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Leaving the country would have been the smart thing to do. The sane
thing to do. But then I'm not feeling particularly smart or sane right
this minute. In fact, I'm trying not to feel anything at all. Even
though it's taken me nearly three quarters of a bottle of vodka to even
get close to it.
I had abandoned the glass after the first few drinks, despite the fact
the coolness of it felt soothing to my scraped hands. I'm bruised as
well, from where I took my fall. From when the bomb that had been meant
to kill me knocked me to the ground. I hadn't felt any of the pain at
the timeshock can do that to youbut I was feeling it now. Or had
been until I'd started in on my friend here. It's not as good as
Russian vodka, but then I'm not sure I'd want that anyway. Too many
reminders. Too close to home.
The room is squeezing down on me as it is. Paper-thin walls of false
security, false calm, the sound of the TV set I'm not even pretending to
watch hiding the sound of my own rough breathing. Despite the bedspread
I've wrapped around me, I'm shaking as well, can't seem to get warm. My
throat and stomach are burning, but still I'm still cold. Bone cold and
scared and hopeless, so goddamned hopeless. I've got nowhere left to go
now, no place to be safe. Everyone and everything's turned against me
and even though I have the tape, have the threat of it, of revealing all
of them and their plots, I feel as if I have nothing. As if I am
nothing...
But then that's right. Exactly and damning.
I am nothing.
I lift the bottle again and swallow down another mouthful of
forgetfulness. Of numbness. Still, the room I'm in reminds me of
another, another cheap and artificial room somewhere on the road to DC.
It was decorated in shades of pale blue instead of brown, but no matter.
This room is all I can afford at the moment, at least until I can get
to one of my stashes. I had hitched a ride here as it was, ditching the
last car I'd stole down some little dead end road off the highway about
fifty miles back. The police might be looking for it by now. And they
would most certainly be looking for me.
And their orders would be simple. Recover the tape. Remove anyone who
got in the way. Luis would probably jump for the job, for the chance to
off me. He liked to kill people, though he seemed to be doing a piss
poor job of it lately. I had felt a twinge of regret over the mistake,
but he never had. At least, none that I'd ever seen. Not that I had
exactly wanted to kill Scully, let alone Scully's sister. Not because I
liked her in any way or even, God knows, respected her, but because it
would have been one more betrayal.
Perhaps, even a more unforgivable one.
So, I had held back, let Luis take the shot. Make the mistake.
Still, it had been me they tried to blow up, me they tried to murder.
No doubt, they'd planned on pinning the kid's death on methe one who'd
hacked the tape in the first placeand, possibly, Scully's sister as
well. After they'd scraped my charred and smoking remains out of the
damn car...
More vodkaI'm so fucking cold. I don't know how I made it through the
trip here, less than half a day, but it was still almost more than I
could bear. I shouldn't have called him from the airport, but I had
been unable to stop myself. Besides, he would have expected me to get
the hell out of dodge, not to stick around. He would have his men
checking the international flights, not the domestic ones. Not that I'd
used a name he'd recognize. Certainly none of the ones they'd given me
to use.
Still, I was almost out of cash and there was no way I could use credit.
Maybe, not ever. They had their fingers in everything; they'd probably
find me in the end, anyway, why put up a flashing neon sign.
Nearly twelve hours later and I'm in the middle of Nowhere Fucking
America, having caught three different flights and stolen two cars.
Thumbed three rides. Only my bottle of cheap vodka for comfort and my
gun for protection. Only twenty bucks and some change away from
destitution. One thin line away from despair.
One fucking razor-thin achingly sharp line.
Of course, I felt as if I'd been walking it for a while. Ever since my
boss had told me that Mulder was dead...
Fuck, no. I do not want to go there. No, no and no.
Hurriedly, I took another pull of the bottle, then let it fall. It
hadn't been true, of course. Wishful thinking on his enemies part, more
like. But that didn't mean that it hadn't hurt, that it still didn't
hurt. Didn't scare the crap out of me how much it had goddamn hurt.
More than the attempt on my own life, certainlythat was almost to be
expected, the line of work I've found myself stuck in.
I had had a bitch of a time hiding my true feelings about him though.
Even after years of practice. And there had been no time to fall apart.
Only beating up on Skinner had made me feel marginally better. But, by
then, I'd known it was a lie, that Mulder was still alive, and had had
to hide my reaction to that news as well. Beating up on anybody was a
relief after having to keep all that inside. To keep it all from Luis
and from the cool appraising eyes of my boss.
He would use that information against me if he knew. If he could. And,
knowing him, he damn well could. And I would suffer for it and, no
doubt, Mulder would suffer for it as well and I owed him too much
already. I couldn't let them use me against him anymore. Not even to
save my own pitiful neck.
I couldn't stand it.
It had been so damn good and now it was so damn bad, worse even then I
had expected, then I had feared it to be. But, then, I hadn't
knowncouldn't have knownat the time that I was going to be called
upon to shoot the man's own father. To try and shoot his partner. To
stand by and watch my boss try and kill him as well. To almost succeed.
Worst of all, if I had known, I might have done it anyway and how sick
is that?
As sick as imagining him punching me around, threatening me...raping
me...and getting off on it?
I had tried to repress that particular night, that particular...sordid
fantasy of mine. But it refused to go away; I could remember it almost
as clearly as pulling the trigger in that dim bathroom. As clearly as I
remembered Mulder throwing me up against the wall, the feel of his
fists, the sound of his voice. The same voice that had once asked me,
no, pleaded with me, to take him down, to finish him off. To suck him
dry.
The floor hard beneath us. The darkness near complete. Just the sense
of his skin, the strength of his body, against mine, and how vulnerable
it had made me feel. To be naked with him. To let him please me as I
had pleasured him. To let myself get so out of controlto want to be
so out of controlthat I had felt adrift for days afterward. Like the
world just didn't fit right anymore. One night, just a few hours, with
him having spun it out of balance. Only the catch of his eyes across
mine as we had passed in the hall enough to set me off again.
Threatening to send me flying out of myself.
It had had to end. And it did.
But I still hated it. Hated myself. Hated...
No, I didn't hate him. Couldn't hate him, even when he had been beating
the crap out of me. Even when he had held a gun on me and I had known
he was going to pull the trigger.
Even though he had lost me everything. Cost me my future, such as it
was. I was as good as dead now. They would see to that. He would see
to thatone raise of the eyebrow, one wave of that cigarette, and my
life was forfeit. After I had given them what they wanted, of course,
that little tape of their misdeeds. Their collusion. Their guilt.
It laid there on the bed in front of me right now. Looking so innocent,
so inconsequential. One would never think it was far deadlier than the
gun lying next to it.
One would never think a kiss deadlier than a bullet, but there that was
too.
Slowly, I sank down on the bed, pulled the spread close around me,
clutched the bottle even closer. I didn't want to close my eyes,
certainly didn't want to sleep, but the liquor pulled at me. Exhaustion
dragging me down, dragging me to the place I desperately didn't want to
go. My dreams were not my own these days, either. He haunted them.
And sometimes he cursed me and kicked me and stuck a gun into my face
and sometimes he held me close and kissed me and kissed me until I could
barely breathe for wanting him. His arms making a warm little place in
all the cold and all the darkness.
Both dreams made me want to cry, made me want to scream. Made me hate
the man that looked back at me from out of the mirror. I hadn't even
bothered tonight. I already knew I wouldn't be able to stand it. A
shower might have warmed me up better than the vodka, but I didn't want
that either. He was already too close tonightthe thought of him, the
hunger for him, the pain and the accusation and the bleak
incomprehensible hurt of it all. What I had done to him and what I had
done to myself. Twisted together and knotted up so tight together it
was no wonder I had trouble thinking straight anymore.
I had to do something and I would do something, there was no way around
it. Problem was, I didn't know what. Keep running, yeah, that was
simple enough. Get some cash, some new ID, yeah sure. Easy things.
Obvious things. Decode the tape and that might be a little more
difficult, but I had no doubt I would manage it. What I would do with
the information after...well, that would require a little more thought,
but it would come to me.
Which left the stickiest problem of them all. Fox Mulder and what I
wanted to do with him. What I wanted from him.
What he might want from me. Information, sure. Revenge, most probably.
Another kiss, another night together...and just how cold was hell
anyway? I was likely to find out, sooner or later.
I might be damned by it, but there was no way I'd be able to stay away
for long. No way circumstances would likely let me even if I managed to
dredge up the self-control for it. The denial. Certainly, I'd never
find enough oblivion in a bottle of vodka for that. Not in a dozen
bottles. Not even half a continent away.
The darkness seemed to gather, to stir and spin in the room, to surround
me, and I let it this time. Let it take me. Let it consume me, deathly
cold and still.
San Francisco, CaliforniaOctober
The noise of shrieks and explosions woke me. I opened my eyes and
slowly raised my head a little. Even that slight movement seemed too
muchmy head felt as fragile as an eggshelland I let it fall back to
the pillow even more slowly. I had left the TV on and it must be morning now, likely early morning, as a rather bemused Bugs Bunny was
up on the screen using the idiocy of Elmer Fudd to help destroy a wildly
gesturing Daffy Duck. Saturday morning cartoons and I remembered them
all from when I was a kid. My mother had never quite understood ither
grasp of English had never been perfect, even after all these years in
her new homebut she used to watch them with me anyway. My father had
thought they were a waste of time, but then he had thought most American
things were. Anything that didn't put food on the table or a roof over
your head. He had learned to speak English perfectly, as he had taught
me to speak Russian perfectly. Several dialects of Russian, to be
exact. And he always was exact.
I used one of those words he had occasionally said but never actually
taught me as I struggled to raise my head again, to push myself up
slightly on the futon. My skull tightened down immediately, sending
needle-thin shards of pain through me, piercing my eyes, but I gritted
my teeth and waited it out. Some of the bedclothes felt sticky and wet
and I wondered for a moment if I'd been sick during the night, then
realized that the bottle of bourbon I'd been working on last night had
just spilled over. It looked like there were only a couple of mouthfuls
left in ithow much there had been before it spilled I had no way of
knowing for sure except that I knew that I had drunk a lot.
Last night, oh yeah, I'd been drinking and drinking hard. After I had
read what was in those files, at least the pieces that I had managed to
have translated, the pieces that I had managed to make myself go
through. After I had put two and two together and found it made five
instead of four. Because they had been lying to me and not lying to me.
So many deaths, so much pain, and though they obviously thought that
their end goal was noble, that it more than justified the means, it
still had turned my stomach. Had made my most recent tiny efficiency
apartment, the night security job I had taken to help tide me over, seem
a lie as well.
A frivolous and mind-numbing game.
The files had ripped back the skin of the world to reveal the guts and
gore beneath, the bones of those who'd died to make slaves of us all,
the blood of those innocents they had tinkered with in experiment after
experiment, birthing grotesque upon grotesque in endless pursuit of
their goal. Millions catalogued. Thousands of women kidnapped, mapped,
their ovaries plumbed of all life in order to bring about even more
thousands of alien-human children, if children was even what you could
call them. Beings conceived in laboratories, grown in comatose bodies,
birthed, studied, more often than not terminated, autopsied, burned or
buried. Some others made into drones, speechless slaves, no thought
given to them other than the work placed before them.
The work...the work...
And they were traitors, all of them. Saving their own necks at the
expense of everyone else on this stinking planet. As if that wasn't the
greatest dodge in the world, the greatest joke. They thought to reign
in hell, rather than fight...for the earth, for humanity. For our last
bit of paradise. And they were blind if they couldn't see there was no
way they'd be allowed even that.
Invasion...
And, for once, I hadn't dreamt of Mulder last night. I had dreamt of
his sister, of Scully, and what they had done to them. What they were
still doing to them.
What they used them for.
It had made me angry at first and then sick. Half-gladalmostthat I
had shot William Mulder after all. Furious that I hadn't had the chance
to pop my own ex-boss at the same time. That I hadn't killed all of
them, the whole cruel crew in their expensive little nest in New York City. They were monsters, far more than the poor things they worked so
hard to create.
And I had helped them...had killed for them...
Had ruined what little bit of life I had left to me in keeping them and
their agendas safe and hidden.
Hidden from men like Fox Mulder.
The worst thing was that I couldn't even just turn over this information
to the man. They would only kill him for it. They'd kill me, too, but
that was inevitable. I was almost used to thinking about thathow I'd
catch the eventual bullet or end up in a convenient car accidentthough
that didn't mean that I'd stand still for them. They'd have to catch me
first. And I'd make them pay for it, if I could.
I smothered a moan as I slowly rolled off the futon, glad for once that
I didn't have far to go. The remote was on the floor a few feet away
and my head threatened to come clean off as I tilted it a little too far
while picking it up. I flicked off the TV, cutting off Bugs as he dove
with all his usual grace for his rabbit hole, then let the remote fall
again. Even more slowly, I pulled myself to my feet, swallowing heavily
at each twinge of pain.
Sunlight was pouring into the tiny kitchen area from beneath the
half-pulled shade and I winced away from it as I headed past to the
bathroom. At least there was no window hereonly the bleak glare of
the row of lights over the mirrorand I was mutely grateful for the
small favor of it. My reflection was less grateful. Certainly not at
all flattering. I looked tired. No, more than that, exhausted. The
fact that I hadn't shaved in the last three days didn't contradict the
initial impression. My new boss didn't much care what I looked like on
the night shift and I certainly didn't care. I could hardly get myself
to eat sometimes, let alone bother to do more than run a quick comb
through my hair. At least, it was still short enough that it didn't
matter much.
I leaned over the sink and turned on the cold water, splashed some over
my face, ran it across my neck. The posture, the movement, made me feel
nauseous for a moment, but I fought it off grimly, dragging in a few
long breaths of air. When I finally straightened up again though, my
reflection unfortunately looked just as wrung out as before, only a
little wet around the edges now. I grimaced at myself. Right now, I
doubted Fox Mulder would be much interested in me even if he didn't have
good reason to hate me. I wouldn't want me right now, not with those
dark shadows around my eyes, that pasty thin-looking skin, and still
stinking of long hours of sweat and spilled bourbon. God, what had ever
possessed me to drink the stuff last night? Besides, what I was
reading, of course. Besides, it was all I'd had arounda gift from a
woman I'd met in a bar, slept with a few times, before I realized it
just made my mood all the darker. Made me realize what I really wanted.
Who I was missing so damn hard.
That I had been frighteningly disappointed every time I'd looked down at
her and expected hazel eyes instead of brown. Then ended up fucking her
harder and harder as if to make up for the thought, hard enough that she
complained afterwards. She had gone and bought me the booze a few days later as if she had reconsidered the
evening, as if giving me a present I'd never asked for and certainly
didn't want would make me want to screw her again. Softer, this time,
as if I really cared.
And I have to admit that I had tried. God, I had tried to want her and
not see someone else in her eyes. Had tried to be gentle, only to find
it only made me more angry. Angry at him for not being there and at her
for not being him and, most of all, at myself for being so fucked in the
head in the first place. I would have picked up a guy, insteadafter
all, San Francisco was certainly the place for itbut I feared that it
would only be worse that way. Make my problem all the more acute. As
it was, it was tearing me apart. My reflection this morning told me that. The fact that this was the fourthor was it the
fifth?time I'd tied one on so hard in the past two months that it hurt
even to think, let alone to try to remember.
At least, I had woken up alone this time. At least I hadn't gotten
drunk out at the bars again and gone home with some girl like in Vegas,
when I had stopped to pick up my cash, my new identity. She had had red
hair almost as bright as Scully's and that had shocked me. Had made my
breath catch in the back of my throat as I woke the next morning, prying
my eyes open only to see it spread out on the sheets next to me like
some kind of bloody offering. Melissa Scully had had hair almost that
same color as well, though I'd only seen it briefly. All too
fleetingly. Hair the color of wine, brilliant and explosive.
The girl who gave me the bourbon had short brown hair, but in some ways
that had only made it worse.
Turning away from the mirror, I stripped off my briefs and stepped into
the shower. Let the hot water wail away at my face, my head, for a long
time. Scrubbed myself clean as I could. When I finally shut the water
off I felt marginally better, which wasn't saying much. I grabbed a
bottle of Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet and took it back out to
the main room with me. I went to the fridge, opened it, and found only
a box of pizza left over from a couple of days ago, some rather
desiccated looking apples, a few cans of Coke and one lonely can of
beer. For a moment, I contemplated the Coke, then thought about water
instead, only to find myself letting the door swing shut again, found
myself heading back over to the bed. The bottle of bourbon was lying on
its side on the tangle of sheets and I picked it up and studied itmy
best friend of late, it seemed, and wasn't that just fucking disgusting.
Probably as fucking disgusting as Mulder must feel when he remembered
what we had done together. If he even let himself remember.
Still, maybe he did remember. Maybe he pictured me every time he went
down to the gun range, imagining those bullets pounding into me. One to
the head like his dad. Or one to the heart. Yeah, one right to the
heart.
Finally, I sat down on the edge of the futon and put the bottle on the
floor next to me. Popped open the Tylenol and shook out some pills, not
bothering to count them. I tossed the container on the bed and picked
up the bourbon again, washed the tablets down in one quick snap back.
It burned, but I welcomed it. Welcomed the heat that followed.
My stomach threatened to rebel again though as I let the now empty
bottle fall free out of my hand to the thin rug and laid back. I rode
it out as best I could, closing my eyes tight to hold on to what little
control, what fragile balance, I had managed to reclaim during the
shower. I had to stop doing this. There was no choice about that. Of
course, it was what I had promised to myself before, after the incident
in Vegas. After I hadn't been able to remember what we had actually done that night, let alone her name or where we had
met and whether she was a hooker or simply a girl who had needed
somebody and had the bad luck to fall into my graces. There had been
bite marks on my shoulders that morning. Similar marks on her from what
I'd seen as she'd ducked in and out of the bathroom. At least, beyond
the hair, she had had no obvious other resemblance to Dana Scully, for
which I had been supremely grateful.
Still, it had kept me to my promise...for a couple of weeks anyway.
Long enough for me to make my way to Frisco and find a job where they
didn't ask too many questions as long as I turned up on time and didn't
rip off the merchandise.
I was due there tonight, in fact. And, despite how I felt right now, I
would have to go. It was payday and I needed the money. The junker of
a car I had bought was low on gas and my fridge was obviously low on
groceries and rent was due in a couple of days. Normal things. An
ordinary life with ordinary problems.
Such shit.
I laid my arm up across my eyes, took a couple of careful controlled
breaths. I hadn't remembered dreaming last night, but now I got a quick
flash image of something. Hazy and soft, but still the sharp spike of
fear that accompanied it made me tense. Figures standing around me,
looking down at me. Tall, too-thin and predatory. Brilliant light
searing my eyes and a high buzzing sound that cut through me like a
knife. The feeling of not being able to move, of being helpless.
Completely and utterly helpless...
I snapped back upright again on the bed and leaned forward as my stomach
pitched inside me. Red-hot pain and nausea skewed, crawling up the back
of my throat. I swallowed it back down again and pressed my fingers
hard into my eyes. If this was what Duane Barry had experiencedif
this was what Fox Mulder dreamed of, over and over againno wonder he
had gone crazy. Had been so damn desperate. My boss had taken Scully,
sure, but what had happened to her before then? Had it been a
helicopter that night on Skyland Mountain or something else? How much
of what was in these files was true, how much could I believe?
How much dared I believe before I completely lost it as well...
"Goddamn fucking shit," I mumbled, then added a few more choice words,
in Russian this time. I wished I hadn't read the damn thing. I wished
I could have remained in sweet ignorance. But I hadn't and I couldn't
and if I went nuts in the end as Duane Barry went nuts and as Mulder was
on the verge of going nuts then maybe someone poisoning me or shooting
me was the best possible thing to have happen after all.
I didn't think I could live with that kind of fear. With the thought
that some...things could come for you at any moment and take you away
and...and...do stuff to you while you could do nothing but watch and
hope it wouldn't hurt too much this time and know that it was going to
anyway.
Hurriedly I got back up, one of my feet catching for a second in the
tangle of sheets, almost making me fall. Roughly, I tore it free and
stepped off the bed and, this time, I did fall to my knees as a sudden
wave of weakness, of grinding pain, shot through my guts. I crouched
there on the floor for a long moment, unable to move. Then, as the pain
intensified, I backhanded the empty bottle of bourbon away from me, out
across the floor to smash against the wall, and pulled myself back to my
feet. And half-bent over, clutching my hands hard to my middle, I made
a mad dash for the bathroom.
I was tired and still feeling a little sick when I got home early that
morning, but not too tired to notice that my door had been tinkered
with, my early warning system disturbed. I slipped my gun out of its
side holster and held it up before me, leaned back against the wall next
to the door. They would be waiting for me inside, waiting as Luis and I
had waited for Scully. The sound of the key in the lock would alert
them and, when I opened the door to step inside, I would be silhouetted
in the light from the hall behind me. A perfect target. One would
assume anyway.
I should just leave; I couldn't risk a confrontation. There was nothing
inside the apartment that I couldn't do without. I had learned to carry
everything of necessity with me at all times, or to keep it stashed away
where only I could find it. Like some of the pieces of myself, locked
away for my own safety mostly. Not that bad memoriesor goodwere as
easy to stuff into some bus station locker and forget about as tapes or
other incriminating evidence. The lid to the strongbox that held Fox
Mulder, for instance, kept on coming open no matter how hard I slammed
it shut, no matter how many chains I wrapped it up with.
I should just leave, but as I turned to do just that, a shadow passed
across the floor and I knew it was too late already. I fired even
before catching a clear sight of my opponent, before he could get his
own gun aimed properly, the noise of the gun almost deafening in the
small hallway. His own silenced shot took out a wall light, sending
sparks and glass flying, and mine took him in the neck. Sent blood
flying.
He flinched back, automatically clutching at the wound for all the good
it would do him, and I hit him again, this time square in the middle of
the forehead. He was dropping as I leapt over him, hearing my own
apartment door being wrenched open behind me. Raised voices. The soft
almost inconsequential sound of other silencers doing their job.
One of the bullets plucked at my sleeve in passing, but then I was
around the corner and running headlong for the stairs. Heading for the
emergency exit and the alley beyond. Heading for my junker of a car and
the hell outa there as fast as it could take me.
The California day outside was as sunlit and beautiful as I remembered
it from the drive home, but there were more big unamused uglies waiting
in a Mercury across the street and I had to duck down behind a dumpster
before they saw me. Unfortunately, my own vehicle was out there with
them and since there was no way they could have avoided seeing me
sauntering up to it, let alone peeling off in a burst of smoke and tire
rubber, it meant a change in my immediate plans. And yet another loss
that I would have to make up when I could afford it.
Looking in the opposite direction, though, I could see the old Ford
truck that belonged to the apartment caretaker. The back was full of
2X4's, pipes and other building supplies, but it would have to do. I
smashed the passenger window in with one of those convenient pieces of
pipe, then ducked down inside. Hot-wiring it took only a few seconds,
but my pursuers were already crashing out into the alley by then.
Unfortunately for them, as I pointed myself and my new truck right at
them. I hit one dead-onhad just time to see his shocked open-mouthed
facebefore clipping his buddy and sending him spinning off as well. I
didn't recognize either of them, but I recognized their type.
Bland-faced, cool, fit into a crowd kinda guys. Just like my boss had
tried to make me, after I'd been pulled out of the FBI.
A remorseless killer. Just like Mulder thought I was.
After everything else I was had been socked away inside some bus station
locker. Or left behind in some raunchy motel room somewhere between DC
and perdition
And as I turned the corner at the end of the alley, checking behind me
for signs of pursuit and letting out a breath I hadn't known I'd been
holding as I saw none, nothing but two unmoving bodies behind me, I
found myself envying them just a little. Wishing it could be that easy
for me; that I had it within me to have just shrugged and walked into
that room anyway, knowing what was waiting for me, knowing it would all
be over in a moment or two. That the pain couldn't last forever.
The physical pain, anyway.
She was a bitch and one of the coldest women I'd ever seen. Eyes, face,
mouth, an ice sculpture made to order. Made to make money any way she
could.
I needed her, but that didn't mean I had to like her. Or that she had
to like me, which she didn't. Or about as much as she trusted me.
Which was probably about as long as she would tolerate a hangnail.
"This all you have?" she asked.
"For now," I replied, matching the cool tone exactly. I didn't trust
her either, not for an instant. but it wasn't as if I had much choice in the matter right at
the moment. She had the right connections, was in the right business,
and she was willingalmost eager, if I read her right, though she hid
it wellto do almost anything, including fronting for me. For a price.
A rather exotic percentage.
She took the papers I'd given her and squirreled them away. "Okay," was
all she said, though I could tell she was disappointed, a trifle annoyed
even. Probably already trying to find a way to get around me.
"Get a good deal on those," I added. "And we'll see about some more."
"Sure thing," she replied. "Do you care who...?"
I shook my head. "Highest bidder, that's all I'm interested in.
Though, I am a little strapped for time..."
"And cash," she said, those sharp eyes taking in my appearance. I
didn't have to imagine what she saw; I knew it all too well. I was
wearing the only clothes I currently owned and my last "bath," if you
could call it that, had been in the sink of a restroom at an all night
gas station. Just before I ripped off a pale blue Pontiac from the
parking lot of the night club across the street.
She was right; I needed some quick money, enough to get away. Out of
the country this time, if I could. Which meant not only airfare, but
enough cash to requisition the required false passport and a visa.
I had the name and address of someone who could do the work, but they
didn't come cheap.
Which meant working with the woman sitting across from me now, a
speculative gleam in her eyes, a calculating tilt to her head. A gun
under her desk aimed right at my gut.
And I thought I had trust issues.
"You have a number?" she asked. "A way for me to contact you?"
Stupid questions. Condescending. She didn't seem to care.
"No," I said curtly. "It's the usual drill. I'll call you. Friday."
That should give her enough time. And for me to get a deal going with
the man I needed, though putting a downpayment on the work would take
pretty much all the cash I had left on me for the time being.
"Okay," she said again. "I'll be waiting for it."
I almost said 'I'm sure you will,' except that I needed her for the time
being and antagonizing her wasn't going to get me what I needed. It's
not good, as a rule, to piss off those you need.
Something I'd learned far too late.
"See you," I said and turned and walked out. Feeling the barrel of that
gun on me the whole way, wondering if she was going to take a chance on
me having what she wanted on me. Not that I did. That really would
have been stupid. Suicidal.
The stairs outside her office were slick with rain and the ground below
scattered with puddles. I trudged right through them; my shoes were
soaked already, what did a little more matter. It had started raining
the afternoon of my escape and looked to drizzle all day again today.
At least, the sky overhead was a flat grey, clouded low, and it was
already getting dark, despite the earliness of the hour. It was a cold
rain, straight off the ocean, and almost tasted of salt. It added a
strange and chilling texture to the day.
Almost as chilling as what lay hidden beneath the depths of the ocean
half a world awaythe location of which I'd just handed out to be sold
on that secret market that specializes not so much in guns or drugs or
even money, nothing so very obvious, but in information. The real power. The only thing that they really feared. The only thing
that I had over them. Over him.
Not that it would keep me alive. Not in the long run.
But what else could I do?
The occasional depressing impulse aside, I wasn't quite ready to pack it
all in and die already. Not without seeing a few other old friends of
mine shuffle off this mortal coil first, that is.
My car was cold as well, still smelling of the cheap perfume left over
from whoever I'd appropriated it from. It mingled disagreeably with the
half-eaten McDonalds I'd thrown on the floor. Despite having felt like
I was starving last night, I'd only been able to get down half the
burger and a handful of fries before my stomach had threatened
revolution. I hadn't even dared to try breakfast this morning, even if
I could afford something more decent than fast food. At least, the
Cokes I'd drunk yesterday and today were still staying with me, though a
sugar high couldn't keep me going forever.
My nerves were just about shot already as it was.
I drove off slowly, having nowhere in particular to go. Though I kept
an eye out along the way both for any tails and for another chance to
switch vehicles. My sweet Jeraldine was sure to have seen this one and I tried not to keep them longer than a
day anyhow, two days if I switched plates as well. At least, this car
had had an old quilt stuffed into the trunk; I had slept wrapped up in it in the backseat last night and, though it had smelled
faintly of mothballs, it had been better than the perfume. Than the
smell of my own shirt and pants and skin. My hair was starting to itch
and I would need new clothes as well before trying to board a flight for
anywhere.
The ocean today looked grey and unwelcoming. Slivered with white edges
from some storm further out to sea. The ships in their berths looked
washed out as well, rusty and worn and aging. Idly, I wondered how many
of them my "business partner" owned, what kinds of cargo they had
smuggled both in and out of the country for her. If I had to, if the
airport proved too hot for me and mine, I might have to find myself a
place on one of them and put myself even more at her tender mercies. It
wasn't a pleasant, nor a particularly uplifting, thought.
They were just as likely as not to leave me off in the middle of the
Pacific as on a dock in Hong Kong. More likely, actually. Jeraldine
would probably see it as a shrewd business move.
I ended up finally in a park down by the Bay, but it was too cold to
brave the beach for long. The car wasn't much warmer and, no matter how
tired I was, I couldn't afford to simply cuddle down in my friendly
stolen quilt and have a nap. So, instead, I spent the afternoon
watching people as they came and went. Old folks strolling through the
park and a couple of brave souls sitting on the benches. Rollerbladers
and joggers passing by, most never giving either me or the old folks a
second glance. A few teenagers who were probably supposed to be in
school, but were more likely looking for trouble or drugs or both.
Life moving on like it always did.
And I didn't want to leave America when it came right down to it, but it
was getting way too hot for me here. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Russia was equally closed to me right now, for different reasons, but I
didn't particularly want to be there either. Too many old debts in need
of payment and not enough old favors to rely on. Besides, the reach of
the Consortium was long and they'd suspect I'd go there.
Certainly I didn't need or want to bring that down on the heads of my
family's old friends. Or help dredge up their old enemies. My ex-boss would quite
probably know just who to call to make things difficult all round for
anyone in the old country who helped me.
No. Hong Kong was my best bet, at least for the time being. Kallenchuk
Shipping had another office there and besides, for a price, a man could
easily lose himself in those streets. If I could get my ass over there
I might actually have a chance of living for a little while longer.
Not well, but longer.
I closed my eyes and laid my head back, too tired all of a sudden to
keep watch anymore. Even if it killed me. God, I needed a drink or a
good meal or both. Somewhere warm and quiet to sleep. A couple of days
should do me. Not that either drinking or sleeping had ever managed to
keep the nightmares away, the pain, the regrets. It could never make me
forget.
No, I couldn't conveniently forget that the end of the world was coming
anymore than I could forget that I had hurt Fox Mulder. Somehow, the
two almost seemed one and the same thing on some days. Though,
sometimes, I didn't think I would miss the world if it just damn well
went away and as for Mulder...well, I couldn't seem to not think about
him. Especially on rainy nightsof which Frisco had more than a
fewwhen I couldn't seem to help remembering walking across the street towards his apartment. The pavement sparkling
wetly under the streetlights and my heart pounding and the taste of
cheap whiskey in my mouth.
When I had played a drunk and a fool and walked back out of there, out
of his arms, just the fool.
Because I had known better and I had gone and done it anyway and now I
only had myself to blame for how much I missed him. How much I missed
the man I had been to him, as well, lie though he was.
That green agent, so young, so lonely, so in need of comforting after
killing for the first time. Turning to the kindnesses that Mulder
offered like a starving man. Greedy for the slightest crumb. And it
hadn't been part of my job or of that green agent to seduce his older
partner, but it had ended up my pleasure and Mulder's. Though with a
damn fucking huge price tag attached to it that only one of us had known
about.
And I had gone ahead and done it, anyway. And then I had left and
Mulder had been left alone at the one time in his life he was in most
need of friends, of people who would stand by him no matter what. Even
if they thought he was kind of nuts most of the time.
Still, he'd gotten Scully back, if rather worse for wear. Though that
didn't make up for drugging him nearly into true madness or murdering
his father with him right there in the same damn house.
For all of which he blamed me. You can't fault him for that. I did
have a hand in Scully being taken away from him and I'd been the one to
kill his daddy and to help beat up his boss and I'd even been there when
they'd shot down Scully's sister, innocent that she was. And though I
hadn't pulled that particular trigger, I might as well have. As least
as far as Mulder was concerned most days.
On days like today, for example, when everything was so damn grey and
dead and the cold was seeping into my bones no matter how thick the
quilt wrapped around me. When I couldn't keep my mind from flashing on
the taste of his skin and the smoothness of it and how it had felt to
have my cock between those lips, deep in that mouth. When I couldn't
help contrasting how his eyes had looked then and how they had looked
that night he'd attacked me outside the same apartment building and
nearly killed me.
And how I would have let him.
Yeah, so I'm still a fool.
I opened my eyes and nothing had changednot the sea and not those
joggers and definitely not the old folks waiting out the last of their
lives on a chilly park bench on the edge of an seemingly endless expanse
of water. I turned on the car and then the heat and waited for it to
warm up, knowing I was wasting gas but unable to bear the cold another
moment more.
Watching, just watching, the waves until I finally stopped shivering.
It took a long time.
Hong KongNovember
I was losing it.
No, I had lost it.
Hong Kong was loud, crowded, and way too expensive for my rather limited
budget of late.
I had been on the edge of burn out by the time I got heredriving first
to Houston to avoid the people planted at the Frisco airport, and then
taking planes east rather than west, which would have been faster and
cheaper but also more predictablerunning on too little sleep and too
many of those goddamn packages of peanuts. And now that I was actually
in Hong Kong I found I couldn't easily sleep here, either.
That when I did, I kept dreaming. Of Mulder. Of our one night
together, which should have been no surprise. But I even dreamt of
doing fucking reports for him. Of the cheap coffee we'd drank at cheap
truckstops and of how he could take over a motel room in just a few
minutessprawled out on the bed with autopsy reports and lurid
photographs and Chinese food. Using the chopsticks as pointers.
Tapping them against his forehead when he was deep in thought.
His tie already on the floor and the top buttons on his shirt open and
me thinking I'd like nothing more than to join him on that bed and
tumble him right then and there, bloody pictures, fried rice, duck sauce
and all.
Not that I had. We'd never touched each other after that night. Never
even talked about it. Because though it had changed everything, it had
changed nothing. Or, at least, that's how Mulder obviously had wanted
to play it. And I'd taken my cues from him, knowing it was a good idea
at the heart of it. I hadn't been supposed to climb into his bed in the
first place and if Mulder didn't want a repeat then that was all for the
better, wasn't it?
Except that I had sometimes caught those hazel eyes on me and known it
wasn't for the better. That he still wanted me. Even though he
wouldn't let himself have me.
Maybe his instincts had been trying to tell him something.
Same as mine.
Ah, hell...
We'd had just three months together, one summer. Three months of heaven
and three months of hell all wrapped up in one heart-wrenching long,
lean and somewhat loony package. And now that I had run away to the
ends of the earth I found I missed those days even more than I had
before. I found myself wishing more and more that I could turn back
time and have themhave himback again and do everything right this
time. Talk to him, tell him how I felt. Tell him the truth, even if it
ended my life all the sooner.
Three months. And they had been just like Mulder. So bright they had
blinded and burnt me and so dark you couldn't even cry it hurt so bad. Not that I
had ever cried. Not anymore.
So when I felt those traitorous tears gathering now, I looked up at the
ceiling over my head and forced them back. I rolled and wrapped my
scant bedclothes tighter around me and tried to tune out the sounds of
my neighbors in their own tiny apartments. The sounds from the street
below. Sirens and shrieks and music and the sound of planes coming in
low over the city, bringing in more refugees like me. Businessmen like
my sweet Jeraldine. Maybe even a few of Cancerman's hired killers for
all I knew.
And knew that when and if I slept tonight all my dreams would be of him.
Of the man who had stood back and invited me into his home and shared a
drink with me that I hadn't wanted and kiss that I did. Forgiving me
my presumption of his sexual tastes. And of his loneliness.
Likely, the last thing he'd ever forgiven me of or ever would.
Still, I wished that he were here now, even sweating himself to death
and half out of his head on drugs and hatred. I would have let him beat
me if that's what he wanted, if only he would kiss me and fuck me
afterwards. Like I'd always wanted him to do.
Even if he ended up killing me after that.
It would be worth it. Worth more than my miserable life, or what was
left of it.
Worth more than a moment of silence in a city that had none to share.
Nor, it seemed, any peace.
I guess you can get used to just about anything if you put your mind to
it. Or if you really have no other choice.
Bad food, a scuzzy one room apartment with walls so thin they might as
well be paper. Another language. Or a scattering of them. Hearing
English had become a treat, a welcome little slice of home, much as the
couple of CD's and magazines I'd splurged on when I couldn't hardly
stand it anymore. A man can't live by noodles and rice alone.
Still, it had been a mistake. The money was going fast, faster than I'd
even thought it would, and Jeraldine was being a shit and demanding more
and giving less for ever bit of information I handed over to her. Like
she knew I had very little choice.
None at all, more like. If I couldn't hide myself here then I couldn't
hide myself anywhere. But here cost a hell of a lot of money even if
you ate the cheapest food you could stomach and lived in a box where you
had to share the antiquated toilet facilities with a dozen or more
strangers and never went out and never did anything.
Still, after nearly two months herewith Christmas just around the
corner and wasn't that a fucking kick in the teethI had gone far
beyond looking for a little simple peace and quiet. 'Cause I'd started
losing it big time.
The first time that I think it happened I'd just come from another
snarling match with Jeraldine and suddenly found myself standing, just
standing, in the middle of some street and staring up at nothing. At
the non-existent sky. Cars and bikes zooming around me and horns
blasting and people yelling at me in half a dozen languages, probably
nothing any too nice, and hadn't known how I'd gotten there, let alone
what I'd just been thinking or feeling.
If anything at all.
I'd gotten my ass out of there quick as I could once I'd realized what
had happened, but then it'd happened again. And again. Once in a
noodleshop and that must have been a small one, because no one else had seemed to have noticed and the only reason
I did because between one mouthful and the next my steaming hot noodles
had grown stone-cold. I'd splurged again that night once I'd gotten
home. On a bottle of cheap booze, this time. Not that that form of
unconsciousness had been very much better.
I'd only ended up tossing my cookies the next morning in that fucking
communal bathroom and huddling under my blankets afterwards and holding
the gun I'd also bought my first week in town to me like it might have the answers to my dilemma.
Maybe it did, but I wasn't quite ready to go there yet. I really
wasn't.
But things always go from bad to worse, don't they? Because it was only
after my third "absence" that Mulder turned up. Vicious little
Jeraldine in tow and ass deep in trouble like usual. Dropping into my
world like God's favorite practical joke. Looking at me with those
accusing eyes and sniping at me like it was old home week and hadn't you
gotten the invitation, you asshole, and completely ignoring that I was
the one with the gun and he...wasn't.
In control. On his own turf. Anybody that mattered to me anymore.
Except that was a lie. And such a big whopper of one that it was all I
could think about as I looked back at him in the dark office, my fingers
tightening on the gun as if it could save me from this as well, from the
hurt that wore his face. That wore my own.
So I ran. Like the coward he probably already believed me to be.
Crashing out of that room and leaving him to the killers who followed
himlike I really didn't give a damn, which was another lie, wasn't
it?and running and running until I had no more breath for it and
stumbled to a halt at the mouth of some alley that smelled of fish and
rancid oil and other things even my two months in Hong Kong couldn't yet
identify.
My heart screaming at me and my throat closed up and my knees giving
out, tumbling me down into a puddle of dirty water. Feeling not fear or
anger or even regret in that instance, but sheer loneliness. Emptiness.
Hopelessness that threatened to tear me apart, right down the middle.
Where the wound had never healed.
Mulder...
All it had taken was one moment of his face, his eyes, that voice and I
was undone. I was lost.
I was kneeling in a puddle of mud and stinking fish oil half-way round
the world from home and with nothing left to look forward to but a
bullet in the back. Wanting him so bad I couldn't stand it and hating
him for having made me want himthe one man I could never have had.
Hating him for having followed me here, to the scene of my desperation
and shame.
Where he had sent me as much as the man who'd ordered me to betray him
the first place.
And, suddenly, I was furious instead. The gun in my hand was just a gun
again and not my last refuge, my last choice. And I surged back to my
feet and turned around, heading back the way I'd come. Letting the
sound and the fury both inside and out carry me along.
If he wanted to play games then I could spin the dice, too. If he
wanted to follow me, then I could track him down and make him realize
what he'd gotten himself into for once. Make him pay as I had paid.
Make him see...
The truths he had always most tried to avoid.
I came up behind him as he stood looking lost and pissed-off in front of
a used bookstore. One hand up on the glass and staring hard into the
window as if he could find me hiding inside by sheer will alone.
Probably tucked away somewhere right between "Crime and Punishment" and
a tattered copy of "The World's Greatest Cum Shots."
He froze in front of me as my gun barrel pressed seductively into the
back of his neck.
"What do you think you're doing here, Mulder?" I hissed, unable to keep
the anger out of my voice. Not even caring to.
"Arresting you."
"With what?" I pushed the barrel forward sharply, emphasizing the
question. "Your good looks?"
I shoved at him then, guiding him around the corner of the building and
into another one of those friendly alleys. At least this one didn't
smell half as bad.
"You son-of-a-bitch," he ground out. His voice cracked. The sound of
his own barely-restrained anger made mine flare even higher. I dug the
gun deeper into his flesh.
"In case you're not aware of it, Agent Mulder," I said, keeping my voice
low. "We're not in Kansas anymore. You have no jurisdiction here. No
weapon. No badge that means a shit. I could just kill you right now.
No questions. No sweat. No trouble."
"Like you left me back there?" he asked and the accusation was clear and
it hurt because it was true. "Left melike you left your partnerto
die."
Again, his voice was nearly out of control, his emotions bleeding all
over.
I shrugged, even though he couldn't see me. "She was ripping me off
anyway."
"And that justifies it," he returned. "Oh. But that's right. You
don't need any justification for murder, do you?"
The stung even worse, though I should have been expecting it.
I stepped back. "Turn around."
He did as I asked, though he didn't bother to raise his hands. No
conciliatory gesture at all. He only glared at me, the pulsing blue
light from the neon sign just past the mouth of the alley catching
across half his face. It made him look pale and I wondered when he had
last had a decent night's sleep. When he had last ate.
If he had as much trouble as I did lately doing either.
But he had been looking me over too and his appraisal was even less
kind. "You look like shit," he said. "What's the matter? Life getting
you down? Maybe you should try something different for a change. I
know several people who'd be more than happy to help you out."
"You, for instance?" I couldn't help but ask. "Why, Mulder, I wouldn't
have thought you so kind."
He didn't know quite how to respond to that. Several things passed over
his face at the same time, then blanked out as if they had somehow
canceled each other out.
I stepped back even further, getting my back to the wall. "Get going,"
I said, nodding down the narrow length of the alley.
He didn't move, though his gave flickered from the weapon in my hand and
then, almost reluctantly it seemed, back up to my face. "Why?" he
asked, so very quiet. "Just shoot me now and get it over with."
I smiled, though it cost me. "Thanks for the suggestion."
There was no smart-ass response to that, though I could see that had
cost him in turn. Confusion swirled in those hazel eyes and I angled my
own gaze away, not wanting to see it. Not wanting to let him know I was
seeing it.
"Just move," I snapped. I brought the gun up a fraction, making the
threat clearer.
He did as I asked this time. Not looking at me as he walked past where
I stood. I followed him with the gun, then stepped in behind him.
Close enough to make sure he wasn't going to run, not close enough for
him to try and grab the weapon or do something else stupid. I was being
stupid enough for both of us as it was.
Fifteen minutes later, I ushered him into the lobby of the building
where I was staying. I had had to hide the gun once we'd entered the
crowds, but he still hadn't tried anything. Maybe, he was just too
tired. Or maybe that impetuous curiosity was still getting the better
of him.
I punched for the elevator and, for once, when it got here it was empty.
Mulder walked inside without a word, went to stand at the back. I kept
my eye on him as I pushed the button for my floor. The broken mirror
that lined the wall to his left cut the profile of his face into a
thousand pieces and his eyes looked dark now in the subdued light inside
the tiny compartment, even more hostile than before.
The tenth floor smelled, as it always did, of rice and fish and other,
less savory, things. We passed the bathrooms on the way down the hall
and Mulder shied a little away from it as he went by. One of the
toilets looked to have overflowed again.
I ordered him to stop a few steps past my apartment. He started to turn
around automatically, but went back to standing with his back to me when
I shook my head at him. I almost expected him to try something when I
fiddled with the keyit always had to be jiggled and fussed withbut
he did nothing. Said nothing for once.
"Inside," I said then, stepping back to let him go in first.
He turned around and, not looking at me, walked into the room. I
followed, knocking the door back shut behind me with my hip. I turned
the lock without taking my eyes off him. But he only stood there,
looking around the place. Not that there was much to look at, despite
how much I had to pay for the damn thing.
One room, dimly lit by a low series of windows half covered over with
ripped bits of paper. They let in the light from the street beyond in
tattered shapes and colors, sharp flickers of neon. My make-do kitchen
was in a slightly recessed area along the left hand wall. It held only
a table, a couple of mis-matched chairs, a small fridge and a microwave.
The rest of the room consisted of a long low table with a boombox, a
small collection of CD's scattered next to it, a couple of paperbacks
and magazines that had cost more than they should have. There was no
closet and the single dresser I had acquired to replace that loss sat
just beyond the top of my bed. Or, rather, my mattressthe side of it
pressed hard up against the narrow stretch of wall just beyond the
recessed area, my single pillow half-knocked off the top end, the sheets
bunched up at the bottom. I hadn't bothered to make it up this morning.
In fact, I hadn't bothered much in the last few weeks to be precise.
My only lamp sat on the floor next to it, shadeless, the brass finish
tarnished and dull.
I headed over to it, skirting around Mulder, and quickly bent and
flipped it on. I stood up again and stared at the other man, my
prisoner.
Mulder gave me a cool look in return. "Charming," he commented dryly.
"Crime really does pay."
"Sit down," I said, gesturing with my gun at the mattress.
He shot me a quick unreadable look, then quite deliberately headed in
the opposite direction, skirting the low table, before sinking down on the floor
there with his back to the wall. There was a still, cold look on his
face, complete defiance in the press of his lips, as if he were daring me to make something out of his disobedience. Daring me to
start something. And when he glanced back up at me his eyes were
anything but cool nowthey wanted me to start something, to give him
some reason to release the rage and the bitterness that glimmered in
their depths.
Those eyes flickered when I shifted the gun off him, but he didn't move
otherwise.
"What are you doing here, Mulder?" I asked.
"My job," he replied. He raised an eyebrow. "And you?"
I shook my head. "Just staying alive."
"Shame," he replied, mockingly, softly.
"You just don't get it, do you, Mulder?" I said and my voice was sharp
and I hardly recognized it. "You're out beyond the edge here. I could
bury you and no one would ever find you. No one would ever know what
had happened to you. Not Skinner. Not your precious little partner.
No one. This is my world."
Again those eyes swept the room, pointedly this time. "Obviously."
I didn't want to feel judged. I didn't want to feel ashamed of my
surroundings, of my life, but somehow he did it to me anyway. But I was
quickly realizing that I'd made an even bigger mistake than that by
bringing him here. Now that he was actually in front of me again, now
that we were alone together, all my good intentions were rapidly turning
out of be false and flimsy things, lies that I had told myself. Lies
that couldn't begin to bear the sheer physical reality of meeting those
eyes again, seeing that face. Because I was remembering what it had
felt to be touched by him, to touch him in turn, to kiss that angry
mouth. To be enfolded in it, as deep as he could manage to take meall
sharp teeth and tender liquid heat and hurtling onwards towards a sweet
oblivion that I had hardly imagined existed, let alone that I might
deserve some of it.
He would bite it off if I tried that now.
"Do you want something to drink?" I asked, almost surprising myself with
how pleasant I managed to make it sound. "Tea?"
He didn't bother to answer. Just sat there on my floor, glaring at me.
I sat down slowly, cautiously, on the edge of the mattress. Moved to
rest the hand that held the gun across my knee, still not pointing it at
him.
"Not in the mood for polite conversation then, I presume," I said. "So
why don't you answer my first question then. Why don't you tell me why
you're really here. What you were doing handcuffed to our Ms.
Kallenchuk. Unless it was some kinky little sex game I was interrupting
between the two of you."
"Fuck off, Krycek," Mulder snapped back.
"I tried that," I said in a half-way reasonable tone. "You followed me
here. I didn't go looking for you." Which was a lie, but I wasn't
going to give him that.
God, it hurt just to look at him...
But those self-same eyes had narrowed. "You're the one behind her,
aren't you? You're the one that gave her that information.
Information..." I could almost see the wheels spinning in his head,
putting fact and conjecture together. "Information that she sold to
those men, the ones who fronted for the expedition. The same men who
were after her now. And you. Not very satisfied customers, were they?
What did you do? Screw them, too?"
I felt as if I'd been punched hard. Fast and dirty. Somehow, though, I
managed to turn my gasp for air into a laugh. A choked laugh, but a
laugh all the same.
"Thank you so much. Mulder." Still, I couldn't look directly at him
for a moment, not and see the pleased look that would be therethe triumph and the
satisfaction that he had caused me pain. What the hell had happened to
my control? What the hell had happened to my common sense. I didn't
owe this man a thing; I should have left him to be robbed or murdered,
left him to the streets.
As I had left him to be killed by the men who had come after me?
No...I hadn't wanted that...had I?
Ruthlessly, I pulled the shreds of my thoughts together, placed a
coolness and a distance around me. Between the two of us. Only then,
did I look back at him. And he wasn't looking pleased at all. Not in
the least. He looked vulnerable and hurting and, even as our eyes met,
his own walls slammed tight shut again, blocking out anything but the
anger and the hate I had seen before.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked, then instantly regretted it. The
road to ruin and, God, I was a fool for starting down it. "Do you want
me to tell you I'm sorry? Well...we'd both know that's a lie, wouldn't
we?"
"I don't want anything from you," he replied tightly.
I shook my head. "Well, that's a surprise. What's the matter with you
Mulder? Not feeling well lately?"
Now he shook his head, laid it back against the wall with a sharp out
rush of breath. "Nothing changes for you, does it," he said and it
wasn't exactly a question. "Nothing matters to you except maintaining
your own miserable little life a few seconds longer. Not how many
fucking lies you tell, who you hurt, how many innocent people you kill.
Nothing. All that means anything to you is precisely and only what
furthers the cause of Alex Krycek. If that is even your real name."
I knew he was trying to make me angry, but the words and, even more so,
the tone they were said in, betrayed something he probably didn't want
me to hear, didn't want me to know. 'Who you hurt...' was what he had
said, buried in all the rest of his words, but they were the ones that
had stuck out at me, had struck me. The words that matched what was in
his eyes.
"My," I said finally, and somehow I kept my voice remote. "What a bad
opinion you have of me, Agent Mulder. It's almost enough to make me
cry."
His face hardened even further, but he said nothing.
I got to my feet again and aimed the gun at him. "Get up," I said.
"Turn around. Hands up on the wall."
He stared up at me for a long moment, then those hazel eyes blanked out.
He slowly got up and faced the wall, placed his palms flat on the
surface.
I moved up behind him and felt a sudden surge of pleasure move through
me at seeing him stiffen slightlyobviously afraid, obviously trying to
hide itthen was half-appalled at my own reaction. When had things
gotten so out of hand? When exactly did I start to want to see him so
scared of me?
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," I suddenly realized he was
saying, softly, though very clearly for all that. "Besides, blood's a
horrible thing to have to try and clean up off the walls. Brains, even
worse. Not that they're all that clean to begin with."
"Fuck you, Mulder," I said, but it came out mildly.
That earned me a tight little laugh of his own, one that he bit off just
as sharply. His head came back a little. "Isn't that what you promised
me once," he said, so quiet I almost could have thought I'd imagined it.
"Shut up," I said. "Close your eyes and don't move."
I watched him do as I said, then slipped back towards my dresser and
yanked open the second drawer, delved around inside without turning my eyes away from
the man leaning against the wall. Beneath a couple of t-shirts, I felt
cool metal and swiftly grabbed it up. When I was behind him again, I
tucked my gun into my jeans and before he could start to struggle, to
protest, yanked one of his hands down from the wall and back. Snapped
the handcuff closed on his wrist.
Mulder half-turned at the familiar sound, at the feel of it, and I
quickly shoved him down to his knees. Still, he managed to get off a
punch with his free hand, taking me hard in the ribs. It hurt and the
sudden painthe feel of him beneath my handsmade me press down on him
even harder, bowing him towards the floor, and I yanked the arm I did
have high up behind his back. He stifled a gasp, shifted, trying to
throw me off, but I pushed down even harder on his back and somehow
managed to snag his other arm, to twist it up behind him and snap the
second cuff on his wrist. I let go of him then and stepped back.
He stayed there on his knees for a second, breathing hard, then
straightened and looked at me. Looked right into my eyes and his own
were vicious, murderous even.
"You son-of-a-bitch," he said.
"So you've already said," I answered, trying to keep my own tone light
and failing. "You should have took the tea, Mulder. We could have kept
this...more civilized."
"I'm going to kill you."
"I've heard that before, too. Funny how you keep never getting around
to it." I pulled my gun back out and stepped to one side. "On your
feet."
He put his head down for a moment, then pulled himself back up and,
without looking at me, got his feet under him. I wanted to see his eyes
again, but they were carefully averted now.
"Over here," I said. "Sit on the bed."
I almost expected him to look at me at that, to have some kind of
reaction anyway, but he said nothing. Instead, he walked over to the
bottom end of the mattress and turned, let himself slide down the wall
until he was just barely sitting on the edge of it. It should have been
an awkward move, but somehow he made it look almost graceful. Almost
dignified.
He tilted his head at me.
I looked right back at him. Hardly able in that moment to believe he
was really here. On my bed. Cool eyes and attitude and all. Maybe I
was dreaming again, or maybe I'd flipped out in the middle of traffic
again and had been hit by a car and was really dead right now. Dying.
Alone in a sea of alien voices.
Speaking of which.
"I could gag you," I said, faking a conversational tone. "I should gag
you. Give me a reason not to and we can dispense with it, at least for
the time being."
For a long moment, Mulder just glared up at me, then he nodded.
Reluctantly, like he was agreeing to his own torture, but he agreed.
I made my tea and brought out one cup. Not making a point of it, but
making a point of it. Disassembling and cleaning my gun in front of
him, taking my time with it even though I could normally do it in just a
few minutes, made even more of a point. One that I hoped he also
appreciated.
I was nearly done when I glanced up once more to see Mulder's eyes were
open, looking at me. They immediately sheered away as if he'd been
caught doing something naughty.
I finished reassembling the gun, laid it down next to me, and picked up
my tea. It was almost too cool now, but I drank the rest of it off anyway. When I
lowered the cup, Mulder's eyes were on me again, or rather on the cup,
following it down.
"You sure you don't want some?" I asked, even more gently than before.
"I have more. If you want some."
He closed his eyesa negative reactionthen swallowed heavily and
opened them again. He gazed at me and his eyes were half resigned, half
resentful. He nodded.
I got to my feet and slid my gun back away. Picked up my cup and went
back to the kitchen. I refilled it with water and popped it into the
microwave to heat. I only had enough tea left for a couple of more
cups, but it didn't really matter. Tonight was the last I would see
this place. If Mulder had found me here, then they wouldn't be far
behind him. I would have find another hiding place, another country to
hole up in. Preferably one with my own running water, my own shower
this time. I had a sudden overpowering craving for a hamburger and
fries as well and touched the tips of my fingers to the cheap little
table I'd bought when I'd first moved in. It would be good to be home,
even if it did put my enemies back on my doorstep.
The microwave beeped and I opened it, took out the hot cup. I put the
tea in and some sugarremembering that Mulder liked his coffee
sweetand realized I was running low on that as well. Just as well I
was leaving. I stirred the tea for a while, watching it swirl from
clear to pale brown to golden-dark, then set the spoon to one side and
picked up the cup. It was hot, but I held it tight anyway, ignoring the
dull pain. Mulder didn't bother to look up at me as I emerged and his distance was beginning to worry me. To bug me as well.
It made me feel like shaking him, shoving him, smacking himanything to
get a reaction out of him.
I got down on the floor next to the mattress, next to him, and thought
that his shoulders hunched up a little.
"Here," I said, holding the steaming cup out.
His eyes flickered at it, then his jaw tightened and somehow I knew, now
that it was here, that he was going to refuse it after all.
I sat back, let the cup drop a little. Kept my voice calm and even.
"This only has to be as difficult as you want to make it, Mulder. In
the morning, I'll be gone. If you're good, I'll call in, get someone to
stop by, let you go. If you're not...well, the rent here is paid up
till the end of next month. Either way..." He was looking at me now
and I faltered for a moment, then cursed silently at myself for it.
"Either way, there's no reason you have to go thirsty, is there?"
Again a series of warring emotions, warring thoughts, flashed across his
face, then he seemed to slump down a little again and he nodded, quick
and short. As if acknowledging something that had to be done no matter
how much he didn't want it and get it over with fast, if you would, if
you please.
But I didn't want it to get over with. No matter, that it was the right
thing to do, the smart thing. No. I had chosen to pull him into that
alley. I had chosen to take him back with me. To hold him here. I had
kept him close rather than putting space between us, rather than
disappearing myself. There was nothing here I had absolutely needed to
come back for. No reason I couldn't have just headed right to the
airport, tried to fit myself onto a flight right out of here. Leaving
Mulder two steps behind me, scouring Hong Kong for a man already half
way back to the States.
No reason. And all the reasons in the world.
I lifted the cup and he tilted his head back a little, opened his mouth
slightly. And, maybe, it was still a little too hot because he took a
sip and immediately jerked his head back, almost knocking the cup out of
my hand. "Shit, Krycek," he sputtered, liquid spilling down over his chin, onto his shirt.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
He glared at me as if it was something I'd done on purpose. As if I
would actually do such a petty thing. He opened his mouth as if to snap
something else at me, then abruptly closed it again. He turned his head
away slightly, his eyes downcast.
I looked at the cup of tea in my hand, then set it down next to me on
the floor. "Mulder," I said softly, then frowned at my own tone.
Deliberately, I made my voice harder again. "Mulder, about what
happened between us, I..."
That got his attention. He glanced back at me and those hazel eyes
sharpened again. Quickened. "You what? What makes you think I'd want
to hear anything you have to say. That I could possibly believe anything
you have to say." His voice had been steadily rising, but it suddenly
stopped again, went quiet, almost as if collapsing under the weight of
his own anger. He looked away. "Anything at all."
I looked down at the cup. Picked it back up off the floor and took a
long gulp of the still-hot tea. It burned my mouth but I drank it off
anyway, more than half-emptying the cup. When I lowered it again,
Mulder's eyes were on me. Resentful. Speculative.
"So, what was the plan?" he asked, ignoring the fact that he'd just said
he didn't want to know, didn't want to hear. "Shoot a few dirty
pictures? Try and blackmail me off the X-Files? Or, better yet, right
out of the Bureau?"
I said nothing for a long moment, not knowing which answer would make it
better or worse, if there even was any answer that could possibly make
it better. But my hesitationor maybe it was something in my
facegave me away.
"He didn't know, did he," Mulder said smoothly. His eyes were shocking
in their intensity, boring into me. Then, as if that were too much even
for him, he blinked and turned his face away a little again. Still, I
could see the struggle in him and felt a trickle of embarrassment over
it, a tiny flare of guilt. But it turned to anger a moment later when
he focused on me once more and his mouth was turned down with disgust,
with all the distaste of a man who'd just bitten into something rotten.
"So, Krycek," he said, his voice low and tight. "What did you do it for
then? To get even more of a sick pleasure out of betraying me?" And he
let out a short laugh, then seemed to catch that back as well, and all
the emotion in his face faded, as if all the color had been leached out
of him.
I opened my mouth, ready to give the quick answer this time, the answer
he was so obviously expecting, then shut it again. I didn't have to
explain myself to this man. I didn't have to give him anything. I
should have just damn well gagged him after all.
I glanced away, down at the half-empty cup of tea in my hand, and
something twisted inside me, icy cold and yet hot at the same time. His
eyes looked so dead right now and I didn't want them to be dead, didn't
want...couldn't stand for him to be dead inside. Dead as I was dead
sometimes. A lot of the time. Even hatred would be better than that,
even his fists pounding into me. His screams and his threats.
And, suddenly, I couldn't stand to be even this close to him. I backed
away and got to my feet, started to turn away, to head back towards the
tiny kitchen area. Where he wouldn't be able to see me. Where I
couldn't see him. But somehow I felt his eyes following me and glanced
back. Only to have them trap me after all, drag me to a halt.
"Krycek." Soft, so soft. Deceptively softthe velvet before the
blade. My fingers tightened on the cup, as if so fragile a thing could
keep me from the chasm opening up before me. So deep and black and cold, bone-numbing cold. A depth no one
should be forced to know, let alone live with.
"Alex," he said this time, and that was even worse. "What was the lie
you told yourself then? C'mon, I want to know. I want to know what can
make someone so fucking cruel." Again, a bare hint of a laugh, not
humorous in the least. Not even coming close to touching his eyes.
"What? Did your daddy beat you? Did he lock you away in a closet for
hours at a time, no food, no water? Or did he just force you to suck
him off night after night?"
None of it was true, but it hurt anyway, sucked all the air out of me.
And the chasm grew even larger in response, a great echoing empty space
before my feet, and now I could see myself at the bottom of it, could
see my death there. Some alley like the one I'd grabbed Mulder in,
reeking of garbage and piss and stagnant water, and I was lying in it,
dying in it. The side of my face resting on the cold ground. My eyes
filled with bleak pain. One hand pressed hard to my stomach, restless
fingers slick with blood. More blood on the ground beneath me, pooling
beneath me.
Shuddering, too tired to even cry out anymore and I suddenly couldn't
stand it...couldn't bear the thought of dying like that...so empty
inside, so alone...so goddamned alone...
I turned back around slowly to face him directly and Mulder's eyes
immediately went to my own. His expression changed minutely, but it did change.
"No," I said, then ground to halt as I heard how strange my voice
sounded, how ragged and hollow. I drew in a couple of long breaths and
somehowat a costly tearing effortmanaged to get some measure of
control back. Still, my stomach was a hard knot and I ached so damn bad
inside that I felt as if I had really been shot, was right this moment
lying there in that dark place, lying in a pool of my own blood.
But Mulder's face had gone quiet, expectant, and obviously he was hoping
to twist the blade now that he felt he had gotten it into me. And,
despite the fact that I had the gun here, that the man before me was
restrained, I was the one suddenly who felt powerless. Like those eyes
could simply peel my skin right off me if they so desired, expose the
fragile nerves beneath to air and pressure and pain.
"The lie...the lie that I told myself," I repeated finally, hardly able
to get it out, let alone hear it. "It was...that it would mean nothing
to me. That it meant...nothing...to me."
I paused then, struggling with myself, with impossible discordant
impulsesto stop right there after already having said too much, to go
on and make it even worse, to get the hell out of here, to just pull out
my freshly cleaned gun and kill the man sitting there and looking at me,
staring up at me...
"You expect me to believe that?" he asked and his voice was stripped
down as well. His eyes were burning. "When you were working for him
the whole time. Reporting to him. Spying on us. When you arranged to
have Scully kidnapped. When you murdered my father. And you ask me to
believe that?"
My mind flashed to that night in back of his apartment buildingto when
those same eyes had poured into me as he held me down beneath his
weight, his anger. When he had screamed at me over and over again,
railed at me to admit that I'd killed his father. And I had thought
that that mad fury had been drug-induced at the time, but here it was
again and it was Mulder after all. Mulder's exquisite hate for me and
everything to do with me. And I couldn't blame him and I couldn't face
him and, please, why wouldn't it stop...just stop...I couldn't...
"No." I heard a strangled voice say.
"No," Mulder echoed, a sharp staccato sound. "You're such a work,
Krycek. I'm going to be so glad when somebody finally blows your head off. Hell,
maybe I'll even get lucky enough to watch."
"I wouldn't trying dancing on my grave quite yet, Mulder," I somehow
managed to get out in response. A feeble rejoinder, but the best I
could do right at the moment.
But he was relentless. "It's just a matter of time though, isn't it?
Or do you manage to lie to yourself about that, too?"
Something ground down thenall broken teeth and jagged gears in my
headand I looked at him, right into those eyes, and knew that my face,
my own expression, had finally come back under control again, that it
had gone flat and emotionless. "Yes," I said, and my tone was cool as
well, almost pleasantly cool. "It's just a matter of time. The least I
can do for you, don't you think."
He blinked at that, slightly taken aback despite himself, then recovered
just as quickly. "Well," he said. "At least we agree on something."
This time, when I turned away, he let me and it was only once I was out
of his sight, back in the kitchen alcove, that I was caught by what had
just happened, by what I had betrayed to him, betrayed about myself.
All the calm I had somehow succeeded in forcing upon myself vanished
like a cool dream. Desperately, I slid the cup onto the top of the
table before it could fall out of my hand. Then grabbed the edge of the
table myself as my knees went weak, started to spill me down to the
floor as well. And I realized that my arms and shoulders were shaking
so hard they could hardly hold me up. That my mouth had gone dry, my
throat closing up.
The taste of blood and the taste of despair, thick and sickening,
mingling into some solid mass that threatened to choke me.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. God, I really didn't deserve to live much
longer. Didn't deserve...
I pulled out one of my chairs and managed to lever myself down into it.
Bent over and gasped for air as quietly as I could, dimly aware that I
did not want him to hear me. To know what he had done to me. Not that
I hadn't been on the edge already, even before seeing him walk into that
room. Being on the run can do that to you. Being alone so much of the
goddamned time.
Having so many people around who want to, as Fox Mulder so succinctly
put it, "blow your head off."
I had an almost overwhelming longing for something stronger than tea,
something to numb me up, make me stop feeling. But I had nothing and,
anyway, I had done that far too often lately. Drowning myself in the
stuff as if it could make me forget...
That I had chosen to seduce the man in the first place.
That I had chosen to pull that trigger.
That I had brought him here now, stolen him for my own personal hell,
dirty window dressings and all.
And there was no way out of any of this, no way to truly escape no
matter how much whiskey or vodka you could drink. As if they could ever
do more than cloud the inevitable. They certainly couldn't stop it.
A soft rhythmic thumping sound from around the corner brought my head
back up. Made my heart jump. For a second, I flashed on the thought
that they had found me as Mulder had found me. I got to my feet in the
next instant and slid my gun back out, went to peer carefully back out
into the main part of the room. I half expected to see various
dark-dressed men pouring through the window. Something. Anything but
what was really going on.
Mulder was banging his head back against the wall, his eyes tight shut,
such a look of concentrated agony on his face that it almost didn't look
human.
But, even as I watched, the movement slowed and stopped and his head
fell forward. A long shuddering breath ran up out of him. His
shoulders abruptly hunching forward as well, as if he was only one short
step away from curling up completely.
And I dimly realized that he was running too and if I thought I'd known
pain before, I was wrong. It wrapped itself around me, around my chest,
tight, so tight I couldn't hardly breath. While the whole room seemed
to darken, leaving only one sight, one vision clear anymorethat bowed head, those hands twisting and twisting in the
handcuffs, his shoulders starting to shake a little now too.
My first impulse was to go to him. My second to fade back again, leave
him alone, leave him to compose himself. But, in the end, I just stood
there, unable to move forward, unable to go back. Then, without
warning, he lifted his head again and turned it and looked right at me.
Looked right at the gun still in my hand and whatever emotion that had
had him in its grip faded away so rapidly I would have thought it had
never been there at all. Except for the slight sheen of tears in his
eyes.
As that look was replaced by one of dull resignation, of weary
acceptance. And he straightened a little, minutely, as if readying
himself for something.
For me to shoot him.
And then I really couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything by stare back
at him. A moment passed, two, an eternity, and then he blinked and
slowly, so slowly, as if all his joints ached, he turned his head away
again and just sat there, silent, unmoving.
"I'm still a little thirsty," he said, his voice far too gentle right
now. "If you have some more of that tea."
"Yeah," I said, my own voice sounding like I hadn't used it in days.
"Sure."
He said nothing this time as I gave him the tea. Said nothing when the
last of it was gone, only let himself sink slowly down the wall to lay
on his side on the edge of the mattress. His face had gone still as
well, unreadable, and his whole manner was muted, withdrawn. He was
staring at the row of windows at the far end of the room as if it was
the more fascinating thing in the world and the chaotic flash of the
neon lights outside reflected back in his own eyes, were dimmed.
I set the empty cup down, then went to sit on the opposite end of the
mattress from my prisoner, shoving my pillow up against the wall to lean
against. Laying my gun down next to me, between us. Let my hand rest
right next to it. And, God, I was suddenly so tired. Tired right up to
the edge of haziness, of unreality. Not that I could sleep. Not that I
felt I could ever sleep again.
Somewhere outside my closed door, voices approached and then passed on
down the hall. A man said something and there was the answering sound
of a woman's laughter and something about it made me suspect that she'd
had more than a few already tonight. It was just a little too high, a
bit out of control. I wondered if she was somebody out there's sister,
their girlfriend. Their whore.
"You're wrong," I said when the sounds had faded away again, when a door
had closed in the distance. "Not everything has to be complicated.
There aren't always ulterior motives, dark purposes, malicious powers at
work. Sometimes, people just make mistakes. Sometimes...they just want
to forget for a little while."
For a long moment, I thought that he wasn't listening, wasn't going to
respond, then I felt more than saw his eyes on me. "So that's what I was," he said
quietly. "A distraction? I'm flattered. Really."
At that last word, there was a hint of his usual dry wit, but still I
didn't look at him, didn't even glance over at him.
"No," I said. "You were a mistake. My mistake."
"Even more flattering," he said. "Keep it up and I might be so overcome
I'll forgive you everything."
"I'm not asking that," I said and had to fight to keep my voice calm.
Reasonable.
"Then what do you want?" he snapped, losing the fine edge of his own
temper again.
The answer was one wordone dreadful appallingly mind-numbing and
gut-wrenching wordand I couldn't say it. Shouldn't even be thinking
it. But at the same time, I couldn't quite stop myself eitherfound
the very insanity of it appealinganymore than I had been able to
resist going to him that first time. Our only time.
And I did want to say it. Wanted to believe it. Wanted more from him,
no matter the cost.
But still I stalled. I fought blindly with that impulse. And it tore
at me, threatened to rip me right down the middle, and I found myself
breaking under the weight of it. Being ground down and down until all I
could think of anymore was the thought that I was going to die soon
anywaydie as Mulder had so darkly predicted, as he had delighted in
taunting meand so what point did that leave anymore in playing things
safe. Far better to be damned for what you've done than for all that
you haven't.
To be damned for what little good as well as the bad.
I took one long careful breath, feeling almost as if it were my last,
and finally turned my head, looked right at the man at the other end of
the mattress.
"What I want...?" I repeated. "What I want, Mulder. Right now. Is
you."
He didn't respond for several seconds, not even a flicker in the depths
of those incredible eyes, and then his jaw tightened.
"Is that the truth," he said and I couldn't read his tone at all. Not
quite sarcasm, not quite shock.
I lifted my head slightly, feeling oddly relieved, a little angry,
almost defiant. I stared right back into those hazel eyes of hisso
bright, so sharp, so discerningand knew I was daring him, was daring
myself, and still couldn't back away from it.
"You're the expert," I said. "You tell me."
He started to say something, but cut himself off. His mouth thinned out
and if I had thought his look intense before I was wrong. I felt pinned
down by him, analyzed and catalogued, a specimen laid out under the
merciless gaze of some scientist. The way Dana Scully must look at her
corpses before she cut them open, dug her hands deep into their guts.
"You aren't..." he said, then paused to swallow, to steady his voice.
"You aren't lying, are you? Not about this anyway." He shook his head,
but still his gaze didn't relent. "You're even sicker than I thought.
How can you...?"
"Justify it?" I cut in. I shook my own head.
"No," he said. He laughed, a quick unpleasant sound, and looked away at
last. "No, I don't imagine you spend much time in justifying it.
Justifying anything. You were just there to follow orders and it meant
nothing to you. Not some old man. Not my partner. Not letting me
think you were vulnerable, that you needed...needed somebody that night.
That you needed me." That last was said so soft I almost could have
thought I'd imagined it.
"You're right there," I said. "I don't need anyone."
Something flickered across the other man's face and I knew he heard that
for the lie it was.
But I couldn't even leave that alone. "I wasn't following orders that
night," I said, laying it all out in plain sight. Giving him the rope
to hang me. The poison to stop my heart.
The key to my dark prison.
His jaw tightened again, then released. His eyes flickered, not
settling on anything too long. Not looking at me.
I fought not to get up, to retreat back to the kitchen area. Or, better
yet, to just pick up my gun and disappear out that door. Back out of
his life. To simply accept my own doom and let it go at that. No
witnesses. No mourners. Nothing but the cold. Acceptance of my fate.
Of the fact that I had nothing left to hope for.
Least of all this...this untenable...this impossible...downright fucking
painful thing that had come to lie between us.
"Krycek, you..." I heard him say at last, his own voice tired. "You
don't...you can't..."
"I can't?" I said. "Why, Agent Mulder, wasn't that enough truth for
you? What more do you want? An engraved invitation? A public apology?
For me to pick up this gun and blow my own damn head off for you?"
That got his attention. And I realized that my gun was in my hand,
though I wasn't yet pointing it at anybody. Not at him. Not at myself.
Though I could.
Because I wouldn't have to be alone when it happened. I wouldn't have
to face that alley and that lonely death, not if...
"Go ahead," he said. "Don't let me stop you."
I narrowed my own eyes, but let nothing else touch my face. Now he was
pushing me as I had pushed him and I couldn't fault him for it.
And I had a quick flash of seeing my face in that mirror, in that dirty
little motel bathroom, and how I had imagined him holding a gun on me.
Making me submit. Making me pay for that I had done to him. And how I
had gotten off on itMulder's cruelty and his cock, the thought of the
pain he could give me. The pain that I, somehow, wanted. As if it were
better than nothing.
I lifted the gun to the side of my face, stroked the cool length of the
barrel down my cheek, and then raised my hand higher and turned the
weapona quick, smooth-sharp gestureuntil it was lined up with my
forehead. Metal to bone.
And I could feel how little it would take to pull that trigger, such a
small effort for so fatal a result. I had done it before. I had killed
with even less reason than this. Killed and walked away as they had
taught medon't ask questions, don't dwell on it. Don't think you were
anything other than theirs to do with as they wished. To use and then
throw away. Just a blackened corpse in some rented car. A body to be
cut open, identified, then quietly buried.
Perhaps with bright little Agent Scully and her laconic partner come to
stand over the open grave after all. Just to make damn sure I really
ended up in it.
Mulder's eyes never left mine, though somehow I knew he saw my finger
tightening on the trigger, just a little pressure, not quite enough.
Not yet. But so close, so close I could almost taste it. Could feel
what it would be likethe impact, the sharp sheering of pain, then
nothingness. Blackness and an emptying out into an even greater
blackness. And would it bring me peace at last, or nothingness, or
damnation after all?
Not that I really wanted to believe in that, but if it was real I most
certainly deserved it.
If only for what I had done to this man.
This man that I...that I...
Something must have changed in my face, shown in my eyes, for Mulder's
head suddenly shifted a little, tilted up, and his own eyes softened
slightly. "No," he said, hardly more than a whisper. "Alex..."
His tone pulled at me, dragged me back from the edge, spilling sharp
little pieces of hurt and disbelief and anger all through meanger at
myself for actually letting myself get this close to actually doing it,
hurt at him for pushing me to it. Still, I didn't let the gun fall,
though my finger loosened a hair on the trigger.
"Regret, Mulder?" I said, my voice harsh even to my own ears. "Or is it
just that you'd really like the honors yourself?"
He didn't respond, though several emotions chased across his face before
he closed it down again.
I fought not to snarl something cold and unforgiving at him, then fought
an equally caustic grin. Finally, I just settled for letting the gun
slip down the side of my face, slid it along the line of my jaw towards
my mouth. "Or, maybe," I said. "You'd just like to see me suck on it
first. What do you say, Mulder? Should I do that for you? Or should I
do something else for you? Something a little less fatal. Something we
both might enjoy."
He swallowed and I thought it was an involuntary response. Because the
look in his eyes didn't change, though the hardness didn't come back at
least.
"Do I have a choice about it?" he asked at last and the almost relaxed
tone of the question, so casual, so easy, sent an uneasy feeling through
me.
I let my hand fall slowly, spill over to my side and the gun was loose
in my fingers now. Almost resting on the sheet all by itself. Mulder's
eyes followed it down, then looked back up at me.
"What do you think?" I said and the words came out sharp, bitten off.
"God, Mulder, you must really imagine me some kind of monster. But,
then, maybe that makes it all the easier for you. Makes you
feel...justified...in knocking me around."
His eyes flickered at my deliberate use of the word he'd denied me
earlier. Still, the rest of his face was carefully blank as he slowly
and carefully managed to push himself back up to a sitting position.
Part of me wanted to reach out to help him, but part of me feared
getting too close. Feared seeing his withdrawal from me. A return of
that explosive rage.
Finally, he leaned back against the wall, his head turned away slightly,
his handcuffed hands knitted together behind him. "It would...it is
easier," he admitted, his voice subdued. "And when I don't see you, it
seems even simpler. Matter of fact. Your death for my father's, for
Melissa's. For every damn thing that's gone wrong."
"I didn't kill Melissa," I said softly.
He shook his head a little. "You were there, though, weren't you."
I didn't answer, which was an answer.
He let out a sharp breath.
"I almost did it, though," he said at last. "That night. I was out of
my mind, but I almost did it. If Scully hadn't been there. If she
hadn't stopped me..."
"I'd be dead now," I said. "Yeah, I remember." I also remembered
wishing she hadn't interfered.
I sucked in a long breath of my own, let it out roughly.
Mulder glanced over at me, but I refused to meet his eyes.
"Which brings us to my cozy little bachelor pad here," I said. "And you
still haven't answered my question."
For a moment, I thought he'd try and pretend he didn't know what I was
talking about, but he never forgot anything.
"Just..." he said finally. "Just drop it, will you, Krycek."
"But I don't want to," I replied, then shrugged. "You could consider it
payment if you like. I realize it's for something I can never pay off
really, but what the hell? It's better than the gun. Better than
what's waiting for me back home. Or for you, I imagine. Isn't that the
real truth, Mulder?"
"You don't know me," he said. "You never knew a damn thing about me."
It was a futile protest. I think he knew it even as he said it and said
it anyway.
"I know one thing," I said softly. In almost a whisper. "I know I
still want you."
Despite the softness of my voice I saw him flinch. Saw the flash of
pain in his eyes. He took in a shallow breath.
Before he could speak, I added one more damning sentiment.
"That I...regret, Mulder. That particular betrayal the most."
They say that confession is good for the soul. I just wish I knew if I
still had one. But it definitely seemed as if I was on a rollfor good
or for badsince he still wasn't saying anything. Hadn't yet spit in
my face...
"That...if anyone, Mulder," I added and that was even softer, so soft I
wondered if he could even hear me. "If anyone it would be you.
It...would have been you."
He blinked then and I watched as his face twisted, as the hate and the
pain pulled it out of shape. Made it almost ugly.
"Bullshit," Mulder ground out and that was even uglier. Harsh and
unremitting. "You expect me to believe...fuck you, Krycek."
"Believe what you like," I replied. "You usually do." And, suddenly, I
was too tired to do this anymore. To face down that anger and that
shame, here where I was the most vulnerable to both. Mulder's fists I
could have took againthey could only break my body, after allbut I
had risked everything at the last. Told him the truth and, though most
of me could have seen it coming, the reaction still hurt.
Maybe I should have just pulled that trigger.
There was nothing here. Nothing in those eyes but hate. Nothing
between the two of us but more hate. Hate and lies and illusion.
I rolled off the mattress and to my feet. Feeling Mulder's gaze on me
the whole time, I went back over to my dresser and put the gun down on
top of it, then dug around in the same drawer as before.
"Here," I said, my voice still amazingly calm-sounding, flat. I turned
back around and pitched the handcuff key right at him. "Get out of
here, Mulder."
It landed in his lap and he stared down at it a second, then maneuvered
around until he had it in one hand and could unlock the cuffs. Getting
to his knees as he fumbled the key to the lock and got the metal
bracelets loose from his wrists. His eyes on me the whole time, more
dark now then hazel, watching me as if he expected this sudden turn of
events to be some kind of trick.
Finally, the cuffs dangled from one thin finger and he was pushing
himself to his feet and I turned away at the sight. Laid my right hand
on the dresser top, right next to my gun, but not quite touching it.
If he tried to cuff me in return I would resist. But if he tried to
take the gun I didn't know what I was going to do. I wouldn't go back with him no matter
what, but I didn't want to fight with him anymore. He would either have
to kill me or leave.
Both options felt pretty much the same right now.
I sensed his presence behind me one moment before I saw his hand. It
slid around me, almost but not quite touching me, and settled on the
gun. And, despite my resolve, my weariness, I felt myself tense. But
that tension gave way to a different kind of breathlessness as Mulder's
hand only hesitated there, then moved again. Sliding on top of my own
hand this time, fingers matched to my fingers, his thumb folding into
the depths of my palm. Like it knew it had a home there.
He squeezed my hand, gently but firmly, and then I felt the rest of him
move to press up against me. His other arm pushing beneath my own and
taking me around the chest. Tight and tight, pulling me completely into
the length of his own body. To all those angles and bones I remembered
from so long ago.
Suddenly, shockingly, I was dizzy. My vision blurring and my stomach
clenching hard around the nothingness that had been fed to it in the
last couple of days. The floor shifted beneath me and then seemed to
fall away completely. Dumping me down the full ten stories below and me
screaming all the way. Though no one ever seemed to hear me. No one
but the man holding me now.
"You should have killed me, too," Mulder breathed into my ear. Close,
so close. Then his hand compressed mine to the point of pain and he
shoved at me, spinning me out and around to face him. I was thrown off
balance and he was forced to catch me at the last moment, to pull me
back to him. Gripping the back of my neck now and the sleeve of my
jacket.
Fingers digging in to both places as he kissed me, his mouth hard,
uncompromising. Bruising my lips as he forced them apart, as he pushed
his tongue inside deep as it could go.
I tasted blood and Mulder, salt and copper and cheap jasmine tea, and a
desperation almost as ragged as my own.
Like no one could hear Mulder screaming either. Never had. Never
could.
No one but me and maybe that was the root of it all and the simplicity.
That the darkness fed into the light and the light was devoured by the
dark and that we were but mirrors of each other. Bound by lies and need
and truth and terror and very little else. Certainly not by kinder
things.
Still, I didn't struggle, not even when I felt like I was about to
suffocate. Because I could feel his hard cock riding up against my
thigh and that was the best illusion in the world.
Nearly as good as the ones that my own mind had come up with for
megetting knocked around by him, getting dragged out of a shower and
damn well raped by him. And if that's what Mulder wanted right now then
I wasn't going to fight that, either. I would bend over. I would bare
myself.
After all, I'd done it once already tonight and at least I might get
some pleasure out of this more physical surrender.
He couldn't hurt me any less.
It was Mulder who finally pried his mouth away from mine. Panting hard
and glaring at me as if I'd been the one to kiss him.
"Bastard," he gasped. "Why did you have to...?"
He stopped then, his head going down to rest against my chest, breathing
hard and fast, his shoulders shaking a little. His hands pinched at me, tore at me,
and then slowly released me and began to slide away. As he started to
back away. Still not looking at me.
I caught his arm at once and pulled him back a half step. Pressed his
fingers, his palm, flat to my chest. Right over my heart. His fingers
were trembling, too. Long-boned and fine and strong as they were.
"Mulder," I said. And there was that pitiful nakedness again. Still, I
couldn't stop. "Don't do this to yourself. Just go. Please."
That last word hurt most of all and I saw it hit Mulder hard. Harder
than he probably liked, let alone would admit to. His shoulders bunched
up and he turned his head further away, the tendons standing out rigidly
in his neck. His pulse racing against mine, ricocheting fast and
faster.
"Or stay," I went on and that was even more naked. But I couldn't help
myself. I couldn't help him. "Just for tonight if you like. It
doesn't have to mean anything. Mulder."
He gave a short painful-sounding laugh at that, still not looking at me.
"Like it ever did?"
I didn't answer and, after a long moment, he finally raised his head
again and looked at me. And there was a hint of humor in his eyes oddly
enough, buried beneath a bleak resentment and a brittleness that I had
never noticed before. Or, maybe, I'd never wanted to notice it.
To think I could break this man as he had broken me. With just a couple
of kisses. One short night. One fragile word.
Unspoken. Fucking obvious.
But his eyes were already dropping, as if he'd realized he'd gone too
far.
"I can't," he said.
"You can't what, Mulder?" I asked reasonably. "You can't stay? You
can't go? You can't just...kill me like you think you want to."
"No," he breathed and it was in answer to all three.
"Then take me," I said and now my hand closed tight on his. Drew him
even closer. "Take me. Fuck me. Hurt me. Whatever it takes. I've
been dead, Mulder, and it's no place to be. And there's no going back,
you know. Hell, there's probably no going forward. Which leaves now,
Mulder. Just...now."
I leaned forward that last little space that remained between us and
whispered it to his closed mouth, to those stern swollen lips.
"Now. Please."
He didn't flinch, this time, but I felt his hand twitch beneath mine.
Felt as well as saw a tiny shiver run all through him.
He lifted his head slightly, pulling his mouth away from mine, and
looked at me. And I had seen that look in his eyes before, that
emptiness and that need. It was the expression of a man who was about
to hit the pavement, who had just taken that fucking long drop, and now
knew that there would not only be no one there to catch him at the
bottom, but that no one would even care that you had fallen at all.
And that hurt worse than having every damn bone in your body busted up.
"You think I won't kill you?" he asked.
I kissed him quickly, lightly.
"I think you will," I replied. And he wouldnot with a bullet or a gun
or a bomb or even a well-placed blow, but with this.
With these lips that I bent to kiss again and was pleased to feel them
open for me this time, to feel Mulder's tongue questing out to stroke
along my own.
With these hands that escaped from my own grip to touch me, to slide
along my back and mold me tight and tighter to his body. To that ever
straining cock.
Yeah, he would kill me. He would kill me with his flesh and with his
fire and his unstoppable drive to find answers to all his questions, no
matter how deadly the cost. Because that's the way he was; Fox Mulder
would unravel the mysteries of the universe if he could, no matter that
it might kill him in the process. That it just might end up killing all
the rest of us.
My own lifesuch as it iswouldn't be such a loss when you came right
down to it, and as for the rest...
But I couldn't bring myself to give up on Mulder, no matter how much he
claimed to hate me and how often he hurt me. None of that seemed to
matter when I was with him and I couldn't seem to walk away from him for
long and, certainly, had never been able to stomach the thought of
actually killing him. He haunted my sleep, had hacked and burned his
way right through my best fantasies. Hell, sometimes I swear he lived
in my good right hand.
The one that infrequently pummeled and punished my cock into sweet
oblivion when I absolutely couldn't stand it anymore. When even a whore
was too much pain. Or that damn bottle too near.
Maybe I should tell Mulder about my "black-outs" and then he could climb
in there, too. Have the bit of me that even I couldn't have.
"Mulder..." I began, but he only closed up my mouth with his tongue.
With the harsh demand of his lips. And then I was being rocked back,
being pushed down, and I felt my bed at my back and was being laid out
on those rumpled sheets. His weight coming down on top of me, pressing
me into the folds. Into the pair of handcuffs that he had left
abandoned by my pillow.
It cut into my shoulder and I squirmed away from it slightly. He must
have caught the movement, though, because one hand slid under me and
reclaimed it. Hazel eyes looking at both it and me for one long moment,
before he flung the offending object across the room.
I didn't know if what I was feeling was relief or disappointment, but
then even that thought went away as he simply pressed down on me again,
his mouth snaking in to bite at my exposed neck. Hard enough to leave marks, nearly hard enough to make me
bleed. I moaned but he was already moving to lap along my collarbone,
to poke the tip of his tongue into the vulnerable hollow of my throat.
This...this was what had been missing from deep inside me. This was
what had left me a ghost among the living, already dead and yet unable
to die. According to the info on that stolen tape, our world was on the
edge of Armageddon, the Last Judgment, annihilation, extinction, and yet
none of that mattered to me anymore. None of it could matter as long as
Mulder was touching me, was with me, and if that was sad and sick and
selfish and wrong then so be it.
I'd never claimed to be a saint.
I couldn't even make much of a claim of being sane these days.
Which, even more than having him lying on top of me and kissing me like
he wasas if I was his own Armageddon and his own annihilationput me
right up Mulder's twisted little alley.
He began to rip at my jacket, trying to get it off my shoulders, and I
half sat up and obliged him. His own coat and shirt came off at the
same time, followed by my own overly fragrant t-shirt. Mulder didn't
seem to care. He simply chucked the offending pieces of clothing off in the general direction that the handcuffs had taken and
then pushed me back down. His mouth going directly to my chest now,
teeth sinking in around my right nipple and then my left. It hurt, but
the pain was delicate, a liquid heat that had me lifting up into his
mouth. Begging for more.
For the tongue that swirled and soothed the bitemarks, that tracked down
the center of my chest. Mulder's hands moving to hold my shoulders
tight to the mattress as I automatically tried to squirm away from the
tickle at my stomach. At my navel. Drinking there as he had drunk from
my throat. As if two-days old sweat and salt were a fine wine.
I stared down at the top of his head as he tortured me, wanting to touch
him in return, to pull him back upwards for another taste of that mouth,
but unwilling to fight him for the privilege of it. Unable to risk him
changing his mind and leaving me alone once again. Leaving me to the
dark and the cold and the uncertainty.
So, instead, I laid my own head back down again and did nothing, even as
his hands unwound from my shoulders and began to trace their own way
down. Those short nails pressing in so hard that they actually left
scratches on my bare skin, livid red marks to match the ones around my
nipples. Like he couldn't bear the smoothness of my flesh and needed to
scar it, to ruin and ravish it.
To make me less than perfect.
Not that I was. One look in my eyes on a bad day, when I couldn't find
the energy, let alone the desire to hide anymore, and just anyone would
see what I really was. What they had made me and what I had allowed
myself to be made. They would be able to see the dried black blood and
all the jagged glass bits and the haunted ruins that I walked in. All
the lives I had taken and the lies I had told.
And I suddenly wanted him to scar me. I wanted him to fill his hands
with that broken glass and all those rotting black bits and rip them
right up out of me. Even if it killed me. Especially if it killed me.
"Mulder..." I said, but I was choking on the taste of my own despair.
On the feel of his fingers opening my jeans. Reaching inside. Curling
around my cock and squeezing it hard enough to hurt, making me gasp and
arch my hips. Wanting to pull away. Wanting to thrust up. Unable to
do both at the same time, even if Mulder often made me imagine I could
do anything if I wanted it bad enough.
Or, maybe, that was just him.
"Mulder..."
"Shut up," he mumbled, squeezing down again. It was a powerful
deterrent.
He must have known it, too, because he didn't let go of me even as his
other hand worked to strip my jeans down off my hips. I lifted up
slightly to help him, only to have his fingers tighten on my cock again.
Just a warning, this time, but one that made me catch my breath and
sink back down again.
I felt cool air cross my groin. I felt my jeans roughly pulled down my
thighs and left to catch on my knees, inside-out and bunched up so
tightly that if there were any blood left in my legs I would have been
in trouble.
If there was any blood left anywhere but in my cock. Which was even now
leaping into his hand as if it had any real hope of getting away. Not
from those long fingers and, certainly, not from the lips moving to
imprison the head. Heat battling heat. Teeth abruptly closing on me,
as if he intended to scar me here as well. To leave his mark.
I jerkedaway, definitely away, this timebut he held me easily. His
own hissed warning making me aware, as if I already wasn't, that any
hurt I suffered in the process of trying to escape would be of my own doing. And it was difficult,
impossible really, but I forced myself back to stillness. My stomach
clenched tight as a rock inside me and my pulse deadening my ears and
every damn nerve in my body seeming to twitch and shiver at once. Like
an electrical charge gone wrong.
But then it all suddenly went right as his mouth moved down again and my
cock slipped in past those lips and deep, deep inside. Deeper than I
would have thought possible. His throat shivering around me. And then
just as quickly forcing me back out again, leaving just the head inside
at last. His lips compressing themselves to hold me there, even as his
tongue drove again and again into the most sensitive spot like a
sharpened blade.
And I myself crying out. As I realized the fatality of the attack, the
sheer mortality of skin and blood and breath.
The futility of dream versus reality.
As Fox Mulder went down on me, his head beginning to bob as he forced my
cock between teeth and lips and throat over and over, making it do what
he wanted it to do. Making it touch what he wanted touched. Making it
feel what he wanted it to feel. Half-biting, half-licking, swallowing
my length one moment and then nearly squeezing it out of existence the
next.
Using it. Using me. As if he wanted to destroy me, but couldn't quite
decide if he wanted to do it with pain or with pleasure.
And I might have come anyway, if he hadn't pulled back at the last and
took my balls in his other hand and squeezed them as well. Hard enough
to force a soft scream from me, to force another instinctive, though
half-hearted, attempt to push away from him.
"Shhh..." he whispered, the bastard. His hazel eyes were gleaming up at
me as his lips were gleaming. With spit and my own pre-come. And, as I
watched, he licked at it. Sucked it back into himself. As if he enjoyed that taste as well. Of what he had
taken from me.
And, as if that experience had sparked the thought of another, his eyes
narrowed and seemed to darken. All the golden-hazel highlights
disappearing little by little, like the stars being snuffed out.
"Turn over," he said, his voice also gone dark, low and threatening.
I stared back at him a long moment, feeling that stone inside me become
a rock, a fucking ice and snow-bound mountain, then down at where my wet
cock was still clutched in his hand. White fingers framing scarlet pain
and swollen pleasure.
Little toothmarks looking like a mottled ring just below the head. Like
I'd been playing with barbed wire.
But, God, I needed this. I didn't think I could go on for much longer
without this.
Even if it wasn't really what I wanted.
I dropped my eyes and felt him give my cock one last firm squeeze and
then let go. The mattress shifted and I knew he was kneeling back,
giving me room, and I rolled over as he'd told me to do. Forcing my
tender cock at a sharp angle between the rumpled sheets and my own
belly, giving it something else to think about but those hands and that
mouth. Making it ache even more.
I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted not to look. But I couldn't help
myself. I twisted my neck around and watched as Mulder finished
undressing. Moving methodically to remove his shoes and pants and
underwear. Black briefs, like something I would wear when I bothered to
wear any at all. His own cock springing free like a wild thing, long
and glistening at the tip. Just as I'd remembered it. Just as I'd
dreamed of it.
Only then remembering that it wasn't like in a dream and I didn't have
anythingnot a condom, not a single tube of KY or any other kind of oil. Just gun oil
and I definitely didn't want to go there.
Which meant that this was going to hurthurt badand, maybe, I did
want to go there. After all, I'd dreamt about that, too. Fantasized
about it. His gun behind my balls and his teeth in my shoulder and his
cock slamming me into tiny pieces, like a shattered mirror. Like the
tile around a cheap shower.
After all, blood was slick.
Blood was what I owed him. And I had promised him he could hurt me.
And, certainly, condoms and KY seemed far from his mind, because once he
was completely naked he simply knelt down again, yanked my jeans
completely off at last, and laid himself out on top of me. His
additional weight compressing my cock even more. He reached down and
grabbed my wrists and forced my arms upwards, then continued to hold
them as he bent and licked at the back of my neck. At the juncture of
my shoulder. Then bit down again, sharp enough that I knew he had
really drawn blood, this time. I jumped, even though part of me had
seemed to know it was coming.
He bit again, more gently this time, then drew back slightly and I heard
him whispering something, something I couldn't even begin to understand.
But I had to ask.
"Mulder?"
He lifted his head at my own whisper and looked me right in the eye.
And there was no more light left at all, as if the darkness had
swallowed it up entirely. Like the silvering of an old mirror, eaten
away entirely by time until it left no reflection at all anymore. Not
even my own.
"Krycek," he said and his tone gave nothing away.
I wanted to speak, but I couldn't. Not with him watching me like that.
Not with my own memories pinning me down.
I shook my head. "Nothing."
Mulder stared at me, long enough for a trickle of sweat to run down the
side of my face. For salt to burn the corner of my mouth. Then he
raised his hand and ran his forefinger down along the path it had just
taken, the tip ending up in the same spot. Angling for its own place in
my mouth.
I opened for it and he let me lick his finger, let me suck it inside as
he had sucked me inside. Until I could feel the nail pressing on the
upper part of my mouth. It was a little sharp, a bit ragged, as if he'd
been biting it lately and hadn't done a good job of it. The salt of his
skin had a different taste and texture to it, one that I belatedly
recognized; he'd been holding my cock, my balls, with that hand,
torturing them, trying to tame me with them.
I licked it off. Licked it clean. Curled my tongue comfortingly around
it, until he pulled it free with a restless gesture, something bright
shining in his eyes for a single moment before the dark put it out
again.
"Fuck," he breathed, anger abruptly tingeing his voice again. "Fuck
you, Krycek. How could you...you..."
"If you like," I replied, ignoring the second half entirely, what he
hadn't been able to complete. It wasn't as if I didn't know my own
sins.
His eyes grew even colder, even as his face was suffused with blood.
With something far beyond embarrassment or even propriety. Not that
Mulder had ever much cared for the latter.
"On your knees," he hissed. "On your face. I don't want to look at
you. I don't want you looking at me. You get that, Krycek? Or do you just want to go
ahead and leave right now? Run away like you ran away that night.
After you shot my father. After you tricked me into believing in you,
in him...Agent Krycek. A man who never really existed. Who never could
have existed. Isn't that right?"
Cold eyes and a burning icy voice and a hot cock laid across my upper
thigh, leaving a sticky path on my skin. The emptiness inside me
clambering for it, begging me not to care just what I had to give up to
get it. One last time, if never again.
"No," I said and turned my face away. "Yes. Just do it, Mulder. Just
go ahead. Fuck me. Fuck me."
Inside, some part of me was crying "fuck him..." but Mulder was right,
there never was a him. Agent Krycek as Mulder had known himas he had
wanted to know himhad been just one more lie. A game. A profile. A
policy.
No more real that I was anymore, if he'd ever been real at all. Simply
a ghost of a ghost, faltering around in the dark and making a fool of
himself on that dark rainy night in DC. Pretending drunkenness on cheap
whiskey and learning the true meaning of the word on the impossibly
perfect taste of Mulder's mouth.
Still, I shivered when I felt his hands close on me again. Rough and
unforgiving. As I moved as he dictated me to move, getting on my knees
and my face. Making myself just a body for him to fuck, though I
doubted, when you got right down to it, that he was really capable of
forgetting just who it was he was about to stick his cock into. Mulder
never forgot anything. At least, when left to his own devices.
I didn't envy him that talent.
His hands were cool on my flesh, or maybe I was running a slight fever.
I wondered if I felt hot to him. If he felt anything at all as he
touched me, running his fingers up my legs, along the inside of my
thighs. As he urged me to spread myself even wider.
And then I felt true heat as he reached beneath me and took my cock
again, closed his fist tight around it and began pumping it quickly,
firmly, fixedly. It wasn't gentle by any means, but the pleasure of it
scored and burnt me anyway. Made me moan softly into my unwashed
sheets. Because it was Mulder's hands, Mulder's breath on my back...and
the feel of his own cock bobbing against my leg with every stroke he
took me on. Making me weak in the knees, making my mouth water with
want and emptiness.
I hadn't lied. I needed him. I needed him inside me. Even if he found
it one more reason to hate me afterwards. But then I wouldn't have
minded dying like that. Imprisoned in his arms and having him fill me
up with his hurt. At least it was something. At least I wouldn't be
alone anymore.
As long as Mulder was there in the dark with me.
And then I could feel it coming, could feel my whole body tightening,
and Mulder must have felt it, too, because his hand slowed and stopped
and squeezed again. Holding me right around the root, holding me far
past the point of pain, and I couldn't help but flinch. My legs
quivering and my heart pounding so loud behind my eyes that I swear I
was on the verge of a true black-out this time.
"No," he said and his voice was absolutely calm, as normal as if he was
in some conference room back at the Hoover and not in a scuzzy room in
middle of Hong Kong, having it off with his most personal Judas. "No.
Not like that. Not that easy."
And I could have told him that it wasn't easythat I was dying here,
reallybut it was all I could do to go on breathing. My cock felt like
it was about to explode into tiny bits any second now and I was shaking apart inside with the effort of holding
still and black bitter sweat was dripping down into my eyes and I
couldn't see at all.
He was in control here and I had given him that control and now I had to
live with it, that's all. Or die with it, if it came to that.
We stayed like that for long moments, long enough for the urge to come
to slowly back off, for pain to return to the forefront, and then he
finally released me and leaned back. Cool air rushing in between us and
my knees giving out at the last, tumbling me down into the bedclothes.
I dug my hands down into the sheets and resisted the urge to curl up
right then and there. My cock throbbed and ached beneath me accusingly,
but I didn't try to touch it. Didn't dare comfort myself.
That wasn't what this was about. We had done that once and look how it
had turned out.
"Up," Mulder said then and still that voice was as cool, as controlled
as I'd ever heard it. It was almost the voice of a stranger.
But the fingers that probed me once I got back to my knees were anything
but strange. They were sure and certain and slid into me deeply as they
could gotwo fingers at once and then a third one even before I was
really ready for the first two. I knew the slickness on them was my own
and his and that made it seem oddly more wanton. Had made getting
jacked off by him even more an exercise in humiliation.
Not that I had much left to pretend humiliation at.
Not even the soft cry that escaped me as he finally pushed his cock up
against me and began to force his way inside.
I tried to relax for it, but it was pretty much a lost cause, especially
since something deep within me wanted the hurt and wanted it to be rape
and worse than that. Part of me wanted the pain that grew and grew as
he worked his way into me.
Still, I couldn't help the wince as something finally seemed to givea
sharp burning spasm making me swallow my next breath rather than cry out
againand then the head of his cock was inside and he wasn't hesitating
at all, not even giving me time to get used to it, before shoving
himself deeper. One hard blow after another, ramming that long cock of
his up as far as it could go. Driving it right into the back of my
throat.
As if trying to rip me apart.
And he felt huge inside me, hard as steel and as unforgiving. Nothing
of pleasure about it at all, especially as he pulled back again, almost
all the way out, and then slammed into me again. Holding himself there,
this time, as if he wanted me to feel every bit of him. Every inch of
his anger and his hatred and his hurt. Of the desire that he had so
wanted to hide and that I hadn't let him.
"Shit," he hissed and by the sound of it his teeth were clamped tight
shut and he was just barely hanging on himself. I felt his cock twitch
somewhere far inside me and, of all things, that was pleasurable. It
made me cry out softly again, moaning at the tickle and the sweet
intimacy of it.
And I felt myself relax a little and it didn't hurt quite as much
suddenly. Going with the feeling, I angled my hips up even higher and
that felt even better. Like something I might actually enjoy, rather
than just endure.
"Now," I said, spitting the word through my own teeth. "Now."
I wasn't sure Mulder was listening, let alone if he would listen to me,
but then I felt him shift as well, his weight shoving me further down
into the bed. His skin nearly as hot as mine now, sweaty and as slick as the cock still buried inside me. One arm
sliding down around my throat to pull my head back.
As he began a slow, steady grind in and out of menothing at all like
his earlier urgency, except for the sheer determination of it.
I found myself breathing in time to it, my eyes closed tightly, so
tightly that bright lights on the back of my eyelids contested with the
darkness. God, it was like nothing I'd imagined. It was so much more
real and solid and naked and I was so very aware of who it was who was
fucking me that I swear I could hear what he was thinking in that
moment, feel what he was feeling.
And I knew how good it was for him and how dreadful; that he could find
such pleasure in my body and yet be so very disturbed and disgusted by
it at the same time. By the realization of what he was doing, what he
so wanted to doto hold me and to touch me like this and, most of all,
to want to come inside me so bad that he thought he might otherwise die.
Not that I could help him to see past all those contradictions. Hell, I
was just as fucked when you got right down to it. Just as insane.
Wanting something I could never have and telling myself that it didn't
matter. None of it. Because the world was doomed anyway. Or I was.
Doomed and dead and yet writhing on the cusp of life and unbearable
pleasure, filled and emptied and filled yet again. Mulder's body
slapping and sliding against mine, his arm all but choking me now. Not that I could breathe anyway, at least
without completely losing what remained of my dignity and betraying
myself all over again. Without sobbing out my discomfort and my ecstasy
and begging him to ignore both and just fuck me, harder, faster,
rougher. To call me Alex again and mean it this time, really mean it.
And the heat was building once more inside me, my cock molten hot and
impossibly, painfully rigid at the same time, as each of Mulder's
thrusts sent an answering echo right through me. Like he was trying to
fuck my own come out of me. My hands dug down into the sheets, just
holding on as he rode and rode me, and I wanted his hands on my cock
again, but I knew I couldn't ask it. That I couldn't ask for any more
than what he was already giving me.
Even though the emptiness inside me cried out for more. Screamed that I
wanted him to know me, to acknowledge me, to make everything good and
right and possible again. To turn back time and have the world be as it
should have been, with me his true partner in all things. At work, at
home, in bed. Clasped together in the dark with all our limbs
entangled. All soft conversation and teasing in the morning over hot
coffee and danish and grumbling over the never-ending reports and
meetings that made up our days, and guarding each other's backs out
there from all the crazies who would seek to tear us apart. Not that
they ever could.
Only we could do that.
Only we...had.
And tears burned my eyes, or maybe it was just sweat, because Mulder had
pulled me back even tighter against him now and was angling up, pushing
in harder, and hitting just the spot. Hitting it dead on and with
everything he had until I knew he was coming and that I was coming and
that it was one and the same. My whole body convulsing around his cock
as heat poured into me and as heat poured out of me, assuming an
unbroken circuit. A moment I could never reclaim again.
Because I was the darkness and I was the night, and yet I was being
claimed by fire and by the feel of this man all around me, by the
sensation of that fierce cock so far inside me. Only Mulder's grip on
my throat keeping me from collapsing down into the mattress as he
frantically pulled out again and slammed back in, his cock leaping a
second time, releasing another brilliant ecstatic surge. And I was shaking in his arms, not
caring that I was blind, that these tiny sounds were coming out of my
mouth.
Little hiccups, like I'd been crying for hours or days or forever.
Forever...and those ten stories down had never looked so far and the
pavement below so damned welcoming. Hell, all my bones were already
shattered and battered and my life was spattered on the sheets in front
of mewhat was some more destruction in the face of that. What was a
little thing like insanity.
As somewhere, distantly, so far away that I could have almost thought
I'd imagined ithands moved to caress my still-swollen cock, traced
their way up along my ribs and shoulders and then finally moved to turn
me over. Holding my face between long fingers for the mouth that came
down to finish me off. A terribly sweet kiss. A pure and gentle one.
One that made no sense at all.
I didn't open my eyes and he kissed me again just as carefully, as if
expecting some miracle to happen any second now. But I could have told
him that miracles never happened. That fate was always cruel, and that
bad guys really did win in the end and that it was no use fighting at
all when you got right down to it.
Except that it was just as hard to give up.
And now Mulder was mumbling something, his face buried in my neck and
his hands stroking down my arms, but I couldn't hear what it was he was
saying. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what he was saying.
'Cause no good could come of it. Of any of this.
When he lifted his head again, I took his face between my own hands
before he could stop me. Before I had to look at his eyes and see if
the light had come back or if the dark had taken it forever. Kissing
him back hard, roughly, not letting there be anything of kindness or
gentleness about it.
Showing him the depth of his own illusions.
I tasted blood before I let him go again, shoving him off of me and
rolling away in one motion. Not letting myself care about his gasp of
mingled surprise and pain.
"Was it good for you too, Mulder? Was it everything you expected it to
be?" I asked. Before he could answer, I was already walking away from
him, heading for the windows for a momentthinking I needed some fresh
air, that I needed to look at that long dropand then forcing myself to
veer away. Instead I headed back over to my dresser to reclaim my gun.
Not that it had ever seemed to do me much good before.
Behind me, I sensed more than heard him get to his feet as well. Begin
to move towards me.
I picked up the weapon, but he still wasn't stopping. And, maybe, he
was right because I hadn't yet managed to shoot him. No matter how much
he might have deserved it. Or how it might have made my life less
complicated.
"Krycek..." he said. I felt his hand close on my shoulder
againasking, this time, not takingand couldn't help but stiffen at
that familiar touch. Still wanting it, but hating it as well right now.
Hating him for making me need what I could never have.
"Are you okay? I...I didn't hurt you, did I?"
So fucking soft. It made me want to knock him away from me, to slam him
into the nearest wall. It made me want to turn around and rip myself
wide open for him at the last and show him all the blackness and the rot
and the horror that he had just fucked. That he had just damn well
stuck his dick into.
But I did none of those things. Because I had the gun in my hand and
all the control again and still he didn't care. Wasn't backing away or
leaving me alone, but was sliding his hand down my arm now and asking me
again if I was all right in that same concerned voice and I wasn't, I
wasn't, but I could never tell him that.
I could never let him know how much this had hurt me.
Because if that one night in DC had been a simple mistake, then this was
a deliberate cruelty.
Mine. His. Ours. And he had to go before I did end up killing him or
I let him kill me, after all.
"Get out of here, Mulder," I said and my voice was soft as well. But
not kind. Not generous. Just soft and hollow and dangerous. I could
only hope Mulder knew how dangerous. "Go home. There's nothing for you
here."
His hand stilled on my arm, but didn't let go. "Krycek...Alex, look at
me." A wave of dizziness, of thankless joy, spun through me at the way
he said my name, but it was way too late after all and half a lifetime
short. Because the darkness ate that up too and then it was gone and I
was turning around as he'd asked me to, but with my gun between us. My
finger on the trigger and the cold gathering around me like a shroud.
"Satisfied?" I asked. I looked into his eyes, but I still couldn't see
them. I couldn't see anything but that dark alley and me sprawled out
in it like the prodigal son. Bleeding to death slowly and alone, always
so alone, and it didn't matter if it was Hong Kong or DC or some other
city rotting away under the stars. Ignorant of the terrors that moved
in the night sky above them, that had come to take them home.
What was even Fox Mulder to contend with that? He hadn't been able to
save me and he never could. Even if, right this moment, some misguided
impulse of his insisted that he should try.
This was my world and he didn't belong here.
"I will shoot you," I said coolly. Still, his hand didn't move away
until I'd actually cocked the gun. The sound sharply undercutting the
rasp of his breathing and my own.
But then I finally looked, really looked at him, and the expression on
his face was as bad as I'd thought it would be, his eyes looking right
at meright through meand they had gone completely flat, colorless
and cold.
As colorless as his voice.
"Like you shot my father? Like you shot Scully's sister?"
"If you say so."
It wasn't exactly a confession, but close enough of one to make me
nervous.
Mulder shook his head. "I wanted to believe you that night. I guess
that made it easy for you. But what I can't figure out is what you
wanted to believe. Why you lied to yourself then. Why you're lying
now."
I stared back at him; as usual, Mulder had cut right through all the
bullshit, every last bit of protective wall and coloration that I had
left in the world. I wish I could have hated him for it. But I didn't
want to give him even that much. Not right now. I just wanted him to
go.
"Maybe you only saw what you wanted to see, Mulder. Better than
realizing that you've been played for a fool. That they had your number
from day one. That I did."
Nothing showed in his eyes, but I knew that had hurt. It had meant to.
But his head was going up and his mouth was narrowing out and I knew
that he was about to hit me. So I shoved my gun into his stomach,
giving him good reason to reconsider.
"What?" I asked. "You actually thought I felt anything for you? You
thought that there was ever anything...ever could have been anything between us?" I shook
my head, somehow managing to keep both gun and voice steady. "Go home,
Mulder. You don't belong here."
I slowly backed away then until I hit the wall and simply stared at him
until he finally showed some of those brains for which he was so famous
for and turned away from me. He began gathering up his clothes and
getting dressed.
"I want that information, Krycek," he said, not looking at me.
"So does half the free world, Mulder. Get over it."
And then he was standing there, all put togetherhis fine suit slightly
rumpled and bits of his hair standing up and, no doubt, still smelling
of what we'd just done togetherand I knew this man. Far better, it
must be said, than the one who'd thought me capable of any kind of
redemption.
And here I was still entirely naked and holding a gun on him, with
something wet beginning to run down the inside of my leg now and the
feel of it threatening to undo me when the vicious look Mulder was
giving me could not.
I knew this man...but at least hatred I could deal with. It was the
other that I had severe problems with. Much as it really was the only
thing that might have saved me. Once upon a time.
Before I found out who really ran the world and what they were running
from.
What Mulder insisted on running towards.
"Forgive me if I don't see you out," I commented dryly. "I'm a little
underdressed right now."
His eyes flickered over me at thatas if he always had to see for
himselfand then his gaze pinned me again, looking so far inside me
that I felt stripped even more bare before it, was made nothing.
But I knew if he didn't what it was to be nothing, to feel nothing, to
have nothing.
"Give it up, Mulder," I said. "You can't beat these people. You'll
just get yourself killed."
"And you care why?"
I shrugged. "Consider it a friendly warning. A
favor. For services rendered."
That got his attention. His eyes turned even colder and he took a half
step towards me despite the gun. A hot flush spread over his cheeks and
his hands clenched.
"You're the one who's been bought and sold," he said roughly. "Don't
blame me if the price was cheap."
"Life is cheap, Mulder. Don't you know that?"
The flush was fading already, but that just left the cold. "Is that
your excuse? Or is that just what you want to believe?"
"What I want has never had anything to do with it."
"And whose fault is that?"
I almost laughed at that, except that I thought he might actually rush
the gun and I wasn't betting that I could shoot him. Not now, not ever.
In the end, I just leaned back against that wall as if I hadn't a worry
in the world and gestured towards the door.
"Just get out of here." Even to my ears it sounded tired. "Get out
before I forget why I shouldn't just shoot you in the head and walk
away." And it was my turn to hold his gaze, one long slow moment
dropping down after another, until I saw painful realization fill those
changeable eyes. The acknowledgment that what I had just said was as real a confession about what had happened
that night at his father's house as he might ever get.
"It's not over," he said then and he could have meant anything by that
or nothing at all. I didn't dare speculate and I didn't dare reply,
because he was moving at last. Turning away from me and heading for the
door, sending it crashing open before him and then slamming shut behind
him and he was gone somewhere between the two. Just like that. Easy
in, easy out.
Except that it wasn't that simple. Because it was sometime later that I
realized that I was indeed all alone and that I was lying there,
shivering and cold and curled up against the wall like I didn't have a
perfectly serviceable bed right over there. That I was still naked and
Mulder's come had dried on my inner leg some time ago and my gun was at
my mouth again. Just touching my lips as if politely begging entrance.
And I didn't know how much time had passed between one moment and the
next.
Though I'd realized one thing in the interim, at leastthat this place
couldn't possibly be hell, because hell would be somewhere.
Blood was trickling down my nose and he had a gun on memy own gun, at
thatand I was still shivering inside as if I'd never learned warmth at
all, not even with his own lingering inside me. It had happened so
fast, and yet it had seemed to take forever. To last a lifetime.
Having him grab me and spin me around and smash me in the face with a
convenient phone and then drive me up the same phonebank afterwards with
the weight of his own body. That was the quick part. The slow
partthat part that I never would have admitted to enjoying, especially
not to himwas having him pressed up against me again.
Feeling the erection that he would no doubt deny. That he might not
even be completely aware of.
Feeling my own and looking down into those eyes and seeing there only
the darkness that I feared I would someday find had claimed the last of
the lightand wanting, in that moment, for him to just finish the job.
To choke me or shoot me or whatever. To end it all before I dragged him
down to the same slow destruction that I was facing.
Because, though I was expendable, he was not.
So while he was hissing threats at me and familiar accusation, I was
begging for him to do just that. I let him hold me there and jam that
gun into my gut and simply pleaded for him to get on with it, to get it
over with.
But he didn't. Just like alwayshe couldn't.
I think I knew it before he did. Before he shoved me away from him and
I felt that blood on my face like the old friend it was and offered him
what he wanted most if it wasn't me. My life. My death. My...heart
and soul and hope.
I offered him that damn information, that damn tape, even though it was
the only advantage left to me. Not to save my life, like he seemed to
think. Not for him to let me go...but because he was drowning here as
much as I was and it was the only thing I had left to give that meant
anything to him.
And if he actually thought that it could save him, save any of us,
then...hell, why not? I didn't want it anymore. I couldn't stand it
anymore.
Being caught in the middle. Being more alive than dead and more dead
than alive.
Knowing the lies and knowing the truth and not knowing anything at all.
Not even why I didn't just walk away and let him shoot me as he ordered
me into the bathroom to clean up like some kid who'd gotten his nose
bloodied in a schoolyard tussle. How I could still listen to him and
want him so bad, when he should have been the last person on earth I
should go to or trust or, God forbid, want in my bed.
But my cock was so hard it actually hurt, and as I went into that still
room and began to wash off my face like he'd told me to do, I avoided
looking too closely at myself in the mirror over the sink. Too afraid
of what I might see. Afraid of the darkness in my own eyes and the
confusion and that increasingly bleak resignation.
My face hurt, too, but I was used to the bruises. To the taste of blood
and dust.
Because what other choice was there for me but to go back out there. To
go back to DC with Mulder and face the music. And end up dead for it.
For him. For that fucking tape that I hadn't even wanted in the first
place and should have never looked at, let alone let it steal away the last few pieces of my careless innocence.
Because when it came right down to it, we were all blind and lost and
lonely, weren't we? We were all wandering around this pitiful little
planet as if we really owned it, ignorant to the inevitable future and
careless of our memories.
Denying all those places where the truth came closest to the surface.
Like just how good a gun could taste in your mouth, when you couldn't
hardly eat anything else anymore. Denying the sweet soreness of your
body where the mute echo of another man's pleasure lingered, where his
pain remained. Claiming that the tears that must have belonged to
someone else because you never cried.
That you never whispered a name to an empty room and then let it carry
you away.
And you most certainly had never let him fuck you, since you never let
anyone fuck you.
Because you never let anyone in, did you?
You never told the truth if you could help it.
Not even to the man in the mirror. Who still wasn't looking back at me.
Who was avoiding my eyes even as I turned away from him and went over
to the closest urinal and unzipped my jeans in the vain hope of pissing
away my desire for the man waiting outside for me. Even more
deliberately not thinking of what it had felt like at the last to have
him kiss me that last time. To have him hold me so close.
And say my name like he really cared and actually knewdeep down and
bone sure as a man as spooky as him sure as hell knew what sure
wasthat when all else failed that I could be saved.
If only he and I...if only he...
She...? What? No...get away from me...get...no...
Oh God, the darkness hurts, Mulder.
Mulder, I'm sorry.
It hurts...no...it...please...
Fox...
|
FANDOM: X-Files
PAIRING: M/K RATING: NC-17 (cripes, so what else is new?) FEEDBACK: garnetgyre@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: I don't claim nothin', 'cept that they don't belong to me like official or nothin', but one can dream, all right? SUMMARY: What else happened when Mulder and Krycek met up in Hong Kong. 4th story in series. WARNINGS: Angst, oh God yes, angst. SPOILERS: Everything up through the Silo COMMENTS: 4 story in series that includes "Truth, Lies and In-between," "Duty," and "Guilty Pleasures" previously published in X-Plicit Fantasies 3, but canhopefullybe read all on its own. But just in case: In this series, Mulder & Krycek had a one night stand just after the events of "Sleepless" and Krycek later fantasizes about Mulder taking revenge for the murder of his father by surprising him and raping him in a motel bathroom. All else is taken from canon. This story previous published in X-Plicit Fantasies 4 (hi, JoAnn!) |
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