A Touch of...
I wish I had my Bureau-approved overcoat again; actually, I wish
I had a few more of the Bureau-approved accessories I used to
enjoy. Like a car, a cell-phone, cash and a partner to guard my
back. Trinkets long gone, lost in the hurricane made of a
thousand decision-points, some known and some unnoticed.
So, a hundred small betrayals later, I am shivering and coughing
in the shadows of a doorway in old Alexandria, looking for one
man, trying not to be noticed by all the others. Its not so
difficult, actually, although it is a skill—the Art of Being
Overlooked. One simply makes no eye contact, slouches to
appear relaxed and fixes ones eyes on nothing in particular. It
is even easier if one is maimed, I discovered. No one wants to
see mutilation; even eyes trained to observe slide right past the
truncated and the ugly, yet retain no other impression of me. If
challenged, the twenty commuters who have passed me this
evening would possibly remember that they had seen a maimed
man, yet would not be able to describe me beyond that one fact.
Its useful to me, this missing arm. Perhaps I should have had
one cut off long ago. But, no.
He comes. I track him from two blocks away, walking
bareheaded in the rain. The uncertain orangeish streetlights
make him appear particularly grim and I wonder if he has come
here to kill me tonight. No, I reassure myself, as he crosses the
street, he promised me amnesty for the information. Amnesty
and money, two things in short supply right now. I gaze along
his backtrail but see no watchers, no tails.
How do I know I can trust him? He asked me that, on the phone
earlier.
—"How do I know? Simple, Mulder. You gave your word.
There was no sound from the receiver, but I could almost see
that small smile on his face, the one that says another secret,
another small vanity has been uncovered. Fox Mulder, Man of
Honor.
-Honor—its a weakness, Mulder. Lose it, I want to say. But not
tonight, not while I still need you. Not while I can take some kind
of parched comfort in the fact that you will not betray a betrayer.
—"Its a simple deal Im offering. The name of the assassin who
shot the Morley man for $1,000 cash.
He was silent for a long time after that. I wondered if he were
having the call traced. It wouldnt matter; I was in a phone booth
right outside the Pentagon City subway station. I would be gone
as soon as I hung up the phone.
—"Why so little? he finally asked, surprising me.—My needs are
few, Mulder. I just need enough to give me some breathing
room.
I just need to see you, I think, then curse myself. I do have
more information that hed like, information hed pay dearly for.
But I wont sell it, not yet, not unless I need to. Need.
I am coughing again as he comes up to me, in that doorway
outside the closed bookstore.
—"Krycek. Nasty cough youve got there. You ought to stop
smoking.
I am finally able to stop, my lungs aching in the knife-cold night
air.
—"Oh, I have Mulder, I have. I dont even talk to Smokers any
more.
He peers into my face, trapping my eyes, a searching look that I
cannot escape even as it burns me. Dont bother, Mulder. Just
beneath the surface of the mud, theres more mud here.
Surprise.
Avidity—greed, thats always been my problem. More, I always
wanted more. More money, more power, more of all that makes
life sweet. And more of Mulder. There were plenty of other
peoples secrets I could have turned into cash on a rainy night in
D.C., but I needed to see him. To look into his shadowed eyes,
as I am doing now, trying to see into him. Its greed, I know it.
Because, beneath Mulders surface, there is something that
gleams. And I want it.
—"Better for your health, he agrees gravely. I cough again, those
deep barking coughs that kept me from sleeping last night in the
bus station.
There is almost concern in his voice as he says,
- You really are sick, arent you?
—"Just a touch of flu, Mulder. Now—do we have a deal?
—"Youre shivering.
—"Im standing in the rain and freezing, Mulder, what do you
expect? Do we have a deal?
—"Did you kill my father?
Oh god, not again. How many times must we play out this
scene, Mulder? I decide on a sure-fire tactic and say,
—"Speaking of fathers... do you want to know who shot your
smoking friend?
He grabs my shoulders and slams me into the brick wall under
the bookstores blank windows. I start to grin, but the coughing
rips my attention away from anything but the fire in my lungs.
His hands shift on me, the left one biting into my upper arm, the
right one left gripping only air.
There is a noise that is twisted out of him when he realizes that
there is nothing to grab there any more. I hear it in between my
choking coughs; it is a soft, wounded noise, like an animal out
here in the rain.
—"Spare me, Mulder, I gasp, doubled up nearly against his chest.
- I dont need your pity.
—"What happened?
—"Youre a clever boy, Mulder, figure it out. Or should I show you
my passport? Theyre mighty unfriendly in that part of the
former Soviet Union.
He is still holding my arm and gripping my empty sleeve. I am
still hunched over, trying to force enough air back into my lungs
to help me think again.
It wont work, I think dismally, as I straighten slowly. I am too
sick, too tired, too cold and too greedy to think tactically any
more. All I can think of is what I need.
My fingers scrabble in my coat pocket. I hold out the folded slip
of paper.
—"Here. Thats what you came for.
—"What did you come for, Krycek?
The words are soft but the eyes are not. Uh oh. I am in real
trouble here. As long as he was angry, as long as he was ready
to hit me, I knew what he would do and could control it. But
now...
—"Money, Mulder. I came for money.
His lips curve in a not-smile and he hands me an envelope, thick
with bills. I dont count it, just stuff it in my pocket.
—"Youre not going to count it?
—"No reason, I shrug. He is standing directly in front of me, his
presence pinning me to the bricks still, although he doesnt lay a
hand on me.
—"What will you do now?
—"Find somewhere to hole up, get over the flu and then...
—"Then? he prompts
—"Do what I do best. Survive.
—"You do seem unusually good at that, he acknowledges.
—"Not wholly, I shrug, jerking my chin at my missing left arm.
He grimaces at the unintentional pun, then slowly stares into my
eyes. I feel my fever sweep across me again, and with it, fear. I
can see his mind working, tearing away at the questions of why I
am here, why I came to him, what other information I might have
for sale. His eyes are clear and cold in the rain-shadow of the
bookstore and I want to be very far away when he begins to find
his answers.
Need and Wanting are weaknesses, too, even more so than
Honor. It is our weaknesses that have drawn us together
tonight. I start to cough again and shiver.
When I am done with this bout, I lean my head back against the
bricks and take deep, slow breaths that slice through my lungs.
When I open my eyes, he pins me to the wall with his gaze. I
see something dangerous flicker through his eyes and raise one
arm to ward off a blow. Which does not come.
Steam rises from his rain-soaked hand as he gently touches my
forehead with the backs of his fingers.
—"You've got a fever. I nod dumbly.
His fingers slip down and now his long, elegant hand is cupping
my face. I cant help it, I lean into it, just a fraction. That
seductive warmth, the only warmth, it seems, in this whole cold,
rainy night.
—"You should come out of the cold, Krycek.
His thumb traces across my lips, once. I shiver and he smiles.
It is not a nice smile.
I close my eyes, unable to bear the cool speculation in his eyes,
the glow of cold pleasure in a theory proved right, an answer
found. When I open my eyes, the street is empty; he is gone.
And I am so cold.
No Common Senses I
by JiM
Rain again. It is always wet in D.C. Either its hot and muggy,
or its cold and raining. Tonight, its cold and rainy—a nice
atmospheric touch, I think. I would probably enjoy it more if I
werent standing here with a cold and freezing in soaked leather.
