Hatred exploded in him. Mulder launched himself from the bed, ignoring the
searing pain in his head, to grab Krycek by the collar and haul him up from his
chair. Krycek's wide green eyes glittered in the morning sunlight. One hand came
up to clutch at the hand at his throat. Mulder lifted his fist to strike.
"I was twenty-two when I came to live in the United States. I was a KGB
mole—my instructions were to go to college, make friends, try to get some
sort of government job, and wait. I was excited to come—the decadent West!"
Krycek laughed softly, ironically. His eyes had gone dreamy and far away. "I was
a loyal Communist and Soviet citizen, with the certainty and fervor one can only
have at twenty-two. I was prepared to despise everything I saw—poverty,
crime, immorality. I was not prepared for... so many choices."
Mulder stood up, frustrated. His head still throbbed, and his stomach ached.
Had he been drugged last night, when Krycek's people had snatched him? He made
another circuit of the room, testing the door again, staring out the window. It
was nervous tension, more than any hope of escape that made him get to his feet
and walk the length of the large bedroom. It was a nice room, he had to give
Krycek that. Whoever he was working with now, they must be well-funded. Whoever
he was with, and whatever he had planned.... Mulder was uncomfortably aware that
he was at Krycek's mercy here. Perhaps he could overcome Krycek; perhaps he
could break down the door—but the renegade Russian wasn't in this alone; no
doubt his comrades were just outside, guarding the exits. Krycek could do
whatever he wanted, even kill him, with minimal risk. A cold shiver ran through
him at the thought. Krycek certainly had no reason to be fond of him. But kill
him? Mulder stopped, near the window, and stared at Krycek, trying to read his
intentions. Still and patient, Krycek waited. There was no hatred there; no
anger—despite the loss of his arm. Then again, he'd said, Too much at
stake to balk at a few lives—if his purpose, whatever it was, required
Mulder's death, no doubt he'd pull the trigger as cold-bloodedly as he'd done
with Mulder's father.
"You'll like this part, Mulder. When I went back to Russia, I tried to tell
my people about the Consortium, about their plans, but no one wanted to listen.
I'd gone a little bit crazy, they thought. Wild stories about alien abductions
and medical experiments and human-alien hybrids—we were in the middle of a
presidential campaign, the government was in danger of collapsing, organized
crime was running rampant in Moscow, and the average Russian was sinking into
crushing poverty. No one had time to worry about alien invasions. I became the
Fox Mulder of Russia—they might as well have called me 'Spooky.' "
The room swam before Mulder's eyes. He just had time to think that it must be
the drugs they'd given him, before everything began to spin, and he was falling
back on the bed. Then, moments later, he was struggling to sit up, and Krycek
was sitting beside him, holding out a glass of water. Mulder took it, his face
hot, and took several deep swallows. The glass trembled in his hand.
There were two men who came in at Krycek's soft knock on the door, both
dressed like Krycek (or should he be calling him Krichenko? Never mind, Mulder
still couldn't wrap his mind around that one), in Levi's and leather, speaking
Russian, one carrying a handgun and the other a small medical bag, both eyeing
him suspiciously and clearly not prepared to believe that he was willing to
cooperate. Meanwhile, Krycek stood by with a benevolent smile, murmuring
reassurances in Russian and English, while the man with the medical bag sat
beside him on the bed, pulled up the sleeve of his tee-shirt and inspected his
smallpox vaccination scar, and the man with the gun held it steadily trained on
Mulder's right eye.
And they sat there, chatting over sandwiches and soft drinks, like college
classmates catching up (or former partners in the FBI), talking about Moscow and
Washington, D.C. and even about the Consortium, until the fever came, and Mulder
no longer wanted to eat, or talk, or even sit up on the end of the bed. Then
Krycek tapped on the door again, and they were brought pajamas and an aural
thermometer and a pitcher of ice water, and Krycek turned his back modestly
while Mulder struggled out of his clothes and into the big, soft, comfortable
bed.
He didn't know how many hours had passed. Time had stretched until it had
dissolved, as he dozed and drifted in the depths of his fever. He was aware of
the fire raging in his body—sweat formed drops that trickled down his
temples like tears, pooled in the hollows of his chest, made the inside of his
thighs slick. He was aware of the weakness in his limbs, that barely seemed to
shift as he lay there, staring at the ceiling or across the room at Krycek,
sitting in the wing chair, engrossed in a book. He knew he was sick, but the
feeling was not entirely unpleasant. He ached, of course, and his stomach
threatened to churn if he moved, but then he was not moving, so it didn't
trouble him. In fact, the feeling resembled a lazy afternoon at the beach, the
heat and lassitude and even the tightness in his temples nothing more than the
effects of the midsummer sun. The bed was wide and soft; the sheets smooth
against his burning skin; cool currents of air wafted over him from the window,
opened after the morning sun had risen. Now and then, Krycek would bring him
cold water to drink and check his temperature. Krycek's movements were measured
and quiet; his long fingers gentle; his low voice a soothing murmur.
It was night the next time Mulder woke, his mind still full of fever dreams.
The room seemed to have grown even larger in the dark, with shadow-spaces
everywhere, and shafts of light from the street filtering through the thin
cotton curtains to create shifting images along the walls. One played over
Krycek, illuminating him with a soft glow, making him appear to be some sort of
magical night-creature. He was asleep in his chair: turned to the side, legs
drawn up, with one leg hanging over the arm of the chair, and his arm tucked
around himself. His book had fallen to the floor. Sleeping in the pale light, he
looked like an innocent child, sweet-faced and peaceful. How old was he, really?
Mulder knew the birthdate listed in his FBI file, of course, but that meant
nothing. He was twenty-two when he came to the United States, he'd said, and
he'd been here two years in nineteen ninety-one. That meant... he was
twenty-four in ninety-one, and that meant.... Mulder struggled with it for a
moment, then gave up. But then, Krycek was just as likely to be lying about it,
anyway.
This time, the sky had lightened perceptibly, and dawn was on its way. The
sheets were tangled around him, damp from sweat, and his pillow was a twisted
lump under his head.
Yuri and the other had brought in more food, including a thermos of soup, and
Mulder found that he was starving, and for a time he was content to sit and eat
and feel the strength seep back into his wrung-out body. The food was simple but
good—the soup was savory, and the bread in the sandwiches was soft and
fresh. Well, it was no surprise—anyone who'd go to the trouble of providing
this big, cheerful room with its big, comfortable bed would certainly not stint
on the sandwiches, either.
Eventually, the kiss had to end. Mulder let go a little reluctantly, and
began to remove his own clothing, pulling his tee-shirt over his head, and
unzipping his jeans. Krycek nodded and stepped back, and worked open the buttons
on his jeans. Mulder tried not to stare too openly, but he was fascinated to
watch as Krycek stripped off his jeans and shorts with one hand. His shoes,
Mulder noted, had elastic laces, and slipped off like loafers. Clever. And sad,
that something so simple as tying his shoes now required these little tricks.
They lay for a while in the cool sheets, drowsy and content. Something had
been healed, Mulder thought, although he wasn't sure what. He wasn't even sure
he wasn't still in the grip of the fever, and he'd dreamed all this. Alex Krycek
lying behind him, tucked against him, arm around his waist—Alex Krycek,
who'd been a member of the Consortium, a member of the KGB, who'd helped them
take Scully and give her this disease, who was now working to save her from it.
A Russian agent, with a mother and sisters in Moscow, and a father who'd died
because his country changed too much for him to live with. Mulder still didn't
understand it, but he found that it no longer hurt him quite so much, and that
was a blessed relief.
Scully stood before him. Her face was white, and she stared as if she had
seen a ghost. Mulder pushed himself to his feet, his heart pounding viciously in
his chest. "Scully?" If she dies....
Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the waiting room sipping bad hospital
coffee, waiting for reality to reassemble itself around them. Scully's cheeks
had spots of red in them, and her handkerchief was wet with ordinary salt tears.
end...
Resurrection
by Cody Nelson
Fox Mulder woke slowly, sprawled on his back, his clothes twisted uncomfortably
around him. He was cold and his mouth tasted awful and his eyes ached under
scratchy lids. He shifted a little, wincing against the pain in his head and
neck. It had been one of the bad ones last night. He'd stayed up until his hands
began to shake from weariness, watching his old videos and weeping for the loss
of his dreams, and for Scully, sacrificed on the altar of his obsessions, until
at last he'd passed out on the couch in his clothes. It had been a bad one, but
he'd had bad ones before. Scully was dying. The worst was yet to come.
Her cancer had metastasized. He didn't know how he'd bear it. She was
being killed to make him believe in a hoax.
He shifted again, still unwilling to open his eyes to another day, hoping to
go back to sleep, to escape the dread reality of his life for just a little
while longer. But awareness returned, unwanted, and he stiffened, suddenly, as
he realized that he was not on his familiar leather couch after all. He was
lying flat, on something cool and silky, not leather, and there was a feather
pillow under his head. Had he managed to crawl to his bedroom after all? No,
that wasn't right either. His mattress wasn't this soft; his sheets this smooth.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the light, much brighter than he ever
allowed into his shaded apartment.
Adrenaline threaded through him, sending shocks of pain to his temples,
making his stomach churn. The bedroom he was in was spacious and bright and
completely unfamiliar, with lemon-yellow walls and a big, comfortable bed, and
across the room a man in a leather jacket and jeans sat in an elegant wing
chair, watching him with an appraising eye and a slight smile on his soft mouth.
Alex Krycek.
Only then did he notice the left sleeve of Krycek's black leather jacket,
swinging empty at his side.
With a strangled noise, Mulder shoved Krycek roughly back down into the
chair, letting his fist fall on empty air. A strange pain twisted in him.
Tunguska. The one-armed men outside the gulag. What had almost happened to him
had happened to Krycek.
"I suppose you blame me for that," Mulder said hotly. It was more an
accusation than any acceptance of guilt.
"Yes," Krycek replied calmly. He tucked the end of the empty sleeve back
into his jacket pocket. "I do." He gazed up at Mulder, his face grim. "But
that's not why I'm here."
Mulder's heart pounded so hard it was almost painful. Krycek's presence, as
always, roiled inside him, electrifying all his nerve endings, making it hard to
think. His hatred was so thick he thought it must spill out of his pores and
drown him. How dare Krycek blame him for anything? "It doesn't make us even."
Krycek's brow lifted. "What a charming thought. No, I hadn't supposed that
it did."
Mulder stepped back, teeth clenched, fists tucked under his arms, and sat
heavily on the edge of the bed. Control. He must get himself under control.
"What do you want, Krycek?"
Krycek smiled. "You should thank me, Mulder. If I hadn't snatched you, you'd
be dead right now."
"What are you talking about?" Mulder spoke through clenched teeth.
"Your friends in the Consortium were planning for you to commit suicide last
night. That whole thing with the phony alien body, and the story about the hoax
they fed to Scully—it was all designed to send you into a tailspin, so when
Scully found you with a bullet in your head, she wouldn't question what had
happened to you, she'd just accept that you'd given up and decided to end it."
Mulder's head throbbed. He leaned forward, rubbing his forehead, hating the
spark of hope that kindled in his chest at Krycek's words. The story of the hoax
was itself another hoax? Everything he'd believed all his life, that he'd
dedicated his life to, was real after all? Lies upon lies upon lies.... Krycek
was a liar too, but, oh, Mulder wanted to believe. "So what happened?"
"We snatched you just before the goons arrived. The body we left in your
place was already dead. Well, it was never really alive. It was a clone—not
a hybrid, but an ordinary clone, growth accelerated and missing a few vital
parts. It won't stand up to an autopsy, but it won't have to. It was good enough
to fool the goons, who thought you were sleeping there on your couch when they
shot you in the head. And good enough to fool Scully, who identified the body
early this morning. That will keep everyone out of our hair long enough for us
to do what we came to do...."
Mulder had stopped listening after "Scully identified the body." Scully
thought he was dead? After everything she'd been through, after finding out that
her cancer had metastasized, after being told that the conspiracy she'd
dedicated her life to for four years and which was now killing her was only a
hoax designed to send her partner off on a wild goose chase, she'd been called
to identify Mulder's dead body? And Krycek sat there so calmly, relating it all
as casually as if it were the plot of the movie he'd seen last night.
"You son of a bitch. You let Scully think I'm dead?"
Krycek stopped speaking, and gazed at Mulder curiously. "Temporarily. It
wasn't our original plan, but when we found out what the Consortium was up to,
it seemed too good to pass up...."
Before he knew what he was doing, Mulder was across the room again, his
forearm across Krycek's throat, fist smashing into Krycek's face.
Krycek's one arm flew up to block Mulder's blows. The empty sleeve flapped.
Bile rose in Mulder's throat, and he shoved Krycek away and stepped back,
swearing viciously. Beating up a cripple—It made him ill. The empty sleeve
taunted him.
Krycek wiped his mouth. His eyes were hard as chips of polished jade, but
his mask of calm remained in place. "Don't worry about it, Mulder. At least I've
got one arm to defend myself. Better than being handcuffed while you hit me."
There was a sharp edge of bitterness in his voice.
Mulder swore again, and stalked over to the bedroom door, and rattled the
doorknob angrily. It was locked, as he'd expected. He pounded once, hard, then
went to the window, tearing back the white eyelet curtain. The street was far
below. Fifteen stories up? Twenty? There was no escape this way. Another door,
on the other side of the room, led to a bathroom, also cheerfully yellow, also
offering no exit.
He turned back to Krycek, still sitting quietly, waiting.
"Why?" Mulder asked. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"Sit down, Mulder. I want to tell you a story."
Mulder sat on the end of the bed, astonished. He didn't know whether to
laugh, or leap up and hit him again. The urge to call him a liar was almost a
reflex. Krycek—a KGB mole? Of all the tales Krycek could have come up with,
Mulder had never expected this. Yes, he'd known there was something going on
when Krycek turned up speaking Russian, fast-talking his way out of Russian
prison camps, cozying up to camp guards, but a Russian agent? Mulder blinked.
Was it really more outrageous than any of Krycek's other shifting personas? A
fresh-faced innocent with a bad haircut and cheap suit; leather-jacketed rough
trade; a desperate, hardened killer; white trash survivalist? All these Kryceks,
and none of them real—why not a foreign agent? "What's your real name?"
Krycek paused, looking at him thoughtfully. Then he smiled. "Aleksei
Nikolayevich Krichenko. But Krycek's good enough." His voice had fallen easily
into other rhythms and accents as he spoke. Then, just as naturally, back again
to perfect English.
"The KGB doesn't exist any more."
Krycek's smile disappeared. "No. I was already two years here, at Dartmouth,
in nineteen ninety-one. I watched the coup on television from my dorm room. I
saw the dissolution of my country on CNN."
Mulder shook his head. "Why didn't you go home then?"
Krycek shrugged—a curious gesture in a man with only one arm. Mulder
tried not to wince. Krycek continued, "I had no orders to come home. The Soviet
Union might be gone, but Russia was still there, and my superiors were still my
superiors. I'd been told to stay in place until they contacted me. So I stayed,
I did my job. I finished college and applied to the FBI Academy."
Mulder tried to imagine it and couldn't. Suppose he'd gone to Russia as a
CIA mole, and while he was there, the Republicans stormed the White House and
tried to oust Clinton—who rode up Pennsylvania Avenue on a tank, and used
CIA forces to hold onto his power. Then only a few months later, states began to
secede, one by one, and the government couldn't hold them, and soon the United
States no longer existed, and the CIA was dissolved, and he sat in Moscow or St.
Petersburg watching it all on TV, not knowing what to do... no, it made no
sense. It was a surrealistic joke. Except that it had happened. To somebody, if
not to Krycek. "What about your family?"
Krycek's eyes clouded for a moment. "My father died of a heart attack two
years after the putsch. He was a hard-liner, he couldn't bear the changes. Of
course, I didn't know of it until I went back last year. My mother and sisters
still live in Moscow. My younger sister goes to the university, the other sells
Avon products." His laugh was short and bitter. "She trained as an engineer, but
she makes more money selling American cosmetics."
He gave himself a little shake, then continued. "But I'm getting ahead of
myself. While I was at the Academy, I was recruited by the Consortium. It seemed
to be something my superiors would want to know about, and I was curious, so I
went along. I said I believed in their project, that I would do whatever they
needed to be done. And at first, they trusted me."
"At first?" Mulder found himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees,
fascinated in spite of himself. Was this the real Krycek, at last? Or just
another story, designed to... what?
"I'm not really sure what happened to make them turn against me. I'd been
putting the pieces together, learning more and more about the ultimate aims of
project. The more I learned, the more it frightened me, and the more determined
I was to find out everything, and to try to stop them. Maybe I gave myself away
somehow, and that was why they decided to get rid of me. Or maybe they'd
discovered something suspicious about my past, or maybe I'd just outlived my
usefulness. I'd been forced out of the FBI, and they didn't need another
thug—especially one who asked questions. After that business with the
digital tape, they tried to kill me with a car bomb. That was when I decided
that, orders or no orders, it was time to go home and tell my people what I'd
learned. I took the digital tape and ran."
That business with the digital tape.... That "business" was Mulder's
father's death, and Scully's sister's. And Krycek was in it up to his eyebrows.
The anger clutched at Mulder's gut again. "You didn't mind doing their dirty
work, though, did you?"
Another shrug. Krycek was as cool as the sea, that was the color of his
eyes. "They weren't going to let me advance in the organization unless I was
willing to get dirty. I did what I had to do. There was too much at stake to
balk at a few lives."
"You killed my father, you son of a bitch." Mulder clenched his fists, and
fought down the black rage that rose in his chest.
Krycek sighed. "I did what I had to do. You know damn well he was no
innocent bystander."
That hurt, all the more because it was true. "What about Scully's sister?"
For the first time, there was a spark of pain behind Krycek's eyes. But only
for a brief moment. "That was a mistake. But it wasn't mine. You know it, too."
And Mulder had to admit that was right. DNA evidence had shown Luis
Cardinale to be the shooter in Melissa Scully's death. And it was Cardinale
who'd shot Skinner, too. Still, Krycek was involved... as an undercover agent of
another government, working for the Consortium in order to gather intelligence
to use against them.... Mulder's stomach churned. He was not ready to give up
his hatred yet, and anyway, there was no proof that any of this was any more
than another lie, another attempt to jerk him around. Not to mention that Mulder
had been kidnapped and was now being held against his will.
"What do you want with me, Krycek? Nothing you say is going to convince me
that you're one of the good guys."
"Maybe not. It doesn't really matter—I didn't bring you here to
convince you of anything. But I thought you deserved the courtesy of an
explanation before I went on with the rest of it."
"The rest of what? What are you planning to do?"
"Patience, Mulder. I haven't finished my story yet. And you're not going
anywhere."
No point worrying about it. If Krycek wanted him dead, he'd be dead. Now
Krycek wanted to tell his story—so let him. The more Mulder learned, the
better equipped he'd be to deal with whatever developed. Mulder returned to the
bed and once again sat on the end, gesturing for Krycek to go on.
Krycek smiled faintly, an ironic tilt of the corner of his mouth. "I managed
to find a few allies. In a way, it was an advantage to have the political system
in disarray. It wasn't as easy for the Russian branch of the Consortium to hide
behind the legitimate power structure. Others had noticed, and they were afraid,
too, and wanted to work with me to fight them. But first, we needed resources.
Money. And I had only one thing to sell—information."
"That was why you were in Hong Kong? Selling secrets to fund your
anti-Consortium forces?" U.S. government secrets—but was it treason, when
it wasn't your own government's secrets you were selling? Mulder could only
shake his head in wonder.
"Yes. We did pretty well, until...."
"The silo. What really happened?"
Krycek laughed softly. "It was the alien. It wanted to thank me for bringing
it back to its ship, maybe, or maybe it just got tired of listening to me
pounding the door and yelling. It... came back into me, and blasted the door
with a radiation pulse. When I came to myself again, the door was hanging open,
the latch melted clean through. I got out of there fast, called in a few favors
and went home."
"Then what was that crazy setup with the militia?"
"A mistake," Krycek said bitterly. For the first time, he glanced at his
left shoulder. The one that stopped, abruptly, where an arm should have been. He
stared at the floor as he spoke. "I thought I could convince you to work with
me. I thought, if I gave you information, if you thought I would help you fight
them, you'd overcome your hatred of me and use what I could give you. I wanted
to pool our resources. You've come closer than anyone else, Mulder. And I've
been on the inside. Between the two of us, I thought we could...." He stopped,
took a deep breath. "I was wrong. I should have just stayed in Russia, sent you
the information anonymously, and let you deal with it. I don't harbor any more
hope that we'll ever work together."
He looked at Mulder; and his face was clear again, hard and determined. "But
you're still your country's best hope to defeat them. You and Scully. What you
think of me doesn't matter. The world needs you to go on."
"Scully's dying." The words were harsh and hot in his throat. It was the
first time he'd said those words out loud, and the pain of it was horrifying.
Tears wanted to follow them, but Mulder swallowed them back forcefully. He
thought he'd choke on them.
"I know." Krycek's voice was terrifyingly gentle. "That's why we're here. To
save her."
Krycek's face was far too close. Mulder's heart slammed against his chest.
Black leather, green eyes, strong solid body, now incomplete, yet its affect on
him had not lessened one infinitesimal fraction. He could feel the heat of
Krycek's body, the faint movement of air from his breath. Hate. It must be hate
that burned so brightly in him; pure, righteous hate and nothing more.
"You bastard." His voice shook, and he despised that shakiness, but no force
of will could dispel it. "How can you save her? She has inoperable cancer."
"Yes. Inoperable. But not incurable." Krycek's eyes were bright, and they
bored into him, impaling him like a fly on a pin. "Listen to me, Mulder. Her
cancer isn't a normal cancer. It was induced. It's not the black cancer, but
it's similar. Similar enough that anyone inoculated against the black cancer
would be immune to it."
"But Scully wasn't inoculated against it," Mulder mumbled dully. His hands
had gone cold; his mind felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton.
"No. But you were." Krycek's hand brushed softly against Mulder's left
shoulder—the left shoulder that made him vulnerable to the experiments,
where they'd injected him before trapping him under chicken wire and spraying
him with the black oil from the Tunguska rock. "We managed to get hold of some
of the cancer-causing pathogen they used on Scully. We're going to inject you
with it. Just a small dose, you won't be harmed. You'll get a little sick. Your
body will form antibodies to fight it off. Then we'll take samples, use the
antibodies from your blood to make a serum to treat Scully." Krycek let his hand
fall from Mulder's arm, but the gentle smile remained. "No guarantees, but it
should work."
Mulder could barely breathe. "If you... if you can do this... I just might
be able to forgive you for everything else. But if you're lying, I swear I'll
kill you."
Krycek stood, and stepped away from the bed. His smile had gone cold. "You
still don't get it, do you, Mulder? I'm not interested in your forgiveness, or
your threats. This isn't about you, it never has been. It's about a world-wide
conspiracy to destroy half the human race and replace them with alien hybrids."
He shook his head ruefully. "I'm doing this because we need you. The human race
needs you, paranoia and obsessions and violent temper and all. And it needs
Scully, to be your complement and balance. So I'll save her, if I can, and then
I'll go home and continue my work, with or without your forgiveness, and let you
continue yours."
Mulder took another drink of water. His hands had almost stopped trembling.
Hope was a dangerous thing. He didn't trust it. "Scully will never agree to it."
Krycek shrugged. "We don't need her agreement. When the time comes, we'll
snatch her, just like we did you, give her the serum, and turn her loose. I'm
not interested in her forgiveness either, Mulder."
No, he didn't trust it. Not Krycek, not his wild story, not the possibility
that he was really here to help Scully. But if there was the slightest chance
that Krycek was sincere, and his plan really could work, didn't he owe it to
Scully to let him try it? Not that he was being offered a choice, in any case.
Mulder took a deep breath, and nodded. "All right. Do what you have to do. If
it's for Scully...." He pressed his eyes shut, and once again fought off the
trembling in his voice. "I'll do it for Scully."
The injection was brief and not terribly painful, yet it gave Mulder a
queasy feeling to watch the plunger slide home, and the pale amber liquid flow
into his veins. This was what had given Scully her cancer—if Krycek had
been telling the truth, and god only knew what it was if he hadn't. Still, he
supposed there would have been a lot easier ways to kill him, if that had been
their aim, and it was worrisome enough just to believe them, so he'd as well not
borrow trouble. They said the cancer pathogen wouldn't harm him, but they
couldn't be sure of that, could they? Krycek's group clearly had better access
to the Consortium's secrets than he did—if they could come up with clones
and subvert Consortium plans and waylay their disease-causing agents. But could
they know enough to be sure that their plans would work? No guarantees, Krycek
had said. Perhaps he'd only succeed in joining Scully in her slow death.
Somehow, that thought didn't frighten Mulder nearly as much as it should.
Afterwards, the two men left, briefly returning with a small cooler which
they gave to Krycek, and then Mulder was left alone again with his one-armed
former partner. The cooler contained sandwiches and soft drinks, which they
shared while Krycek explained what would happen next.
"It will take several hours before the fever develops. And then perhaps
twenty hours before the fever breaks, and we can take the plasma samples. We'll
make it twenty-four hours altogether. I'll stay with you, and monitor your
condition. And Yuri will be right outside, in case anything should happen."
Krycek grinned. "He is a medical doctor, appearances aside, and he'll make sure
you are all right. Then, it will take about four hours for Yuri to prepare the
serum for Scully. Others of my group are watching her, preparing to take her
when the time comes. She'll be brought here. I'll give you a chance to talk to
her first, explain to her, if you'd like."
Mulder looked up from his sandwich, startled, and nodded. He was annoyed to
find that his hands had begun to tremble again. The first signs of the fever?
But Krycek had said that was hours away....
"You must do it quickly, though. I don't know what kind of cover we'll have
when we take her, and we must be prepared to make our exit as soon as possible.
It won't take long, though, once we have her. Yuri will give her the injection,
monitor her for fifteen or twenty minutes to make sure there is no immediate
adverse reaction, and then you'll both be free to go. If all goes as our tests
have indicated, her cancer should disappear within a few weeks."
Mulder let the sandwich drop, suddenly unable to swallow. Could this all
really be happening? Krycek, the Russian Fox Mulder, at once ally and enemy, and
Scully—If all goes....—her cancer cured, with antibodies from
Mulder's own blood—
"You didn't have to use me," Mulder abruptly accused. "Tunguska's full of
men who've been inoculated, like I have. You could have gotten the serum from
somebody else."
Krycek regarded him coolly, his face an inscrutable mask. Mulder had watched
him surreptitiously, fascinated in spite of himself, as Krycek had held his
sandwich in his lap and unwrapped it with one hand, and gripped his soda can
between his knees while he popped the top. Whenever he wanted to drink, he had
to put the sandwich down. How many simple, everyday actions there are, for which
we casually use two hands without even thinking, Mulder mused. Every day,
everything he did must be a constant reminder of what had happened in Tunguska.
Had they held him down, hacked his arm off with a knife, done it without
anaesthetic, as they had wanted to do to Mulder? Had he suffered excruciating
pain, shock, blood loss, terror? How could he sit there so calmly now, proposing
to save Scully's life, enduring Mulder's attacks, providing a bright, cheerful
room with a big, soft bed for Mulder's care while the fever produced the
antibodies Scully needed to survive?
"The serum is better when produced fresh. You were here, convenient, you'd
been inoculated. It was easiest to use you."
It was plausible—just barely—but Mulder didn't believe it. Easiest
to kidnap a Federal agent, fake his death, give him disease-causing drugs and
keep him under wraps for twenty-four hours or more? Easier than borrowing some
unknown Russian's body for a day, producing the serum and flying to Washington,
D.C. with nothing more than a small bottle in his pocket? "You wanted to use me
because you knew how much it would mean to me to be the one who helped to save
her."
Krycek's smile was amused, and, for the first time, almost friendly. "Oh,
Mulder. You still think the universe revolves around you, don't you? Well,
believe it if it makes you feel better. I don't mind."
Mulder found himself smiling back. "This is an awfully nice room to acquire
for someone you say you don't care anything about, except as a cog in the wheel
of your plans."
"I'm going to be spending twenty-four hours in this room, too, Mulder,"
Krycek said, still smiling. Then his smile grew dreamy. "This room is as big as
my entire apartment in Moscow. And I'm lucky to have that apartment. When I
first came back, I had to stay with my mother and sisters—I couldn't afford
a place of my own, with the prices after the privatization. Another thing the
Hong Kong partnership was useful for...."
"Tell me about Moscow. What's it like there now?"
"You should have been a doctor," he said abruptly.
Krycek lowered his book, and smiled indulgently. If he was at all puzzled by
this conversation out of nowhere, he gave no sign. "Probably."
"Why weren't you?"
"I don't know. I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps, I suppose."
Fathers. Mulder didn't like that topic of conversation. He didn't answer.
Krycek hung his book over the arm of the chair, and stood. "Would you like
some water?" Without waiting for an answer, he went to the night table, where a
pitcher of ice water sat sweating, and poured Mulder's glass full. He sat on the
bed beside Mulder. There was a bent straw in the glass, which Krycek held to
Mulder's lips.
He watched Krycek as he drank. Still wearing his leather jacket even in the
warm comfort of this bright room, Krycek's own face was slightly flushed. He
moved carefully, like a man not entirely accustomed to his body, like a man to
whom the embarrassment of a clumsy act would be an irreparable blow. The loss of
his arm made him beautiful, somehow (or perhaps Mulder really had gone delirious
from fever), as though the crucible of his mutilation had purified him, stripped
him of all his intangible evil and left only a slightly damaged man, at once
tougher and more vulnerable.
A man who had killed his father. Who had helped abduct Scully, and let them
give her the cancer that was killing her now.
Strange, that litany didn't call up the surge of black rage that it should
have. It was the fever, of course (and the possibility of Scully's cure), that
was making him weak, making him see beauty in that ravaged, leather-clad body,
that should only be despised. "I have to hate you."
Krycek's head tilted. "Why?" He put the glass back on the night table.
Mulder licked his lips. He felt slightly put out that Krycek would ask such
a question of a sick man. It should have been obvious. Then Krycek reached out
to brush the damp strands of hair from Mulder's forehead, and it wasn't so
obvious after all.
"Everyone who's interfered with my life, everyone who's hurt me... my
father, your ex-boss, the nameless, faceless men at the top who use and abuse
their power, the anonymous thugs who do the dirty work..." he wasn't sure he was
making any sense, but the words poured out. "They've all been protected, hidden,
untouchable." He looked up at Krycek's sea-green eyes, saw the troubled look on
his face. "You, I can touch."
Krycek's round lips pressed together, and he nodded once. "The human face of
your enemy. I understand."
Mulder let his head fell back on the pillow. It was settled, then, and he
was satisfied. So why should Krycek still be so beautiful? "Why are your eyes
that color?"
Krycek smiled down at him. Then his expression grew solemn, and he leaned
over the bed, bracing himself with his single arm, and placed a soft, gentle
kiss on Mulder's mouth.
It was good, being kissed. It didn't matter that it was Krycek. Or rather,
it should be Krycek, his enemy, surrendering to him. His fevered body tingled,
and he wanted more. He brought up his arms to encircle Krycek's sides, and tried
to draw him down onto the bed. Krycek held him for a moment, his arm tightening
around Mulder's shoulders, a small gasp escaping from his throat. But then he
pulled away, pushing Mulder back down to the bed. "Rest, Mulder. You need to
rest." He was breathless, and a little shaky.
"I don't want to rest. I want you."
"You're sick with fever, Mulder. You don't know what you want. You'll be
sorry after." His calm had returned, cool and imperturbable.
Mulder let him go, then, and fell back onto the pillows. "You'll kill my
father, but you won't sleep with me when I'm ill."
Krycek smiled, and stroked Mulder's temple. "That was business. This is
personal."
"But you want to."
"I want to. Ask me again when your fever breaks."
That seemed fair. Mulder nodded. "Then I'll go back to sleep now."
"All right."
Krycek went back to his chair, and picked up his book. Mulder smiled to
himself, settled back into the smooth sheets and soft pillows, and drifted into
the timeless dark.
It was a reflex to distrust everything Krycek said. But somehow, the acid
had gone out of the thought. Was it just the fever, or had he really fallen for
Krycek's story? Did he believe that Krycek could actually save Scully? It
frightened him, but he couldn't help but hope. Krycek, sleeping in his chair,
surely looked like someone who could be believed, who would save an innocent
woman's life if he could. He looked like a slightly damaged angel, who'd lost a
wing in his fall to earth. Why was he sleeping alone over there, huddled in his
chair? The room was big enough, and his comrades didn't seem to be short of
funds; he could have had another bed brought in. Or a small sofa, or a cot. Even
this bed was huge enough for two to share, and never come in contact. Mulder
smiled a little. Krycek in his bed—what a thought!
—Oh god. Krycek—bending over him, smiling sweetly, pressing his
lips against Mulder's—it had to have been a dream. And Mulder, pulling him
down, shamelessly demanding more—a dream. A confused and raddled mind,
shaken by these new, conflicting images of an old enemy, sick with fever and
dread hope, seduced by unexpected gentleness, inventing stories as he dozed in
the enemy's bed. Mulder lifted his hand to his mouth, touching his lips, as if
trying to feel the kiss there. Nothing but warm flesh. And yet—the image,
so clear, refused to melt into shades of dream. Krycek had kissed him.
Why? Mulder felt his face burning, even through the fever. How had Krycek
known that Mulder would allow it? What secret desire had shown on his face, or
in his body, exposed in his weakness? He should have been outraged, or at the
very least indifferent. Instead he had responded, tried to pull Krycek into bed
with him, insisted that he knew what he wanted.
And Krycek had turned him down. You'll be sorry after, he'd said.
Ask me again when the fever breaks. He'd refused to take advantage of
Mulder's muddled state—at least, any farther than that one modest kiss.
Mulder tried to puzzle out what it meant, but rational thought eluded him.
There was only the memory, so real it was almost physical, of Krycek's soft
mouth on his. And heat in his groin that wasn't the fever.
Ask me again when the fever breaks. Not in a million years. Krycek
was the last person on earth Mulder would ever take to bed. But there was no
despite in that thought, either.
It was the fever. One kiss. It meant nothing. Krycek was nothing to him.
You, I can touch.
It was the fever. Mulder rolled over, plumped his pillow, and sought the
darkness of sleep.
And his head was clear. He ached, and his body was sticky and uncomfortable,
but the fever dreams were gone, or at least drifting away like wisps of fog in
the morning sun. His body had succeeded in fighting off the disease. Now,
perhaps Scully's could, as well. Mulder smiled and stretched, throwing off the
sheets.
Krycek was standing before the window, gazing out onto the pre-dawn street.
Finally, he'd taken off his leather jacket, and was wearing only his tee-shirt
and jeans. Through the thin cotton of the shirt, the outline of his body was
evident. His back was broad and strong; his right arm well-formed and muscular,
leaning against the window frame. But on the left, the shoulder ended abruptly
just under the deltoid cap, leaving the short sleeve of his tee-shirt to hang
empty. Without its protecting leather, the amputation lost its glamor; became
only the hard sacrifice of a lonely man, lost in a foreign world while his
country disintegrated, struggling to fight an international enemy while the
ground shifted constantly beneath his feet, and mere survival was sometimes all
he could hope for. The Fox Mulder of Russia....
What was he thinking, as he stood in this high-rise bedroom in D.C., looking
out over the early morning city? He looked tired, even from behind; there was
strain in the set of his shoulders, and the muscles in his neck. He'd been up
all night—watching over Mulder, monitoring his temperature, making sure he
had plenty of water to drink, guiding him to the bathroom in the dark. Whatever
his personal feelings towards Mulder, he'd been nothing but professional,
efficient and kind in the care of his patient. Except for that one kiss...
Mulder still didn't know what to think about that. His face burned to remember
it: Krycek bending over him, his face so intent, eyes liquid in the dark, and
the touch of his mouth so gentle and sweet and so overwhelming. It was as if in
that one kiss he meant to express every unspoken thought, every explanation and
apology for every pain they had given each other; to wipe the slate clean for
that one single moment and let there be only the soft touch of lips between
them.
And—Ask me again when the fever breaks—Mulder was
astonished to find that his mind did not simply reject the idea out of hand. Not
that he would seriously consider it, but—he let himself imagine that body
naked, the muscles rippling in his back, the firm buttocks, the strong
thighs—would it be awkward? He'd never had sex with an amputee before. And
Krycek, who moved with such care, had clearly not had time to become accustomed
to his loss yet. Had he had sex since it happened? If not, and he was willing to
let Mulder be the first—well, surely he never expected Mulder to take him
up on that offer. Would honor compel him to go through with it anyway, if Mulder
should decide to ask him? He'd never thought of Krycek as being a man of honor
before, but somehow, he felt sure that he would. Should he ask, just to see what
would happen? Mulder felt a pleasant heat gathering in his groin—
And quickly shut down that line of thought. He was here to help Scully, not
to dally with enemies, ex- or not. And was Krycek really an ex-enemy? He had
only Krycek's word for anything he'd said. (And one kiss....) Perhaps it was all
part of some bizarre plot, whose aims and methods Mulder couldn't even guess at.
Only time would tell, and Scully's health.
Mulder slipped out of bed, feeling only a little dizzy, and walked slowly
over to where Krycek stood. Krycek didn't move, but a slight shift in the
tension of the muscles in his neck indicated that he knew Mulder was there.
Still he stood, leaning against the window frame, watching the world outside.
Trusting Mulder at his back. Or simply not caring?
Mulder reached out, let one hand rest on each of Krycek's shoulders, one
whole and strong, the other cruelly cut short—
Krycek whirled, leaping away from Mulder in a violent reflex action,
slamming against the window frame, hand clutching the damaged shoulder. His eyes
were wild with pain, fear, shame. He slumped against the wall, breathing
heavily.
Mulder, too, had leapt back at Krycek's reaction, and stood, heart pounding,
staring. "Sorry," he managed to mumble. "I didn't think...."
"It's all right," Krycek interrupted. He took a deep breath, and pulled
himself upright. "It's all right. I just—" Another deep breath. He seemed
to struggle with something for a moment. "I don't like being touched there."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not really. Not anymore, except... I just...."
"Never mind," Mulder said softly. "I'm sorry."
Krycek nodded, and pushed himself away from the wall, suddenly all business
again. "You're feeling better. Let me check your temperature—we're probably
ready to start preparing the serum for Scully."
Once again, Yuri and the other Russian were called in, and Mulder was sent
back to bed while blood was taken from his left arm (the arm that had been
inoculated against the black cancer, the arm the Tunguska men had wanted to cut
off, the arm Krycek no longer had). Then they left to prepare the serum, and he
was alone again with Krycek.
"I'll leave you alone to get dressed," Krycek said, and, grabbing his jacket
from the arm of his chair, disappeared into the bathroom before Mulder could
object. And, really, what was he going to say? No, thanks, I'd rather not get
dressed. I'd rather have you kiss me again. Aren't you going to wait for me to
ask you to sleep with me? Sighing, he slipped out of the pajama trousers
(the top he'd discarded last night, too hot in his fever) and back into his
clothes.
And soon, here was Krycek, armored again in his leather, looking wary and
slightly bruised. All I did was touch you, Mulder wanted to protest.
You didn't mind it last night. But he hadn't touched Krycek's ruined
shoulder last night, had he? His arms had gone around Krycek's sides, hugging
his ribcage, encircling his back....
And that was not a helpful line of thought. He nodded to Krycek, then headed
for his own turn in the bathroom, careful to avoid coming too close to Krycek's
left side as he passed by.
"I have to admit, Krycek, if I'm going to be kidnapped and held against my
will, I could do a lot worse for accommodations."
Krycek grinned. "I'm no fonder of gulags than you are."
Mulder paused a moment, staring thoughtfully at his sandwich. "You know,
Scully should have the right to decide for herself if she wants this treatment."
"You're right. But do you really think she'd consent to it? Especially if
she knows I'm involved?"
"Maybe. If you took the time to explain it to her. She doesn't have a lot of
options right now."
"I can't take the time. Or the risk. I didn't come all the way here, put
myself and my comrades in danger, spend a lot of money on this project, just to
turn around and go home again with nothing if Scully says no. She'll have the
treatment."
Mulder didn't know why he wanted to argue. Would he really be content to
stand by and watch her die if she refused the treatment? He remembered the last
time Scully's life had been in danger, after her abduction, when she lay in the
hospital dying. Scully had made out a living will, specifying the conditions
under which artificial life support was to be terminated, and he'd signed it as
her witness, accepting the responsibility for making sure her wishes were
carried out. And yet, when the time came to take her off the respirator, he was
the one who objected, who insisted there was still a chance to save her, who
couldn't bear to let her go, even though she'd made her decision. Was this
really so different? He still couldn't let her go.
And it wasn't up to him anyway. Perhaps it was really a kindness for Krycek
to take the decision away from him—to offer him a chance to help, and then
to take the hard choices out of his hands. She would have the treatment, whether
she agreed or not, and if she objected, it was not his responsibility.
He nodded slowly. "I don't necessarily agree. But I understand."
Krycek smiled—one of those tight, almost reluctant smiles he used to
smile every once in a while, back when they were partners, when he'd managed to
win some minor point and Mulder had been forced to admit he wasn't such a
hopeless geek after all. He'd seemed so young and innocent back then. Somehow,
despite everything, he still managed to seem young and innocent.
And was Mulder really going to stop hating him now? If Krycek could save
Scully... if he was telling the truth about his loyalties... could that make up
for all the lies and betrayals? Krycek didn't seem to care whether Mulder
forgave him or not. He'd given up hope that they might ever work together, he'd
said. He only wanted to continue with his work, and let Mulder and Scully
continue with theirs. On the other hand, that kiss....
Mulder squirmed a little, cleared his throat. "So. Tell me what happened in
Tunguska, after I left you."
Krycek's smile turned coldly amused. "After you snatched me and dumped me
out the back of a truck, you mean? Nothing you couldn't figure out easily
enough. I met a group of the locals in the woods. They decided they had to cut
off my arm. I came very close to dying. Is that what you wanted to know, Mulder?
They used some kind of huge butcher knife. No anaesthetic, obviously. There were
five or six of them holding me down—it took that many of them because they
all only had one arm. I screamed, I fought, I yelled at them to stop, but they
just ignored it and went on with their business. It takes quite a while to cut
through an arm with a knife, you know. I passed out before they cut through the
bone."
Mulder dropped the remains of his sandwich on his plate, suddenly no longer
hungry. "Look, you don't have to...."
But Krycek had gotten out of his chair, and was pacing back and forth in
sharp, agitated bursts, no longer cold or remotely amused, no longer even
talking to Mulder. "When I came to afterwards, I was lying in blood on a
mattress in the floor of somebody's cabin, my shoulder wrapped up in rags, and
it hurt so damn bad I almost wished I'd died. I still couldn't believe it, and I
was bundled up so tight I couldn't tell for sure if my arm was gone or not. I
thought I'd gone crazy, it was all a bad dream... It wasn't until they let me go
a week later that I really knew." He strode over to the window and stopped
there, staring out at the world like a man no longer part of it, trapped in a
cage he would never get out of. When he spoke again, his voice had gone soft and
empty. "I made my way back to Moscow. Yuri fixed me up as best he could, and
then I went back to work."
He turned, smiled ruefully, and returned to his chair. "That's all."
Mulder felt a little like he'd been sucker-punched. He wanted to protest
that it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't help feeling that it was. And what
would be the point, anyway? They'd both hurt each other so much, no amount of
apology was ever going to make it right. Assuming that they even wanted to make
it right. Perhaps Krycek had the right idea—just do what was necessary, get
it over with, go back to their respective jobs and forget about it.
But that kiss—that moment of exquisite gentleness, blissful and sweet,
standing out with diamond clarity from the dreamlike haze of the night's
fever—his mind kept returning to it, convinced that it meant something
important; something much more than the late-night whim of a man who only wanted
to finish a job and go home. Maybe it was the fever. Or maybe Krycek was right
and he was just determined to see everything in the universe as being charged
with special significance for Fox Mulder alone.
And maybe it was time to find out. I want to, Krycek had said. Maybe
it was time to find out if he'd really meant it. Mulder set his plate aside, and
got up. Suddenly, he felt unsure and awkward as a gawky teenager. His heart was
pounding. How in seven hells had it all led to this, that he was standing here
in a lemon-yellow bedroom, intending to cross three steps of fathomless space
and kiss Alex Krycek? Or Aleksei Krichenko. A man he never really knew, and
certainly didn't know now. He didn't even know that Krycek wouldn't laugh at
him, or turn his head in disgust, or slap Mulder's face for the liberty. Krycek
stared up at him, face tight, giving nothing away. Mulder attempted what was
meant to be a reassuring smile, and quickly gave it up. Slowly, he walked the
three steps across the room, and stood before Krycek, who sat motionless in his
chair, except for one quickly aborted protective motion of his hand towards his
ruined shoulder.
Mulder reached out, placing his right hand on the wing at the side of the
chair, carefully keeping it clear of Krycek's left side. His left hand, he
brought forward to rest on Krycek's whole shoulder. He paused a moment, staring
into Krycek's eyes, trying to read the expression there, seeing only bottomless
sea-green depths. Then he bent down, slowly, and leaned in to press his mouth
against Krycek's.
With a sigh that was only the barest exhalation of breath, Krycek lifted his
face to Mulder's, closed his eyes and returned the kiss.
And then Mulder knew. It wasn't just the fever, or the shock of the
possibility of a cure for Scully, or Krycek's pain and wrenching loss—or
rather, it was all these things, and more. It was leather and danger and the
face of a fallen angel; it was Krycek's flawed beauty and soft mouth, and Mulder
didn't want to think about it any more, he just wanted the kiss to go on
forever. And for one timeless moment, it did.
Then he was standing back, pulling in great lungsful of air, his mouth still
tingling with the remembered feel, and Krycek was staring up at him with his
lips parted, looking charmingly disheveled.
"Mulder—" Krycek's voice was even more breathy than usual. "What are
you doing?"
"You said to ask again when the fever breaks."
Krycek stared. Mulder felt his face flush, and the threads of humiliation
gathering in his gut, but he held his ground and waited. Then Krycek smiled
crookedly, with an astonished shake of his head, and in one fluid motion, he was
out of his chair and in Mulder's arms. "You never cease to surprise me, Mulder,"
his low voice tickled Mulder's ear. "That's one of the things I've always liked
about you."
Mulder held him tight, careful to keep his right arm low and away from
Krycek's damaged shoulder. It might be all right, in this context and without
the surprise of coming up behind him, but Mulder didn't want to push. He wanted
no more reactions like that one by the window. It might be a little difficult
logistically, though—especially if every time Krycek touched him, as he was
doing now, nuzzling Mulder's earlobe and running his tongue along Mulder's
jawline, Mulder's logical thought processes were going to dissolve into lovely
little multicolored shards and come cascading down, and Mulder's arms were going
to tighten around Krycek's back of their own accord, without waiting for his
conscious mind to say, "no, don't move up along his body, use the left hand to
slide up the back of his neck—"
He felt Krycek's body stiffen, just for a moment, before Krycek pressed his
face into Mulder's shoulder, took a deep breath, and relaxed into the embrace
again. Mulder moved his hands down to Krycek's waist, and held him gently,
kissing his temple. The leather jacket had fallen off his left shoulder, and was
hanging at his side by the sleeve. It was going to be a problem, Mulder mused,
as he moved to ease Krycek out of his jacket. There was the slightest resistance
to this, too, before Krycek forced a sheepish smile and let the jacket go. Well,
he had every right to be nervous. What did he know of Mulder, physically, except
for violence and threats? He had no reason to trust Mulder to be careful of his
injury, to respect the boundary he'd set around his ruined shoulder. So what
could Mulder do to reassure him? Tie one arm behind his back, to make them even?
(And how would someone go about tying one arm behind his back? It was a common
expression, but Mulder suddenly realized he had no idea how it might actually be
accomplished. Good thing Krycek wasn't into bondage. Although, who knew he
wasn't? All that black leather....)
"Mulder?" Krycek was gazing at him curiously.
"Nothing," Mulder grinned. "Just wondering—you're not into bondage, are
you?"
Krycek blinked. Then, abruptly, he began to giggle. "Not on the first date.
Besides, I didn't bring my gear with me. —Mulder, what is going on in that
marvelously weird brain of yours?"
Mulder slid his hand down Krycek's arm, and gripped his wrist. Daring, he
pulled Krycek's wrist behind his back and held it there firmly. "Just wondering
how you'd go about tying one arm behind your back."
Still giggling, Krycek leaned into Mulder, relaxed. "I'm sure you'd be able
to figure it out." His voice was muffled in Mulder's shirt.
"But you didn't bring your gear with you." Did Krycek really have bondage
gear? Unbidden, his mind was worrying away at it, imagining a cuff bound to a
belt, or some sort of harness, or a thigh cuff—wrist to thigh, now that had
possibilities.... "Did you bring any condoms?"
"I have a whole case of Trojans." Krycek grinned at him. "I bought them to
take back with me. I don't trust Russian condoms."
Well, as long as you were going to be in the States, kidnapping FBI agents
and injecting them with strange pathogens, you might as well stock up on
condoms, Mulder thought. Could this get any more surreal?
Never mind. He was going to have sex with Alex Krycek; well, why not? It
seemed to make as much sense at this point as fighting with him. He was pretty
and he was willing and why not? Maybe it would make some of the pain go away,
for both of them.
Mulder took a step back toward the bed, and began to pull Krycek along with
him, kissing his face and his mouth as he went. Krycek gripped him and followed.
Once at the bed, Mulder paused for brief kiss, then began to work Krycek's
tee-shirt out of the waistband of his jeans, and to pull it up over his ribs.
Krycek stopped him with a hand on his. He shook his head, slightly. There
was a troubled look on his face; regretful, yet unable to let Mulder strip him
of his last defense. Mulder nodded, and let go of Krycek's tee-shirt at once,
instead taking him in his arms and kissing him quite thoroughly, long and deep
and wet. Krycek wasn't shy about his mouth, anyway. —But that wasn't fair,
and Mulder knew it. It was only a few months since his disfigurement, and the
pain and horror of it was still fresh in his mind. The physical wound would
still be healing; the emotional wound had barely begun. He'd naturally be jumpy
with anybody about it, much less a man he knew to be capable of punching him
while he was in handcuffs. It was really a wonder that Krycek was willing to let
him do this at all.
And then it became clear to Mulder what he had to do.
And it only made him more determined to offer Krycek something he could
enjoy unequivocally, without worrying about what Mulder might do, in
carelessness or the heat of passion. So he turned and slid onto the bed, lying
on his stomach, smiling over his shoulder in invitation. This way, he would not
be able to grab or bump Krycek's shoulder by accident. If Krycek suffered any
awkward motions, Mulder would not see them. He would just wait, and let Krycek
do what he wanted.
And he waited; until he began to think that perhaps Krycek wouldn't go
through with it after all. And he was almost relieved—what was he doing,
exposing his backside to Alex Krycek like this? Although, remembering the care
he'd received last night, he couldn't really convince himself that he had
anything to fear. Then Krycek's warm body was on top of his, thighs straddling
thighs and hand stroking his back, lips covering the back of his neck and
shoulders with hot, fervent kisses. Mulder sighed and squirmed and dug his
fingers into the mattress, almost surprised to find how pleasurable it was: the
warm press of flesh against his, the urgency in Krycek's caresses, his name
muttered over and over in low, almost ecstatic tones. He'd expected something
quiet and easy; kindness, absence of pain—and that would have been enough.
Not this warm, suffusing pleasure. But perhaps this was what absence of pain
was—it had been so long, if he had ever really known it at all. And it was
surprisingly easy to give himself up to it, even when Krycek's fingers slid
between his legs, cool and slick, and easy to cry out in eager passion when
Krycek entered him, easy to growl in his throat and claw at the mattress while
Krycek took him. And when he came, with Krycek's fingers gripping his shoulder
and Krycek's name on his lips, it felt amazingly like happiness.
"Krycek."
"Mmm." Krycek's reply turned into a kiss on the back of Mulder's neck.
"Are you still a Communist?"
Krycek was quiet for a moment, then he giggled softly. "Wondering if you
were just screwed by a Communist? I suppose I am. Although, these days, I think
of myself as more of a pragmatist. Russia is suffering, and I'd like to see her
well again. But I don't think a return to the old ways is the answer." Then his
arm lifted from Mulder's side, and he began to uncurl himself from Mulder's
back, yawning.
Mulder turned, looking at him over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"I'm getting dressed. We've still got work to do. And I don't want Yuri to
come in here and find us like this."
"You're tired. You were up all night, weren't you?"
"I had to keep watch, to make sure you were all right."
"I'm all right. And it will be hours yet before the serum is ready. Why
don't you sleep for a while, and I'll watch over you?"
Krycek smiled sleepily. "I don't need anyone to watch over me."
"Everybody needs someone to watch over them."
Krycek didn't answer, but he didn't seem in any great hurry to get out of
bed, either. "I'm going to go take a shower." Mulder kissed Krycek's cheek. "Go
back to sleep."
When he came out of the bathroom, he found Krycek curled up among the
pillows, sleeping peacefully. Quietly, Mulder picked up Krycek's book from the
floor, found to his relief that it was in English, then settled himself in the
wing chair to wait and watch until the time came.
Mulder paced nervously around the waiting room of the hospital. Two weeks
had passed since Krycek's arrival and departure; two weeks since he'd lain all
night sick with fever in a bright yellow bedroom; two weeks since Scully had
been kidnapped and injected with a serum made from his blood, against her will,
yet with his approval, if not his consent. Two weeks in which Scully had been at
first feverish, hollow-eyed and reproachful, a little too stunned at suddenly
finding him alive and apparently in league with Alex Krycek in some wild scheme
to completely trust his reappearance. She had carried around a handkerchief that
grew dark and rusty with blood. Her doctors just shook their heads and said
there was nothing they could do, except revise her estimated time remaining
downward.
But then the fevers had faded. (Mulder dreamed at night of Scully in a
yellow bedroom, watched over by a guardian angel with only one wing.) Her
nosebleeds ceased. Her blue eyes regained their sparkle. And she found, as
Mulder had done, that hope was frightening and painful, and it made her snap at
him in a way that filled him with joy.
And now he waited. Mulder flung himself into a chair, and leafed
distractedly through a magazine. Two weeks. Krycek was back in Russia by now,
continuing his work. The Russian Fox Mulder. Mulder still puzzled away at it,
sure there was some deeper significance to it all, while in the back of his
mind, Krycek's amused voice sighed, Oh, Mulder. You still think the universe
revolves around you, don't you? Sometimes, the memory of Krycek curled
around him filled him with a warm, pleasant satisfaction. Sometimes it horrified
and embarrassed him. I did it for Scully, he would tell himself. Or, I
did it for Krycek, because I felt sorry for him. Once or twice, late at
night, he thought, I did it for myself. Because it felt good to stop hating,
just for a little while.
"Mulder." Her voice was forced calm, and deadly quiet. "The cancer... the
cancer...."
If she dies....
"Is gone."
For a moment, he stood uncomprehending. "Gone?"
"Completely." Her face twisted in something like a smile. "The blood
markers... are all clear, and the imaging tests...." Tears spilled down her
cheeks.
Mulder folded her into his arms. His own tears fell into her hair. His heart
felt like it was breaking, only in a completely wonderful way. Scully would
live.
"I owe Alex Krycek my life. Or Aleksei... what did you say his name was?"
"Aleksei Nikolayevich Krichenko." Mulder grinned at her.
"I still can't believe it. I mean, I know what you told me, but I still
don't understand why he would do it."
Because he's a human being. Because he knows what it feels like to suffer
losses. Because his eyes are the color of deep oceans. "Because you're
vitally important to the survival of the human race," he teased.
"Well, that makes me feel secure." She frowned a little. "I wish I could
thank him. I wasn't exactly... grateful at the time."
No, she had been quite a spitfire. She'd heaped abuse on Krycek and his
partners, accused Mulder of everything from being an alien clone to a
brainwashed dupe, and generally raised a riot with every ounce of strength in
her compact, dying body. But she'd had the treatment, and then they'd let her
go, and even as she'd cursed them all, she'd begun to heal.
"He didn't expect it. He just wanted you to be well."
"How will he even know? Can you get in touch with him?"
"I'm sure he'll know. He seems to have extensive intelligence sources." He'd
meant to ask Krycek for a phone number or an e-mail address or something, but
once Scully had arrived, Krycek had gone back to being cold and hard and all
business, and Mulder had been busy trying to calm Scully down, and the moment
had passed. He hadn't even been sure he wanted to stay in touch with
Krycek—whatever understanding they'd achieved, it was all too new and
fragile to be trusted once they'd left the spell of the yellow bedroom and gone
back into the real world. But Mulder had a feeling he could track Krycek down
easily enough if he wanted to. After all, he knew his real name (probably) and
the city he lived in (assuming he'd been telling the truth), so it shouldn't be
that hard. It would be nice to be able to tell Krycek that Scully was all right,
and to thank him, and maybe even to say that he'd be willing to work together
with him, if the circumstances were right. In a day or two, perhaps, he'd start
some inquiries and see what happened.
Meanwhile, he had rare enough causes for celebration, and he meant to make
the most of this one. He drained his coffee and threw the cup into the trash.
"Come on, Scully. Let's go tell your mother."
"Oh, god," she grinned, "What am I going to tell her? I was kidnapped by
Russians who gave me a miracle cure?"
"Tell her you took an elixir of my blood, which has magical healing
properties."
"I might as well say I'd been to Lourdes."
And your guardian angel wears black leather.
Laughing, they left the hospital together.
