Absolution: Act One
To be or not to be, CIA, KGB or FBI, good guy bad guy, friend or foe. Alex
Krycek razored off the last flecks of soap from his jaw then rinsed and
dried his face without meeting his own eye in the mirror. He threw down the
towel and went back out to the bedroom, combing his fingers through his
hair, enjoying the feel of the clean damp strands before he had to clog them
up again with hair oil. He opened one side of the closet, the mirror inside
the door casting an unkind reflection of his bare torso. He grimaced,
discontent at the sight of the spare twenty five pounds he'd put on to help
along the resemblance between himself and Ishmar Arntzen. He'd been
carrying
the extra weight for almost two years now, and he wondered how hard it was
going to be to get rid of it again when he finally got the chance.
His hand went over the row of hangers on the right side of the closet, over
shiny suit shoulders, coarse cheap fabric, dark blue, gray, a particularly
offensive muddy brown. Pointlessly his other hand strayed into the left side
of the closet, stroked down the sleeve of a dark pine gray jacket of fine
wool. Even with the extra weight he was carrying the sleek tailoring of that
suit slimmed and smoothed his shape, and he enjoyed the soft limp feel of
the cloth. Ruefully he took his hand back, and took out the mid gray suit
from the right of the closet instead.
There were a pile of stiff overstarched white shirts folded on the top
shelf, and he took one down, ignoring the other softer more expensive ones
on the opposite side, pale tints of green and blue and ivory. All his ties
were on the one rack inside the closet door, cheap synthetic red and blue
and stripe mixed indiscriminately together with silk in tones of green and
teal and mahogany. His hand hovered, as if he was in a position to choose
according to taste, but he wasn't, and he pulled the red one free.
He dressed quickly, his mood turning blacker as he pulled on the
uncomfortable unflattering clothes. He took up one wristwatch from the
dresser, leaving behind the older more tasteful one his parents had given
him as a birthday gift the year he left highschool. He pulled open a drawer
and took out a waistholster, switching his gun from the shoulderholster he
preferred to use. Quantico issued waistholsters: the habit of using the
shoulder rig had been formed at Langley. He clipped the holster to the
backof his belt, then before he put on his jacket he went through the
revolting ritual of oiling his hair and combing it back from his forehead.
Krycek had never considered himself vain, though he was realistic enough to
know that his passage through life had certainly not been made any rockier
by his physical appearance, and he had strong likes and dislikes when it
came to clothes. But it was only now, after two years of being saddled with
this humiliating persona, that he understood just how much he had taken
appreciative glances and flattering attentions as his due.
He had protested at the necessity for the charade, but Dubretsky had pulled
him up short, reminding him that he wasn't meant to be an American, he was
supposed to be a KGB Captain pretending to be an American. And as
Dubretsky
said with a good humored gleam in his eye, good taste was a concept alien to
the KGB. "And besides," he had added, "if you're smart you'll let this work
for you. Alex, you're young dumb and you know squat about anything. In this
get up the Smoker may take you for a dumb Russkie, instead of a dumb CIA
agent."
Krycek pulled on his jacket, noticing that it seemed even baggier and more
shapeless than ever. He smiled humorlessly. Looked like the problem wasn't
going to be dropping the twenty five pounds, it was going to be holding onto
them much longer. He made a mental note to up the sugar level in his coffee
again.
It was early enough for the highway to be almost clear, and Krycek was able
to drive with only half his attention on the traffic and the rest rerunning
the events of the previous night, and trying to second guess what the day
would bring. One thing was for sure, the game was moving into a new phase.
His ten months in the FBI had been a bonus. There was no doubt his career
was taking some unexpected turns: after starting out as a translator with
the CIA he had found himself drawn into the unlikely operations of Christian
Dubretsky's department and had finally fetched up in the VCU at the Bureau.
But the experienced agent he'd been partnered with had taught him more in
those ten months than all his endless years of education at school and
college and Langley and then Quantico.
Now his partner was stuck in the hospital with a plate and six pins in his
leg after being the victim of a hit and run accident. Krycek expected to be
assigned somewhere else for the duration: as a ten month rookie he had no
hope of being let fly solo. But the assignment never turned up: he cooled
his heels tying up the case they had been working on and waited for the
Bureau to remember he existed. Then the Smoker called summoning him to a
meeting and offering ice cold condolences on his partner's misfortune; and
Krycek knew the accident was no accident.
They met in a room of the Hyatt Regency a little after one in the morning.
The TV was on, spewing out some meaningless made in Hong Kong thriller,
and
the table was littered with cigarette packs and torn cellophane and three
ashtrays in various states of overflow. There was a handgun and a thin
manilla folder among the mess.
"Comrade Arntzen." The greeting was venomously sweet and mixed with
tarry
smoke. Krycek felt a cool wave of nausea well up inside and hid it as he had
learned to do by dropping his eyes, his long black lashes veiling his
expression in an insincere show of humility.
"Sir."
"I have an errand for you Comrade." The Smoker passed the folder to
Krycek,
who flicked it open to reveal several poor quality photocopies with the seal
of the NYPD at the top of each sheet.
"What is this?" He could see perfectly well what it was, copies of an
incident report regarding a false fire alarm call and the death of a man
from cardiac arrest. But he'd been tutored to ask pretty pointless
questions, on the principle that an irrelevant question frequently begets a
relevant answer. Plus it helped to re enforce the Smoker's conviction that
Krycek was incapable of thinking for himself.
"It's your errand. First thing this morning you will go to your ASAC and
submit a 302 to investigate Doctor Grissom's death."
"I don't have a partner, they're not going to give me a case assignment on
my own." The impossibility of the idea sharpened Krycek's tone, lifted it
above his usual husky tenor.
"No? You'd be surprised what can happen when you have influential friends Š
Captain Arntzen."
Krycek swallowed down anything further he had to say, the corners of his
mouth tensing into small creases as he forcibly held in his anger. He'd give
a lot to tell this creep that 'Captain Arntzen' had had a bad trip to the
States two years previously, and that the guy in the cheap suit was a CIA
agent and you're under arrest for treason asshole. But he didn't.
"Then what?" He kept almost all of the disgust out of his voice.
"When your 302 comes back to you, as well as having your ASAC's approval,
it
will have a note from Assistant Director Skinner attached, to the effect
that one Special Agent Fox Mulder requested the same assignment shortly
after you did, and in view of your unfortunate solitary status, and given
that Agent Mulder is a considerably more experienced agent than you are,
Assistant Director Skinner will suggest that you take a lead from Agent
Mulder on the case."
"But if they've given me a case number..."
"They can't reassign it, not without good cause. You will share this case
with Agent Mulder. Don't let him take it away from you though. I expect you
to stay with him, work with him, watch what he does."
"That's all: just watch him," Krycek said, clearly sceptical.
"For now. Don't worry, I don't want you to do anything wrong." The slack
lined face hitched itself up into the horrible semblance of a smile. "On the
contrary, I'd like you and Agent Mulder to get to be friends. The best of
friends." The snake slither of that voice made Krycek shiver, ice
trickling down his spine. His gaze snagged on yellowed fingertips delicately
rolling a half smoked cigarette back and forth, a slow caressing motion that
made his stomach lift and press at the back of his throat.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He dragged the words out, despite the
weight
of his certainty flattening his tone to something dry and dead.
"Mean? Why it means whatever you want it to Mister Arntzen. You don't have
a
girlfriend do you?"
"No." Jesus, my life is complicated enough right now without that. The last
time I went this long without a date was before I hit puberty.
"Well, that's odd, a personable young man like yourself." Krycek wondered if
that was sarcasm or a bad eye for detail. "Neither does Agent Mulder. And
Lord knows I've had him introduced to a very suitable girl."
Krycek tried to think of something to say, but every possibility included
the words 'CIA' and 'fuck you', so he stayed quiet and kept his eyes down.
The Smoker lost interest in baiting him and dismissed him, saying only:
"Remember, first thing this morning. Agent Mulder will receive his tip off
on the case before nine, so be sure you have a head start."
As soon as he left the Regency, Krycek called Dubretsky and told him what
had happened. Dubretsky told him to come straight back out to the office,
he'd make some calls and see if he could find out something about this Fox
Mulder who had been unfortunate enough to catch the Smoker's attention.
Christian Dubretsky's standing joke was that his office kept the same hours
as a convenience store, and the average age of the staff was about the
same
too. Krycek wasn't that surprised to arrive there at just before two in the
morning and find it lit and occupied by Davis and Brenton. After his walk
through the largely deserted night time corridors of the Pentagon, there was
something almost welcoming about the bright busy clutter of the office.
"Krycek. Your mail is backing up." Brenton gestured with his pen to the desk
nearest the door, where a pile of envelopes and paper slips had collected in
the in tray. Krycek took them up, flicking through them, throwing some back
into the tray, dropping some into the garbage.
"Nothing important. I'll come in over the weekend and clear it. Jesus, paper
here, paper in the Bureau. Democracy is a plot by the paper manufacturers."
"Nice suit." Davis looked up from his files and acknowledged Krycek's
presence for the first time.
"Screw you."
"Not in front of the Baptist."
Dubretsky came in just in time to see Brenton explode into red faced
laughter.
"Gentlemen. Glad to see we're all so full of energy at this unsociable hour.
Alex, welcome back to the right side of the river. Let's get to it, we only
have about six hours before Alex has to be with his ASAC."
They gathered round, pulling their chairs in close to Dubretsky's desk,
Krycek slipping off his jacket and loosening his tie, the other men already
all in rolled shirtsleeves: Dubretsky's arms all sinew and scars, Davis's
heavily muscled and lightly tanned, Brenton's fair and lightly freckled. A
coffee jug made the rounds of the table, and Krycek fished a candy bar from
his inside pocket. He ate it with evident reluctance.
"It seems our perfectly nice counter espionage operation has just taken an
unexpected turn. Special Agent Fox Mulder is already known to our superior.
I'm not in position to give you much detail on this, but I can say that it's
in connection with a matter of national security." Dubretsky looked up from
his notes in time to savor the sharp glances of anticipation that crossed
and recrossed between the young men around the desk. The more trouble
they
thought they were in, the happier they were.
"Three years ago Mister Mulder managed to get grudging permission to look
into some otherwise deadended cases in the Bureau's files. A lot of them are
frankly garbage: vampires werewolves and foxfire spirits." Brenton and Davis
met and then avoided each other's gaze. Dubretsky's sly humor was
legendary,
and it was impossible to tell if he was serious or not right now. But Krycek
lifted his head, recognition dawning in his eyes. That Mulder? Spooky
Mulder? He'd heard stuff at Quantico, but had always assumed the stories
were apocryphal. A warning to those showing tendencies towards...
unorthodoxy.
"But some of them are the remains of breaches of security around highly
classified military and scientific projects. And Mister Mulder seems to have
an unerring instinct for going where he has no business being. Well, after a
couple of years he'd evidently caused enough trouble that Mister Arntzen's
employer," this with a humorous glance at Krycek, "felt that Mister Mulder
needed something to distract him from his so called 'X' files."
"The suitable girl?" Ventured Krycek.
"Suitable for what, is the question. Agent Dana Scully was assigned to, I
quote, 'de bunk' Mister Mulder's work."
"Close him down." This from Davis.
"Yes. But at the time of the assignment, Mister Mulder had four years
experience as an FBI agent, all of it in the field. He's three years older
than Miss Scully, he has connections in Congress, his father has connections
in the State Department, and he has the undoubted advantage of being a man
in a federal agency.
Miss Scully by contrast had spent less than two years in the FBI as a
forensics instructor at the Academy. No field experience whatsoever. She
was
a young inexperienced girl trying to make her way in a man's world. She was
the junior agent, yet she was expected to evaluate and report on his
activities. Add to that the fact that Mister Mulder is known to be volatile,
obsessive and unorthodox in his working methods. Any one see a problem on
the horizon?"
General low level laughter around the table.
"So what way did it pan out? They get married or murder each other?" Asked
Davis.
"Well they didn't get married, the Smoker was implying I was right up
Mulder's alley, if you get my drift," Krycek said sourly.
"And they didn't murder each other either." Dubretsky was smiling slightly,
just enough to deepen the creases around his eyes and brighten his glance.
"They did the unexpected: they succeeded in working together. And they
must
have been moving closer to something the Smoker wants kept covered. Eight
weeks ago Mister Mulder was taken hostage by an unnamed security agency."
Dubretsky hesitated, saw three pairs of pleading eyes fixed on him: teal
green, amber brown, dark blue. He smiled wider, snicked out a short laugh.
"The NSA."
"Ha. Goddamn housekeepers." Davis voiced the general distaste. Dubretsky
made no comment, but went on with his explanations.
"There was a trade of evidence, something went wrong and a member of the
Secret Service was killed. Someone on about my rung of the ladder
gentlemen,
I hope you take that to heart. You playboys get out of hand and it's old
soldiers like me who end up under the shady pines.
Anyhow, that gave them enough to close Mulder down and bust him right back
down to bank fraud and social security swindles. Miss Scully is back in the
cloistered sanctuary of the Academy with a bunch of dead guys."
"End of story?" Krycek knew it couldn't be.
"Far from it. Mulder has managed to get himself into hot water even without
his X files. An unscheduled vacation in Puerto Rico for a start. With Miss
Scully in attendance."
"I thought you said they didn't work together anymore?" Krycek was sure
he'd
been paying attention.
"They don't, she went on her own initiative."
"So they are involved," Davis smiled, with the air of having made a great
discovery.
"Maybe. Maybe, God forbid, they are that rarest of all things, a man and a
woman who are friends, good friends, and would take a risk for each other."
Dubretsky caught the raised eyebrows and curled lips around the table.
"Stranger things, gentlemen, just because none of us have been blessed
doesn't mean it's outside the realms of extreme possibility."
"Seems more likely she's well aware of the Smoker's agenda and is playing
along, helping Mulder dig himself in deep enough for the Bureau to kick his
ass clean over the bleachers." Krycek knew that his own convoluted life
tended to make him suspect everyone of having motives within motives.
"But why didn't she just recommend that he be closed down like she was
meant
to?" Davis found himself defending the unknown Miss Scully with unexpected
interest.
"I don't know." Krycek shrugged, then tried theories on for size. "Say she
had, he would have had a good chance of overthrowing that recommendation
at
a hearing. Like the boss says, she's young, she's inexperienced, he could
appeal her decision and win no problem. The Bureau's all about seniority,
believe me, as the low guy on the totem pole I know all about it. Maybe they
don't just want him out of the... what was it? X files? Maybe they want him
out of the Bureau and she's to make sure he gets into enough trouble to let
them do that. Maybe she's playing a long game. Maybe she's counting on being
Mrs Mulder. I don't know."
"Whatever." Dubretsky hadn't enough time for the certainties, let alone the
possibilities. "One thing we can be sure of, Arntzen's assignment to Mister
Mulder is not intended to improve Mister Mulder's quality of life. It has
been strenuously underlined to me by our superior that Mister Mulder should
be allowed to go where he will and do what he will, given that other
agencies will be attempting to curtail his activities. Our job is to make
sure he's still in a condition to get into trouble. And that means
preserving Alex's cover too. If we're forced to pull Alex they'll put
someone else with Mulder. Someone not on our side."
"The Smoker seemed pretty sure about how Assistant Director Skinner is
going
to jump. Do you think he's..." Krycek trailed off, and everyone waited for
Dubretsky's reaction. It was one thing to know that the Smoker had strings
on one or more FBI agents, but the thought that he might have an Assistant
Director in his pocket was chilling.
"The AD is under pressure from the Bureau regarding his handling of Agent
Mulder. There's just no way of knowing how much he's being pushed, how
much
he's being led, how much he's going willingly. All we can do is wait and
watch and hope things become clearer." Dubretsky's matter of fact attitude
reassured the others. "Alex I think you should go home and get a few hours
rest. We'll stay here and see what else we can dig up for you."
"Thank you sir." Krycek took up his jacket.
"I'll walk out with you, I could do with the air." Dubretsky casually pushed
away from the desk and the two men went out together. Dubretsky waited
till
they were in the entry hall before he said what was on his mind.
"Alex, there's one more point I think we should consider."
Krycek waited.
"You said the Smoker implied that Mister Mulder is a homosexual."
Krycek felt his cheeks grow hot. He was far from prudish by nature, but
Dubretsky preserved such an aura of cool virtue that the very word 'sex'
coming out of his mouth was almost unimaginable.
"Yes."
"You think he expects you to seduce Mulder?"
"Maybe not 'expects'. I think he's hoping. Maybe I'm supposed to finish the
job Miss Scully neglected to start."
"It would make sense given his choice of partners for Mulder. An
inexperienced attractive young woman. And when that didn't work..."
"An inexperienced..." Krycek let the rest of the sentence trail away, but
his mouth curved in a very slight smile.
"... attractive young man." Dubretsky finished for him.
"Are you hitting on me sir?" Krycek's voice was husky with suppressed
laughter.
"You're not my type, I'm too old fashioned for all this bisexual stuff."
Dubretsky was smiling too, bright eyed. "So what's going to happen? Can you
deal with it?" Dubretsky's pale hazel eyes turned from shining and amused to
razor sharp. Krycek stood still and silent for a moment, thinking it over.
Dubretsky watched, wondering if the hesitation was over the truth, or over
the wisdom of telling him. "I'm aware that Davis is one," he volunteered,
intending to indicate that no matter what Krycek's answer was, Dubretsky
wasn't going to think less of him.
"Did you work that out all by yourself sir?" Krycek lost the serious set to
his mouth again.
"Yeah, I was pretty proud of myself." Joking. Lying too. Davis had
volunteered the fact when Dubretsky had first approached him with a view to
recruiting him. It would never have occurred to Dubretsky to ask. He saw a
clear distinct line between useable information and pointless scandal. It
wasn't even useful as material for blackmail. Why resort to discussing a
man's sexuality when he could be held accountable for over three dozen
assassinations? "You want me to try and guess about you?"
"No, I'd be afraid you'd strain a sensibility. I've... em..." Krycek
folded his arms, suddenly engrossed in the appearance of the floor. "I've
been with guys, girls, whatever. If someone's attractive I don't really
think their gender is an issue. But... I've never even seen this guy, and
besides, it's one thing having sex with someone 'cos you want to, it's
another doing it for... well, I swore to serve and defend, I just didn't
think sex was included in the deal." He looked up again, met Dubretsky's
gentle gaze. "I don't know sir. I'm going to do what it takes, and I hope I
can do whatever it takes, but right now, I don't know."
"That's fair enough Alex, I can't ask for more than that. Go home and get
some rest, things are going to get tougher from here on in."
"Goodnight sir."
Krycek figured the ASAC must have been forewarned: he took the 302 from
Krycek without comment, though the incident of a rookie agent turning up
first thing in the morning with a request for a solo case assignment should
have been worth some reaction.
The 302 arrived back signed off by the ASAC and clipped to a numbered case
folder with another 302 pinned into the front, this one filled out by Agent
Mulder and signed off by AD Skinner. And sure enough there was a note in
the
AD's aggressive scrawl to the effect that as Agent Krycek's 302 was filed
almost two hours before Agent Mulder's, and signed off on while Skinner had
still been considering Agent Mulder's application, he suggested that Agent
Krycek consult with Agent Mulder on the handling of the case.
Krycek flipped open the folder and started rifling through the contents. He
located the name of the investigating police detective and reached for his
phone. He wanted to get the facts straight, then he'd go and find Mulder.
"I'm looking for Agent Mulder?" Krycek stuck his head round a partition
and spoke to the two agents in deep conversation at the desk.
"Eh, no, sorry. Don't know him."
"Thanks." Krycek turned away, scanned over the open plan cattle market of
the bull pen. Maybe the guy didn't exist, maybe the Smoker just made him up.
That was the third time he'd asked about Mulder to be met with blank
ignorance. Whoever the guy was, he wasn't Mister Popularity. He walked a
little way between two more desks and scanned around looking for someone
who
looked really unsocial.
"You okay kid?" A passing agent took pity on Krycek's evident confusion.
"Yeah, I'm looking for an Agent Mulder?"
"Way the heck over there, right beside that black partition, see it?"
"Yeah, thanks very much."
"Just watch your ass, the guy's a spook."
Krycek resisted the urge to answer that: no, despite the nickname, he's a
fed, I'm the spook.
He threaded his way down the side of the office, making out a bowed head
with a pair of earphones on. He came to a halt a few yards from the desk,
lifting his chin, squaring his shoulders. Get this right, he silently
admonished himself. This guy doesn't know it but he's in danger. And the
Company and Dubretsky and the whole shebang are trying to keep him alive,
but I'm the point man. Right now it all rests on me.
Having thoroughly scared himself, Krycek tried to find the right words to
say, to fit himself into the fine mesh of intrigue and deceit that was
weaving itself around Agent Mulder. He watched the other man typing
industriously, then stopping the tape machine.
Ah to heck with it, I'll open my mouth and see what comes out, he thought.
He drew breath, but Mulder had turned on the tape again and Krycek
swallowed
the non existent introduction. He waited another second, glancing at passing
agents and getting edgier and antsier all the time.
Mulder was a million miles away, listening to Desiree give Johnny the ennth
degree about not turning up for their date. Given that they had spent almost
an hour on the phone settling the time terms and price, Mulder was almost as
peeved as Desiree by the no show.
The abiding interest of the criminal classes isn't money, it's sex, Mulder
told himself, wondering if he should go for a fully phonetic spelling in his
transcript, to keep the flavor of the dialogue. I'm definitely missing out.
"You comin' ovah or what? You said you was coming ovah two hours ago, an'
I'm waitin' heeya like some stoopid bimbo who ain't got nuthin' bedda to do
wid my time than just sit around and wait for someone like you..."
"Agent Mulder."
His name laced across Desiree's complaints, and Mulder lifted his head,
pulling off the earphones at the same time.
Well, if I have to screw him I guess I won't actually throw up or anything,
thought Krycek.
Oh wow, thought Mulder, where the hell did you appear from? For one
entire
second his instincts got completely away from his intellect and enjoyed
themselves eating up the almost unnaturally rich blue green shade of the
guy's eyes and the dark delicate arch of his eyebrows and the careful shape
of his mouth, engineered to within microns of perfection.
Then his brain caught up with his artistic sensibilities and clubbed them
pretty well unconscious. Bad suit, worse tie, really worse hair. Who is this
pleb? Then he registered the case folder in the pleb's hand and lost
interest in anything else.
Krycek introduced himself by way of his name on the 302, holding out his
hand to Mulder in what he hoped was a show of hearty good nature. Mulder
left him with his hand stuck out, blandly ignoring the gesture. Fine,
thought Krycek retrieving his hand from mid air. Be an asswipe.
He lost track of his annoyance in outlining to Mulder his conversation with
Detective Horton. The case was odd enough to have piqued his interest, and
when he asked Mulder for his opinion, it was less out of a desire to
establish his persona as the eager young acolyte than from genuine
curiosity.
But Mulder didn't condescend to answer one way or the other: he made a
patronizing reference to Krycek's 'show and tell' and gathered up his jacket
and the folder and blithely threw back over his shoulder 'I'll straighten
things out with Skinner'.
Fuck you, for a thousand reasons, thought Krycek. You don't shake me that
easy. He cracked out Agent Mulder's name, let his mask of youth and
uncertainty slip just a fraction, let the hard edge he was gradually
acquiring show for just a second as he fought his corner, argued that the
case had been assigned to him. Fueling his annoyance was the knowledge that
while he had never been short of good cases, other agents of his age and
status would have given their eyeteeth to get an assignment like this, and
might not have had the moxie to defend it from the depredations of Agent
Mulder.
Mulder seemed to back off readily enough, and though Krycek hastily
withdrew
again into the role of the ingenue, he couldn't stifle a sly smile as he
went to sign out a car for them. This is going to be easy, he mentally
congratulated himself.
This is going to be fucking hell, he stormed internally as he strode back
after a fruitless wait of over a quarter of an hour at the carpool desk. You
smarmy bastard, he raged internally as he paced back and forth in front of
Mulder's desk. I can't believe I fell for that. I can't believe I lost him.
Two minutes, less than two minutes, and I lose him. Shit! What the hell do I
do now? Just sit here and wait for him to show? Fuck that, Dubretsky will
have my balls for a desk ornament if he thinks I just sat back and let
Mulder go anywhere he pleases...
Panic and anger dropping away from him, a sudden smile easing the tight
tense set of his mouth. He took the keys of the requisitioned car from his
pants pocket, tossed them upwards in high good humor. The morning traffic
would have cleared, and a drive to Connecticut would make a change from the
office.
The sight of a cab parked on the curb outside the clinic confirmed his
guess. He parked a little way back, then double checked by asking the driver
for a description of his fare before he paid him off. He decided against
going into the clinic and asking for Mulder, instead going back to his car
and sitting there to wait. He tuned the radio to a jazz station, tapping out
the rhythms on the steering wheel with his fingers, grinning to himself in
anticipation of Mulder's reaction when he came out and found his cab gone
and his eager young partner back.
Sure enough, after only a few more minutes Mulder emerged from the clinic
entrance, striding out till he saw the empty space at the kerb, then
stopping, looking left and right in obvious consternation. Krycek turned off
the radio, wiped the smile off his face and plastered on a scowl instead and
got out of the car, slamming the door hard enough to draw Mulder's
attention. The look of exasperation on Mulder's face when he saw Krycek
coming towards him more than repaid the anxious moments in the bull pen.
But amusing as the game was, Krycek didn't intend to play more than once.
He
strode towards Mulder ready and willing to fight this out there and then.
The 'bad date' remark was out of his mouth before he had a chance to
wonder
about its appropriateness. He sincerely hoped that it was the Smoker's
unpleasant insinuations and Dubretsky's austere concern on the subject that
were putting the subject of sex so close to the tip of his tongue. If things
were going to take that turn they'd do so with him keeping his head clear
and his mind on the main chance, not stumbling into it for no reason but
that Agent Mulder really was rather attractive in a sulky sort of way.
That petulant set to Mulder's mouth pulled him up short. It wasn't going to
help the already fraught situation if they came to an open breach after only
a few hours acquaintance. So he kept hold of his temper and sweetened his
reproaches with a little flight of hero worship, drawing on what he
remembered from the Academy. Mulder's face softened, anger giving way to
a
sort of flattered contrition. Krycek let his own expression smooth, waiting
with heartfelt anticipation for Mulder's reply. Then the damn cellphone in
Mulder's jacket pocket rang and the moment was lost.
After assuring his caller that he'd be wherever it was he planned on going
'in two hours', Mulder hung up and headed for the driver's door of the car.
Krycek followed casually, snagging the keys out of his pants pocket. Mulder
jerked at the cardoor, looked genuinely puzzled when it wouldn't budge.
Krycek froze his face in lines of blank indifference, holding his amusement
to a green glint in his eyes and a tight little crease at the corner of his
mouth as he held the keys aloft.
"Where we goin'?"
"Back to the Academy."
"Great." Krycek turned against the cardoor, subtly shouldering Mulder to one
side as he put the key in the lock.
"I'll drive." Mulder was hovering just behind Krycek.
"Sure. When you sign the car out, you drive, when I do I drive, I think
that's fair." Krycek got into the car and closed the door before Mulder had
a change to argue, and Mulder couldn't stand there without looking like a
complete idiot, so he had to stalk around the front of the car and get into
the passenger seat. To avoid giving him any further cause for complaint
Krycek slammed into gear and pulled away with a flashy squeal of tire
rubber.
Two hours my ass, he thought to himself. You wanna make Washington in two
hours from Connecticut, fine, I can do that. But if I get busted for
speeding one more time even a CIA ID isn't gonna stop them taking my
license.
"So who's doing the autopsy?" Krycek asked Mulder as they walked the
corridor to one of the autopsy bays at the Academy.
"Agent Scully." Mulder's voice was tight, still annoyed about what he
thought of as Krycek's highhanded attitude about the car. Funny, the last
thing he'd thought of Scully as a partner was that she was accommodating;
but now he realized just how much he had taken her placid forgiving nature
for granted. He'd forgotten that with a male partner everything was a power
issue.
"Scully?" Krycek repeated, hoping to coax some kind of voluntary remark
from
Mulder that might serve as a clue to the nature of their relationship, but
Mulder wasn't giving. Krycek was already second guessing the wisdom of
having insisted on driving, wondering if the aggressive way he had cut in
and out of lanes and jumped lights to save every second he could had
betrayed rather more nerve and certainty than he wanted Mulder to factor
into their relationship. So when they got to where they were going, Krycek
consciously hitched his shoulders up and tucked his chin down and did his
best impersonation of an eager beaver blue flame geek with a poker up his
ass.
The incisive stench of disinfectant and the raw meat smell of Doctor
Grissom
made his stomach tighten, though it was the formaldehyde that was mostly
to
blame. He'd been in too many charnel house crime scenes during his ten
months with the VCU for the smell of blood to offend him still. But the lab
smell was reacting rather unfavorably with the taste of candy in his mouth:
he had eaten a bar on his way in from the car. Mulder was introducing him
rather gracelessly and grudgingly to Agent Scully, and she was greeting him
with a tight superior smile, like he was her kid sister's no hope date.
She sketched a gesture that could have been interpreted as an invitation to
shake hands, and he stalled out for a second, caught between his natural
inclination to go ahead and take her hand despite the scum of blood and
tissue streaking her glove, and his desire to project himself as too raw and
too delicate to be any kind of threat. In one more second he would have made
a decision one way or the other but it was too late, Agent Scully elbowed
her way past him without another word, and Mulder went with her.
What a cow, Krycek laughed to himself internally as he reeled his hand back
in. There's no way she's having sex with Mulder, there's no way that bitch
would condescend to have sex with anyone. He turned round, annoyance and
vindictive amusement and determination to play his part all colliding with a
sudden rush of candy flavored heart burn and the unexpected sight of
Doctor
Grissom with his outsides mostly intact and his insides neatly arranged on
either side of him.
Krycek coughed hard, turning away for a second till he had regained his
composure. He looked back in time to intercept the look of weary resignation
that Mulder was exchanging with Agent Scully. Yeah, Krycek mentally
addressed Mulder, I wonder how well you did your first time out. He cast
another sidelong glance at Doctor Grissom, confirming that the sight
although unpleasant wasn't half as gruesome as what he had witnessed at
some
crime scenes.
Agent Scully was giving a pretty puzzling account of what she had found
during her autopsy, but the thing that really had Krycek's attention riveted
to her was the way Mulder was bending down, his head a bare couple of inches
away from hers, and the way she dropped her voice, so that her cool
scientific account came out sounding like the warmest tenderest
endearments.
Krycek might just as well not have existed for all the attention they were
paying him, they were so intent on each other.
I take it all back, he thought to himself ruefully. There's sure as hell
something going on between them, any second now he'll bend down that last
inch and kiss her.
He found himself looking rather speculatively at Agent Scully. There was no
doubt that scrubs and a lab coat were not the most alluring attire in the
world: it was impossible to tell what kind of figure was concealed under
them, she could have been nine months pregnant for all he knew. But figuring
from the soft curve of her cheek and the little round flesh at the tip of
her chin, he would have expected lush curves rather than lean hardness. The
small part of her hair visible above the nylon net was an unexpected flash
of russet, and she had a small fair mole between her lip and her nostril
that kept dragging his attention back to the movement of her mouth as she
spoke.
But overall he thought her short plump and pale. The Smoker had made a
strange estimation of Mulder's tastes if she was meant to be the fatal
siren.
It was only when Agent Scully reached a complete impasse in her strange
discourse, and Mulder turned his head to look accusingly at Krycek as if it
was all his fault that Krycek realized his eyebrows had climbed almost to
his hairline as he studied this unlikely couple. He hastily smoothed his
face out and tried to look interested and indifferent and puzzled and benign
all at the same time.
He and Mulder left, went back to the JEH and he went through the paperwork
of giving the car back to the motorpool. When he left the desk he was
surprised to find Mulder still hovering near the exit out to the parking
garage.
"Everything okay?" He asked warily, sorting the keys for his own car out on
his keychain.
"Yeah, fine." Mulder looked intensely uncomfortable, but at the same time
there was a faint trace of warmth in his expression, a softness to his dark
lichen gray eyes. "Look, about earlier... I didn't... I don't mean..."
He trailed off, suddenly enthralled by the edge of a carpet tile curling up
from the floor at the toe of his shoe. Krycek, enchanted, saw the slow creep
of a faint rose flush over Mulder's cheekbones, and his own lips curled into
a slight smile.
"It's fine, you were right, you don't know me from Adam, you've no reason to
want me hanging around. But we're working this case together, I'd appreciate
a chance at least." Krycek said it crisply, a simple statement of fact.
Mulder looked up sharply, as if he hadn't realized Krycek was still there,
and looked at him with narrowed eyes. There was so much happening behind
those eyes, too much for Krycek to even begin to decipher, so he
disengaged.
"See you tomorrow," he said, gesturing with his carkeys, a sort of 'I have
to go my car is waiting'.
"Yeah, sure." Mulder said the words without inflection, and stood watching
as Krycek turned and walked away. Krycek knew he was watching, he could
feel
that gray green gaze burning between his shoulder blades through the loose
folds at the back of his jacket.
The following morning when Krycek left his apartment and went to get his
car
from the small lot at the back of the building, Davis was leaning on the
hood, trim stone colored suit jacket open, exposing his snow white shirt and
caramel colored silk tie. His face was raised, eyes closed like a sleek
honey blond cat as he soaked up the early sunshine.
"Krycek." He said it when Krycek was still twenty feet away.
"I hate the way you do that, it's fuckin' creepy."
Davis opened his eyes, bright tiger brown sparkling with amusement.
"What's happening?" Krycek asked.
"Here, early birthday gift." Davis held out a large manilla envelope which
Krycek took and opened. Inside was a crime scene report complete with
photographs, and a copy of the preliminary report from a medical examiner.
"After you spoke to Dubretsky last night an' told him about Grissom gettin'
cooked without a fire, he had us look out for anythin' similar coming
through the NYPD. I drew a blank, but Boy Brenton found this." He watched
while Krycek scanned the pages, eyebrows drawing in in a frown of
concentration, deep crease across the bridge of his nose.
"Great... this is great..." Krycek sounded puzzled but determined.
"So give. What's goin' on?" Davis tapped the edge of the sheet Krycek was
reading to draw his attention.
"Damned if I know. Makes you wonder how much someone has to believe
something before it becomes true..."
"Not that." Davis frowned hard, one baby soft crease appearing between his
fine fair eyebrows. "I mean with Mulder and the lovely Miss Scully."
"Lovely?" Krycek repeated critically.
"We got the photos yesterday, and intercepts on the phones. She's a peach."
"If you say so. She's a brass bound bitch as far as I can see. If they're
doing it they're using a petri dish and a pipette."
"Re'hee'heely." Davis was in high good humor.
Krycek shook his head and smiled. "Get off my car, I have to get to work."
Mulder was already at his desk when Krycek got to the office, and for a
second Krycek had a sense of deja vu, as if they were re running the
previous day's meeting, with Krycek arriving file in hand and trying to get
Mulder to accept the bearer along with the gift. But this time there was no
hostility in Mulder's attitude. He perched on the edge of his desk, arms
folded, and listened attentively, looking from the pinboard on the wall to
Krycek and back with the same good humored interested approbation in his
expression for both of them.
Having spoken to the detective handling the case and to the Medical
Examiner, Krycek was more puzzled than ever. He laid out his evidence
before
Mulder, editing of course where the information had come from. And then,
for
a single spinning moment he felt them working as a team, piecing the thing
together, each picking up a little shard of fact and finding it fitted the
one the other was holding.
Once they had made the connection between Grissom and Willig, the logical
thing to do was track down the rest of the unit. But that information wasn't
on the general data base, it was kept on file in the Bureau's central
library in New York, which meant they could check that out and maybe take a
look at the crime scene too. This time Mulder signed out the car from the
motorpool.
By the time they had fetched up at the nurses' station at Orange County
Medical Center listening to Cole's doctor denying any knowledge of Cole's
discharge, Krycek had a distinct feeling that he had taken a wrong turn
somewhere along the way and ended up through the looking glass. And not
the
least of the strangeness in the situation was that Mulder didn't look
particularly put out: on the contrary, he seemed to have almost expected
this.
When Mulder's cellphone rang and he stepped away to answer it, Krycek was
still watching him and he saw the way Mulder's face closed down, took on a
careful wary expression that made Krycek's nerves wind, his skin tighten
inanticipation. But when Mulder hung up and came back to the desk, and
Krycek inquired lightly if everything was okay, Mulder didn't even
acknowledge the question. Then Krycek's phone went off, and it was his turn
to retire to the opposite side of the corridor.
"Krycek."
"Listen to this, you're gonna love it." Davis's long drawl made Krycek turn
his back to Mulder, tuck the phone very tight against his cheek. He heard
the click of a tape machine being turned on, the faint resonance to the
voice that told him he was hearing a second hand conversation.
"Mister Mulder. I've obtained some information which may shed some light on
your current work. But. You must exercise discretion. If anyone follows you,
I won't be there."
"I didn't catch the name." Krycek didn't think Mulder was paying him any
attention, he could hear the strand of conversation spinning out behind him,
but he kept his voice casual on the off chance.
"Jesus give me a minute..." Davis's voice went muffled as he covered the
phone, spoke to someone else with him. "Got it. Oh my. At the very least the
phone being used belongs to Lieutenant Colonel Ashton Rae, Army
Intelligence. I didn't realize Mulder had friends in the army."
"I'm not sure he does. Is there anything I can do?" Said in a very easy
uninterested tone.
"Stand back, let him go to the meet. I'll tag along at a discreet distance
and make sure he doesn't get into trouble. Make sure Colonel Rae is using
his own phone."
"Fine, thanks for calling."
"You are so welcome."
Krycek had to swallow the smartass retort that was burning at the tip of his
tongue. He hung up, tucked the phone back into his jacket and went back to
Mulder.
From the hospital they went to a motel, checked in. Krycek could see an edgy
jittery tension in every movement Mulder made, every short grudging word
he
said. It was laughably easy for Krycek to act tired, to tell Mulder he was
going to take a shower and watch the TV news. Mulder almost stuttered he
was
so eager to volunteer that he was going to do the same. Krycek went to his
room, was there in time to twitch back the curtain and see Mulder getting
back into the car and pulling out of the parking lot. There was no sign of
Davis, but that didn't mean he wasn't there.
Krycek had thrown his holdall onto the bed, and now he threw himself down
beside it. He closed his eyes, tried to figure out if he really was tired or
not, but he was trying to hold so many different personas in his mind at the
same time that he couldn't trace back the thread that lead to himself
clearly enough to tell.
The sound of his phone trilling again in his jacket pocket jerked him out of
the restful blank he had dropped into. He snagged the phone out without
sitting up.
"Krycek."
"Agent Krycek? This is Detective Horton, we spoke earlier when you put out
your APB."
"Yeah, hi." Krycek tried to get his brain back in gear.
"We think we have your guy."
"What? Where?" Wide awake now.
No sooner had he hung up on Horton than his phone rang again, this time it
was Davis, warning him that Mulder was on his way back. Rae's identity had
been confirmed, and Davis volunteered that Mulder had received a large
envelope or file from the Colonel. Krycek hung up on Davis and went outside,
reached the sidewalk just as Mulder drove round the corner to the entrance
way of the motel. Krycek caught the look of weary exasperation on Mulder's
face when he saw his rookie partner dogging his steps again, but by this
stage Krycek's ten months in the VCU and the two dead bodies this case had
yielded so far were putting an edge to his attitude that had very little to
do with his dues to the Agency or to Christian Dubretsky. He wanted this
case solved.
Krycek did ask Mulder where he'd been, but he barely even waited for Mulder
to just ignore the question before telling him about Horton's call. He had
to make himself backtrack and ask again, try to make it sound like he was at
least interested. Mulder cleared his throat, but still didn't answer.
Pounding up the stairs of the crumby motel building where Cole had been
spotted, Krycek had a blissful sense of clarity and simplicity. He stepped
forwards eagerly, ID'd himself and Mulder to Horton. Horton was trying to
give them a ten second rundown of the situation as the three of them
climbed
the staircase, and even the lightening crack of two gunshots and the ragged
sound of a woman screaming had a reassuring sort of solidity about them.
Krycek ripped his gun free of its holster and plunged down, crouched on the
stairway, heart thumping in his ears, breath coming in short shallow jerks.
He threw one vivid glance at Mulder, then thrust up onto his feet again and
lunged up the last few steps onto the landing. Mulder was right behind him,
and for one brief second Krycek realized that he hadn't considered the fact
that FBI agents sometimes ended up in hazardous situations, even without
the
benefit of the Smoker's machinations. How far was he expected to go to
protect Mulder from the vagaries of fate, he wondered. He kept to the
center
of the hallway, didn't give Mulder room to push past him.
Cole was gone, but his tracks were there all right. Two police officers
who had apparently tried to kill each other. Krycek got away from the bodies
on the floor as soon as other officers arrived, went through to where Mulder
was leaning out a window, trying to see down into the narrow alley below.
It's you, Krycek mentally addressed Mulder. You cause this. My life was
complicated, but you're turning it into some kind of bad dream, with no
rules and no logic. What the hell are you?
It was a long night. There was all the inevitable hanging around and
retelling the same sparse facts over and over to half a dozen different
officers and drinking lukewarm takeout coffee and watching the bloodstains
on the carpet turning to rust. One of the injured men had been pronounced at
the hospital, the other was hanging on by a thread. Mulder and Krycek went
down to the precinct headquarters and went through the whole process for
another hour or so.
When they finally gave up and went back to the motel, Krycek threw himself
face down on the bed and wished for sleep. The sweet darkness swirled up
like smoke and he was just losing his grip on his consciousness when his
phone rang inside his jacket and he clawed his way back up into the light,
almost sobbing with tiredness.
"Krycek." His voice was muffled by the pillow under his cheek.
"Comrade Arntzen."
Krycek scrambled up, onto his knees, off the bed, onto his feet.
"What do you want?" That came out too edgy, too angry. He let his voice lift
and narrow into a less certain tone. "Where are you?"
"I'm just across the street Comrade. It's a pleasant lovely night, you
should step out, stretch your legs, take a breath of air. Talk to an old
friend."
"I'll be there."
The Smoker was sitting in a car parked on the opposite side of the street.
Krycek got into the passenger seat, his eyes smarting from the combination
of cigarette smoke and lack of sleep, kept his head turned away as far as
possible, listened to that smooth slither of words with a kind of horrified
fascination. The darkness and the strangeness of the night's events and the
lingering sense of nightmare falseness made this man a creature of the
dream
time, not something real, not something human.
Krycek gave a grudging account of the investigation, while the Smoker smiled
bloodlessly to himself, even snickered softly at hearing how Mulder had
tried unsuccessfully to dump his new partner.
"And Cole. Where is he now?"
"We lost him. But Mulder seems to think he has a lead on him. He said
there's someone we should go see in the morning."
"Indeed..." Hooded eyes narrowed, thin gleam of a razor's edge seen
through a veil of white smoke. "When you find Cole, kill him."
"What?!?" Anger, disgust, outrage. I'm not going to do that. I'm... I'm an
FBI agent? Well CIA for sure. The Company isn't as bloody as it's painted.
"You heard me." Whip crack voice, the cigarette's glowing tip jerking in the
gloom. "Spare me your protests, and your scruples. Your charming display of
reluctance. You forget, Comrade Arntzen, I know you. I know what you are."
Krycek had to choke down the hard hot lump stuck in his throat, had to sit
there and burn quietly. He forced out the words with carefully controlled
venom.
"Are you going to tell me why?"
"Yes, yes I am. For all your bridling and shying, you've done well enough up
until now. I shall pay you in a coin I know you appreciate: information.
Cole is the legacy of an ill judged piece of military research. If he has
been the means of removing all other traces of the project, well and good.
When you kill him and retrieve any material Mulder has in his possession
relating to the case, the subject will be closed."
Krycek flashed one acid glance at the other man.
"What kind of 'material'?" He asked, his mind running rapid circles,
wondering if the Smoker knew about Rae.
"Whatever kind you can find. I will have his home and office thoroughly
searched, and Agent Scully's office too. You need only concern yourself with
what he has with him here."
When Krycek got out of the car he was distantly aware that he was shaking.
A
rapid uneven sick shiver, fluttering and agitating his heartbeat, tightening
his stomach. He stood on the kerb, watched the car pull away, then closed
his eyes, listening to his own disquiet, trying to give it a name. Fear?
Anger?
Disgust?
Anticipation?
"What exactly are you doin' standin' out on the sidewalk with your eyes
closed? Waitin' to be shot?"
Krycek's eyes flashed open, surprised but not alarmed. Davis was looking at
him with a characteristic blend of amusement and wariness.
"He wants me to kill Cole." Krycek was hoarse, a gravel sound far beyond the
usually gentle husk of his voice.
"Oh." In the night, Davis's eyes lost their warm amber lights, and became
black. A side gleam from a passing car reflected weirdly in his gaze, a glow
of yellow green like a cat's retinas. "You gonna do it?"
"I don't know. Arntzen would do it. If I don't, he'll know I'm not Arntzen."
They stood for a long moment, looking at each other, trying to read the
other man's emotions. Trying to read their own.
"How do you do it?" Asked Krycek. Davis made a tiny gesture of turning his
head, the smallest negation.
"You've done it yourself."
"I shot an armed suspect who wouldn't drop his weapon when ordered. I was
looking into the muzzle of the gun and I could see his knuckle turning
white. He was so jacked up he wouldn't have stopped if I'd kneecapped him. I
shot him. I was sick to my stomach for a week, and I still get cold when I
think about it. I don't think I could do it if I didn't think I was going to
die."
"Yeah, the first time..." There was something finedrawn, wiretight, about
the set of Davis's sweet mouth. "It gets easier Alex. It gets real easy real
fast. That's the part that's frightening." He stepped back, smiled, turning
back into the good looking good natured man Krycek knew. "Well, you have to
find him first, no point worrying about anything else till then."
"Yeah." Krycek sighed a grudging smile, turned away and went back to the
motel. Back to his bed, and after only a short time, back to sleep.
Davis, like Krycek, was not the type to lie awake and worry. It was the
following day before he went back to tugging and pulling at the problem,
trying to figure if Krycek could do what he had to in order to maintain his
cover as Arntzen. By the time Davis had settled in with the guys monitoring
Agent Mulder's phone calls, he had figured out exactly what was wrong with
the operation.
He's supposed to screw Mulder and kill some guy. Goddamn, I wish I looked
like Arntzen, this job was made for me.
He leaned back, one handmade leather brogue stuck up on the edge of the
desk, rumpled his hands over the soft feathery crop of his blond hair, then
smoothed his palms over it again.
"Call outgoing."
Davis sat up, snagged himself a pair of earphones and held one up to his
ear.
"Scully."
Davis mimed the action of his heart beating with his hand against the front
of his fine linen shirt, smiling.
"It's me."
"Mulder, where are you?"
"Back at the hospital. The second officer is still in a coma, so I don't
think we can count on him to tell us what happened."
Davis was putting sugar in his coffee one handed, accepting a hard copy of
the previous night's calls, getting his foot back up on the desk, relishing
Scully's soft voice without paying a huge amount of attention to the
substance of her conversation. It was only when Mulder began to put forward
his theory that Cole was somehow dreaming these people to death that
Davis
lifted his head, amber eyes wide, a disbelieving laugh rippling around his
mouth, meeting the equally stunned gaze of the other agents.
"Jesus. He's a nutcase."
"Hush up, listen." Davis had caught Krycek's name.
"Sounds like your new partner's working out."
"He's alright. He could use a little more seasoning and some wardrobe
advice..." Davis snorted coffee onto his three hundred dollar tie. "...
but he's okay. He's a lot more open to extreme possibilities than -"
"Than I was?" Davis stopped dabbing at his tie, enchanted and stricken by
the wistful hurt in Scully's tone. He listened spellbound to the rest of the
conversation, the notes of tenderness and hesitation in both their voices,
the long uncertain silence before Scully hung up. Like her, he listened to
the empty space of the dead line for several seconds before he put down the
earphone.
"What do you make of that?" Asked one of the other agents, rewinding the
tape of the call.
"She thinks she's losing him. He hardly knows Krycek, but she thinks she's
losing him..." Davis said it softly, gazing off into the distance, not
seeing the weirded out expression of the agent listening to him.
For Krycek, daylight had scoured away all the strange significance that
things had seemed to have the previous night. Even listening to a recording
of Mulder's call to Agent Scully didn't bring back the sense of unreality.
It was just stupid, Mulder was spinning shit and Scully for some reason
didn't tell him so. Krycek filed the conversation away in his memory, but
his mind was intent on the simplicity and clarity of the work to hand: find
Cole, keep a tight eye on Mulder.
The dirty street, the grubby diner: they had a cold plain reality. The
morning sun shone through the fly blown glass of the windows, blazed on the
scratched laminate of the table tops, the chrome lids of the sugar holders.
They sat at one of the tables, Sal Vitolla having rather hopelessly agreed
to talk to them.
Krycek sat back, his notebook open in front of him, and looked at Sal's
gaunt face and red eyes. Sal's gaze was like the touch of fire. Mulder was
sitting between them, but Sal either looked at Krycek or just looked at the
wall. He seemed to be avoiding Mulder's eye. Krycek listened to Sal tell his
story with the bare honesty of a man for whom even remorse has become
almost
too much of an effort. Krycek tried, not quite successfully, to keep the
edge off his own voice. The Agency operated too close to a military model of
authority for him to listen to Sal with complete calm. Dubretsky's favorite
tag was 'a soldier is only as good as his officer'. Where were the people
who should have been in control of these guys?
If the Smoker knew there was another member of the squad still alive, he'd
want him dead, Krycek told himself. He'd want me to kill him. I have to get
this guy out of here, out of the city. Dubretsky could arrange that, find
somewhere safe for him.
(You're a good kid. Don't fret about me, die here, die somewhere else. But
you're a good kid.)
Krycek's eyes flew open wide, his hand flinched, as if he would have touched
the side of his temple, where the voice was. He glared at Sal, but Sal
wasn't even looking at him: he was studying the cigarette trembling in his
fingers, the shake in his hand.
Krycek shook his head, dislodged the sensation of that hoarse broken voice
inside his brain. I'm tired, he thought. I didn't get enough sleep last
night. The irony of that was not lost on him.
Getting snarled up in over an hour's worth of evening traffic trying to get
back across the city to Bronx Station was enough to bring Krycek back to a
grinding awareness of reality. The only thing he hated more than driving in
a traffic jam was being a passenger in one. And Mulder was hoarding his turn
at the driving with ferocious greed. He wouldn't even let Krycek sit in the
car without him: he had to have the keys with him all the time. Which pretty
well spelt out where the file he had received from Rae was hidden.
They took the station concourse at a headlong sprint, Mulder taking off a
pace before Krycek, but Krycek powering past him to reach the platform
first. Even with the extra twenty five pounds and the candy and coffee diet
it took to maintain them, Krycek was still slightly faster and probably a
lot stronger than Mulder.
Krycek took a brief hard look at the picture Mulder handed him, returned it,
locking his eyes on the stream of people passing him, scanning for Gerardy's
face. Mulder plunged into the crowd, heading for another vantage. Krycek
shouldered his way a little further down the platform, gaze flashing and
cutting, his hands unconsciously closing into two fists. He could still see
Mulder, a half head taller than most of the crowd; but then Mulder moved
too, and Krycek lost him.
"Federal Agent! Drop your weapon! Drop it!" Mulder's shout jerked Krycek
around, sent him running, shoving his way past startled civilians, hand at
his own holster.
Oh Christ. No.
For a second Krycek faltered, stricken by the sight of Mulder lying on the
ground, eyes closed, perfectly still.
Don't let him be dead. Don't let me have fucked up.
But there had been no gunshots. Krycek swooped, turned Mulder over,
suddenly
bemused by the fact that Mulder was apparently unhurt: no blood, his color
was fine, he was breathing as softly and evenly as if he was sleeping.
"Mulder? You alright?" Even as Krycek said it, Mulder stirred, frowned, his
eyes flickering open. For one second he met Krycek's gaze, looking at him
with naked confusion, then he sat up hurriedly, glaring around him. When
Mulder insisted that he had seen Cole and Gerardy, Krycek was just so
relieved to see that he was okay that his own denial came out on a snick of
laughter that made Mulder jerk away from him angrily.
Mulder stayed that annoyed and abrupt while they went up to the security
office and reviewed the tapes from the station's video monitors. Krycek
could feel his own temper seething and cooking, adrenaline and confusion and
fright all combining into a dangerous mixture. He tried to stay quiet, but
at the very least he felt that he was being almost suspiciously lenient
towards Mulder. He drew Mulder away from the video monitors, out of the
immediate earshot of the other men in the room, and demanded some kind of
explanation, sweetening that demand with another trace of that hero worship
that had worked so well outside the clinic.
And Mulder gave him the same crazed story Krycek had already heard on the
tape of the monitored call to Agent Scully. For one white second he had an
overwhelming desire to either laugh in Mulder's face or spit in his eye.
Agent Scully, for whatever reason, was prepared to listen to this crap, but
Krycek had more respect for his own sensibilities.
But having already heard the tape, at least there was some sense of being
prepared for this. Krycek held himself to cold immobility, and through his
anger he saw the way Mulder was waiting, hardly breathing, for Krycek to
laugh at him. Or spit in his eye. So it was half pity and half pragmatism
that made Krycek answer softly, pretending to accept Mulder's explanation.
"...At least it begins to explain some things..." It was only after he
had said it that Krycek realized, with a sense of sudden vertigo, that his
remark was true. He wanted to look away from Mulder's glowing eyes, but
somehow he couldn't. Then someone behind them called Mulder, and Mulder in
moving away was the one to break their gaze.
Track seventeen was out in some godforsaken wasteland of storage sheds
and
maintenance yards, with only the thin wash of white security lights here and
there to break the night. The cry from within one of the sheds was like a
sound from a nightmare, the voice in the darkness. Krycek had a bad feeling,
a sense of falling into danger, a sense that he was losing whatever slight
control over this situation that he had ever had.
Gerardy was alive, just about. Mulder was telling Krycek to call for help,
to try and stem the flow of blood down Gerardy's neck. Krycek was stalled
out between the instinct to do what he could to assist the injured man, and
his rising sense of foreboding. He didn't want to let Mulder out of his
sight if he could avoid it. Mulder cracked out the order again, and Krycek
couldn't refuse, not without an explanation that he couldn't give. Couldn't
even really articulate to himself.
Mulder disappeared into the darkness, left Krycek with Gerardy and a head
full of fragments and shards. Krycek heard the panic in his own voice as he
radioed for assistance. Endless minutes, before he heard the sound of sirens
outside, then another eternity before the EMT guys found their way to him,
and he lunged back onto his feet, gun out, and went after Mulder.
Like a dream.
Cole standing out on the end of an open walkway, darkness silhouetted
against darkness. Mulder's gun a dull metallic gleam on the ground, Mulder's
hands empty, lifted very slightly away from his sides. Krycek lifted his
gun, chambered a round. The snick of sound turned Mulder, and Krycek saw
yet
again that dismissive distaste, the look of weary superiority.
"Krycek, put down the gun and get out of here." Mulder sounded like he was
dismissing the maid.
Oh shut the fuck up and let me think for a second, Krycek mentally
beseeched. Do it, he told himself. You're not going to get a better chance.
This isn't exactly self defense or defense of your partner, but it's close
enough that you may get away with it.
His thoughts were flying, trying to calculate for himself how much more
Mulder's life was worth than Cole's, but of course he had no facts to work
from. All he had was Christian Dubretsky's word for it, that nothing else
was as important as maintaining the cover that allowed Krycek to stand
between Mulder and the Smoker. Do you trust Chris? he asked himself. Yes,
totally. His finger was inside the trigger guard, taking up the hair's
breadth of slack the mechanism had.
"Krycek. I said put down the gun and get out of here!"
(Do your job boy.)
Krycek froze, breath and heart both stopped in their tracks by the voice in
his head.
(I see you boy, I see through you. Look.)
There was a gun in Cole's hand. Krycek could see the long slide of light
along the barrel, could almost smell the smokey musk of the oil, could sense
the slight tension in Cole's wrist as he supported the solid weight of the
gun.
It isn't real. Krycek lifted his chin slightly, trying to square himself
against the force of the illusion, against the nightmare sense of Cole
speaking to him without words.
(It's as real as the ones that killed Willig. You willing to take the chance
boy? You're supposed to protect him.)
Truly a dream. Trapped forever in this nightmare second, with his finger
tightening one atom at a time on the trigger while his mind tried to escape
from the horrific sensation of Cole's voice inside his head.
(It's easy. Don't be afraid.)
The rank sweetness of rotting leaves, the smell of earth, sun beating down
on his head, the weight of the wet air pressing itself into his lungs. Blood
on his clothes, making them thick and heavy, on his hands, making the
creases of his palms stick together, gluing his fingers to the stock of his
rifle. And a sense of his heart thundering in his chest, his blood pounding
through every vein, his breath storming through his nostrils, lifting and
opening his lungs, life rushing through him, god like. I am death. I am
damned. I am -
(Yes.)
Crack of a gunshot, a second punching right after it, just as Krycek had
been trained in the Agency, two rounds: one for sure and one for double
sure. Mulder's cry of denial fitting into the split second between them.
Krycek's fingers knotting up, his whole arm burning as he forced himself off
the trigger, a white hot surge of adrenaline shaking him, bile scorching in
his chest.
(Yes... ) The voice in his head was a sigh, the dissolution of the dream.
Reality suddenly crowding in on him, pulling him forwards, onto his knees,
looking for the gun that he knew wasn't there.
"He had a gun, he was going to shoot you." Was that a lie? Was the shaken
sick tremor in his voice real or feigned? He didn't know. He didn't know
anything for certain. Mulder lifted his head, looked at Krycek with eyes
that seemed to see right through the back of Krycek's head. Cole's breath
broke and stopped, the faint wet rattle of blood in his throat clicking to a
halt too.
"You did the right thing." Mulder's soft bitter words were like the touch of
a blade, slitting into, cutting away, freeing Krycek from something. What,
was the question. Krycek could only stare at Mulder, wide eyed, silent.
Yes, I did the right thing, though you don't know it.
"I have to go outside, I think I'm going to be sick." He stood up, distantly
aware of Mulder looking at him, lip curled in disdain.
"Go. I'll stay with him."
The medics and uniformed cops were coming running, drawn by the sound of
the
gunfire. Krycek raised his gun and his ID, hands out in a gesture of
surrender, and told them he was FBI. They shouldered past him, and he
walked
out into the night air, towards the car, reholstering his gun. He took out
his keychain from his pants pocket, fiddled out the slim metal pick from
among his keys.
It's all in the touch. Krycek slipped the pick into the lock, closed his
eyes for a brief instant, focussing solely on the resistance or lack of it
inside the tumbler, felt the pick catch and lift, the lock turn. He pulled
the door open and sat on the edge of the driver's seat.
It was a motorpool car: Mulder couldn't have slit the upholstery to hide the
file, and it was too big to hide in the sunshade or in the back of the glove
compartment. Krycek reached under the passenger seat, under the driver's.
No. The mat under his feet. He lifted it with his toe, smiled bleakly at the
bright manilla corner of the envelope, pulled it out, got back out of the
car.
There were ambulance crew and uniformed cops milling around, flashing lights
of the patrol cars washing staccato brightness across the scene. He was
dimly aware of people coming towards him, asking him things, but he couldn't
seem to come down to reality enough to put meaning to the sounds they
made.
He slammed the car door shut again.
"Let me through here. Agent Kowalski, FBI, come on let me through. Agent
Krycek, I'll have to ask to you come with me." A slow low southern accent, a
long softly swirling trench coat, and an FBI ID held up like a talisman.
Glaring at Krycek, as much as to dare him to object. But Krycek let himself
be led fairly ruthlessly to a waiting car, where he was ducked into the
passenger seat with a hand on his head and the door closed on him. The other
man got into the driver's seat, switched on the engine, watched as Krycek
threw the file in his hand onto the backseat and pulled down his seatbelt,
clicked it shut.
"You okay?" He asked Krycek.
"Kowalski?" Krycek said, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and
wiping the smears of blood off his fingers. "With an accent like that you
call yourself Kowalski?"
"Krycek, come on, are you okay?" Davis threw a hasty glance around at the
confusion outside the car. He wanted to go, but the sight of Krycek's white
drawn face and his tight bloodless smile and the precise tense way he was
wiping at his fingers was worrying him. His orders were to get Krycek back
to Dubretsky as fast as possible, so that they had a chance to look at the
stolen file before Krycek had to turn it over to the Smoker. But right now
Davis was wondering he shouldn't maybe drive to the hospital instead of the
office. "Alex. Do you feel alright?" He insisted.
"I feel... just the same." Krycek turned his head towards Davis, and Davis
saw the faint turquoise gleam of his gaze in the darkness of the car. "But
I'm not. Am I?"
THE END.
Well, I can stand more if you can.
These Men Of Honor II
by Rachel Lee Arlington
To sleep, to dream.
Next,
That's What Friends Are For
