Krycek resented the man's endless festival of sleep deprivation. It
had the unearthly feel of a holy man waiting for his spirit guide, like
Mulder feared sleep might rob him of a vision, render him
something less than a man.
In the car, Krycek was near to having visions of his own. The slow
heat was making him drowsy and life had started to feel shifty and
stretched out like a postmodern indie film that never seemed to end.
It had actually surprised Krycek to see Mulder doing something as
ordinary as laundry. A real martyr wouldn't wash his hair shirt, but
Mulder was a product of his time. Salon hair, porn videos, and a
couple of beers on the weekend. Just a regular guy, except in the
gritty laundromat he looked anything but.
Sitting in a hideous plastic chair, he was reading a book and looking
like the reason God created man. The harsh overhead lighting was
kind to him in ways it never was for others, kissing the angles of his
face until even the subtle motion of his blink seemed so precise it
made you hold your breath with wonder.
His white t-shirt was bright and clean and set him apart from the
dirt and shrug of this dangerously poor part of town. The faded
jeans were probably too tight for an ankle holster, but Mulder had
an attachment to his gun that even Freud couldn't fault. Krycek
knew it couldn't be too far away, hidden under the pile of gleaming
whites, maybe.
Krycek rolled down the window. The car smelled of gun oil and
oranges, and the night heat mixed it into a greasy sweetness that
would turn into a headache soon.
Across the street, Mulder had stood to pull quarters from his
pocket. The white painted letters spelled out LAUNDROMAT on
the window and the pink-neon OPEN blotted out his face like a
lipstick kiss on a mirror. He looked like the one that got away.
"Keep an eye on Mulder," the old man had said, as if it were that
simple, as if keeping an eye on Mulder wouldn't induce blindness or
insanity, as if Mulder ever stayed put long enough to be watched.
Tonight, though, it wasn't Mulder's whim that led him to do laundry
during the capital's witching hour. He was supposed to be meeting
an informant, and the men Krycek worked for were quite eager to
learn this man's identity. There was a leak in their organization and
Mulder appeared to be getting most of the runoff.
Krycek glanced at his watch. It was one in the morning. The old
men were probably long asleep by now, tucked into bed with their
scotch and their tiny Berettas. Krycek wanted to go home too. He
needed his beauty sleep if he was going to keep up with Mulder.
The man was like one of those wind-up toys that marched until it
ran into a wall and then just kept banging up against it stubbornly.
Given enough time, Mulder would wear down the plaster and walk
right through. It was why he was so dangerous. He was arrogant
and willful and never for a moment did it cross his mind that he
might be wrong about the nature of the universe. To Fox Mulder,
the way he saw things was the way they were.
Krycek knew better. It was his job to hold Mulder's world in place,
to make sure he never saw behind the curtain.
The radio was on low and Krycek settled back in his seat. This was
his job. His job to watch Mulder move under the sickly lights, carry
wet laundry, sit just so and turn the pages of his book.
Laundry
by Punk Maneuverability
It was midnight and Mulder was doing laundry.
