Long Distance Runners
by Josan
Krycek leaned against the large tree trunk and tried to get his eyes to
focus on the house.
He was amazed that he had made it here. He didn't remember much of the taxi
ride from the airport, only the fact that the driver had warned
him that if he threw up in his cab, he, Krycek, not the driver, was going to
clean it up.
Except that Krycek wasn't drunk. Just deathly ill.
He had picked up some bug in Hong Kong, hadn't paid proper attention to it,
and now he was beyond paying attention to it.
He'd gotten the driver to drop him off near the house. He knew where it was
because, in healthier times, he had come to see where they
lived. Just to be sure he was all right.
Now, he rested against the tree in their front yard, in the middle of the
night, trying hard to remember what the hell he had been thinking of
when he had decided to come here.
Did he think they would welcome him with open arms?
More with open weapons.
God! He was so tired. And so tired of being tired.
In the more than two years since the shit had hit the fan, when Mulder had
used the material he had syphoned down to him to good
advantage, when the Consortium big- wigs suddenly found themselves on the
receiving end, when alien rebels had finally "convinced" the
slimy Oilians that staying on Planet Earth might just be a little too costly,
Krycek had found himself constantly on the run.
First, the rebels had used him as a front, a human weapon, in their campaign
to clean out centres of Oilian activity. Then, their human allies
had decided that he should pay for his part in the downfall of their plans.
In the hunt that had followed, Krycek's killing abilities had been honed to
an even finer point. While the top echelons battled it out in the
court-rooms, the Grand Juries, the private clubs of the world, their enforcers
tried hard to be the one who counted coup on Alex Krycek.
But now, with no one to pay them for their kill, one by one, those enforcers
and their crews who still lived, who were not in prisons, decided
that maybe Krycek wasn't worth the effort. Not enough to hunt him down on
purpose, but should he happen to wander in their path, well,
that was another story.
Through it all, Krycek had managed to keep a sort of eye on Mulder and what
was happening to him. He hadn't been surprised that Mulder
had suddenly, without warning, quit the FBI. Supposedly for no reason.
But Krycek had known that Mulder would not tolerate the covering-up that
went on in the highest ranks of the FBI, the CIA, the Military.
No one wanted outright disintegration of society. The Consortium and the
departmental scapegoats were offered as sacrifice but the Public
never really got all the details of situation.
He had been a bit more surprised to discover that Mulder had set up house
with Walter Skinner, who was still at the FBI, as Acting Deputy
Director: acting, because his job was to oversee the rebuilding of the internal
structure of the FBI. After which, he would have made too
many enemies to remain at the FBI, let alone be one of its DD's. A sacrificial
lamb—no, not a lamb; one of those white bulls offered up to
Zeus—a sacrificial bull for the betterment of the Bureau.
A high price, thought Krycek, to pay for fucking Mulder.
So, while Mulder's life went on, for the better, his had plummeted down
further into the darkness.
And now he could go no further down; he had hit rock bottom and had hit
hard. He knew he wasn't going to pull out of this. Was that why
he had come here? To die as close as he could get to the one person he had
loved in his life?
Because he did love Mulder, as much as someone like him was capable of love.
Loved the feel of him, the smell of him. Loved being
touched by him. For those few times they had meshed together, he had felt warm,
in light. To him, Fox Mulder was the sun in his dark
world. He cherished those times they had been together, had called upon those
memories to warm him when he was so cold, to bring him
the semblance of light in his dark, bitter world.
Loved him enough to realize that staying with him, even near him would
endanger that warmth, that light. So he had left. Not out of
nobility. But because he understood that nothing would change on the path he
had chosen; that if he didn't leave, Mulder would be drawn
along that same destructive path and he would be responsible for the end of
that warmth, that light. And that realization was hard enough to
bear: he would not be responsible for the destruction of Fox Mulder.
It had been the right decision. But the pain of it sometimes slashed through
his guts, cutting his breath, making him long for something he
could never again have.
He was a survivor by nature. And so he survived. Not well, but survived. Had
forgotten what it was like to sleep for more than a few
minutes at a time, let alone in a bed: to eat at a table, surrounded by
conversation: to be clean, except at moments: to stay in one place for
longer than a day.
Forgotten to be human rather than an animal at bay.
Until he'd gotten sick in Hong Kong and decided he wanted to be warm once
more before he gave up.
So here he was, the story of his life, on the outside looking in, and
knowing there was no place for him inside.
By the warmth.
And, God, he was so cold. In spite of the heat radiating off his body, the
core of him was cold unto death.
The light from the front room reflected gold on the autumn lawn. Inside, he
imagined Mulder and Skinner together, a masochistic image he
held onto as he tried to summon up some strength to move, to leave. This had
not been one of his better ideas.
His knees gave out from under him and he found it harder to breathe. He sat
back on his heels, swaying.
Why bother? he thought. This was as good a place to die as anywhere. Unlike
his other enemies, Skinner would at least bury him, not
throw his body to the scavengers. He rather liked the idea of Skinner burying
him. Maybe even providing him with a marker. The thought
made him smile. What would Skinner have them put on it? Here lies a ratbastard?
Maybe just a little rat picture.
And maybe Mulder would remember the times they had had together with some
sentiment. Maybe even miss him for a moment. Maybe...
but no, no one would shed a tear at the death of Alex Krycek.
Krycek looked at the golden grass and longed painfully for it. Each breath
hurt. Now that he had given up, moving was almost impossible.
But that little patch of gold seemed to call him, and so he tried to go to it.
Almost made it. He was just too tired to try and move again.
He lay where he had fallen, gathered all the strength he had left, gave it
one final effort. He reached out with his hand, his real hand, and
pulled himself just enough so that the hand could touch the soft light.
He closed his hand on it. Sighed. Stopped fighting the darkness.
The meeting in the Director's office had lasted into the wee small hours of
the morning.
Unlike several of the representatives from Justice, the Director had refused
to accept Walter Skinner's resignation, his retirement papers,
anything else he offered in his anger at what he saw as the ultimate betrayal
of the honour of the FBI.
CSG Spender was going to be offered immunity for testifying against his
former colleagues, given a new identity and allowed to continue
living, protected by the very government he had tried so hard to take down.
This in spite of all the documentation they had gathered on the man's
dealings with the underworld, his alien ties, his connections to the
many deaths that had occurred when the Consortium had begun disintegrating.
Try to see sense, they had told him: Spender knows where all the bodies are
buried. Not just theirs, but ours as well. In return for this deal,
he would keep quiet about that embarrassment, give them more information on the
conspiracy. Surely that alone was worth his, Skinner's,
acceptance—well, if not acceptance, then silence.
Justice and the other DD's had left an enraged Skinner alone for a final
meeting with the Director which had ended with his agreeing to
consider Skinner's termination whether by resignation or retirement, decision
to come after the weekend. He agreed to take the next day,
today really, off so as to allow tempers on the upper floor to cool down.
The only cheerful spot in this entire fiasco was the fact that Mulder had
left the lights on for him, a warm welcome in a rather bleak day.
But not enough light to prevent him from tripping over something and nearly
landing, face first, in the shrubbery. Swearing at this perfect
end of a perfect day, he turned to kick whatever it was that he had tripped
over only to discover it was too large to be a rake, or one of the
local kids' bikes.
He stooped and pulled the pile of cloth far enough into the light to
recognize that it was a man. A man burning with fever.
"Shit!" Skinner unlocked the door with his key at the same time ringing the
doorbell. He pushed open the door, tossed his briefcase onto
the nearby chair and turned on
the outdoor light.
"Walter? Are you okay?" A sleep-hoarsened voice came down the stairs.
"Out here, Fox. There's someone out here. Sick."
Mulder staggered out, dressed in a rumpled t-shirt and baggy sweat pants. He
quickly woke up when he saw Skinner lifting someone off
the lawn, came to help carry the dead weight of the man into the house.
"Here. Lay him here on the entry floor. Who the hell is he? Do you recognize
him? Careful. There seems to be something wrong with his
left arm... Ah, Jesus! You don't think it could be... Shit! I thought he was
dead," Skinner growled.
Mulder looked up from verifying that the left arm was indeed a prosthesis.
"He's going to be dead real soon if we don't get a doctor. He's
burning up."
Mulder left Walter fuming but dialling the phone while he rushed into the
bathroom, returned with a thermometer. One of those instant
reading things. "Damn! 104.5!" He passed that information to Skinner who passed
it on to his contact. Mulder stroked the flushed face of
his former lover, a face honed to skin and bone. "Jesus, Alex, where the hell have you been?"
Skinner finished his call. "Joe will meet us at his clinic. He says to keep
him wrapped, try and get some liquids into him. Get dressed, Fox.
And bring down that comforter your mother gave us last Christmas: it's in the
box in the storeroom."
Skinner got some tepid water and, raising Krycek enough so he wouldn't
choke, he tried to get the man to drink. The water just ran out of
his mouth, down his chin. Skinner winced at the sound of the man's breathing.
Pneumonia at least, he thought.
An hour later Joe Fischer confirmed his diagnosis. "Plus, he's suffering
from malnutrition, exhaustion, among other things. To be honest, I
don't think he's got the resources to fight this off."
"But you'll help him." Mulder glared at him.
"I'll do my best, Mulder." Fischer was insulted by Mulder's implication that
he would not do the best for any of his patients. "I've given
him a massive dose of antibiotics, another of vitamins. He's on intravenous, on
oxygen. I've done my part: now, it's up to him."
Skinner was grim. If Krycek had to show up, why was it just to die on
them. On Mulder.
He knew about the relationship between the two men. Mulder hadn't tried to
hide it, had told him about it just after they had gotten together.
He knew that Mulder loved him. Had told and shown him often enough.
But he also knew that Mulder was still in love with Alex Krycek.
Krycek had provided Mulder with raw passion, had appealed to the impetuous
Mulder. He, Skinner, provided Mulder with stability, the
first in his life, and steady, dependable love. He wondered if Krycek's
reappearance meant an end to their life together.
For the moment, he looked upon his rival and wished him dead.
Mulder refused to leave Krycek behind. If he were going to die, he wasn't
going to be alone when it happened.
Skinner held his temper back with difficulty. Temper, he acknowledged to
himself, based on fear of losing Mulder mixed with a good
portion of anger at the situation. He wanted to take Mulder home, to lock their
front door against the outside world, to go back to what they
had before Krycek had shown up.
Instead, he announced he was going home to catch up on some sleep. He
would relieve Mulder later on. If need so.
The fact that Mulder was barely aware of his leaving cut him to the quick.
He had to wait, sitting behind the wheel of his car, till the pain
was bearable before he drove away. Only the gods knew whether he would have
something to come back for.
Mulder spent the next three days sitting by Krycek's bedside, grasping his
hand as if to pull the dying man into life.
Fischer had been right: Krycek had very few reserves left to fight off both
this infection and the bug he had picked up. But that after
forty-eight hours the man was still alive amazed him: he wouldn't say it out
loud, but he thought maybe, just maybe his patient might
survive after all. Twenty-four hours later, he dared say it to Skinner.
Skinner looked at the bed set up in one of the few private areas the clinic
had. He had not yet managed to get Mulder to go home, not even
for a change of clothes, not even for some sleep.
Skinner brought him clean clothes, food, even watched over him while he
slept in an old armchair they had pulled up to the bed. Watched
with each passing minute his relationship with Mulder tested as to its
strength.
Because Mulder was certain the only thing keeping Krycek alive was the fact
that his hand was what was refusing to let Krycek slip into
death. If he let go, he feared that Krycek too would let go, would stop
fighting no matter how feeble a fight it was.
Skinner had tried once, and only once, to insist that Mulder go home and
sleep. Mulder had reached out for him, pulled him down with his
free hand for one of the sweetest kisses he had ever given Skinner, looked him
sadly in the eye, and said "No."
Nothing else. No explanation. No argument. Just a simple statement of fact.
He was not going to leave Krycek.
That was when Skinner had gone home and gotten drunk. Knowing that after
their time together, two years of them together in this house,
the loneliness that Mulder had driven out of his life was back.
In the morning, moaning slightly under the shower at the foolishness of
trying to empty a bottle of scotch by himself, Skinner decided that
he was not giving up without a fight. Krycek had disappeared when the going got
tough. True, he had given them the various documents
which became the basis of the case against the Consortium. But then no one had
heard from him.
Not Mulder. Not himself.
And now that he was back, and possibly not to die, there was an additional
problem. His own relationship with Krycek. One which he
had never mentioned to Mulder. Even after Mulder had told him about his
relationship with Krycek.
He had meant to tell Mulder that he was not unacquainted with Krycek's
talents—not that their few encounters could by any measure be
deemed a relationship—but he had fucked the man when Krycek had first
appeared on the scene.
Krycek had approached him just after the first time he and Sharon had
separated. Had sat beside him in a bar sipping his vodka while he
had tossed back scotch the day she had moved out, supposedly just happening to
be there at that particular moment. Had stayed with him
so he wouldn't be drinking alone.
"Not a good thing to do, sir, not in the mood you're in. You don't have to
talk to me. Just ignore me. But, if you need anything..."
And he had needed something. Someone to get him home. That someone who had
stayed with him, had undressed him, had caressed him,
had joined him in bed. Had, after seventeen years, reminded him of the
particular pleasures of coming in a tight ass.
But he hadn't told Mulder. The opportunity never seemed right. And he had
ended the situation with Krycek after a couple... alright
five... encounters, when he and Sharon had decided to try again. But Krycek had
never, as far as he knew, ever mentioned these to anyone.
Certainly not to Spender who would have not hesitated for a moment to use that
information against him.
So, it was the ultimate irony that when Krycek finally opened his eyes,
found the energy to focus them, the first thing he saw was Walter
Skinner glaring at him.
It took Skinner a moment to realize that this was not just another unclosing
of eyes, but that the eyes were really seeing him.
The two men looked at each other. Krycek, oxygen mask and weakness
preventing him from speaking, managed a small rueful smile,
closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Skinner didn't tell Mulder.
Skinner had come to the conclusion that if he had to fight for Mulder's
affections, the battle had to be fought on even ground. At the
moment Krycek had the unfair advantage of being too weak, too close to death.
Too much still the bad boy that appealed so much to
Mulder.
Monday morning, Skinner requested a private meeting with the Director and a
top representative from Justice. Before leaving for it, he had
a closed door session with his staff, basically preparing them for his
departure.
Not one of them was really surprised: word had quickly gotten around the
building that the Acting Deputy Director and the Upper Floor
disagreed. No one knew about what, but they were afraid to choose sides,
worried about their careers. Skinner wasn't surprised by their
reactions.
The Director and Justice were a bit wary of the purpose of the meeting. Its
direction was completely unexpected.
In return for being silent about his disapproval of the deal offered
Spender, about the deal itself, Skinner wanted a deal of his own: total,
complete immunity for Alex Krycek.
Justice laughed until he realized that neither Skinner nor the Director was
laughing with him. He began enumerating the reasons this was
not possible, in spite of the "small amount of information the man had passed
on to them". He was too closely linked with the Alien Rebels
- which didn't officially exist anyway—and too closely tied to the numerous
deaths that occurred whenever he was around. No, no, totally
impossible.
And then Skinner explained just why Justice would be very co-operative in
this request of his. Spender was not the only one who knew
where the bodies were buried. And why. And not just the other side's but so
many of their own.
All detailed on some secured web site somewhere out on the internet. Which
only he had access to. And they had better hope that he kept
on having access to it because if he didn't do so once every 48 hours, the site
would automatically download itself into some 658 (so far)
mailing lists, all over the world. And wasn't modern technology a marvel.
Oh, and should anything happen to him, to Mulder, to Krycek, or to Scully
and her family, he just might forget how to access this site
himself. Justice had better hope and pray that they all died of natural causes,
preferably old age.
Justice ranted, threatened, talked about treason. The Director just sat in
his chair and watched as all of that had absolutely no effect on the
man he had personally chosen to clean up the mess the Consortium had made of
his Bureau. Chosen for his loyalty, his honesty, his sense
of honour. He had known the Spender deal was not going to go over well, but he
now realized that it had cost him the respect of this man.
He stood, told Justice to shut up, prepare all the papers required to
provide Alex Krycek with total immunity. Moreover, he added, "See to it
that word gets out on the street and in the proper clubs that should anything
happen to Krycek, the consequences will be catastrophic for
whomever is responsible."
Skinner waited till Justice left, looked at his superior and informed him
that his retirement papers would be on his desk the moment he had
Krycek's papers in his hand. Until then, he would be clearing off his desk.
He was at the door when the Director called his name. "I'm sorry about this.
I was over-ruled." Skinner nodded, left the top floor for his
office and began the job of putting an end to a twenty-four year career with
the FBI.
Tuesday evening, he found Mulder dozing in the chair, looking less tense
than he had since they'd found Krycek. "He woke up this
afternoon. Actually stayed awake for a couple of minutes. Fischer said he's
probably going to make it."
Skinner nodded, went over to the bed. He wanted to blame Krycek for the end
of his career. His career. His relationship with Mulder. His
life. But his career would have been over anyway. This way, he at least had had
the pleasure of giving back some of the frustration he had
had to endure over the last few weeks.
He tossed a large manilla envelope onto the bed.
"What's that?" Mulder's voice was thick with fatigue, with a sense of
relief.
"Immunity for Krycek. Signed, sealed, and now delivered." He waited for
Mulder's reaction.
Mulder looked at the man he loved and knew in his gut the cost of that
envelope. He closed his eyes, wondered what he had done to find
someone like this, who loved him enough to seek protection for the only other
man he had ever loved, at what cost to himself?
"Walter..."
But he was speaking to the air: Skinner had left the room.
He looked down at the man in the bed, and wondered what that life had cost
him?
Mulder knew his refusal to leave Krycek had hurt Skinner, but he really was
afraid that Krycek would die if he left him.
The first twenty-four hours had been a horror of listening to Krycek trying
to breathe with lungs that were filled with fluid. Of watching
Fischer bind a stump that was so raw that it resembled nothing more than a
piece of meat. Of helping wash a body he had once pleasured,
had once pleasured him that was now nothing but sinew and bone. Of watching a
face that had once been angelic now looking as if it had
been to hell and back.
He might have given up, gone home the second day, but he overheard one of
the nurses commenting that Krycek's vital signs weakened
whenever he was out of the room, strengthened whenever he came back. And then
there was the fact that, on the second day, the fingers he
held in his hand began closing on his. Holding on. Not tightly. But, gradually
with more and more strength, until he knew that Krycek was
aware of him.
Occasionally, Krycek's eyes would open, but no matter how many times he
called his name, there was no real response. Fischer had told
him not to be too optimistic about Krycek's chances of recovery, but he had
known, once the fingers began gripping his, that Krycek was
too much a survivor to die.
He began talking to the man, bringing him up to date on the events of the
past three years. Nothing heavy. Scully's courtship by a doctor, a
widower with two small daughters who had decided that Scully would do as a
stepmother long before either adult had even considered the
possibility. About the house, the repairs, the roof leaking. Mostly mundane
things, but a thread that Krycek could weave into a lifeline.
He had veered off on a tangent, the way he always did, when he realized that
Krycek's eyes were not only open, but seemed to be focusing
on him.
"Alex?"
And got a hint of a smile in return.
"Alex." Relief coursed through him. "Don't try to talk. You've got tubes
everywhere. You're going to be all right. " He leaned over the bed,
stroked the side of Krycek's face and grinned at the sight of Krycek turning
his face into that hand. "Welcome back, Alex."
Krycek savoured the feel of the hand on his face, closed his eyes and
drifted back into sleep.
Certain that Krycek was on the road to recovery, Mulder had to somehow get
Skinner to accept the return of Alex Krycek into their lives
and to soothe the disharmony that now existed between the two of them.
Krycek faintly remembered waking to see Skinner staring at him, face severe.
Waking again to find Mulder hovering over him, touching
him, telling him things he couldn't follow. It was just enough to have him
close, to feel his hand on his face.
This time, when he woke, he found Mulder sleeping in a chair by his bed,
holding onto his hand which was holding tightly onto Mulder's.
He was alert enough to realize that he'd better check out where he was. Seemed
to be some hospital room. Not a fancy one, so not one of
the big ones. Which could be good. Could be a private hospital. Might make it
harder for them to find him.
Krycek went back to looking at Mulder. He looked tired. Needed to shave.
Smiled, remembering the feel of that stubble on his skin. He
wanted to pass his hand over it, but that would mean letting go and he knew he
couldn't do that.
Just as he knew Mulder shouldn't be here. He tried to call to him, but
became aware of the mask on his face, the dryness of his throat. The
fact that breathing was much easier than it had been. How long had he been
here?
He took a quick inventory of his condition. Concluded with a sigh he
wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. He gripped the hand in
his a bit harder and went back to his contemplation of Mulder, trying to absorb
as much of him as he could before sending him away.
Skinner pushed open the door quietly, not wanting to wake Mulder up if he
were sleeping. He found Krycek awake, eyes devouring
Mulder as if feeding off him. He must have made some noise because the eyes
tracked to him, afraid. Closed in relief when they
recognized him.
Krycek tried to talk, found the mask a hindrance. He rubbed it against his
left shoulder, trying to get it off his face. Skinner quickly went to
his side, lifted it enough so that the man could speak. But Krycek's throat was
too dry to get the sounds out.
"Hang on," whispered Skinner. He poured some of the water from the thermos
into a glass and added a straw so that Krycek could drink.
After a bit, Krycek tried again.
"Get... him... out of... here." It was hard to get the words out. And not
just because of his throat. Skinner arched an eyebrow at him. He
tried again. "They'll hurt him... if they find him here."
Skinner had had to bend down, place his ear close to Krycek's mouth to hear.
He raised his head, examined the face of his rival. "Who
'they', Krycek?"
Krycek closed his eyes, gathered what little strength he had to convince
Skinner to get Mulder out of the room. Why was it so hard for
Skinner to understand? He opened his eyes. "When... come to kill me... hurt
him. Get him out of here. Please."
He felt exhausted by the effort. Surely Skinner would want to protect
Mulder. Why had he allowed the man to stay with him? He of all
people knew the kind of trouble he attracted.
Skinner replaced the mask on his face, waited till Krycek had recovered a
bit. "Krycek." Waited till those eyes had focused on him once
more. "No one is going to show up to kill you. You've been given immunity.
Immunity, Krycek. Do you understand?"
Krycek looked confused. Mouthed "Immunity?" under his mask.
"Yes. As much as it can be guaranteed. From both sides."
Now Krycek looked outright stunned. After a bit, he tried to get the mask
off his face. Skinner did it for him, leaned over. Krycek had to
try several times before he could breathe out "What idiot sold his soul to the
devil for that?"
Skinner stood up, replaced the mask. "I'm the idiot. And if you want to
thank me, convince Mulder to come home and get some sleep. He's
been sleeping in that chair ever since we found you, six days ago." And he
turned and left the room.
Mulder did go home that night, nuked and ate the meal he found waiting for
him in the fridge. Showered and went to sleep on his side of
the bed. No Skinner.
He woke late in the morning, found the other side of the bed had been slept
in—he had never heard or felt Skinner join him—and a note on
the pillow.
"Will be at the office till late tonight. Have to tie up loose ends.
Retirement officially begins tomorrow."
Mulder spent the next while cursing, using every oath he had ever learnt.
Krycek was at the clinic needing help. Walter was at the office
going through what had to be the most harrowing of times. He felt the need to
be with both of them, but unless he could clone himself in
the next hour or so... Shit! Sometimes life sucked!
He found a way to compromise. He spent the rest of the morning at the
clinic: Alex would spend the afternoon sleeping, was still far too
weak to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.
He showed up at the door of Walter's office to find his assistant in tears,
trying to finish some of the paperwork that he insisted be done
before his successor took over.
"Kim. I think that the Personnel Department would be the best place for
these files. Tell them to archive them just in case..." He looked up
to see Mulder slouching against the doorjamb.
"Kim's washing her face. I told her I'd run errands for a while." He came up
to the desk, held his hand out for the stack of files.
Skinner hesitated before handing them over. Opened his mouth to say
something. Closed it. Some of the hard tension left his face. "Thank
you." He spoke softly.
Mulder smiled at him. "I'm the one who needs to thank you. And to apologize.
And," he took a deep breath, "maybe to explain."
Skinner smiled, relieved to have Mulder here with him right now. "You only
need to be here." Feeling suddenly magnanimous, he asked,
"How's he doing?"
"Getting there. You said Personnel?"
Skinner nodded. Maybe this wasn't quite the day from hell he thought it was
going to be.
Eight days later, Mulder pulled up into the driveway, Krycek sitting in the
passenger seat.
Skinner, if he had to be honest, at least with himself, had expected this
would happen. Didn't like it, but had "allowed" Mulder to convince
him, late at night. Besides, it wasn't as if Krycek had anywhere to go. And he
certainly didn't have the money to pay a convalescent hospital
bill.
As Skinner watched from the front window, he realized that Krycek was as
happy to be here as he was to have him.
Krycek refused Mulder's help getting out of the car, had to hold onto the
door frame till his legs stopped trembling. So far, he had been
allowed out of bed for very short spells. This trip had made him face the
truth, that he needed lots more time before he could even remotely
consider himself well.
He fended off Mulder's attempts to take his arm, to lend him support. If he
had to spend any amount of time under Skinner's roof, he was
going to get there on his own.
He'd taken just a couple of wobbly steps when a car pulled up behind
Mulder's. Dana Scully: Assistant Director Scully, in charge of all
forensic investigation in a new Bureau department, got out of the car, glared
daggers at Krycek, slammed her door.
Skinner came out of the house to join the two men. "Fox, I think Dana wants
to speak to you. Krycek." He stooped, lifted the man in his
arms and carried him indoors.
Krycek wanted to curse him but realized that Scully was not someone he
wanted to be near, at this particular moment. Waited till they were
inside. "Okay. Put me down."
Skinner ignored him, started up the stairs.
"Jesus, Skinner, put me down. I can manage." His anger at the situation was
clamped between his teeth.
"Shut up, Krycek. You can't."
"You going to drop me?"
Skinner's grin was a bit too feral for Krycek's liking. But, no, he wasn't
going to drop him. Hell, he hardly weighed enough to make this
more than some regular exercise.
Skinner was more aware than ever just how fragile Krycek was at this moment.
It wouldn't last: he knew Mulder had restocked the
cupboards, the freezer with a list of items Fischer's nutritionist had handed
him. He would get well. But right now, a gust of wind would
blow the man off his feet.
He placed Krycek on the bed that Mulder had made up in the spare bedroom.
"Skinner." Krycek's voice was stripped of all emotion. "Why are you doing
this?"
Skinner straightened. "Doing what?"
"This." Krycek gestured around the room with his hand. "And the immunity
thing. Why?"
Skinner rested a hip against the dresser. "This, because he asked me to. The
immunity, because if they were giving it to Spender, they
might as well give it to you too. Besides, he would have gone after it for you.
I just had a better chance of getting it."
Krycek cocked his head, almost his old mocking self. "And of course you
give him anything he wants."
"Don't you?" Skinner tossed back in the same tone. At Krycek's querying
glance, he added, "Mulder wanted you to live. And you gave
him that."
He moved away from the dresser, reached behind Krycek and pulled down the
bedclothes. "You look like you're about to fall flat on your
face. Get out of those clothes."
Krycek's hand was trembling from stress and fatigue. He was having
difficulty with the buttons on his shirt.
From downstairs came the sound of two angry voices, sometimes one at a time,
usually together. Skinner closed the bedroom door. After a
minute, he went over to help Krycek undress. He was stripping the jeans down
those long legs when Krycek broke the silence. "Been a
while since you've done that."
Skinner froze.
"Oh. He doesn't know, does he? That you and I..."
Skinner went back to pulling the jeans off, stood, his back to Krycek,
folded them. "No. Not yet."
Wary, not sure where to go, Krycek started "Did he..." and stopped. If
Skinner hadn't mention their time together, would Mulder have
done the same?
"Yes." Skinner's voice was brusque. "Yes, he told me about the two of you."
Krycek nodded. Decided this would be a good time to keep his mouth shut.
Skinner finished folding his clothes while he pulled the sheet
and blanket over himself.
Skinner turned to face him. "Bathroom's through there." He pointed to what
Krycek had thought was a closet door. "You don't need to
share. You have your own. Do you need anything?"
Krycek shook his head. Skinner nodded, turned to go out. He had his hand on
the door knob when Krycek spoke. "Don't tell him."
Skinner paused, looked over his shoulder. "It's not like it was anything
important. Was it?"
Skinner gave a little nod of acknowledgement. Maybe of thanks. "No. It was
nothing important." He closed the door behind him.
No, of course not, thought Krycek. Why would it be important? He closed his
eyes. Only Mulder had ever thought him important. He
passed his hand over his face. God! He was getting maudlin.
Half way down the stairs, Skinner stopped. Dana Scully was raging mad. Mad
at his leaving the Bureau. Mad at the Spender deal—he had
told her even if her department hadn't any involvement in the issue. It was
enough for him that she had. Mad at the fact that Krycek,
whom she had thought safely dead, had returned to play havoc with her
ex-partner's life, with his relationship with Skinner.
At the moment she was going on about fairness. Fairness to himself. "Did you
even stop for one darn moment to consider how Walter was
going to feel in all of this? Damn! You are so... so fucking selfish, Mulder!"
Skinner heard the door slam, heard Dana swear very nautically and knew that
it was Mulder who had left.
He came to the bottom of the stairs as she entered the hallway. She went up
to him, put her arms around him and squeezed. Since
becoming the mother to two rambunctious youngsters, Dana had come to be a firm
believer in the power of a hug. He hugged her back.
Skinner found himself consoling her. "Don't worry so much. We'll survive.
That's one thing the three of us share, we're survivors." He
hugged her again. "Kiss the girls for me, will you?"
In the bedroom, Alex Krycek rolled over to his right, curled himself around
a pillow hugged hard to his chest and dealt with the situation
the only way he could: he escaped into sleep.
In the driveway, Fox Mulder sat in the car, dropped his forehead onto the
whitened knuckles gripping the top of the steering wheel and
cursed himself for not having fully considered all the possible ramifications
of bringing Alex into their household.
In the living room, Walter Skinner jammed his fists into his pants pockets
and stared sightlessly out of the picture window.
hat the hell was he doing here?
