by Josan
Reaching for his tea, he gave a thought of appreciation to the fishermen who
had built this sturdy dwelling in the hollow that faced the North Atlantic.
Newfoundland was known as The Rock for more than its granite foundations,
its outcropping of the Canadian Shield. The people who eked out an
existence on it and from it were a stolid people and their houses reflected
their steadfastness.
He stretched out his legs to the heat of the wood stove that dominated the
largest room, the kitchen. It was only late afternoon, in spite of the
impenetrable darkness that surrounded the bay in which the house was
situated. Normally, the autumn light would pick out the features of the
room, the faded braided-rag carpet on the floor, the weathered table at
which he ate his meals, the cupboards which were in need of a coat of paint.
After nearly two years, he no longer saw any of the small deficiencies in
the place, was only conscious of the peace and security he had found here.
Which was startlingly disturbed, on this day of all days, by a knock on the
door.
At first, he thought it was only his imagination.
Or a piece of flying debris that had hit the door in its flight.
He stilled in his armchair, book open on his lap, mug in hand.
No. There it was. Again. And again.
Definite knocks.
Who the hell was stupid enough to be out in this kind of weather?
He placed his tea back onto the table, closed the book after noting the page
and set it next to the mug. Head cocked, listening intently, he reached
behind him and pulled out the weapon that he never was without.
There was no way he could look out one of the two windows in the kitchen; he
had securely shuttered them against the anger of the storm. It would have
made more sense, for self-protection, not to have done so. However, North
Atlantic storms cared very little for incidentals such as the humans who
dared live in their reach, and there was a limit to the number of broken
windows and in-coming floods that he cared to deal with.
As for the door, it did have a small, very small, pane of glass but, with
the weather the way it was right now, unless the person knocking had his
face up to the glass itself, he would be unable to identify whether this was
friend or foe asking for entry.
He had added an inside chain, so that, even though the wind wanted to slam
the door open, all that it managed to do was drench the floor by the slim
opening. He stood behind the door, gun in hand, shoulder bracing it against
the temper of the storm.
"Krycek!" yelled a voice, "Let me in!"
Even if the speaker hadn't identified himself, Krycek did recognize the
voice. It stunned him immobile.
"Jesus! Krycek! Look, I'm not holding." Two dripping hands wiggled their
way into his safe haven. "Come on, Krycek! Let me in."
Krycek shook himself, still not believing. It took him a moment to decide.
"I've got to shut the door to unchain it."
The hands disappeared. He shoved hard, slamming the door shut.
Okay.
All he had to do was not open it again. He would still be safe. He could
just go back to his chair, pick up his book, his drink and ignore the person
outside his door.
A person who must have sensed what was going through his mind. A person who
began, once more, pounding on his door.
Well, so much for that dream.
Krycek unhooked the chain. He opened the door just enough so that the
person could slip in, so that he could shut it once more against the
elements. So that it would hold him up as he turned to look at the man who
was now stripping off his slicker, carefully, as not to spray water all over
the room. Who hung the brilliant yellow rain gear on a hook by the door so
that it would drip into the boot mat on the floor under it.
Who passed his hands over his scalp, wiping away the water there.
Who pulled a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and polished the drops and
indoor fog off his glasses.
All the time looking at the man who stood, weapon in hand, watching him with
no expression of any kind on his face.
Walter Skinner put his glasses back on, shoved his kerchief into his pocket.
"You're looking pretty good for a dead man, Krycek."
Krycek pushed his body off the door. "Remy. Here the name is Remy. Not
Krycek."
"Yeah, I know. Alexander Remy. Is that your real name?"
Krycek moved from the door and around the man he had never expected to see
again in this lifetime. "It's the name I go by now. That makes it real
enough for me."
Krycek slipped his weapon back into its holster, pulled his sweater back
over it. "What do you want, Skinner?" He rested his ass on the table,
placed his real hand flat on it and managed to look bored.
Skinner shook his head ruefully. "You know, Kry...Re...ah. Alex. This
province has quite a reputation for being friendly. Wouldn't it be
considered rather rude to invite a man in and not offer him something to
warm his bones? Especially considering the weather he's come through to see
you."
"Newfoundlanders are the friendly ones. I'm just a Mainlander who's
renting. Means I can be as rude and unbearable as I please. And I
certainly didn't invite you. What do you want, Skinner?"
"Well, some answers would do as a starter." Skinner looked around. "Mind
if I sit down?"
Krycek raised an eyebrow at that. "Why? Do you think you'll be staying
that long?"
Skinner sighed. "Look, Alex. Even if I wanted to leave, I can't. Not
right now. The SUV I rented at the airport barely made it up here. I
parked it in that little dip down the road, just so the wind won't tip it
over. And the man who gave me directions to this place warned me that I had
— at most—an hour before the wind really got bad. Though," Skinner
shook his head, "if this isn't rough, what is it?"
"Breezy. It's just breezy, Skinner. The gale hasn't hit us yet." Krycek
grimaced. "Well, take a chair. One way or another, you're going to be here
some time. The Coast Guard says we've got a good 24 hours more of this
before it blows itself out."
Krycek watched as Skinner pulled out one of the wooden kitchen chairs and
sat down. He stretched his legs out to the heat of the wood stove, his
boots and the bottom of his jeans soaked. If he were as generous a host as
the Newfoundlanders were, thought Krycek, he would offer Skinner something
dry for his feet, maybe even a pair of his own jeans to wear while Skinner's
dried.
But, as he'd said, he was a Mainlander and therefore had no such reputation
to live up to.
He went back to his chair, sat so that he could keep an eye on the man at
his table.
Skinner had taken the time to look around the kitchen, to conclude that it
took up half of the small house nestled safely in the hollow. There were
two doors off the room; one, he figured, to the bathroom, the other, to the
bedroom. Both doors were partially open, probably to allow for the heat
from the large, black wood stove which took up almost the entire narrower
wall of the kitchen.
Not a place he would have ever expected a Consortium assassin, triple-spy...
No, that was right. No longer a triple agent. More than that now.
"You're not going to answer my questions, are you?"
Krycek settled back in his armchair. "No one ever said you were stupid,
Skinner."
"Not even about how you survived my shooting you at point blank range?"
Krycek rested one booted foot over the other. He cocked his head, thinking
that one over.
Skinner waited patiently. He had time.
"Okay. Maybe that one. It wasn't me you shot. It was a Rebel wearing my
face."
"Try again," Skinner slouched, getting more comfortable. "Didn't bleed
green, Alex."
Krycek smirked. "What? You think Consortium scientists were the only ones
creating hybrids? Think again. The Rebels were playing around with
genetics as well."
"All right. Then why would one of them have died for you?"
Krycek shook his head. "I knew it, Skinner, I answer one of your questions
and another pops up. You want to tell me why I should satisfy your
curiosity?"
Skinner smiled. "Because it's raining. Because you're stuck with me.
Because, like Mulder, I want to know the truth. And because I've spent a
lot of time tracking you down. Don't you want to know how I did it?"
Krycek ignored most of what Skinner had said. "How is Mulder?"
Sinner allowed the change of topic. He had every intention of getting his
answers, eventually.
"Enjoying the role of fatherhood with gusto. You can't meet him anywhere
without his pulling out this wad of photos he has of the kid. It was sort
of cute at first, but after three years you would think the newness of being
a parent would wear down a bit."
Krycek's lips hinted at a smile.
"If you ask, Scully just tells you the kid is fine, but Mulder has to give
you all the details, their relation to the growing charts of far too many
paediatricians in far too many countries. The way he used to drive me crazy
with his requests for 302s and his expense accounts, now he does with his
stories about the newest 'cute' thing the kid has done, how intelligent, how
perceptive, how precocious..." Skinner shrugged. "You get the picture."
The smile was almost there.
"Did you love him?"
The question took Krycek by surprise. "Love who?"
"Mulder. Did you love him?"
Krycek's eyebrow disappeared under the lock of hair that drooped over his
forehead. "No. No, I did not, do not love Mulder. I respected his
tenacity, his ability to ferret out information, to put improbably clues
together and come up with the correct solution. But, no, not love. Why?"
Skinner shrugged. "I thought that might have been why you disappeared.
Because he and Scully got together."
Krycek shook his head. "No. I disappeared, as you put it, because I'm
supposed to be dead. Mulder might like to die and return to the same
locale, but I preferred to put some distance between me and the several
people who might not be so appreciative of the fact that I am not truly
dead."
"That one of the new variety of Rebels had died in your place. That I
killed. I'd still like to know why a Rebel took your place."
Krycek stared at his "guest", as though to intimidate him into withdrawing
the question. The fact the Skinner met and held his glare with no
discernable reaction made Krycek wonder if he had lost his edge. He gave up
with a small peeved sigh.
Skinner was smart enough not to smile.
"They don't die the way we do. When we die, all of us dies. With Rebels,
only the form dies. Their consciousness—their memories, their
intelligence—returns to the fold to be reused. And they owed me. I sent
a lot of information their way."
Krycek got to his feet and went over to the wood stove. He opened the
firebox, couched, carefully placed a couple of pieces of wood onto the
ebbing flame, reached around side for another.
Where a shadow came to life.
Skinner cocked his head, watched as the shadow grew, as it reached forward
to claim part of the floor to that side of the stove. As the shadow kept on
growing...and growing.
"What the hell is that?"
Krycek looked around and grinned. "*That* is Barney. Aren't you, Barney?"
A large, jet black, furry animal came out of its lair and stretched its
forepaws out, pulling its spine as its rear end rose high. A large mouth
opened wide in a yawn that displayed a respectable set of teeth.
"Yeah, but was it? A bear?"
Krycek closed the firebox door and straightened as the animal ambled up to
his side, rubbed a massive head against his hip. He looked almost insulted
as he patted the animal on the shoulders. "Barney," he explained, "is a
Newfoundland." At Skinner's look of confusion, he added, "They're a local
breed of dog. Love water, don't you, Barney?"
All the dog did was yawn again.
"What does he eat?" Skinner wondered, what kind of animal Krycek would have
around? The damn thing didn't have to be an attack animal. All it had to
do was sit on someone and its body weight and size would probably be as
effective as a doberman's teeth.
"Don't worry. He's not fond of retired Assistant Directors. Too much
gristle, eh, boy?"
Barney gave a wag of his great tail and strolled over to a couple of large
metal bowls. As the men watched, the animal nosed around in one of the
bowls, obviously looking for something to eat. Obviously not finding
anything. He turned, sat on his haunches and managed, thought Skinner, to
look incredibly pitiful for an animal that probably tipped the scales at
around 150 pounds.
Krycek laughed.
Skinner's attention flew from dog to man. He couldn't remember ever hearing
Krycek laugh. It was deep, rich, heartfelt.
Krycek opened a cupboard and rummaged around, bringing out a plastic
container of kibble. Barney watched with patient alertness as Krycek
stooped, filled the dog's bowl. Barney took a sniff, looked up as though he
had been expecting something different. "Sorry, boy, that's it for tonight.
No leftovers." Barney looked from bowl to man, grinned a doggy grin that
said you couldn't blame him for trying and thanked Krycek with a long slurpy
lick of his cheek.
Krycek laughed again, wiped the side of his face against his raised
shoulder. "You're welcome."
"How did you know I'm retired?"
Krycek patted the eating animal, rose and placed the empty container on the
table. "I'm a spy, Skinner. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm out of
the loop."
"The RCMP loop? That is who you were really working for all along, wasn't
it? The spy within the spy within the spy is really an undercover RCMP
officer."
"You say that as though you expect me to deny it." Krycek opened the
refrigerator door. "I've got left over stew. Will that do for supper?"
Skinner didn't say anything. Krycek looked around to see Skinner wearing
his AD stone face. He decided to give the man a bit of a break.
"Constable. I'm only a constable. We don't promote in rank the way you
Americans do." He placed the cast iron pot on the stove, over the hottest
part of the top.
"You infiltrated the Consortium first. Why?"
Krycek passed a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his head with his
fingertips. "You really do have a pile of questions, don't you? Ah, hell.
I guess it really doesn't matter any more. And you still have your security
clearance, right?"
Skinner nodded.
"Drugs. They were running drugs, cross border, as a way of financing their
experimentation with hybrids, among other things. Of course, we didn't know
that part of it right then. My job was to get as much information as
possible on the drug side of their activities and then get out.
Unfortunately, I ended up involved in some of their other schemes. Which
led me to the FBI, which led me to the Rebels."
"Who knew what you really were?"
"At first, the head of the drug investigation unit. Later, the head of the
RCMP, then our Minister of Justice informed your Attorney General about the
Shadow Government aspect. No one else."
"No one else?"
Krycek nodded.
"Shit. There must have been times when you felt the whole world was on your
case."
Krycek shrugged. "Goes...went with the territory."
"And you couldn't trust me with that information?"
Krycek looked uncomfortable for the first time. "No, not at first. At
first, it appeared that your position had been bought by Spender and that
you intended paying him for it. Then later, well, I might have, but Spender
was too pissed off with you and I didn't dare approach you."
"Especially after you 'killed' me."
"Yeah. Especially then. Do you want bread with that stew? Mrs. MacLeod
gave me a loaf of her soda bread yesterday. It's a bit dry the next day but
it tastes great if you dunk it into the stew."
"You couldn't have come to me after Mulder got back and told me then? Or
before that, when the two of us were working together to find him?"
Krycek shrugged. "Never seemed to be the right time. Besides, I wasn't
sure you would believe me. And I wasn't sure that you wouldn't be put in
danger if I told you. There were still a few of the 'bad guys' around and I
decided not to take the chance."
"The chance. For you or for me, Alex?"
Krycek took a wooden spoon and concentrated on stirring the warming stew.
"Does it matter?"
Skinner got up, walked over to behind the man at the stove. Krycek stiffened
but didn't reach for his weapon.
"Yes, it matters. I find that I didn't come to the ends of the earth to
hear that it mattered more for you than it did for me."
After two years of tracking down what had been, at first, a passing fancy,
later, an idea that wouldn't go away, Skinner decided that it would be
foolish to stop here. He took the risk and placed his hands on Krycek's
tensed shoulders. Gently, he began massaging the tight muscles. "You took
a lot of chances for me, Alex. It's taken me a while to add them all up.
And to wonder why someone, as pragmatic as you are, would take them for me."
Krycek didn't relax but, then again, he didn't tell Skinner to take his
hands away. Skinner felt the tension he had carried within him all the way
up from D.C. begin to ease.
"Scully is the one who pointed it out to me. That, in spite of all the
orders we found in the documentation for my termination, you found a way of
circumventing them. Mulder remarked that it looked as though you had
ulterior motives for keeping me alive. Scully snickered and said that, in
those romance novels she had read while in her last trimester, it would be
because you were in love with me.
"I thought about that. Thought about how I had once felt about you, Alex.
About why, whenever we had to work together, be in the same room together,
there was such heat between us. I told myself it was anger. Then I
wondered. Have I been wondering wrong, Alex?"
The long minute of silence churned in Skinner's stomach. He brought his
hands down to his side.
When Krycek finally turned around, his face was more open than Skinner had
ever seen it. As though it could no longer hide the feelings Krycek had
suppressed for so long. He opened his mouth, then closed it, swallowed hard
as though his throat were dry. "I killed you," he whispered.
Skinner shrugged. "Yes, well, I killed you, too, Alex. Seems to me that,
if you're inclined, we would be starting with a clean slate."
"There are so many other things that are between us." Krycek's voice ached,
but Skinner thought he saw hope flicker in those cat eyes.
"True. But then, we have all this time with the storm to clear them up. If
you want."
Krycek lowered his eyes. All those years, hungry for this man, knowing he
would die starved for him. And now this.
"I could make you happy, Alex. I think you could do the same for me."
Krycek's smile wobbled. "Yes, well. Maybe." He looked up, sounded almost
wistful. "Is this where you tell me you'll make my dreams come true?"
Skinner smiled back and opened his arms, offering a different haven.
Krycek closed his eyes, took a deep breath and found the courage to take the
step that placed him within Skinner's warm embrace.
Skinner held him tightly, his cheek against that of this man whom he had
managed to track down despite all odds.
"I think," he whispered into Krycek's ear, "that we may make Barney's dream
come true first. The stew is burning."
To Make You Feel My Love
When the rain is blowing in your face
When evening shadows and the stars appear
I know you haven't made your mind up yet
I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue
The storms are raging on the rollin' sea
I could make you happy, make your dreams come true
This song was written by Bob Dylan and recorded by both
he wind slamming against the side of the house caught his attention. For a
moment, he looked up from his book, listened to the shutters rattling, the
pounding of the rain on the tin roof.
Trisha Yearwood
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love
And there is no one there to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love
But I would never do you wrong
I've known it from the moment that we met
No doubt in my mind where you belong
I'd go crawling down the avenue
No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You ain't seen nothing like me yet
Nothing that I wouldn't do
Go to the ends of the earth for you
To make you feel my love
Trisha and Garth Brooks for the "Hope Floats" soundtrack.
