder headed back to the hospital after work to check in on
the boy.
Intent on the boy, Krycek appeared not to notice the intrusionbut Mulder
was convinced that Krycek knew he was there, just the same. Krycek hadn't
flinched, hadn't sent even the beginning of a glance toward the door; but
somehow, Mulder could feel Krycek's awareness of his presence, just as he could
feel Krycek's. It was something in the air, heavy and dark and almost sweet,
like the tinge of ozone that presages a storm.
The leather jacket slid down Krycek's left arm. He wore only a
short-sleeved white cotton tee-shirt underneath, exposing the smooth
flesh-colored plastic of the prosthetic. Dmitri stroked it, handling the
jointed elbow and fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Krycek was holding himself still as death, answering Dmitri's questions in
a voice too measured to tremble. Perfectly controlled, Krycek offered his
disfigurement to the boy, and it made Mulder unreasonably angry, as just about
everything else about Krycek made him angry. It hurt Krycek to let his false
arm be exposed, but he let the boy have it, the pain only showing in his
unnatural calm.
Then Dmitri raised his hand to Krycek's shirt sleeve, IV tube trailing from
his arm, and began to push the sleeve up. He wanted to see the whole arm, right
up to the ruined shoulder, where the prosthetic met flesh. Still motionless,
Krycek sucked in air, as if the boy had plunged a knife into him. But when
Dmitri blinked at him, he nodded for him to go on, and even shifted to allow
the boy easier access to his shoulder. His breathing had quickened, though, and
he licked his lips shiny and wet.
Mulder barely suppressed his own gasp. He felt a flush that seemed to
streak through his entire body, leaving him hot and shaky. It was a horribly
intimate moment, and Mulder couldn't bear it. Unbidden, the thought streaked
across his consciousness: I'm going to have to fuck him or kill him.
Mulder was shocked by his own thought. But it was as undeniable as the heat in
his belly. Dmitri ran his slender fingers along the edge of the prosthetic,
sliding his thumb beneath the elastic strap that attached the prosthetic arm to
Krycek's body. Kill him or fuck him. But he couldn't kill him, not now,
with Dmitri and the aliens and the FBI... so that meant he had to fuck him.
Fuck him raw, fuck him into the ground, fuck him senseless... Mulder felt the
words repeat, almost ringing in his ears, like a mantra, a chant, that somehow
eased the terrible roiling in his mind. It was a plan, whether it made sense or
not: a way to deal with the unbearable feelings Krycek aroused, and he had to
do something or he'd go mad.
He was sure he could do it. Krycek hadn't resisted Mulder's kiss last
night, he'd only broken away when Mulder had turned violent. He hadn't really
responded to it, either, but then Mulder hadn't given him much chance to
respond. He'd gotten away easily enough, though, when he wanted to. If he'd
felt the need to break away from the kiss, he could have done that too.
Mulder could have done it last night, and everything would have been
settledif only he hadn't lost control and tried to hit him. Now, it was going
to be more difficult. Krycek would be wary. He wasn't willing to let himself be
abused. So Mulder would have to be careful. Make his move slowly, with no
violence or roughness. Maybe even make Krycek believe he'd forgiven him. It
didn't matter what he had to do, as long as he got Krycek to drop his pants and
bend over. Then maybe, at last, Mulder would find a little peace.
Mulder put on a friendly smile, struggling to regain his composure. "Hi,
Dmitri." Then he turned to Krycek, letting the smile fade, biting his lip. "We
need to talk."
Krycek nodded, still gazing down at the boy. Was he unwilling to face
Mulder, with his arm's naked display still looming large in the room? He put
his handhis flesh and blood handon Dmitri's shoulder, and said something
that sounded like leave-taking.
The boy stretched out his arms, and Krycek gathered him up, holding him
with his flesh and plastic arms, kissing him briefly but firmly on the lips.
Mulder shifted uncomfortably. He told himself it was custom, and purely
innocent, but still it made him cringe to watch Krycek kiss this child, his
victim.
Then Krycek stood up from the bed, and Dmitri turned to Mulder, reaching
out his arms to him, smiling hopefully. Krycek said something softly, in
Russian, and Dmitri's arms fell, and his smile turned to disappointment.
Krycek started toward the door, but Mulder stepped in front of him with a
minute shake of his head. Krycek shrugged and moved to stand by the wall.
Probably he was only trying to give Mulder a few moments alone with Dmitribut
he might also decide to take the opportunity to slip away, and Mulder wasn't
ready to lose track of him for another night. So Krycek watched while Mulder
went to the bed and stood over the boy, who looked up at him with a tentative
smile.
So now what? Shake the boy's hand and take his leave, in the way his
restrained New England upbringing had taught him? Dmitri was clearly used to
easy physical expressions of affection, and Mulder's distance would seem like a
rejection. And there was no way to explain it to him. If Mulder truly wanted to
help the boy, he would have to offer him the sort of friendship he would
understand. So he put away his own discomfort, and sat down on the bed, bending
over the boy to embrace him.
Dmitri's response was eager and warm. Slender fingers dug into Mulder's
upper arms, and a hard little mouth, still cracked and scabbed from sutures and
fists and fires, pressed briefly into Mulder's. It was over in a moment,
nothing troubling about it. Still, Mulder felt his anger flare again. The boy
seemed so thin and fragile, the burns and bruises so heart-wrenching on his
face. Mulder wanted to touch them, to stroke them away, but the throbbing pulse
in his groin made mockery of his tenderness. It was Krycek's faultfor kissing
him, for kissing the boy, for twisting it all up until everything good seemed
evil, and evil seemed like the only sensible thing to do. He felt that the boy
was being used as a pawn in some sort of horrible game between them, but there
were no rules and no sense to it, and no way out.
Except that he would fuck Krycek, and everything would be all right. The
thought was an immediate balm to his troubled mind. He managed to smile at
Dmitri, saying, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better. I'll visit you again
later." He couldn't quite resist brushing his fingertips across the boy's
temple, ever so lightly. Dmitri just beamed at him, uncomprehending.
Mulder took a deep breath and stood up. Krycek remained by the wall,
regarding them with a strange, almost unhappy, expression. Mulder wanted to be
angry againwhat did he have to be unhappy about? But it was an absurd
question, and even Mulder knew itthe plastic left arm under that leather
jacket was one obvious answer.
He nodded to Krycek and headed for the door. Krycek peeled himself from the
wall and followed. Did he seem slightly unsteady on his feet? Was it all taking
its toll on him, too? He'd been exhausted yesterday, and wasn't likely to have
gotten a good night's sleep in the meantime, if he was staying on the move.
Good enough, he'd have less energy to resist.
They walked in silence to the elevator, and remained in silence throughout
the ride to the ground floor. Mulder closed his eyes and leaned heavily against
the side wall of the elevator, shoulder and forehead pressed against the
plastic paneling. He was going to have to get some sleep soon, or he'd just
fall over unconscious where he stood. It wasn't until they stepped out onto the
sidewalk that Mulder spoke.
"We'll go to my place."
Krycek stopped. "Why don't we just go back to that diner?"
It hadn't occurred to Mulder that he would be wary of returning to Mulder's
apartment. This was going to make things more difficult. He had to get Krycek
alone somewhere. Well, never mind, say anything, just get him there.
"Look, about that... last night." He paused, struggling for words. He
couldn't quite force himself to say he was sorry. "It won't happen again."
Krycek looked away, his mouth tight. It hurt him to hear Mulder's attempts
at apologies, which Mulder found darkly satisfying. He went on, "Look, I'm
tired, I want to go home. Just come, all right?"
Krycek made a small, exasperated noise. "Yeah, okay."
Mulder couldn't quite believe how relieved he was. It would happen now, he
was sure of it. And everything would be all right.
Krycek stood wavering in the doorway. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was
having trouble keeping them open. Sleep. They both needed sleep.
No help for it, Mulder just managed to think. The body had reached its
limit. "Go to bed," he ordered weakly, not caring how his instructions sounded.
"I'm going to sleep here. You can take the bed. We'll talk about it...." He
could barely keep track of his sentences. "Later." He was already half asleep.
Forget about changing clothes, just get a pillow under his head... and he sank
inexorably into darkness.
He rushed to the bedroom. Ridiculous to expect Krycek to be herebut there
he was, lying sprawled across Mulder's bed in his tee-shirt and jeans, leather
jacket crumpled beside him, sound asleep. He lay on his back, face pale in the
street light spilling through the unshaded window, prosthetic arm emerging from
his shirt sleeve, lying at his side, shiny and lifeless. Mulder stepped into
the room, staring down at him, his heart suddenly pounding. Krycek in his bed.
So close.... Did he look innocent in his sleep? Mulder couldn't say that he
did. Not with a week's stubble, and that plastic armor the betrayal that
Mulder knew lurked behind that deceptively youthful face. But there was
something ethereal about him, lying here in the dark, his round lips slightly
parted, long lashes almost unnaturally thick and black against his pale cheeks.
Or maybe it was just that, having made the decision to fuck him, he was now
seeing Krycek in a new light, measuring his sexual attractiveness, like a wild
animal selecting its mate. Krycek was certainly fine specimen, physically,
despite the lost arm. Strong and graceful and even pretty. What would he look
like naked, lying on his stomach, legs spread for the taking? Mulder took an
awkward step, shoe hitting the floor harder than he'd meant it to, and Krycek
stirred.
No threat, Mulder warned himself, forcing a gentle smile. "Hi. Didn't mean
to wake you."
Krycek pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking. The other arm, the false
one, hung from his shoulder like a dead thing. "What time is it?"
"I don't know. Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it."
Krycek nodded, as if he'd actually gotten an answer. He yawned, craning his
neck down to his side, so that he could rub his eyes with his fingers. "I feel
like that's the first sleep I've gotten in years."
"Me too." Mulder felt his smile coming more easily now, even naturally.
Krycek was relaxed, suspecting nothing. Everything was going fine, if only he
didn't spook now. Mulder moved toward him and sat on the edge of the bed.
Krycek shifted, moving his prosthetic arm as if he'd just now noticed it
was there, trying to get the elbow under him for more support. He was making no
attempt to hide or cover the arm, so Mulder supposed he'd lost his shyness
about it that afternoon. Tentatively, Mulder reached across him to touch it,
watching for signs of resistance. But Krycek remained calm, even indifferent.
Mulder stroked the arm above the jointed elbow. It was just smooth plastic,
slightly cool to the touch, nothing more. Could Krycek feel that he was being
touched? Did the pressure of Mulder's hand, however light, transmit itself to
the flesh above? He ran his hand up the arm, beneath the sleeve, until his
fingers met warm skin. He stroked absently for a moment, watching Krycek's eyes
drift closed, like a sleepy cat being petted.
"What did you tell Dmitri about it?" Not, perhaps, the topic of
conversation most conducive to Mulder's ends, but he'd already betrayed his
interest in the arm, and besides, he wanted to know.
"That it happened while I was fighting the same enemy that had destroyed
his family."
Clever. And not even necessarily a lie. "What have you told him about it
all? The black cancer and the mass abductions?"
"I've tried not to tell him too much. I want him out of ithe should be
able to live his life in peace, without having to worry about alien invasions
and the end of the world." Krycek sighed, and smiled a little. "I've told him
it was secret projects and spy stuff. Hell, he was a ten-year-old Russian
living in Kazakhstan during the breakup of the Soviet Unionhe knows all about
governments and their games."
Mulder smiled back, still caressing Krycek's shoulder under the sleeve. The
skin was soft and warm and pleasant to the touch. Strange to feel it end here,
in cold, hard plastic. He felt himself drifting, as lulled by the quiet
intimacy of the moment as the other man. He moved his hand away, then, and
smoothed Krycek's sleeve down, feeling the ridge of the prosthesis pressing
against flesh beneath the thin cotton. He remembered Tunguska, and the man in
his cabin, holding a huge machete in his hand, ready to chop off Mulder's arm
to save him from the tests with the black oil. No hospitals, no
anaestheticsjust desperate men doing what they thought they had to do to
survive. Krycek had suffered what Mulder had barely escaped. He couldn't
imagine it, although in his nightmares he'd tried. The huge knife, slicing
through muscle, severing arteries, crushing bone.... "What did it feel like?"
he found himself asking, in a voice low and huskyand instantly regretted it.
Demonstrating his sick fascination with the man's pain was not the way to
seduce him.
Krycek stared. His mouth worked, and his eyes were like chips of stone.
Mulder thought for a moment he was going to get up and leave. But then he drew
a ragged breath and lay back, closing his eyes briefly, then staring at the
ceiling thoughtfully. "It was huge," he said at last, "the pain...." He paused,
frowning, searching for words. It occurred to Mulder that perhaps, after all
this time, he wanted to talk about it. "So huge... it was everything, forever.
It was deep and thick and sharp, all at the same time. It was so horrible...."
He paused again, and took a deep breath. "It felt like death." He closed his
eyes again, and swallowed, bringing his hand up to his forehead. Mulder could
feel the heat coming off him.
All sense, all cunning cast aside, Mulder bent down and let his lips meet
Krycek's. A brief kiss, chaste, no more than he'd given Dmitri. But his heart
was pounding. He kissed Krycek's mouth again, as he had before, then pulled
back far enough to see Krycek's expression.
Calm. Accepting. It wasgod, it was the way he'd offered himself to
Dmitri, in penance for his sins. Was he now offering himself to Mulder the same
way?
Strangely, Mulder now felt a twinge of reluctance. Although, wasn't that
what he wanted him for? Penance? Krycek's guilt and pain, in return for his
betrayal? But he hadn't quite gotten as far as thinking that the act of his
submission might bring a measure of ease to Krycek, too. Some people you
never bothered to ask for forgiveness, he'd accused, and, Would it have
done any good? Krycek had asked. Not, I don't want your forgiveness.
Not, I don't care what I did to you. Willing to make amends, as long as
the effort was not a lost cause. Unwilling to take on more pain, but willing to
share what he had, if it would bring comfort to them both.
No. Mulder wasn't ready for that. It implied forgiveness, and there was no
forgiveness here. No forgivenessonly a burning need that demanded
satisfaction. He only had to be gentle enough to make Krycek lie still for it.
If the man mistakenly assumed it meant more than it did, that was his problem.
Mulder bent down again, and pressed his mouth to Krycek's, this time
letting the kiss linger, becoming unmistakably sexual. He stretched out his
body, drawing his knees up onto the bed until he was lying next to Krycek, and
brought his elbows down on either side of Krycek's chest. And he kissed him
slowly, exploring the feel and taste of those plush, round lips, letting his
tongue flick between them, dampening them.
Krycek groaned, and his arms came up to encircle Mulder's back, one warm,
firm flesh, the other hard, cool plastic. It was an odd feeling, but not an
unpleasant one. The living fingers dug into his back, and Krycek's upper body
lifted to meet his, heaving chest pressed against him.
Mulder let his mouth roam over Krycek's face, nuzzling the unshaven cheeks,
nibbling the lobes of his small, neat ears, then returned to his lips, hungry
now, demanding, forcing his tongue into the wet cavern of his mouth. Krycek
took him in, opening his own mouth wide, as if he would swallow Mulder up.
Mulder almost laughed at the limitless abandon of it, but instead he gripped
Krycek's upper armsboth real and fake, like the man himselfand bore down
harder, sent his tongue in deeper, until his jaws ached and his head spun.
At last he pushed back, sitting up on his knees, gasping for breath, and
began to unbutton his shirt. Krycek looked up at him, mouth shiny and wet, eyes
bright. His expression was strange, almost grim, as if there were serious work
to be done. Mulder almost laughed again, turned it into a grimace, and pushed
himself to his feet to finish undressing. It seemed that neither of them was in
this purely for the pleasure of it.
Krycek worked his prosthetic elbow under himself, and reached down to
unbutton his jeans with one hand. Mulder had never considered how awkward it
must be to dress and undress with only one arm. Should he help? But that would
probably only embarrass him. Instead, Mulder turned away, under cover of
draping his clothing across a chair, and left Krycek in semi-privacy to get his
pants off.
Presently, he heard the sound of Krycek's jeans hitting the floor. It sent
a flush to his face, and he hurried to finish getting his own clothes off,
scattering socks and underwear like wind-blown leaves. When he turned back to
the bed, Krycek was sitting up, naked below the waist, attempting to get a grip
on his tee-shirt hem with his prosthetic hand. Too impatient to coddle Krycek's
sensitivities any longer, Mulder knelt beside him on the bed and pushed his
hands aside, then pulled the tee-shirt over his head. Krycek cooperated as best
he couldthe prosthesis was not as maneuverable as the real arm, and the shirt
tangled over it for a moment, but Mulder just took him firmly by the shoulder
and worked it free, tossing it in the floor with the rest of his clothes.
Krycek allowed this, as he'd allowed the rest of it, only the tightening of his
mouth betraying any ambivalence about having his damaged arm handled. He rubbed
his shoulder briefly.
Mulder sat regarding the prosthesis. "Do you want to take it off?"
Krycek looked away, frowning, with a slight shake of his head. He gripped
the arm just above the elbow, as if afraid Mulder would try to take it from him
"Okay. It's okay, Krycek, I don't mind it. I just thought you might be more
comfortable without it." He didn't have to make an effort to put the gentleness
in his voice. Hell, tormenting the guy about his disability was not what this
was about. In fact, he was impatient with it already.
Krycek closed his eyes briefly, took a breath. A visible wash of calm
settled over him, the grip on his arm loosened, and he looked back at Mulder, a
faint smile on his face.
It was beautiful the way he did that: a deep breath, an effort of will, and
his perfect control was back. Mulder was tempted to envy himalthough he knew
quite well that self-control had never been one of his primary goals. What
would it take to shatter that control? Mulder had a sudden desire to see him
thrashing, twisting, squirming, out of control. His cock jumped at the thought.
Twisting and squirming with Mulder's cock up his ass. He smiled back, amused to
know that Krycek had no idea why he was really smiling.
And now what? Lay him down and kiss him some more? That had been nice.
Touch him all over, feel his cock and balls, pinch his nipples, work him up
into a nice frenzy before turning him over and shoving it into him? Make him
suck it for a while first? Such a nice round mouth, just made for cocksucking.
How many other cocks had been down that throat, up that ass? He was far too
accepting of all this to be a virgin. Too pretty not to have been approached.
Probably a slut who'd sit on it for anybody.
Mulder's breath grew hot and sharp in his lungs. The terrible need was
back. And now, at last, he could fulfill it.
"I want to fuck you."
Krycek's smile turned ironic. "Why does that not surprise me?"
"Good. It wasn't my plan to surprise you." Mulder put a hand on Krycek's
shoulder, and pushed him back down on the bed. Another leisurely kiss, even
better now that he could press his bare body into Krycek's, feel skin on skin,
let his full cock slide over Krycek's thigh. The feel of the prosthetic arm on
his back was stranger now, with no cloth between it and the bare skin of his
back. But the other arm... hand massaging its way down his spine, stroking his
butt, fingers drifting over his tailbone, teasing, then sliding back up to dig
into the back of his neck, through his hairMulder didn't know if he'd be able
to take two arms working him like that. The man was a menace. And he was
kissing back, now, toohungrily, using his tongue as deftly as he used his
hand, and his thigh was squirming between Mulder's legs, rubbing against the
underside of his cock, threatening to push him over the edge here and now.
Mulder pulled away, growling in his throat. "Turn over, bitch."
Krycek chuckled softly. "Like to talk dirty, huh? Get that from your phone
sex habit?"
Mulder clutched at Krycek's thigh, ran his hand between Krycek's legs,
scooped up his balls, kneading them, just on the edge of roughness. "Bitch.
Cunt."
"I'm not impressed, Mulder." Still maddeningly controlled. But there was a
hint of breathiness in his voice.
"Cocksucker."
"Better. Work for it, sweetheart."
Mulder gave Krycek's balls one last pull, making his hips jerk, then
released them to take hold of his cock, squeezing it hard, pressing his thumb
over the tip. Krycek gave a squeaky moan, his back arching off the mattress.
"You goddamn lying bastard. Murdering treacherous son of a bitch."
"Yeah," Krycek whispered. His hand slid up the back of Mulder's neck,
tightened in his hair.
"Whore. God, I want to fuck you."
Krycek pushed away, heaved himself over onto his stomach. "Do it. Do it."
Krycek moaned, and gripped the pillow, digging into it with his fingers.
The muscles in his back twitched. Mulder pushed his finger in deeper, up to the
last knuckle, moving it inside him, feeling the heat of him, the moist give of
flesh, gasping with the pleasure of it. He pulled out and went in with two
fingers, and he slid in easily, meeting no resistance. How many cocks? Enough.
Enoughand now one more.
He pulled his fingers free, and knelt back to pour more lubricant into his
hand, and spread it over his aching cock. Then he mounted Krycek's back,
pushing his legs apart with his knees, and guided his cock between Krycek's
buttocks.
Despite the ease with which his fingers went in, Mulder was prepared to go
slowly, but as soon as his cock found the puckered entrance, Krycek pushed
back, making noises like an animal, growling, "Give it to me, fucker, give it
to me," and Mulder was only too glad to oblige. He held himself in check only
until Krycek had worked the head of Mulder's cock past his sphincter, then he
thrust hard and drove it home. Krycek squealed and pounded the mattress with
his fist; Mulder felt a triumphant shout welling up inside his throat. Krycek
was magnificentthoroughly impaled on Mulder's cock, squirming and growling,
his beautiful control gone. His ass was tight and hot and Mulder was up to his
balls in it, pounding him hard, and it was perfect, and Mulder wanted it to go
on forever
And then he was gripping Krycek's shoulders as tightly as his fingers would
hold, jamming his cock in to the limit, and the shout tore loose from his
throat, as he pulsed out an orgasm so strong his ears were ringing.
Too soon. Too good to be over so soon. Gasping, Mulder started thrusting
again, and Krycek moved with him, lifting his hips, arching them up to take
Mulder's thrusts at their deepest angle. Laughing softly with pure joy, Mulder
worked his arms around Krycek's body, one hard across his heaving chest, the
other sliding down to grip Krycek's cock. Wet with sweat, and then with precum,
his fist became a slick channel for Krycek to pump into, and brief moments
later, Krycek gasped and came, collapsing onto the mattress with a strangled
cry.
Mulder barely had the strength to pull out and strip the condom from his
softening cock and toss it into the trash. Rapidly spiralling down into sleep,
moving without thinking, he pulled up the covers, threw one arm over Krycek's
back, and let the darkness take him.
So the seduction had brought him one burst of wild pleasure, a few hours of
resta physical release, nothing more. Well, let that be good enough, and send
the man on his way, and hope for Dmitri's sake that they got out of the country
safely. He might as well go back out to the living room and spend what was left
of the night on the couch. But he felt strangely reluctant to move. It was warm
here, and comfortable, and the bed was big enough.
Mulder turned on his side, facing Krycek's broad back, and watched the
sleeping body. Krycek lay on his left side, the prosthetic arm tucked under
him, out of Mulder's sight. He was solidly built, with the appearance of quiet
strength. His skin was smooth and creamy. The sheet draped across his hip,
revealing only a teasing glimpse of the dimple of his tailbone. That faint
sheen might be a trace of lubricant still clinging, but was probably only a
trick of the light.
Mulder reached out his hand, placed the palm flat between Krycek's
shoulderblades. Just the lightest touch at firsthe didn't want to wake him,
he just wanted to lie here quietly with him and think. But Krycek remained
motionless, dead asleep, so he pressed his hand more firmly against Krycek's
back, stroking a little, enjoying the heat of him, the softness of his skin,
the hard muscle beneath.
How could it feel so good to touch him? Just to lie here, with his hand
pressed against the middle of Krycek's back? He didn't know, and he was fairly
sure he didn't really want to know. There was just something touchable about
Krycek, and there always had been, right from the start, although Mulder didn't
like to think about those days now. But if he ignored everything else and just
remembered the physical Krycek, the starched white shirts and cheap suits and
long slender fingers and dazzling smile, he remembered pressing his shoulder
against Krycek's as they sat huddled in front of a computer screen, putting a
hand on Krycek's shoulder or forearm to make a point, taking him by the elbow
to hurry him along; and it had felt so right, so natural that Mulder had never
even thought about it. And he remembered later days, when the hand had turned
into a fist, and the pat on the shoulder into a shoveand while the contact
was now driven by rage and hatred, there was still that uncontrollable need to
have his hands on him.
And now here he was in Mulder's bed, and Mulder had fucked him, and far
from seeming as it should like some unnatural aberration, there was a strange
inevitability about it, as if every touch from the very first time Krycek had
brushed passed him, leaving his heat imprinted on Mulder's arm and his scent
lingering in the air, had been leading inexorably up to this.
Without thinking, Mulder bent his neck forward, and pressed his lips to
Krycek's cheek. Now we're even, he thought, and although he knew full
well the absurdity of it, he settled back with a faint smile on his face, and
went peacefully back to sleep.
"Good morning, Mulder," Krycek said matter-of-factly, without turning
around. He lowered his armsone whole and one cruelly shortenedand reached
out to snag the prosthesis from the chest of drawers. Then he turned, looking
sleek and content, and smiled benevolently at Mulder. "Sleep well?"
Mulder propped himself up onto his elbow and nodded. "Want some help with
that?"
Krycek shook his head, mouth tightening briefly. Then, in a series of
smooth, practiced motions, he slipped the strap over his head, tucked his arm
through it, and pulled the prosthesis over the stump with a slight wriggle to
set it in place. He walked back over to the bed, adjusting the buckles, and sat
down with a satisfied smile.
Mulder grinned at him. "What are you going to do today?"
"Finish arrangements for the ID and visas. Try to get money for the plane
tickets. Check in with my current employer and see if I can figure out a way to
do this without burning my bridges behind me. Again." He ticked it all off in
that same matter-of-fact tone, as if he were talking about picking up his
laundry.
"What can I do?"
Krycek frowned thoughtfully at him for a moment. "I need a photo of Dmitri
for his passport. Preferably one where his face isn't all messed up."
He could take a Polaroid at the hospital, and get the Lone Gunmen to work
their digital magic on it. It wouldn't look exactly like Dmitri, probably, but
the boy would still have bandages all over his face when he left, so it should
do. He thought Frohike had a digital camera he could borrowthat would be even
better. "I can do that. What else?"
"He needs clothes. His own things were ruined. A couple of pairs of jeans,
tee-shirts, underwear, things like that."
"Okay. What about you? Do you need underwear?"
Krycek smiled faintly. "I'll take care of my own underwear, thanks, Mulder.
Just take care of Mitya, all right?"
"Mitya?"
Krycek's cheeks went pink. "Short for Dmitri. Call him that when you see
him, will you? It will make him happy."
"All right. Anything else?"
"Just whatever he'll need for the trip. Toothbrush and things like that. A
duffel bag to put it all in."
"Russian comic books to read on the plane...."
Krycek chuckled. "If anybody could come up with something like that, it
would be you, Mulder." He stood, then, and began gathering up his clothes from
the floor. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?"
"Help yourself," Mulder said, sitting up and untangling himself from the
sheet. "Just let me in there for a minute first, then it's all yours."
"I'll get the things for Dmitrifor Mityatoday. Will you come back here
tonight?" They'd take things slower tonight, Mulder thought. Just as intense,
but not quite so frenzied
A shadow passed across Krycek's face. "Mulder...." He paused, chewing on
his lower lip. "We're leaving tonight. Dmitri's being released from the
hospital todayI thought you knew."
Mulder's stomach lurched. He could feel the heat rush to his face, the
sinking feeling in his gut. No! he wanted to protest. You can't
disappear on me again, you can't leave me like this. But that wasn't fair,
and he knew it. He'd always known Krycek was leaving as soon as he could
arrange to get himself and Dmitri out of the country. He'd agreed to help him
do it. He'd known Krycek was leaving, why should it be such a knockout blow to
him now?
But he hadn't spent the night with Krycek before. He hadn't known that
having his hands on him was all he needed to make the madness Krycek induced go
away. He hadn't known what it felt like to ride him, to feel him bucking
beneath him, to revel in his heat. He knew Krycek had to leave, he just hadn't
been prepared for it to be so soon. He was somehow never prepared for Krycek to
leave, even though he always did.
He forced a smile. "No, I didn't know. That's good. Are you sure you'll be
ready in time?" He knew the shock and dismay was plain on his face, but he
wilfully pretended it wasn't. What would be the point?
Krycek nodded shortly, as if to say he understood. "I'll be ready. If you
can get the photo and the things for Dmitri, I'll do the rest."
It would only take a few hours, Mulder thought, to arrange for the
photograph and buy some clothes for the boy. "I can do it. Where should we
meet?"
Krycek looked away, blinking, his mouth a hard line. His control was better
than Mulder's, but he was unhappy, too. This time, however, his pain was not
pleasant to watch. "You can bring the stuff to the hospital. I'll be picking up
Dmitri around three."
Mulder chafed. At the hospital, in public, with the boy watching, and all
those false Russian kisses. He didn't want it to be there, it was no good,
there had to be somewhere private, and they had to have more time. There were
things that had to be said. Mulder had no idea what those things were, but even
if he managed to figure them out, there would be no chance to say them at the
hospital. He could go with them to the airport, maybeanother public place,
and stretch the inevitable out even longer, with no hope of accomplishing
anything but making himself more miserable. No, whatever goodbyes were to be
said had to be here and now.
"All right. I'll meet you at the hospital at three."
Krycek nodded, and turned to walk to the door. With his hand on the
doorknob, he turned back. "Mulder. Thanks for... everything."
Mulder returned the nod, his heart in his throat. He had to say something,
damn it, but the words wouldn't come. He could only stand in frozen misery
while Krycek went out the door.
First stop was the Lone Gunmen offices, to talk Frohike into giving up his
digital camera for the morning, and extract his friends' promises to help him
with the photo, amid rude comments about kiddie porn and Russian-American
relations. It was good to be with them for that short time, among people who
weren't angry with him for unfathomable reasons, who didn't drive him
unreasoningly crazy, who didn't make him feel guilty, who didn't ask him
unanswerable questions. They just kidded him and made stupid jokes, and if they
noticed that Mulder was painfully unhappy, they were kind enough or confused
enough to pretend that they didn't. It was tempting to stay there all morning,
but he had too much to do. So as soon as he could, he collected the camera and
took his leave.
"Have you had any news?" she asked.
"I saw Krycek last night." Naked. He shook his head and tried to
will his heart to stop pounding. If he were to tell her what had really
happened, was there the slightest chance that it wouldn't sound as if he'd
completely lost his mind? "He was at the hospital with Dmitri. Did I tell you
they cut off his arm in Tunguska?"
Her eyes widened. "Krycek? They cut off his arm?"
"Remember, I told you about the men in Tunguska who cut off their left arms
to avoid the tests with the black oil?" He was babbling, and he knew it, but at
least he wasn't saying, I fucked Krycek last night, which was what
seemed to keep wanting to come out of his mouth.
She nodded slowly. "How horrible. Even for Krycek."
"He was showing it to Dmitri when I got there. He has a prosthesis. He's
good with ityou'd hardly know it's not real." Except when you're stripping
him, and it gets tangled up in his tee-shirt. But when he's lying on his
stomach getting fucked, you barely notice it. Except for the strap across his
back. Next time, they'd take it off before they
Next time? There's not going to be any damned next time, Mulder told
himself furiously. Krycek was going back to Russia tonight, and god only knew
when or if he'd be back, or under what circumstances, and Mulder had just
better put all thoughts of next time right out of his mind.
"It's a wonder he's alive at all, if it happened to him in the way you
described that it almost happened to youno proper medical facilities, no
anaestheticit's barbaric." That was the doctor in her, now, disapproving of
it as a medical procedure.
"He said it hurt so much, it felt like death."
One eyebrow lifted. "He talked to you about it?"
Mulder shrugged, embarrassed for no reason he could fathom. "He didn't seem
to mind. It was over a year agoI suppose by now he's dealt with it."
"What else did you talk about?"
Not much, Mulder thought. Once again, they hadn't done much talking at all.
"He asked me to pick up some things for Dmitri. He's getting out of the
hospital today, and they're leaving tonight."
"Good," she said, in a tone that plainly meant, Good riddance.
It hurt. Mulder was honestly surprised by how much it hurt. And it must
have showed on his face, too, because Scully's expression instantly turned to
one of dismay.
"It's not good?" Despite the irritation that never quite left her face, in
the set of her jaw and the slight narrowing of her eyes, she tried to
understand him. But he didn't understand it himselfhow in hell could he want
something so badly that was so clearly a disaster?
"Scully, why are you mad at me?" It came out without thinking: a sudden
refusal of his mind to think about Krycek any longer. Even Scully's anger was
preferable to Krycek's imminent departure.
She shook her head. "I'm not mad at you."
"Yes, you are. You've been angry with me for days now. Come on, Scully, I'm
dense, but I'm not that dense. What is it?"
She looked at him, considering. Reluctant, despite the tension at the
corners of her mouth. "Mulder, are you sure you want to go into this now?"
No. He laughed, a short pained noise, more an exhalation of breath than a
real laugh. "Is it that bad?"
She heaved a deep breath, staring at the wall, and nodded. "All right." She
turned, then, and walked over to the door, back across the room to stop for a
moment, her fist tapping twice against the file cabinets wherein the X-Files
rested, then finally settled against the end of his desk, arms folded, glancing
at him sidelong as she spoke. "Mulder, do you remember our first case together?
Teenagers were disappearing in the woods in Oregon. You told me they were being
abducted by aliens." She gave a strained laugh, and Mulder managed to smile
with her. "Then there were mysterious lights in the sky over an Air Force base,
and a test pilot whose wife insisted he'd returned from being missing a
different man. UFOs, you said, and alien involvement. A serial killer you
insisted was some sort of genetic mutant who could stretch his body thinner
than a baseball bat, who lived on human livers. Need I go on?"
Mulder shook his head, but Scully had already turned away, to move around
to the front of his desk, where she stood facing him with a grim look on her
face. " 'Why can't you believe?' you asked me. 'Open your mind to extreme
possibilities.' With no solid evidence, no scientific basis, no sensible logic,
you've asked me to take you on faith, to follow you on your quest for the
truth. And I have. I've put my career, my life, my health on the line for you,
time and time again.
"And now...." She paused, looked away for a moment. There was pain in her
eyespain he'd put there, and he hated to see it. "Now, you've changed your
mind. It was all a hoax, everything we saw, everything we learned. Because some
total stranger pops up with a plausible story, you're ready to throw it all
away. Never mind all the times I tried to tell you that the theories you were
so eager to believe didn't make sense. And when things started happening to
methings I saw with my own eyesmen with no faces, and fire, and a craft
covered with lights moving over the bridgeall the kinds of things you've been
trying to tell me were real for the past five yearsyou still don't believe
me. Until Alex Krycek comes along and shoves a gun in your face and hands you a
piece of paper, and now you're ready to believe again. Why is it, Mulder, that
your enemies and total strangers can spin any story and you'll take it as
gospel, but nothing I say, even when it's my own personal experience, means
anything to you?"
Oh god. Was that how it seemed to her? Mulder wanted to shrink in his
chair, until he was as small as he felt. His face burned with shame, that he'd
been so blind and stupid, to let Scully think she meant so little to him.
"Scully... it's not like that."
"Then how is it?" Her voice was still rough, but it had softened a little,
now that she'd said her piece. She was upset, but she would listen to him. It
was enough to make him feel a little steadier. Now all he had to do was figure
out how to explain it to her. It wasn't something he was good at, and he had no
faith he'd be able to make things right. But he owed it to her to try.
"I remember our first case," he said, still not knowing what he was going
to say, but needing to say something. "You told me I was crazy. The first of
many times." They both smiled unhappy smiles. "I remember all the times you
looked at me when I told you about our next case, exasperated, obviously
thinking, there he goes again, off on some wild goose chase. The way you'd
stand there, embarrassed, wishing you could pretend you weren't with me, when I
was trying to explain my theories to some local officials. What about you,
Scully? 'Open your mind to extreme possibilities'but you never could." He
stopped, shook his head. "But it didn't matter to me. Because, whether you
believed or not, you stood by me. You kept me from going off the deep end.
There have been times when having you disagree with me has been the only thing
that's kept me sane. I guess... whether we agreed with each other has just
never seemed that important to me."
Miracle of miracles, he'd gotten it right. Her face cleared, and the hurt
drained away. "I suppose you're right. If our partnership depended on our
believing each other's theories, we wouldn't have lasted two weeks."
The hard knot in his chest loosened. "So we're okay?"
Scully nodded, offering a conciliatory smile. "What about Krycek?"
He flinched. For that short time, he'd managed to forget. The knot in his
chest began to form again. "I'm meeting him at the hospital at three. I need to
get some things for himfor Dmitri. They'll probably go straight from there to
the airport. I don't know what time their flight is...."
"Mulder," she said patiently. "What about Krycek?"
The knot was becoming a crushing weight. No, he insisted to himself.
I am not going to cry over Alex Goddamned Krycek. But he had to tell
Scully the truth. Except that he didn't know what the truth was, and it made
him blind crazy even to think about it. "I don't want him to leave."
"Why not?"
"I don't know... as bad as it is to have him here, it feels worse to have
him leave."
She sat down, finally, looking at him thoughtfully. "Mulder, that doesn't
make sense." It was a familiar look on her face: part frustration, part
confusion, part honest effort to puzzle her oddball partner out. But at last no
anger.
"I thought we were finally beginning to work some things out. Maybe it
wouldn't have come to anything. But now there's no time to find out."
"After everything he's done, why would you even want to work anything out
with him?"
It was a good question. One he wished he had an answer for. "I don't know,
Scully. There's something between us... it gets crazier every time I see him.
If I could just get him out of my life, I would, but we seem to be fated to
keep stumbling over each other's paths. I don't want to go through this every
time it happens. There has to be another way." Kill him or fuck him. Too
close, she was getting too close to things he couldn't bear to think about.
She sat for long moments, pressing her lips together, nodding slightly to
herself. He found himself tensing against her next question, not really wanting
to know what conclusions she was drawing.
But all she said was, "He'll come back, though, won't he? Is he planning to
stay in Russia?"
Mulder let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "I don't know."
"Don't you want to ask him?"
Mulder shook his head helplessly. "Scully, I can'tit's no good. I can't
put my faith in believing that he'll come back."
Scully nodded slowly. "I understand. But Mulderif there are things you
need to say to him, you should say them. You've still got this afternoon."
He could only shrug miserably. "I don't know what to say."
"I have to go now," he told Dmitri at last, pocketing the camera and
straightening Dmitri's sheets. "I'll see you again this afternoon. I'll have
some new clothes for you then."
Dmitri let out a furious burst of Russian, at which Mulder could only nod,
and flung his arms around Mulder as he tried to stand. Mulder gave the boy a
quick kiss, again feeling a little uneasy about it, but liking the wiry
strength in the boy's thin arms gripping him, and the pleased smile on Dmitri's
face as he lay back down in his hospital bed.
Funny, Mulder thought as he left, the person I get along with
best these days, and neither of us can understand a word the other says.
By then it was time to go back to the Lone Gunmen's office and collect the
doctored photosthey'd done a stunning job, as usual, and Mulder would never
have guessed that the boy in the photos had ever had plaster across his nose,
two black eyes, and needle punctures all around his mouth and eyelids. He
wondered whether the uninjured Dmitri really looked like thatand felt a
little sad that he'd likely never know.
And then it was time to go back to the hospital, and Krycek.
It felt like death.
The taste of his mouth, hot and smoky.
Moist, yielding flesh inside.
Do it. Do it.
"Hey, Mitya," Mulder said, trying to be jovial in a voice that barely made
it above a whisper. He unslung the duffel bag from his shoulder. "I brought you
some clothes."
Krycek came to stand by him, while Dmitri took the duffel bag and began
digging through its contents, with small, excited exclamations. Mulder felt,
impossibly, that he could feel Krycek's heat from here.
Krycek put a hand on his arm. The prosthetic hand, under a black leather
glove. Mulder's breath came out in short puffs. He was relieved not to be
touched by Krycek's flesh hand, even under gloves. It was difficult to force
his neck to turn, to look into Krycek's face.
Krycek blinked. His wide eyes were troubled. Tension formed a white line
around his mouth. His voice, when he spoke, was dark water tumbling headlong
over rocks. "Let's go out, and let Dmitri get dressed."
"He's feeling a lot better today," Mulder offered. "You were right, he's a
tough kid. He's bounced back quickly."
Krycek nodded shortly. "Now all I have to do is find a home for him, in a
country where most people can't afford their own kids."
"You said he had relatives."
"I hope they'll take him."
"What will you do if they won't?"
Krycek shrugged. "That's my problem. I'll take care of him." He looked
Mulder in the eye, grimly determined. "I won't let him down, Mulder."
Mulder believed him. It was an odd feeling, and a disquieting one. A Krycek
who could be believed. Who tried to make up for the pain he'd inflicted. Who
slept peacefully in Mulder's bed....
"What time is your flight?"
"Six-thirty. We should get there in plenty of time. I just need to make one
quick stop along the way."
Dmitri's passport. Krycek must have a lot of faith in his forger, to leave
it so late. But then, he'd been cutting it close all along, trying to get
Dmitri out of the country with all possible speed. A good idea, if Dmitri
really was in danger. And no way to know if he wasn't, without exposing him to
risk. So they'd have to leave soon, and not take any time for lingering
farewells. "I'll drive you." He made the offer without thinking, knowing it was
a bad idea, but unable to let go.
"Sorry, Mulder. My contact won't appreciate the uninvited company." He
truly did sound sorry.
"I'll meet you at the airport, then." God, he was making a fool of himself.
Krycek's face darkened with pain, but only for a moment. "I... I don't
think that's a good idea. You might be recognized. It's an added risk."
Mulder bit his lip and nodded. He supposed it was true. He also supposed it
was possible that Krycek just wanted to get it over with. Unlike Mulder, he
didn't seem the type to deliberately prolong his agony. "I guess this is it,
then."
Krycek tried to smile. Mulder suddenly saw him as he'd been the first day
they'd metimpossibly young-looking and awkward in his off-the-rack suit and
bad haircut, fresh-faced and green and eager to please. Could that naivete have
been entirely an act? Or had he truly been a child-agent then, hardened and
honed by the dangerous years that followed? Mulder wanted to hold him down,
strip him of all his defenses, and find out.
"Thanks for your help. Dmitri thanks you, too."
Mulder shrugged. "I didn't really do that much."
Krycek seemed surprised. He eyed Mulder curiously. "You did enough. You
could have stopped me, and you didn't. I appreciate that. I needed to do this."
Mulder nodded. The knot in his chest was back. "Well. Tell Dmitri good
luck, and safe journey." In a barely audible voice, he added, "You too."
"Thanks." Krycek touched his arm, brieflywith his right hand, the real
one. Then he turned to go back into Dmitri's room.
Krycek's hand was on the door handle. "I don't want you to go," Mulder
choked out, shocked at his own words.
No more than Krycek. He turned, eyes wide. "Mulder...."
Mulder shook his head, took a step back, his face burning. "No, never
mind"
"Mulder, Iyou know I have to"
"I know," Mulder interrupted. Krycek's face was frozen pain; Mulder
couldn't bear it. Or the way his own heart churned, wanting something he didn't
dare believe in. "Forget I said anything."
"I'll come back. After I get Dmitri settled."
"No, you won't."
"It may only be a week or two. A month at most."
"Goodbye, Krycek." His voice rose, insistent.
Krycek stood, staring at him. There was a wild look in his eyes. His fist
clenched and unclenched at his side. Long moments passed, in which Mulder felt
that anything could happen, anything at all.
Then Krycek took a deep breath, and his mask of calm settled over him. But
it was brittle, and looked about to shatter. "Dos vidaniya, Mulder." And
he slipped away, through the door of Dmitri's room.
Feeling blank and empty, Mulder turned and walked away.
But alone in his apartment after the day was done, he still sat on his
couch in the dark, waiting out the sleepless nights, fists clenched against the
images that refused to be banished from his mind: Krycek bending over Dmitri in
his hospital bed, kissing away the boy's pain. Krycek lying in Mulder's bed,
staring at the ceiling, whispering, It felt like death. Krycek on his
stomach, legs open, demanding, Do it!
And Krycek standing in a hospital corridor, face intent and eyes sparking
with pain, insisting, I'll come back.
No, you won't, Mulder always answered that image. I don't want
you to. You're a liar, and a murderer, and I never want to see you again.
(And now who's the liar? whispered in the back of his mind, another voice he
tried very hard not to hear.) Inextricable relationships, for which there were
no explanations and no answers, and no relief. And Krycek, weary of being
disbelieved, turning away, saying, Dos vidaniyawhich Mulder knew
meant, Until we meet again.
He sat up, instantly wide awake, heart pounding. With unreasoning
certainty, he knew who it was. He nearly stumbled in his rush to the door.
Krycek. The familiar image was like a blast of tropical heat: black
leather, black jeans, bright white tee-shirt. A tentative smile that grew
reluctantly but uncontrollably to joy. Big eyes wide and eager, but head
lowered, with the slight tension of wariness. Krycek.
Mulder grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, as if he were shining too
brightly to leave standing in the hallway. His fingers tightened painfully
around Krycek's bicep (but it was the prosthetic he'd grabbed, hard and
unyielding). He brought him into the living room, then abruptly let go, and
stood staring at him, unable to think.
"Hi," Krycek said softly. The smile had turned into a grimace, gone through
fear, pain, resignation, hope, wonder, and back to joy, all in the space of a
few heartbeats.
"Hi," Mulder responded, trying desperately to find his tongue. "How's
Dmitri?"
Krycek blew out a small breath of relief: something to talk about. "He's
fine. He's going to be fine. We found some cousins to take him, a young married
couple. Their place is small, but there's only the three of them, so they'll be
all right. They took to him right awaythe woman, Svetlana, especially. She
thinks he's adorable."
Mulder smiled. "She's right. What about Dmitri? Does he like them?"
"He will." A shadow passed across Krycek's face. "It's hard for him, after
everything he's been through. Losing his family... he thought he wanted to stay
with me, but of course.... And how could I explain it to him?"
"I'm sure he understands. He's a smart kid. He was just... crazy about
you."
Krycek laughed ruefully. "So much the worse for him." The laugh turned to
dismay. "I didn't mean that."
An uncomfortable silence descended. Finally, Mulder said, "It was a good
thing you did for him."
Krycek nodded. More silence. It wasn't that they had nothing to say to each
other, Mulder thought. They had too much to say; they couldn't wrap their minds
around it.
Krycek stared at the floor. Carefully, he worked the glove from his right
hand. Then he lifted his arm, suddenly, and touched Mulder's face; gentle
fingertips just brushing his cheek.
Mulder froze. It was as if an electric current shocked through his body.
"I told you I'd come back," Krycek said, in that cool water voice.
Mulder felt tears sting his eyes. "I didn't believe you."
"I know." The hand left his face.
He wanted to snatch it back. His fingers went involuntarily to his cheek.
Then he drew a ragged breath, and said, "Why did you?"
There was another silence. Krycek took his time, searching for the words.
"Because you wanted me to," he said finally. "Because I wanted to. Because of
the way you held onto me, after. Becausebecause I don't want things to be the
way they have been between us any more."
"Do you think we can change them?"
"I think we already have. Just a little, but it's a start."
No, nothing had changed, Mulder wanted to protest. But everything had
changed: Krycek had come back. He'd said he would come back, and he had, and
here he was, all heat and leather and wanting things to be different. Mulder
tried to think about what that meant, but his mind spun away from it, refusing
to accept that Krycek might be trusted, that he could be anything but an enemy.
But he was here, dammit. Things had already changed: that was true, just
because Krycek was here.
"Will you stay?" Mulder asked. It was a hard thing to ask, and he wanted to
take it back the moment it came out of his mouth, but he gritted his teeth and
stood his ground, steeling himself against the inevitable hurt.
"When I can." Mulder didn't like thathe tucked his chin and took an
abortive step back, and Krycek hurried to continue, "Mulder, I have a job. And
so do you. I have things I need to take care of. I'm not going to make promises
I can't keep. But when I can, I'll be here."
It was, Mulder realized, a true answer; moreover, it was the only answer he
would have believed. And even more than that, he realized that he'd expected a
true answer. He'd thought Krycek would be straight with himwhat he was
steeling himself against was not a lie, but a truth he didn't want to hear.
And that was different, toosomehow, he'd come to expect the truth from
Krycek. And Krycek would be heremaybe not every day, maybe not whenever
Mulder took a notion to wanting him around, but when he could. No more waiting
for six months, a year, wondering if he'd ever see him again. Another change.
And that opened up a whole world of possibilities: if you could ask him
questions, and feel confident you were getting honest answers, you could talk
to him about things that had happened, and maybe find out what had really been
in his mind all those years. And if he wasn't going to disappear before you'd
gotten a chance to ask all your questions, then maybe
It all made him dizzy; it was too much to think about, too soon. But there
would be time, that was the important thing. They would make their changes a
little at a time, and meanwhile
Meanwhile, Krycek was here. Living, breathing, flesh and blood (and a
little bit of plastic), dark eyes and soft mouth, leather and heat. Mulder
reached out to touch him, the flat of his palm on the upper part of Krycek's
chest, fingers overlapping his collarbone, hand half under the leather jacket.
Through the thin cotton of Krycek's tee-shirt, he could feel the heat rising
off him, and it made Mulder's breath quicken.
He stood like that for a moment, just touching him. Krycek didn't move, but
Mulder could feel the rise and fall of his chest, and he knew that Krycek's
breath was quickening, too. So he took a step closer, and pulled Krycek tight
against him, wrapping his arms around leather and firm muscle and warm body. It
felt good, and for the moment Mulder didn't care why, only that it did.
"I was hoping you would." The words came out hot and breathy. Fingers dug
into Mulder's back.
He stepped back, one arm still around Krycek's shoulders, and began to lead
him into the bedroom.
|
Rated NC17 for explicit m/m sex.
Krycek comes back from Russia to pay some debts. Follows "Patient X"/"The Red and the Black." X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended. Feedback: codyne@netwizards.net |
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