Mulder wishes he could be shocked at this, or even mildly surprised. He
needs to feel that emotion, to know that he has no culpability for Krycek's
hopeless admission, so he can keep his soul clean and pure. He knows,
though, that the knowledge of what binds them both has lain between them for
years. He knows also that forcing Krycek to admit his weakness doesn't make
Mulder any stronger. It makes him petty, and empty and a liar to his own
truths.
He laughs without humour. "Yeah, well, I need you too," he says, while he
stares at his own feet. Just because he has known all this time doesn't make
Krycek automatically so perceptive. A sharply indrawn breath is all he
hears, and he doesn't dare look up. "Sometimes, you don't get what you
want." Such a banal cliché , but none the less true for it.
"This is just another game to you, isn't it," Krycek says, in a high,
breathy voice that sounds as if he's been punched in the gut. "I'm just
another head to fuck around with." He sounds angry, but when Mulder looks up
he is still slumped on the bed, only a dull blush of red that has spread
across those sharp Slavic cheekbones and the white knuckles of his hand show
that he is experiencing any kind of strong emotion.
"Krycek, I'm sorry..." the admission is startled out of him, and he doesn't
get a chance to find out what he is apologising for, as Krycek explodes into
action, whirling up and off the bed to slam him against the wall, real arm
locked across his throat, body pressing him implacably back into the
plasterboard. His eyes blaze green fire; his white teeth gleam dully where
his upper lip has drawn back in an unconscious snarl.
"No, Mulder, you're not sorry. Sorry is knowing that you've sacrificed your
only chance at a career you've wanted ever since you can remember for a
woman who's already dead. Sorry is having your fucking arm hacked off with a
dull blade because you tried to do someone a favour and they kicked you in
the teeth. Sorry is waking up one day with nothing in the world but
your gun and your hatred and the blood on your hands and realising that
you are the bogeyman. Sorry? You wouldn't know sorry if it bit you on
the ass you selfish prick!" He is breathing hard, as if he's just run
all the way from the Hoover building, and Mulder can feel tiny flecks of
spittle on his jaw from the force of Krycek's delivery. Despite all his
anger, though, the arm at Mulder's throat has remains a fetter only, not
once coming close to cutting off his air. Gradually, Krycek's breathing
slows, and his body relaxes a little, until he is almost leaning on Mulder.
Mulder remains silent. There are no words to say—this is Krycek's
revelation. Slowly, as if against his will, Krycek's head slowly dips 'till
his forehead rests lightly on his own elbow, where it lies on Mulder's
shoulder. "I just want..." he says softly, hopelessly, trailing off into
silence.
Mulder brings up his right hand slowly, as if calming a spooked racehorse,
and touches it gently to Krycek's wasted shoulder. Krycek even allows the
contact for a millisecond. Then Mulder can almost physically feel Krycek
draw up his defences, barricade his emotions behind the cold assassin face
he wears so well, before he lifts his head and steps back. He seems
unsurprised by Mulder's silence.
"What I want, you can't give me," he states, and only a faint flicker of his
gaze, away and then back, reveals his uncertainty, the words that of a man
desperately trying to convince himself.
"What do you want?" Mulder asks, as gently as he thinks Krycek can bear.
The other man looks away. "I want to be in charge. I want to stop running. I
want to be safe." The deeper truth hovers between them.
Mulder knows that he is on a cusp, an edge, the precipice over a thousand
meter drop onto white water and jagged rock. He steps forward, raising his
hand again to rest feather-light on Krycek's jaw, and over the edge. "I
can't give you those," he says, allowing no false promises between them now.
His thumb rasps lightly along Krycek's stubbled jaw, in an unspoken offer of
what he can give, if only for a little while. He moves closer still,
and then Krycek breathes into him, swaying forward until they rest against
each other, each point of contact a fire on his skin.
"Then I'll take what I can get," Krycek whispers against the hollow of
Mulder's neck, lashes tickling Mulder's skin as his eyes close. Mulder
sighs, a long, slow exhalation, a physical exorcism, and rests his chin on
Krycek's shoulder. "Alex," he says, and then again, "Alex."
And then there is silence.
Fin
And then there is Silence
by Revenant
His single hand comes up to rake through his fine, dark hair and back,
leaving it in tousled, sweaty peaks that subside slowly. His eyes are the
deep, acrid green of dried limes when he finally raises his gaze to Mulder,
gleaming through a thick fringe of lashes. "Because I need you," he
says, bitterly, the ‘need' strained with the discomfort of a word that knows
it should be something else.
